#older!dean

The scratch of his stubble tickled your neck when he leaned in to whisper in your ear, and his strong thighs bracketed your frame perfectly. You sighed contentedly, pushing your back even farther into his chest. Even though he had stopped pleasuring you, he kept his large hand shoved down the front of your pajama shorts so he could absently rub and cup you. He liked keeping you needy for him.

“You’re so soft, baby. Could touch this tiny little pussy all day.”

You mewled, feeling his fingers regaining some direction.

“Can I do that? Will you be a good little thing for dad and let him play with your pussy some more?”

You tried to bury your face in the crook of Dean’s strong shoulder before you nodded.

“What was that, kiddo? Can you speak up a little for me?”

“Yes,” you mumbled, face heating. You weren’t sure if you actually wanted him to keep touching you or if you wanted whatever he wanted, but at this point saying yes to him was pure muscle memory.

“There’s my good girl.” The pad of his middle finger dipped into your seam, finding the residual wetness there. He let out a groan, and he slowly pushed his finger inside, finding your spot almost immediately. 

“Always ready for dad, aren’t you, honey. Swear everytime I touch you, you get wetter for me.”

His finger stayed slow and gentle, but the relentless pressure on your spot had your face scrunching up.

“How’s that feel, kid? Is dad finding your spot okay?”

He knew damn well he was, but you looked up at him and nodded, pulling your lip between your teeth when he slipped in another finger. 

With his free hand he thumbed at your lip to release it.

“That lip is way too pretty for you to bite, honey,” he said gently, slipping his thumb in your mouth.

“There, now you have a little something to suck on. All better.”

His other fingers wrapped around your chin, and with the grip he twisted your neck up and to the side so you could look at him better. He had your temple laid comfortably on his chest, and after a few more strokes you were completely blissed out. Mercifully, he started grinding the heel of his palm against your clit, and it caused something deep to stir in your belly.

Dean, knowing exactly what he was doing to you, kissed you on the forehead and gave you a soft smile.

“Is my girl getting close?” You nodded as well as you could with the grip he had on your jaw, feeling yourself nearing the edge. He kept hitting that deep, gummy spot inside of you, causing your whole core to tense up. You felt the familiar pressure building near your bladder, and you tried to talk around Dean’s thumb to warn him.

“Shhh, don’t worry kiddo,” he cooed, placing another kiss on your sweaty temple. “I know. Just relax and let dad make you feel good.”

Your muscles convulsed, and as you fell over the edge you felt a spurt of liquid release. Your orgasm tore through you, intense and deep, and Dean’s hand never stopped fucking you through it.

“Just like that, honey. You sound so pretty when you make a mess for me. Moaning around my thumb like a good little girl.”

The electricity skating through your body eased, and Dean let his fingers slip out of you. The one that had been in your mouth began to smooth your hair around the kisses he was peppering you with, and he kept the other one in the pajamas you had made a mess of to feel the last of your release leak out of you.

The first time he comes inside you, it’s not impulsive.

Dean’s been thinking about it for weeks, long enough that the idea doesn’t feel sharp anymore, just… inevitable. Like something that was always going to happen if he let things kept going the way they are.

And he has let them keep going.

You’re fresh off a hunt in Louisiana. Outside Baton Rouge, in a motel that smells faintly like bleach and old air conditioning. The walls are thin enough that you can hear a couple arguing two rooms down, and the bed gives an exhausted creak when Dean sits on it.

You don’t say much when the door shuts behind you. You rarely do after the rough ones.

Instead, you drift toward him like it’s muscle memory, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer than usual. “You good?”

You nod, but you don’t quite look convinced with yourself. “Just… wired. And tired. A little bit of everything all at once, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t even joke. He just lets you lean into him, hands warm and steady on your back and hips. You breathe him in like you’re grounding yourself, and he feels that little hitch in your chest when you finally start to relax.

“You did good tonight,” he says, low and sure. “Real good, ‘m real proud of you. Your aim is getting better, you braced for the shot just like I showed you.”

You hum at that, forehead dropping to his shoulder and he can feel the little smile pulling at your lips. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

That does something to him. It always does.

