#rough dean

The ghoul’s claws missed your throat by inches. Dean’s shotgun blast echoed in the cramped tomb, splattering viscous black ichor across the stone walls. Silence slammed down, thick and heavy, broken only by your ragged breaths and the frantic hammering of your heart. Dean stood over the dissolving corpse, chest heaving, eyes wild. He turned to you, his gaze scanning your body with terrifying intensity, searching for injury.

“You okay?” His voice was gravel, rough with residual fear and exertion.

“Yeah,” you breathed, wiping sweat and grime from your forehead. “Just... close.”

“Too damn close.” He holstered his gun in one swift motion and closed the distance between you in two long strides. His hands were on your face, thumbs brushing the dirt from your cheeks, his eyes burning into yours.

There was no hesitation, no gentle lead-in. His mouth crashed against yours, a hard, possessive kiss fueled by adrenaline and the visceral need to confirm you were whole, alive, and his.

It was electric. His tongue demanded entry, and you yielded instantly, moaning into his mouth as his hands slid down to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach, even through layers of clothing. The hunt’s danger faded, replaced by a different, equally potent kind of electricity crackling between you.

“Need you,” Dean growled against your lips, his breath hot. “Now. Can’t wait.” His hands were rough as they pushed your jacket off your shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons of your flannel. You helped, desperate to feel skin on skin. He shoved the fabric aside, his mouth immediately finding the curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp and arch into him. “Mine,” he murmured against the mark he’d made, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin. “All fucking mine.”

He dragged you towards the Impala, parked just outside the tomb's entrance under a canopy of trees. The backseat was cramped, but neither of you cared. He tumbled you onto the worn leather, climbing over you with predatory grace. His kisses became a map across your skin – lips and teeth tracing a path down your collarbone, sucking a bruise onto the swell of your breast before taking a nipple into his hot mouth. You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair as he laved and nipped, his free hand working open your jeans.

“Dean… please…” you whimpered, writhing under his ministrations.

“Please what, sweetheart?” he murmured against your stomach, his breath ghosting over your skin as he tugged your jeans and panties down your legs in one impatient motion.

“Tell me what you need.” His eyes met yours, dark green and hungry.

“You. All of you. Need to feel you,” you gasped, pushing yourself up on your elbows.

He smirked, that cocky, heart-stopping grin that always unraveled you. “Yeah? Gonna feel me, baby. Deep.” He shifted, kneeling between your thighs at the edge of the seat. You crawled forward towards him as he stood briefly beside the open car door to shed his own jeans and boxers.

His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head glistening with precum in the moonlight filtering through the trees. Your mouth watered. You reached out, wrapping your hand around his shaft, feeling the heat and the powerful throb beneath the velvet skin. You stroked him firmly a few times, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. Leaning forward, you kissed the swollen tip, tasting salt and musk. A shudder ran through him.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

You flicked your tongue down the thick vein on the underside, tracing it slowly all the way to the base before swirling back up. Then, holding his intense gaze, you opened your mouth and took him in. Slowly, inch by glorious inch, you worked him deeper. His groan was louder this time, primal. One hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding you there as you moved.

“That’s it… take it… good girl,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking hard as you pulled back before sinking down again, taking him deeper each time. Saliva gathered at the corners of your mouth as you fought your gag reflex, determined to take more. On the next descent, you reached up with your free hand, guiding his other hand to your throat.

His fingers wrapped around it gently at first, feeling the vibrations as you hummed around him. Then you pushed yourself further, forcing him deeper down your throat until his tip hit the back. Your throat muscles spasmed around him, fluttering wildly. His grip tightened instinctively – not cutting off air, just claiming. He could feel himself stretching your throat beneath his palm.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean choked out, his hips giving an involuntary thrust. “Fuck… fuck… feel that… your throat… sucking me so deep… Shit, sweet girl, I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that.” The rough awe in his voice sent sparks straight to your core.

You pulled back just enough to smile up at him, a trail of spit connecting your lips to his glistening cock. The sight nearly undid him. With a guttural sound, he pulled you off completely with a wet pop.

“Enough,” he commanded hoarsely. “Need to be inside you. Now.” He pushed you back onto the seat, climbing over you again. His cock nudged against your slick entrance, already soaked from his mouth and your own arousal. “Look at me,” he demanded as he pushed inside.

Your eyes snapped to his as he breached you slowly, stretching you deliciously wide around his thick girth. He watched your face intently as he sank deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was fully sheathed. A shared moan escaped both of you.

“Fuck… so tight,” Dean groaned, his head dropping forward for a second before lifting to look down where your bodies joined. His eyes darkened further. “Look at that… look at how you take me.” You followed his gaze. In the dim light, through the thin veil of sweat-slicked skin on your lower belly, you could see the distinct outline of him inside you – a hard ridge pressing against your flesh with each subtle shift. The sight was obscenely erotic.

“See that?” Dean gritted out, mesmerized. “That’s me. Buried deep in my sweet girl.” His hand slid up to cup your breast possessively as he started to move.

It wasn't gentle. It was primal and rough. His hips snapped forward with urgent thrusts, driving into you with a force that pushed you up the seat with every plunge. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the car, mingling with your gasps and his guttural groans.

