ruby

[ anguish ]

SUMMARY: horror movies, the most grotesque and disgusting ones, make you all soft. 9.5k playlist<3

WARNINGS: friends to fwb to lovers. porn with plot. pining. smut (mdni). blood play. knife play. unprotected vip. blood drinking. spit kink. pain kink. kink discussion. shamelessly self-indulgent. self-harm (sexually). just a tiniest bit of angst, but it's just dean's self-deprecation.

You’ve been acting weird lately.

Dean can’t really put his finger on it, and he sure as fuck can’t talk to Sammy about it, but something is going on. He just doesn’t know what.

It’s not like your taste for horror is a sudden development. It was one of the first things the two of you bonded over, back when you were just teens. 

Dean met you at a Blockbuster, hunting some crossroads demon. He’d been alone, nineteen, and bored. So when a pretty girl dragged him into a janitor’s closet and confronted him about being a hunter, he couldn’t help himself but to tell you the truth. When you’d offered to work together, Dean thought back on Dad’s words. 

“Other bastards will only slow you down, son. It’s best to keep to yourself and not involve  anyone else in your mess.”

For once in his life, Dean had decided to disobey his father. And oh, is he glad he did.

So you’d agreed to hunt the son of a bitch together, and when you’d roamed around the scary movie section of the place in search for any clues and you made a Hatchet Man reference, Dean knew that he never wanted to work alone again.

And he hadn’t, because no matter how bad things got in his life, you stayed by his side. Year after year, storm after storm, battle after battle.

And so he’s found himself here, eight years later, with that same pretty girl as his best friend. 

His only friend, really. But that’s just too sad to admit. 

One of your preferred hangout plans—is it a hangout if you basically live on the road together? Dean isn’t sure, but any sense of normalcy he can treasure is appreciated—is movie nights. You’ve done it since forever, in motel rooms and drive-ins and at Bobby’s. It’s always nice, to find some peaceful moment when life seems bent on slowly driving him insane. 

He might be going crazy anyway. 

Because as you all sprawl out over the motel carpet, the beds way too small for two of you to fit and all of you refusing to sit on the moldy cuck chair in the corner, you pick a slasher flick again. For the tenth time this week. 

Sam groans where he sits in the middle of you and Dean, and you just pout but insert the DVD anyway.

As much as Dean loves horror, and as much as he knows you do too, it’s still strange. It’s not even near spooky season, and yet you’ve decided to go on a scary-strict film diet. He’d usually pay it no mind, but he’s been noticing a… pattern.

At first, his hypothesis was that you get off on the adrenaline. 

But you don’t really get like this after a fight, or when you’re running from some evil motherfucker through the woods, or even when he dared you to jump off of a cliff into a lake back when you were twenty-one. Maybe he’s seen that same expression in you when he’s patching you up, suturing a cut or bandaging an extra-deep scratch. But you’ve always been a bit of a cuddlebug, so you probably just need some affection after getting hurt. It’s not that. 

Horror movies, the most grotesque and disgusting ones, make you all soft.

You get this spaced out look on your face, lips parted and eyes wide, hitting peak cuteness whenever a gory scene comes. You also get extra cuddly, hugging whatever’s near, whether it’s a lucky pillow or a lucky Sam. Or a lucky Dean. He’s gotten lucky quite a few times in the past few days, with your pouty face pressed into his shoulder and your body curled into his chest. 

Physical affection has never been a big part of your friendship. It’s a sore line that makes Dean wince every time he gets too close to it. That fills his veins with something too good to be true, and so he evades it as much as he can. Just so it doesn’t snap, and he’s left forsaken in the middle of a labyrinth, without the thread that would lead him home. 

But you’ve been jumping the line, whenever blood splashes on the screen or when someone’s guts are spilled on the ground. He’d attribute it to you being scared, but you don't get scared by films. You just don’t.

This new development means that you get to spend even more time together, though. When you drag Sam away from his nerd books and force him into the blanket nest you’d built on the bed or couch or ground. You’ll snuggle close to the brothers, press play to whatever sick little movie you please, and Dean has around two hours where he can let his guard down and finally enjoy being alive. 

The gore thing is still a bit weird. He tries to ignore it, he really does, but curiosity is corroding his brain. He knows you more than anyone else, every twitch of your lips and every thought that flashes on your eyes, and so it’s killing him to be out of the loop. When he catches himself actually considering whether you could’ve been transformed into a vamp without him noticing, he decides he needs to chill the fuck up. 

He’s probably just overthinking the hell out of the situation, and the quickly-rising danger in your lives has made you more susceptible to scary shit. There’s no reason for his mind to wander any further than that.

(There is a reason: Dean’s fucking gross.)

So he tries to concentrate on the slasher playing on the TV instead. It’s a cheesy, cliche one, with a blonde, half-naked girl running through some kind of factory and some dumb clown chasing her.  He can’t even focus on the way the girl’s boobs bounce as she runs, too busy trying to ignore Sammy’s head dropping forward every once in a while so he doesn’t have to turn his head and see you. 

Right when the movie goes completely silent and Dean’s shoulders tense with expectation, Sammy lets out the loudest snore he’s ever heard. It makes Dean jump so high he’s surprised he doesn’t somehow hit the ceiling. He turns to glare at his passed out brother before daring to look your way.

Big mistake. 

You don’t even seem to have noticed the dinosaur roar that just rumbled through the room. Your eyes are glued to the screen, your whole face now glowing red as blood drips down the camera lens. You’re chewing on your lower lip, knees pulled up to your chest as you drink in the image of the girl laying there on the asphalt, her hair stained crimson and her throat slit open. 

Something strained flashes on your face as the killer climbs on top of her, starting to cut down her torso, and you hide further into the blanket on your lap. Had someone attacked you and you didn’t tell him? And now you’re dealing with it by watching a bunch of gory shit?