He walks you backward toward the bed, slow, guiding rather than pushing. Gets your boots off. Your jacket. Talks to you the whole time like he always does—quiet reassurances, small touches, familiarity wrapping around you until you’re pliant without even realizing it.

When he kisses you, it’s unhurried. Deep. Like he’s got nowhere else to be.

You cling to him when he presses you down onto the mattress, legs wrapping around his waist like that’s just how things go after rough hunts. Dean smiles against your mouth, low and indulgent.

“Easy,” he murmurs, smoothing a slow hand over your skin. “I gotcha, sweetheart.”

You trust him. Completely.

Too much, maybe.

That’s the part that still catches in his chest.

He takes his time with you—longer than usual. Keeps you close. Keeps his mouth at your ear, your neck, your shoulder. He murmurs praise and filth in equal measure, his voice a steady undercurrent, guiding you through it. Dean wants to be able to think back on this night with a sweet fondness, this is the beginning of his new everything.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Just like that. Let me take care of you.”

Your fingers dig into his back. You say his name like you always do—breathless, unguarded. It makes him feel like the center of your universe and god, that’s his favorite feeling in the whole world.

When he finally comes, it’s not sudden. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything else he does with you.

His pace slows, deepens—his hips rolling into you with a slow grind that feels like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside.

And then he stills. He buries himself as deep in you as he can.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even pretend to.

Instead, he pressed closer, chest flush against yours like he can’t stand even an inch of air between you. One hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there. The other comes up to cradle your face, fingers curling around your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, slow and reverent.

You let out a soft sound—somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. Long. Loose. Wrecked.

Your whole body melts into him, boneless, your arms curling around his shoulders like you never want him to move again.

This—this—is what he was banking on.

You’re too exhausted. Too blissed out. Too full of him in every sense to notice anything beyond how good it feels to be held.

Exactly how he wanted it.

He keeps you wrapped up, murmuring nothing words into your skin. You’re warm and pliant beneath him, your lips brushing against his throat.

He hopes—no, he prays—that this sticks. That this is the one. That tonight, your body listens to his in that secret, perfect way he’s been dreaming about.

And if you say something in the morning? If you notice?

He’ll just kiss your shoulder, hum into your skin, and say something easy. Soft.

“Damn. Condom must’ve broke. Sorry, sweetheart, shit happens. One time doesn’t hurt anything, yeh?” He’ll smile—you always smile back—and joke, “no way we’re that lucky, right?”

Even if every cell in his body is screaming to be exactly that lucky.

Your voice floats up, small and sleepy, “Dean…”

His thumb brushes your cheek again. “Hmm?”

“Don’t move,” you murmur. “Just want you to hold me.”

Dean smiles, slow and quiet and entirely his. “Wouldn’t leave you for anything, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

And he means it.

But you don’t notice anything off—don’t notice how still he is after, how deliberate every moment of this night was. You’re too relaxed, too safe. You curl into him like you always do, cheek pressed to his chest.

Dean stares up at the ceiling, listening to your breathing even out, counting his own breaths. His heart is pounding, but not from panic. Not even from guilt.

It’s something darker settling in his gut. Something steady.

Hope.

The kind that tells him this isn’t temporary anymore. That maybe, just maybe, he’s finally found a way to keep you right where you are.

He presses another kiss to the top of your head, gentle enough not to wake you.

After that, he pays closer attention.

Starts noticing patterns. Your cycle. Your moods. The days you get quieter, clingier. The days your body is most receptive, most ready.

He plans it out carefully.

Never coming inside every time. Never enough to raise alarms. Just enough to stack the deck.

He’s gentle with you—he’s always been gentle with you. He brings you food when you forget to eat. He throws his jacket around your shoulders when you shiver. He keeps a hand at your back in crowded bars like an anchor.

And every time someone looks at you too long, Dean tucks the knowledge away.

They don’t know what you are to him.

They don’t know you’re about to be to him.

When you’re late, he notices before you do. At first he worries it’s just wishful thinking, but he’s never been one to put stake in coincidences.

