𓍯𓂃 all the things i wish i could do if i could have you || dean winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: 18+, MOC!Dean, angst, pining and possessiveness and perversion, jealously, unprotected p in v (quip your dick before you pip), oral sex (mentions of f! + m!receiving), masturbation (m!), sexual fantasies, dean grappling with actually feeling emotions, misuse of underwear (I’m so sorry) (no I’m not), light alcohol consumption, violent/dark imagery, best friends to (technically) lovers, slow burn, porn with plot -- please let me know if i miss anything!
➶ summary: it’s Dean’s birthday. He knows he’s meant to be having a good time and focusing on all his friends and family celebrating him, but all he can seem to think about or see is you. Especially what he would do if you were his.
quick note: so i gave up trying to write this fic as a one-shot because there was just too damn much i wanted to say, so i decided to split it (despite the poll) because otherwise it's nearly 30k (i know. what the fuck). p.s. peep a reference to that little speech of Dean’s in s9ep8 somewhere in here <333
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part two here
It’s a Thursday night in the bunker.
Some shitty pop song with a bass so deep it rattles the balustrades of the bunker’s war room is blasting. Long coloured streamers are hanging off the handrails, balloons littered everywhere across the cement floor. The bunker’s big lights are off, but the room is lit softly by the yellow glow of a few lamps. Voices are chatting lively. Someone’s laughing. A ginormous ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign, handwritten in big bold lettering, is taped to the wall opposite him.
Dean would hate it all if it wasn’t your doing.
“Your life is something worth celebrating!” you had beamed at him during Christmas dinner a month ago, a green paper crown hanging low over your forehead as you punched his left arm. Sure it is, sweetheart.
Birthdays as a hunter aren’t something to celebrate, in Dean’s honest (and indisputable) opinion. They are an egregious and inescapable reminder of the person you were a year ago. Of the people you once had around you that now lay stiff six-feet under, buried in the cold hard earth, or burnt into dark grey ashes lost in the wind. Of the stupid wishes you made as you blow out the burning candles that things will change, be different, be better this time round. They never are.
Another birthday, another year of losing yourself. Piece by piece is ripped from you until nothing remains. A gaping void threatening to suck anything and everything in.
There are many ways to patch over the deep, ugly empty spaces left behind, though. Sam fills his with exercise, disgusting smoothies, and taciturn suffering. For Dean, they’re replaced by copious amounts of booze, self-loathing, and women.
But Dean couldn’t say no to you. He never wants to. So here he was, a cold beer bottle stinging his right hand, and a dark look on his face as Sam and Garth chatted heartily on each side of him about their favourite ‘close call’ hunts – no, now they’re talking about the best way to kill a ghost. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s not listening.
He knew since the Mark had buried itself in his body – stuck its thorns in and latched onto every single atom – that you, Sam, everyone was trying to be nicer and more patient with him. You all worried about him. Pitied him. It made his skin crawl. Not with disgust, but something close to it.
Maybe last year, last birthday, he would’ve actually really enjoyed himself. Being surrounded by friends, family, everyone laughing and smiling, dancing, talking. He takes a swig of his beer, the bottle’s rim wetting his lips as the sharp sour liquor lulls his taste buds. Yeah, he thinks, old him would be over the fucking moon to see everyone he loves happy and together like this. For him. It would’ve made his heart glow.
But the Mark’s changed Dean. Changing Dean. More and more every day. It nests deep in his bones, knotting itself between even the tiniest of crevices and ligaments and tissues; courses violently through his thick, hot blood and burns his chest.
When Dean agreed to you throwing him a birthday party, he’d had one condition. No presents. You’d huffed at that, rolling your eyes with an annoyed smile.
“Come on, Dean,” you’d tilted your head to your right shoulder, “what about if we all get you a joint present?” Dean had shaken his head. Said “there’s nothing I want.”
He had lied, though. Dean did want something for his birthday. He wanted you.
You’ve been a part of the Winchester brothers’ lives for four years now. On a mission from Crowley to find an Alpha Arachne, they’d wandered upon you separating the head of the monster-of-the-week from its body with a particularly sharp blade you named ‘The Fairy Godmother’.
“Because she grants their wish for death after I’m done with them.”
Dean had rolled his eyes, smirking. Scoffed a sharp laugh at your words – undecided if you were too smart for your own good like most young hunters are, but in all honesty, a little turned on at your sureness. After you swiftly split one newborn vamp from head to chest and another from shoulder to breastbone, however, during an accidental team-up when the three of you were ambushed two weeks later in what you had all thought was an abandoned mansion with maybe five or six – not nineteen – vampires, Dean realised that you were right. He never questioned your abilities again.
You were like a stray cat back then. Surviving on nothing and anything. Smart, self-dependent, and sceptical. You still are those things, just a little more... settled, now. Like a well-loved, but still slightly feral, house cat.
They didn’t see you again after that night until one of the very few times where you’d bitten off more than you could chew a couple months later in a few states west.
It took Sam knifing a demon in the back about to perform biokinesis on you – hanging upside from the ceiling, bound by your feet – and Dean carrying your pummelled and bruised body, limp from exhaustion and bone-deep pain, back to their motel room and tending to your wounds for you to consider their friendship.
But you’d slotted so quickly and easily into their lives after that moment that the three of you didn’t know how you’d ever lived without each other.
And friendship had blossomed just as swiftly and effortlessly – a genuine buckle your knees from gut-punching laughter; look for first in a crowded room; always have your back, front, and side; and tell your deepest, darkest secrets to but maybe not the type of secret that ruins a friendship secret friendship.
And Dean’s deepest, darkest secret?
