The Fairytale Bingo

The Pine Barrens were quieter than you expected. Almost too quiet. No birdsong, no rustle of deer through the trees. Just the crunch of leaves under your boots and the faint scrape of Dean’s flashlight beam as he scanned the shadows ahead.

“Place gives me the creeps,” he muttered, shotgun resting against his shoulder. “Like it’s just waiting to spit out something ugly.”

You smirked, hugging your jacket tighter. “You mean besides you?”

Dean shot you a look, his green eyes catching the light, and you caught that twitch of his lips that meant he wanted to smile but wouldn’t let himself. Not when the air was this thick with tension. Not when the case had you both alone, miles away from Sam.

“You know, sweetheart,” he drawled, low enough to stir heat in your stomach, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I’m not gonna save your ass when the Jersey Devil comes screamin’ out of the woods.”

“Oh, please. You’d trip over yourself to get to me first,” you teased, stepping just close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you walked. The warmth of him, the smell of leather and gun oil, made it harder to breathe.

Dean stopped, turning his flashlight toward you, holding your gaze in that way that made it feel like he could peel back every smart remark until he found the truth under it. His jaw clenched, like he was biting back something reckless.

The silence stretched, crackling.

Then, a branch snapped in the distance. Both your heads whipped toward the sound. The spell shattered, replaced by adrenaline.

Dean’s voice was clipped, professional now. “Stay behind me.”

But his hand brushed your lower back as he moved forward, guiding you, steadying you, and lingering just a little too long.

The shadow bolted across your path, taller than a man, wings flashing in the beam of Dean’s light, eyes burning red for just an instant before the trees swallowed it whole.

You froze, pulse hammering in your throat.

Dean cursed under his breath. “Son of a bitch…” He adjusted his grip on the shotgun, eyes scanning the treeline. But after a long, tense silence, there was nothing, no rustle, no wingbeats, not even the echo of its cry.

Just stillness.

“It’s gone,” you whispered.

“Yeah. For now.” His jaw ticked, and when he finally looked at you, his eyes were sharp but lingering, checking for fear, for a shake in your stance. His hand brushed your arm. “You good?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. Too fast, probably. “You?”

Dean huffed, holstering the gun. “Peachy. Just love chasing cryptids through the woods like it’s a damn Scooby-Doo episode.”

You smirked despite the thrum of nerves. “Guess that makes me Daphne?”

His lips twitched. “More like Velma. You’re the brains.” Then, quieter, “And the legs.”

The heat that shot through you nearly made you forget the Devil entirely.

By morning, you and Dean had scrubbed the mud off, swapped boots for cleaner jeans, and rolled into the closest town, a small place that clung to the edge of the Pines like it was just waiting to be swallowed whole. Witnesses weren’t hard to find. Every diner booth had its story, every barfly had seen something just out there, always at night, always near the treeline.

One old man with nicotine-stained fingers leaned across his beer. “People vanish,” he rasped. “First it was drifters. Then my neighbor’s boy. Right by the church. Place is cursed.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, flicking to you before he slid a twenty across the bar. “Appreciate it.”

Which is how the two of you found yourselves standing in the shadow of a small white church, paint peeling, the cross overhead stark against the gray sky. Beyond it, the trees loomed, dense and endless.

Dean glanced at them, then at you. “Not ominous at all.”

Inside, the priest was younger than you expected, with tired eyes and a worried crease between his brows. He wrung his hands as he spoke.

“Several of my congregation have disappeared,” he confessed, voice low like he feared the Devil itself might be listening. “Always after evening service. They walk home along the treeline, and…they're never seen again.”

Dean’s gaze flicked to yours, something grim sparking in those green eyes. He leaned forward against the pew. “You telling me your church sits right next to the hunting grounds of the Jersey Devil?”

The priest swallowed hard. “I believe…it is drawn to us.”

The words hung heavy, the air thick with incense and foreboding.