"Feels so fucking good," he panted, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to bruise. "Taking me so well... like you were made for this... made for me." His praise washed over you like a physical touch, amplifying every sensation.

His rhythm became punishing, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs. You arched beneath him, meeting him thrust for thrust, nails scratching down his sweat-slicked back. He captured your cries with hungry kisses, biting your lower lip.

"Gonna fuck you harder," he warned against your mouth. "Wanna feel you come around me. Let go for me, baby." His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm circles.

It was too much – the relentless pressure inside you, the demanding rhythm of his hips, the friction on your clit, and the raw possessiveness in his voice. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly before exploding violently. Your back arched off the seat as a scream tore from your throat, your inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic spasms.

"Fuck yes!" Dean roared above you. "That's it! Come for me! Good fucking girl!" His thrusts grew even more erratic, losing their rhythm as he chased his own release.

He pulled out abruptly, flipping you onto your stomach roughly. You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging your hips up and slamming back inside from behind. The angle was deeper, more intense.

"On your knees," he commanded gruffly. You scrambled to comply, bracing your hands against the back of the front seat. He knelt behind you, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints as he pounded into you relentlessly.

"Take it," he grunted with each powerful thrust. "Take all of it... fuck... so deep... gonna fill you up... mark you inside." His words were fragmented grunts of pleasure and possession.

Suddenly, he pulled out again. Before you could protest or even register the loss, he flipped you onto your back once more. Strong hands grabbed behind your knees and pushed them up and back towards your shoulders.

"Hold them," he ordered.

You gripped behind your knees, folding yourself nearly in half for him. The position opened you obscenely wide. Dean stared down at the glistening sight of himself sliding back into your soaked heat from this new angle. His eyes held a mixture of fierce triumph and desperate hunger.

"Look at that," he breathed. "All mine." He pushed back in slowly this time, savoring the slick glide as he bottomed out inside you, deeper than ever before. He leaned forward slightly, bracing his hands on either side of your head.

"Watch me," he demanded hoarsely as he started moving again.

His thrusts were deep and measured now but no less intense. Each stroke drove him impossibly deep into your core. You could feel every ridge and vein of him stretching you wide with every push and pull.

"Fuck... so deep... goddamn perfect... taking me like a good girl," he praised raggedly between thrusts, his eyes locked on where their bodies joined with an almost reverent intensity. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Claiming every fucking inch."

His gaze lifted to yours then – intense and vulnerable all at once. "Mine," he whispered fiercely as he drove home one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his release tore through him with a guttural shout of your name.

He pulsed inside you relentlessly as he emptied himself with deep, shuddering groans. His arms trembled as he held himself over you before finally collapsing onto his elbows above you, panting heavily against the crook of your neck.

For long moments, the only sounds were your ragged breaths mingling in the small space. His weight was heavy and comforting as he slowly softened inside you. His lips found the sensitive skin below your ear.

"Jesus," he breathed, voice wrecked. "You wreck me." His fingers traced a bruise forming on your hip tenderly. "Okay?"

You nodded against him, too blissfully shattered to form words. He pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple.

The heavy bunker door slammed shut behind you like a gunshot, echoing in the sterile concrete corridor. You adjusted the strap of your little black dress, the unfamiliar feel of it a stark contrast to your usual flannel and jeans. Tonight was different. Tonight was escape. From the monsters, the lore, the damn Winchesters… especially him.

The rumble of the Impala’s engine cut through the quiet before you even reached the garage entrance. You froze, a familiar irritation tightening your shoulders. Dean Winchester leaned against Baby’s gleaming fender, arms crossed, face a thundercloud. He wasn’t in his usual layers; just a worn grey t-shirt stretched tight over his chest, sleeves shoved up his forearms.

"Going somewhere?" His voice was deceptively casual, like gravel poured over ice.

"Out," you clipped, refusing to stop walking towards your own beat-up sedan parked nearby. "Not that it’s any of your damn business, Winchester."

He pushed off the car, falling into step beside you, matching your pace too easily. "Actually, it is. Got a ping on the scanners. Possible Hex Bag activity downtown, right near that fancy little bistro everyone’s raving about." He pulled out his phone, waving it vaguely. "Thought you’d wanna know. Since you’re technically still on the payroll."

You stopped dead, whirling on him. "Hex Bag? Right now? Convenient timing, Dean." You glared at him, taking in the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes raked over your dress with a look that wasn't admiration—it was possession. "Save it. I’m off duty. Sam can handle it."

"Sam’s neck-deep in Djinn lore, sweetheart. It’s you or nothing." He stepped closer, invading your space. The scent of motor oil, leather, and cheap diner coffee clung to him. It was infuriatingly familiar. "Besides, you don’t even know this schmuck you’re meeting, do you? What's his name? Brad? Chad? Some asshole you swiped right on?"

Your temper flared white-hot. "His name is Ethan. And he’s an architect. And it’s none of your goddamn business who I go out with! You don’t get to dictate my life just because we share a glorified basement!"

He barked a harsh laugh. "An architect? Oh, that’s rich. Bet he can’t even change a tire. You think he knows what you do? What you’ve seen? What you are?" His voice dropped lower, rougher. "You’re trusting some random dick you met on an app? That’s just stupid."

