#strangerwrites

He’s allowed to appreciate whoever he wants. That’s not the problem. The problem is that it's happening in front of your face this time, and you dislike this pretty waitress a little extra. She’d been so focused on calling Dean sugar and sweetie that she’d brought you out the wrong eggs. You’d been surprised she remembered your order at all, with how little attention she paid you. 

You give Dean a sour smile. “Can you at least try to keep the drool to a minimum? I’m trying to eat.” Really, you’re just pushing the food around your plate. 

He watches you for a second, then he waves the tacky waitress back over, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“What can I do for you, sugar?” She asks suggestively, only acknowledging Dean. 

“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” He apologizes with a charming grin. “My friend here ordered over-hard.” He gestures to the two eggs on your plate, which are very obviously undercooked. “Think you could run them back and get her new ones?”

“Of course,” The waitress smiles and then takes your plate without even looking at you. She seems delighted by Dean’s labeling of you as a friend. 

When she’s gone, Dean stares at you expectantly. You ignore him, so he says, “Y’know, it’s polite to thank someone when they do you a favor.” 

“How is wooing the waitress a favor for me?” 

“C’mon, we both know you won’t eat eggs like that. You don’t like when the yolk is runny.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say you know I’m right, why are you acting crazy. 

He is right. You think runny yolks are gross. In any other situation, you might even think the gesture was thoughtful, and that it showed that he paid more attention to you than you thought. But right now, you’re annoyed and dedicated to maintaining your attitude. So the most logical explanation for the whole thing is that Dean cared less about getting you what you could eat, anx more about about getting another view of the waitress walking away. 

“I’m not hungry, anyway.” You say. 

“You gotta eat. Y’need to keep your energy up after last night.” He winks at you like he’s sharing some inside joke, as if he’s totally oblivious to how exasperated you are. 

Him bringing that up irritates you even more, which you didn’t think would be possible. You look at your arrangement with Dean for what it is. You sleep together occasionally, partly because it's convenient and partly because he’s good at it. Scary good, sometimes. There’s no romance between you. The sex is hard and dirty. It’s not a situation you’re particularly proud of, especially when the nonchalant, non-committal nature of your relationship is thrown in your face, like it is right now. But the sex has proved too good to walk away from. The longer it's gone on, the more apathetic you’ve become to the arrangement, and Dean himself. You sometimes aren’t sure if you even like him. 

Sometimes, you wonder why you bother answering when he calls. The easy answer is that it’s safer for you as a lone female hunter to work with someone else watching your back, but you know that’s not the entire truth. There are a handful of other sole hunters and groups that you work with when you cross paths, but Dean is the only one you see so frequently. And the only one you sleep with. 

And you two certainly argue. A lot. It’s kind of your thing. Every so often, you team up to work cases, inevitably end up bickering, and then unavoidably end up fucking. The circle of life, as Dean would call it. He’s capable and reliable on a hunt, and you’d guess he felt the same about you, but once the job is done and all sexual frustrations are relieved, you don’t stick around. You don’t overstay your welcome or wait for Dean to ask you to leave. You find your next case and are gone by the next morning. He never asks you to stay. 

That’s how it works. Just a few days together and then you leave the man with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon in your rearview. 

Maybe the problem now is that you’d slept with him before finishing the case. So now there’s no avoiding him the morning after. Instead, there’s sitting at the dinghy town diner, forcing yourself to stomach breakfast while he openly lusts after another woman after being inside you not even twenty four hours ago. 

Not the best start to your day. 

“I could’ve handled it myself.” You snap. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your eye fucking.” 

“How considerate of you.” He says flatly. “Really, what’s got you so pissed?” 

Literally everything you’re doing. But you say, “I’m not pissed.” 

“You sure? You’re looking at me like you wanna murder me.” 

You’re spared from having to answer when the waitress comes back, giving Dean big eyes as she sets the plate down in front of you. He smiles at her. 

He catches you glaring at him. “I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” The corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have any competition.” 

You recoil. “That’s not- I’m not-” Stammering, you give him a look of disbelief. “I don’t care about competition. There is no competition, I mean.”

Dean smiles wider at your reaction. “Then what’s with the attitude?” 

You stare at him as he eats for a second, trying to formulate a thought that isn’t kick him hard in the shin under the table. “I always have an attitude.” 

“Ain’t that the damn truth.” He agrees around a mouthful. He swallows before continuing. “But you’re extra feisty today.” 

This time you give in to the urge to roll your eyes. You’re reaching your wits end and he’s smiling at you, acting like this is all a game for his entertainment. 

“I didn’t sleep well.” You say sharply. “I’m used to sleeping alone. You know, without someone taking up all the space in the bed.” You cross your arms over your chest. 

“I don’t think that’s it.” He muses, still smiling smugly. “Looked like you slept like a fuckin’ baby to me.” 

Your face heats up at that comment. You internally cringe as you're confronted with the thought of him perceiving you while you were asleep. It just feels like something too intimate for the insouciance between you. And even though Dean truly did take up the majority of the bed with his large frame, you’d slept well. You hadn’t even stirred when he got up to shower, so now you don’t have a good defense. 

“Whatever, Winchester.” 

“Y’sure you’re not jealous that I’m giving attention to-” 

“Now I’m pissed.” You interrupt. “Get a grip, Dean. I don’t care what you do or who you give your attention to, alright? Now can you hurry up and finish eating. I don’t want to stay in this town any longer than I have to.” 

Though your tone had been cutting, Dean appears unaffected, simply shrugging in response. “What’s the rush? Got your rocks off and now you’re ready to skip town. M’starting to think you might not enjoy my company.” 

“Well, don’t think too hard. Might hurt yourself.” 

“Cute.” He sneers. “But you seemed to enjoy my company last night, though.” He pretends to think. “In fact, you couldn’t get enough of my ‘company’ last night, if I’m remembering it right.” He leans across the table towards you and drops his voice, mirth glittering in his verdant eyes. “Hell, I’ll give you ‘company’ right now if it’ll fix that attitude-” 

The more primal part of your body stirs at his provocative tone and the deep timber of his voice, but your annoyance quickly beats that side of you back into submission. 

“At this rate, you’ll never have my company again.” You lean forward and taunt. You know it’s a total lie but it feels good to threaten him anyway. You’re also curious how he’ll react. You've tried to be done with him before, but for some reason, when he calls, you feel inclined to answer.

In his typical withdrawn nature, Dean deflects with a dismissive joke. “Oh, come on, woman, y’know it breaks my heart to argue with you like this.” 

“But you have such a talent for it,” You say with fake sympathy. 

“Fightin’ with you is just a hobby. My real talents lie elsewhere.” He counters with a smirk. 

You recognize the innuendo immediately. Dean practically defaults to making sexual insinuations, and does it frequently that it frankly annoys the hell out of you. It’s just a constant reminder that the only thing between you two is sex. Sex and hunting. And you know he’s more than capable of handling a spirit or two on his own, so that makes your true value to him more than clear. 

“Yeah, like driving me insane?” You mutter. 

“If I’m driving you insane, sweetheart, it’s only because you gave me the wheel.” He gives you a deliberate look with his eyebrows raised. A look that somehow says and we’ll keep riding until we crash. 

You roll your eyes and check the time. “Whatever that means. Hurry up. Library’s open.”  

A few minutes later, the same waitress brings over the check. Dean snatches it off the table quickly, but not before you see the phone number written in pink glitter ink at the top. The corner’s of his lips lift as his eyes sweep over the digits, and you’re not sure why that makes your stomach flip. 

You spend the next several hours at the library looking through old paper records. The research takes you both much longer without Sam but you’re thankful he’s not here. Though he’s easier to get along with than his brother, you don’t enjoy the looks he gives you and Dean when you fight, like he’s dealing with children. Like he knows something you both don't.

Eventually, you find the death certificate you were looking for. A hitchhiker had been struck and killed in a hit and run accident over thirty years ago, and now the spirit was apparently haunting the isolated stretch of road where he’d been hit, alongside the big cliffs on the east side of the town. The remains were buried by the family on the side of the road, at the site of the accident. 

You meet Dean outside in the parking lot outside the library. He’s busy looking at his phone, so he doesn’t see you coming at first. Despite yourself, you find yourself admiring him as you approach. God knows he might be annoying and callous at times, but he sure is good looking. Tall and broad as he leans against his car, and when he looks up and sees you coming, his smile is blinding. No wonder you keep coming back. How does a girl say no to someone like that? 

Dean slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “We ready to go?”

“Yeah.” You put the road map on the hood of the Impala and point out where you’ve circled the radius the burial site should be located in. “Bones should be somewhere in here.” 

He’s standing close to you and you can smell the rugged mix of leather and cedarwood that follows him around. It makes your head swim for half a second, so you focus your attention on the map. He glances at the map, but then you feel him staring at you. 

You flinch when he brushes hair away from your neck, stepping away from him immediately. “What are you doing?” Your heart races at your confusion from the intimate gesture. 

“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?” He muses. “Just noticed you have a bruise on your neck.” 

Using the side mirror of the Impala, you examine your neck. There are three little bruises at the base of your throat, the exact size of Dean’s fingers you’re sure. He has a habit, which you enjoy but would never say it out loud, of holding you by the throat when he fucks you. 

“So?” You ask with regained composure. “S’from you. Now let’s go.” 

“From me?” He asks but you’re already getting into the passenger seat. He climbs into the car as well before glancing at the bruises again. “You mean from last night?” 

“Yeah,” You say impatiently. “Can you start driving now?” 

“In a second. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

You give him a bewildered look. “About what?”

Dean looks away and starts the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He seems unusually tense. “I must have fucking hurt you last night, then.” He finally says. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me. Seriously. I always have bruises after.” 

“What?” 

His scandalized expression makes you realize that he would have no idea about the bruises he leaves you with after you hook up because he never gets the chance to see you the next day. It irks you that he’s pretending to care about it, though. He’s not exactly the most gentle lover, so what did he expect? The bruises are always very minor, from getting caught up in the heat of the moment, and you’ve never held it against him. 

“It’s just a bruise, Dean.” You murmur. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Yeah but not from me.”

“It’s not a big deal. Now come on. There’s a three mile radius we’ll have to search. Better to get it done while there’s still daylight.” 

Dean starts the car but he’s uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of the ride. Usually, you’re wishing he would shut up or turn the music down, but the volume is set at a respectable level and he’s not even singing along. You’re not sure what his problem is, but it puts you on edge. Part of the reason your arrangement with him works so well for you both is that it’s simple. No nuances, no extra baggage or anything like that, but today, it doesn’t feel simple. But it’s not your problem because you don’t let it be. He can be quiet all he wants. You don’t have to wonder why. 

By the time he pulls off the road, there’s only a few hours until dusk. You grab the weapons and supplies you need from the trunk, which Dean offers to carry, and then start the tedious task of walking along the stretch of road, searching for any sign or marking of the grave site. After the first hour of walking and Dean’s phone constantly going off, you’re frustrated. 

“Who’s even texting you, anyway?” You snap. 

“Oh, that’s Sam.” He says, putting a hand on your shoulder as you step back from the side of the road the same moment a car goes speeding past. “Just checking in. You know how much of a tight ass he is.”

