MOSHI

You always open the door. 

Dean’s told you not to. He has these stupid code-words and questions you’re supposed to ask—riddles with strange answers like how do angels take their coffee, they don’t they prefer liquor, and does the king of hell like Tuesdays, yes, unless it’s his mother’s birthday—to make sure that it’s really him. Every time you open the door without asking them, he sighs and gives you a heavy look, refusing to cross the threshold until you play his little game. 

“You gotta ask-“

“But I know it’s you-“

“Could not be me. Could be something wearing my face, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this-“

“I know we have.” You cross your arms over your chest. “And I told you. I know it’s you.”

Dean makes a face, like he wants to smile. He’s trying to fight it, to keep the upper hand in the argument, but he always caves. You smile at him, and hold a hand out. 

“I could be a shifter.” He grunts, crossing his arms like he doesn’t trust himself not to take your hand. “Could be possessed. You been keepin’ the holy water like I-“

You toss it on his face, and giggle the way he barely even flinches. 

Dean wipes his face, eyes shining on yours, and you know you’ve won. 

Again. 

For a game he insists you play, he’s quite bad at winning. 

“Alright,” he smirks, slowly advancing through the door. “You’re gonna get it.”

You back away, smiling widely the whole time, and squeal as he chases you into your tiny apartment. There’s not much space for you to run—there’s barely enough space for Dean to fit—but you make do. He kicks the door closed and you retreat into the cluttered living room. You try to jump over the couch, but he catches you around the waist and you both fall into the cushion. When you wiggle a little for the show of it, Dean groans and hold you tighter against his chest. 

He noses at your neck, kissing the soft skin under your jaw, and you keep giggling. 

His presence does that to you. Makes you feel airy and foolish, the thrill of the coming days already buzzing over your skin, the joy in his return making you dizzy. 

Because you’re never sure he’s going to return.

He’s told you that one day, he might not. That if that happens, you’re not allowed to look for him. If you’re lucky, he’ll just be dead. 

“That’s lucky?” You’d asked, and he’d chuckled. 

You’d been lying on his bare chest, his fingers mindlessly tracing your arm. You know about what he gets up to, when he’s not here. Know about the longer shadows in the world, know why the fifth time he was here—when you both realized that maybe this wasn’t the no-strings thing he’d claimed it had to be—he spent the whole weekend quizzing you about monsters and installing security in your apartment. You have a strange circle on the ceiling of every room that your friends call an interesting decoration choice. There’s dead man’s blood in your freezer, holy water in a flask near the door, and an iron poker in your living room, no fireplace to pair with it. 

And you ask questions. So many questions. Dean says you’re worse than his brother sometimes, and you just kiss his nose because if he really found you annoying, he wouldn’t answer or bother to come back. 

That night, you’d been asking about the worst thing he’d fought. He’d paused, then said God’s sister, and forbade you from asking follow-ups. 

You’d ignored him. He couldn’t just say God’s sister then keep talking like that wasn’t fucking insane. It had only taken about two minutes to push him into saying the whole story. But when he’d finished, a long shadow had crossed his face. He’d held you a little closer, and given you the order to not look. You’d asked, because you always did. 

And he’d entertained you, because he always does. 

“Worse things than death, sweetheart.”

“Like what.” 

“Y’know. Things.”

You’d given him a flat look. “Dean.”

He’d just smiled back, drawling your name, and you’d lowered yourself down over his face. Hovered an inch away, scanning over his smug, handsome face with narrowed eyes. 

“Is there like, a Death two that you’re not telling me about?”

He’d snorted, running his hand through your hair. “Death two?”

You’d nodded, and he’d smiled up at you fondly.

“Nah. No death two.”

“Then what-“

“It’s- Nothin’ you wanna know about, baby, I promise-“

“Has it happened to you before?”

Dean had fallen silent. He’d let out a heavy breath, scanning over your face, and you’d dropped your brow over his. 

“Please?” You’d whispered, and back then—almost a year ago, now—you still hadn’t understood why it was so important to know everything about him that you could. 

You’d both been playing another one of his games. The one where he reminds you that this means nothing, and you act like that doesn’t split your soul in half. The one where Dean says that shit, then spends the whole weekend worshipping your body and treating it like it means everything, slowly stitching you back together. Then he leaves, and you promise him you won’t wait, and you both pretend to believe that you mean it. 

You always wait. You always take everything he gives you. Collect every little fact and story and scar, and keep them in a special valve in your heart. A reserve, for the time that he’s gone. It acts as a fuel, keeping your love for him burning and alive, each little bit feeding into the others until you’re less spending the pieces like currency, and more adding water to the flow of a river. It sustains itself. It only grows and grows, sacred and gentle. 

And you’re not sure if Dean feels the exact same. But he keeps coming back. He plays your games, letting you ask all your questions and collect your stories. 

He looks at you like this could be something. 

He touches you and speaks to you like he cares. 

