#switch!dean

Headlights blind him as his foot falls heavier onto the gas pedal. Head pounding, ears ringing, shoulder aching - a wet and deep type of ache he knows means it’s more serious than he’s willing to admit. However, part of him already knew that the blood oozing down his arm and onto Baby’s leather seats was his first clue. But when he’s still an hour out from your place on a night he promised he’d be home, he can’t bring himself to care about the mess. 

So he keeps driving. He should slow down; he knows he should, the roads are slick with the steam that rises from the steady rain beating down onto the hot pavement, but he just can’t. His gaze remains fixed, grip all but crushing the steering wheel like he's just as possessed as the demons that did this to him. 

The echoes of the night's events still linger within despite his efforts to only think of you. In the storm of his mind, the senses and memories intertwine. The feeling of being thrown into the wall so hard it cracked, mixed with the feeling of your soft skin under his calloused hands- the smell of blood draining from his nose, mixing with the smell of your perfume. The image of the demon’s souls leaving their bodies, mixing with the image of your body in his bed. Every bad, nasty, scary memory always slowly consumed and over taken by the soft, warm memories of you. 

When he finally reaches your street, he parks outfront. Your windows glowing a soft yellow light through the curtains into the darkness of the night, meaning that somewhere inside, you’re still awake, just as he knew you’d be, waiting for him even at this ungodly hour. 

He doesn’t bother grabbing his duffel; he steps out of the car, his body aching with every move. Pausing, he takes a deep breath, eyes closed, and then once it’s over, he begins dragging himself to the front door. Walking feels like moving through wet cement, and when he reaches his destination, he leans forward, resting his sticky forehead against the grain, trying to catch his breath. Sweat rolls down his face and runs into his mouth, the taste making him cringe- right now, even his sweat tastes like blood. 

Dean raises his fist to knock on the door. He has a key, but the thought alone of trying to dig it out of his back pocket makes his shoulder throb even more.

Inside the house, you jump at the noise in slight alarm. You had been drifting in and out of sleep, waiting for him to come home to you, patience waning. But now adrenaline pumps through your veins, suddenly very awake as you make it to your feet and head towards the door. 

You know it's Dean, but just to be safe, just as Dean would have told you to, you check through the peephole first. And when you see him, the air feels like it's been knocked from your lungs, your fingers all but scrambling to undo the locks and open the door. 

Dean stands there, barely holding himself up, bloody and broken. Your panicked eyes rake over his form immediately as you begin taking inventory of every injury you can find;  A large gash to the forehead above his right eye, left eye bruised, bottom lip busted, upper lip and chin stained with blood that at some point had been coming from his nose, his is shirt is ripped along the torso and at the right shoulder which somewhere underneath the fabric is the source of all that blood covering his arm and clothing, and now your front step as well. He looks halfway to death, but somehow in this light, he's still as beautiful as ever, all tan skin with little freckles, green shining eyes, and waiting there just for you- the sight is almost holy.

“Dean-” You finally speak, snapping out of your haze and instinctively reaching out for him. But before you get to him, he stops you, putting up his hands just enough for you to see, reluctantly begging you not to touch him. It’s not that he doesn’t want your touch because - Jesus Christ - that's all he wants, but because he knows the moment he feels you, he’ll be gone. 

“I’m okay…” He murmurs with a quiet roughness as he focuses on moving one foot in front of the other, crossing the threshold of your home. When he passes you, you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, despite his denying your touch. It makes your hands ache to reach out for him even more. 

“What the hell happened to you?” You question, not accusatory, but serious enough to let him know not to give you a sarcastic response.

He blinks at you for a moment. He looks pale, like he needs to sit before he passes out. “Demons…” He answers breathlessly, trying to pull himself together. 

You don’t really hear the answer because, after seeing that look on his face, you begin ushering him to the kitchen, quickly pulling out a chair from the table for him to sit. He involuntarily slumps down with a soft groan, the wood hard and unforgiving. His eyes squeeze shut, and his teeth clench from the impact.  

And as soon as you're sure he’s seated, you turn and head for the cupboards, beginning to rummage through them almost frantically. He doesn’t have the energy to question what you're doing, or to even look, but the second you try to walk past him in an attempt to leave the room, searching for something else, he grabs you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His hold isn’t rough, it’s pure longing, the need to touch you, even if it’s just for a moment, even if it’s just like this. 

