(a)‘melia

Neon paints your body in hues of red and blue as you cross the dance floor. The dive bar has little by way of illumination beyond the signs on the wall depicting beer and food, half-naked cowgirls, and the name of the joint. A few yellowed lights hang from the ceiling, joining the bright colors to shine down on the crowd below.

You wind your way through the throng of sweaty bodies, their boisterous conversations meld with the thrum of music soaking into the atmosphere. Cold glass bites into your palm as you carry your fresh beer back to the edge of the dance floor. 

It’s standing room only— a regular occurrence on Thursday nights where ladies drink free— and since your friends have long since returned home, you don’t see the point in trying to snag a high-top for yourself. 

No, half drunk on the music and the cheap beer, you don’t want to sit–you want to dance.

Between line dances, you down long-necks and tall glasses of water alike, feeling like you’re sweating it out faster than you can consume; the last thing you want is to wake up in the morning with a splitting headache, even if your freelance job awarded you a day off. 

After being contained to your apartment by the threat of being ripped to shreds at the razor-sharp claws of a pack of supernatural beasts, you want to spend your new lease on life as you pleased, and right now, you are doing just that. 

You’ve lost count of how many dances you’ve finished by the time your bladder begs you to vacate the floor and empty it. Reluctantly, you shuffle off the dance floor, having to only wait behind three other girls before you snag an open stall. 

The bathroom itself leaves something to be desired. Dingy tile line the floors; you aren’t sure if the patterns were actually design choices or were poorly cleaned stains. Raunchy love notes cozy up to random phone numbers with instructions to ‘call for a good time’ with crude pictures of dicks on the cheap stall walls and door. 

Noting the bathroom was empty, you finish up and wash your hands, smiling at the additional graffiti etched into the edges of the dirty mirrors. Most of it is hazy anyway, the blanket of alcohol warming you at the edges. You pull your tube of lipstick from the pocket of your miniskirt, the denim barely covering you enough to avoid a public indecency charge.

You don’t think much of it when the music grows louder, too busy shoving the lipstick back into your pocket. The door to the bathroom creaks open before it shuts hard with a thud, muting the sounds once more.

It isn’t until you hear the snick of the lock sliding into place that you look up to see a figure standing behind you in the reflection of the mirror. Your heart drops to your stomach in the same second your pussy throbs violently when you whirl around to familiar green eyes that blink black before returning to their alluring jade. 

“Hiya, Sweetheart,” Dean purrs, stepping closer so that there’s less than a foot of space between your bodies. “Forget what day it is?”

Your boots have a bit of a heel, so there’s less of a height difference than the first time he visited you. Usually, you’re at home. Most of the time you’re already in bed when he arrives, sometimes in the shower, sometimes making food.

“No. Just lost track of time.” Somewhere between the dancing and the drinks and your phone being tucked away in the purse you’d brought, the time had slipped away.

His head cocks to the side, the move more animalistic than human. “That so?”

“I wanted a night out with my friends. Sue me.”

His eyebrows raise but he says nothing. 

Not right away at least. 

Instead his attention drifts from your face, slipping down your body. 

You can see his eyes catch on your strappy tank top where the halter neckline plunges to near obscene levels, showing off the scalloped lace of your bra. The green in his gaze goes dark in a different way than you are used to the further down it travels, down all the way to the bare expanse of your legs and where your boots sit upon your feet.

“Must’a had every guy in here tonight drooling over you,” Dean says appreciatively, eyes flicking back up to yours. 

You brace your hands on the sink behind you and lean back with a shrug, trying to act casual and not like your pussy isn’t growing wetter by the second. The heat that rises to your cheeks is in humiliation. He hasn’t even touched you yet and here you are like a bitch in heat.

You’d noticed the heated stares, the way some of the men in the bar’s eyes would pop out of their skull like some cartoon, and you’d be lying to him and to yourself if you said you didn’t revel in it. 

He leans in, and you’re not sure when he got this close to you but you’re assaulted with the intoxicating smell of him. Something masculine and dark that makes you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck. 

You jump a little when the warmth of his palm spreads along the inside of your thigh, too entranced by his gaze, heavy and focused, to notice his arm slipping between your bodies until it’s there. His fingers tease along the soft skin, the tips just inches from the throbbing need between your thighs. 

“Too bad your pussy’s already got someone takin’ care a’her, right?” He croons, slipping his hand up. 

Words escape you as he slides your panties to the side, not that the lacy scrap of fabric was covering much to begin with. 

Your mouth gapes open at the first teasing touch, the calloused tips of his fingers sliding through your slick, bumping against your clit. Hands gripping the edge of the sink so hard you’re sure the porcelain will crack any second, your hips buck up against his hand, seeking the stimulation.

The sense of euphoria is short lived when his other hand shoots out, wrapping around your neck. A gasp gets stuck in your throat and your eyes flare wide. His fingerprints dent your skin.

“Right?” He asks again with a darker edge this time. 

The bathroom around you narrows to the tightness of his grip on your neck and the pleasure derived from his fingers still working over your soaking core. Every inch of your body erupts in tingles, and you would have nodded if his hold allowed it. 

“Yes,” is all you manage to choke out. 

It is a funny feeling. Dean quite literally has your life in his hand. By all accounts you should be pissing-yourself-terrified. But you’re not. Instead, all you can focus on is the dark whorls of lust eddying in the depths of his eyes, the green heightened with his enjoyment, and how his middle finger is circling your clit with precision. 

That was, until it retreats and you nearly whine at the loss of contact. 

You sense where his hand is going milliseconds before his open palm makes contact with the side of your face. It’s not hard enough to do any damage beyond a buzzing beneath your skin that will last probably as long as this encounter, but it’s hard enough for tears to sting at your eyes. 

“Yes,” you wheeze, his grip on your throat just loose enough for the words to squeeze out. “My pussy’s yours.”

Another slap, this one no less gentle than the first. “Say it again.”

Your hand slips up, wrapping around his wrist. “My pussy’s yours.”

His pulse is even under your frantic grip. If it weren’t for the desire written in his gaze and the sizable bulge straining against the front of his jeans, you wouldn’t have guessed he was enjoying this. You’re painfully aware of arousal dripping down your inner thigh, your core clenching around nothing.

Dean’s hand connects with the side of your face one last time then returns between your thighs. The edges of your vision start to go fuzzy, and the moan he pulls from your lips when his fingers press harshly against your clit comes out more like a high pitched keen.

He leans in, keeping steady pressure on your neck. “You’re gonna cum for me before I let you go. Can you do that for me, whore? Not like you need to breathe, anyway.”

“Yes,” you choke out, voice a little louder than a whisper.

“Yes what?” Dean asks teasingly, his fingers moving across your core in a way that makes it really hard to formulate words. 

“Yes, sir.” Your words are slurred, but they seem to suffice anyway as his hand picks up the pace. 

Your hips grind against his palm, matching the rhythm he’d created. You feel dazed when his hand slips lower, two fingers shoving inside you while the heel of his palm acts as the perfect surface to grind your clit on. 