“Well, maybe you should answer, so he can stop checking in every five minutes.” You mutter, rolling your shoulder out of his grip. As far as you’re concerned, he’s only allowed to touch you in the bedroom. Any other time and anything else is off limits. 

Another hour passes. A fairly strong breeze blows over the cliffs, blowing the dust and debris on the road, making the grass you’re walking through sway around your ankles. Your mind starts to wander and lands on the ghost of the hitchhiker. You cruelly compare him to yourself. At least he had someone who cared about him enough to mourn his death and bury his body. That’s more than you have. The thought surprises you, but there’s no time to grapple with its implications because Dean calls your name. 

“Looks like a grave to me, what about you?” He asks. 

Hidden in a tangle of weeds and tall grass, there’s a malformed wooden cross, desiccated from time and the elements, and an inscribed stone. Despite your arguments, Dean insists upon doing all the digging himself, even when you complain that it’s going to take longer than if you helped. 

“Just be a doll and hold my jacket, will you?” He requests with an appealing smirk, holding it out for you to take. “Good girl,” He says when you do. 

You narrow your eyes at him but stay quiet. He begins to dig while you just watch. In no time, he’s covered in a layer of sweat, glistening in the low hanging sun. You look away occasionally to avoid getting caught, but you sneak appreciative glances at his body as he continues the hard labor. His biceps swell with each lift of the shovel, the muscles in his back flexing as well. 

“Rest in peace, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters after salting the bones. He drops the match, and you’re just relieved you’ll get to skip town. 

It’s after dark by the time you make it back to the inn on the edge of town. It’s a rare occurrence that a hunt goes so well, and you want to keep that momentum going. You see your truck where you left it in the parking lot and linger only to give Dean a half hearted goodbye. He’s texting, probably messaging Sam back that the case has been closed, but shoves his phone away at the sound of your voice. 

“You’re headed out now?” He asks incredulously. 

“Yeah. I can stop if I need to sleep.” 

Really, three days with Dean has been more than enough for you. You feel thoroughly disoriented, like you’ve been adrift from yourself just by being near him. Driving through the night, alone with all the thoughts you’ve so savagely wrestled into tight little cages, doesn’t really appeal to you, but you know better than to linger where you’re not wanted. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dean barks, jerking his head to gesture towards the inn. “I’ve got the room for another night, and I don’t wanna live with you falling asleep at the wheel on my conscience.” 

“I’m perfectly well rested-” 

“Thought this morning you said you didn’t sleep well?” He counters with raised eyebrows. 

You concede without much other convincing, mainly to avoid getting back into that whole argument again. If he wants to pretend he wants you to stay because he’s worried about you, that’s fine, but you know why he really wants you to stay. 

Not even an hour later, he’s coming on to you. The events of the day have soured you against him, but your body still wants him, still responds more willingly than your mind ever does. He’s pressing you up against the wall, with one hand tangled in the roots of your hair, the other pawing at your ass in your jeans, lifting your leg to hook it around his waist as his mouth ravishes yours. 

“This what you needed?” He pulls away a fraction to murmur, his wet lips brushing yours. He lets go of your hair to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Round two to get rid of all that attitude-” As if sensing that you’re going to say something snarky back, he rolls his hips against you, pressing the hard line of his erection against the seam of your jeans just right, so that you have to bite your lip to suppress a whine. “Such a bad girl all day, and now you’re playing nice ‘cause you want my cock.” His voice is making you wetter with how breathless, low and gravelly it is. 

He dives in for another filthy kiss, his taste completely overwhelming you. His hand engulfs the base of your throat and he uses his hold on you there to pry you away from the wall and toss you onto the bed. 

“Now you’ve got nothing to say?” He taunts, standing before you at the foot of the bed while you lay on your back, panting. 

Dean pulls his shirt off before reaching for his belt and you feel your pussy spasm with interest. “Come on, you know the drill. Take all that shit off.” He gestures to your clothes. 

A few moments later, he’s got you on your hands and knees, both of you entirely bare. He’d teased you with his fingers for what felt like forever, edging you until you left angry scratch marks down his chest. Stingy with getting you to your release as punishment for being mouthy all day. 

“Fuck-” He hissed, pulling his hand away from the puffy, wet mess of your pussy to glance down at the fresh red lines running from his pecs to his ribs. “Kitty’s got claws, huh?” He smirked. 

You hadn’t meant to hurt him, but the last time he’d stopped rubbing your clit right before you were going to come made you nearly deranged with desperation. 

Now he’s dragging his cock between your legs, coating himself in all of your sticky arousal, before you feel the burning intrusion of him plunging inside. If he notices the little black and blue imprints from his fingers dotting your hips and the plush flesh of your ass from the night before, he doesn’t say anything. 

He fucks you hard and fast, just the way you like, so that you can only focus on the sensations and not any of the shit flying around in your head. He fucks you like he hates you, and it brings tears to your eyes. Your jaw aches from clenching your teeth against the screams you hold back. You’re honestly surprised he has the stamina to fuck you so raw and aggressively, given he had exerted himself over digging up the bones not too long ago. 

Dean folds his body over yours, so his sweaty chest sticks to your back, grunting in your ear with every slam of his hips into you. His hand is around your neck again, squeezing you in a firm grip but without really restricting your airway much. You like the drunk, fuzzy feeling you get from it, and you like the way he’s just making you take it. 

“Such a fuckin’ bratty little thing,” Dean uses his grip on your throat to lift your head a bit, so he can murmur directly into your ear. “All fuckin’ day, until I give you what you’re too proud to ask for.” 

His dirty talk is constant but you miss about half of it. While during the day your mind runs things, right now, with him pounding into you like it's his job to bruise your cervix, your mind turns off, and you’re just your body. Your pussy is throbbing, muscles in your arms and thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up, even with his help. You let him make you feel good. And you do feel good, like you’re floating, like you’re not real. Times like this might actually be the only time you do feel good, so you surrender completely to the feeling. You’re not yourself when you let him fuck you. You’re someone different, someone better and worse at the same time. Or maybe, when he’s using you like this, when you let him use you like this, you’re nothing at all. 

He squeezes the flesh of your ass before slapping it hard, and you moan in response. He pulls at your hair, and you whine at the pinpricks of pain that you love, pussy clenching hard as you get dangerously close to coming. 

“What a fucking whore,” Dean pants in your ear. “Can feel the way your pussy loves that,” He slaps your ass again and laughs darkly. 

He makes you cum by sliding a hand between your legs and playing with your aching clit. You scream into the pillow, as if you're cumming against your will, and he doesn’t relent until you stop shuddering, stop tightening your pussy around him. He comes, still with his hand around your throat, like he owns you, like you’re a dog he has on a leash, and when you think about that in the shower later, it makes you feel sick. 

He lets you shower first, and then when you’re done, he goes. You never shower together. And you might sleep in the same bed afterwards, but it’s not like you cuddle. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly coming back to yourself from the post orgasm haze. You listen to the muffled noise of Dean singing in the shower, staring at the steam that billows out from under the door. Your body is satisfied and fairly tired, but your mind is restless. You’re thinking maybe you should have left town tonight when Dean’s phone rings beside the bed. 

Expecting it to be Sam, you answer it. It’s just like Dean to focus on getting laid, before assuring his brother that he’d made it back unscathed. “Hey, Sam,” Your voice is a little hoarse. 

“Sam? What? No, this is Penny, from the diner. Who is this?” 

You blink. “You have the wrong number.” 

“No,” The insufferable waitress says in her snotty little voice. You can barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. “I’ve been talking to Dean with this number all day.” 

Your stomach drops to your feet. “Wrong number.” You repeat before hanging up. 

You know you probably shouldn’t but you open up the message threads on Dean’s phone. No recent messages from Sam. Just a shit ton from this same unknown number. There’s bile rising in your throat as you realize what it all means. That Dean had taken the number from the restaurant this morning, had reached out to the tacky ass waitress, and had continued to flirt with her via text all fucking day. While standing beside you. And when you’d asked about it? He lied to your face and said it was Sam. And to make the entire situation worse, he’d fucked you after it, too. He’d kept you both on retainer, two chicks on the line so if one fell through, he’d still be able to get his dick wet. 

Jesus, you’re such a fucking idiot. You let him do this to you, too. 

You read a few of the messages before you feel so sick you have to stop. But you see enough to realize they were making plans to meet up. Tentatively for tonight. He calls her baby and beautiful and other shit he never says to you. Instead, he calls you whore. 

Emotions boil under your skin, and you can’t make sense of any of them, until anger surfaces. You know there’s no real reason to be angry with him, other than the fact that he lied to you. You have no claim on him. He’s not yours. Not by a long shot. But you feel humiliated, insulted, and worst of all, fucking hurt. But that only lasts for a second before you smother it under more anger. 

Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low on his hips, torso naked. Your nail marks on his chest stand out against his tanned skin. “Think I pulled something in my back towards the end there. Think you could-” 

“You were texting Sam today?” 

The nonchalant expression leaves his face at your tone. He stares at you for a second before heading over to the side of the bed, where his clothes are. “Uh-yeah-” 

“Really?” You press. 

“Can’t a man get dressed before he’s interrogated.” He half heartedly jokes, but then catches the hardness on your face and becomes sheepish. 

“Just answer me.” 

“Unless you wanna waterboard me, too. In that case, I can keep the towel-”

“Jesus christ, Dean!” You yell. “This isn’t a fucking joke!” 

He stares at you, maybe shocked that you raised your voice, or surprised he’s been caught. “Yeah, I’m not exactly laughing here, sweetheart-” 

“You asshole-” You round on him, shoving him as hard as you can but even then he only stumbles on step backward. “Keep lying to my face, Dean. Go ahead. I fucking know it wasn’t Sam. God, you must think I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“You know that’s not true-” He raises his voice slightly but it’s only to be heard over your own ranting. 

“Oh my god, you’re actually disgusting.” You shake your head at him. “You disgust me.” 

“I didn’t exactly do anything.” He frowns. “They’re just messages…and we’re not- uh, you and I don’t- You said it yourself. You don’t care who I-” 

“You lied to me, Dean.” You bellow. You’re vaguely aware of the dramatics of the scene you’re causing, and later you’ll probably be mortified by your behavior, but right now, you can’t control yourself. You’ve never been this fucking angry at him, never this disappointed. It just confirms what you knew all along; you’re entirely nothing to him. 

“You lied to me, and then you fucked me!” 

“I didn’t think you would care! She’s just-” 

“Then why the fuck did you lie about her!” You nearly scream, getting in his face. “You wanna fuck her, then do it! Don’t ask me to stay the fucking night with you, when you’re telling some other bitch you’re gonna see her tonight! God, are you really that stupid, Dean? You didn’t think I would care? No, you didn’t think about me at all, you piece of shit.” 

He gapes down at you and says your name pathetically. You just stare at him, chest heaving. Finally, he says, “You’re right.” 

“Fuck you.” You say, the anger leaving you fast. You have to get out of here. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done with you.” 

You’ve had that thought about him before. But this time, as you let the door slam behind you, you think you really mean it. 

It went against every fiber of your being to be parted from him. But the last hunt had left him with a mild ankle injury. Even though Dean had grumbled that he was perfectly fine, the fact remained that he couldn’t exactly run if the need arose. He couldn’t even withstand enough pressure on the ankle to drive. 