No, you wouldn’t lie to him about something like that. 

“You okay?” He still needs to check.

“Yeah.” Your voice is hoarse, Dean isn’t sure he believes you.

Before he can press further, Sammy wakes up with a gasp of “what did I miss?” And so Dean is left with no choice but to take your word for it. 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You’re in Baby the next time you decide it’s time for a movie night. 

You’re parked outside of a suburban house, waiting for Sammy to get back from hanging out with Artsy Girl. Dean’s proud that the kid is having some fun after watching him be consumed by nothing but grief for so long. And he’s also just glad he gets to spend some alone time with you.

You’re both huddled in the front seat, Sammy’s laptop propped up on the dashboard right in the middle as you hack into Artsy Girl’s home wifi. 

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

You just shrug, sending him a sly look. “A magician never reveals her secrets. But it might’ve been Ash.”

The days are getting hotter after a long winter, the sun shining through the window and making your skin glow. You’re wearing a pair of short shorts and a tanktop that lets Dean see the bracelets dangling on your wrists and a silver of your bra. It’s red and lacy. Dean is not a teenager, he can control himself. 

You glue yourself to his side, even when the air is a little sticky with heat. It’s just so you can both get a view of the screen, just that. The skin of your thighs is smooth, soft-looking under the golden light. Dean wishes he wasn’t a dirty dog and could afford to touch you without staining you, like when Sam wraps an arm over your shoulders or Jo sits on your lap at the Roadhouse. 

To distract himself, he asks what you’re watching. You just grin.

This time the film is quiet. It’s foreign, some slavic language Dean can’t recognize playing through the speakers. It still engrosses him even as he reads the subtitles, and he finds himself leaning forward as the suspense builds. It’s explicit, very explicit. But it’s also beautiful, with careful shots and captivating cinematography. Not like Dean really knows about those things, but anything that distracts him from the soft sound of your breath next to him is welcomed.

The distraction doesn’t last long. Because the two protagonists—a couple, both young and pretty beat up—end up tied to some chairs, and you shuffle closer. 

Your bare thigh is pressed against his denim-clad one. Dean’s jaw tightens. 

An older man appears on screen, a knife on his hand as he circles the couple. He goes to the dude first, draping himself over his back and whispering something in his ear as he presses the blade to his neck. You swallow loudly, Dean ignores it as best as he can. The boyfriend pulls on his restraints, starting to tear up. The killer shushes him, pressing the knife to his cheek and asking him to “be good and shut that pretty mouth.”

It’s very homoerotic, Dean wants to make a joke about it.

But then the older man starts to cut down the boyfriend’s face, a thin line that quickly spills scarlet, and your hands tighten around your knees. Your nails dig onto your skin, knuckles white and skin turning red. It’s distracting. 

Dean decides to wrap an arm around your shoulders, convincing himself that he’s done this a million times before whenever you have a nightmare. You must really be getting scared, and he’s just reassuring you. It has nothing to do with how good you smell or how much of your skin he can see. You’re so pretty, it should be illegal.

You stiffen at the touch, and Dean worries he fucked up. But then you let out a stuttering sigh and melt into his side. He decides to softly run his hands through your hair, in that way that always quiets down your sobbing whenever a dream is particularly bad. It earns him a different reaction this time—fluttering eyelashes, knees being drawn up to your chest, tongue peaking out to wet your lips.

You hiss, a little too breathy, when the killer moves to the woman, pulling her head back from her hair and slicing a deep line across her chest. Then he stabs her once, on the shoulder, and Dean recoils. 

“Scared?” you tease, nudging your shoulder into his chest, one of your legs dropping from against your torso and landing over Dean’s. He might as well be the one getting butchered. 

“Never. I don’t get scared, darling.” He manages to keep his voice steady. It doesn’t matter how much your bodies are touching or how much he’s longed to graze your like this for years or how long it’s been since the last time he’s fucked someone, because somehow no one feels worth it anymore—he won’t get a boner from some cuddling, because he’s not a blushing school boy. And you deserve better than that. “But I’ve been stabbed in that same place, it’s not fun. Are you scared?” 

You hum lowly, fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of your shorts. 

“I’m never scared when I’m with you.” Before he can even process how fucking adorable and groundbreaking that is, you keep talking. “You know I like—this kind of stuff anyway.”

It’s Dean’s time to hum, still softly massaging your scalp. “This kind of stuff?”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble, pouting as you press your face against his shoulder. Dean fights to keep his heartbeat steady. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. You’re gonna have to tell me.”

Your eyes don’t move from the screen. “Gross stuff, Dean. You know I’m into gross stuff.”

He forces out a laugh, pretending like his chest isn’t contracting and his mind isn’t wandering toward territories he’d banned years ago, when he got to the conclusion that having you in his life was more valuable than having you under him. 

You keep watching the movie. The scene is long, and Dean stopped reading the subtitles a while ago. It’s not like there’s much to read anyway, it’s mostly pained noises and slashing sounds. You let out a soft little noise of your own, and then the laptop gets pushed right in front of Dean.

You roll onto your side as best as you can in the tight space, both your legs now over his as you sit half on his lap. 

He’s seen you like this with Jo before, cuddled in her bed or couch while you watch dumb chick-flicks. He’d even seen you in a similar position with Sam once, when the two of you got so drunk you couldn’t walk and you’d ended up falling asleep on top of each other in Bobby's living room. This is normal, friends cuddle. He can handle it. 

You snuggle into his chest, warm breath filtering through his thin shirt, and he can definitely not handle it.