"Stupid?" You shoved his chest, hard, but he barely budged. "Says the man whose idea of a deep connection is a bar fight and a quick screw in a motel bathroom! How is that any different, huh? You hook up with random girls every damn week!"

His eyes flashed, green fire in the dim garage light. "It’s different," he snarled, leaning in until his face was inches from yours. His breath was hot on your skin. "I can handle myself. If things go south with one of them? I can put them through a goddamn wall if I have to. What are you gonna do? Talk the big bad wolf into submission with blueprints?"

The condescension was a red rag to a bull. "I am plenty strong enough to handle myself, Dean Winchester! I’ve been hunting beside your arrogant ass for years! I don’t need your protection!"

"Prove it," he growled, the words a challenge dropped between you like a gauntlet.

Before you could blink, before you could even draw breath to retort, his hands shot out. One clamped like an iron manacle around your wrist; the other slammed into the concrete wall just beside your head, his body surging forward to cage you in. Your back hit the cold wall with a thud that knocked the wind out of you for a second.

"Get off me!" You snarled, twisting violently, trying to wrench your wrist free. His grip only tightened, his fingers digging into the delicate bones hard enough to bruise instantly. You brought your knee up sharply towards his groin, but he anticipated it, shifting his hips and pinning your leg against the wall with his thigh. His other forearm pressed across your collarbones, not choking but immobilizing, forcing your upper body flush against the unyielding concrete.

"You see?" His voice was a low, dangerous rumble against your ear as you strained uselessly against him. Every muscle in your body coiled, pushing, fighting, but he held you effortlessly, his strength absolute and infuriating. His chest pressed against yours, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. "This is what happens when you overestimate yourself, sweetheart. When you trust someone stronger than you."

Rage and something else, something terrifyingly hot and liquid, surged through you. "Screw you, Dean!" You spat, trying to headbutt him. He ducked smoothly, his stubble scraping harshly against your temple.

"No," he breathed, his lips brushing your ear, sending an unwelcome shiver down your spine despite the fury. "No one else gets to have you."

The possessiveness in his voice was absolute, primal. It didn't feel protective; it felt like ownership. "You don't own me!" You gasped, still struggling fruitlessly. His forearm pressed harder on your collarbones, making you gasp as the pressure bordered on pain.

"Don't I?" He ground his hips forward suddenly. The hard ridge of his erection pressed unmistakably against your lower belly through his jeans and your dress. The shocking contact made you freeze for a split second – long enough for him to register the sharp hitch in your breath, the involuntary clench of your thighs. A predatory smirk touched his lips. "Tell me to stop," he dared, his voice thick and dark. "Tell me to walk away right now."

Your traitorous body was humming, blood roaring in your ears where fury tangled with a sudden, shocking wave of arousal. Your core clenched tightly, dampness flooding against your will between your thighs. You saw the knowledge flare in his eyes – that dark green gaze dropping to your parted lips, then back up, holding yours captive.

"Fuck off," you whispered, but it lacked conviction, breathless and ragged.

He answered by crushing his mouth against yours.

It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claiming. Hard, bruising, demanding. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue invaded without finesse, tangling with yours in a furious clash. You bit him back, tasting copper on your tongue, and he growled into your mouth, the vibration resonating deep in your chest. One hand released your wrist only to fist roughly in your hair, tilting your head back further against the wall. The other slid from your collarbones down, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh of your hip before dragging up to roughly grope your breast over the dress fabric.

You tore your mouth away with a gasp that sounded suspiciously like a moan. "Get... off..." you panted, arching your back instinctively against the wall as his thumb found your nipple through the material and pinched hard.

He ignored you, his mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of your throat. "Liar," he breathed against your fluttering pulse before sucking hard, marking you with a deep, possessive bruise that would bloom purple by morning. The sharp sting made you gasp again.

His hand on your breast pushed the thin strap of your dress down your shoulder roughly. The neckline gaped, exposing the swell of your breast and the top edge of your bra. He didn’t bother with finesse; his mouth followed, teeth scraping lightly over sensitive skin before latching onto another spot just above your bra cup. Another sharp suck pulled a choked whimper from your throat – anger or pleasure indistinguishable.

"Admit it," he growled against your skin, his free hand sliding down your side, over your hip, bunching the fabric of your dress up around your waist with rough impatience. Cool air hit your thighs. "Admit you wanted this." His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties – simple cotton tonight, practical – and yanked them down roughly to your knees.

"Never," you hissed, bucking against him as his calloused fingers found your bare center. You were soaking wet. The evidence was undeniable. He groaned at the feel of it, a rough, animal sound that vibrated through both of you.

"Fucking liar," he repeated, voice thick with lust and triumph. He dragged two fingers roughly through your slick folds, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that made stars burst behind your eyes despite your furious resistance.

You shoved at his shoulders again, purely instinctual now. "Dean... please..." But your voice was thick with desire you couldn't mask.

He pulled his fingers away, slick and glistening. You saw the raw hunger in his eyes as he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean without breaking eye contact. The obscenity of it sent another jolt straight to your core.

"No," he stated flatly, holding your gaze with fierce intensity. With brutal efficiency, he shoved his own jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself. His cock sprang out – thick, hard, flushed deep red and already weeping at the tip.