He doesn’t seem to notice or care when your nails dig into the inside of his wrist, your other clawing at his shoulder to brace yourself against the rapidly growing wave of pleasure stemming from between your thighs. 

His muscles shift under your grip as he angles his arm better so he can send his middle and ring finger even deeper into you, curling them up towards your belly. Your hips grind down against his hand, the rough surface providing the most divine friction against your needy clit.

An amused chuckle from Dean vibrates through your body. “I can feel your pussy clenching around my fingers. Fuck, I can’t wait to feel ‘er around my cock.”

A strangled whine is all you can muster as he curls his fingers inside you, stroking that soft spot within you that darkens your vision even further. Arching your back, you press your chest into Dean’s, his preternatural warmth soaking into you. 

You’re sure he can feel the way your nipples are hardened, even through both your shirts. The bralette underneath is little more than decorative lace with a paper thin backing there to not irritate your skin. 

His blood-red button down is immaculate, tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans; it’s similar to the outfit he wore the first time you met him.

Well, he’s nothing if not consistent, you think before stars burst behind your eyes, which you squeeze shut as the tightness in your belly gives way. 

You cum harder than the first time he fucked you. Harder than you ever have in your life. 

Your body goes rigid, trembling from head to toe as electric shocks spark through you all down your spine. The ache of pleasure pulses through your body as he works you through the throes of your climax. 

Head lolling to the side as Dean’s grip on your neck lessens, you gasp in air. The room around you spins as you gulp down oxygen the best you can through your unabashed moans.

Dean’s lips slot over yours, drowning out your sounds of ecstasy and you can taste the whiskey on his tongue when it sweeps into your mouth. Your hand slides up his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the shaggy ends as you kiss him back with matching intensity. A low rumble of satisfaction emanates from his chest.

As you slowly come back into your body, Dean’s hand slows, his fingers leisurely dragging out of you and stroking your oversensitive clit on their way out from between your trembling legs. He grips your chin none too gently, breaking the kiss. 

There isn’t enough time for you to miss the feeling of his lips on yours, to savor the tingling he left behind, before his fingers are in your mouth. 

The calloused tips press down your tongue and instinctively you wrap your lips around the second knuckle. You can taste yourself as you work them over with your tongue, your whimper turning into a gag when Dean shoves his fingers deeper into your mouth.

“That’s right,” Dean all but purrs, looking on with a lust-drunk expression. “How are you gonna take my cock if you can’t take two little fingers?”

He’s right, you think, but I wouldn’t call his fingers small, either.

His grip on your chin relaxes just enough for you to work your jaw open more. Viscous saliva floods your mouth as Dean moves his fingers in and out of your mouth. Every time he bottoms them out, you cough and gag as the tips wiggle against the back of your throat. 

Tears sting your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fat droplets when you blink up at him. There’s a hungry edge to the way he gazes down at you, obsession bleeding in as he fixates on how your spit collects on his knuckles and rolls down his hand. 

Another rush of want crashes over you at the way he’s looking at you and in response, your thighs clench together unconsciously. The miniscule movement isn’t missed by Dean, not that you were really trying to hide your insatiable need anyway. 

“God, you’re such a greedy slut,” he groans. “I just got you off and you’re already wanting more, aren’t ‘cha, Sweetheart?”

With his fingers shoved into your mouth, all you can do is hum in agreement. 

Dean hums his approval, and with the slightest nod his fingers slip from your mouth, the hand on your jaw following suit. You suck air in greedily, the strings of drool starting to cool on your chin. 

With eyes half-lidded out of pure lust, you watch him raise the hand pulled from your mouth up to his own. A particularly strong pulse of arousal nearly sends you to the floor as his tongue darts out from between his lips. The sounds that come from him slurping your spit from his hand are purely pornographic, all while he keeps his eyes locked on yours.

“Knees. Now,” he commands, wiping the mix of your spit on his jeans.

With how shaky your knees have become in the aftermath of his display— as well as the leg-shaking orgasm he gave you— you’re tempted to comply. A glance down to the bulge in his pants is enough for saliva to pool under your tongue, but the alcohol in your system has made you bold. 

“And if I don’t want to?”

His head cocks to the side, eyebrows quirked up. “No?”

A shake of your head as you look up at him through your lashes. “No.”

“You don’t want me?” He asks, his hand curling around your wrist, bringing your palm to rest on the evidence of his arousal. “You don’t want my cock?”

His grip disappears, but you press the heel of your palm against him, dragging your hand along the length of him. “No, I don’t.”

Dean gives you a knowing smirk, and the moment stretches wide between you before he finally speaks. 

“Liar.”

His hand moves too fast for you to react, fingers tangling painfully in your hair as he grabs a fistful. 

You cry out softly, half from the pain and half out of shock. He leans forward and the sound dies out into a quiet gasp. Your eyes dart from the depths of his gaze to his lips, which are still tugged upwards in a satisfied grin, and back again. 

“You want me. I’ve been inside you. Tasted you.” His thumb traces the plush of your bottom lip, smearing your lipstick even further. “I know just how desperate you are for my cock, whore. You can’t ever pretend otherwise.”

Your knees make contact with the grimy bathroom floor and you can feel yourself tremble with anticipation as Dean angles your head to look up at him. 

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, undoing his belt with his free hand.

“And if I don’t?” You ask before you can think better of it. 

Dean doesn’t even bother to shove his jeans and boxers down his muscular thighs. They barely make it down past his balls before he’s languidly stroking himself, the tip red and already leaking. 

Your throat bobs and you barely flinch when he grips himself at the base and slaps his heavy cock against your cheek. 

“Oh, Sweetheart. Don’t make me ask twice,” he says.

Heart beating a million miles a minute, you barely feel the small sting of contact nor the dull ache of the tight grip he has on your hair. Your world is narrowed to the throbbing need in your pussy and Dean’s hard cock bobbing in front of you. 

“Now don’t be difficult and open your fucking mouth,” he growls, shoving his cock towards your mouth. 

You have the good sense this time to obey, your lips parting without hesitation. Tongue lolling out, you barely have enough time to situate yourself before his cock is halfway down your throat. 

Instantly, your throat is on fire and you gag at the sudden intrusion. Hands flying up to brace against his denim clad thighs, you brace yourself as Dean holds your head in place.

“Fuuuck,” he rasps, dragging his hips back and briefly allowing you to breathe. “I missed this. Had a lotta girls, but none of their mouths feel half as good as yours does.”

It takes a second for you to adjust to how he’s stuffed into your mouth. Drool has already started to leak out of the sides of your mouth with every thrust of his hips. The stretch of your lips, the taste of him is just right. He smells warm, like sweat and skin and some clean, masculine soap.

And it’s pathetic the way you silently enjoy him pressing your face further onto his cock until your nose is buried in the thick, curly hair at his pubic bone. Your throat spasms as he holds you there, unable to breathe and frozen with sensory overload. 