You wonder if he’s pacing the matchbox small motel room, waiting desperately by his phone for the call that confirmed the job was done, that both you and Sam were headed back. This town had been having a string of deaths, all the victims, young and healthy individuals, spiking unnaturally high fevers that seemed to cook them from the inside out. All occurring in isolated locations without another soul around for miles. After canvassing the area and interviewing the necessary people, Sam connected the deaths to a witch’s spirit, divvying out curses from beyond the grave. Seemed like a simple salt and burn situation.  

“Give me a hand?” Sam grits out, struggling to shift the heavy stone cover off the coffin settled in the center of the crypt. 

One moment you’re struggling to shift the cold stone slab beside him. It moves an inch, and  then, it feels like a white hot iron poker strikes you in the spine, causing you to cry out as you collapse to your knees. 

You’re vaguely aware of Sam calling your name, kneeling beside you in the dirt and grime on the crypt floor. He feels distant, though you know he’s right beside you. That blistering heat is spreading from your spine, worming its way across your entire body. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut against the throbbing in your head. You can feel the pulsation of your blood, the thrumming heightened to a deafening roar in your ears. 

Sam grabs your shoulders in his massive hands, forcing you out of your crouched position. The sensation of his hands on you makes you cry out again, despite your panting, as you register his startled expression through hazy vision. 

He repeats your name, voice thick with concern and confusion. “What is it? What’s going on?” His light eyes search your flushed, trembling form. 

You wrap your arms around your abdomen, dry mouth gaping. “H-hot-” You gasp, feeling sweat prickle along your hairline and along your back. You can’t make sense of what’s happening to you, what you’re feeling. All you know is it hurts.

There’s heat in your face, but it's worse in your belly and lower. The pulsating sensation settles at the apex of your thighs, and as you do your best to swallow a high whine crawling its way out of the back of your throat, you recognize the feeling. You’re impossibly wet, your adductor muscles quivering from your efforts to clamp your thighs together. Your clit is beating painfully in time with your heart, aching so bad you momentarily forget yourself and reach for it before Sam jolts you again in his panic. 

He lays a hand on your forehead and immediately curses. “You’re burning up.” His eyes go wide when you slap his hand away because somehow, having him touch you causes the heat to surge into something worse. 

Sam says something else you can’t hear over the rushing in your ears, and then disappears from your sight. You fall to your side, the flush of your skin briefly cooled on the cold stone floor. As you writhe, tears slip from your eyes. You’re seriously considering ripping your clothes off when you roll over to see Sam forcing the lid of the coffin the rest of the way off. 

The massive muscles in his arms are pulled taut with the effort, his tanned skin sparkling in the darkness from a layer of sweat. His impossibly broad chest is heaving, and you realize your mouth is filling with saliva at the sight of all his brawn. 

This realization chills you. Sam, who you have never looked at as anything more than your boyfriend’s baby brother, is now intensifying the dizzying desire unfurling in your gut. You want him. You know its the curse, figure this must be the fever that the townspeople had succumbed to, but the knowledge doesn’t help you. The fibers of your being are begging for his closeness. You’re losing your clear headedness, losing the ability to be disgusted at yourself for lusting after the wrong brother. The ardor expands inside of you until there is no room for shame. 

It takes Sam less than a minute to thoroughly salt the bones before he ignites them. Having built a healthy blaze, he returns to your side. The smell of him, musky sweat, gasoline and smoke, sends you into overdrive, as you scramble away from him, fighting the intense urge to grab fistfuls of his damp shirt. 

This is it. You’re going to die. This fever is going to consume you. 

“You’re not going to die-” Sam declares, and you realize you must have been talking aloud. “Hey-you’re not going to die.” His voice is firm, deep, reaching the marrow of your bones, but there’s an underlying edge of panic. 

You throw your head back, willing yourself not to say what you’re thinking. “I need-need-”

What you need is for him to grab you. To press his body against yours, to still your trembling under the weight of his herculean figure. You need him to handle you roughly, to fill you with everything, anything. The images of it your mind creates make the desire worse. You imagine ripping first your own clothes away, then his, to be skin against skin, to be sticky against the sweat of his chest. 

Guilt is definitely present in your mind. It’s just not as loud as it should be. 

You try to conjure Dean’s face, to have him star in the chaotic fantasies plaguing your mind instead, and it works for a moment, before Sam’s grabbing you by the shoulders again, and you whine so loudly that Sam looks as if you’ve slapped him. 

“Dean- I need Dean!” You practically scream. 

You lose control of yourself, finally wedging a hand between your thighs over your jeans. Just the slightest pressure there has your eyes rolling back in your skull. The relief is so intense you can’t even care that Sam can see you. 

“...Something’s wrong…feverish and…Of course, I burned the bones but she’s still..” You hear bits and pieces of Sam quickly catching Dean up to speed before he holds the phone up to your ear, hesitating to touch you. 

Dean’s voice is gruff on the other line. He says your name in a measured voice, probably already gaining insight into your condition by your panting into the phone. “You’re gonna be alright, babygirl.” He says. “S’all gonna be okay. Need you to tell me what you’re feelin’.” 

“On fire.” You whisper through a whimper. “I need to-I need you.” But you know he’s a good day's drive away. And you won’t make it that long. 

He seems to understand what’s happening to you. Must have discovered something more about the nature of the deaths because then he tells you, “It’s a curse. You’re gonna have to do it without me, babygirl. Y’know how. Close your eyes and I’ll keep talkin’ to you, and it’ll be like I’m right there.” His voice is tight but you can’t spare a moment to worry about him when your entire body is vibrating, prickling all over with little shocks of electricity. 

You don’t even care that Sam is there, paying him no mind as he turns away. You try to focus on Dean’s voice on the phone as he orders you to put your hand into your panties. The anticipation of your own touch has you gasping as you fight with the button on your jeans, and then you need both hands to paw at your zipper, Sam’s phone clattering to the ground beside you. 

He didn’t tell you to, but you tear your jeans from your legs as fast as you can, moving with clumsy, desperate movements. Your heart beat is still in your ears as you use two fingers to probe your swollen cunt. You cry out at your own touch, hips twitching, as you slide through the mess between your legs. You’ve never been this wet. It’s made your underwear practically translucent, your arousal smearing all over your inner thighs. 

You’re so lost in the rush of euphoria you get from touching yourself you nearly block out the buzzing from the phone, realizing Dean has been trying to get your attention. Without stopping your aggressive movements, you put the phone back to your ear, gritting your teeth against the moan that wants to burst free. 

Dean hears you whimpering. “There you are, sweetheart. Better?” 

“Some, Dean, a little.” You blurt in a rush, closing your eyes, trying to conjure the image of him in your mind. It’s working, his voice helping you erase all thoughts of Sam. Instead, you think of Dean’s perfect face, the planes of his bare chest, the corded muscles of his shoulder. The pretty smirk he wears when he teases you, pinching your nipples, thumb circling your clit. More than anything, you picture his dick, increasing the speed of your fingers until you’re sure he can hear you playing with yourself through the phone. Certainly Sam, who is barely fifteen feet away, can hear the sloppy sounds of your wetness. 

Dean spews off at the mouth, the huskiness of his voice grating against your brain in the best way. “Think of me fucking you, baby, real rough the way I know you like. Fuck, wish I could feel you now. Can just tell you’re fucking soaked.”

You moan appreciatively. 

“S’good, baby.” Dean praises gently. “Keep going. As much as you need.” 

“I need to cum. I need it so bad.” You whine, ditching the phone again, putting it on speaker, to go at yourself with two hands. Your hole flutters as you shove two fingers inside yourself, the stretch easing the blinding ache minimally, your other hand scrubbing furiously at your clit. It’s true, you’re sure you will die if you don’t come. 

“I know, baby.” He muses. “Must be gettin’ close, huh?” You hear him swallow, and it helps you to imagine the bulge in his pants, how turned on he must be from listening to your desperation. “You gonna be good and cum for me?” 

You want to. You want to so badly, but no matter how hard you fuck yourself, you can’t seem to get your orgasm to build. Frustration is the only thing building up, and fully aware of how pathetic you sound but too far gone to care, you begin to babble into the phone, your voice echoing throughout the crypt. 

“I fucking can’t, Dean- I can’t. I’m gonna die if I don’t cum and I can’t fucking do it-” 

You’re devastated that you can’t make yourself come. Rubbing yourself just as frantically, your eyes open a fraction and zone in on Sam, standing as far away as he can. You chew at your lips, mesmerized by the width of his shoulders, the planes of his back that lead to his tiny waist, the sheer fucking size of him, and you bet his cock has to be huge, too. 

“I need you to touch me.” You cry out, only Dean thinks you’re crying out for him when in reality, your pleas are for his little brother. 

“Baby, I can’t-” Dean’s voice is strained. 

“I need more, this isn’t working.” You’re crying in earnest now, the taste of sweat exploding on your tongue. “I swear, I’m gonna die without it, Dean, please. Please, please. Make it stop. I need you to touch me, and I need it now or I’m gonna die.” 

There’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the slick sounds of you fingering yourself before Dean says grimly, “Put Sam on the phone.” 

You more or less throw the phone at Sam. You feel like a rabid dog, abandoning your hopes of getting yourself off to tear at your top. You wrangle it over your head but the cool air reaching your sweaty back doesn’t make you feel better. 

“Dean, no-” Sam’s voice goes through you, straight to the core. You know you only want him because he’s here in the flesh, but still, you can’t fight it. “No, man…just no!....Are you seriously fucking asking me to-” 

Whatever frenzy you were in earlier is beginning to fade, but the pain, the heat, and the lust stays. You feel boneless, and you wonder how long the curse will make you suffer before you truly die. That would be best. Better than doing the despicable. Better than asking too much of Sam, than going too far and altering your friendship with him forever. Better than betraying Dean. 

Sam says your name, and he’s crouching right in front of you. Sluggishly, your eyes open. He’s incredibly tense, and his eyes keep shifting. His shirt is stickling to his chest with sweat, and you’re humiliated that you cannot tear your eyes away from the sizeable bulge at his crotch. He clears his throat, the noise making you jump, before he reaches a massive hand towards your naked arm. 

“No, Sam.” You beg. You don’t want to know what you’ll do if he touches you. “D-Don’t.” 

His lips form a harsh line as his eyes search your face. “Can’t just let you die.” 

“Sam-” Your clit seems to beat harder as you realize what he’s offering. If you were of a clearer mind, you would have protested more, would have at least wondered what Dean could have possibly said to convince himself and his brother that this was the solution. That this could ever be okay. But as far as you’re concerned, there’s no other choice. You need Sam right now more than air.

At the barely perceptible nod of his head, you throw yourself into his arms. His balance barely falters, thick arms encircling your bare waist. The relief you feel at his touch is startling, and you’re moaning freely, your hands exploring the breadth of his shoulders and chest. 

You know you’re crossing a line. You’ve become abhorrent. A sex crazed lunatic, desperate to be split open by your lover’s brother. But you can’t think about the fallout right now, not when the curse is still boiling your blood, when all you can think about is getting him inside of you. You’re worse than despicable because the instant Sam touches you, you can’t even consider Dean or what he must be going through, incapacitated to help, hundreds of miles away alone in a motel room, trapped with the knowledge that his girl has been driven right into the arms of his brother. 