He didn't ask. He didn't prepare you further. Gripping his base in one hand and wrapping the other arm around your waist to haul you roughly against him, he drove himself into you with one powerful thrust.

You cried out – a sound ripped from your throat that was pure shock and raw sensation. He filled you completely, stretching you wide with his demanding girth. It burned briefly at the sudden intrusion before dissolving into an overwhelming wave of intense fullness and friction.

"Tight," he groaned into your neck, his breath ragged against the fresh hickey he was undoubtedly leaving there. He didn't move for a second, just held himself buried deep inside you as if anchoring himself.

"Get out..." you gasped, clawing at his back through his t-shirt, needing leverage but finding only hard muscle flexing beneath your nails.

He pulled back almost completely – the drag agonizingly intense – before slamming back in with punishing force. The impact drove another cry from your lips and pushed you harder against the cold concrete wall.

"Make me," he challenged darkly, setting a relentless rhythm that brooked no argument.

He fucked you hard and fast against the bunker wall, the slap of skin on skin echoing sharply in the garage alongside your harsh breathing and choked gasps. Each powerful thrust drove him deep, grinding against that spot inside you that made your vision blur. He held you pinned easily – one arm locked around your waist, keeping you impaled on his cock, the other hand fisted back in your hair, controlling the angle of your head as his mouth continued its brutal assault on your neck and shoulder.

You hated him. You hated the way his rough stubble scraped your skin raw. You hated the possessive grip bruising your hip and thigh where he held you open for his thrusts. You hated the deep ache spreading through your core that felt terrifyingly like building ecstasy.

"You think... some architect... can fuck you like this?" he grunted between thrusts that rocked your entire body against the unyielding wall. His voice was strained with effort and desire.

"Better... than... you..." you managed to gasp out before another deep plunge stole your breath. Your hands scrambled for purchase – one clawing at his shoulder blade through his shirt, the other pressed flat against the wall behind you.

He laughed harshly against your skin, biting down gently on the curve where neck met shoulder – not breaking skin but leaving another deep imprint of teeth that would linger for days. "Keep lying," he rasped. "Your body tells me different." He punctuated this by angling his hips just so on the next downstroke, grinding his pubic bone hard against your clit as he bottomed out inside you.

A sharp cry tore from you this time, involuntary and ragged. Your inner walls clenched down hard around his invading cock, betraying you utterly.

"Yeah," he breathed, sensing it, feeling it. He adjusted his rhythm slightly to hit that spot again and again with ruthless precision. "That's it... feel it... You're mine." The possessive declaration was raw and guttural.

The friction was unbearable. The conflicting storm of rage and desperate arousal roared inside you like a hurricane. You could feel the inexorable coil tightening deep within your belly despite yourself – a traitorous pressure building with every punishing thrust of his hips, every scrape of his teeth on skin already burning with sensitivity.

Your nails dug harder into his back as he fucked you with relentless force against the cold concrete wall of the garage.

The harsh slap of flesh against flesh echoed off the concrete walls, punctuated by Dean’s ragged breaths and your own choked gasps. He drove into you with relentless, punishing force, each deep thrust grinding against that spot inside you that made sparks explode behind your eyelids. The friction was exquisite torture, the fullness overwhelming.

"You hear me?" Dean growled against the sweat-damp skin of your neck, his teeth scraping another possessive mark just below your jaw. "Gonna fuck you till you forget that architect prick's name. Till you're begging me for more." His hand tightened on your hip, fingers digging deep into the flesh, sure to leave dark bruises shaped like his grip.

"Beg?" You forced the word out through gritted teeth, trying desperately to cling to the fraying edges of your anger, even as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

"Never... gonna... beg... for you, Winchester..." Your voice hitched treacherously on his name as he angled his hips sharply, hitting that deep, perfect spot again.

A low moan escaped you then, raw and involuntary, vibrating against his shoulder where your face was pressed. You tried to bite it back, but it was too late.

He heard it. A predatory grin spread across his face, visible even in your peripheral vision. "That's what I thought," he rasped, triumph lacing his voice. Before you could retort, his hand slid from your hip down to the back of your thigh. With a powerful jerk, he hiked your leg higher up around his waist. Instinctively, your other leg wrapped around him too, locking your ankles behind his back.

The shift in angle was devastating.

He plunged deeper than before, impossibly deep, filling you completely, stretching you in ways you hadn't known were possible. The head of his cock kissed a place untouched, sending shockwaves of pure, electric pleasure radiating outwards. A strangled cry tore from your throat.

"Fuck... Dean..." The name slipped out, unbidden, breathless.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Yeah, that's right," he encouraged, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, more focused, hammering that newly discovered spot with ruthless precision. "Say my name. The only name you get to scream tonight." His eyes locked onto yours, green fire blazing with possession and raw satisfaction as he watched your control unravel. "Gonna fuck you till you can't say anything but Dean Winchester."

You tried. God, you tried to summon a snarky retort, something sharp to cut through the haze of pleasure he was drowning you in. But your legs trembled violently around his waist, your core clenching desperately around his invading thickness. The coil inside you snapped.

A sharp, keening wail ripped from your lungs as your orgasm crashed over you. Your back arched violently off the wall, held only by his iron grip and the anchor of his body. Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around him in frantic, rhythmic pulses, milking his cock as wave after wave of blinding ecstasy washed through you. "Dean! Oh god, Dean!" His name was a broken chant on your lips, a surrender you couldn't deny.