Dean shifted closer to you, shoulder brushing yours as he straightened. His voice dropped low, meant for you alone. “Guess we’re not gettin’ a quiet night, huh?”

The problem was, you weren’t sure if he was talking about the Devil, or something more...intimate.

The priest left reluctantly, locking the heavy oak doors behind him and wishing you both safety under God’s eye. His footsteps faded, and silence closed in on the church. Only the faint groan of wood and the whisper of wind against stained glass filled the cavernous space.

Dean swept his flashlight along the pews, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he was expecting something to leap out. You trailed behind him, the air pressing on you, charged in a way that had nothing to do with the Jersey Devil.

“You feel that?” Dean muttered finally, stopping in front of the pulpit.

“Yeah.” You hugged your arms, scanning the vaulted ceiling. “It’s heavy.”

“Not just the EMF kind of heavy.” He cut a look at you, something simmering behind his eyes. He set his shotgun down on the steps of the pulpit, ran a hand through his hair, then exhaled a low, rough sound. “Damn it.”

You tilted your head, moving closer. “What?”

Dean turned toward you fully, the altar lights barely catching the sharp lines of his face. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then away, then back again. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Your breath caught. “Dean, I-”

The moment cracked like lightning. One step, then another, and suddenly your back hit the edge of the pulpit. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in against the polished wood. His scent, leather, soap, something undeniably him, wrapped around you, intoxicating.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured, voice hoarse. His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot. “And we’re standin’ in the middle of a damn church...”

“Dean.” Your whisper came out like a plea.

He groaned low in his chest, dragging his hands down your arms before pulling back just enough to grab your wrist. “C’mere.”

You stumbled after him, pulse thrumming, as he hauled you toward the confessional booth tucked in the corner. The narrow wooden door creaked open, and he pulled you inside with him, shutting the world out in a cocoon of shadows.

The space was barely big enough for one, let alone both of you. His body pressed to yours, the wood groaning behind your back. He braced one hand above your head, the other sliding to your waist, voice low and ragged.

“You got any idea how many times I’ve dreamed of you? Woke up wanting you?” His lips brushed your jaw, then hovered just shy of your mouth.

Heat pooled low in your belly as you looked into his piercing, green eyes..

And when his mouth finally claimed yours, hungry, desperate, years of restraint snapping all at once, it felt like a sin you’d never want forgiven.

The booth was suffocatingly small, but Dean didn’t care, didn’t give you space to think. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as he backed into the narrow bench and dropped onto it with a thud.

“C’mere,” he rasped again, voice breaking like he was starving.

Before you could reply, he tugged you forward and pulled you right onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, your body pressed flush against him. The hardness straining against his jeans left no doubt what you were doing to him.

“Dean...” you gasped, palms pressed to his chest. The beat of his heart pounded under your touch.

“Not lettin’ you go,” he growled, one hand clutching your hip, the other tangling in your hair to drag your mouth down to his. The kiss was filthy, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, his groan vibrating against your lips.

The wood of the booth creaked as you shifted, rocking against him. His hips bucked up instinctively, and he broke the kiss with a ragged curse. “Fuck, sweetheart…been wantin’ this, been wantin’ you, for too damn long.”

He slid his hands under your shirt, palms searing against bare skin, dragging up until your bra was shoved above your breasts. His mouth followed, hot and hungry, sucking one tight peak between his lips while his calloused fingers rolled the other. You arched, biting back a moan that would’ve echoed too loud in the church.

Dean pulled back, lips swollen, smirk wicked. “Gotta keep you quiet, huh? Don’t want Father Francis hearing how good I make you feel.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, a deep, claiming sweep of tongue as his hand worked open your jeans. The sound of the zipper lowering in the silence was obscene. His fingers slid inside, finding you soaked, and he groaned into your mouth. “Fuck, you’re already dripping for me.”

You whimpered, grinding down against his hand.

“Ride me,” he demanded, tugging at his own belt one-handed while keeping you pressed down with the other. “Right here. Right now.”