Hot tears crawl down your cheeks, blending with your drool on your chin. Just when the edges of your vision start to blur, Dean yanks you off his cock by your hair. You cough and sputter, replenishing the void of oxygen in your lungs. 

Thick strings of drool stick to your chin and neck, and you just know your mascara is running down your cheeks, half-dried to your skin with your tears.

“Such a messy girl,” he coos, honey-laced words dripping with condescension. “See, all you needed was a good dick in that brat mouth.”

You welcome the sting as his hand leaves another hot print on your cheek and you have to resist from leaning into his palm when it caresses the hurt. It slips away just as quickly, and in turn you wrap a hand around the spick-slick shaft of him. 

“Gonna keep fucking my face, or do you want me to make it actually feel good?” You ask, locked on his eyes as your mouth closes around the head of him. 

The groan Dean utters when your cheeks cave around him, when your tongue slides along the sensitive underside of his cock, is all the answer you really need. 

You’d learned early enough on that you really had to squeeze your hand around his cock when stroking him. “Harder, bitch,” he’d growled. “Don’t be fucking scared. You’re not gonna break it.” 

His fingers still threaded themselves in your hair, the tips gliding across your scalp as you descended back down upon him. His head falls back, and the red ambient lighting in the bathroom gleams along the column of his throat, skin dewy with sweat.

You’d like nothing more than to stand and lick the salt from his skin. 

Tongue pressed to the underside and cheeks hollowed, you slide his cock all the way to the back of your throat. Your gag reflex balks, but you ignore it, pulling back barely half way before bobbing your head back down. The small whimpers and moans that you make no attempt to stifle travel along his cock. 

Dean’s hand curls further into your hair, leaving your head littered with sharp pinpricks. All it does is add to the slickness between your thighs. Thighs that you press together seeking any kind of friction; you can feel your arousal roll down the insides. Your skirt is still hiked up around your hips, leaving your dripping pussy exposed to the cool air. 

A dull ache makes itself known in your knees, the bathroom tile extremely unforgiving on the joints. You do your best to ignore it, hand sticky with spit abandoning his shaft in favor of cupping his balls. 

Dean’s hips buck into your mouth at the additional touch, seeking the wet heat. 

“Oh fuck,” he grunts. “Keep doing that.”

So you do, fondling him there while maintaining your rhythm; push your head down on him until you can feel him in your throat— until you gag harshly— then pull back enough to breathe through the spasm. Rinse and repeat all the while your free hand inches closer to your throbbing pussy. The wet, sloppy sounds from your mouth meld with his decadent grunts and groans, filling the bathroom. 

The system works, up until the point it doesn’t.

You come up for air only for Dean’s hand to press against the back of your head, pushing you back down onto his cock. Your eyes screw shut as your nose is mashed into the mess of curls at his pubic bone. 

A sound of displeasure vibrates from your lips up the length of him, and after a second you try and pull your head back. It ends fruitlessly, though, as Dean only presses harder. 

“Shut up. Just a little longer,” he growls. “Fucking take this cock. Fucking choke on it like the whore you are.”

Your tear-filled eyes screw shut as your throat spasms hard. Bracing a hand on his muscular thigh, your fingernails dig into the denim. Dean’s cock moves, barely pulling out an inch before it’s back, harshly slamming into your throat. A soreness grows in your jaw for how long you’ve kept it open.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he moans, his chest heaving. “Gonna fucking cum, baby.”

That fuzzy, floaty feeling returns as you struggle against the need to breathe, against the intrusion of cock in your throat. He starts to twitch against your tongue, and the pistoning of his hips grows sloppy and uneven. Pushing through the haze, you swallow around him, earning yourself a string of curses from above you. 

The crass words are cut off by a garbled moan. You hear your name somewhere in there, but you’re too busy swallowing down Dean’s cum to pay much attention to what he’s saying. He holds you there, cock pumping his seed down your throat until he stops twitching and his length softens a bit. 

Lines of spit connect your lips to his cock once he finally wrenches himself from your mouth, and they snap back against your chin when he takes a step back. Your body is wracked with wet coughs as you gasp for air. Heart beating what seems like a million beats a second, you lean back on your heels and wipe the spit from your face.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Dean tuck his half-flaccid cock back into his boxers, leaving the jeans unbuttoned. 

“Up,” he rasps, still breathing hard from his climax. 

On shaky legs, you rise up, wincing at the stiffness in your knees. You brace a hand on the sink behind you as the feeling returns to your lower extremities. 

Dean’s hand slips around to the nape of your neck, drawing you in. His lips capture yours before your brain can catch up. He licks into your mouth and you whimper when his leg slots between yours. The top of his thigh bumps against your neglected core and you nearly cry at the sensation. 

“I can fucking feel you soaking through my jeans, baby,” he says, sliding both hands to your hips. “Soaked just from sucking cock, just like a proper whore.”

Your brain buffers, overloaded with the repeated deprivation of oxygen and the way the roughness of denim feels against your needy clit, your panties still pulled to the side. All that leaks out of you is a pathetic whimper that’s mostly intelligible.

Dean laughs cruelly, kissing a line of fire down your jawline. “So dumb, baby, and you haven’t even had my cock yet.”

He bounces his thigh against you and you cry out, hands scrambling to find purchase on his broad shoulders. 

“Please,” you manage to whine. 

“Please what?” His teeth graze the line where your jaw meets your neck. 

“Need’a cum. Please.”

“You think you deserve it?”

“Mhmm,” you nod vigorously. “Please, Dean.”

You can feel the wet spot your soaked pussy has made, now. The dampness of the fabric allows you to slide easier along the rigidness, your movements barely a fraction of what you need. 

“You think you can make yourself cum on just my thigh?” He pulls back from your neck, an amused tilt to his lips. “Gonna hump my leg like the dog you are?”

“Please,” you say barely above a whisper, legs trembling again.

“I’m not gonna help you. Gonna have to be a big girl and do it all yourself.”

“That’s okay, it’s okay. I can do it. Please, please,” you babble nonsensically now, much to his sadistic satisfaction.

“Better get on with it then,” he says. 

No sooner are the words spoken into existence are your hips grinding down against his thigh. You feel him flex his quad beneath you, creating a ridge that feels mind-numbingly good against your clit. 

You cling to his shoulders for stability, wanton moans spilling from your lips unimpeded. It takes less than a minute for a tightness to grow low in your belly. The heat from his body, the smell of him, it all wraps around you and soaks into your veins like an aphrodisiac. 

There’s no sane part of you left to care how humiliating this is, how desperate you are to dry hump his thigh just from having a dick down your throat. Everything in you is narrowed down to how good dragging your pussy along his thigh feels. How with every shift of your hips, sparks of pleasure threaten to set you alight. 

“Such a dirty girl,” Dean croons in your ear as you puff out breathy moans. “So goddamn pathetic it’s almost sad.”

Your pussy clenches on nothing at the words, at the names he’s calling you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, hiding the way your cheeks warm. The scent of him is stronger here, and you inhale deeply. 