The woman on the screen screams, and Dean’s surprised he’s not screaming as well. His hand is still on your hair, cradling your head against him as you keep shifting, trying to get comfortable. His other hand brushes your knee, and he holds his breath. You don’t seem to notice, only shuffling closer as the boyfriend gets his head chopped off. 

He wraps his free fingers around the steering wheel, forcing them to behave as you finally settle down. He allows himself to relax, stroking your hair and attempting to focus back on the film. But then the tip of your nose brushes his neck, and he startles. He blames it on the killer pushing the woman’s chair to the floor. 

When you start speaking, he almost misses it from the way his ears are ringing. 

“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? That I like them so much.”

It takes Dean a few seconds to figure out what the hell you’re talking about, but when he does, his heartbeat definitely picks up. 

“They’re just movies, sweetheart. We see worse shit every day.” Your face’s still hidden against his shirt, and Dean starts to worry about you spiraling into one of those ugly, completely irrational, self-deprecating lows you hit sometimes. “You know I enjoy them too.”

There’s a pause, and even the killer seems to be waiting. 

“What if, uh—” you clear your throat, squirming in his hold again. “What if it wasn’t? Just movies, I mean.”

Neither of you move, Dean doesn’t think he even breathes. Both your eyes stay in the laptop, and the screaming has somehow gotten even louder. But your voice is so hesitant, and he never wants you to hesitate with him, so he moves his hand from the wheel to your thigh, squeezing lightheartedly.

Wrong choice. Your skin is tender and malleable under his palm, Dean’s going to die. 

“Do you need me to get rid of a body for you, sweetheart? Are you confessing to murder?”

You huff, a frustrated little sound against his collarbone. “Don’t be a dick, Dean. You know what I mean. It’s nothing extreme, but—”

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Blood,” you whisper, burying your face further into his shirt.

“Blood? We see blood all the time,” he murmurs your name, a little concern making its way into his chest. Maybe you really did get turned into a vamp. 

“No, I don’t mean monster goo. It’s—blood,” you repeat, like it explains everything. “It’s… good. Appealing, I mean.”

There’s a long moment in which Dean can’t hear anything but the beat of his heart and screaming, then he looks down at you with wide eyes. 

“Are you talking about sex, sweetheart?”

You whine, eyes screwed shut right before you try to push away from him. “We’re done watching this.”

You reach for the laptop, but Dean stops you before you can grab it. He pulls you back down onto the seat, not wanting you to run away from him. He never wants you to hide anything from him because you think he’ll shame you, especially when he knows how hard it is for you to talk about this stuff. So he’ll be here for you, always, even if the information is breaking his brain a little. You’re still his best friend, before anything else.

He accidentally tugs you further into his lap, and it makes it harder for him to put a sentence together. You’re facing each other now, and you’re almost straddling his thigh, but your gaze stays on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. 

“It’s okay, we can talk about it.” The movie is still going, the woman is getting chased, he very much cannot do this. “Have you ever—has anyone ever done that to you?”

Dean cringes at his own words. He had The Talk with Sammy more than once, he should be better at this. 

“Of course I haven’t. Who would do something like that?” you laugh, but it’s a little bit bitter. “Aside, y’know how I feel about… casual stuff.”

He does. God damnit does he know. It’s haunted him for years, how off limits you are. Because you don’t do casual, and Dean is not someone girls want for anything else. 

A rush of relief rushes through his body at the knowledge you haven’t done anything like this with some bastard that wouldn't even know how to take care of you. It’s selfish, it makes him nauseous.

So he mans up, and tries his best to keep his mouth from twisting into a scowl. Dean isn’t allowed to want things, but you are. You could want the whole universe, and Dean would make sure it got served right into your gentle hands. He also knows that he’s a sick motherfucker, his porn preferences being a common joke in your small group. It’s probably why you decide to trust him with this, so he gives you his best attempt at nobility.

“If you were to do it, you need to make sure you’re safe. That you’re with someone you trust—”

“If I do what?” Your wide eyes flick up to his, like it wasn’t you who brought up the topic.

“Uh, masochistic stuff? Knife and blood play, or whatever.” He never got further than a few spankings into the BDSM category, he’s darting into unfamiliar territory.

“Why do you know that’s a thing, Dean Winchester?” A little playfulness tugs at the corner of your lips, and there’s the pretty girl that kidnapped him inside a closet. 

Somehow, his fingers have stayed in your hair all through this unexpected journey, so he tugs at the locks softly. Your mouth falls open with a low little sight. Danger. That's the danger zone. 

“I should be asking you that, you little shit. You’re the one getting off to horror movies.”

You gasp, a little horrified as your cheeks bloom in a pretty red. “I don’t get off to them! I’d never—get off with Sammy in the room.”

You don’t mention Dean, he tries to not dwell on it. “So, what is it?”

“They just…” Your cheeks darken, your voice dripping with embarrassment. “They make me think about things.”

“Things.” He repeats, his thumb brushing behind your ear. In the background, the woman finally gets caught. “So they turn you on?”

You splutter, and the pure look of fluster in your face makes Dean chuckle. It helps him focus more on teasing you than the topic actually being talked about.

You—the most sensitive and gentle person Dean’s ever known—are a pervert. And you thought telling him was the right move. Dean will move past this, one day. Maybe when he rots in hell once some evil bitch finally gets him, maybe not even then.

“I—it’s not like I wanna get murdered by a psycho,” you stutter, wiggling against his leg. He’s doing great, thank you very much. “It’s not like that.”

Dean nods. He’ll need at least three business days to actually process all of this. 

So instead, he carefully turns you around on his lap until you’re facing the laptop. Still straddling his thigh, a leg pressed between his and your back toward him as he tries his best to watch the rest of the movie over your shoulder and not go insane from the new information learned. 