“You really wanna know?” He’d muttered, and you’d nodded. “It ain’t pretty-“

“I know. Please.”

Dean had rubbed his mouth, looking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and caved. 

“There was this thing.” He’d said slowly, watching you so cautiously as he spoke. “Little while before we met. Whole shit with demons and Amara-“

“God’s sister.” You jump in quickly, because you want him to know you pay attention. 

He’d smiled softly. “Yeah. Her. Well, she’d been shoved in a cage, and I was wearing the lock, and- It didn’t do good things to me. It messes with your head, makes you… Angry. Angry and violent. Turned Lucifer into the devil, made Cain kill his brother, made me… Something.” He’d swallowed, eyes dropping to your chest. “Got me killed. But it doesn’t let you just die. It brings you back. Makes you a demon.”

“And… Did you-“

“Yeah.” 

“Oh.”

He’d nodded, trying to smile, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. You’d climbed a little further over his body, and just hugged him tight.

The tension had eased from his chest, as he hugged you back. When you’d looked up, there was something shining on his face that you hadn’t named as tears, but still wiped away gently. 

Dean had caught your hand, giving you a desperate, almost pleading look. 

 “You gotta promise.” He’d rasped. “If I walk out and don’t come back, you move on. ‘Cause if that shit happens again, and you find me- It ain’t me that you’d be finding, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” You’d whispered. “Promise.”

It had soothed him. He’d nodded, relaxed into the mattress, and pulled you down into a long kiss. 

And there are some things you don’t ask about. That you don’t really want to know. The kind of thing the Mark turned him into, what hell was like, the specifics of those nightmares he gets, where he wakes up with his limbs flailing and a wild, almost inhuman glint in his eyes.

He doesn’t seem to believe you, when you tell him that you like him how he is. He lets out that sad, huffing laugh and mutters you don’t know me, baby, and you just roll your eyes, and remind him that you do. 

You really do. 

You know Dean so well, for a stranger who’d been drowning in a bottle of whiskey at the bar downtown, and offered you the night of your life. Who’d said one time, then showed up on your door a month later. Then two months after that. Then three weeks, then another three, the one month again. 

Dean says he lies for a living. That it’s a big part of his job, and he’s pretty damn good at it. 

So either he’s a lot worse at his job than he’s led you believe, or he’s just really bad at lying to you.

Because he reminds you that he might not come back, every single time he goes. Reminds you that this—waving a hand between your bodies, backing up a whole step like he’s trying to remind himself—is still just fun. That’s it. 

You nod, and let him do his little dance and show. 

Then, like always, you end up like this. Tangled in his arms on the couch, his mouth tracing over your skin. Sucking small bruises where the last ones had faded. Slipping his hand under your shirt and rubbing, re-mapping your body, grinning whenever he traces a spot he knows is sensitive, proud of himself like he hasn’t done this a million times before. 

“Missed you,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

You twist, pressing your lips fully over his. He melts over you, cradling your face, wrapping an arm fully around your stomach. You smile against his mouth, opening when he swipes his tongue over your lips, humming happily as his hand splays possessively over your stomach.

“Missed you too.” You whisper back, and he makes a deep, almost purring sound from his chest. 

You end up rolled over under him. He kisses you into the cushions, pulling off his flannel and almost ripping your shirt away, before letting his mouth wander down your body. You run your fingers through his hair—it’s gotten longer than you know he likes, you’ll cut it later—and moan as his mouth finds your nipple. 

“Dean…”

“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” He mutters to himself, squeezing your hips and using his knee to nudge your thighs apart. “My pretty girl. Still fuckin’ wet for me, still fuckin’ perfect.”

You beam, and if you ask him about it later, he’ll say it’s just dirty talk. You’re not really his girl. You’re just fun. 

But you’re not stupid. You mostly keep playing this game because it’s Dean’s, and it’s important to him, and you love him. 

That was the first thing he told you not to do. There’s a long, long list of orders you’ve received from Dean—don’t open the door, don’t look for me, don’t pray to anyone but this specific angel, don’t mess with the safety measures—but this was at the top of the list. 

“Don’t fall in love with me, sweetheart.” He’d said that first night. It had been teasing. You’d laughed, because he was just a handsome man at a bar. You weren’t there because you were looking to fall in love either. 

“I’ll try.” You’d said back, and he’d smiled. 

You really had tried. 

The joke had turned into a warning. One that he gave over and over, after that visit where he started monster-proofing your place. You’d kept smiling, and telling him you’d try.

Every time he’d walked out the door, you’d reminded yourself that he might not come back. Every time he had come back, you’d repeated to yourself over and over—in the shower, sleeping next to him in ed, watching TV with his head in your lap—that you can’t fall in love with him.

He might never come back. He’ll never be able to love you back in a way that matters. He’ll never be able to give you a real life. He’s almost twice your age, he sleeps with a gun, he’s legally dead and a former FBI most wanted member, he’s been dead and tangled with demons and you still have to sit on the floor for twenty minutes to convince yourself to talk to your insurance company. 