He’s fucking in love with you. Despite his damn hardest attempts at suffocating the feeling, smothering it with a pillow over the face and burying in the mud that tiniest glimmer of hope that you could like him – because he didn’t want to ruin something good with something bad like him – he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help being in love with you. In every humanly and unearthly way possible.
And he really shouldn’t be. He’s completely and utterly undeserving. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
But man, he couldn’t help trying to impress you. It made him a bit dorky, drowning in emotion rather than confidently swimming in his usual womaniser swagger.
He practically always opens Baby’s door for you (barking at Sam to get in the back when you’re under the weather and need to see the road ahead, and sometimes even when you’re not sick and he just wants to sit next to you), he’ll get you your favourite snack from every Gas-N-Sip without you ever having to ask because “you need to have your energy, gorgeous”, and he pinches you affectionately when he tries to compliment you and tell you that you’re beautiful (you’ll shoot him a suffering look, squirm, tell him “shut up, Dean”).
He always asks if you’d like the last chip to his burger meal (even if he’s still a little hungry) – but you also do the same for him, so that’s just a little thing that you do for each other that Dean thinks is just what best friends do.
He’ll puff out his chest and stand a little taller when you’re near (because maybe you’ll look his way again), make sure he’s walking your pace to keep in time with your steps just so he can maybe bump your arm or leg or hip; he has your favourite hangover drink prepped and ready for you in his bedroom the next morning after a night of always well-earnt drinking (he’s totally not Pavlov-ing you, at least not intentionally), and he lets (read: welcomes when) you lean on him while he rubs your back to help you fall asleep. He really likes doing the last one.
But he was sure you thought he was joking, just messing around with you or something. Being friendly. He didn’t know how to show you he meant everything he did. But maybe you did know he was being more than just friendly. You just simply weren’t interested. And he never wanted you to feel pressured to be with him – romantically or platonically or familial-ly. After all, he was poison. Everything he touches turns rotten or gets hurt and dies.
You’re giggling with Charlie over by the large wooden table that you’ve pulled from somewhere and set in the middle of the room. She’s closest to Dean while you stand over on the side of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign, moving this and that on the table to make room for more things, animatedly talking and bustling, smiling broadly. A mountain of bowls is filled with Dean’s favourite snacks, party ha– is that liquorice?
Dean sighs. Fuck, you really do know him.
A soft black top is fitted across you. The neck cuts just below where the line of your breasts begins, the curve of your chest contoured sensually yet delicately. He’s seen this one before, once on a hunt when you had to flirt with a local greasy cop to get much needed information on some Djinn victims after Sam and Dean had blown their FBI cover before they’d even been able to use it there.
Dean’s jaw tics at the memory of the cop’s eyes gliding over your clothed breasts at the front of the small country town station while him and Sam had sat in the car, two sets of binoculars out. You’d smiled, before slowly and calculatedly sliding your right hand across your collarbone to move your hair behind your shoulder so that the cop’s eyes would be drawn to your chest unobstructed.
He’d glanced down, Adam’s apple bobbing as he took a gulp, and peeked at your bare, beautiful skin and the swell of your breasts while you were asking him about any possible leads he had. Jackass. But who could blame him – Dean does it himself all the time. When his eyes had returned back to yours, you’d tilted your head in the exact same way you had when you begged to please get Dean a birthday present.
Dean couldn’t hear what the cop had said to you, but he made out the words “copy”, “file”, and “just for you”. The sleasebag had smirked and winked slyly at you, walking inside the station – a disgusting bile of venom and detest crawling up from Dean’s stomach or some other sordid, rotting dark hole from within him, an almost snarl twitching across his mouth – while you turned quickly to the car to give them a covert grin with a thumbs up – before the cop came back out with a copy of the investigation file and gave it to you. When he handed over the file, Dean had noticed a little piece of torn paper accompanying it. You’d noticed it, too, looking down at it with your mouth slightly gaping, eyebrows raising gently. Sam had chuckled, impressed, but Dean had scoffed and rolled his eyes hard; he knew without so much as even seeing what was on that shitty little piece of paper that the douchebag was telling you to call him. When you had looked back up at the cop, it was with a small shy smile as you nodded and pocketed it. It had looked like a genuine smile, too... When you got back to the car, Sam hadn’t even let you buckle your seatbelt before he jumped you from the front passenger seat and interrogated you about what was on the paper. You’d flushed bright, not meeting either of their eyes as you handed Sam the file and shuffled a little in your seat. “Nothing important”, you had muttered, but unable to hide the bashful upturn of your lips.
Dean hadn’t been able to show the same enthusiasm as his moose of a little brother had, keeping his face emotionless (or at least he had tried to) and frozen to the front as Baby’s engine roared into start. Extra loud just to piss off the jerk still standing at the landing of the station’s cement entry steps. His grip on the steering wheel was bone-breaking all the way back to the motel as Sam flicked through the file’s pages, reading out key bits of information. Dean hadn’t dared turn to look at you, he knew it would carve a cavity into his heart that would tar beyond recognition, but his eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror to still see you. Watch you. You just stared out the window, head forward but jaw resting on the palm of your right hand, left arm tucked across your waist, eyes almost unfocused with an odd expression on your face Dean couldn’t decipher, occasionally adding a quick hmm or a soft that’s interesting to Sam’s monologue.
Dean was in a foul mood for the rest of that day as a result – couldn’t wait to leave the shitty town and its stupid slimy cop in a blast of dust torn up from Baby’s back wheels – but the three of you managed to chop the monster’s head off with a silver knife and lamb’s blood that very night. He’d had no right to be mad – not at you, just mad in general – because after all, you’d saved the day with your breasts. And he’d never had the guts to make a genuine move on you before then. Because he didn’t deserve you.