You chew on your lip, halting for a moment before turning your head to him. “You don’t mind? After what I just—”

“Nah.” He wraps an arm around your waist with the excuse to comfort you, just that. He’s doing this for you. He pulls you closer, and you slump against his chest. “It’s kinda cute. You’ve always been so reserved, who would’ve imagined.”

You grumble something under your breath, elbowing him in the stomach. You both laugh, and the air inside Baby is a little more breathable after that. 

You continue to watch the end of the movie. The woman is somehow still fighting the killer, now pining him against the ground as she drives his own knife into his eye. There’s so much blood, your face is cast in a red glow again. You’re pressed even closer now, he kind of regrets pushing Sammy to get laid. 

“Would you ever… consider helping?” The air becomes smoke in his lungs just as fast as it had cleared. He gapes down at you, you keep looking directly straight. 

“What the hell do you mean?”

Your teeth sink into your lip hard enough that Dean thinks you might break skin, and he doesn’t know if he could handle that right now. 

“You said it was okay,” you whisper. Oh God. “You said I should do it with someone I trust.”

Dean must be misshearing. He must’ve died and woken up in heaven. He must have stumbled his way into an alternative universe or a Djinn must have gotten their hands on him, because there’s no freaking way you’re asking him what he thinks you’re asking him.

“You—want to practice freakin’ platonic sadomasochism with me?”

You whine again at that, your hands darting up to cover your face. Dean’s absolutely losing his marbles. “You don’t have to say yes. Or say anything. Just—forget I said anything.”

But Dean can’t. He really, really fucking can’t just forget. Because now the idea has been implanted in his brain, and you’re sitting on his lap, and he loves you so fucking much. But you don’t do casual, because it makes you feel empty and dirty afterwards, and Dean isn’t allowed to want things.

“I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart. Not if you’re gonna feel even worse later.” 

You shake your head frantically, your eyes not leaving the movie for a moment. “I won’t. I told you, Dean, I’m never scared when I’m with you. I trust you more than anyone in this world. I will be fine as long as it’s you, even if it’s… platonic.”

The woman is stabbing the killer over and over again, guts flying in the air as slow drums start to play. Dean’s not really paying attention. 

Platonic. Dean is not thinking about platonic fucking BDSM. His mind is very much drifting to romantic BDSM, because he’s a piece of shit. But you want to do this, and if it’s not him, it will be some other scumbag. 

The thought makes his skin crawl.

At the distance, Sam slips out of Artsy Girl’s house, a dopey smile on his face and his hair all messed up. He looks happy, for the first time in months.

Dean is not allowed to want things, but you are. And if you want him, even if it’s just for this, then who is him to deny you. 

“What if I said yes?”

Your lips twitch into a smile as you slide off his lap, opening the passenger door as Sammy glides over to Baby. “Then I’ll be right here, watching another slasher.”

Dean is for sure not doing this to himself, right? 

Right?

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Dean will be doing this to himself.

He spent all of last night staring at the ceiling of another dank motel room, deliberating. 

He’s a freak, everyone knows that Dean Winchester is a freak. He likes sex, and he likes women. He won’t ever apologize for that. Not even when a voice in the back of his head tries to reason that he doesn’t even like it as much as he pretends he does. Not even when after a night in some random girl’s house, his chest is still empty and his hands are still bloody.

Because Dean’s hands are always bloody. He doesn’t remember a time when they were clean. His whole life has been built in violence and pain, nothing strong enough to wash it away. So even though he’s known for his libido, Dean has never tried anything too extreme. 

Mixing pain with pleasure has never sat too right with him, not when he already struggles to differentiate himself from the monsters he hunts. And he never wants to hurt you. Not you, the only person that really fills the emptiness.

But it’s you, and you want it. You asked him for it, when even talking about normal sex makes you blush. Dean guessed you didn’t really offer sex, just sexually-charged knife play. It still fucks him up.

He’d know how to take care of you, that little voice told him. He knows where to cut someone when he’s aiming to kill and where it’ll only make a mess. He knows how to handle a blade, how much pressure to apply and how to patch it up after. He knows how to indulge you, and make it safe. 

He actually thought about it, and he could see it. You, under him, writhing from pain and pleasure. Soft under his hands and pleading with him to hurt you. Because you want it, and you trust him. More than anyone in the world. 

By the end of the night, he was half-hard and absolutely restless. 

Apparently, he’d be into almost anything if it’s with you.

That leads him here, knocking on the door of your motel room. You’d decided to take a break from hunting, staying in Pennsylvania for a few days before going back to demon tracking, and you’d specifically requested your own room last night. Sammy had tried to question you, Dean had tried his best not to explode. 

The door opens, and Dean wonders if miracles actually happen. 

You stand there, smiling at him softly with your hair down and your lips glossy. You’re wearing one of his shirts, a faded Led Zeppelin one Sammy had gotten him for his birthday a long time ago, and nothing else. There are ruffly socks around your ankles, but when his shirt rides up as you point toward the bed, he can’t see anything but bare thighs.

“Want to join?” There’s something playing on the old TV, the blankets on the bed all crumpled up, still holding the shape of your body. Dean nods stupidly.

He steps into the room, the door locking behind him, and it’s like he’s walking into a trap. He sits down at the edge of the mattress, and when he looks up, you’re stopping right in front of him. He’s trying to ignore how naked you are, because he’s mature enough to do this, but then something catches his eye—

Two thin, careful lines on your upper thigh. There’s dried blood around them, just barely deep enough to draw any, but Dean’s mind still jumps to panic. He has to remind himself that you’re safe, no one hurt you, no creature got their dirty hands on you. It’s a kink. Dean can manage kinky. 

“Did you do that to yourself?” he asks, a little more hopeful than he should.

Your nod is barely there, cheeks blushing again. “Y–yeah. But it’s not the same on my own.”