You’ve been exhausted in that bone deep way no nap can fix. And so sensitive, physically and emotionally. Sleeping curled into him like you’re trying to burrow under his skin.

“You been tired, sweetheart?” He says it so casually, pulling you against his side and rubbing his hand up your arm, warming the skin. “Feels like you’ve been sleeping an awful lot.”

Dean turns away before you can see the look on his face. The smile.

When you finally tell him, positive test in hand, you’re shaking. Absolutely petrified.

He pretends he doesn’t know. Pretends this is all new information. Pretends he hasn’t been waiting for this. Pretends his chest isn’t so tight he can barely breathe from the joy of it.

You’re standing in front of him, hands clenched in his flannel like it might disappear if you let go.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

Your voice is thin. Barely there. “Dean… I-I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear.”

You’re standing frozen in place just a few feet away from him. You’re hugging yourself like it might hold you together. Like if you stay very still, maybe none of it will be true. Maybe you’ll wake up from this dream.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He’s been waiting for this. Wanting it. Planning it.

But watching you break down in real time, watching the truth hit you like a truck feels… better than he thought it would.

Because you came straight to him—not anybody else. Not some pretty boy haircut in a bar. Him. Just like he knew you would.

He crosses to you slowly, careful not to startle you—as if you’re a skittish little animal. “Hey,” he says, voice low and warm. “Sweetheart.”

You look up at him with eyes wide and glassy, panic engulfing your whole frame.

And still—you step into his arms the moment he reaches for you.

Of course you do.

He wraps you up without hesitation, holding you against his chest like something precious and fragile. You’re trembling. Sobbing. The kind of crying that comes from deep inside.

“I didn’t plan this,” you gasp. “I’m not ready, I—I can’t—Dean, I can’t do this—”

“It’s okay, baby,” he says softly, kissing the top of your head. “Don’t get upset, you’re alright.”

You start to shake harder. Your head moving side to side in insistent little shakes. “I don’t want this. I had plans—my life, my future—I didn’t—”

Dean just keeps holding you, rocking you gently. His voice never lifts, never strains despite the quiet irritation curling under his ribs at the sight of you breaking like this, sobbing over the very thing he worked so carefully to give you. Like you don’t realize how close you’ve come to being safe. To being his in a way no one can ever take away. He pushes the feeling away. You’re just upset because you don’t know better yet. But that’s okay, that’s why he’s here.

“Shhh, sweetheart. It’s okay,” he soothes. “C’mere, it’s alright.”

He pulls you toward the bed, sitting down and guiding you into his lap like it’s always been yours. Like your body finally knows what he’s known all along—that you’re safest when you’re his.

“There we go,” he murmurs, arms snug around you. “Just let me hold you.”

You’re sobbing harder now, near-hysterical. You try to lift your head, but Dean tucks it gently back under his chin.

“You don’t have to think about any of that stuff right now,” he whispers. “You’re exhausted and scared and your hormones are probably all over the place. That’s too much for you, baby. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I don’t want this,” you say again, like maybe the repetition will make it all go away.

Dean nods softly. “I know, baby. You don’t have to want it yet.”

You stiffen, but you don’t move.

He lowers his head, kisses your temple. His hand strokes slow across your back, again and again.

“Y’know, some things just happen for a reason,” he murmurs. “Sometimes we don’t know what we need until we have it.”

You’re breathing too fast. This kind of stress isn’t good for you in this fragile state.

Dean presses your face against his chest again. “Just slow down for me, sweetheart. Take some deep breaths. You’re gettin’ all worked up.”

“I don’t want to be a mom,” you whimper. “I’ll mess it up. I’ll ruin it. I don’t know how—”

“You don’t have to know yet,” he says, calm and certain. “That’s not your job right now.”

His hand drifts down, low, pressing flat over your belly.

“You’re already doing the hard part,” he murmurs. “You’re carryin’ our kid. That’s all I want you to focus on.”

You sob at that—but you don’t pull away. You never do.

Dean kisses your forehead.

“I’ll worry about everything else. You just stay here and let me take care of you.”