If that had happened while Dean had the Mark, though, that wouldn’t have mattered; he would’ve flung open the car door long before that ugly piece of paper had even been passed to you or thought of – as soon as the cop’s salacious gaze had dropped to ravage your chest even though that was the whole point of what you were doing – stalked silently over to you both while you were still talking, seized the cop’s left arm and snapped it so quickly, so effortlessly – like it was a pathetic matchbox stick and the only thing that would light and torch that stupid scribble of his out of existence – that the jackass’ collar bone would tear right through his skin with a scream.
A low burning sensation on Dean’s right forearm pulls him back to the present. He absentmindedly scratches at the Mark, taking another swig of his souring beer and refocusing on you.
Dean can’t hear what you and Charlie are talking about – the music and close-by chatter blocks his ears – but whatever you say to her makes her grip her stomach and keel over laughing, hard. You lean back, hips shifting forwards in a laugh that echoes Charlie’s.
He can tell you’ve had three, maybe four drinks by the way all your movements, reactions, sounds are amplified. Eased.
Dean likes when you’re tipsy. You get this soft rosy glow on your cheeks that makes you look otherworldly, if that was even more possible; your body moves in loose rolls, hips swaying in a way that makes Dean’s head so dizzy. Your head will lean back impossibly further than usual when you laugh, just like it is now, and your eyes and nose crinkle sweetly where they meet. And man, you giggle at everything. It makes Dean’s chest go all warm and fuzzy.
You also flirt with him more.
Is flirt the right word? Dean thinks.
But you’re definitely different. You touch him more, differently. You laugh at him more, differently. You look at him more, differently.
He knows he has some sort of sexual effect on you. A quiet part of him thinks you might feel the same way about him as he does for you, but the fear that maybe you’re just being nice to him, or that maybe you are attracted to him but wouldn’t want all of him – the dark, ugly, putrid parts that are the true him, the true Dean – keeps him sober enough from getting drunk on any thought of love. After all, life was never that good to Dean – it would give him small, flickering good, like you holding his hand with a soft smile, laughing at his crappy jokes, leaning into his chest with a sweet sigh – but never something good like you loving him. So he holds his breathe in those moments, hoping that when he does die, again, it will be during one of those good.
And maybe he does indulge just a little in the moments where he can get you... bothered.
Dean wishes you had come with him earlier in the day when Sam and Cas had forced him out the front door of the bunker for an “obligatory birthday drink”. Maybe he could’ve sat next to you, thigh-to-thigh, in the booth of the shitty little bar a town over they had driven him to and whispered in your ear about the particularly nasty and detailed dream he’d had the night before about you cumming with his face shoved in between your plush thighs just from him moaning into your sopping wet folds. He would have simpered it hotly into your ear just low enough so that Sammy and Cas wouldn’t – no, couldn’t have heard him, right? The reaction you would give Dean at the mere thought they had heard him would be worth it all if they had. Just to see you blush. Hear your breath catch in your throat. Whine. Maybe see you press your legs together to find some friction. Would your eyes have rolled back? Gone black with hunger, desperation, need for him?
But you and Charlie had needed Dean out of the bunker so that you had full range to decorate the place in all sorts of loud and obnoxious ornaments that reminded him yet another year had taken yet another piece of him with it. So, in spite of the Mark just to please you, Dean had pushed down the displeasure festering from the infliction and left.
When you pass a plate to Charlie and walk around the table to her side, he can see that you’re wearing a dark burgundy skirt. It finishes midthigh. His breath hitches, painfully.
It’s a rare look from you. You’re normally all blood and grime. Filth plastered across your full cheeks, splattered down your forearms where your sleeves are pulled up and shading all the dips and curves, staining your jeans fitted tight over your ass. If Dean’s being honest, though, seeing you like that gets him going in ways that it really shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t end up looking like that after nearly every hunt...
Your bare legs are a new sight, however. Of course, Dean’s seen your legs before; when you’re sitting all comfy and warm in your sleep shorts just before bed on the couch next to him (you’ve got this one pair that gapes deliciously in between your thighs – and the amount of times he’s fisted his throbbing cock in the darkness of his bedroom to the idea of sliding them and your underwear to the side so he could drive his thick cock in and out of your pulsing and gushing core over the couch arm...), or first thing in the morning in the kitchen when you yawn and stretch the sleep out so hard that your bed shirt rises just a little, and he can see your stomach extend (he has this idea that you’re most sensitive on your left side and so when he does open-mouth kiss and suck and bite at it, that’s where you would moan and whimper the most and loudest), or when you’re fresh out of the shower, goosebumps rising and water still clinging to your skin here and there (he’s growled at the thought of how you would actually feel when you’re wet and covered in slick).
But the finish of your skirt showing off the gentle lines of muscles and softness of your legs is making Dean want to slowly, messily, teasingly lick all the way up the inside of your warm thighs. He wonders how many times he’d have to do it until you begged him to fill every inch of you up with him and his cock, his cum.
And then there’s your ass. What he wouldn’t do t– well, fuck. You’re bending over the table to grab, what, a camera? that you’ve left on the other side, mindlessly lifting your right leg to give yourself some extra reach, tiptoeing on your left foot, and your skirt rides up. Just a little. But it’s enough to make him question if you’re wearing any underwear. Dean has to stifle a groan. Almost chokes. His eyelids closing briefly as his eyes roll back in absolute need. An ache is building in his balls, dick already hard against his left thigh.
The Mark is telling, demanding him to just walk over to you, grab the back of your neck and turn you so that you face him, and take you right there on the table. The bowls and plates you’ve set so neatly and precisely would smash into millions of pieces on the floor as he shoved them to make room for your back, his mouth latched to yours as he kissed you hard and wet, teeth clashing and hot spit drooling. The wooden table would rattle, scratching the floor with every grind and rut of his hips into yours.