Dean’s hands have moved to the sink directly behind you, his body effectively caging you between the solidness of his torso and the cool porcelain. It’s that fact alone that keeps you mostly upright, your legs shaking. It grows worse with each drag of your pussy along his thigh, pressure building between your legs. 

“I can feel you shaking, you close?” Dean’s words rumble through you. 

You nod against his neck, moaning into his skin like you can imbue your need to cum into his system. You squirm and hump against him, mouth falling open as you rapidly approach the edge of your orgasm. It’s so close, the final build up making your movements erratic as you push yourself just that little bit further. 

But just as you are about to tip over the edge, Dean pulls his thigh from between your legs and steps back enough you have to reach behind you to keep yourself from collapsing to the ground. 

“No!” You cry out, very nearly at the verge of tears. “Wha—what the fuck?!”

Dean chuckles darkly, meeting your frustrated gaze. “Did you really think it was going to be that easy? God, you’re dumb.”

“Fuck you,” you spit at him. 

“All in good time, baby. Now turn around, put your hands on the sink.”

You scowl and instead you reach down, tugging your skirt back over what little it covers before crossing your arms over your chest. “No.”

Dean’s head tilts and he pouts his lip mockingly. “No? Gonna throw a little tantrum now?”

“Fuck. You.” You say again. 

“You’re really gonna try this with me?”

He’s stepped closer again, so if you really did want to go anywhere, you’d have to push past him. 

But you don’t, and he knows it. 

It’s all part of the game. You play it up, act like you don’t want him, just so that he’ll snap and manhandle you into whatever way he wants you. The best part about it is, he wants to fuck you just as much, so no matter how much you brat, how much you pretend, you’ll end up with his cock shoved into you anyway. 

It’s a welcome change to all the hook-ups you’d had before. Men— boys, really— who would give up at the slightest bit of pushback, who’d pussy out at the level of roughness you so desperately craved. 

And that’s why, even though Dean popped up once a month to rock your world and leave you sated, you never felt the need to indulge the men like the ones who’d been at the bar tonight. They could never satisfy you in the same way. 

“Turn around, and put your hands on the sink,” he instructs again, both of you knowing you won’t before the words even leave his mouth. 

You stand taller, looking him straight on. “Make me.”

You can see the instant his resolve snaps. Something in his face twitches and his expression darks the millisecond before his hands grasp onto your hips roughly. A gasp makes its way out of you when you’re spun around and shoved roughly into the sink. 

The edge digs into your stomach, but that’s the last thing you’re paying attention to when Dean kicks your legs apart with his boot. His hand presses into the middle of your spine, pressing your upper half forward so you are half laying across the sink. 

Looking up, you are met with your reflection for the first time since Dean walked into the bathroom. 

You were right to assume you looked absolutely wrecked. Mascara is streaked down your face, your red lipstick smeared across your kiss-swollen lips. Then your eyes cant up and you catch Dean staring, but not at your face. His eyes, pupils blown so wide you can barely see his green irises, are trained lower. 

Bent over like this, your skirt rides up an obscene amount, baring your panty-clad pussy to him. His lower lip is caught in between his teeth, and he almost looks contemplative in his admiration. 

“Gonna keep staring or are you gonna do something?” You snark, watching his eyes snap up to yours in the mirror. 

“And what are you gonna do if I don’t?” He asks in turn. “What if I just make you stand like this and let all those guys out there who were eye-fucking you come in here and take their turn?”

Your pussy clenches at the thought, and even though Dean no doubt caught the motion, he makes no comment. 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too fucking possessive,” you respond, calling his bluff with not a bit of confidence in your statement. 

Dean smiles, and it’s not a kind expression.

Warm skin against the backs of your thighs makes you flinch a bit, even though you can see him take a step forward. His hands slide your skirt back over the swell of your ass, bunching the fabric around your waist. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” he muses, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. “Maybe when I’m all done with you here they can fuck you while my cum’s still leaking out of you.”

Cool air meets your soaked core as Dean drags your panties down your thighs, down your legs. His fingertips skate your skin as he lifts your feet, removing the scrap of fabric completely. Your mouth twists in a fleeting moment of disappointment when he shoves them into his back pocket. 

Those were my favorite pair. 

“Either way, I still get to cum,” you finally say. 

You yelp as his hand comes down hard on your ass. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession. It stings, leaving your skin tingling. The sensation shoots right between your thighs, reinvigorating the swelling need inside you. 

“You really wanna cum that bad you’d let strangers fuck you?” He says with a condescending incredulousness. “God, you’re more pathetic than I thought.”

Another slap, this time to your other asscheek. Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you resist the urge to rock back towards him. Your cheeks burn from the sting of his words, but he’s not finished. 

“Do you think of me when you fuck yourself?”

You didn’t think your cheeks could grow any hotter in embarrassment, but he never fails to surprise you. 

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” You squeak.

“The kind I expect answered,” he says with another slap to your ass. 

His hand smooths over the warm skin and you nearly moan when it slides inward, his thumb ghosting across your pussy. 

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I wanna know if I make you scream my name even when I’m not here to fuck you senseless.”

Your mouth opens and closes as you try to formulate a sentence, but it’s hard to focus with his thumb stroking the slickness of your core. It’s teasing, not enough for the sensations to build, just enough to keep you on edge. 

You cry out, flinching forward only to be stopped by the sink, when Dean’s hand makes contact with your exposed pussy this time. It hurts more than your ass, but the pleasure that it turns into isn’t diminished. 

“Answer me, slut.”

His hand comes down on your core again and you can’t contain the moan that comes with it. 

“Yes, I think of you,” you relent, gripping tighter to the sink. 

His thumb presses against your clit and your breath catches in your lungs. The pad rubs circles around the nub and you could cry from the direct stimulation. 

“Good.” Is all he says before you lose sight of him in the mirror when he sinks to his knees behind you. 

Your head drops forward at the first puff of his hot breath against your core. His tongue follows, licking a hot stripe up your pussy. A soft moan leaves your lips as he does it again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as he uses both hands to grope your asscheeks. 

His stubble scrapes against your inner thighs, the combination of sensations making your head spin. You rock back against his face, and surprisingly he lets you. His tongue and lips lick and suck at your core, and nothing about the way he’s eating you out is quiet.

Your hips buck when his teeth close around your clit, not ready for the sudden second of pain. His tongue is right there following, licking away the immediate hurt. His thumb takes over, his tongue dipping inside you. 

“Don’t stop, please,” you moan, grinding back on his face. 

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, pulling away from your pussy just long enough to say as such before going right back. 

The pressure of your climax rushes up and you barely have enough strength in your legs to keep yourself upright. The orgasm roars through you in one giant wave. Your mouth falls open as his mouth works you over through it. 

In the mirror, you see him stand, and then you’re being flipped around so that you're leaning back against the sink again. 

His lips connect with yours and you can taste yourself on his mouth as he kisses you. It’s not gentle, his teeth clash with yours, your tongues dancing and somewhere in the way he licks into your mouth you feel his hand slide between your bodies to your pussy. 