Dean’s a hero. 

The hero doesn’t end up with the girl who’s barely ever left her village. 

So you’d really tried. For your sake, you’d tried. 

But he does this thing.

He leaves himself everywhere in your life. Hickeys on your neck that take a week to fade, a flannel he forgot on your bedroom floor, socks in the bathroom and half-eaten pie in the fridge. You downloaded songs he likes on your phone, because you spent a whole afternoon trying to convince each other to like your music. He made you a paper airplane that sits on the highest place of honor, the top of your fridge. 

Once, after a long weekend where he’d fucked you on every surface of your apartment then lay on the floor counting fake stars with you until two in the morning, he’d tried to draw you. 

He’d been drunk. You’d been laughing and moving the whole time, and for a man with such a steady hand, he’s not the best artist. 

Your nose had been too small. Your lips had been too wide, and your hair had looked like pasta and your eyes had been crossed and he’d forgotten to give you ears. He’d groaned, and crumpled it up before crawling across the floor to lie in your lap. 

“I don’t think of you like that.” He’d grumbled, nose grazing your inner thigh, and you’d laughed.

“I know, De.”

“You’re prettier, guess I just can’t draw.”

“No. You really can’t.” You’d leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. “I liked it anyway.”

He’d smiled—small, but for Dean that was practically beaming—and the tips of his ears had turned red as he hugged you tighter. A few drinks later, he’d passed out in your arms. You’d tried to draw him. Sketched with the pencil and paper left of the coffee table, then given up because his beauty didn’t seem willing to be captured in the paper. 

So you’d taken a photo of him. Snorting below you, his cheeks smushed and mouth hanging open. Still unreasonably handsome. 

In that single moment, all yours. 

You’d smiled to yourself, and fallen asleep just that. With Dean all around you, hidden from the world on the floor of your apartment. He’d left in the morning. You’d kissed him, and made that same promise not to wait for him to come back.

But it had hit you, after a week of taking out your phone every few hours, and staring at the photo until your eyes were blurred with tears. 

You always wait for him to return. You miss him so horribly when he leaves, it’s like part of you goes with him, and you’re just praying he’ll bring it back so you can feel alive again. So you can smile, and not worry about work politics or the asshole who lives down the hall and hits on you or friends who are always busy.

When Dean’s here, he’s the best thing in the world. 

When he’s gone, he’s the best thing in the world, and the only thing you’re not allowed to have. 

You’re not allowed to have him when he’s here either, though. 

When he kisses you, or makes you breakfast, or pretends to watch TV while just staring at you the whole time. It’s a game you play alone. 

Dean is yours, but you’re still not allowed to have him. 

It’s not a fair game. You’re his, and he has you. You sit around waiting for him when he leaves, and pull him in every time he returns. There’s no amount of time that could pass, where you wouldn’t keep waiting for Dean, and it’s a rotten, torturous game. 

He did warn you not to play it. He told you there was no winning. 

But you keep playing. As hard a game as it is to lose, it’s a more fun game to play.

It’s easy to love Dean. So easy, you don’t know why you faked playing his game in the first place. He stopped warning you not to fall in love with him a while ago, but he seems to have his own game, where he lies to himself about you one day moving on without him.

“I got anyone to be worried about?” He asks at night, his arm tossed over your body, pinning you to the mattress. 

You hum, playing with his fingers. “No.”

“No? Not even the- What’s his name, Hank?”

“Hank?”

“The asshole from your book club-“

“He’s not an asshole, De. He’s a nice man, and you know his name is Frank.”

“Hm.” Dean grunts, his hand closing over yours. “So not even Frank, huh?”

You sigh, twisting to look at him in the dark. Taking a deep breath, and scanning over his far too neutral expression. You wish he wouldn’t torture himself like this. You know it’s his game, but he doesn’t have to play it. He could just let you love him, even if it meant you spend the rest of your life staring at the door. 

But he’s committed. He gives you a tight smile, and squeezes your hand.

“If he’s… Nice.” The words sound like they pain him. “And you like him. Y’know, you deserve the world, sweetheart-“

“Frank doesn’t have the world.”

Dean jaw twitches. “He could have it,” he mutters. “If he wants.”

His words are low. Low enough you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to hear. 

And you reach out, cradling Dean’s jaw in your hands. He slumps into you with a sigh, dragging you a little closer. Holding you against his chest, face pressing into your hair, voice strained.

“You should. If you like him-“

“I do. He’s nice.” You swallow, leaning back to hold Dean’s hooded gaze. “But I like him Dean. Not like like. He’s nice.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “You said that already.”

“I mean it.”

“Uh huh.” He pauses. “I’m not nice.”

“Yes, you are.”

He laughs dryly. “Sweetheart, I got a grenade launcher in my trunk-“

“You got two grenade launchers in your trunk.” You press your knee up between his legs, and he hisses, rutting up against your thigh.