You let your mind turn off. There’ll be time to hate yourself later. 

Sam’s fingers dig into the meat of your ass, holding you tightly against his body as he lifts you. He pushes you up against the wall of the crypt, the stone rough on your back, probably cutting you, but you revel in the sting. Your legs hug his hips, your core nestling right over the tent in his jeans, and you can’t stop yourself from grinding against him, like the bitch in heat you’ve become. You know you shouldn’t, but you press your open mouth against his, moaning shrilly at the taste of his tongue. He hesitates for two seconds, as if he’s deciding whether or not kissing you is allowed, but lucky for you, his lips begin to move, dominating you immediately. With fingers raking through his hair, you wiggle against him, pressing your breasts into his chest, thrilling your sore nipples, until you feel another gush from between your legs. 

For all the fervor you put into kissing Sam, he returns it, until you’re both smeared with saliva. He pulls at the roots of your hair hard enough to spring tears in your eyes, but you love it. Your hands touch the burning skin of his abdomen, greedily helping yourself to all of the flesh under his shirt, until he pulls his mouth off yours to remove it completely. 

You lean back in for another kiss, but Sam stops you with a firm hand on the base of your throat. He takes advantage of the moment to look you over. You keep rolling your hips into his, reveling in the way his jaw clenches, licking his spit shined lips. Shaggy hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. With the way he’s looking at you, unaffected by any curse, you’d think he’d imagined this before. Doesn’t matter. You’ll let him do whatever he wants. 

“Sam,” You rasp, eyelashes fluttering as the hand not around your neck plays with your left nipple, making your eyes roll. “Please, Sammy.” 

He shakes his head slightly. “How could I fucking deny you?” He murmurs, squeezing at your throat deliciously. “When you need it so bad?” 

Nodding desperately, you lick your lips. “Hurts, Sammy.” 

“Yeah, looks like it.” His eyes drop to where you're dragging your puffy cunt over his erection, making a mess on the front of his jeans. “Want me to make you feel better, gorgeous?” 

Gorgeous. Not babygirl. 

You pull on his hair to cope with his touch, which has you reeling. He hooks his thumb under the ruined material of your panties, to stroke against the molten heat of your pussy. A shudder passes through his colossal frame, as if he can’t believe how soaked you are. 

He raises his fingers, shiny with your slick, to his mouth. You moan obscenely at the sight of his eyes rolling back at the taste of you.

You can't help but buck and thrash in his arms as he circles your clit, touching you with firm reverence. With a mind of their own, your hands grab for his belt, wanting to feel him heavy in your hand, but he shoves your hands away. 

“Don’t worry, Imma give you what you need.” He promises in the same moment one of his fingers slips inside of you. Given the degree of your wetness, there’s little resistance, and you exclaim in glee as he slides the second digit in. 

“Oh, fuckkk, Sammy-” You cry, your perked nipples rubbing against his pecs. His forehead presses into yours, his hot breath on your face as his mouth gapes, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that has you digging your nails into his shoulders. “That’s so good. You feel so fucking good.” You abandon eye contact to stare at where he is drilling into you with his fingers, marveling at the thickness and strength of his forearm. 

“Shh.” The hand on your neck releases you for an instant before it grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes back to his. “Filthy fucking girl.” 

“Please, Sammy.” You plead. You don’t think you can wait any more. 

He quiets your begging by pressing his mouth back on yours. He’s so rough with you, holding you still with the hand on your jaw, driving you crazy with harsh ruts of his hips into yours. You’re gasping into his mouth, the coarseness of the denim against your barely covered pussy sending you into oblivion. You’re whining or crying, making some noise that normally would have mortified you, but if him just humping against you is bringing stars to your vision, you can’t imagine how good it will feel when he finally fucks you. 

With the fire on the torched bones completely dead now, you struggle to see through the darkness, before you decide to navigate based on feel. You touch him everywhere you can reach, scratch him, claim him. 

“Shh, honey.” 

Honey, now. Not babygirl. 

Still holding your jaw, Sam’s hand is big enough to slip his thumb into your mouth, which you accept blindly. You scrape your teeth along it, before gratefully sucking on it, swallowing all of the saliva that pools in your mouth to the best of your ability, some trickling out of the corners of your mouth to slip down to your chest. Sam’s eyes follow it all, groaning lowly at your depravity. He hesitates, then licks the saliva from the top of your breast to the corner of your jaw. You shiver and moan in delight. 

“Imma make it better, okay? Gonna give you my cock now. S’what you want, right, honey?”

You nod, still sucking on his thumb. You hear the sounds of his belt being removed and all you can think is finally, fucking thank god, give it to me, fucking finally. 

He shucks his jeans just low enough on his hips to free his member, just so you can barely make out a thatch of dark colored hair there, and you can't help but succumb to the urge to touch him. He’s massive in your hand, hard as can be, pulsing with need. You stroke him once, whimpering in response to the guttural moan he releases. The hold on your jaw tightens enough to bruise, but you want it harder. 

You wiggle your hips closer, letting the head of him just brush against the heat of your cunt, and Sam sounds almost wounded at the contact. 

“Holy fuck,” His forehead drops to your shoulder as he cries out your name, almost in a sob. He lets you take what you need, dragging him through your white hot seam, effectively soaking him. 

He’s shaking now, too. 

His tip breaches your entrance and your lips fall slack around his thumb, unable to focus on literally anything than the feeling of being filled. He pushes further into you, deeper, until you can feel the coarse hairs at the base of his cock against your spread thighs. You think you’re whiting out, the intrusion slightly more than you’re used to. 

You’re so close to cumming that it hurts. Sam begins to fuck you in earnest, like its his job, like it’s more than just a means to an end for him, balls slapping against your ass. The world turns, and you’re disoriented until you realize you’re no longer pressed against the wall. Now he has you on the ground, one knee pressed up towards your chest. 

You’re not sure if you’re making any noise or not anymore. But you feel his lips at your ear, his stubble rubbing against your soft cheek. 

“There you go, gorgeous.” He grunts. “Don’t needa do anything but lemme fuck you.” 

“S-so fucking good-” You slur. 

“God,” He groans, using the roots of your hair to turn your face towards his. His hips are slamming into yours, and you swear you can feel his cock all the way in your lungs, bullying your insides violently, just like you need. His eyes search your blissed out face. “How’m I only gonna have you this once.” His voice drops even lower as he says this, but you barely register his words. 

You feel yourself uncontrollably fluttering around the width of his cock. The pleasure is white hot inside you, feeling so overwhelming and bigger than anything you’ve ever felt before. You’re almost afraid of what is going to happen when the pressure bursts. You’re not convinced you’ll survive it. 

“Come on, baby,” Sam grunts before giving you a sloppy kiss. “Know you’re dyin’ to cum on my cock. Let it go, gorgeous, fuck, you feel unbelievable.” 

You keen, raising a hand to cup his sandpaper cheek. “I’m gonna cum, Sam. I’m gonna cum-”

He shushes you again, seemingly urged on by your impending orgasm to drive into you even harder. He’s drenched in sweat now, his nostrils flaring as you clench around him. 

“Cum, honey.” He urges, releasing your hair to stroke at your swollen clit. “Cum with me. Fuck, honey, can feel you choking me. Cum on my cock.” He punctuates his words with particularly hard thrusts that have you screaming, or maybe you're silent gaping, you can’t hear anything over the blood rushing through your ears. 

He barely touches your clit before you spasm. Your orgasm erupts inside you, exploding with such an intensity that has you tightening around Sam’s cock, and then he’s cursing and nearly whimpering, cumming deeply inside of you, grabbing at your flesh desperately. Your eyes roll back, body taut for what feels like minutes, and you’re ascending, before the feeling subsides, leaving you shaking and sated. 

As you come back into yourself, you realize Sam has collapsed on top of you as he struggles to catch his breath. His weight is unfamiliar. And you feel…normal. Hazy in your post orgasm bliss, but the uncontrollable lustful fever appears to be gone. You feel elated for half a second before you realize the reality of what you have just done. 

Fucked your boyfriend’s brother.  

Your naked body tenses, and you realize he’s still inside you. 

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest, not from the curse, now from horror. Shame fills you. Embarrassment, too. Oh god. What have you done? 

“S-Sam?” You whisper, touching his biceps lightly. 

He seems to register your wire tight posture and rolls off you, wincing as his cock slips out of you. You feel a wave of nausea hit you as you feel the warmth of his cum sliding out of your pussy. Hands shaking, you pull your ruined underwear off, using them to clean yourself of his spend, before you’re putting your clothes back on in a panicked blur. Your mind is screaming for Dean the entire time. 

Oh god. Maybe you should have let yourself die. 

Sam says your name cautiously, but you can’t look at him. You can’t acknowledge what you’ve just done together. Even if you really had no choice. He says your name louder, and you nearly jump out of your skin when he claps a hand onto your shoulder, turning you to face him. 

He sees the guilt in your expression and must know the curse is gone. His expression resembles a kicked puppy when you flinch at his touch. 

As if reading the thoughts racing through your mind, he says carefully, as if you’re a spooked deer, “...You had no choice…The fever would have killed you if you hadn’t…if we didn’t…” 

You shake your head. How are you going to sit next to Sam for the ride back after doing that? How are you ever going to look him in the eye ever again? 

How are you ever going to face Dean again? Will you still be his babygirl? 

Sam says your name again, very gently. “You would have died.” 

You think of Dean, who already puts your safety solely on his own shoulders, who no doubt will blame himself for not protecting you in the first place. Who indisputably will never be able to look at you and Sam the same way again, without imagining what you two had done. What he wasn’t there to provide. 

You begin to cry. You can’t face him. Either of them. 

Sam seems to take your tears personally, his expression breaking. “He asked me to, honey.” 

He freezes at the petname, but all it does is prove that even if it was the curse that caused this, things will never be the same. It’s too late. 

You and Sam finish the job There’s about 500 miles to cross before you have to face Dean. You feel Sam look at you from time to time during the drive, but you pretend not to notice. 

You hope Dean can forgive you. Even if he does, you won’t forgive yourself. 

You turned to give him a glare, but he was already looking at you. Close enough to see the speckling of hazel in his green eyes, the light freckles dusting the bronzed skin of his face. God, he was pretty. And god, you had to get a grip. 

“You have to ruin the moment, don’t you?” You tried to sound annoyed but you knew you weren’t convincing anyone. Because really, Dean couldn’t ruin anything for you if he tried. 

“That’s what you keep me around for, ain’t it?” He smirked, appraising your reaction with careful attention. 

You flushed at the implication that you could ever keep Dean. That he could ever be yours to keep. And God, sometimes you hated how he looked at you, how easy it would be to convince yourself that he was looking at you with the same craving you felt every single day like a knife in the heart. 

“That,” You agreed with a small laugh. “And you’re pretty good with a gun.” 

“If you think I’m good with a gun, just let me show you how good I am with my-”

You slapped a hand over his mouth. Really, you couldn’t bear to hear him reference anything even near erotic. It was too much. You already drove yourself crazy replaying his more mild comments nightly. You wouldn’t survive anything real to put into your fantasies. You already feel such a strong physical attraction to him, so much that sometimes it's painful. 

He’d started laughing, then, and you could feel his smile against your palm. 