He looks up at you now, noticing how heavy your breathing is, how worried your eyes look, how it's borderline scared. But you need to get the first aid supplies, and you need to stop the bleeding.

“Dean, I need towels, bandages, please-” You tell him, your tone not frustrated but urgent nonetheless, pulling away from him despite how badly the look on his face makes you want to stay. He moves almost indiscernibly, nodding in understanding.

When you return, you haphazardly dump all the supplies onto the kitchen table. This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve patched up Dean’s battle wound, mostly minor, some a little more intense, but this is different, this is unlike anything you've ever seen. 

Pulling out another chair, positioning it directly in front of him, you sit down and begin taking some deep breaths, trying to keep your emotions in check. If you want to do this properly, you can’t be a shaking mess. 

A beat passes, and then, once you’re ready, you make your first move. You reach out to remove his shirt, needing to assess the real damage under the blood-soaked cotton, but as you do, he stops you, his hands coming up again, palms facing out in objection. 

“I‘m fine.” He rasps unconvincingly. “Can do it myself….” 

You pause again. You know what this is, you know what he’s doing. “No, you’re not.” You say short and firm but not unkindly. 

Dean ignores you, reaching for a towel on the table anyway, hands visibly shaking. He’s lying to you, and you both know it, but that gnawing voice in the back of his head tells him to fight.

The voice is his father’s. It’s the rough, harsh sound of the man who taught him to never show weakness. The man who raised him to hide the blood and pain, to deny all comforts for the sake of serving others. John may have never taught Dean how to ride a bike or shave his face, but he sure as hell taught him how to be a soldier. But for as many physical scars that mentality has left him, there are twice as many emotional. 

But you're not letting him play that game tonight, not like this.

Your voice breaks through his stream of clouded thoughts like soft light. “Dean…” You urge gentle but insistent, “Let me take care of you… please.”  

Another pause- The room completely silent except for his labored breaths. But he closes his eyes, and all the cracks you’ve made in his armor begin breaking him open. He gives a small nod, finally allowing you in because the truth is that with you, it never feels like breaking at all. 

And so, without hesitation, you move, cutting off his shirt and exposing the wound on his shoulder. He grits his teeth in pain while you carefully tend to the source, trying to stop the bleeding enough to clean out the wound, but even with the gentlest of touches, Dean hisses at the pain.

When you wash out the wound, the liquid stings like fire, and his eyes gloss over. He tries to hold it in, both not wanting to show weakness and not wanting to scare you, but the pain’s too much. His fist smacks down onto the table in a tight grip, the sound making you jump. He gives you a guilty look, wanting to say he's sorry for scaring you, but he doesn’t trust his own voice. Deep down, he knows he doesn’t even have to say it; you already know. 

You work methodically, going from the deep wounds to the tiny cuts. He tenses and sucks in breath as you work, trying desperately to hold it together. 

Dean tries to focus on you, cataloguing every detail he can find, as if he hasn't already memorized every inch of you a thousand times before. He pushes himself to get lost in all that is you: the way you furrow your eyebrows in concentration, the steady movements of your hands. He still clenches his fist and teeth at the prodding of his injuries, but it helps him remain more still, always trying so desperately to be better- to be good.  

Once you’ve finished, you lean back, wiping the sweat from your forehead, inadvertently staining it with some of his blood. Every one of his wounds now cleaned, closed, and dressed. The bleeding has finally stopped. 

“How do you feel?” You ask softly. 

His body language matches yours, leaning back in the chair, exhausted. “Like shit…” He breathes out, voice somewhat garbled. 

You give him a second to breathe before you stand, “Let’s get you to the bathroom and finish cleaning you up.” 

He nods back, and this time, when you go to help him, he doesn’t resist. Dean allows you to support some of his weight, never all of it, as you direct him to the bathroom.  

