California Heat
Dean Winchester x reader
Summary: Dean has to survive the personal hell that is watching you bask in the mid-Summer heat.
CW: 18+ Explicit, swearing, smut in the form of brief fantasies, Dean's kinda just down bad, mentions of reader having a tan
wc: 1.1k
a/n: Heavily inspired by @waynes-multiverse Florida!!! except on the opposite side of the country. I kinda just love pathetic, yearning men so I wrote this at 3 am to get it out of my system. very cliche, dean's too distracted to realize reader might do any of this on purpose
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You claimed to hate the spiking temperature and the inevitable sweat, but nobody basked more in the 90 degree sun the way you did. Sometimes wisps of hair would stick to the back of your neck. Summer heat meant loose pants, fitted tops, and constant sunscreen applications.
And the smell of fucking apricot. Dean couldn’t stand it. Sunscreen was supposed to be all chemicals and burning nostril hairs. He could clock you in a crowded room 30 feet away already, but now he had to hold his breath so he didn’t sniff like a dog every time you walked nearby. The sunscreen and perfume made a fatal combo for his intelligence. Death by apricot and bergamot.
It was California in late July, damn it. There were a million chicks in tight shirts and tiny shorts and all he could focus on was the tanned collarbone peeking from the top of your button-up. He knew the softness of the skin just under it. He’d get a glimpse of you in your tank top, lathering the product all over your arms and shoulders right up until you tilted your head and all he could think about was mouthing it right off the column of your neck. They’d have to call poison control after. When you were distracted with pulling on your overshirt he’d adjust his jeans.
Then there was the tan. He wasn’t even sure how you managed it with all your “skin cancer prevention” junk that you went on and on about, but it was undeniably there in his face, haunting his new daydreams. Like some shot of healthy glow into your skin.
Worse were the days you decided you had enough of his pale, reddening face and put your sunscreen on him with your own glorious hands. His lips pouted and brows settled into a frown but the second he could see the webbed pattern in your iris all thoughts left his brain and he could just barely breathe. You held his face as your thumbs swept out over his cheekbones and he should win a goddamn award for not letting his eyes flutter like some schoolgirl with a crush.
His arms were too big and he knocked his foot into the corner of the motel bed before he could grab the keys to Baby. He couldn’t fumble like this if he wanted to avoid Sam’s smug ass and your suspicious frowns. There needed a gameplan for the rest of this cursed job. Something like, every time your tank top strap slipped he’d recite the first three lines to exorcism. When you stretched your legs out he’d remember how you staked a vampire right next to Baby and the four hours it took to get the blood off the side of the passenger door. That’d keep him conscious enough to not drool at you like a creep.
Then came the peak of the heat wave.
Sammy could fuck right off. It was him and his oblong fivehead that suggested they stop by the beach and do research instead of the ancient, stuffy motel. The bitch didn’t follow his own suggestion. He was staked out with his laptop in a coffee shop with a/c and free wifi. Now you were on the sand, sheer button up brushing the top of your bare, shimmering thighs as you licked an ice cream cone like he wasn’t gonna spontaneously combust. The incoming breeze did absolutely nothing to the burning inside his core. Heat began to radiate from his back and neck and he knew he’d have to sit in his chair, leg propped up while he thought about the gore the last witch they ganked left on her coffee table. It only just managed to combat his tenting.
Fuck. He glared at the waves.
“Dean,” you leaned over, lips shining. “Am I making it hard for you?”
He might as well have exploded, because there was no way he was gonna survive choking on air and not bury himself—and his shame—in the sand to escape your confused, pitying eyes.
“Are you wh-wha?” he croaked out.
“I know it’s hot and you ‘don’t do shorts, sweetheart,’ but I feel bad dragging you out in the sun. you won’t even take your shoes off,” you bite into your cone, licking around your lips.
There’s a damp patch going through the back of his black tshirt all the way to his faded outer shirt, but he’ll be damned if he lost a single layer helping keep his puddle of dirty secrets together in one mess. The heat wasn’t even that bad this close to the water. He just needed some shade and a breeze from the fucking arctic.
Dean stared at the flashes of sun on the water until he nearly burned his eyes. He needed to follow the game plan. The one he can’t remember. Was there a game plan?
What plan would be better than you, on your knees, staring up through your lashes with that maddening tilt of your mouth while you settled between his legs.
You wrapped around his head. Thighs quivering until they clamped together in a vice.
You, on your back with your hands pinned above your head as he sank into you. Eyes rolling back and breath stuttering as you moaned out his name. Slow, to get you used to it, before drawing back nearly all the way out and thrusting as deep as he could reach, trying to get impossibly closer as he—
“Seriously, you look like you’re gonna puke and then pass out.”
“I need an ice fucking cold shower.”
You laughed and his heart tripped over itself. When you stand up and stretch he gets a whiff of apricot while he watches your shirt ride up, exposing the curve of your hips before they meet the strings of your bikini bottoms. He wiped his hands on his thighs, brushing away the thought of you rocking on them.
“C’mon,” you pick up your shoes in one hand and toss your books into a bag with the other. “There’s about 10 burger joints within a three mile radius. Let’s find you something to eat before you melt into a puddle of grumpy old man.”
That is what nearly broke Dean to let out a whimper of relief.
Girls pass both of you on the stairs back up to the street, but Dean doesn't miss a second of you in front of him. The edge of your bikini is riding up. He barely feels the heat of the metal rails as he grips it like life support.
On the sidewalk you fall into step beside him and he forces the swing of his arms to act natural. Which, of course, means his hands move in a stiff arc and accidentally brush yours, feeling like you shot him with electricity.
California may be a personal hell, but you’re gonna be the one to send him under.