He wouldn’t tear your clothes – he knows how attached you are to them, even if the Mark wants them obliterated – but they’d be snatched from your body within seconds.
And that sweet slide of him into you? Fuck. He can feel you clenching and vibrating around his thick cock, wet squelching every time he bottoms out. The most pornographic moans spilling from your mouth shattering in the air of the war room. Your legs would fold around Dean, heels digging into the flexing muscles of his ass to spur him on and keep him close. Inside you.
Oh how scandalised everyone would be. Let them see. See how fucking badly he wants you. Needs to be buried deep within your soaked heat. How good he would be at fucking you until you were sobbing and screaming his name. Cumming hard again and again around his dick like it was the last thing you’d ever be able to do. Fucked stupid. And Dean – Dean would just keeping fucking your ruined pussy through each and every one of his own orgasms because he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to stop once he started. Your beautiful, hot collective mess dripping onto the floor.
He doesn’t want anybody else to see you like that – naked, desperate, wanting – ever again. Only him.
Dean never used to allow himself to think too long about you in that way. You were one of his best friends. And you had been for years. With him and Sam through the thick and thin.
You had your own bedroom in the bunker, decorated with all these things that were just so uniquely you; brushed your teeth together with Dean every night (which Sam had aptly – but not without a teasing edge – named “your special night time routine”, which you both always rolled your eyes at); watched reruns of both yours and his favourite tv shows (no matter how many times he refuses to say he enjoys it and was actually invested in your trashy guilty-pleasure one); patched each other up carefully and tenderly after particularly bad and painful hunts; and did each other’s laundry because “that just makes your life easier that way”. Dean hates reading, but he’d listen to you read aloud a book, an encyclopedia, the back of a fucking Betty Crocker cake mix, any day.
The outlandish and the mundane. Anything and everything just to be in your presence.
And best friends don’t think about each other like that – naked and skin on skin, grinding and rolling into each other, biting and panting and licking, marking one another as theirs – right? That’s how Dean used to think.
But sometimes, when he was deep in sleep, and his mind bypassed any sort of humanly control he had over himself, he’d dream about kissing you. It would usually be in different places; maybe the bunker’s kitchen, in the backseat of Baby, at a low-lit bar, or during an intense hunt because you just finally couldn’t keep your hands off of him for any longer – but his favourite setting was definitely in your bed. Where the soft sheets and fluffy pillows exuded your perfume, your shampoo, and simply you, and enveloped all Dean’s senses. There would be careful touching and heated grabbing, the soft and rough feeling of all over each other. His hands would be everywhere, tracing every inch and curve of your body. Yours would be tangled in his hair and clawing up his back or down his arms. The two of you moving together, pressing, pulling, grinding. And then there were the sounds you both would make when he’d hit that sweet spongey spot deep inside your clenching walls – the one where your stomach would go hot and gooey and his cock would twitch violently and desperately – everything just building, building, building until it all just...
He would wake up messy and ashamed the next morning. Whenever he saw you that day, a suffocating heat would sprout in his chest, sit heavy in his stomach, vine up his spine, prickle on his face, and grow – despite his hardest objections – in his groin.
But that was before the Mark.
Now, Dean spends most nights groaning into a pillow and cumming into his hand or on his lower stomach at least once, maybe twice before bed to all the obscene positions he could have you in. He had to move onto toilet paper to clean himself up after an off-handed comment from his brother about how quickly the three of you seemed to be going through tissue boxes despite no one being sick.
Around two months ago, while you and Dean were doing your laundry together, you’d cursed and bent over the washing machine to reach down its side to pick up a fallen sock. He’d already been watching you from behind your back, fantasising about you on your knees and desperately gagging on his thick cock and clawing at his thighs while the washing machine rattled, begging desperately Dean Dean please cum down my throat, when he spotted a dirty pair of your underwear on top of your laundry basket by your feet. They were black, with a little flower pattern and lace trim, also black. He hadn’t even thought twice or blinked before moving silently like he was hunting a monster to grab and stuff them in the back pocket of his jeans. Poor, sweet you hadn’t noticed – too busy groping blindly and huffing after your runaway clothing – then returning the heels of your feet to solid ground and turning to Dean with a huff, your brows pulled and eyes soft, a little pout as you asked if he could reach it. He’d given you a casual smile, with a sure, princess, before he’d effortlessly fished out your sock and thrown it in the machine.
Later that day, after you had brushed your teeth together and gone to bed, Dean had walked very quickly to his room – his dick already straining against his jeans and leaking with pre-cum – and locked the door with sacrilegious precision. He didn’t think anyone would be coming in, but he wanted to make sure that he would definitely not be interrupted. He’d practically jumped onto the bed, lust and impatience discarding all his clothing in a path of destruction and hunger to the mattress, and reached into the bedside table to take out your dirty underwear that it’d been safeguarding since that morning. His erect cock taut against his lower abdomen had jerked at the mere sight of them again. The soft lacing an almost unbearable texture as he rubbed them in between his index finger and thumb, making a low tension blossom in his stomach.
His right hand had tentatively gripped his cock, stilling for a second. Something in the back of his horny-filled brain had banged on the door to his self-control and respectability centre and screamed at him hey, this is weird. This is really fucking wrong. That shame he knew all too well had started to prickle the nape of his neck, seeping down each vertebrae of his spine.
But then another voice spoke, from somewhere inside his mind’s control room.
I don’t care. I want it, the voice had hummed. It was one much lower, sinister, indiscernible – like it was floating in the air, infecting anything and everything inside that room. He knew it was the Mark.
With a shaky breath, Dean’s left hand had pushed the inner gusset into his face, specifically his nose and mouth, so that he could breathe you in in every possible way. They’d smelt so good; a heady euphoric mixture of your lotion, a little bit of sweat, and the light musky but sweet warm scent of your cunt – and the kick it gave him? Went straight to his fucking head and balls.