Dean’s hand moves on his own, his fingers finding the scars and softly brushing over them. You immediately tense up, breath catching. “And you want me to do it instead.”

It’s not a question. A little noise rumbles through your chest in affirmation anyway. 

“Are you… saying yes?” you sound so fucking nervous, Dean needs to devour you whole. 

“How do we, uh, do this?”

He doesn’t even get to beat himself up over his own awkwardness before he’s attacked with a lapful of you. Your legs straddle his hips, and he’s glad to find out you’re at least wearing underwear. 

“Can I kiss you, Dean?”

His plea of “fuck yeah, please,” gets thankfully swallowed by you immediately. It’s a soft, delicate kiss. Dean lets you take the lead, his hands gripping your shirt in an attempt to control himself. Your lips move sweetly against his, adding just the tiniest hint of tongue right before you move away. He bites back a whine. 

There’s that spaced out look. Eyes glossed over, lips parted. You’re so fucking adorable, it’s ripping him in half. If you get like this after one little kiss, he can’t even imagine what’s in store for him. 

How will he continue to live after this is over?

Your tongue peeks out the corner of your lips, and Dean can’t stop himself. He fists your hair and pulls you against him, licking into your mouth. The moan you let out is loud, and Dean drinks it like it’s the most exquisite elixir. 

He’s being sloppy. Dean never allows himself to be sloppy, because chicks usually prefer him cool and in control, but he’s getting drunk on you so quickly. Spit dribbles out of your mouths as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you incredibly closer. Your teeth clank, and Dean pulls on your hair again until you melt against him, nails digging on his shoulders and another sweet noise leaving you. He licks behind your teeth and against every crevice of your mouth, sucking on your tongue before biting down on your lip. 

In a second, his lap is empty. 

He panics. Maybe that was too much. He was too much, and now you don’t want him anymore. He just ruined the best damn thing he has, and he has no idea how to fix it—

He turns his head, and he finds you crawling to the other side of the bed, reaching for something on the ground. Your pretty ass ends up high in the air, and Dean resists the urge to pine you down and make you pay for being such a fucking tease. 

You return to him, dropping down on the mattress and placing something in between you.

A knife, one Dean recognizes. It’s thin but long, and it has a pretty, carved wooden handle. There are flowers engraved on the blade, thorns that go all the way down to the hilt. It’s the knife Dean gifted you when you’d lost your father’s. 

“Is this the one you use?” Your nod ignites something so wild inside of him that it might just kill him. It growls, burning and burning until Dean’s left with nothing but pure blaze. 

He grabs it, testing its weight and brushing the pad of his thumb on the edge. “You’ll tell me to stop if you need me to, right?” You nod again, and Dean tsks. “Words, sweetheart.”

“I will,” you breathe out, slowly laying down on the pillows. “I promise.”

Dean almost cuts himself at the sight. Your thighs parted, your thin, white cotton panties barely covering anything, his shirt halfway up your middle. This is a view he never thought he’d seen outside of shameful fantasies, and he isn’t sure that he’ll survive it. You’re so fucking beautiful, goddamn it.

And so shy, too. As Dean makes his way between your legs, you keep squirming, trying to tug the shirt down to cover your crotch. Dean runs his fingers up your thigh, all the way to the scars, and you shiver. 

His mouth opens with teasing words, but you pull him down for a kiss instead. It’s just as messy, tongues twirling and hands roaming. It’s your turn to pull on his hair, and he can’t help the way his hips jerk. They don’t press against yours, thank God, but the way you suck on his tongue fucks him up anyway. 

When you start chewing on his lip like you’re about to eat him, he forces himself to lean back. 

Your eyes are hooded, lips puffy and chest rapidly rising and falling. All shame has been erased from your face, replaced by an ardent desperation that Dean can empathize with. One of his hands moves back to your thigh, slowly stroking up and down as the other one grips the knife’s handle.

Without taking his eyes off of yours, he presses the blade to his forearm and slices. He hisses as you gasp, letting out a confused little “Dean!” as blood starts splurting from the cut. 

“Just testing the sharpness,” he mutters through his teeth. The pain isn’t that bad, the edge of the knife smooth and clean. He feels more comfortable now, when the ache slowly subdues on his own skin. “Still want this?”

You don’t look at him, eyes glued to the cut on his arm. When he repeats the question, your lips twitch, but you stay frozen. Then Dean attempts to move away, and you grasp onto his arm, letting out a needy whimper. 

Dean watches dumbfoundedly as you tug his arm up to your mouth, licking up the trail left by his blood dripping, all the way from his wrist to the cut. He hisses when your tongue presses over the wound, your eyelashes fluttering before you look right into his eyes. And maybe you are a fucking vampire, or some kind of succubus, because you continue to suckle on his skin while staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. 

Dean’s at risk of coming in his pants, so he pulls his arm away and pushes you down onto the bed when you try to chase after him. The roughness leaves you a little dumb, and Dean barely contains his hands from shaking. He must’ve been superman in his past life.

The hand on your thigh moves to your torso, just under the hem of your shirt. “Wanna take this off, pretty?”

Your breath hitches, but you nod. Dean rubs slow circles on your hip as you tug the shirt over your head, and there it is that lacy, red bra. It’s okay, this will definitely not come back to haunt him in the worst moments. 

“You look good in my clothes,” he manages not to stutter. It’s never been a secret that Dean thinks you’re beautiful, he’s mentioned it once or twice. He’s still scared that any direct confessions of it will break whatever you’re building right now. But when he takes in the image of you under him, hair sprawled on the pillow and the perfect skin of your stomach exposed, the words escape him. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

The praise makes you blush down to your chest, the top of your breasts dusting a pretty pink that Dean yearns to taste. Your eyes get even glossier, and all this new information about you is a lot to take in. 