“I’m not strong enough—”

“You’re much stronger than you think, always have been,” he interrupts, smiling faintly. “But you don’t have to be strong. Not right now.”

You’ve quieted a little. Just a little. The sobs have faded into soft, ragged breaths. You’re still in his lap, still tucked against his chest like something small and breakable.

Dean rocks you gently, slow and steady, like he’s lulling you to sleep.

“Y’know what I keep thinkin’ about?” he says, voice warm, near your ear.

You don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either.

“I keep thinkin’ maybe this is how it was always supposed to go. You and me. Puttin’ down roots.”

Your breath stutters. Dean tightens his arms just a little. He kisses your hair. Smooths a hand down your back.

“We can be a family sweetheart. A real one, none of the bullshit we had to deal with growing up.”

You swallow hard, your eyes squeezing shut as he speaks.

He shifts the hand on your back lower. Settles it over your belly like it belongs there.

“Little feet runnin’ through the kitchen. Somethin’ warm on the stove. You hummin’ to yourself like you always do when you think no one’s listenin’.” He jostles you a little, the way he always does to get you to smile when you pout, “because you do hum like that, y’know. It’s my favorite sound in the world.” He watches, waits for a smile—even a small one—with one of his own.

But you start to tremble again—not from fear, but something close to grief. Something scarily close to surrender.

Dean hushes you instantly, rubbing your back.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. You don’t have to be scared.”

You’re clinging to him like a life line. He feels it—feels the way your body folds smaller.

He kisses your forehead.

“This could be a good thing,” he says softly. “This could be a great thing, sweetheart. You just don’t see it quite yet.”

His thumb strokes slow circles into your spine.

“But I do. I see it plain as day. You’re mine. And now we’ve got a future.”

You don’t speak, but you don’t fight either so he takes it as a win.

Dean smiles faintly into your hair. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to think too hard right now. Just let yourself rest. I’ll handle everything.”

And he means it.

You nod faintly. Maybe just to stop the spinning.

Dean’s smile deepens against your skin.

“We’re gonna be just fine, sweetheart,” he says, and he sounds so sure that you almost believe him.

You rest your head against his shoulder like you’re floating. Like you’ve given up fighting the current.

Dean’s hand slides back down to your belly. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I promise, sweetheart, I’m gonna take such good care of you. Both of you.”

That night, after you fall asleep with tear-damp lashes and your body curled toward his like instinct, Dean stays awake.

He watches you breathe.

Feels the weight of it all settle into him.

You look so small.

And all he can think is: finally.

He doesn’t have to lose you like he lost everyone else. Doesn’t have to wonder where you’ll go when—not if—you outgrow him. Doesn’t have to watch you flirt with some cocky kid in a bar and wonder when you’ll trade up. He never has to worry about you getting hurt or dying or being in harm's way.

And if the price of that safety is your freedom?

Well.

Dean’s always believed good things come with a cost. And it’s not like he lied to you. Not really. He just… steered things in the right direction.

Set the trap.

And you walked into it with a smile on your face.

And the best part?

He knows you’ll love him for it. Eventually.

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It was no secret who he and Sammy were. The Winchester name was practically a famous curse now, where it was originally just some fickle surname in the eyes of most humans who knew it - in hunter terms, though, the Winchesters were old news... at least, you thought they were. Hunters living after thirty-five was a miracle in itself, but those two were practically ran-through in terms of fighting. There is such a thing as old news, you know!

You hated how Dean stole your hunts. How he thought that, somehow, you weren't cut out for what you did. Maybe it was that disgustingly paternal side to him, or the side that lost Jo that makes him like that. Maybe it's the fact that you remind him of Krissy if he'd have seen her grow up real nice.

2016's March was boring. There was a hunting dry spell, so to speak, and you'd just about begun to wonder if maybe there was such a thing as giving up the handle, until some shoddy vampire hunt made itself obvious roughly three hours from you. Only problem was that Dean was itching to get his mitts filthy with vamp blood. He even took the liberty of getting himself a motel room at the same place you did. What a stand up guy!