He groaned, low and guttural, his own rhythm faltering for a moment as he felt you convulse around him. "Fuck yes... just like that," he breathed, his own control visibly fraying. He didn't stop. He kept pounding into you, riding the waves of your climax, driving you relentlessly towards the edge again even as the aftershocks still trembled through you. His thrusts became sloppier, harder, driven by primal need.

You felt him twitching deep inside you, the telltale sign of his own impending peak. His hand slid up to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were dark, dilated pools of hunger. "One more," he commanded, his voice thick and rough. "You're gonna come again. For me. Right now."

Breathless, overwhelmed, still shuddering from the last climax, you shook your head weakly against his grip. "N-no... Dean... can't..." The words were barely a whisper, your body feeling wrung out and impossibly sensitive.

He chuckled, a dark, confident sound.

"Yes, you can." And he proved it. He shifted his angle infinitesimally, grinding his pelvis hard against your clit while simultaneously driving deep, shallow thrusts that rubbed perfectly against that oversensitive spot inside.

The dual assault was merciless, overwhelming. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful in its intensity, detonated low in your belly.

A broken sob escaped you as your body betrayed you utterly. Another orgasm, sharper and more intense than the first, tore through you. Your walls clamped down on him with incredible force, fluttering and spasming in a desperate, rhythmic grip.

That was all it took. With a roar that echoed off the concrete, Dean buried himself to the hilt and came. You felt every powerful pulse, every hot jet of his release flooding deep inside you.

He held himself impossibly deep, grinding against you as he emptied himself, his body shuddering violently against yours. You felt every twitch, every throb of his cock as he spilled himself, the sensation intimate and possessive beyond words.

For long moments, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of two hearts. He didn't pull out. He stayed buried within you, his forehead dropping heavily against yours. Sweat mingled between your skin. His breath fanned hot against your lips.

A slow, utterly smug smirk curved his lips. "Architect, huh?" he rasped, the words thick with exhaustion and triumph. The snark was back, laced with undeniable satisfaction.

Finally, with a groan, he pulled out.

The sudden emptiness was shocking, followed by the unmistakable feeling of his release trickling down your inner thigh. He took a step back, hastily pulling his jeans back up, his gaze never leaving yours. It was fierce, possessive, utterly unapologetic.

He reached out, his thumb brushing roughly over one of the darkening hickeys on your collarbone. "Hate me all you want, sweetheart," he stated, his voice low and final. "But remember this feeling. Remember who owns it." He tapped the bruise lightly.

The stale motel air crackled with tension thicker than the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon sunlight. You’d been arguing for twenty minutes straight, circling the same damn point about a vengeful spirit case in Des Moines like vultures over carrion. Dean paced the worn carpet, boots scuffing aggressively, his shoulders a rigid line beneath his worn Henley. Every frustrated sweep of his hand through his hair sent a fresh wave of irritation through you.

"No, Dean! That's not how we handle it!" You threw your hands up, exasperation boiling over. "Charging in guns blazing? Again? After what happened in Toledo?"

He whirled on you, eyes dark as storm clouds, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. "And what?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl, vibrating with barely leashed fury. It shouldn’t have made your stomach flip, shouldn’t have sent a treacherous heat pooling low in your belly. But it did. "You think I don't know that? Think I forgot Toledo? I know what I'm doing!" The sharpness of his tone was a physical thing, scraping against your nerves.

"Well, maybe you should listen for once!" You stepped forward, invading his space, your own anger trembling in your voice, fueled by the unwanted flutter his proximity caused. "Instead of just doing whatever reckless, stupid thing pops into your head! We're supposed to be a team, Dean! Partners!"

"I am listening!" He roared back, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides. He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his furious gaze. The air between you crackled, thick with ozone and unresolved everything. "But you're overthinking everything! Paralysis by analysis! Like always!" He punctuated the last word with a sharp kick to the leg of the rickety motel table, sending a half-empty bottle of whiskey wobbling precariously.

The accusation stung, sharp and unfair. "Overthinking?" You spat, grabbing the nearest harmless object – a packet of rock salt – and hurling it at his chest. It bounced off harmlessly. "I'm trying to keep us alive, you idiot! Unlike you, who seems determined to get himself killed!"

His eyes flashed, something primal igniting in their depths. Before you could draw breath for another retort, before your brain could fully register the shift, Dean lunged.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't hesitant. It was pure, pent-up fury and frustration channeled into a single, devastating action. His hands shot out, one tangling roughly in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and his lips crashed down onto yours.

The impact stole your breath. You staggered back a step, but he was relentless, an immovable force. His kiss was hot, heavy, urgent – a desperate attempt to shut you up. A groan ripped from your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth. Your hands flew up, not to push him away, but to clutch desperately at his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle beneath the worn cotton.

"Dean—" you gasped against his lips, but he wasn't stopping. His hands slid down your sides, strong and demanding, lifting you effortlessly until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking you flush against him. Every hard plane of his body pressed against yours – the buckle of his belt digging into your stomach, the heat radiating from his chest, the undeniable hardness straining against his jeans, pressed intimately against your core. The friction was electric, sending jolts of pure, molten need straight through you.