“Fuckin’- Woman-“

You giggle as he rolls you fully on your back, pinning your arms to the bed and looking down at you with a shine in his eyes. You smile freely up at him, because it’s so easy. Dean said don’t fall in love with me like it was a joke, but it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life.

He crashes down, kissing you deep and fervently, until your laughter is replaced by soft moans, and your legs are spread in invitation on the bed. Dean pulls up, licking his lips, and stares at you with something close to awe.

You just keep smiling at him. It always seems to make him soften within a few moments.

And it does. Like clockwork, Dean shakes his head, sighs, and leans down to kiss you a little more gently.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips, letting go of one hand so he can cradle your neck, and you drag your fingers over his chest with a hum.

“I’m not worried about it.” You whisper. “You’d come back to me.”

He nods.

The tiniest nod. You don’t think he even knows he does it. There, all the same. 

And you know. Neither of you are going to win your games.

But you’re both still so bad at playing them. 

“Do you like like me?” Dean asks an hour or so later, when your legs are shaking and little Dean is twitching against your thigh from being slightly overworked—though he never complains. 

“Do I like like you?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

You laugh. Force yourself to roll over, and crawl forwards to your rightful place on Dean’s chest. 

“C’mon, it’s not that dumb a question-“

“It is a little.”

“Well, if you don’t like like Frank-“

“I don’t sleep with Frank.” I don’t wait for Frank like the Earth waiting to get back to the Sun. “I sleep with you.”

“Eh.” He smirks, squeezing your ass. “Not a lotta sleepin’ going on- Shit-“

You squeeze his still softening dick, and he moans, rutting into your hand. You almost giggle again, but it falls into a gasp when he sits up suddenly—keeping you against his chest but flipping you around so your head drops on his shoulders and your ass pressed on his cock—and drags his hand between your thighs. 

“You’re good at helpin’ me win arguments, baby.” He drawls in your ear, and you whine. 

”Dean-“

“Mouthy girl.” He drags his mouth over your throat, and you shake in his arms. “You know what you do me, sweetheart. Not real fair to tease, when you know I’m barely keeping up.”

You try to squirm, to get just a little bit of friction, and Dean lands a firm slap on your pussy. Your whole body jolts, nails sinking into his arm, and he chuckles. 

“I know, I know.” He’s cooing, taunting, and it only makes you ache for him more. “I’ll give you anything you want, baby. Just gotta say please.”

You nod, and manage to babble out the words. You didn’t know you were capable of having so many orgasms, until you met Dean. You know he’s the only one who can do this. Reduce you to a drooling, cockdrunk mess, and still have you crawling back on your knees for more. 

It would be nice, if that’s all he does to you. 

But he also makes you feel wanted. Desired. Loved, even if he never says the word allowed. Even if the idea is all but forbidden. 

But you still wait for him at the edge of the mattress, while he brushes his teeth. Shifting restlessly until he comes out of the bathroom, and smiles at you. 

Dean crosses the room, and takes your face between his hands. Stares at you for a moment—always fondly, always like he’s not sure you’re real—then leans down to kiss you. Slow, like you have all the time in world.

Like he won’t be gone in the morning.

“I like like you.” You whisper, still a secret with no one else around to hear it. 

Dean smiles. Squeezes his hold on the back of your neck.

“Thank you, baby.”

You nod, curling your fingers on the fabric of his shirt. If you get him to take it off, you’ll be able to hide it before he goes in the morning, and you can wear it until it stops smelling like him. 

It might not even take tricking him. He’d just let you have it, if you asked. You know he doesn’t want to go either, but he has to. And he’s going to tell you again, not to wait for him. And you’re going to agree, and you’re both going to know it’s a lie. 

He’ll walk out the door. Look back once, before forcing himself down the hall. 

You’ll watch until he’s out of sight. Run to the window, to wave at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. Watch until the Impala is out of sight, too. 

The world with get a little duller. A little more painful. 

And then you’ll count down every second, until you see him again. 

Dean had been a goner the first time he saw Her. 

He remembers the moment clearly. How the world had slowed and he’d been sure he’d just been drinking too much, because he’d seen a lot of beautiful women but this one set off a bomb in his brain, wiping out everything but just the sight of Her. He remembers how She’d come up to him, and started talking with this voice that might’ve been made of every good song in the world. How She’d talked damn circles around him, and how She’d been young enough he felt a little like a perv, but then She’d said her name and it became the only thing he’d ever have to know again. 

Dean remembers thanking Sammy for getting annoyed at Dean mark-induced anger, and telling him to go out and do something safe and productive. Thanking the Mark, for agreeing in the moment that drinking was a good thing to do. Thanking the vamp nest that had settled on the edge of the town, for bringing him here in the first place. 