The snap of leather, the rasp of denim, then he freed himself, thick and hot against your thigh. He guided you up, then down, sliding into you slowly. Both of you muffled your cries in each other’s mouths as you sank onto him, the stretch burning in the best way.

Dean’s hands locked around your waist, holding you flush. “Fuck, baby…so warm and tight. Gonna wreck this pretty little cunt if you keep clenching like that.”

You moved, rocking against him, the bench creaking with every shift. His head fell back against the wood, jaw tight, eyes fluttering shut as he thrust up to meet you.

“Look at me,” he ordered, fingers digging into your chin to keep your gaze on him. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, sweat glistening at his temple. “Wanna see your face when you cum on my cock.”

Every roll of his hips hit deep, the friction intoxicating. Your nails scraped his shoulders, your whimpers muffled against his throat as you spiraled tighter and tighter.

Dean bit your earlobe, growling, “That’s it, sweetheart. Take me, take all of me. You feel so fuckin’ good and you're mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent you over the edge. You clamped around him, muffling your cry against his shoulder as waves of heat crashed through you. Dean groaned low, thrusting harder, chasing his own release.

Moments later, he buried himself to the hilt, shuddering, and spilling deep inside you as he bit down on your neck to stifle his shout.

For a long second, the only sound was ragged breathing, the faint creak of wood as he slumped back against the wall of the booth, still inside you, still holding you as though he’d never let go.

Dean kissed your temple, voice rough, shaky, but full of tenderness. “Guess we’re both goin’ to Hell for that one.”

He still hadn’t let you go, your body draped over his, his chest rising and falling against yours in the stifling dark of the booth. His lips brushed your hairline, one hand tracing slow circles along your spine.

The quiet was a welcome distraction until Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He groaned. “Son of a-” He fished it out, shifting you on his lap. You bit back a laugh as he glanced at the caller ID. “Of course. Sammy.”

He thumbed the answer button, not even trying to sound normal. “Yeah?” His voice came out hoarse, still ragged from coming undone.

There was a pause on the other end. Then Sam’s suspicious drawl: “Dean…why do you sound like you just ran a marathon?”

You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking as a laugh threatened to escape.

Dean glared at you, covering the mouthpiece. “Don’t you dare.”

But a breathy laugh still slipped out of you, muffled against his collar. Sam heard it.

“Oh my God.” You could practically hear Sam pinching the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

Dean shifted under you, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Not your business, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam groaned. “Get it together. We’ve got people disappearing, a damn monster in the woods, and you two are-” He cut himself off with another frustrated sigh. “You know what? I don’t even want the details. Just…finish the hunt before the Jersey Devil makes a snack out of someone else.”

Dean chuckled low in his chest, still catching his breath. “Yeah, yeah. We’re on it.”

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the narrow ledge inside the booth. His hand slid back to your thigh, thumb stroking lazily.

“Guess that means round two’ll have to wait,” he drawled, lips ghosting over your jaw. “But once we gank this son of a bitch? You’re not leaving my bed.”

Dean finally eased you off his lap, helping you tug your jeans back into place in the cramped booth, his hands lingering far longer than necessary. He kissed you once more, quick but searing, before standing and tucking himself back in with a grunt.

By the time you both stepped out into the main church, the hunter mask was sliding back into place. Dean grabbed his shotgun, rolling his shoulders like nothing had happened. His voice dropped into that clipped, commanding tone.

“Alright. If that thing’s stalking the church, odds are it’s using the treeline as cover. We need to set up salt rounds at the exits, lay down iron spikes along the paths, and maybe dig a pit trap if we can manage it before sundown.”

You nodded, trying not to notice how his hand brushed your back as he passed you one of the salt canisters. “So, all-nighter?”

“Sweetheart,” he said with a sly half-smile, “you’re with me. Sleep’s optional.”

Professional. Sure. But his eyes still burned with that heat, like he was daring you to forget the case and drag him right back into that booth.