You’ve barely recovered from the orgasm he just brought you to, and now his middle and ring finger are slipping inside you. 

Carding your fingers through his hair, you kiss Dean hard, letting his mouth swallow your desperate moans. Stars spark behind your eyes as he curls his fingers up towards your belly. Quickly, he finds that soft spot that makes your legs feel like jelly, threatening to send you to the floor. 

“De-Dean! Oh fuck,” you cry out. 

His mouth has migrated to your neck, sucking hard on your pulse point. You clench hard around his fingers, a different kind of pressure building low in your belly. Another orgasm builds slowly, especially as the heel of his palm presses against your clit. 

“That's right, bitch. Scream my name. Scream it loud so everybody out there knows who you belong to.” 

He shoves his fingers further into your sloppy pussy, wet and obscene sounds reaching your ears. Your head lolls to the side, allowing him better access to kiss and nibble on your neck. You’ll have to wear make up to cover up the hickies that he’s undoubtedly placing along your skin like a sign to say you’re his. He punches his digits in and out of you, petting that fucking spot. 

Your thighs are trembling so hard now— so is the entirety of your body. The pressure just keeps building and building. He’s everywhere, between your legs, other hand groping your body, his mouth on your neck. Nowhere is left unattended and it is so much.

“Feel you clenching so fucking tight on my fingers, baby. Gonna cum again for me?” Dean says against your neck, leaning up to nip at your ear. 

All you can do is nod. Words don’t feel real to you right now and no amount of anything could change that. 

Your nonverbal confirmation seems to satisfy him well enough. Then, he does something, something so good and he keeps doing it. Everything around you fades to just his ministrations and the feel of his body caging yours, and you feel the pressure snap. 

Everything goes white and your body seizes up with the intensity of which your orgasm slams into you. But Dean’s fingers don’t stop. They continue to pump into you, curling into you. You don’t even feel in control of your body as you feel yourself gush all over his hand. 

Dean curses under his breath and you just barely acknowledge it as you gasp for air, clinging to his shoulders with all your might. 

Dean draws his fingers from you and a perverted sense of deja vu hits you as he licks you from his fingers. He keeps you upright with his other arm snaked around your waist, and for that you are grateful. 

“Did— did I just…?” You pant, slowly realizing what’d happened. 

“You just squirted all over my fucking hand,” Dean affirms, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Wish I would’a just stayed down there. Drank it right from the source.”

You groan at his obscene words, unable to stand the way his verbal filth immediately makes your overstimulated body respond in kind. 

He taps your cheek none too gently. “Don’t go tapping out on me now. We’re not done yet.”

You’re putty in his hands as he spins you around, bracing your hands on the edge of the sink. He let’s go, and on shaky legs you stand there watching him shove his jeans and boxers back down his thighs. 

“You’re so wet, not gonna have any issue getting in,” Dean mutters quietly. 

You moan softly at the drag of his cock through your arousal. The spongy head of him bumps against your clit and you whimper, the overstimulation becoming borderline painful. 

“What’s a’matter?” Dean asks. “Too much?”

“Uh huh,” you nod. 

“Too fucking bad.”

You moan weakly as Dean presses forward, shoving the blunt tip of his cock inside you. Involuntarily, your hips sway forward, away from the stretch. With how wet you are, there’s not much pain, but his fingers can only prepare you for the girth of his cock so far. 

Dean’s hands grab fast to your hips, pulling you back to him, the motion sinking you down onto him almost to the hilt. You gasp a moan, feeling unbelievably full to the point it knocks the air from your lungs. 

“Where you goin’?” he grunts, working his hips forward and back. “I know you’re not running from my cock after crying for it.”

“So big,” you gasp, inner walls clenching around him as you try to adjust to the sudden stretch. 

Dean leans forward, rutting his cock into you. “Stop your fucking whining and take it, pathetic slut. I can feel you dripping down my balls.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words hit their mark. It’s all so much; you can practically feel every vein and contour of him inside you. As he drags himself out, the bulge of his head catches on that sensitive spot, immediately making your legs shake. 

“Oh, baby, cry all you fucking want,” Dean lays a sloppy kiss to your bare shoulder. “All it’s gonna do is make me harder.”

As if in emphasis, he snaps his hips into yours. You are thrust forward, the unforgiving edge of the sink digging into your lower stomach. Blinking, the tears leak down your cheeks, rewetting the paths from the ones that had fallen earlier. 

His arm snakes around to your front, pulling you back against his chest. A big hand pulls your shirt and bra to the side, enveloping a breast. He rolls the hardened nipple between his fingers, every movement made with expert precision. 

You swear you can feel his cock in your stomach with every grinding thrust into you. His hips barely break contact with your ass like he can’t be bothered to pull out for even a second. The outcome is his cock stimulating that sensitive spot; the pressure is helped by the way the sink edge ensures he slides along it with each and every movement. 

“So fucking tight, baby,” Dean moans in your ear, still fondling your breast. “Always a perfect fuckin’ cumslut for me.”

Your hand reaches behind you both, sinking your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. His balls slap against your skin as his thrusts grow longer, his hand sliding up from your tit to your neck. He doesn’t squeeze this time, but just the feel of his calloused palm and fingers circling your throat makes you clench around his cock. 

“Fucking me…so good,” you moan out, holding a hand to his wrist. 

“Say my name, bitch. Who’s fucking you so good?” He growls, nipping at your shoulder. 

“You are, Dean,” you babble. 

The hand not on your throat dips between your legs, finding your thoroughly abused clit. A whine crawls its way up your throat and you feel his hand tighten almost imperceptibly around your neck.

“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear it,” he snaps. “Just take it. Fucking take it.”

“But—”

“I don’t care. Not my fucking problem.”

And he doesn’t, his fingers speeding up their motions on your clit. Sharp pangs stab at you with each brush of his callouses over your swollen nub. It all melts into pleasure and all you can do is push your ass back against him, meeting his thrusts. 

Dean moans his approval. “See, that’s a good whore. Feels fucking good, don’t it.”

“Yes,” you keen, slamming yourself back on his cock.

His thrusts don’t let up. Instead, they become more forceful, sending you into the sink hard enough you’re sure you are gonna have bruises on your hips tomorrow morning. His cock throbbing against your inner walls, and his panting moans in your ear have become ragged. His fingers on your clit are unrelenting, pushing you towards the brink of yet another orgasm. 

He’s all but draped over your back at this point, snapping his hips into yours erratically. Just when you think you can’t take any more, Dean groans into your ear. 

“Gonna fucking paint this pussy white, and you’re gonna take it all. Y’hear me?”

Your pussy pulses in response. “Yes, please cum in me.”

Dean moans and it’s one of the sexiest things you’ve ever heard. “That’s fucking right. Beg for my cum, bitch.”

His hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, bracing you and himself as he thrusts harder, balls slapping harshly against you. The grip is bruising, but you’re too far gone to care. 

“Please, cum in me, Dean. Need’a feel you fill me,” you whimper.