Remembers how She’d smiled in the light of the bar, how he’d tried to buy her a drink and she’d teased him about trying to get in Her pants, how they hadn’t even fully made it to the car before he’d been rubbing over Her underwear, and had barely been on the road for five minutes before She’d been taking him in her mouth. 

But mostly, Dean remembers waking up the next morning, and feeling something dangerous blooming in his chest. 

Peace.

He’d reached over the mattress, traced his thumb over Her cheek as she slept, and he’d felt like the world was more than just blood and loss and another day to get through that turned into a night to survive. The Mark hadn’t been burning in his blood and demanding more, more, more. He’d just been in this soft bed, with a pretty woman he’d spent the night giving good things to, watching the morning light shine over Her face. 

Dean hadn’t wanted to get up. He hadn’t been able to make himself, because every time he shifted, She’d make this sad little sound and it echoed in his damn chest.

So he’d just stayed, until he could explain that he had to go. She was so perfect, She at least deserved to think he wasn’t running out after taking advantage of her. 

But then he’d looked Her in the eyes, and asked if she wanted to get breakfast. And She’d smiled—it had too quickly became the sun for him, the center of everything, what moved him and offered him every bit of life—and he’d been more than gone. 

He and Sammy had cleared out the vamp nest. She’d gotten caught in the middle, Dean had gotten Her out—the Mark roaring louder than usual, and Dean not bothering to resist it at all—and he’d cleaned Her up after. Stayed an extra day to make sure She was on her feet. 

Not for any selfish reasons. Like wanting to cling to the strange peace for a little longer. Like taking advantage of Her clearly growing attachment to him, and letting himself indulge the sweetest thing he’d. ever found before he ripped it out of his hands. 

He’d explained everything, in the desperate hope that She’d help him leave. That She’d do what Cassie and Lisa had done, and told him they wanted nothing to do with that life.

But She’d just… Understood. Gotten all pouty and sad-eyed, when he’d dragged himself out the door. Smiled at him, and waved goodbye. 

And Dean didn’t count himself a good man. He had blood on his hands and a lot of wounds that didn’t seem to bother to heal. Hell, back then he’d been bearing the damn Mark of Cain, been made of all his worse thoughts and urges. But he’d always thought he’d made up for it by not being a douchebag. Maybe he had a body count so large he lost track, and maybe he lied and tricked and fought dirty, but he respected food workers. He tipped. He never touched a lady unless She wanted it, and he never judged—most of—the shit he heard. 

He also kept upfront about what he wanted. He’d given Her the usual speech, before they’d started stumbling out of the bar laughing like teenagers.

One night. 

He could give Her everything she ever wanted, for one night. 

She’d agreed. He’d made his don’t fall in love joke, but it had sounded flat to his ears. 

Dean thinks he might’ve known, even then. 

He certainly knows now. 

“You remember what you said to me?” He asked last time, sitting at Her feet while she did something with string and his favorite flannel that made it look new again. “That first night?”

“What I said to you?” She’d frowned. “No? Am I supposed to?”

“Nah. Just wonderin’.” He’d turned his cheek, pressing it into Her knee. 

She looked almost delicate, in this kind of light. Like a mist that was going to blow away with the wrong wind. A dream Dean might forget if he dared to wake up, a trick of the light that would vanish if he blinked. He could’ve been happy there for the rest of his damn life. At Her feet, watching her softer hands work, right where he could keep Her safe and adored for the rest of his sorry life. 

She’d paused Her work on his flannel. Smiled down at him, running Her fingers through his hair. Dean had felt like a damn dog, and turned into the touch. 

“What did I say?” She’d asked softly, and he should’ve guessed She would. She likes to know everything. 

He still doesn’t understand, how She can know him and still open the door every time.

“Was it stupid?” She asked softly, and Dean had chuckled. She couldn’t be stupid if She tried. 

“Nah.”

“Well, what-“

“You told me I had big shoulders.”

She’d stared at him for a second. Does that thing he loves, where She sorta blinks and gapes and flushes, like just a few words from his dumb mouth are capable of short-circuiting Her quick brain.

Dean had leaned up and cupped Her jaw to close her mouth. She’d swatted his hands away with a scowl, and he’d laughed.

“Fuck off, I did not say that-“

“Swear you did.” He’d kissed the back of Her hand, because it makes him feel more like a gentleman than the ass who just shows up and crashes in Her bed. “You just sat down and started objectifying me, was pretty freakin’ rude-“

“Shut up.” She’d said with a smile. “You love being my object.”

Dean had chuckled and pushed up into a kiss. 

She had no damn idea. 

And when She finally shoved him gently away, reminding Dean that She had to finish Her work on his flannel, he’d gone back to watching at Her feet. She stitched that thing up like it had never been worn in the first place. Even gotten those complex seams that used to make him declare a shirt as good as dead. Gave him new buttons, too. Like he deserved something so small and important. 