“You said it’s not the same on your own.” Dean’s a good friend, he’s here to take care of you. He needs to take care of you, and not think about himself. “So it’s more about power?”

You seem to struggle with your words. “I guess a bit, but it’s mostly about—pain.”

“Oh,” Dean hums, moving the knife up to your collarbone. He presses the dull side onto your skin, your whole body trembles. He tries to meet your eyes, but they’re locked on the blade. “So it’s not just blood. You wanna be hurt, sweetheart? Has anyone ever done that to you?”

You swallow harshly as Dean slides the knife down the valley of your breasts, pressing it sideways against the lace of your bra, right over where he knows your nipple is. “A little. Not—nothing like this.”

Something bitter and ugly writhes inside of Dean. You don’t do casual, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen you flirting with guys at bars or hitting it off with some witness. There’s also that boyfriend you got when you were twenty, the one Dean had to actively stop himself from murdering. It didn’t last long, and you didn’t even look all that sad after, but Dean still hated him. He always hates everyone who dares to put their hands on you, but he’s not jealous. He just imagines cutting their dicks off every time. 

But this is a first, a first you’re trusting Dean with. They can all suck it.

“Was it good?” He must be a masochist too.

“Mhm,” Dean moves the knife down to your stomach, brushing the blunt edge against your ribs. You arch into the touch. “Yeah. This is better, though. You—you’re the best.”

This pain shit must really get to your head, because there’s no fucking way you’re actually saying this.

“We’ve barely started, doll.” The pet name slips on accident, it makes you glow a little. The knife gets dragged lower, just barely grazing your panties. You hiss as the tip barely misses your mound, so sensitive already.

Dean lowers himself on your body once the blade presses against your leg, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead before leaving another one on your stomach. His lips latch onto your upper thigh, right under the two scars. He sucks on the skin, leaving a mark he knows he shouldn’t indulge in. Your skin erupts in goosebumps and you moan, so Dean guesses it’s okay.

“Ready?” He murmurs against the skin, admiring the way it’s now blooming purple. 

“Please.” Your hips jerk in frustration, Dean pines them down in a silent order. You obey, his grip on the knife tightens. 

Dean turns it swiftly until the sharp end digs onto your skin, and then he draws a shallow line across your uncut thigh. You both gasp as blood starts to flow. When Dean looks up at you, you’re staring at the cut, hands fisting the blankets.

There’s a wet patch on the front of your panties. Fuck.

“Feels good?” He checks in, rubbing his thumb under the wound.

“Yes, yes.” You shut your eyes, hips twitching, searching for some kind of relief. Dean would laugh if he wasn’t absolutely wrecked by the sight. The trust you’re putting on him is intoxicating, Dean never wants this to end. “Keep going, please.”

Wetness coats his fingers, and when he looks down, the blood has dripped onto his hand. He spreads it across your skin, and it’s a lot more erotic than he ever expected.

“Please, Dean.”

He tilts his head, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow. “Please what, doll?”

“Can you just—” Dean presses the knife against your skin again, a little higher up now. You whimper, head dropping back into the pillow. “Please touch me.”

He cuts a little deeper than he should at that, but your whine is so loud, Dean is sure Sam can hear you next door. He can’t speak, adrenaline rushing through his body. Everything he’s ever wanted, at the tip of his fingers. 

Almost everything, but he won’t pine right now. 

His thumb finds your slit over your panties, pressing against the wet stain. “Are you sure, baby?”

You yelp, grinding onto his hand until your clit bumps on his finger. You throw an arm over your eyes, lips pouty. “Yes.”

Your sulky little tantrum doesn’t last long, because Dean is quickly sliding the knife under your panties and tearing them off of you. You gasp again, watching Dean with sparkling eyes as he discarts the ruined fabric. 

Unsurprisingly, your pussy is fucking pretty, glistening and ready for him. Dean fears he might be drooling. 

He presses two fingers to your clit, rubbing in circles as he lowers his head, licking one long strip up your folds. He barely gets to relish in the perfect taste of you before he’s being tugged up by the hair, a tongue being shoved into his mouth.

You must be able to taste yourself on him, because you press harder against his fingers. 

“I thought you—” He attempts to speak between kisses, but licking into your mouth is more important. There’s spit everywhere, Dean never gets to be like this. You don’t seem to mind. “Wanted me to touch you?”

“I’ll cum if you use your mouth,” you pout, Dean licks it away. 

“You can cum, pretty.” 

You shake your head. Dean’s fingers have stopped moving. “Not yet. Want you to cut me up a little more.”

Right, the knife.

Dean leaves one last sloppy peck on your lips before picking it up again. He traces two fingers between your folds until they dip into your entrance, right before returning to your clit. You keen, loud and needy as he digs the blade into your lower stomach. 

Blood pools on your skin, wetness coats his fingers. The cut is longer, all the way from your hipbone to under your navel. Dean can’t help but lean in, kissing and biting at the soft flesh. He licks up your hip, biting a little too hard. Teeth marks are left behind, you don’t complain.

He presses his palm against your core, your moans echoing through the room as his tongue finally meets blood. It’s warm and metallic on his mouth, staining his teeth and washing down his throat. You pant and squirm under him, mumbling intangible words.

You’re dripping from your cunt, dripping from Dean’s cuts. He’s absolutely parched. 

So he dips back down, pulling his hand away as he buries his face on your pussy. He licks over your folds, flicking your clit before pressing his tongue against your entrance. You taste like heaven all over. 

His hair is fisted angrily, a grumble of his name barely registering on his ears. He gets dragged away again, still manages to brush his lips over your middle.

His mouth is coated with something warm, either your juices or your blood, and you look almost hypnotized by the sight. Staring up at him like he’s an angel, when he’s nothing more than a monster. He licks his lips, and your hips buck.