The anger was still there, a tangled knot in your chest, but it was rapidly being consumed, overwritten by a tidal wave of desire. Every frantic kiss, every possessive slide of his tongue against yours, every desperate shove of his hips against yours only fanned the flames higher, blurring the lines between fury and lust until they were indistinguishable.

"You think I don't feel it too, baby?" he hissed against your lips, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated through your entire body. His teeth nipped sharply at your bottom lip, sending a shockwave of pleasure-pain down your spine. "You think this constant fighting, this goddamn arguing… you think it isn't killing me?"

He kissed you again, deep and consuming, one hand sliding under your shirt, his rough palm scraping against your bare skin, sending shivers cascading over you.

"Knowing… knowing I want you like this." He punctuated the word with another hard grind of his hips, drawing a choked whimper from you.

You couldn't speak. Words were impossible. Your mind was white noise, consumed by the feel of him, the taste of whiskey and Dean, the sheer overwhelming need. Your fingers scrabbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards, desperate for skin.

"Dean…" It was barely a breath, ragged and pleading. "Don't stop."

A low, predatory chuckle rumbled in his chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark pools of hunger, a smirk playing on his kiss-swollen lips. "Good," he murmured, his thumb brushing roughly over your peaked nipple through the fabric of your bra. "Because I wasn't planning to." He shifted his grip, carrying you the few steps to the nearest motel bed. "Let me make you feel it, sweetheart. All of it."

He lowered you onto the scratchy comforter, following you down, his body covering yours completely. There was no more talking.

Arguments dissolved into gasps and moans. Frustration melted into desperate touches. Clothes became obstacles ripped away with impatient hands – buttons flying, fabric tearing. His mouth was everywhere: hot and demanding on your neck, sucking bruises onto your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast before closing hungrily over a nipple, drawing a sharp cry from you.

His hands mapped your body with possessive urgency, calloused fingers tracing your ribs, dipping into the hollow of your navel, sliding down to grip your thigh and hike it higher over his hip. The first touch of his fingers against your slick heat drew a ragged sob from your throat. He teased you relentlessly, circling your clit with agonizing slowness before plunging two fingers deep inside, curling them expertly.

"Dean! Please!" You arched against him, your nails scoring down his back.

"Tell me," he growled, adding a third finger, stretching you deliciously, his thumb pressing hard against your clit. "Tell me what you want."

"You!" you gasped, writhing beneath him. "Just you! Now!"

He didn't need telling twice. With a groan that sounded ripped from his soul, Dean positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. He held your gaze, his own eyes wild with need, the last vestiges of anger completely consumed by raw desire. Then, with one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.

The sensation was overwhelming – a perfect, stretching fullness that bordered on pain before dissolving into pure, blinding pleasure. You cried out, wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him impossibly deeper. He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm from the start, each powerful thrust driving the breath from your lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a frantic, rhythmic protest.

It was fierce, primal. Every unresolved argument, every moment of tension, every spark of frustration fueled the fire. He fucked you like he fought – relentlessly, passionately, giving no quarter. You met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down for bruising kisses. The sounds filling the room were raw: the slap of skin on skin, Dean’s guttural groans, your own keening cries, the creak of the protesting bed.

He shifted, hooking your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle. The new depth drew a scream from you as he hit that spot inside you with devastating precision. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. "That's it, sweetheart," he rasped, his pace faltering slightly as he watched you unravel. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

The command, coupled with the relentless pressure, shattered you. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your body clamped down around him, milking him as you cried out his name, trembling uncontrollably.

Feeling you convulse around him was Dean’s undoing. With a final, deep thrust and a roar that echoed off the cheap motel walls, he followed you over the edge. His hips jerked erratically as he emptied himself deep inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your sweat-slicked skin.

Silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of two hearts slowing gradually, and the soft drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom. The motel room smelled of sex, sweat, gunpowder, and Dean.

Slowly, carefully, Dean shifted his weight off you, pulling you with him until you were both lying tangled on the rumpled sheets. Your limbs were heavy, pleasantly numb. He gathered you against his side, your head finding its familiar place on his chest, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

Skin slid against skin, cooling in the stale air. You traced idle patterns on the sweat-damp hair scattered across his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

The silence stretched, comfortable now, charged with a different kind of energy – the aftershocks of shared intensity. You felt him press a kiss into the top of your hair, surprisingly soft.

"Still think I don't listen?" His voice was a low rumble, rough-edged but lacking its earlier bite. There was a hint of smugness, but underneath it, something softer, almost… tender.

You tilted your head back to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, a satisfied, lazy smirk playing on his lips. The familiar teasing glint was back, but tempered now. You felt a smile tug at your own lips, a mix of sass and the bone-deep contentment humming through your veins.

"Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Winchester," you murmured, your voice husky. You reached up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with a fingertip. "But next time? Maybe try using your words before you decide to shut me up like that." Your smile widened, pure sweetness laced with challenge. "Though… I’m not exactly complaining about your methods."

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He tightened his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "Noted," he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead again. "But no promises, sweetheart. Sometimes…" He trailed off, his fingers tracing idle circles on your bare hip. "...sometimes shutting you up is just too damn satisfying."