A deep groan shattered in the darkness of the bedroom, his mouth watering, brows scrunching, and his right hand began slowly jerking and twisting his slickening cock.
And with the first uncontrolled thrust of his hips into his hand, Dean forgot that dying voice of reason and sensibility.
He’d pictured you. Above him. Sitting on his face; the inner part of warm, lush thighs pressing firm against the sides of his face and scratching along his stubble with every grind down and roll of your hips, knees spread wide apart. His large, rough hands were looped around your thighs, holding you secure to his hot and pooling tongue and mouth, his solid nose and jaw. His fingers gripping into the soft fat, moving muscles. Whines and huffs of air spilling from your lungs, eyes rolling back not in the cute way you do when you scold him or he tells a particularly bad (but charming) joke, but in utter pleasure. Ethereal in every aspect.
Man, it had been the best orgasm of his life. The Mark had made his blood burn in ecstasy, pumping the drug-like sensation through every nerve running from his toes to his fingertips to his head. His hot spendings splattering across his hand and heavily heaving stomach and chest – a bit even reaching the hollow of his neck – ruining the bedsheets below him as his hips had bucked uncontrollably and he’d moaned your name repeatedly, unashamedly loud, and a little pathetically into the crotch of your underwear. A burning rush coursing his lungs that felt not like he was weightless and flying, but backflipping off a cliff into open ocean. Only when he had finally resurfaced, gasps subsiding into full breaths, and turned to grab some toilet paper to clean himself of his mess, did he realise he’d been so eager to cum that he’d forgotten to get a new roll.
He’d paused. Right hand and arm hung mid-air. Then he looked down at your soft used black underwear, still in his left hand. The voice that used to be in charge of his self-control and respectability centre was nowhere to be seen or heard as he’d slowly moved your clothing across his stomach and chest to wipe away the drying white liquid. It had sent a new hot wave of arousal straight to his stomach and balls, his dick already hardening again and a groan clawing from his throat as he savoured the view of his cum mixing with your dirty underwear. You and him. Together.
He’d been chasing that feeling again every night since. But no pornographic fantasy could match or even come close to it. He knew then it would only happen again when you finally let him inside you.
Maybe Dean’s not changing. Maybe he’s always been this perverted for you. He just needed the Mark to show him who he really was.
Dean raises his right hand to neck the remainder of his beer as you, camera in-hand, start towards where he, Sam, and Garth are standing together by the wall. You’ve got an off-kilter bounce, swaying a little side to side with each step, and a big rich smile on your face. A quiet grin tugs on Dean’s face and he can feel a warm glow dancing across his heart and lungs and ribcage. The Mark also tingles. That’s one thing that neither the hunter lifestyle nor the Mark has taken away from him – you. Yet. He hopes it never will. He’ll have to wait until his next birthday to find out, though.
The conversation between Sam and Garth peters off as they both notice you approaching. When you reach them, Dean realises you’re holding something behind your back with your left hand, but he can’t see it.
“Hi, boys,” you chime, your eyes darting to all of their faces in greeting. Garth happily nods his head in an upwards motion as an acknowledgment. Sam returns your smile and says your name.
“Hey there, gorgeous.” Dean replies gravelly, tilting his head a little to the left. Your eyes dip to the floor. There’s that beautiful blush.
From the corner of his left eye, Dean can see his younger brother give him a weird, almost inquisitive look – eyes narrowing, brows creasing a little, mouth slightly parting as if he’s about to say something but decides against it.
Sammy had once – maybe two and a bit years ago – tried to ask Dean (key word: tried) if he had feelings for you. Dean had almost punched him in the jaw for even suggesting such a thing, the glare alone warning the younger brother he’d done something he probably shouldn’t have.
Dean was glad Sam was a university-educated man and knew not to ask him about it again. And he never did.
But in all honest truth, he did actually have feelings for you then. Dean just hadn’t known himself that he did, or maybe he was just figuring it out and didn’t want to put a name to it. He’s never been very good with letting people in. Or allow himself to feel anything beyond self-disgust.
So that night, in true Dean-fashion, he’d gone to a local dive bar and made out with some chick in the disabled bathroom to forget about the whole situation – Sammy asking, and the whole idea that he maybe liked, or even wanted, you in more than just a best friend way. It just so happened, a total coincidence, that the girl Dean had chosen looked like you.
But he doesn’t like to think about that night. Dean knows now that nobody could compare to you.
And now, he wants everyone – especially you – to know how much he wants you. Needs you. He can thank the Mark for that possessive flare.
“I, uh,” you stutter, pulling your left arm from behind your back, “forgot to give you guys these earlier.” Three party hats stacked like a matryoshka doll appear in front of you.
With a cheeky smile, you move your hand in front of Garth for him to take a purple one, then to Sam for the blue one, “and a sparkly green one for the special birthday boy”. As you hand the final one to Dean, he deliberately glides his left hand over your own. He can feel the softness and warmth of your backhand with his calloused fingertips as he runs them smoothly from underneath your hand to the tips of your fingers along the bones, before slowly grabbing the angular hat from you. Your eyes meet Dean’s green ones, holding his gaze. He notices you’re not as flushed now, but a rosy air still floats on your cheeks.
God, he thinks, if only you knew what I’d do to have you.
Not just in the biblical sense. Not a hot one night tangle of legs and grinding of bodies where you wake up the next morning filled with embarrassment or regret or that was fun, but I don’t want anything serious with you. He knows that would cauterise him so severely he’d never able to feel anything ever again.
He needs to be more than a body that could comfort you for a few hours during the dark of night. He needs you for the whole night. And for the next morning, the day, and evening, too.