Fuck.

Dean lets out a choked groan when your crotches meet, his erection straining through his jeans. You freeze.

He’s about to apologize for being a fucking creep, finally having crossed a line that you weren’t willing to bend. 

“You’re hard,” you whisper, like he needs the reminder. “Why?”

You look shocked, almost confused. Absolutely adorable, completely lost. 

“I, uhm—” He’s cut off by your hand suddenly gripping his dick. He’s honestly surprised he doesn’t come on the spot. “Fuck, baby, you can’t just—”

He drops the knife on the bed before he stabs himself, trying to draw back. You’re not up for it, pulling him even closer and squeezing him through the denim. Dean grunts. 

“You want to fuck me, Dean?” An embarrassing, high-pitched noise slips out of his throat. He almost wants to deny it, but there’s no going back. He’s already here. So instead he lets out a low growl, barely a response at all, but you seem satisfied. “I want—it.”

You try to hide your face on his neck, but he pushes you back down onto the pillows. You’re still palming him, his words are a little slurred. “What do you want, doll? Use your words.”

You pout, already pulling on his zipper. “Want you inside me.”

You’re a fucking demon sent to ruin Dean’s life. 

He sits back on his knees, pulling down his jeans and boxers on his own to try and regain some sort of control over himself. He’s fine. You’re the girl of his dreams, one of the most important people in his world, the love of his life. And he’s about to fuck you, and nothing more. He’s fucking fine. 

He could’ve never expected your reaction to his nudity. Your mouth opens, big eyes glued to his dick and nowhere else. Dean isn’t bashful, he knows he’s pretty well equipped, but you look like you’re about to start salivating. 

You dart forward, ready to swallow him down, and he has to stop you with a hand on your hair. This is about you, Dean can’t afford to make it about himself. He doesn’t get to want things.

“Shh, doll.” He shushes you when you whine, leaning down to lick into your mouth. “Do you have condoms?”

You hesitate for a moment, and Dean starts to wonder how fast he can make it to the nearest pharmacy without getting arrested. 

“I—I want to feel you, Dean.” 

Your ability to render him speechless should be studied. 

“Baby…”

“I’m clean!” You panic a little, hands tugging on his shirt. “I barely have sex anyway, but I got tested after last time. And I’m on the pill, so—only if you want to.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “I’m clean too.” He studies you carefully. “You sure you wanna do this?”

Your little “yes, please” is so desperate that Dean couldn’t deny you even if he wanted to. But he doesn’t, his cock twitches only at the thought of it. 

He pulls off his shirt before returning to hover over you, slowly taking off your bra. It’s unfair that someone can be this perfect. His admiring is interrupted by you fisting his cock, brushing your thumb over the tip before stroking up and down. Once again, Dean is faced with the threat of coming too fast.

He pushes your hands away, taking revenge by shoving two fingers into your cunt. You mewl, back arching as his palm presses back against your clit. Dean leans down to kiss and bite at your tits, sucking a nipple into his mouth until it’s all stiff and you’re moaning. He leaves more bruises all over your chest, delicate skin made to be marked up. 

The other residents of the motel definitely hear it when Dean finds that spongy spot inside of you, pressing against it until you’re soaked. You’ve barely touched him and his dick is already weeping, he’s so pathetic for you. 

He gets a little complaining noise when he pulls out, nails scratching down his chest. “Come on, Dean. I need you to fuck me.”

Being needy makes you mouthy, who knew. 

Dean picks up the knife, giving you a sharp grin before pressing the blunt edge against your throat. It effectively shuts you up, eyes unfocusing and breath hitching. “Please?”

“That’s better, doll.” The knife is pulled back, and Dean leans in to lick at your lips. It’s not even a kiss, too dirty. His dick throbs. 

He presses the tip against your entrance, rubbing himself on your drenched pussy. He pushes until the head pops inside, halting then. You whine, legs wrapping around his hips and smearing blood on his skin, attempting to pull him closer.

“Easy, baby,” Dean’s voice cracks when his hips uncontrollably jerk, pushing himself deeper inside of you. “We can go slow—”

You very clearly don’t want to go slow, because your hands find his waist and tug on him until he’s buried all the way to the hilt. Only then you melt into the mattress, sighing dreamily. 

Dean stays still, very fucking still. You’re fucking perfect, better than he could’ve ever imagined. Warm and tight all around him, gummy walls clenching down on him, squeezing him until he feels he might die. 

He’s ruined. Nothing else will ever amount to this.

You squirm against him, trying to grind your hips onto his, and end up with your hands pinned over your head. The knife is lodged in between your palms, scratching the wood of the headboard. “You need to relax, doll.”

You whimper, and Dean kisses you until you’re putty on his hands. He starts to move then, barely-there thrusts of his hips. “Feels good?”

You can’t really speak, letting out soft cries of pleasure as his pace starts picking up. Dean grinds impossibly deeper, and your lips fall open. Dean kisses you again, mostly to stop himself from spilling all his disgusting feelings. 

“So full, Dean,” you pant, head thrown back when he hits that soft spot inside of you, ramming into you until all you can moan is his name. “De—fuck. So good, so big—Ah!”

The knife is back on your skin, scraping your chest, right under your collarbone. “Here?”

Your chant of yesyesyes mixes with the loud slap of skin against skin, Dean can’t get enough of how fucked out you look at the pure suggestion of pain. 

Cutting your chest feels a little more terrifying, but the way you tighten around him makes Dean a little more reckless. His thrusts halt as he carefully draws a line down your sternum, nails dragging down his back when he reaches the valley of your breasts. 

Crimson wells up, your skin is flushed to match it. You mewl, eyes rolling back on your head as Dean finally drops the knife and starts to properly fuck you, slamming against your cervix over and over again. 