Baby passes your own car on the highway, first - you think you hallucinate it out of exhaustion. You see him in a diner window, second - you realise you're not hallucinating. In the PD as a shoddy FBI agent, third, and in the motel lobby, fourth.

Room six, you knock, or rather pound on the door aggressively like some street thug demanding money he's owed. The click of a gun's safety is heard from behind said door - very thin, you note, kickable with a man's force - and you know he's looking through the peephole, then even muttering to himself a litany of curses as he swings open the door. You tromp into the room.

"Didn't know you were so happy to see me." he says, too cheery. You hate how cheery he is, and as a result look at him in a deadpan manner. "Oh, c'mon, sweetheart. Don't be a bitch."

There's a wicked, smug smirk on his face, one that makes him look like one of those good-for-nothing perverse old men, but you know better. You could scream at him. In fact, you almost do, your brows going down, down, till your expression resembles a frown. What you want to say is a tacenda.

"You can't leave well enough alone, can you?" You bite, standing on the worn motel carpet, your hip cocking to the side. "What're you even doing here?"

"No need to be so," he gestures to you with a wave of his hand, tilting his head downward as he looks you over. "Grouchy. You think you can handle a group of bloodsuckers after bein' in hiding after months? You're outta practice."

You scowl. "Out of practice? Who are you to judge, old man?"

"Sweetheart, your stance is about as open as a whore's legs. C'mon, throw a few punches. I promise you that you'll lose."

He's baiting you. He is, and you know it, because that's what he does. That's what he did in Nevada, when you worked a case together, and he got you so mad that he ended up shutting you up against the door of the Impala in an empty lot, your hair in a mess, drool dripping down your chin, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat. Clearly you hadn't learned from the shame of that.

He's baiting you, and yet it's incredibly difficult to ignore him. It's not your first time raising your hand at a man, and definitely not your first time trying to raise your hand at him. Dean lets you get one in, this time, and your fist collides with his jaw half-heartedly. On the next he catches your wrist, that same sleazy grin on his face.

"Dean," you mutter, jerking your wrist back. "Get off me, you ass, let go."

He doesn't, instead narrowing his eyes. "You gonna tell a vamp to 'get off'?" he coos mockingly, grabbing your face harshly with his free hand, your cheeks squished uncomfortably.

Silence fills the tired motel room. It's seen countless scenes like this, more or less. You wince, staring up at him uncomfortably, and then you spit at him. It's an unladylike gesture - downright gross. The stuff lands on his cheek, dripping down. Dean lets go of your face, his fingers wiping the spit off his cheek. He looks at them, hums, and brings them to his mouth. Sucks slowly.

"Thanks. How sweet," he murmurs. "Didn't know you were so generous, honey."

Dean's hand cups your cheek, now, a little gentler. There's no point in grabbing you now; you're practically frozen in front of him, mouth dropping open in a clueless, surprised little 'o'. This is not what you intended at all. No, not really, but you knew. The minute you stormed into his motel room, you knew.

He acts like he's thinking for a second, scrutinising you. "Y'needed the attitude fucked outta you, again?"

"No," you deny, shifting from foot to foot, not pulling away even a bit. "What, you think I'd come to you for that?" you say, biting at the inside of your cheek.

"I think you come to me for alott'a things," he answers, then, sweeter, ushers you closer. "Nothing's wrong with admitting you want somethin'."

You swallow, wet your lips, sway side to side like an anxious thing, suddenly feeling much more tense. A nod. "I'll admit it if you give it to me."

Dean smiles imperceptibly, his expression full of self-satisfaction, and squeezes your face again. Kisses you in the same way he did in Nevada, with his fingers easing your mouth open, pressing on the hinge of your jaw, tongue against your gums. His saliva tastes like cheap whiskey. The thing is, you let him kiss you. For all of your complaining, you let him, and you know you will again when he crashes your next case.

"That's a girl," he murmurs, letting go of your wrist so he can slide his hand up your shirt. Impatient. Up, up, until he's pawing at your chest like some dog, groping, thumb rubbing over your nipples, making you press yourself against him eagerly. "There we go, you're real quiet now."