He would do anything you asked him to, if he hadn’t already made that abundantly clear.
He’d fight – no, slaughter every demon, angel, monster, and human to have you be his and he be yours. Tear not just every limb from limb, but snap every single bone as easily as a rotten branch in the middle of winter.
Dean stares so intensely into your eyes like he’s trying to communicate that through some hoodoo or something. The way you’re looking back at him, as if you’re also trying to tell him that – that you would do all that for him – makes him feel like a summer wind is sweeping through his chest to feed the bushfire sparking there, his veins carrying the embers across and throughout his body to ignite and be entirely engulfed by you.
He’s sure you can feel it, too. Or maybe it's the Mark’s doing.
Garth is already sporting the purple decoration – visibly excited – and Sam is just pulling back the elastic of his own blue one under his chin and sliding the hat over his forehead when your eyes leave Dean’s, and he’s so sure that your pupils are a little bit bigger, eating at the colour of your irises. You take a big inhale through your nose before your mouth parts and you suck in air. Your chest moves with the breath, and Dean watches your clothed breasts also rise.
He shifts a little in his jeans, his dick throbbing between the soft cotton of his briefs and his muscular thigh. He can’t help that he likes seeing the ways something he says or does affects you. It makes him feel high. Indomitable. Yours.
“Dean, don’t grumble,” you start as if you’re approaching a wild animal that could rip your throat out in a blink, your right hand holding the camera and raising it to your chest with a repeated twist of your wrist, “but I’m going to be taking some photos now.” Sam chuckles, giving his brother a knowing side glance before turning around and taking a few steps to his left to bend down and put his beer bottle on the floor away from their feet. Garth does the same to the right of Dean.
But Dean’s still looking at you.
Impossible to look away, turn away. Not that he wants to.
It’s just you and him in that moment.
No noise. No smell or taste. No background and no foreground. Simple.
And then, there’s that tilt again to your right shoulder, a sweet smile flowering.
Anything for you, he thinks.
With a fake exasperated huff and roll of his eyes – a quiet smirk threatening to give away his irritated and tough guy persona – Dean turns his back to you briefly and follows Sam and Garth’s movements, his empty beer bottle clinking twice on the cement, before returning to face you and shuffling back in between the other two to pose.
Dean places his right arm around Garth’s shoulder while his left settles across Sam’s back. He pulls them both in tight so that they sit in the pit of his shoulder and arm joints, and for a second, he feels Sam freeze, then relax and return the gesture by placing his right arm along Dean’s shoulders and neck. Sam’s right hand just reaches Garth, whose left arm pulls Dean into a firm side hug. Dean notices the tension still vaguely emanating from Sam, his back muscles stiff against Dean’s forearm and bicep, breath stilled almost completely like he’s worried he’ll scare off Dean if he so much as thinks too loudly. Sam attempts to regain his composure with a small exhale he tries to shelter.
But Dean doesn’t react. He’s sure that Sam is probably taken aback by the unexpected show of brotherly love and something he hopes might mean the Mark’s dark hold is dwindling and Dean is finally coming back to himself.
You grin at the scene of your friends together, then take a few steps back, closing one eye and squinting with the other as you raise the camera to your face. You take a step forward, then half a step back. “Ah! There we go.” You hum, clearly happy and satisfied with the framing of the scene in front of you.
The two boys on either side of Dean smile broadly, genuinely. And it’s not that Dean’s faking it – his smile is just as big – but he’s definitely putting some of it on for you.
“Okay, guys. Here we go. 3...2...1...aaaand...”
The camera makes an electronic beep as your index finger pushes down on the button.
You exhale quick. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna also take one with the flash – ‘s that alright?”. Your face stays covered behind the viewfinder as you flip the camera between landscape and portrait to figure out the best angle.
You’re so cute when you’re focused.
The three boys all respond with a variation of yes, and you count down again. The electronic beep sounds, and then there’s a flash.
“Ohhh perfect!” you gush, bouncing on your toes as you pull the camera down to flick between the two photos. You’re so giddy with excitement. Pure elation. “Really perfect, guys. You all look great.” Your eyes shift up to look at the three of them, and a warmth glides across Dean’s chest again and melts into his lungs to dissolve any air that keeps him upright.
The Mark makes it all finally clear at that moment. Dean knows then that he has to do something. Tonight. No more questioning. No more holding back.
He’s allowed to have you.
An idea – simple, easy to execute – pops into his mind. “Can we see it, sweetheart?” Dean calls, voice dripping in honey. Sure, he wants to see a photo of the people he cares about smiling and happy, but in honest reality? He’s really plotting to get you close to him.
Your mouth opens in an ahh as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that the boys would want to see the photo.
You shuffle over with a happy wiggle, hair swaying side to side behind your back with each quick step, and stop right in front of Dean so that the three boys can all see the camera. Your back is but a few centimetres away from his chest.
Sam and Garth both lean in over each one of your shoulders, a small section of muscle or bone or maybe a piece of clothing touching you in a reasonable, close friendship way. A rush of searing jealously and anger surges through Dean’s veins, an acrid tang to his mouth, his right arm stiffening and hand flexing suddenly and painfully, and he knows it’s the Mark. A violent scene of brown beer bottles smashing, jaggered glass piercing pink skin, and thick, red blood trickling down Dean’s hands and fingers onto the bunker’s harsh grey cement floor flashes in front of his eyes.
Pure corruption of even the most innocuous.
But Dean inhales, steady and quietly. Closes his eyes for just a second and focuses on you. He will not let himself be consumed by the Mark. For you, he can’t afford to. But he will listen to it when it tells him he’s allowed to want, love, have you. He’s forbidden himself from you for far too long.