The abandoned funeral home reeked of decay and cheap air freshener. Sam’s pained groan echoed off the stained wallpaper as you and Dean lowered him onto a dusty chaise lounge. Blood soaked through his jeans just above the knee where the Rugaru’s claws had caught him.

"Damn it, Sammy," Dean muttered, his voice tight with worry he'd never admit. He ripped a strip from Sam's flannel shirt to bind the wound tightly. "That thing hits hard."

"It's deep," you said, applying pressure. "He's not walking on this, Dean. Not without stitches and a serious dose of antibiotics."

Sam winced, his face pale. "I'm fine. Just... gimme a minute."no

"Shut up, Sam," Dean snapped, but there was no real heat. He looked from Sam's leg to you, his jaw set. "Fine. You're on research duty. Lockdown in this room. Salt lines everywhere. We handle the ugly."

You met Dean's glare head-on. "Great. Just us two. My favorite." Sarcasm dripped like poison.

"Couldn't agree more, sweetheart," he shot back, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. "Try not to slow me down."

"You wish you could keep up, Winchester," you retorted, already checking your silver knife.

Sam sighed, leaning his head back. "Just... try not to kill each other before you kill the Rugaru? Please?"

The hunt was messy. The Rugaru was fast and pissed, leading you through shadowed viewing rooms and past crumbling coffins. You moved surprisingly well together – years of mutual annoyance translating into a brutal efficiency born of knowing exactly how the other thought.

"Flank left!" Dean barked, firing rock salt. "I know!" you snarled, already moving, throwing a knife that hit harmlessly against the wall as the creature dodged. "Told you it was too slow!" "Your face is too slow!" you yelled back, diving behind an overturned casket as claws raked the air where your head had been. "Charming as ever!" Dean rolled, coming up firing again. "Cover me while I get the chains!" "Don't get dead!" you shouted, laying down covering fire with your pistol loaded with silver shavings.

It was exhausting, adrenaline-fueled chaos. The usual friction was there, amplified by the danger – his constant attempts to boss you around ("Reload faster!"), your immediate defiance ("Make me!"). But beneath the barbs, there was a grim respect for the hunter lurking beneath the target of your ire.

Then came the miscalculation. A hidden alcove, a blur of grey flesh and a sickeningly sweet, cloying scent that filled your nostrils just as something heavy slammed into both of you from behind. You tumbled together into pitch darkness. The sound of a heavy bolt sliding shut echoed with finality.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean roared, slamming his shoulder against the door. It didn't budge. "Sam! SAM! Can you hear us?" Silence. "Great," you muttered, pushing yourself up in the cramped space. Your back hit a wall. Your front hit Dean's chest. It was barely big enough for one person, let alone two fully armed hunters. "Move over!" "I am over! There is no over!" he growled, shifting slightly. His hip pressed hard against yours. The cloying scent was stronger here, thick and floral, like rotting lilies mixed with ozone. It made your head swim.

The proximity was instant torture. The scent intensified it, wrapping around your senses like a drug. Every brush of denim against denim sent jolts through you. You could feel the heat radiating off Dean’s body, hear the harshness of his breathing close to your ear. The usual irritation flared, but it felt different now… hotter, sharper, wired directly to your core.

"You smell like trouble," he muttered, his voice rough and closer than ever. His breath fanned your cheek. "Takes one to know one," you breathed back, but your voice hitched. Your traitorous body shifted infinitesimally against his thigh. A spark ignited low in your belly.

"Stop squirming," he ordered, but his own hips seemed to press forward slightly. "Or what?" you challenged, tilting your head up in the darkness. Your lips were dangerously close to his jaw. "You'll give me another lecture?" Your hips rocked again, deliberately this time, grinding the seam of your jeans against the hard muscle of his thigh. A gasp escaped you at the sudden flare of pleasure.

You felt him freeze. Then, a low groan rumbled deep in his chest. "Y/N... damn it... stop." But you couldn't. The scent was in your lungs, the heat was in your blood, and the sheer want, so long buried under layers of animosity, roared to the surface. You ground against him again, harder this time, feeling the unmistakable hardness growing behind his zipper press against your hip. "Oh, come on, Dean," you taunted, breathless, your hand finding his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through his shirt. "All those comments about my ass? All that flirting you pretend is just joking? You might hate me... but you've always wanted me." You punctuated it with another deliberate roll of your hips.

He sucked in a sharp breath. You felt his hand clamp down on your hip, fingers digging in almost painfully. He tried to push you back against the wall behind you, bracing his forearm across your collarbones. "Fight this," he gritted out, his voice strained with effort and something else – raw need. "You have to... fight it." But his eyes, even in the gloom, were dilated black pools of hunger fixed on yours. You could feel his erection straining against his jeans, a hard ridge against your stomach now.

You ignored his words, lost in the sensation. Your hips moved of their own accord, seeking friction against him. The wet heat between your legs soaked through your jeans. "Feel that?" you whispered huskily. "That's all for you... all that hate... feels so damn good."

His resistance shattered. A low, feral growl tore from his throat. The arm pinning you shifted. His free hand tangled violently in your hair, pulling your head back just as his mouth crashed down onto yours.

It wasn't gentle. It was a collision – lips mashing, teeth clashing, tongues warring with the same ferocity as their arguments. It tasted like salt, anger, and pure, unadulterated lust.