Now it’s getting harder to see. Luckily, you have Sam’s massive shape to follow after. The three of you move through the woods making little noise, and as you draw nearer to the lair, the sounds of wildlife soften. Your skin crawls, as if eyes are on you from behind the tree line, and you instinctively put a hand on the gun at your hip, despite its uselessness against the Wendingo. 

You know something is out there, but you also feel like you’re just giving yourself the creeps, making your blood run cold. It doesn’t help that your shirt is soaked in sweat from the effort of the hike. A visible shiver passes through you. 

“Here,” Dean mumbles, a lot closer than you thought he was. And he must have been watching you closely when you shivered, because he shrugs out of his jacket. He drapes it over your shoulders and takes a moment to adjust the collar, his fingers just skimming your neck. 

“Oh-thanks-” You flounder, immediately distracted by the overwhelming smell of him. Leather and birch, and something musky. 

His jacket is heavy on your shoulders, but it’s still carrying his warmth. You put your hands in the pockets, fingering the slender bottle of kerosene concealed there. You allow yourself one second to imagine it's him all over you, rather than his jacket. But it means nothing. Never does, and never will. He’s just your friend, just a good hunting partner, only worried about your wellbeing in a normal, platonic way. 

“Tracks end here.” Sam whispers as you enter a small clearing. His flash light illuminates the last smear of blood across the broken twigs on the forest floor. By now, it's completely dark. 

That feeling that you’re being watched intensifies. The three of you draw closer together, as you realize the night has fallen entirely silent around you. No cicadas buzzing, no more chattering of small mammals throughout the wood. 

The hairs on your arms raise, and you forget your bashfulness enough in the face of your anxiety that you latch onto Dean’s bare forearm. He’s scanning the treeline but moves seemingly without registering it, shifting so your body is behind his, sheltering you from the open mouth of the woods. 

You’re too scared to think too hard about this right now. But later, just like after every other hunt, you know you’re going to dissect his instinct to protect you. And you’ll tell yourself the same thing you always do. That’s just who he is. He’s a protector. He’s selfless. He would do the same for anyone. 

“Y’hear that?” Dean murmurs. 

You do, so you squeeze his arm in response. There’s rustling coming from your left. Now you’re right. Advancing with such intense speed that your eyes don’t even register the movements. You know it's the Wendigo, circling you, deciding the best way to attack, coming closer with each pass. And judging by the way it moves, it must be huge. 

Dean turns to you, expression grim, holding a finger up to his lips. With wide eyes, you nod, your heart beat echoing in your throat. He passes one of the bottles of kerosene to Sam silently, body rigid as he waits for the Wendigo to reveal itself. 

There’s a few terrible seconds of formidable stillness before the creature comes rushing at you. Its guttural snarl pierces the air, and there’s no time to swallow your scream before Dean is grabbing you by the collar of his jacket, nearly yanking you off your feet to sprint away beside him. 

Blood rushes in your ears, your adrenaline spiking to heighten your senses. Everything seems to move in a blur, the shadows disorienting you as you struggle to keep Dean’s pace. He grabs your hand, clutching it so tightly you have no choice but to follow after. You trust him with your life, blindly. Your mind seems to shut off under his direction. Somewhere along the lines, you lose Sam. The creature is still bellowing, its scream horrifically close, and you panic when you realize there’s no way you can possibly outrun it. 

Dean pulls you to a stop, tucking your bodies behind a broad tree. He clutches you to his chest, both of you panting, your head tucked under his head. You know it probably makes you crazy given the imminent danger, but you still savor this small moment of being in his arms. 

It’s short lived. Always is. 

Dean pushes you back against the tree. “Stay here. M’gonna torch this son of a bitch.” 

“Dean-no-” You can’t help your reaction. You grab a fistful of his shirt. The thought of him in danger makes you sick. 

But he just smirks at you, eyes gleaming. He brushes your chin with his thumb quickly. “S’cute you worry about me, sweetheart.” And then he’s gone. 

It still surprises you sometimes, how much of a coward you are. On hunts, in instances like this, and with Dean. Always too frightened to tell him the truth of your feelings. You close your eyes against it, trying to slow the galloping of your heart. You want to listen to Dean, and the weaker part of you wants more than anything to stay hidden behind this tree. But then you can’t hear him moving anymore, can’t hear him taunting the monster. You wouldn’t be able to bear if anything were to happen to him and you had just stayed concealed, just like your secrets. 

All around you, it’s quiet now. 

You try to channel some of Dean’s bravery, but he must have taken it all with him. You shake like a leaf as you creep out from behind the tree, too scared to call out for either brother in the sudden silence. You keep your footfalls as quiet as you can, clutching at Dean’s jacket for comfort, ducking between trees for cover. Only your desperation to make sure Dean is alright gets you to move your stiff, fear laden limbs. 

You step out from behind the last tree and come face to face with the Wendigo. 

Your brain can barely process its terrible face, or its lethal physique, before a scream rips from your throat. Its breath steams in the darkness, the wicked, red eyes focused solely on you. You hear Dean yell your name. 

Dumbly, you step back and stumble, falling backwards, landing hard on your back so the air is knocked out of your lungs. The next instant, there’s an explosion of fire to your right, as he launches his bottle of kerosene at the monster but misses. 

The Wendigo whips its grotesque neck around to zone in on Dean. 

Everything slows down. Dean’s eyes land on you. Your eyes meet for a split second, and you swear, you see something like relief pass over him. Relief that you’re out of harm's way? You watch in terror as the creature lunges at Dean. His gaze is torn away from you, and his eyes widen as he braces himself for the attack. 

You scream his name but it’s too late. 

The Wendigo launches Dean backwards, and you scream again at the sound of a distinct crack. Scream at the sight of Dean’s body crumpling after the impact. 

Your heart stops beating at the sight. Without Dean, you don’t know what you would do. You don’t make sense without him. You don’t even want to try without him. And you know this makes you pathetic, beyond deplorable, for harboring these feelings for someone who could only ever see you as a friend, for keeping them like a secret. But you’d made peace with that long ago. 

Throwing Dean like a doll isn’t enough savagery for the hell-beast. It shrieks at the pale moon before advancing, slinking forward at a startling speed. It raises a serrated claw, and that pushes you into action. 

Crawling forward with uncoordinated, frantic movements, your hands quake as you handle the bottle of kerosene. Your terror is choking you as you struggle to adjust the cloth, soaking your hands in the process, and then you’re striking a match. 

You cry out in pain as the cloth ignites, burning your palms in the process, but you're so determined to protect Dean, you ignore it. You drag yourself closer and fling the bottle at the dark shape curled over him, just in time for it to burst in a staggering explosion of light. 

The Wendigo’s form is accentuated by the glowing fire before it collapses in a wave of ash. You gape in disbelief for half a second, unwilling to believe it's killed, but then you’re scrambling over to Dean. 

“Dean-” You cry, turning him from his side onto his back. 

His eyes are barely open. Blood is soaking his shirt, coming from the grave scratches across his chest. You take his face between your hands. He looks so pale in the moonlight. 

“Nice arm, sweetheart.” He huffs with a weak smirk. 

You could cry with relief. Yeah, he’s hurt. But not injured enough to not be Dean. 

“Better than yours,” You murmur. Still holding his face tenderly, even though it stings the fresh burns on your palms. 

He tries to sit up more and winces immediately, grunting in pain. 

“Don’t try to move.” You put a hand on his chest to stop him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. Love when y’boss me around like that.” 

He’s joking, but he seems to be growing paler, and a fresh sweat has broken out across his forehead. The worst might be over, but you’re still worried. 

***

Later, you hesitate outside Dean’s door. 

The missing campers, after you and Sam freed them from the monster, had left the park in an ambulance, but Dean had been stubborn, insisting he didn’t need the hospital. He wouldn’t listen to you or Sam. Said it wasn’t anything you hadn’t taken care of before, being the one that typically tended to their wounds after hunts. Said he preferred it was you taking care of him, anyway. 

Enough time has passed since the forest that you’ve decided Dean’s injuries are all your fault. He’d been protecting you. Like he always did.

Still, no matter how heavy your shame is, your love for him is stronger. You need to know he’s okay. Besides, this is how you two work. He protects you, and you take care of him, after. 

You find him laying flat on the bed, exactly where Sam had helped him settle. He tries to straighten and sit up when he sees you, always trying to put on a brave face, but ends up just grimacing in pain instead. His face is bloodied, dirt caked in his hairline and across his jaw. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” He murmurs, beaming at you, as if the injuries are nothing. “Kept me waiting long enough.” His eyes track you as you approach his beside. 

You’re pleased to see some of the color has returned to his face. You gather your supplies before gently sitting beside him. The sight of his blood soaked shirt makes you feel nauseous, knowing how much pain he must be in. You reach into the first-aid kit, but he grabs your wrist gently. 

He turns your palms over in his hands to inspect the minor burns. 

“You’re hurt.” He frowns. 

You scoff, covertly relishing in the feeling of his skin on yours. “You’re joking, right? You’re the one cut to pieces. Probably have broken ribs, too…I walked away with barely a scratch.” 

“Worth it.” His thumb traces a line on your knuckles, his eyes boring into yours earnestly. “Y’too pretty to scratch.” 

You roll your eyes but smile. At least he’s acting like himself. 

“Let me-” 

“Come closer.” He pats the spot right next to his hip. “Needa look you over.” 

“Dean, I’m fine-” 

“Wanna see it with my own eyes…N’feel it with my own hands.” 

He sighs when you slide closer, an arm hooking around your hips before he settles back down into his pillows. Meanwhile, his touch is sending an electric current through you, almost making you forget that this was all your fault. 

You pretend to be exasperated as he makes a big deal of inspecting your arms, his touch summery and exhilarating. Regarding you like you’re something precious, rather than just someone he’s been tasked with looking over. 

You swear you’re falling deeper in love with him as his green eyes slide across every inch of your bare skin. His fingers brush your hair away from your neck under the guise of looking for cuts and bruises, and you have to bite your lip hard to stop from shivering or leaning further into his hand. 

What you wouldn’t give for the ability to make him feel the same way. To completely own him with an innocent touch. To have him so desperate for you that he trembles. You want to make him writhe, moan, to make him drool, and then you want to lick it off. 

You need to get a grip. You really need him to stop looking at you like that. It’s making you want to eat him whole. 

“Okay. See? I’m fine,” Your voice is tight. 

“Yeah,” he lets you duck out of his hands. “You’re fucking perfect.” 

“Oh, shut up.” You mumble. You go to the bathroom to dampen a rag, but really you need a moment of escape. 

He always flirts with you. It’s like fucking air to him. Just like he flirts with every girl he crosses paths with. Means nothing. But tonight, it feels more charged. Like he’s coming on stronger. Or maybe you’re just more sensitive to it as it reaches a pinnacle. 

When you return, Dean’s quiet, watching you with a heady expression as you start to softly clean his face with the rag. You really can’t remember how to breathe, not with his eyes so solidly fixated on you, like he can see through you. 

His face is so close, it would be so easy to close the distance. He might even be glancing at your lips from time to time, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Refuse to let your eyes wander around his features, to the little endearing freckles across the bridge of his nose. Instead you focus on the splotches of dried blood, the smears of dirt.

“Need to clean the cuts.” You say softly, setting the rag aside when his face is clean. 