"Needed this," you admit against his mouth, trying to undo his belt, your actions sloppy and out of practice. It really has been a while, you think, and when he tilts your head back to bite at your neck, you squirm like some kind of virgin.

"I can tell." Dean chuckles, pulling your shirt over your head, groaning quietly as he pulls back to look at you.

The whole thing is a mess of clothes; you scrambling to get his jeans off, him doing the same to yours, practically tripping as you kick your boots off. You moved at some point, half-lying on the bed, propped up by your elbows, Dean on top of you. Somehow you can't tell if his mouth stayed on you the whole time - it must've, it is now. His tongue circles your nipple, leaving saliva trails that cool in the fan-chilled air, his knee pressing into your clothed cunt.

You mewl and whine, dragging him closer.

"Fuck, girl, calm yourself," Dean mutters, pressing his thumb against your lower lip, prodding until you open your mouth properly, grazing it with your teeth and sucking on his thumb with a content hum. Your hips rut against his knee, and he grabs your hip, guiding your movements. "See? No need to be so fussy."

He pulls your underwear down, watching, chuckling to himself as the gusset sticks to your damp pussy and pulling his thumb from your mouth with a pop and rubbing your clit, spreading your saliva over it. You rub yourself against him, panting already like some bitch in heat.

"Want it now," you protest needily, looking at him with pleading eyes, lips swollen and shiny with spit. "Please, please, Dean. You can have the hunt, you can have the one after that, just give it to me."

"What'd your daddy think, knowing that you're askin' for me like this?" he murmurs, but he's already dragging his boxers down, teasing your soaked folds with the tip, pressing inside your hole and then pulling back out. "I don't think he'd like it much."

"Don't care," you mutter, looking down between the two of you, eyes on his dick, swollen and already leaking pre. You swallow down the awkward lump in your throat that always seems to form around him.

Dean gives a little shake of his head, huffing an amused breath out, making one of those lovely noises - half groan, half pant - as he pushes in.

"Here, c'mon," he coos, pulling you towards him, slowly bottoming out, cock nudging against all of the ridges you can never get yourself. The stretch is warm, comforting, and you moan quietly. "C'mon, honey, take it, thaaats it."

He practically uses you as a fleshlight - practically, because, well, you're half-limp in his arms, leaning up and trying to kiss him on the mouth, missing and getting his chin instead, which seems like an odd, domestic gesture. Dean uses your hips as a way to drag you back onto him, your clit grinding against the coarse patch of hair at the base of his cock as you spread your legs wider, whorishly, as if him fucking you until you're cockdrunk isn't enough.

You tighten around him, and he actually moans, leaning down to bite at your shoulder, suck at the skin below your collarbones, leaving faint red marks. "Fuckin' easy, huh? All you need is some dick and a few kisses n'you're ready to cum?"

"Please," you whine stupidly, pushing up against him, your clit pulsing, smearing slick against him. "Please, lemme."

"'Course, sweetheart." he hums, fucking into you with hard, deep thrusts, your tits bouncing. You look obscene, your eyes glazed over, your mouth ajar.

You manage to get out his name in a short, strangled-sounding gasp, before you shudder, your legs locking around his as your orgasm rolls through you. Dean makes a sound you think is a whimper as you drag him closer, but you're too lost to focus on it. You're well-fucked, now, so he uses your cunt to chase his orgasm, his movements harsher.

"Where d'you want it?" he pants out, hurried, desperate.

"Inside," you slur, weak, hazy, drunk off of his voice, the fullness and your orgasm.

"Fuckin' crazy." Dean shakes his head, muttering out a sharp 'uh-uh', before pulling out and working himself so he can finish on your stomach. Cum splatters against your navel and ribs in warm, thick ropes, and you arch your chest up to him as if to offer him more. More?

He flops down on the bed next to you, dragging your limp, spent body against his, uncaring of the fact that the cum on your torso is smearing against his own.

However, he hadn't expected to see silver hairs scattered here and there among his beard. It was way too soon for him to be called and seen as an old man. It was something he used to call John, Bobby. Anyone, really, older than him. It was affectionate in his own way. But now he has to be designated as a middle aged man ? Hell no.