Dean can feel the warmth rippling from your body, and it calls to him like he’s a ship lost at sea; dark, crashing waves tearing him apart piece by piece and swallowing him into the cold unknown abyss, and you – a lighthouse, his lighthouse – are a glowing, warm light, the only thing that could guide him to safety. Come to me, Dean, you call. Come home.
It’s like the Mark wants you to save him.
Dean opens his eyes, then closes the tiny space between you and him by calculatedly pressing his solid frame firm to your softer body. Your heat is heavenly. Intoxicating. It makes the blood flowing to the Mark thrum loud with each heartbeat.
The new lack of space between you both means Dean’s chin is now angled at the crown of your head. He’s never been quite this close to you in this way before and his head starts to swim. He shifts his face a little, tilting his jaw to brush the left side of your own face so that it rests just above your ear. His stubble makes a scratching sound against your hair, and a tingle runs over his nose, spreading across his cheeks and running down his neck before flowing out to his fingertips through his arms. His nostrils flare at the scent of your shampoo as it hits his lungs like smoke. Or maybe it’s your conditioner. Whatever it is, it smells good. He needs more.
Dean’s right hand has relaxed now, and he moves it from his side to place it on the clothed curve of your waist, the triangle hollow between his index finger and thumb shaping to the dip. The pad of his thumb nestles against a lower bone of your rib set, his other fingers splaying across your front. He fits like he belongs there. Because he does.
This wouldn’t be the first time he’s touched or grabbed your waist, but those times have never been quite this intimate. This good.
You lean back into him, your lower back arching a little to shape to him, mindlessly. You try to hold the camera still for the boys behind you to look at the first photo, but it shakes a little in your grip.
From this new angle where you’re resting against each other, Dean can see the way your eyelashes dust your rosy cheeks as you pulse and breathe. A wave of tenderness he’s still learning to feel, to understand, floods his brain and heart, and he wants to feel them against his fingertips when he touches your face, or watch them flutter with each claiming thrust of his cock gliding in and out of your dripping and tightening cunt, burying himself so deeply inside you before pulling out almost all the way, just to the swollen ridge of his cock head, before driving himself into your heat again and watching your pretty eyes roll back with your pretty eyelashes.
The fabric of your shirt is soft against Dean’s rough fingers. He begins to rub your side with his thumb. Slow. Certain. Claiming.
A small, sharp sound escapes you. It’s the type of deep inhale you take to fill in your lungs when you’ve forgotten to take a proper breath in a while. Automatic. Natural.
After all, you’ve been running around like a headless chicken for the last four hours, setting up decorations, preparing food and booze, and doing everything else in your quiet devoted way for the party. Never demanding or even expecting Dean’s attention, but always receiving it. Never wanting anything from him like everybody else did. But even if you did, he’d give you anything and everything you ever wanted.
That would make sense in Sam and Garth’s brains, Dean rationalises – your breathing being wonky after making sure that everyone, especially Dean, was having a good time.
But Dean knows that isn’t what made you reset your nervous system.
A deep heat pools lowly in Dean’s groin at this divine knowledge, his dick stiffening impossibly harder between his left jean leg and thigh, and he suddenly realises he’s started leaking as his briefs wet with pre-cum. His hand petting your waist flexes and he bites back a groan that almost chokes him.
“Alrighty”, you hum with a rising inflection at the end, “here’s the first photo”, and your head lulls back onto Dean’s right shoulder as you turn to look from Sam to Garth to see their faces and gauge their reactions. Dean almost breaks his spine fighting the urge to grind his hips into your ass.
“...aaand here’s the second one.” Your head tilts forward to look back at the camera, and it guts Dean to feel your warmth and weight leave his chest. He almost follows you forward, chasing your body. But then you return as quickly as you left, and there’s this proud smile on your face as you look at the photo that makes any pain Dean could ever battle wash away.
Your head turns quickly from left to right again to look at Sam and Garth, but then you glide your head to the edge of Dean’s right shoulder and look up at him.
“What do you think, Birthday Boy?” Your left cheek rests into Dean’s chest, the question vibrating through your body, and Dean can feel it ripple in his chest and fingers, and he knows he’s meant to be looking at the camera, but you’re so beautiful like this. He should just lean down and kiss you there. He will kiss you there.
He goes to move, but stops himself almost immediately. A sharp sting cracks across his right forearm, and his lungs constrict.
The Mark is screaming at him. Do it. Take her here. Take her now.
But Dean knows he won’t be able to stop himself once his mouth is on your skin. He wants to worship every single part of you and draw out all your holy sounds in every way possible. And he needs a bed for that.
So instead, he tightens his grip on your right side and drops his voice, gravel smothered in honey, “Perfect.” Dean’s green eyes lock onto your soft lips, pausing for a breath before moving to your left eye – a pause again, slightly shorter, though – then across to your right, and he’s not talking about the photos.
You blink up at him, a little dumbly, mouth parting slightly, and now your breathing is really wonky.
A satisfied smirk curves on his face at your reaction. Good.
Someone’s calling your name, but you don’t respond. You’re still staring up at him, dropping your gaze to Dean’s plush lips as he wets the bottom part with the tip of his tongue. He applies more pressure to your waist as his thumb begins to rub deeper, and he can see a dark, needy look growing in your eyes. The air between you two feels like it’s disappearing, pulling your bodies together as if the other was the only source of oxygen to fill your collapsing lungs.
Sam clears his throat, a dry cough climbing from his chest, and Dean knows without looking that his brother is pressing his lips to a thin line, eyes flickering awkwardly around the room and rubbing the skin between his left cheek and nose bridge with his left thumb nail. Neither of you seem to actually notice him – well, Dean consciously chooses to ignore him.