You take the bandage scissors out of the first aid kit and start to cut through his shirt, knowing whatever injury he sustained to his side is probably too painful for him to lift it over his head.

“Y’know, if you wanna see me naked, sweetheart, you just gotta ask.” 

“God, Dean. You ever stop?”

“Depends. You really want me to?” 

You ignore his question. With his bare torso becoming visible, you have more than enough to distract you. The muscles of his abdomen are taut and just once, you want to be able to touch him freely. You keep cutting, then gently pull the thin fabric away from his chest, revealing the sculpted architecture of his pectorals, the banded, thick muscles of his shoulders. You ease the shirt down his arms, leaving him bare except for the smattering of blood and his amulet necklace. 

It's the sexiest thing, the amulet sitting between his collar bones, just barely approaching the valley between his pecs. 

Fuck. You realize you’ve been staring. Hopefully not drooling, though you can’t help but feel yourself become wet. It's not every day you get a front row seat to so much of his body. 

You spare him a glance and your stomach flips when you realize he’d been eagerly watching you ogle him. You expect some teasing, a smirk at the very least, but his expression is somber. 

You just have to keep busy. 

Dean hisses at the initial sting of the alcohol swab on his cuts. Luckily, the claws only cut him a few millimeters deep, nothing requiring stitches. Vicious red marks, weeping blood, spanning from below his ribs. And the left side of his ribcage is violently bruised. 

You try to ignore the way his muscles contract in response to the burn as you dab at the slices. “You need me to stop?” You ask. 

“Nah.” He says through gritted teeth. “M’fine…just…just-”

“Hurts to breathe?” You finish for him. 

“Only a little.” He says, but you know it must hurt like a bitch. 

The bloody cotton swabs pile up. You keep working, pretending you don’t notice the intense way he’s staring at you, until your fingertips are stained pink with it. 

“You’d make a great nurse,” Dean says, his voice gruff. 

“Yeah?” You smile. 

His fingers dig into your hip. “Course. You’d drive all your patients fucking crazy.” 

“Christ, Dean.” You shake your head. 

“You don’t believe me?” He grabs your wrist to draw your attention. “You drive me crazy.”

“Jesus.” You mutter, pulling your hand away. 

God, he’s dead set on torturing you. 

He says your name, sending a rush of heat through you. “‘Least look me in the eye when you’re turn’ me down.” 

You gape at him. You can’t help it. It’s so ridiculous and you know you should protest. Turn him down? You physically couldn't.  But words evade you. 

“Tell me something, sweetheart.” Dean says with a furrowed expression. “You really want me to stop with all that, you tell me to stop right now, and I will. No questions.” 

“Yeah.” You say meekly. 

Because it isn’t fair that it's always fun and games to him, harmless flirting, amusing teasing, and it rips you up from the inside out. It’s torture, knowing it could never be real. Feeling like you have an ounce of his attention for the moment, but knowing it's something you never could keep for your own. For good. 

“Yes, what?” He asks. 

“Yes, I want you to stop.” 

Maybe it could be easier to deal with these feelings, if they weren’t being rubbed in your face so often. You know Dean’s not cruel, that even if he suspects how you feel, that he isn’t teasing you to hurt you. But he does it because he can’t help himself. Doesn't know how to not be a heartbreaker. 

Maybe it’s better to just shut this down now. 

“Why?” He presses. 

You frown. “You said no questions.” 

“Whatever. Why?” 

You blink. “Why what?” 

He struggles to sit up straighter, and you can’t help your body's natural reaction to help him, reaching for his broad shoulders to help ease him into a seated position. 

“I see you look at me.” He murmurs. 

You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Honestly, you’d take the Wendigo on solo instead of having this conversation with Dean. 

He’s studying you, waiting for an answer you’re too petrified to supply. You don’t even have enough courage to meet his eyes. It's pitiful. 

Dean says your name and takes your hand. “Tell me why.” 

Because I love you, probably more than anyone has ever loved anyone. Because you drive me fucking crazy, in the best way. Because there’s never been another man that’s made me feel a fraction of what I’ve felt for you. You nearly wince at the vigor of your thoughts. 

But you stay silent. Frozen. A coward. 

Dean, however, is fearless. 

“Because I look at you.” He adjusts his position so that you meet his smoldering eyes. He swallows, his thumb brushing over your knuckle, before his hand slides further up your arm, gently pulling you towards him. “God knows I do.”

You want him to stop talking, and you want to listen to him forever at the same time. But you can’t have this. Can’t have just a piece of him, can’t be something casual to him when you want him so bad it keeps you up at night. He wants your body, wants something temporary, something you can never be. 

You slam your walls up, the best you can. 

“Dean, stop.” 

He sighs, looking away abruptly, his jaw clenched. “Why?” 

You feel stupid and stuck, like this must be some nightmare. Can’t he see how hard this is for you? 

“Look, you need to rest-”

“Why should I stop?” He questions. “We want each other.” 

“No, we don’t!” You say, louder than you meant to. What you really meant is that he doesn’t want you, not the same way you want him, you’re sure of it. 

Dean’s eyes close and he nearly flinches at your words. He seems to stiffen, and in the same moment, he’s pulling his hand away from you. Now his gaze is fixed on the opposite wall, that strong muscle in his jaw feathering. 

“Got it.” His voice is clipped. Cold. 

“That’s not what I meant.” You couldn’t be worse at this. 

“S’okay. You’ve rejected me enough times, should’ve gotten the hint.” He won’t look at you, but now you can’t look anywhere but him. At the flush blooming across his chest, at the splotchy bruise across his ribs. All his pain, because of you. And you’re hurting, too. You don’t think you’ve felt anything as awful as having him close off to you like this. 

“It's just-” You don’t know how to say it. “I…It’s not the same.” He gives you an apathetic look, a hardness in his eyes that you hate. “It’s different…for me.” 

“The hell are you talking about?” 

You look away. It’s all coming up, everything you’ve pushed down and forced yourself to ignore, in a dizzying rush. Part of you still doesn’t believe this is really happening tonight. It’s like pulling teeth, having to communicate your emotions. Guess you’re like him in that regard. 

“I…I don’t want to just hook up.” You mumble. 

“You think that’s all I want?”

“I don’t know!” And that’s why it’s so scary. Hopefully you’ll die from embarrassment at some point during this confession and won’t have to live with the fallout.  “But- I want it to be real…so it’s not the same…I love you. Don’t want anyone else.” 

There. You said it. 

He murmurs your name in exasperation. “I took on that fucking Wendigo for you.” His eyes have softened as he shakes his head at you. “Make a fucking fool outta myself every hunt we go on, to protect you. Doesn’t get any more real than that. Y’get what I’m saying?” 

You’re sure you don’t have a heart beat anymore as you just stare back. 

“Just-” He rolls his eyes. “C’m here.” 

Bruised ribs apparently forgotten, he reaches for you, grabbing you around your waist and pulling you into him, surprising you with the display of power. You brace yourself, hands on the thick muscles of his chest, but his strength overpowers you, and you’re so close to him you can’t breathe, and in the next instant, his hand is in your hair, angling your face just right so he can kiss you. 

You gasp as his lips, dry but warm, press against yours. He holds you firmly, as if sensing your hesitation. But his touch feels so good you forget your rules, that something like this between you couldn’t mean anything, and let yourself sink into him. 

It’s too good to stop. 

You regain control of your hands, cupping his jaw lightly, almost like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to touch him. He encourages you by pulling you even further into him, lifting you a little in the process, which makes you gasp. He takes the chance to slide his tongue into your mouth, and at the taste of him, you swear you’re going to black out. 

Dean pulls back, his eyes heavily lidded, as if your kiss has left him drunk. 

“There’s no one else.” He says in that deep, gravely voice that has your thighs squeezing together. “Been that way for a while. It’s real for me.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.”

“Since when?” You probe, your lips still on fire. 

“Since Wichita.” 

Your stomach flips. “But that’s when we-” 

“I know.” And then he kisses you again. 

Wichita was the first case you worked with him. 

It’s a miracle out of nowhere. 

Maybe you’ve died and that’s why all this is happening. Doesn’t matter, though, you’re happy to let his tongue invade your mouth, happy to let his hands roam all over your body, except this time you don’t ignore the rush of desire that has you gripping at his shoulders, pressing yourself closer to him in desperation. It’s a fucking relief, all your nerves on fire, to finally stop fighting your need for him. And that fact that its reciprocated has you fucking high. 

He groans softly as he shifts to lay down again, bringing you with him. 

His kiss goes from sweet to filthy, matching your pace as you open yourself up to him. You start to throb between your legs at his taste, at how solid he is beneath you. Every time his tongue touches yours, you can feel your eyes roll towards the back of your skull. 

“Know you said you didn’t wanna hook up-” He says breathlessly, lips against the soft skin of your jaw. His pupils are blown wide, as he surveys your face, still cupping your cheek. Then he starts pressing open mouthed kisses to your jaw and neck. 

“Not what I said.” You’re voice wavers, your fingers running through his hair. “Said I didn’t just wanna hook up.” 

“Yeah. Fucking knew you loved me.” 

You draw back, expecting him to look cocky with that alluring smirk on his lips. Instead, he’s practically beaming. And it seems to click for you. That’s how you look at him. Doesn’t matter that he doesn’t say he loves you. Somehow, now you just know. 

“Shut up.” You keep your hands on his shoulders for stability as you throw a leg over his hips to straddle him. You’re careful to keep your torso from pressing into him too much. “This okay?”

His arounds find their way around you like he’s done it before, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “More than okay, sweetheart. You ain’t gonna break me.” 

“I don’t know, you already seem kinda broken.” You murmur with a gentle laugh. You watch aptly as your fingernails trail from the meat of his pectoral, down his sternum, and then lightly across the purple bruise across his ribs. The humor of the moment disappears, the energy shifting as his breathing becomes shallow, watching your fingers as if hypnotized. 

You can’t help it. Wiggling off his lap, you press your lips to the bruise, delicately. Then to each ragged, red break in his skin where the Wendigo had cut him. 

You surprise yourself by saying, “I wanna make you feel better.” 

He smiles. “Got a few ideas.” His hands reach for your hips, and makes to sit up but you put a hand on his chest, pushing down firmly. His earlier movements must have worn him out a bit because he doesn’t fight it. 

“Was serious, though. You need to take it easy.” 

Dean rolls his eyes in his boyish manner. “Love that you worry about me, sweetheart, but I think if I don’t get my hands on you right now-” 

“How about… I put my hands on you,” You whisper. Emboldened by the fact that he’d said he wants you and only you, your meekness seems to have disappeared. Now you revel in your depravity, letting the darker side of your mind finally take over. 

You put your lips to his ear. “And my mouth on you.” 

A shiver courses through him, and your clit throbs in response. Never did you imagine having such an effect on him, and now that you know you do, you want to do everything, say everything, to elicit the same response.

“Y-yeah.” He swallows, looking at you kind of awestruck. “Yeah, that. Let’s do that.” 

You smile and shift lower. Your hand looks small on his thigh, and he spreads his legs to make room for you between them. There’s a flood between your legs, but this is more important. You want to give him something back, and this might be the best way to do it. 