Entering the bathroom, you turn on the lights, making sure to keep them dim and inoffensive, before sitting him down on the closed toilet seat. He wouldn’t be able to stand long enough to shower, and you just spent all that time dressing his wounds, so instead, you turn on the tap at the sink, letting the water heat up and slowly fill up the basin. While you wait, you turn on the aromatherapy machine sitting on the counter, allowing the sweet, relaxing smell to mix in with the steam forming by the sink. Usually, the small act would have Dean rolling his eyes or making a playfully snarky comment, pretending to think it’s silly, just like he does with your fancy coffee maker, collection of cozy blankets, and all other things his instincts would deem unnecessary. But what he would never admit is that when he’s back on the road, he finds himself secretly longing for the warmth and comfort of those cozy little things alongside the comfort of you. 

Turning back to him, you sit down in front of him on your knees. You begin unlacing his old, heavy, and beat-up hunting boots to take them off his tired feet, along with his socks. Next, you reach for his belt. There’s nothing sexual about it, but it’s intimate in a way that still makes Dean’s heart flutter in his chest. All of your movements are so careful, like he’s fragile, not some 6-foot-something grown man that has killed both humans and monsters alike with his bare hands. 

You strip him down to his underwear, an old pair of plaid boxers that need replacing, before returning to the sink, now filled. Taking the softest washcloth you can find in the cabinet, you submerge it into the steaming water. You then wring the excess back out, being sure not to cause a mess, and you then bring the cloth to Dean’s face. 

Gently, you wash away the remnants of blood and earth on his skin, the cloth picking up shades of rust and soil. You have to wash out and re-wet the cloth multiple times. You know he’ll need a real shower in the morning, but this is the best you can do for now, unwilling to let him go to bed covered in all that muck. 

Now clean, you wrap a towel around him. He would never tell you he’s cold; the air on his now damp skin causes goosebumps to form that betray him. You then help him to stand, guiding him to the bedroom where you sit him on the edge of the bed before helping him change into a fresh pair of boxers. 

After that, you help him shift his weight so he can sit in the bed properly. He stifles a groan as he moves, but eventually he gets himself to the head of the bed, back resting against the headboard, so he can sit up. He looks uncomfortable still, but he’d be unable to lie down fully right now with the way his back and shoulder ache. 

So once he’s as comfortable as he’s going to be, you crawl into the bed as well. The kitchen and the bathroom are both a mess, but you decide to leave them until the morning. You missed Dean like crazy, and even if he hadn’t come home to you beaten to a pulp, you still wouldn’t have been able to keep yourself away from him. 

He feels you cautiously positioning yourself on the side of his good shoulder, snuggling into him, careful not to ruin your hard work of bandages and gauze, your body warm and soft against his still tense and aching. You don’t say anything, wanting him to know it's okay if he doesn’t want to talk. But he does. 

Slowly looking down at you, his lips part, and a whisper comes out low and strained, “Thank you…” 

The words hit you harder than you’d expect, his tone almost pleading, saying more than his actual words ever could. “Dean, you don’t have to thank me-” 

Before you’re even finished, his words overlap yours. "Yes,” He states, like it's painfully obvious, “I do…” 

Tenderly, he brings a hand up to rest on your cheek. He studies you again for a moment, thoughtfully, but without something else behind his eyes that you can't quite identify yet. 

And then softly he speaks again, “Come here,” He whispers, not in command but in yearning. 

You nod softly, now understand what he wants, what that flicker in his eyes meant, letting him guide your face to his before he kisses you. 

The kiss is hesitant, a timid sort of cautious, all the things Dean pretends not to be. 

But the caution passes, as it always does, and Dean sinks into the kiss, now claiming you. After days apart, the first kiss is always more intense, but this is a softer sort of starved. 

His body and mind have been through the wringer, and he should be resting. He really shouldn’t be kissing you, not like this, not this hungry, but you let him anyway. Not selfishly, but because when he’s there looking at you like that- kissing you like that, you know you aren’t able to deny him anything. 

He pulls away reluctantly and leans his forehead against yours. His breathing is heavier now, and his eyes are becoming heavy. “Baby…” He pleads softly, lips brushing against yours with each syllable. 

You know what he really wants, and you want it too, but you can’t shake the image of all that blood, all those bandages and wounds, the way he fought back tears he desperately didn’t want you to see, as you cared for him. 

“You’re hurt.” You whisper breathlessly, as if he needed a reminder, before he kisses you again, his movements growing in hunger. And despite your weak protest, your hand finds its way up to the side of his stubbly face, holding it there, holding him. 