Later, once the basics were set up and the sun was sliding low, Dean insisted on checking the woods before night fell. The air outside was colder, sharper, the trees crowding close.

He walked beside you, flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, his body a constant, steady presence. His free hand kept brushing against yours, knuckles grazing yours every few steps like he couldn’t stop touching you.

“You know,” you whispered, smirking, “Sam’s never gonna let us live this down.”

Dean chuckled under his breath, low and dark. “Yeah, well. He’s just jealous.”

“Of what?”

He stopped, turning his head toward you, expression unreadable in the shadows. “That I’ve got you.”

Your breath caught, and for a long second, the hunt seemed to fall away. The way he looked at you, the honesty in his voice, it was dangerous in a whole new way.

Then a sound cracked through the underbrush. Both of you whipped toward it, flashlights cutting through the trees. A flash of wings. Red eyes.

Dean cursed, grabbing your hand and tugging you behind him. “Stay close.” His stance shifted, every line of his body coiled and ready.

The Devil’s cry echoed once, then the forest went still again.

Dean exhaled, but his hand didn’t let yours go. “Damn thing’s toying with us.” He glanced at you, jaw set. “But it’s not getting you. Not on my watch.”

The words weren’t just protective, they were a vow.

The Devil’s cry split the night again, closer this time, sharper, echoing off the trunks until it felt like it was everywhere at once. Dean’s grip on your hand tightened until your knuckles ached.

“Stay behind me,” he growled, flashlight sweeping in a tight arc, shotgun braced at his shoulder. His whole body was coiled, vibrating with tension, like a predator daring the cryptid to show itself.

Then it did.

Wings spread wide, red eyes blazing, the creature dropped from a tree with a scream that rattled your bones. Its claws raked the dirt just feet away.

Dean shoved you back so hard you stumbled against a tree. He was already between you and the Devil, already firing, the blast of rock salt exploding in the dark, the thing shrieking as it reeled back.

“Come on, you ugly son of a bitch!” Dean snarled, racking another round with vicious precision. His eyes were wild, his voice deeper, raw.

The Devil lunged, wings snapping the air. Dean didn’t hesitate, he charged, slamming a shoulder into it, driving it back into the underbrush with a ferocity that made your breath catch. He was fighting like nothing else mattered but keeping it from reaching you.

You scrambled up, calling his name, but he didn’t even look back. He fired again, close-range, the recoil slamming into his shoulder. The Devil screeched, thrashing, wings flapping hard enough to whip your hair into your face.

Dean bared his teeth, pressing in close, and for a second he looked almost as monstrous as the thing he was hunting. “You don’t touch her,” he spat, pumping another round into its chest. “You hear me? You don’t look at her. She’s not yours!”

The Devil faltered, stumbling back into the trees, its cry echoing as it disappeared into the dark again.

The silence after was deafening.

Dean stood panting, shoulders heaving, shotgun lowered but still clutched tight. His knuckles were white, eyes blazing as he turned back to you.

You were still pressed to the tree, heart pounding. He stalked toward you, crowding into your space, his chest heaving against yours. One hand slammed into the bark beside your head, the other still gripping the shotgun.

“You okay?” His voice was ragged, hoarse. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathless.

Dean dropped the gun, his free hand grabbing your jaw, tilting your face up so he could search your eyes. His thumb brushed your lip, lingering, his whole body still vibrating with the leftover adrenaline.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, voice low and shaking, “if that thing had touched you-” He broke off, leaning his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “I can’t lose you. Don’t you get that? I can’t.”

Dean’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath still ragged, his hand firm on your jaw. His body was practically trembling with leftover adrenaline and something darker, hotter.

You thought he was going to kiss you. You wanted him to.

Instead, he cursed low under his breath and tore himself back a step, dragging a hand down his face. “Son of a bitch…” His voice was rough, thick with need and fury. “Not here. Not now.”

Your chest ached with the sudden cold where his body had been, but the way he was looking at you, hungry, dangerous, like you were the only thing tethering him, lit you up all over again.