Your name echoes through the war room again, and your eyes leave Dean’s to find the source of sound. Dean follows your gaze, not before he takes in a maybe not-so-subtle glance at the exposed flesh of your clavicle and the top of your breasts, and he sees Charlie beckoning you with her left hand in rapid movements to come over to the other group where she’s handing out more party hats.
You take in a breath, nodding. “Coming, I’m coming!” you shout over the music, waving quickly in acknowledgement. You pull your head away from Dean’s shoulder – the Mark clawing at the bones and muscles in Dean’s chest to make you stay – and turn your head upwards, smiling warmly at the three boys to show your gratitude at letting you capture the memory.
Dean doesn’t immediately remove his hand from your waist, instead letting the palm of his hand and splayed fingers drag slowly down your hip, past your thighbone, to reach the end of your skirt. He considers slipping his index finger under the hem to graze your bare thigh, oh how warm and soft you’ll be...what sweet little sound will you make when my fingers touch you there?
His palm starts to prickle. Sweat. Just like the Mark is. And now his breath wavers. Goes wonky.
But before Dean acts on the thought, you start walking over to the other group, along with all the air that was just in his lungs.
And Dean’s not quite sure, but there might just be a sway in your hips that’s just for him.
Maybe you do know the affect you have on him. Maybe you do want him the way he wants you.
And man, Dean feels as though he’s run a marathon. Not that he’s ever done that, but still.
His eyes track you as his hand returns to the side of his jean-cladded thigh, and the growing wet patch in his briefs where the swollen tip of his dick is pulsing is ruining.
Dean can feel Sam’s stare singeing the hair and burning the skin on the left side of his face – did Sam see the way he was watching you? Maybe his fingers skirting the flesh of your bare thigh? Or was it his breathing? – before the younger brother turns around to grab both his own and Garth’s unfinished beer bottles on the ground.
Dean doesn’t answer the look, though. You’re far too captivating.
Your body is bopping unrhythmically to Blondie’s Rapture playing on the speakers as you cross the bunker’s floor. Dean chuckles lowly at the sight, his eyebrows scrunching and heart imploding, and the feeling seems to cool the burn of the Mark like a balm. If you turned back and saw him laughing at you ‘dancing’, you’d blame it on the alcohol in your system, but Dean knows better – you just move like that when you’re happy. You pass the wooden table, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them into your mouth, before continuing over to a congregated group of Charlie, Cas, Sonny, Jody, Rudy, and Donna, who are all laughing at something Cas has said. Probably his new (attempt at a) joke about a box of antique coins that were so worn out he couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Funny.
As you reach the other group, there’s a sudden movement in front of Dean’s chest, fracturing his fixation on you. He looks down slightly, and Garth is holding out a cold and freshly opened beer bottle for him. Dean’s eyes meet Garth’s, who gives him a closed but warm smile, tilting the bottle towards Dean. He takes it with a quick nod and a thanks.
The bottle is wet and icy against Dean’s heated palm and fingers. He can feel his pulse, each long thrum, against the numbing cool. He raises the bottle’s finish to his lips and takes a long swig, rolling his shoulders back with a relaxing shudder as he swallows the cold liquid and briefly closes his eyes.
Sam and Garth have resumed their chatting and positions on each of Dean’s sides when his eyes reopen. Dean looks towards the other group in search of you, but can’t find any inch. His brows crease.
“Think we’ll be summoned for a group photo?”, and Dean’s hunting gaze is broken, turning to look questioningly at his brother, who motions to the left of him with a jolt of his head.
Dean follows the movement and spots a tripod set up on the other side of the room, facing the wall of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign.
Garth does a full body rock on his toes, nodding his head several times in quick succession, “Yes. Yes, that’s very smart of you, Sam.”
Dean and Sam look back towards Garth, brows raised.
“Garth, are you drunk?” Sam interrogates with an astounded tone and smile.
The string bean rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, “Dudes, I’ve drunk two whole beers. Of course I’m drunk.”
And Dean, old Dean, without the grip of the Mark Dean, would have let out a hearty laugh.
He did laugh after the first time Garth got drunk. Remembers it well.
But it won’t feed the Mark, so Dean forces a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, shakes his head in a ‘disbelief’ manner, and pulls his jaw to his chest so that neither Sam nor Garth can actually read his face.
When Dean lifts his head back up, he sees Rudy, Donna, and Jody walking over. Donna has her classic broad grin, dragging an eye-rolling but smiling Jody along with her, while Rudy follows, playing with the white elastic of his red party hat.
“Hiya, boys!” Donna bubbles, coming to a stop in front of Dean with Jody on her left and Rudy to her right, “thought we’d come over and see what you rascals were up to.” She wiggles her eyebrows at the three of them in front of her.
Dean slides his arm to half hug, half clap Sam’s back, and looks at him with a sly, promising smile. “Sammy here was just telling Garth about the time we kicked ass at a Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie in good ol’ Kansas.”
Sam’s head snaps towards Dean in confusion, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Donna gasps in excitement, “Oh geez, that sounds scary!”
It definitely was for Sam.
Everyone’s eyes are completely locked on Sam. Dean can tell he’s still clearly confused, but because he’s Sam, he’ll play it off. He knows his brother too well. And Sam does, with a somewhat composed exhale and a squint of his eyes back at Dean, before starting the story.
Dean’s left arm returns to his own body as he takes another sip of his warming but still refreshing beer and smirks in triumph. He can finally plan tonight, now. With no interruptions.
oh guys i SOOO hope you like this one!! feedback and thoughts are ALWAYS welcome so please let me know <333333 can't wait for yall to read the next part - she is juicy juicy, genuinely just pure smut for like 10k of it.
and a MASSIVE MASSIVE thank you to my best friend @m3owdypartner for listening to all my dramas with this fic and being my sounding board - I LOVE YOU!!!