He pulls away again, holding back the pathetic urge to whimper. He needs you, he needs all of you, now more than ever. “Baby…” He repeats his plea, voice strained and trembling, before adding, “Please.” 

His words break what little resolve you had left. How could you ever say no to that? 

Nodding, you let his hand on the back of your neck guide you to meet his lips again. And now, with your permission, he pours everything he has into kissing you, from how much he missed you, to how grateful he is for you, his love and need for you, not just in this way but in all ways. It makes your heart ache to give him everything back, continuing to kiss him wantingly. 

Intimacy with Dean is always passionate, always loving, but this time is different. Dean is always in control, dominant, disciplined in his love for you, but right now, he’s none of those things, and that realization does something to the pit of your stomach that you can’t explain. You let that feeling guide you, moving carefully to straddle his lap. 

When your core, covered by the soft material of your pajama shorts, just barely brushes against him, one of the whimpers he’s been so desperately trying to hold back escapes into your mouth. 

His cheeks flush and turn a reddish pink you rarely ever see as he feels his heart sink. “Fuck, I-...” He swears as he pulls back, suddenly embarrassed, a sense of shame washing over him. But you don’t let him get far, not now, not when he’s already let down so many of his walls tonight. 

You pull him back in, shaking your head, and cutting him off with a kiss before mumbling the same words you spoke earlier, “Let me take care of you… please,” And just like before, it breaks him, and he gives in, nodding helplessly, connecting his lips to yours. 

When your kisses move away from his lips to his jaw, trailing down towards his neck, the hand he has on the back of your neck moves up into your hair, gripping it just hard enough for you to feel the pull. He’s resisting the urge to take over, to dominate the moment like usual; you can feel it in his grasp and hear it in his trembled breath, but you both know he needs this. So you keep going, placing kisses over his soft, exposed neck. 

It’s when he whimpers again that a moment of boldness strikes you, and you softly rock your hips, slotting yourself over his already stiffening length. He lets out a gasp that fades into a growl as you repeat the movement slowly. 

He clenches his jaw tighter. He doesn’t want to whine, but he feels it there in his chest, as if you had been torturing him for hours. His words come out strained, still resisting the urge to let go “Baby, don’t-... don’t tease.” 

But the desperation hiding under the resistance in his voice makes your cheeks heat up in pride. A smile quirking onto your lips inadvertently. “Not so fun when the roles are reversed, huh?” You whisper, knowing you have barely teased him, while on the other hand, Dean has spent hours holding you down and teasing you. And you grind against him again, just to hear him whimper some more, before you assure him with a surprisingly devilish remark, “Don’t worry, baby, I won’t be too hard on you, I know you're hurting…”  

He barely registered what you said, lost in his neediness, but he nods anyway, his rough but warm hands moving to grab at your hips in an attempt to pull you closer so he can kiss you again, hanging onto the only shred of dominance he can maintain right now. 

You smile against his lips and take the opportunity of him being distracted to reach down between your bodies, gently pull his length out of his boxers, fingers softly wrapping around him. 

Surprised, he sucks in a breath. “Oh, fuck-” He moans into your mouth before his head tips backwards against the headboard as you start lightly stroking him. 

“That’s it…” You whisper encouragingly as you go back to kissing his neck, now adding little bites and licks, just like he does, copying all of his tactics that he likes to use on you. And he moans again, louder this time, becoming less reserved, the hands on your hips tightening their grip. 

He’s fighting every urge to take over, trying to let you take care of him, and it’s all making him into a pathetic moaning and whimpering mess, already rutting up into your hand. “Please, baby, I need you, please,” He begs suddenly. 

You remove your lips from his neck and admire the sight of him as you pull away. He’s almost panting, cheeks flushed, sweat forming on his forehead. It’s beautiful - he’s beautiful - and you finally realize why he likes seeing you like this so much. 

Thankfully for him, though, you’re not as mean, and you kiss his lips again. Carefully, you lift your lips to remove your shorts and panties. Your heart is beating a thousand miles a minute as you position yourself over him. You’re not used to this role, but the way it’s making you feel right now is almost addictive. 

But Dean is too needy to wait for you to revel in the moment, his hands coming back to your hips like he's trying to pull you down onto him. “Please, baby,” He begs, and he just sounds way too pretty for you to say no. 