“Oh fuck, baby.”

You feel hips stutter then, his cock throbs as his orgasm hits him. He’s not quiet, moaning your name loudly.  

You can feel his cum filling you, thick ropes spurting into your pussy, and that alone sends you over the edge, yet another orgasm crashing into you. This time, your violently shaking legs give out. 

Instantly, Dean's arm wraps around your waist, holding you there as he gives a few more rutting thrusts into your pussy, milking his cock. You both stay there for a second, heavy breathing filling the room as you gasp for air. 

He breaks the silence first. “Can you stand?”

You take a second, assessing your still trembling body. Finally, you nod. 

Taking you at your word, Dean relinquishes his hold on you, leaving you to brace yourself on the sink as he walks over to the paper towel dispenser. He snags a few, using them to clean his cock off before tucking himself away. 

He doesn’t offer you any, instead he turns and unlocks the door. 

Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he gives you that sharp grin. “So, same time next month?”

You tug your clothes back into place. “Fuck you.”

“Darlin’, you just did,” is all he says before he disappears out the door. 

..and the death of you being none other than one dean winchester. a man who talked his way into your father’s life, and then sweet-talked his way into yours. oh, and your bed. and underwear. and literally anything and everything of you that he can get his hands on. 

so, it had been a surprise to come home from college, a fresh graduate, to find some random man living in your house. well, it may not be your house, but it also isn’t his. and his strange, coming-and-going persona was just off-putting (but not for long– of course), and you did all in your power to ignore him. 

again, not for long– of course.

a military man, or so your father said, but it hadn’t taken you long to realise what dean really was; a hunter. and even though you know of no one who’s served, you know that they don’t turn up at your front door in the early hours of the morning, “sweetheart,” dripping from a bloody mouth, and an even bloodier body. 

and it’d all begun that night. you haven’t known peace since. 

“want me to fuck you, is that want you want? want me to get rid of that ache between your thighs ‘cause you can’t? c’mon, tell me, kid.” dean encourages you, hand now back between your thighs. his fingers rub slow, agonising circles on your clit– meanwhile, your unresponsive, sans for a few moans here and there, some pawing at his bicep. “not gonna do anythin’ ‘til you use your big girl words..”

if anyone else spoke to you this way, you’d probably throw up. most definitely. but not with dean– never with dean. his words batter around in your brain like rocks that cut into the soft earth, carving out a path for his depraved intentions for you. and you drink it all up, never minding how the sweeter they get, the more bitter they taste. 

poison can only kill those who notice it. 

“please..” you plea. however, you never finish the ask– mainly because dean’s now pressing two fingers into your wet cunt, collecting your arousal as he works them in and out– for what should you ask for? him to get down on one knee, ask you to marry him? see if he wants to all the things you want to do, but haven’t had the chance to? what do you want? “please–”

there’s a lot that won’t come of this– when it inevitably ends. he was your dad’s friend first; your secret lover next. and you’d much rather it be you that also has him last, in any way you can. 

but you can’t ask for anything. not anything you really want. so, you focus on getting your brains fucked out. it’ll do for now. 

“i just need you,” you admit, albeit pathetically, with your voice all quiet and soft and needy. your cunt clenches around him as he pushes in a third finger. “i need you to fuck me.”

“yeah, ‘s that what you want?” his voice drops to a volume that almost matches yours, his tone mimicking your vulnerability. “want me to fuck you, fill your pretty cunt with cum ‘til you can’t hold anymore? y’want me to have you on all fours, ignorin’ all your whimperin’ and cryin’?” and then, like it’s an afterthought, he asks, “want me to make you all happy inside ‘cause no other guy can?”

each question is like pestilence to you; infecting and corrupting, getting stuck in every fold of your brain until you swear that it’s chanting dean dean dean over and over at you. everything is simply about him. you wouldn’t have it any other way.

you nod eagerly. to all of his questions.

and then, all you can do right now is press your sticky thighs together, absentmindedly grind on your bedsheets now and again, as he takes his sweet, agonising time to get undressed. whatever. it gives you a (bleak) moment to think– if your brain can still do that, at this point.

he hadn’t come to you as he usually does. bloody, usually in search of a quick “fix”– which, instead of getting stitched-up or having some injury or another attended to, it’s him, balls-deep in your cunt– and eager enough to sleep in your bed like its his own. like your husband and wife.

no, tonight, he’d arrived long before that. long before the early hours of morning light; it was a family barbeque, with the invitation extended to him as well because his brother was with “the wife” (this much you know to be true; dean showed you photos, once, when you got confident enough to ask about him, and not the ‘dean’ that your dad thinks is real). he’d overstayed his welcome, your mom claiming in her worried tone that he was too drunk to drive back, and that’d it be much safer is he stayed in the guest room. neither of you had complaints. after that, all it took was for your parents to head to bed, and you waiting in yours. waiting, for the man borne of gunpowder and other dastardly things, to stalk into your room and savage you. 

the rest is history. 

then, as if he can tell that you’re far away in some mundane memory, dean’s hands are dragging you by the hips closer to him, your body trapped under his. he’s so warm– so.. real– and you swear you’re getting dizzy off of him, drinking in his presence like you’re a dog parched.

you’ve never needed anything, or anyone, more. you merely whine and whimper, buck your hips into dean’s as he slowly pulls your panties down your body with a single finger. your cunt clenches around nothing as cool air hits your sweat-slicked body. dean seems to revel in this, smirking wickedly as you blindly grab at his hand, meanwhile you grow more antsy because he keeps pulling away when you grow more desperate. 

“this isn’t fair,” you pout. he merely laughs at your behaviour, mimicking your pleading face. it’s embarrassing, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to be a big girl. “dean, you’re being so mean to me–”

“yeah? i’m the mean one? like you weren’t out there today, sweetheart, beggin’ with me those wet eyes and makin’ me so fuckin’ hard that i just wanted to punish you right there and then.” his tone matches his words. unforgiving and relentless. a consequence for your behaviour; a repercussion for your teasing. “all in front of your old man as well. not as innocent as you fuckin’ make yourself, are you? guess i’m gonna have to fuck some sense into you..”

you almost cum right then and there. almost. seriously– the way dean talks to you, reduces to you to nothing more than something for him to fuck and fill, ruins you more than it should. the thought of him taking out all his anger on you– this unspoken, pent-up rage that he could put to better use, but decides that you are the one who should suffer from it– practically soaks the sheets under you, to the point where your already-warm cheeks grow hotter. 

but it also makes you remember how easy it is for him to leave you.

before you can have that devastating toll of reality come crashing down on you, dean’s fingers are back inside of you, stretching you out so he can bury his fat cock into you. you’re whimpering once more in an instant. begging for him to thrust himself into you; babbling for him to put a baby into you. anything and everything that will get him to love you. and maybe to make him stay.