"I don't hate you," Dean gasped against your mouth between brutal kisses, his voice ragged. "Fuck... I don't think I can hold back..."

"Then don't," you demanded, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a sharp hiss and a deeper groan from him. Your hands scrabbled at his belt buckle.

He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. For a split second, intensity warred with the compulsion in his eyes. Then he snarled, "Fuck it," and kissed you again, his hands dropping to rip at your own belt and the button of your jeans.

Clothes became obstacles to be destroyed. Denim shoved down hips. The cool air of the closet hit your overheated skin for a second before Dean’s large, calloused hands were on you – one roughly kneading your breast through your bra, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out into his mouth, the other sliding down your stomach and into the waistband of your panties.

"Always knew you'd be wet," he growled against your lips, his fingers finding your slick heat and plunging two inside without preamble. You arched off the wall with a sharp gasp.

"Fuck! Yes! Knew you were tight... tight little hellcat." "You talk too much," you gasped back, fumbling with his fly until you freed his cock – thick, hot, and achingly hard in your hand. You squeezed him roughly, delighting in his choked moan. "Shut up and fuck me before I do it myself."

He didn't need telling twice. He hooked one of your legs over his hip, hoisting you roughly against the wall for leverage. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, already swollen and desperate. There was no finesse, no slow slide. He pushed into you with one powerful thrust that stole the breath from both of you.

"Jesus Christ," Dean groaned, his forehead dropping to yours as he sheathed himself fully inside your incredibly tight heat. "Like a goddamn vice... squeezing me..." "Too... too big... bastard..." you panted, wrapping your other leg around him instinctively, nails digging into his shoulders as you adjusted to the sudden, delicious stretch.

Then he started moving. Hard, deep strokes that drove you back against the unforgiving wall with every snap of his hips. The closet filled with the sounds of slapping skin, ragged breaths, low curses, and sharp cries.

"Still think... you can give me orders?" he grunted, one hand leaving your breast to wrap around your throat, not cutting off air but claiming,

dominating. "Go to hell... Dean..." you managed, raking your nails down his back under his shirt. "Already there... feels too damn good..." He slammed into you harder, hitting a spot that made you see stars. "This what you wanted? Huh? Pushing my buttons... grinding on me like a slut?" "Yes!" you cried out, throwing your head back against the wall. "Fuck me harder! Show me how much... how much you don't hate me!" "You feel that?" His thumb pressed against your clit in rough circles as he pistoned into you. "That's how much... taking me so deep... greedy little thing..."

Insults dissolved into pure filth and desperate pleas. The scent was thick in the air, fueling them. He bit your shoulder hard enough to bruise; you sank your teeth into the tendon of his neck. His hand tightened fractionally on your throat; your fingers twisted painfully in his hair, holding him close as if you could fuse together.

"Dean... Dean... I'm close..." you whimpered, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. "Look at me," he commanded gruffly. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze even as pleasure threatened to shatter you. "Come for me," he ordered, thrusts becoming erratic, brutal. "Come all over my cock... now!"

His words were the trigger. The orgasm detonated through you violently – a wave of pure electric ecstasy that ripped a scream from your throat as your inner walls clenched and spasmed around him like a fist.

"Fuck! Y/N!" Dean roared as your vice-like grip milked him. His own control snapped completely. With three more punishing thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he pulsed hotly inside you.

You clung to each other in the aftermath, trembling violently, sweat-slicked bodies pressed together in the cramped space. The cloying scent suddenly dissipated like smoke on the wind. The unnatural heat flooding your veins cooled abruptly, leaving behind only the intense awareness of each other's bodies and the shocking reality of what had just happened.

Breaths came in ragged gasps as the world slowly snapped back into focus. Dean was still buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his hand loose but still resting possessively on your throat. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest.

Slowly, dazedly, he pulled out. A shudder went through both of you at the separation. You slid down the wall until your feet touched the floor, legs trembling badly. You both fumbled silently to pull clothes back into some semblance of order in the dark.

The silence stretched, thick with shock and something else... a profound shift.

Dean reached out in the darkness. His hand found yours. Calloused fingers interlaced with yours tightly, almost desperately.

He cleared his throat, his voice hoarse but holding a note you'd never heard before – a mix of awe and residual heat. "...We should do this more often."

A shaky laugh escaped you as you squeezed his hand back just as tightly. The magnetic pull was still there, thrumming between them even stronger now. "Yeah," you breathed, still reeling. "Absolutely."

The bolt on the closet door suddenly scraped open from the outside, flooding the small space with dim light from the funeral parlor.

Sam stood there, eyes wide with concern and confusion, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch. His gaze darted between your disheveled appearances – flushed faces, swollen lips, visible bite marks on Dean's neck and your shoulder, clothes hastily arranged. Your hands were still clasped tightly together behind your backs.

"Whoa! Are you guys okay?" Sam asked urgently. "I heard yelling... crashing... then nothing! Did it get you? Are you hurt?"

You glanced at Dean. He met your gaze directly this time, a ghost of that familiar smirk playing on his lips again, but his eyes were soft.

You both spoke at the same time.

"Yeah," Dean said. "We're good," you confirmed.

Another shared look passed between you – charged and knowing.