You finally sink down onto his length, moaning out as you do- feeling it stretch you out in all the right ways for the first time since he left over 10 days ago.

“Oh god-” He whines loudly, his grip becoming bruising. You don’t move yet, you savor the feeling of him back inside you, the position making him feel even deeper than usual. He feels it too, the extra depth, the head of his cock nestling snugly against your cervix. “Baby- move, god please love-” 

His begging makes you grin, and you do as he asks, starting slow, lifting up and down in a rocking motion against him. 

Dean groans and bites his lower lip at the sensation, still trying and failing to keep his whimpers at bay. It makes you feel proud to watch him come undone like this, and it sure as hell turns you on. That addictive feeling rising up in you, making you want to absolutely wreck him. 

“You like that, D?” You whisper all breathy and sultry, using his little nickname as you continue to ride him. He nods, groaning out again, using his hands on your hips to try to make you go faster. He’s stronger than you by far and could easily take whatever he wanted, but you try your best not to let him change your pace. “Uh- uh- just relax, baby…” You whisper.

His head dramatically falls back against the headboard again as he whines. “You’re killing me, sweetheart, please- god please more baby-” 

You take the opportunity to kiss and suck at his neck, now exposed to you, and give in a little to his pleas, going a little faster now. 

“Fuck, honey- thank you-” He lets out unexpectedly, but you eat it up; it only fuels you more. Pulling back, you watch his face scrunch up desperately, and he lets out a strangled groan, sucking in a deep breath. “God, please, please don’t stop.” 

“I won’t, baby, I’ve got you.” You whisper equally breathy, getting worked up as well as you move faster, even, beginning to chase after both his and your own orgasm.   

Between your words and your movements, Dean is a mess. Completely wrecked, sweating, blushing, whimpering, and moaning, and he feels that familiar pressure building deep inside him, but this time there is something different about it, something even more overwhelming. 

He opens his eyes to look at you again, and when your eyes lock, that's when he feels it, that overwhelming sensation growing, that something different. Looking at you now, it’s like he’s falling in love all over again; he sees every part of you inside and out, and it’s sending him over the edge. “I’m not gonna last, baby- shit, god I fucking love you so much.” 

Looking into his eyes, you see it, the sudden glossiness, the slight tremble. He’s tearing up. And as he moans out his love for you, the first tear falls. 

You smash your lips against his, riding him faster, truly testing your topping abilities, making sure you get him to his climax. 

He cums inside you, whimpering pathetically into your mouth, pushing you closer to your own orgasm. His tears only multiply as they transfer onto your skin as you continue to kiss him, allowing you to taste the salt on your tongue. And you can’t help the loud moan that leaves you at the knowledge that Dean Winchester is crying during sex. 

“Cum for me, angel, give it to me- please, baby, please.” He begs, overstimulated at the feeling of you still riding him through his post orgasm bliss, but still desperate to see you finish.

You nod, gasping into his mouth, and your eyes flutter closed as you reach your high. Dean can feel you squeezing around him, cuming for him, and he moans loudly again at the sensation. 

“Oh my god- fuck.” You moan, hips slowing to a stop as your thighs tremble on either side of him and your chest heaves. You feel his lips on your neck this time, warm and swollen from your kisses and his tears. He kisses all over your skin like he’s trying to get every inch, like he’s worshipping you.

“I love you so fucking much.” He murmurs with his long, damp eyelashes fluttering against your skin. 

You bring your hands up to hold his stubbly face between them, making him look at you, wiping the tears off his blushing cheeks. “I love you too- so, so much.” 

He kisses you again and then pulls your body flush against him, one hand resting on the back of your head, keeping you in place securely. “I’m sorry I was late,” He whispers, “I’m sorry I came home bloody and dirty, I’m sorry I’m such a stubborn ass sometimes. But goddamnit it…. Thank you for taking care of me, baby girl. Thank you for loving me.” 

Your heart breaks at his words, wobbly as he fights more tears. “I’ll always take care of you, Dean, I’ll always love you, even late, even bloody, even stubborn, I promise.” 

“I’ll always love you, honey, and I promise I’ll always let you love me too.” And for Dean, that means everything.