Dean had wondered, as he watched Her. Wondered if he should start ripping up flannels, so he had a better excuse to come back. If maybe She’d like a life in the bunker, stitching flannels and talking to him forever, and if She’d ever forgive him for daring to think something so selfish. 

He’d wondered if She knew. That She stitches him up like that flannel, every time She let him back into her arms. 

And if Dean were a stronger, worse man, he’d just let himself take Her. Sweep Her fully of her feet with the love confession he’s been rehearsing in the shower and on longer drives, for damn near two years. The one that goes I can’t offer you money. Or a real house. Or healthcare, or children, or even really damn pets. I can’t promise you I’ll come home, every time I walk out the house, and I can’t promise there ain’t always gonna be a target on your back just for holding my hand. 

But I can promise I’ll protect you. And love you. And take care of you until someone shoots off my hands, cause even if they shoot off my head I’m gonna figure out how to keep my body working to take care of you. 

In his imagination, She’d make a face and whisper like a chicken?

And Dean would laugh, and smile at Her because he remembered how to, when She was around. 

Yeah. A chicken, sweetheart. I’ll be your chicken. And I’ll damn try, all the time, to come back. I’ll try to give you everything you want that I got, and if I don’t got it, I’ll figure out a way to make it. 

Please. 

His confession always ended with please, because even in Dean’s fantasies he can’t work out a world where She says yes. 

There are moments, where She looks at him for a long enough moment that the words work their way to his mouth. The sit on the tip of his tongue like a sour candy he needs to spit out. He almost says it, then chokes it back down. 

There are a lot of moments, where he almost tells Her. 

Sometimes it’s only nights like these, that stop him. 

He had a nightmare again. It’s a reoccurring one, now. 

She gets hurt. It started more abstract, but it’s narrowed down to one, horrible scenario. 

Dean wakes up in Her apartment, and she’s gone. He calls Her name, tears the place up, tears the town up, and She’s still nowhere to be found. 

Then he turns, and She’s there. And the world feels peaceful again. He runs towards Her, reaching to pull her back into his arms.

And She dies. 

Dean touched Her, and she just… dies. 

He woke up in a cold sweat, fighting the pillows and reaching for his gun. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t real. Another three to calm down, after he looked at Her side of the bed and realized she wasn’t there. 

Because he was in his room. At the bunker. 

The place he’d worked so hard to keep Her away from. 

But now he’s just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and holding the sheets on Her side of the bed. Trying to close his eyes, but it’s damn impossible when he does and just sees her lifeless body again. 

He fumbles in the dark and grabs his wallet. Stares at Her drawing for an hour, then tries to lie back down again. 

She’s fine. She has to be fine.  

He closes his eyes by accident. Shoots right up, and makes for his pants and shoes. 

“Where’re you going?” Sam asks when Dean storms past him, barely looking up from his book.

“Out.” Dean grunts, because it’s not worth even trying to lie to Sam anymore. 

He’s not even that good at lying to himself. 

Because he tries to protect Her from afar. He swears up and down that he won’t go back to Her, won’t keep stealing Her time and affection, won’t tempt himself with something he can never have. With a love he’s never going to be able to hold. 

But he has to see Her. Now. Just to be sure that she’s safe. 

So Dean goes. 

It’s three in the morning, when you hear the knock. You wouldn’t have gotten up to answer it, if you hadn’t recognized it as Dean’s. He knocks the same way every time. Sometimes you mimic it on the table, to torture yourself with the idea of him being there. 

And he pops up whenever he pops up. You’ve long stopped trying to track his appearances, but you know he doesn’t show up on your doorstep at the start of the week, and he doesn’t show up in the middle of the night. 

It’s a Tuesday. It’s been Tuesday, for three hours. 

You walk a little faster, rubbing your eyes and grabbing the baseball bat he insists you keep in the closet. If it is your Dean, he might be in danger. If it’s not, you’re about to bash someone’s brains in and sprint for the hills. 

The knock repeats, a little louder than last time. You hear him call your name through the door, and it certainly sounds like Dean. When you lean up to look through the peephole, it looks like Dean. 

He’s swaying in the hall, eyes glossy and a little bloodshot. There’s a strangely relaxed look on his face, and sighs heavily when you still don’t open the door, stumbling forward to drop his brow against the wood. 

“I know you’re in there.” He mumbles, hand reaching up to trace the door. “Heard you walkin’ around. If you got someone in there, I can just sit on the couch or somethin’. Won’t even talk, just wanted to…”

He sighs heavily, and your chest aches. Your fingers move to the knob, begging you to just remove the barrier between you, but something’s twisting in your gut. You’ve never seen him act like this. Never seen him look so tired and desperate, and that doesn’t seem like a monster thing, but he had told you to be careful- 

“I was thinkin’ about you.” He mumbles. “Missed you. Always missin’ you all the time, and- I dunno. Had a dream, it’s kinda fuckin’ stupid, but- Can you cough for me, baby? Need to hear that you’re alright, then I’ll go.” He looks up, almost staring at you through the peephole, and you swallow. Your hand closes around the doorknob, the opposite one slipping on the bat, and- 

You wait a little too long to respond. Dean sighs heavily, taking a large step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The step alone takes a second for him to recover from, his whole body swaying from the motion. You let the bat fall from your hand, because you need both hands to reach for him, but-

“Never mind.” He says, shaking his head. “’m gonna go. Sleep well, baby. Love you.”