“i’ll be good for you,” you hastily tell him; you know that he’ll understand it as you being good enough for him to fuck, and not that it’s your (last) pathetic plea to keep him as yours. forever. even though dean doesn’t belong to you. “i’ll be so good for you– just– can you–”

you end up cutting yourself off, and it’s only because dean’s pulling his fingers from your cunt, grabbing your jaw with his clean hand and forcing you to meet his eyes. and, sure, you’ve stared into his eyes many times before, but tonight, it’s different. not different in that good way, either– the kind that makes you all giddy inside because all it’ll take is you making some seemingly innocent comment (one loaded with innuendos, that your parents miraculously don’t pick up on) for him to be pounding into you hours later. 

tonight, they’re darker. it’d be easy to blame it on the dimness of the room, but your curtains are wide open– the moonlight bathes him in bright light, and you can see everything as he towers over you. they’re unsettling, and unkind, and they’re just so.. angry. it doesn’t feel like dean. the one you know. 

the one you’ve created.

silently, eagerly, you take his fingers into your mouth. the same fingers that were in your cunt just mere minutes ago; you’re good at ignoring this little tidbit, and even more so good at taking his fingers like the good girl you are. you keep waiting for him to say it– letting him shove them so far down your throat that your eyes water and you gag slightly– but he never does. never gives you the praise you crave. like you might die, if you don’t get those two syllables that remind you how important you are. 

“yeah, just like that,” dean hums, his blunt nails scraping the back of your throat. this makes you gag once more, choking on not only saliva, but your own arousal. your vision blurs a little as a you try to keep your eyes on him– maybe bat your lashes now and again whilst you clean him up– but it gets to a point where that dreaded pit in your stomach blooms into something that threatens to swallow you whole like a black hole, and you have to stare at his jaw instead. “y’good at listenin’ to me, aren’t you? always wantin’ to do the best f’me..”

you garble something incoherent, then start gasping for air– he’s finally pulled his fingers from your mouth, all wet and slick, and then casually drags them across your heaving chest to dry them off. 

and before you can adjust to being able to breathe properly again, he’s pushing your legs apart even more. positioning his fat cock at your cunt; one hand holding it, and the other on your waist, like he’s ready to hold you down in case you try to writhe away (because, well, that did happen once– the first time he fucked you). you have to grip the sheets to stop yourself from bucking your hips forward, forcing your hole to take all of him before you’ve adjusted. because you can’t stop yourself; you need that mind-numbing sensation of dean fucking you raw before you lose it for good.

but you can’t deny the searing ache you get as the tip pushes into you, making your back arch off of the sweaty sheets and into his body. biting your bottom lip to stop your protest that claws up your throat and waits on your tongue when he shoves you back down onto the bed in response. “not yet, kid.” he keeps only the tip in you. “gotta be nice and still f’me ‘cause we can’t have you gettin’ hurt, can we?”

you nod dumbly. “no.”

“hey– ‘no’ what?” 

“no–” and when you hesitate, he shoves more of his cock into you. your cunt willingly tightens around him, making him groan. “dad.”

“there we fuckin’ go.”

and with that, he buries himself to the hilt inside of you. the suddenness of it is enough to make you cry out loudly, your hands flying from the sheets to his bare shoulders. your face burns from shame of how loud you’re being– and yet, he just laughs softly, tutting at your inability to not alert everyone in the house of what’s going on. 

he’s now got one hand on your waist and the other on the pillow next to your head– every now and then, as you painfully attempt to adjust to him– his thumb trapping loose strands of your hair under it as he waits. but no matter how close he is to you, it’s never enough. he could cut you open, carve out your insides and live in you, and yet, it still wouldn’t be enough. 

it’s never fucking enough. 

you shift backwards a little, like a dog that’s been kicked, but you don’t go far– not with how tight dean’s hand holds you in place. “where you tryin’ to run off to, huh? thought you needed dad to take care of your problem,” he mutters as he pokes and prods at your swollen clit. “guessin’ she needs some extra attention from me; been neglectin’ her f’too long..” his voice is all tight and restrained. you can tell that he’s resisting hard to fight the itch that must be scratched; to satiate that carnal desire that keeps him feeding on your sensuality. and yet, all you can do avert your gaze from him. 

he doesn’t seem to pick up on your sudden remorse. well– maybe he does, but dean winchester is not synonymous with “feelings”. 

instead, he immediately gets to rutting into your cunt, breathing hard against your mouth with each pump. the taste of blood and war-torn violence hasn’t been lost on you– even if this isn’t the typical manner in why he fucks you like a starevd animal. and within seconds you’re basically crying from the overwhelming adrenaline of a stuffed hole and the sickening urge for him to be close.. in more ways than one. 

“finally got you to pipe down, didn’t i?” he asks, each word enunciated by a thrust into you. he pulls away from your mouth and presses his forehead to your collarbone. you can feel his sweat pass from him to you, tainting you with the anger that blooms throughout his body. “got– fuck– more ways than one of shuttin’ you up. maybe we should try ‘em out?”

if violence can be passed via osmosis, you might just be the first victim. 

you’re whining (even with dean’s hand now over your mouth) and thrashing, basically deaf to any and all words that fall from his mouth and bury deep into your brain. they find their way into the grey matter, corrupt something docile and baby pink, morph into an ugly grey; dead and meaningless. all the while, he still slam into each time he pulls back. the air around you becomes permeating with the animalistic scent of sex and bodily fluids, the squelching noises of your drooling cunt making it worse tenfold. 

the sound of skin against skin sings as dean’s pelvis meets your ass, along with his hand on the pillow now tugs harshly on your hair. and all he has to do to, in order for you to sing his praises, is bury his cock deep inside of you, tease and taunt you like he’s trying to dumb you down and make you forget about any sense of humanity you once had. and it works.

“fuckin’ wanted this all along, didn’t you? just– just couldn’t ask me f’it, though, could you?” it’s always the rhetoricals that get you; make your brain all fuzzy, and make him laugh at you because you must be so fucking stupid to him. always. and then, like he remembers that he needs to reward you for being such a good girl for him, “god– never fuckin’ leavin’ you again, sweetheart. never gonna find anyone else like you, am i?”

you can feel the sheets beneath you grow sticker with each thrust, his cock basically being sucked into you with little to no resistant– thanks to how wet you are– as tears freefall down your face and your babbling gets reduced to nothing worthy of substance. your hands tighten around one another, slipping here and there from how sweaty they are, as you keep dean as close to you as you possibly can.