What would you think ? The thought wasn’t meant to bloom but it did anyway and that got the older Winchester to sweat a little, lean forward the mirror and take a better look at the grey hair in his three days beard under the champagne light drowning the bathroom. You were younger than him, only a few years. You looked great in your thirties, letting your hair grow longer, finally taking care of your damaged curls - you never had time to properly treat them.

He was being self conscious about it, he knew that. Dean always made sure to look good, treat himself whenever he could. Even when it was some junk food bought on the road, sided with milkshakes or beer.

“ Dean ? ” Hearing your voice , he straightened and casually reached for the sink, opening the running water to splash some on his face. “ I thought you were tired.”

You padded into the room still wearing your clothes from today, a pair of jeans and a lavender baby-tee. The golden pendant you’re wearing glittered faintly under the light.

“ Yeah.” He turned off the water, emerald eyes lancing at you through the glass. You walk up behind him and circle your arms around him. You craved him just enough for you to tighten your embrace and nuzzle your cheek onto his back.

“ You good ?”

“ Always am.” He feels you leave his back for a few seconds then your chin dips in his shoulder blade.

“ We both know that’s not always the truth.” And you are right. Dean ? It was easy for him to act foolish when it came to his well-being. He would brush it away with a shrug, go back to whatever he was doing. It was like words left your lips only to disappear into thin air, as if they never existed. Here, he was quiet. Too quiet, too still. Something occupied his mind. You don’t want to press him yet you are desperate for him to talk to you.

He never wants you to shut down, to feel bad, to get hurt. When it’s his turn ? Oh, everyone acts as if he’s gonna die because the truth is that he actually risks his life. Lord knows he was lucky enough to be saved from rotting six feet under many times.

“ You remember about that time I told you I got old ? ”

A smile forms on your lips. One you can’t refrain. You remembered that story very well. It was a long time ago and you weren't in the picture yet. It was about a year after he died and came back from hell , you were told by Sam and Dean — as well — on a random night while the three of you stayed in the unique motel room you could afford.

“ Oh yeah. Why are you asking me if I remember it ? Got something you never told Sam ? Me ? ” You question.

“ No it’s—something else sweetheart. ” You don’t move or say anything for a few seconds. The silence stretches between you two until he finally talks again. “ I’m getting old. ”

“ Like…me , ” your chin leaves his shoulder blade. Your hands slid from his soft tummy to hold his arms between your limbs. “ Like everyone. ”

He says your name in a way that feels painful for him. “ No. I’m really getting old. ” Despite knowing you can’t see his face , he lowers his head. Your brows met atop your lids.

You decide to step from behind him and place yourself at his side. He turns his head in your direction, meets your eyes then quickly snaps them away. That’s when you finally see it too. A small silver hair surfacing right there on his cheek. “ Now what , those scare you ? ”

“ Yeah—fuck. If it wasn’t just that. ”

You tilt your head on the side. He stays quiet and that’s enough for you to acknowledge his silence.

“ You checked down there , too ? ”

“ No. Not yet. I don’t want to, though. ” He exhaled. “ I’m just thinking, I’m getting old and you might not—”

You interrupted him , knowing what was about to exit his pretty lips. “ I might not, what , hate it ? You know it ain’t gonna happen. Dean , I genuinely fucking love you. I wouldn’t mind anything about your looks. Even if you get a dad bod. ”

He frowns. The fuck is a dad bod ?

“ If so , I think that adds…a little extra. ”

“ What extra ? ” He looks at you while you decrease the distance between you , your hand hovered over his shoulder until it set on his bicep. The same you liked to be wrapped in and belonged to the man you loved whom you find ridiculously cute getting worked up over his first grey hair.

“ I dunno…the DILF kind of extra. ”

He huffs , amused by your attempt at flirtation. “ I’m not even a dad , sweetheart. ”

“ Not yet. ” Your chirped , standing on your toes to leave a kiss on his cheek. He smirks and turns fully to catch your hips and bring you against him.

“ That sounds like a threat. Should I be scared ? ”

“ Maybe. ”

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