You almost kick the door off its hinges, his words like ice water being doused over your head. 

Love. 

He said he- He said- 

Dean’s face splits into a wide, boyish grin the moment he sees you. He says your name, barreling forward, and pulls you into his arms. He’s warm, holding onto you tight enough you’re being picked up off your feet. You hug him back, still dazed, the world moving too fast. 

Love. He said love. He said- 

He mumbles your name, pressing his face into your neck, and you brush your fingers through his hair lightly. He’s still made of muscle and soft strength, but something about it feels delicate. He’s not really saying anything, which isn’t Dean at all. He’s still swaying back and forth, and he smells like the same warm cologne and full, deep Dean smell he’s always had, but there’s also- 

Liquor. He smells like whiskey and beer. 

He’s drunk. 

You sigh. The swaying and strangeness. For whatever reason, Dean’s just wasted, and he chose to come to you. 

It’s not something you can allow yourself to read into right now. That can happen in the morning, when he’s safe and sobered up, and you can try to read his reaction to waking up in your apartment. For now you just guide him backwards inside—you try to pull away, but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighter—and slowly coax him out of his shoes and jacket.

“Did you drive here?” You ask softly as you work the jacket off his shoulders, and he nods. 

“Mhm. You’re warm.”

You swallow. “Thank you. Dean, baby, you shouldn’t drive drunk-“

“‘M not drunk-“

“You really are-“

“Only had like- Five drinks. Four.” He leans back, scrunching his face a little too adorably. “How many are in the big pack thingys?”

“How many… Beers?”

He shrugs, fingers reaching up to play with your hair. “Uh huh. We can go count the bottles. I broke one when a freakin’ bird started shoutin’ at me, but the others. Got ‘em still.”

“You- Dean.“ You lean back, grabbing his face between your hands. He looks at you with a bright, hopeful adoration, and it only makes your chest ache more. 

He says your name, leaning forward with a grin—a full, wide smile you’ve never seen on his face—and you take a deep breath.

“Did you drink them, then drive? Or drive, then-“

“I drove ‘em then drank.” He shrugs. “‘M not that stupid. Not tryin’ to die before I can see you.” He leans down, pressing his brow against yours. “You’re pretty.”

You flush. “Thank you. I- I didn’t think you were gonna, but- Shit-“ He presses further over you, making you stumble back slightly. 

Some of Dean’s usual instinct seems to kick in as you fall. He wraps his arm tightly around your back, and pulls you up before falling to the couch, forcing you to straddle his lap. 

He grins up at you, still open and joyful, and sinks into the cushions so easily. 

“I ain’t drunk.”

You sigh. “Dean-“

“‘m not. You’re pretty.”

“You’ve said that twice now.”

“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re so hot, it’s freakin’ crazy.” He drops his face into your chest, like it’s physically paining him to look at you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. I haven’t even been able to watch porn anymore ‘cause of you. ’S not the same.”

You flush, opening and closing your mouth in a pointless attempt to try and find a way to respond to that. 

There really isn’t one. Not with the word love still ringing in your head like a church bell. 

You settle for a soft. “Oh.”

Dean just hums, and when you gently guide his head back, his eyes are heavy and a little dopey. He’s still smiling at you, even as they droop. You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs happily. 

“You’re okay.” He murmurs, almost to himself. It cleaves your heart in half.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” You smile softly. “You’re drunk.”

“Nah-“

“You had six beers, my love.” You let yourself call him that. If he said it, you can too, and he doesn’t even really seem to notice at all. 

He just makes another like face and shakes his head. “No, I had the pack-“

“Yeah.” Your smile grows. “That’s six.”

“Hm.” He pauses, clearly thinking a little too hard about this. “Six. Siiiix. Sex.” He grins at you. “We should have sex-“

“No.” You place a hand flat on his chest, giving him a stern look. “You’re drunk, buddy. No sex.”

He pouts for a second, staring down at his shoes, then sighs. “Fine.”

You giggle at his complete dejection, tracing your hands over the planes of his chest. His breath starts to pick up, fingers squeezing on your hips, and it might be rude to tease him like this but it’s so fun. Especially when he leans a little bit up like he’s going to try and take you, but then manages to pull himself back and flops down sadly into the cushions.

“Can we have sex in the morning please?” He asks hopefully, and you hum. 

“We’ll see.”

That just makes him pout more. “Why. If you don’t wanna, just tell me and I’ll be super cool about it-“

“You’re begging me right now,” you tease, and he makes a sour expression. 