“never– never!” you reply, shaking your head eagerly as you agree to.. whatever dean asked. you didn’t pick up on it– not when he’s balls-deep in your drooling hole, his body hanging over you like he wants to keep you trapped there for life. your abdomen tightens and seizes in that way it does when you’re close to orgasm, and you bury your face in your chest as it comes closer and closer. 

one of his hands crawls up your spine, fingers brushing the skin– and ends up harshly yanking on your hair, pulling your head back. “hey, hey– ‘m not havin’ my girl shy away from me,” he spits at you, ignoring how apologies bleed from your mouth like they’re nothing. “you’ve been wantin’ me all night, haven’t you? and i don’t plan on lettin’ you go that easily, kid.”

it almost scares you how easily he can say these things to you. not worry about the repercussions, like how his words fester in your brain. how you manage to fool yourself into meaning any of it. how you stay stuck under him– his thumb, his touch, his everything– trailing after him like a lost puppy and craving his attention. and all the while, as you ruminate on a life that will never happen, he still fucks himself into your gaping cunt, pushing himself deeper and deeper. 

your throat clenches in rhythm with your hole. your heartbeat pulses in time with your clit. your body is so suddenly attentive to every little thing that it physically hurts. all you can focus on is no longer the sex, but that aching void of want; that feral desire to be wanted threatening to consume you whole. 

it’s enough to snap you out of the delusional nightmare you walk in.

the way you breathe out dean’s name, in that aching and restless way of yours, borders on something a lot like panic. it probably is panic, and for a second or so, he doesn’t pick up on it; bottoms out in you with each thrust, his fat cock scraping your walls every time he pushes in or pulls back. you’ve stopped making your pathetic noises entirely, as your emotional state takes centre stage, and all you want is out.

“dean–” you start, but find a small wince slipping out. “dean, please–”

“what, not good enough f’you?” it’s clear that he thinks you’re simply begging for more, to which he gives you; his mouth on your throat and as he sinks his teeth in, his hand on your waist digging into your flesh and opening up a cut he gave you a couple of weeks back. you can feel the blood begin to ooze out as you try and fight against his pumping, which starts to lose rhythm. “c’mon, y’know i gotta do the best for my girl–”

“please, stop–”

and, thankfully, this gets across to him. 

he stops moving inside of you almost at once, pulling his face away from your throat. through blurred vision, his concerned eyes sear into you, trying to work out why you’re suddenly acting like this. but you can’t bring yourself to look at him; just stare at his throat. it’s easier like this. 

“hey, hey, hey,” dean reassures you, hand letting go of your hair and now stroking your face. you’re not sure where the one he was scratching you with just a minute has gone, but you can still feel the blood. the heavy, iron scent that permeates the air. you want to choke. “what’s goin’ on, sweetheart? c’mon, y’know you have to talk to me about these things.”

“i can’t do it,” is all you give him. 

there’s a beat. 

he frowns lightly, and even in the low light, he’s never looked prettier. it makes you sick to think about how much you love him. “what d’you mean? what– what does that mean?”

“i can’t do it– this. it’s just– fuck–” you press your hand to your mouth a second, waiting for your brain to organise its thoughts and get them out in a correct, big girl manner. you’re not going to make a fool of yourself now. “you say all this shit to me, about how i’m the best and you’ll never leave me, but you never mean any of it, do you? just come and fuck me when you please, because nobody else will? is that what it is?”

it’s mean of you, and you know it. you’ve always been someone sweet, someone who can soften sharpened edges; like dean’s. and this is anything but. 

he’d never made you any promises– not real ones, anyway. so what this is, is you letting you invented fantasies and perverted dreams of him get the better of you. that you’re so desperate for something with him– this man, a hunter, who’d rather be with you in glimpses and fleeting moments; times when he only needs you because he needs you– that you’re willing to turn everything around that he’s ever said, and aim it back at him like a nuclear weapon. 

and, after a beat, he snaps. 

“what did you think this was?” there’s no anger to it, nor pessimism or irritation. if anything, it’s passive. like you’ve been the one in control this entire time. he pulls his dick from you entirely, and you grimace slightly at the feeling of warm cum seeping out. “‘cause, kid– from where i’m standin’, this was just a simple fuck here and there. nothin’ else.”

nothing else. 

it’s been apparent from the start that this relationship would be a problem– if lonesome feelings grew, twisted and turned, and buried themselves into the dirt deeper. feelings that should’ve been a thing, and yet, they are. 

and it was stupid of you to be hanging around a man twenty or so years your senior; a man who fights and kills for a living, with no promise he’ll return home alive. a man who doesn’t deserve– want or need, more like– an angel like you. 

“so, why would you tell me all those things? why?” your voice strained as you attempt to ignore the ache in your throat. you’re not going to cry. no. those tears, ones that prick at the corners of your eyes and threaten to make an appearance in your vulnerable, stupid state. but you won’t allow them to fall; you will save these for the private affair in which you mourn the loss of dean’s warmth. and dean in general. “why would you tell me how much you love me when you fuck me, just to not have it mean anything? why would you do that to me, dean?”

he’s more controlled with his feelings than you are. then again, did he ever have any feelings towards you at all? “why would you think that, sweetheart? i– look, the last thing that i wanna do is play around with your feelings, and i thought i was pretty fuckin’ clear from the start what this was.”

you merely stare at him, wondering where this “clear from the start,” bullshit he sprouts is. wonder why he suddenly backtracks all the compliments, the sly innuendos, the praise– oh, the fucking praise– that you spent night after night replaying in your head, rutting into your sheets because you needed him so badly. only for it all to be a lie. 

hell, he could’ve created an nda for you, written out a contract that told you that you must never, never, let your heart get so involved. and yet, your own silly fantasies would still get the better of you.

“kid, this was never goin’ to be somethin’ serious. you’re a good girl an’ all, but..”

and you know the truth. the problem lies with you, and dean, and everything else about this arrangement. because you know how it ends; either you drink the poison and accept that you’re nothing more to him than a “simple fuck,” or you keep letting him smash your heart to bits and pieces. 

nothing meant anything, ever. 

“then get the fuck out of here,” you demand. and when dean doesn’t move, just stares down at you with those exhausted eyes and a solemnly pleading expression, you snap, “go! now! get the fuck out of here!”

your voice cracks, much like your heart, as you lash out at the man that you thought you could love forever. it was silly, delusional, to think like that. 

dean slowly backs away from you, and off of the bed. it’s not that usual slowness– the one he weaponises against you before he ruts into your dripping cunt and buries his cum there. rather, it’s like he’s hesitant to leave you, in case you act impulsively in his absence. because your delusional fantasies have all crashed down on you, burying you alive, and leaving you is going to hurt him as much as it hurts you. 

it’s like he’s scared. 

“if that’s what you really want, kid.. then, fine.” he’s dressing now, not paying you any attention. just focuses on himself, gathering his underwear and sticky jeans– your arousal is staining the crotch area, and something you can’t satisfy anymore aches deep within you– and you wrap your arms around your legs, hugging your knees. 

the silence ensnares you in its teeth, holding you there as you’re forced to watch dean leave your room as silently as he entered. like he was never there. and you’re only spat out by the silence when you’re well and truly alone. thrusted into the cold, wet sheets of a memory already long forgotten.

as soon as he’s gone, you curl in on yourself, body wracked with sobs. you feel stupid– not only for believing in something could come of a silly, puppy-love affair, but also letting him go. ruining something so beautiful. because you had wanted something more. something concrete and everlasting; that defined the love you had for a man twenty years older than you and a penchant for promising you his death before his love.

so. you don’t remember how this began, but now? now, you know how it ends.