“We still got a monster out here,” he said, forcing his voice steady, though the tension in it gave him away. He stooped to grab the shotgun again, racking it with a sharp snap. “And until that thing’s in the ground...” He trailed off.

He glanced at you, green eyes blazing, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscle jump. He stepped closer again, his free hand ghosting over your waist because he couldn’t stop himself. “That thing has your scent...it's not gonna stop until we stop it.”

His touch lingered, his thumb brushing slow circles at your hip before he finally forced himself to let go.

Dean exhaled, turning his attention back to the trees, scanning for any flicker of movement. “Come on. Let’s track it back to its nest.”

He started forward, and without thinking, you fell in step beside him. His free hand brushed yours once, twice, before hooking your pinky with his deliberately, like even in the middle of the hunt, he needed some part of you tethered to him.

The woods grew thicker, branches clawing at your sleeves, the silence broken only by the crunch of boots and the rasp of Dean’s breath beside you. His flashlight cut through the trees, the beam steady even as his grip stayed white-knuckled on the shotgun.

Every so often, he’d glance back at you. Not quick looks, either, long, lingering checks, like he was memorizing that you were still there, still unhurt.

“Dean,” you whispered after the third one, “I’m fine.”

His jaw worked. “Yeah, well, I’ll believe that when this thing’s dead and we’re not wandering through its backyard.”

You reached out, catching his arm, halting him for a second. His bicep was rigid under your hand. “You’ve been protecting me this whole hunt. Who’s protecting you?”

His lips twitched, half a smirk, but he shook his head, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek with rough fingers. “That’s not your job, sweetheart. Not tonight.”

Before you could argue, a foul stench hit your nose, rot and copper. Dean’s expression hardened. He raised his flashlight, and there it was: a clearing ahead, littered with bones. Human, animal, it didn’t matter. The Jersey Devil’s lair.

Dean’s stance shifted instantly, every muscle locked.

The Devil came fast, bursting out of the trees with a shriek that rattled your teeth. Wings snapped wide, claws tearing furrows in the earth as it lunged.

Dean shoved you aside with a shout, “Down!” and unloaded the shotgun, rock salt tearing into the thing’s chest. It reeled, but didn’t fall.

“Son of a bitch is tougher than it looks,” he growled, reloading with practiced speed.

You scrambled up, drawing the iron blade from your belt. The Devil swiped at Dean, knocking the shotgun from his hands. He hit the dirt, rolled, came up with a snarl.

“Dean!” You hurled the blade, and he caught it midair without hesitation, swinging hard. The blade lodged in the Devil’s side, black ichor spraying as it shrieked in agony.

“Take that, you ugly bastard!” Dean roared, ripping the blade free and driving it in again, this time straight through its chest. The Devil screamed, wings flailing, before collapsing in a heap that rattled the ground.

The clearing fell silent.

Dean stood over the body, chest heaving, eyes wild. He looked victorious, and when his gaze snapped to you, it softened instantly. He dropped the blade, closing the distance.

“You okay?” His hands cupped your face, frantic, searching for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, still catching your breath. “Dean-”

But before you could finish, his mouth was on yours, hard, desperate, and claiming. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t get close enough.

The hunt was over. The danger was gone. And all that was left was the hunger he’d been holding back all night.

By the time you stumbled into the motel room, your legs still trembling from the adrenaline of the hunt, Dean was already on you. The door barely clicked shut before he pinned you against it, hands clamping over your hips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger you couldn't have even begun to imagine.

“You’ve been dripping for me since the confessional,” he groaned into your mouth, teeth scraping your lower lip. “Need me to wreck your sweet pussy again, don't you sweetheart?”

You moaned, arching into him, feeling his cock pressing through his jeans against your thigh. “Dean…please…I need you…”

“Not yet,” he hissed, hands sliding under your shirt, thumbs rolling your nipples into peaks while one hand slipped lower, brushing your slick heat over your panties. “Not until I say so.”