He throws his head back against the pillows at the sight of you reaching for his belt but he’s quick to look again, like he doesn’t want to miss out on watching you. Your fingers tremble as you open his belt, and your mouth fills with saliva when you peel down his zipper. You're moving slow, not to tease, but to savor the moment, loving that he just lays there, staring at you like you’re something both holy and obscene at the same time. 

He’s hard. Had been since you crawled onto his lap. When you pull him from his briefs, you can’t help but short circuit for a moment. Of course he’s ridiculously big. Looks so fucking huge in your hand. The head is red and leaking, looking absolutely inviting. 

“Thought you wanted to make me feel better, sweetheart.” He grunts, chest rising and falling rapidly as he cranes his neck to watch. “Go ahead,” 

You like that he’s telling you what to do. Love that he seems to need this just as bad as you do. Adjusting your grip, you lay on your stomach between his spread legs. You hold his cock right in front of your face, licking your lips before bringing the throbbing tip closer for a tiny kiss. 

Dean’s hips lift off the bed, a splintered moan ripping from his chest. He immediately winces in pain at the force of his exclamation. “Christ, sweetheart.” 

You take him in your mouth, eyes rolling back at the taste. He groans, his cock fully seated in the pool of saliva around your tongue, and you moan in response as his fingers tangle tightly in your hair. You bob your head, letting your mind shut off to focus on making him feel good. You’re sucking his cock so enthusiastically, not even bothering to care that you’re getting sloppy with it. Spit slips from the corners of your mouth, and Dean pulls your hair so you can make eye contact. 

“Fuckkk,” He grits, the flush on his chest spreading. “Yeah, baby. Get real messy for me. Fuckin’ love it.” 

You moan, so turned on by the depth of his voice, finally willing to allow yourself to feel the full effect of his dirty words. Fuck, you guessed he would be amazing in bed, but this is so much better than anything you’d imagined. 

“You like when I talk to you, sweetness?” He rasps, gripping your hair roughly. He uses his grip to help guide you up and down his length, your throat constricting around him in a way that makes your head go fuzzy. 

You moan again, letting it mingle with the wet, vulgar noises of you sucking him off. You let him guide you deeper, the head of him reaching the back of your throat. You’ve never enjoyed sucking someone off this much before, and it almost alarms you how much you’re liking it. How are you ever going to do anything else?

“S’so good, baby.” He goads, licking his lips. You love this way his hips are chasing your mouth, the way the length of him makes tears spring to your eyes. “If I’da known you were this good, I wouldda begged you to suck my cock sooner.” 

“Wanted to.” You admit, panting in the second he’s out of your mouth. You indulge in the opportunity to stroke him in your hand, marveling at his dick. Your tongue chases the drool around your mouth before you’re latching onto his hefty balls. It's something you’ve never done before, never wanted to with any of the other guys you’d been with, but with Dean, you want every part. Want to do everything to him, have him do everything back to you. 

“Yeah?” He gasps, continuously running his finger through your hair, petting the back of your neck. “Wanted my cock the whole time you were acting like you didn’t?” He takes his length in his hand, running the wet head along your puffy, swollen lips. You can feel his thighs trembling, the thick muscles there rigid. “Shoulda just asked, baby. Would’ve given it to you anytime you wanted.” 

His voice dies off in a violent moan as you accept him back into the channel of your mouth. You have the urge to touch yourself between your legs but it's worth it to wait for Dean to take care of that issue for you. Besides, you want to focus all your attention on giving him the best head he’s ever had. 

“Thought about you, too, baby.” He grunts out, one hand buried in the roots of your hair, the other holding the bruise on his abdomen. “All the fucking time. Swear to god, was losin’ my mind, I wanted you so bad.” 

He’s so deep, you have to work hard to stifle your gag reflex. When you can't and your throat tightens around him, he keens in anguish, and you decide you want to keep hearing him lose control like that. So you focus on taking him as deep as you can, despite the perspiration forming on your forehead, the tears dripping down your cheeks, and the pulsing between your thighs. 

“This turn you on?” He asks. 

You flutter your eyelashes at him, your mouth preoccupied. He seems to understand your answer. Fuck yes. 

“Yeah, knew you’d be fuckin’ nasty for me.” He rumbles in that authoritative tone that has your mind melting. “Act so sweet and innocent. Makin’ me feel like a lunatic for comin’ onto you all the time, but you prolly wanted it just as bad, ain’t that right, baby?” 

“Mm,” You agree. “Wanted it more.” 

“Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours.” He mumbles. His voice is so throaty in a way you’ve never heard, and you figure he must be getting close. Your heart warms at the intimacy of the moment. “Never gonna have to go without it again, baby. You can have this cock whenever you want.” 

Thank fucking god. 

“You wet for me? Fuck, can’t wait to get my hands on you.” He curses, the gravel of his voice making your pussy burn. “Makin it hard to last, baby.” 

“Mm, want you to cum. Wanna taste you.” You practically beg, keeping the head of him at your lips. 

“Yeah? Look so fucking good with a cock in your mouth. You want me to come down that throat, baby?” 

You whine in response. 

“I’ll give you anything you want, babygirl, don’t worry.” He says through a moan. “Fuck, you gonna be good and swallow everythin’ I’mma give you? Yeah?” 

The sounds he makes when he begins to come are so hot, you feel like you’re going insane. There’s no way you could possibly want him more, but you do. You want this, over and over again. It's immediately your new obsession. 

There’s so much cum flooding your mouth. You grip the rigid muscle of his thigh as you struggle to swallow it all down, the taste bursting on your tongue, your new favorite flavor. You swallow around him until he’s wincing from the sensitivity. He pulls himself from your mouth, and your tongue chases the spots of cum that slide from your lips. 

“Goddamn, sweetheart.” Dean pants, his face red. “Fuckin’ killin’ me.” 

“Guess you’re feelin’ better?” You smirk. 

“Hell yeah, baby.” He sighs, still petting your hair as you press tiny kisses to his hips and lower abdomen, his skin burning hot against your lips. God, you just want to worship him forever. “Now come up here. Needa kiss you. Please.” 

You lick the last of him off your lips, crawling up into his arms. You take care to avoid his injuries, but keep your hands on his chest. You don’t think you’ll be able to stop touching him now that you’ve finally submitted to your desire. 

Dean pulls you into another heated kiss, like he’s determined to lick the taste of himself from your mouth. 

“Y’gonna stop fighting me now?” He asks. 

It feels so strange to allow yourself to bask in the heat of his gaze, without trying to shrink yourself. Feels even stranger to have the confidence to touch his jaw, to kiss his lips, slow and sensually, until there’s a deep, rumbling moan coming from his chest. 

“Never.” You whisper with a smile. 

Sometimes he’ll hang up without leaving a message. He’s more likely to call if he’s drinking, but he’ll dial you sober just the same. Just calls for the quick rush of endorphins your voice brings, or maybe his mind starts racing over all of the things he could say, things he knows you won’t wanna hear, things it's probably way too late to be thinking. And he’ll kill the line, palms sweaty, feeling like a complete jackass for bothering you, when you’ve made it clear it's over. 

Other times, when his self pity doesn’t have him in a stranglehold, he’ll have something to say. He’ll ramble about old times, about Sammy, even about the fucking weather. You don’t call back. He wonders if you even listen to the messages, wonders why you haven’t blocked the numbers he calls from, but he takes that as a sign that maybe deep down, you don’t want him to stop calling. 

Ex-boyfriend!Dean that starts to genuinely feel insane, it’s been so long without you, that he starts stopping by your place when he’s near your town. Just to make sure you’re okay, he tells himself, just to make sure you’re safe. But seeing glimpses of you- a flicker of your hair when the curtains flutter closed, your shitty truck parked in the drive- only feeds his obsession. 

Ex-boyfriend!Dean that can’t stop trying to force his way back into your life. One night, he finds himself knocking on your door. Despite the fact he’s been calling you like a stalker for weeks, you’re genuinely shocked to see him on your porch. 

He smiles brightly, eyes just a fraction dimmer. Hoping he’s coming off as charismatic and lighthearted, when that couldn’t be farther from the truth of his sentiment. It's late, so you’re in your pajamas, little shorts and one of his old fucking tee shirts. After all these months of accepting your silence, it almost pisses him off that you’re still wearing his clothes to bed, that you’re holding onto a piece of him so tightly while you actively refuse to give him any piece of you in return. 

You look so soft and warm, it feels like his ribs are cracking from how much his heart is filling, from just the sight of you. 

“Miss me, sweetheart?” He rasps. 

That first night back with you is more than enough to fuel his delusions that you could be his again. Doesn’t matter that after he’d fucked you so good that you’d cried, you said those fucking words that went in one ear and out the other, this really can’t happen again, Dean, I mean it. 

He thinks it's cute how dedicated you are to ignoring and avoiding him, because he knows now that it's because you want him back. It’s just a way to protect yourself. You might hide it, but you still want him so badly that when he shows up at your door, you can’t turn him away. Sure, you know he’s probably no good for you, and you probably have no intention of ever being with him again. But the titles don’t matter to him, not really. He refuses to see how much it hurts you, to open your bed to him and then say goodbye until he strolls back into town. 

So he keeps showing up. Shows up when you’re being dropped off by a date. The guy pulls into your driveway, and Dean’s standing with his back to your front door, as if he has any right to be there. Gets in the guy’s face, spits a threat or two. He’s fully aware that this is toxic behavior, but he can’t help but be possessive when he sees you all dressed up for another man. 

He shows up on your birthday, with flowers and your favorite cake. Shows up drunk and wanting you so badly he’s wondering if he doesn’t have some fucking disease, and you still let him in. But only for the night. You’ll let him hold you while you sleep, but every morning, it’s the same. Your walls go up, eyes flat with the truth you accepted a while ago, there’s no life for you and Dean, no future you both could agree on. 

Ex-boyfriend!Dean that shows up to your house one day, and you’re just fucking gone. The truck isn’t in the drive. There’s no goodbye, no indication of where you’ve gone. There’s lead in his stomach and he picks the lock to the front door to see all your shit is gone, too. He feels like an addict cut off, frantic and unable to believe his eyes, that the woman that had once promised to never leave him might be gone for good. 

He drinks himself unconscious on the floor of your empty living room. 

When he wakes the next morning, head pounding, entire body shaking, he dials your number. He has a thousand questions to ask, so much that wants to pour out of him like blood, but he gets his answer. 

The number isn’t in service. 

It’s only when you all make it a few states over that you pay for two motel rooms, that you finally get to be alone with Sam. You’re crowding into his personal space the moment the door closes behind him. 

“You know, I love all of your disguises, but this one is definitely my favorite.” You muse, running your hand down his ballistic vest as he wrestles with the hood again, pulling it down to rest under his chin. He unclips his helmet, tossing it aside before shaking out of his hair. 

Grabbing you by your waist, Sam smirks. The tactical gloves he wears are rough as his fingers brush under your blouse. “Yeah, baby, could practically read that on your face.” 

“Really? I thought I was being subtle,” You pout, letting him pull you into his arms. 

“Subtlty isn’t your strong suit, baby,” He murmurs before kissing you. 

You can almost taste his adrenaline, as he presses you back against the wall, tugging at your clothes like they’re personally offending him. He’s only satisfied when you’re completely naked, caged between his enormous figure and the wall, with his hands caressing and gripping your exposed flesh as he pleases. With his lips still moving against yours with bruising force, he starts to shrug out of the thick ballistic vest, but you stop him. 