The cut is deeper than all of the others, it will surely scar. Dean hopes it does. He leaves more bruises in case it doesn’t. His face gets dragged up and a tongue pushes inside his mouth. He tastes blood, and he must’ve accidentally licked it off your chest.

One of his hands glides over to your clit, thumb rubbing quick circles as his hips pick up at an almost impossible pace. He feels high, something furious and fervent rushing through his veins like heroin. 

He breaks the kiss when your mouth goes slack in bliss, and there’s blood pooling on your chest. It gets scooped up on his fingers and slipped onto your loud mouth. The taste makes you purr, tongue wrapping around the digits and sucking them deep into your throat. He can’t help but slap your pussy, shushing your little whine. 

He kisses your mouth around his fingers, then hooks them over your lower teeth and pulls it open.

Your eyes are huge and glossy as your tongue lolls out, like you’re asking for something. 

Dean lets some deep and instinctual thing inside his chest take over, spitting directly into it. You swallow around his fingers, eyelashes fluttering. Dean is for sure not lasting long.

You’re trembling, moaning with your mouth full, cunt getting impossibly tighter. Dean keeps thrusting into you, sliding you up the mattress and rubbing harder against your clit. All it takes is one deliberate flick of his thumb for you to scream and start to dribble down his cock.

Watching your orgasm wash down on you is one of the best things Dean’s ever experienced. You bite down on his fingers, eyes rolling as you back arches. You’re all bruised and bloody, and Dean’s stained with it all. The knowledge—and the way you squeeze like a vice around him—is enough to send him over the edge.

Dean’s never came this hard. It explodes in his chest and leaves him blind with ecstasy, travels down his throat until it reaches the hole inside of him and starts to fill it, more and more until Dean almost feels sane.

He’s driven right back into madness when he takes you in. Hair messy, drool on your chin as he pulls his fingers away, cunt fluttering around him. You hum contentedly as he fills you up, hips wiggling as warmth spurts inside of you. Dean’s absolutely wrecked. 

He licks up the blood pooling on your collarbone, gripping your jaw tightly. You open your mouth immediately, ready to have it filled up again. You sigh at the taste of your own blood and his spit. It’s sinful.

He keeps lazily kissing you for way too long, the blood drying on your skin and his dick softening inside of you. Every time he tries to pull away, you whine, mumbling something against his lips about not wanting to be empty.

Dean tries to remember what being empty feels like. Because now that the hole in his chest is overflowing, he doesn’t know what he’ll do when it’s all drained. He doesn’t know how he’ll move on from this, from having you under him and wrapped all around him. From being coated in you, every inch of his being. 

He won’t. Dean very simply will be stuck here forever, watching you walk away like a dog abandoned on the side of the road.

You end up squirming, trying to get fucked again before Dean’s even pulled out. Only the promise of burgers and a Saw movie binge gets you to let go of him. 

Dean can’t resist the caveman urge to hold your thighs open, watching as your pussy drips with his cum. He manages to imprint the image onto his brain before he gets pushed away, almost falling off the bed.

An apology gets him permission to carry you to the shower, and he even gets to hold you under the warm rain. He tells himself this is just aftercare, making sure you don’t drop after doing something this extreme. Endorphins and BDSM rules or whatever, he keeps placing soft kisses on your skin as he cleans every cut. They’re not deep enough to need patching up, Dean’s pleased to be able to stare at them.

You’re all blushy by the end of it, tucked into his chest and nuzzling onto his neck. Dean gets you through at least three more orgasms before he finally gets you into bed, sliding in beside you and holding you tight against him. You reassure him he didn’t hurt you, kiss the tip of his nose and promise him it was all “really, really good,” and Dean finally allows himself to relax.

You go all quiet, and Dean thinks you’re just passing out after getting railed. But then you hide further into his chest, and mumble his name against his skin.

“Hm?”

“You—uhm, you know it wasn’t just… platonic sadomasochism, right?” Dean’s heart skips a beat. Did he say too much? Did he fucked this up earlier than expected? Are you mad that he took advantage of the situation to indulge in his sick desires? “For me?”

A beat passes, the world freezes.

“What are you talking about?”

“I feel bad about lying to you, letting you call this platonic when I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

“Hey, hey,” he sits up on the bed, dragging you up with him until you’re settled on his lap and he can cradle your face in his hands. Your eyes are glossy, and it’s not from pleasure. Dean’s words grow urgent. “What are you talking about, baby?”

“It’s always been you,” you whisper. “I couldn’t have done this with anyone else, it had to be you. I don’t do casual, Dean. It has to be you.”

Either Dean has officially gone batshit crazy and will now have to be hospitalized, or God has finally decided to show his face and grace him with heaven on earth. 

“I don’t—” he stops himself, because you look scared. He never wants you to look scared, ever. Not with him. So because he’s not good with words, he does the best next thing. He pulls you down for a kiss, soft and gentle and full of love. “It’s always been you, too. But I can’t—I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You giggle, all the tension melting from your body as you push him back onto the mattress, pulling a blanket over your tangled bodies. “You won’t, my love. And even if you do, you know I like it.”

He smacks your ass, relishing in your laughter. “You little vixen. I love you.”

“I love you too, Dean. I always have.”

Dean Winchester doesn’t get to want things. But maybe, just maybe, he gets to have this one. Because as you wrap your arms around him and fall into peaceful sleep, something tells him that he never needs to worry about being empty again.

NOTES: im so sorry for this one guys. i'm not proud, but this is what I am. one day i'll be able to write smut without being awkward about it, I swear. in the meanwhile, you'll have to make do with this shit.

I'm working in some of your requests (all fucking amazing) so i'll go back to that now, I just needed to let this one out.

thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3

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