Every brush of his fingers had you gasping. He circled you slowly, teasing, pulling you to the edge, then deliberately sliding away. You were shaking, wet, and desperate for release.

You pressed your thighs together, trying to chase the friction he was denying. “Dean…please…I can’t…”

He teased relentlessly, fingers plunging in just enough to make you tremble, curling while his thumb brushed your clit, making your back arch, your breaths hitch. Every time you were about to collapse over the edge, he pulled back, grinding his hips against yours but denying you the release, letting your whimpers fill the tiny motel room.

“Gorgeous,” he growled, jaw tight, eyes dark and feral. “So fucking wet for me.”

Finally, Dean slammed into you, filling you to the hilt. The suddenness made you gasp and cry out, but he covered your mouth with his, growling against your lips as he thrust deep and fast.

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, pounding into you with desperation. Hands dug into your hips, gripping, pulling you down on him, keeping you flush as his cock stretched you tight.

You came instantly at the first deep thrust, shaking against him, moaning against his mouth as he drove into you harder.

Your body was on fire, nerves ablaze, clenching around him, and he didn’t let up, using your spasms to push himself higher, edging you again as he chased his own release.

When Dean finally came undone, he groaned your name, hips slamming into yours, spilling into you in shuddering waves as your second orgasm crashed over you.

Dean collapsed against the headboard, still breathing hard, chest rising and falling under your hands. You rested your forehead against his, letting the thrum of your own heartbeat slow while his green eyes searched yours, softening, finally letting the wild tension ebb.

“C’mon,” he murmured after a long, rough exhale, tugging you upright by the waist. “We need a shower.

The water was hot enough to steam up the tiny bathroom, and Dean pulled you close as soon as you stepped under it, letting your back press into his chest. You shivered, but not from the temperature, his warmth, his hands, the way he pressed against you, sent a thrill through your whole body.

Dean cupped your jaw, tilting your head back to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “God…I could just stand here forever with you,” he murmured, voice rough but gentle. “Never letting you go, sweetheart.”

You gasped softly, feeling every line of muscle beneath his skin. “Dean…”

He silenced you with a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. “I need this…need you like this.”

His hands slid over your shoulders, tracing the curve of your arms, down your sides, lingering at your hips before gliding over the swell of your thighs. His touch was deliberate, worshipful, brushing over the places that had been raw from the night’s excitement, teasing and soothing at once.

Dean leaned in, pressing his chest to your back, tilting your head so he could kiss your shoulder, then your neck, murmuring low, possessive praises. “So good for me.”

He turned you around to face him, hands settling on your waist, thumbs brushing over your lower abdomen, soft but demanding attention.

You leaned into him, pressing your lips to his collarbone, feeling his pulse, his warmth. Dean guided your hands, letting you explore his chest and arms while his own hands roamed your body with reverence, sliding over your thighs, under your arms, brushing hair from your face, and tracing every curve.

Then he took your hair in his hands, tilting your head back to wash it properly, massaging shampoo into your scalp with slow, firm fingers. Every touch sent shivers down your spine. “So beautiful…,” he murmured, leaning down to press kisses along your hairline, your forehead, the sensitive skin behind your ears.

When he finally rinsed your hair, he pressed you against him again, letting the water cascade over both of you. His hands slid over your back, down your sides, caressing your skin. You shivered, pressing your body into his, letting yourself melt under his hands.

Dean whispered in your ear, voice low and possessive, “I love this…loving you like this, taking care of you.”

You tilted your face toward him, lips brushing his jaw, murmuring against his skin, “I’m yours, Dean.”

He groaned softly, pressing his forehead to yours, letting the water drum over your bodies.

When he finally wrapped you in a towel, holding you flush against his chest, the steam curling around both of you, his voice was rough and hoarse from heat and emotion. “You feel like home,” he whispered.

You sighed into him, arms curling around his neck, legs brushing his, the heat of his body, the scent, the solidity of him holding you…safe, cherished, and completely his.