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly spreading across his swollen lips. “Oh. You like it that much?” 

You bite back a smile. 

“Alright, dirty girl,” Sam banters. “You want me to fuck you with all this gear on? Might take some convincing.” Taking your hand, he brings it to the crotch of his tactical pants. The fabric is bulky and rough against your palm, but when he pushes his hips forward into your hand, your mouth waters as you feel the unquestionable evidence of his arousal. 

“Whatever you say, officer,” You say with a cute little smile, your hands mindlessly unclasping his belt as you carefully settle on your knees before him. 

Sam’s jaw slackens at the view of you, naked and on your knees, so eagerly working to pull his dick from his pants. Running an appreciative hand through your hair, he grits his white teeth the moment your tiny hand wraps around his girth, and he grunts harshly when you take him into your mouth. 

As you lick his cock all over, getting it covered in a sheeny layer of your spit, you moan at his tangy flavor. You start bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks and sliding as much of him as you can fit at a time into the hot, wet channel of your mouth. He grips the roots of your hair with one hand, his hips twitching every so often, accidentally shoving a little more of his length down your throat. You let your eyes roll back, your mind shutting off, except to catalog every sound he makes- his breath catching when your tongue pays special attention to the head of his cock, grunts, and moans of appreciation when you force yourself down so that your nose brushes the thatch of hair at the base of his cock, your throat tightening around him as tears and drool freely slide down your face and chin, onto your exposed breasts. 

One hand in your hair turns to two, and he starts to fuck your face, gently at first, bulding up to driving his cock in and out of your mouth like you’re just a mindless doll for him to use. You let him, sliding a hand down between your legs to rub at your puffy clit, which has been crying for some kind of friction since the moment you laid eyes on him in that uniform. You stare up at him through the tears dotting your eyelashes, loving the way he’s dressed fully with layers, while you’re helplessly bare. 

He yanks you to your feet, manhandling you to bend over the edge of the little table in the kitchen. Your breasts press against the cool wood, and your fingers keep rubbing at your drenched pussy, until you feel the brush of his clothes behind you and the prob of his swollen cockhead at your entrance. 

Sam grips the globes of your ass in his hands, pushing his cock into you, but you’re so wet that there’s very little resistance. He groans as your walls spasm around him, coating him in your creamy arousal, and your thighs start trembling the instant he starts pumping in and out of you. 

He fucks you fast, using a crushing grip on your hips to haul you back onto his cock the same instant he drives his hips forwards. The feeling of each thrust is so intense and sharp that you couldn’t be quiet if your life depended on it, but Sam seems to enjoy your cries, smiling breathlessly above you. He folds his body over yours, so his lips are at your ear. 

“Such a little slut,” He chastises in your ear, pulling your hair to lift your head a bit. The action, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, and the relentless abuse to your cunt is sending you rushing towards your peak. “Spreadin’ your legs for any guy in a fuckin’ uniform.” 

“No-” You gasp, but he’s slipped a hand between your legs, which only adds to the excessive wetness making your thighs glisten. Your muscles tense as he starts rubbing tight, fast circles on your clit. “Only you-” 

“Damn right, only me.” He grunts. 

You cum together, your pussy convulsing wildly around his length, your mind whiting out in the midst of such a profound orgasm. He keeps thrusting to prolong the feeling, and when he eventually pulls out, your combined fluids begin to seep out of your cunt. 

His hands are fisted obediently on his thick thighs, resisting the overpowering urge to reach for his dripping, swollen cock, the veins of his forearms standing out from the effort it takes him to follow your command. 

“Please,” He whines, completely hypnotized by your ministrations. His hands covertly shift closer to  his cock, desperate for relief. But you’re not even sure if he’s begging for stimulation on his aching cock or for the green light to dive into your pussy.

“Not yet, baby.” You sigh, the raw yearning in his voice only adding to your impending orgasm. It has you beyond turned on, to have such a behemoth of a man wrapped around your finger, listening to you like you’re speaking the word of God, drooling over your body so blatantly, giving up control of his body and actions entirely over to you in these moments. “Be good and keep your hands off.” 

Again, he whines. Untouched, his cock bobs against his lower abdominal muscles, the head almost purple from the lack of attention. 

“Let me at least-“ He starts to plead, before you cut him off quickly with a little slap to his face. He moans against his will at the sharp sting of pain, eyes focused on you like you’re the only thing in his entire world. Then you grab him by the jaw firmly with the hand that had been playing with your pussy, carelessly smearing your arousal on his face, forcing him to tilt his head back, though really, you couldn’t force him to do anything. He does it all willingly, ignores his aching balls and member to please you.

“I said watch.” You scold him, loving the way his eyelashes flutter shamefully, his gaze darting away from yours to the floor. “I thought you wanted to be my good boy.” You say in a softer voice, granting him the pleasure of your hand running through his hair. You let your slick coated fingers brush his lips as you release his jaw, and he immediately licks your flavor from his mouth. 

“I do-“ He chokes out, panting. He glances down at this throbbing cock pathetically. 

You settle back onto the bed, spreading your legs wide for him to see you stuff two fingers inside your pussy. He looks like the sight physically hurts him. He strains and whines but stays still. 

You make yourself come and then you beckon him forward to lick you clean. He responds enthusiastically, groaning at your taste, hunching over your smaller frame to bury his face between your legs when you yank him forward by his hair. He eats at you ravenously, while you praise him, thrusting your hips up into his hungry mouth. You come again quickly, rambling in a breathy voice as he moans in response. 

“Feels so good, Sammy. Such a good fuck toy for me. Mhm, love your mouth, baby. Gonna make you feel so good when you earn it.” 

You guide him onto the edge of the bed, the entire lower half of his face covered in an obscene mixture of your juices. He sits with his back against the headboard, sweat beading down his chest, watching you with heavily lidded eyes, waiting for your direction, even though he looks tortured. 

“You want your reward for being such a good baby boy, hm?” You ask, crawling towards him. “You think you deserve your cock touched? Think you deserve to go inside?”

“Yes, yes, please-“ He nods, watching you closely. As you purposefully let your breath ghost over his swollen length, he throws his head back at the agony. 

Finally deciding to put him out of his misery, you wrap your arms around his neck and sink down his impressive length.

He curses loudly. “Fuuuck-“ He tenses up even more at the hot, wet embrace of your soaked pussy. “God-thank you, thank you, thank you-“ He gasps and you realize he’s crying, burying his face in your neck. 

 His chest rumbles with the force of his moans and whining as you begin to ride him, sliding up and down his pulsing length at a pace that has him panting and clutching at your body.  

“S’good,” He slurs, fat tears slipping from his eyes as he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut to try to stave off the orgasm that’s building in gut with embarrassing speed. 

“Yeah, you like your reward, baby? Like when I use you for your big cock?” 

He agrees pathetically. “Yes, use me. Do whatever you want. Just let me come. Please, baby, can’t stop it. Please, please let me come. Fuckk-“ 

He’s drilling into you from behind, his paws bruising your hips and the tissue of your ass with how forceful he’s being as he controls your body. Your limbs are trembling wildly as you struggle to maintain your position on your hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut to cope with the assault on your pussy. 

The room is filled with the debauched music of his cock pummeling into you, the filthy, wet sound of him drawing out to be sucked right back in. It's combined with the occasional slap of his hand down on the fat of your ass, the consistent whines and whimpers you fail to curb, and the reverberation of you both panting like dogs. 

“B-Billy-” You gasp. 

“Don’ tell me you can’ take it,” He taunts, voice rough like gravel. His dark eyes are fixated on the rippling of your ass in his hands, the obscene sight of your inner thighs glistening. “S’exactly what you were whinin’ for, innit? Wanted all o’ daddy’s attention, and now you don’ even know wha’ to do with it.” 

He drapes himself over your back, and your eyes roll back into your skull at the heat of his sweaty chest against your skin. Still crudely thrusting into you, he reaches a hand to slide two fingers into your mouth, hooking them into your cheek to lift your head. He holds you like that and drives into you even harder, and you start to really cry. 

“Got nothin’ to say, love?” He mocks, shaking your head by the grip on your cheek. 

Saliva dribbles from your mouth, and you moan earnestly.  

He releases you and your head immediately drops between your shoulders. Butcher retaliates by wrapping one of his massive arms around your neck, using his colossal strength to lift you off your arms so you’re flush against his immense chest. You feel especially delicate with your little neck in between his rock of a biceps and his thick forearm, and as he tightens his grip minimally, your cries reach a new pitch. 

His lips are at your ear, his facial hair especially coarse against your soft, sweat kissed skin. “Daddy asked you a question, you naughty little girl. S’too much for a little bird like you? Or you like lettin’ daddy take what he wants? Don’ mind hurtin’ a little bit to make your daddy feel good, is that it?”

He loves pushing you farther and farther, until you’re reduced to this perverse state for his pleasure. Loves manhandling you, loves that he doesn’t even need to because you’ll do whatever he tells you. He loves the twist in his gut when he exerts his power over you, rendering you unable to speak, to form a single word except his name if your life depended on it, and then mocking you with it. Loves that you always let him take as much as he wants, which is always fucking everything.

You clutch at his forearm around your neck, doing your best to nod, aware that even when Butcher’s at his roughest, he never truly hurts you. At least no more than you’d enjoy. 

“Naughty kitty-” He groans in your ear, abdomen clenching at the frantic flutter of your cunt around him. “Jus’ needed daddy real close, just needed me to hold ya, is that it?” 

You’re not sure what’s causing your vision to turn spotty, the constriction of your airway or the fact that you’ve started cumming from how rigorously he’s abusing your cunt. When the mind altering pleasure starts to trickle away, you realize Butcher’s let up on your neck and has slowed his pace. 

“Mm, so good, daddy.” You moan in appreciation, nuzzling into his hairy forearm. Your cunt is so wet and sensitive that you wiggle in his arms as he keeps plunging in and out of you. 

“Not so fast, lovey,” He warns, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Daddy’s not done with you yet.” 

The common occurrence of him catching a good look at your cleavage when you wear a lower cut top has him sputtering, staring, and losing his train of thought mid-sentence. His eyes automatically zero in on your chest, mind flooding with dirty memories of how your supple tits fill his hands, how it feels to bury his face between your soft, smooth breasts, and suddenly, Sam is clearing his throat to bring Dean’s attention away from you and the very obvious way he’s oogling your body. 

He loves opening any door for you, seizing the opportunity to get a good look at your plush ass and all of your curves as you walk by him, oblivious. Your perfect shape makes him want to sink his teeth into you, makes him feel a rush of blood to his groin at the most inappropriate, inconvenient times. 

He makes it his job to worship your body in any way he can, but he especially loves when you ride him, when you’re above him, your entire body bare and writhing on top of his, tits bouncing wildly as you fuck him, the round flesh of your ass jiggling with your movements. He feels like he owns the crease between your hip and thigh, the sight of it sending him into overdrive, and he just has to have his hands there, gripping you hard, encouraging your movements of grinding up and down his length. His hands are programmed to explore the expanse of your soft thighs, and he loves reaching between your legs to touch you intimately, loves it even more when he feels that soft thickness of your legs closing around his head when he buries his face in your pussy.