“‘M not begging.”

“You said please-“

“It’s bein’ polite. And,” he leans up, until his handsome, drunken face is only inches from yours. “I really wanna have sex with you.”

“I know.” You whisper, eyes wide on his. 

And you shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t. He’s drunk, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he might not mean any of this at all.

But-

“Why?” You say, so quiet you almost can’t hear it yourself. 

He frowns. “Huh?”

“Why do you wanna have sex with me? We-“ You swallow. “We’ve done it a lot before. In almost all the positions.” You smile weakly. “You gotta be tired of me by now.”

Dean blinks at you. Like he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. “Yeah, but… I love you.”

That’s what you wanted to hear. What you were fishing for. 

It still knocks all the air out of your lungs when you hear it. In full, plainly like he can’t fathom that there would ever be another answer, hanging in the silence of your living room as you just stare at Dean’s open face. 

He said it. He said it. You’re breathing too fast, your nails sinking into his shoulders like you can cling to the confession, like you’re trying to swallow it down before he can take it back. 

But Dean just keeps blinking up at you, almost innocently adoring.

He’s so drunk. 

This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. About forcing yourself to smile and kiss him gently, before standing up and guiding him into the shower. Checking him for injuries before getting him changed. Brushing his teeth then herding him into bed. 

Some foolish part of you thought you’d be able to go turn off the living room light while he waited. You don’t even get off the bed before Dean’s arms are around your waist, and you’re being yanked back down. 

“Don’t go.” He mumbles against the back of your neck, and you sigh. 

“Dean-“

“Please.”

You swallow, then nod. Curl fully back, rubbing his forearms around you until his breathing starts to steady, his body slowly going limp. 

“Never want you to go.” He says suddenly, right before you think he’s about to fall asleep. His voice is raw and tired.

Tears sting at your eyes. “I’m still here, Dean. Right here.” You squeeze his arm, and he sighs.

“Yeah, but it’s gonna be gone.” He sighs. “Wish I could stay. Or take you with me, but… Can’t.”

“You could.” You whisper, twisting to watch him in the dark. “I- I’d go.”

He just stares at you for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“You shouldn’t.”

“I would.”

His throat bobs. For a second, there’s something new shining his eyes. It’s clearer than everything else. Burning right into you with his attention, his hands a little tighter on your body. 

“I keep a drawing of you in my wallet.” He rasps, and your heart does a little skip. 

“I have a folder of your photos on my phone. I- I show them to my friends.” You flush. “They think I made you up.” 

Dean’s mouth twitches. He’s starting to sound like himself again. “Did you?”

“Make you up?” You whisper.

He nods. 

“I don’t know. I- I hope not.”

“I hope I didn’t make you up either.” He traces his hand down your arm, never breaking your gaze. 

You swallow. “I feel real.”

He hums. “That’s good. Would suck pretty bad if you weren’t.”

You laugh softly, and Dean watches you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever going to see. You smile at him. He leans a little closer. 

“Sometimes I just stand outside.” He rasps. “If I got a night. I’ll drive up here and just… Sit in the fuckin’ parking lot.”

“I watched a documentary about you.” You offer. “It called you a crazy serial killer.”

His mouth twitches. “I am-“

“I left it a one-star review.” You raise your voice over his. “And I- I still opened the door.”

“You… You did.” He mutters. “Every single time.”

“Yeah. I did.”

For a second, you just stare at each other. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving. You don’t want it to. 

“When you sit in the parking lot.” You say softly. “Why don’t you come inside?”

He chuckles, rolling onto his back. “Cause I’m gonna do something stupid. Like this, and sayin’ that I-“

He cuts himself off, hand curling on his chest. You push up on your elbows, hanging over him, and he stares at you with a clear helplessness. 

Dean mutters your name, clearly begging you not to say it. 

But he said it first. And you need to know. If you’re allowed to stop playing games now. 

If you’re allowed to have him. 

“You love me?” You finish for him, and Dean sighs. 

“I- Don’t say that, sweetheart-“

“You said it-“

“I was drunk.” He mutters. He won’t look at you anymore. “I was drunk and talkin’ stupid and- Just don’t. Please.”

You swallow, your heart caught in your throat. You could swallow it, and hope you digest it this time. That it finally passes through you, and the game is done like that. 

But you don’t want to. 

Dean is looking at you like he expects you to kick him out. Like he’s bracing for you to spit venom and hit his chest and curse his name. He’s almost shrinking away from you, one hand clinging to your wrist even as he makes a face like his heart is already breaking. 

You won’t let it. Not here. Not when him breaking would break you too. 

So you lie down next to him. Move your hand to tangle in his, your shoulders pressed together, Dean’s breathing shallow as he turns to watch you in the dark. 

You look at him, and smile. Let all your love for him shine in it, squeezing his hand once. 

He holds yours tighter. Holds onto it for dear life. 

Says your name, and this. This is begging. Maybe for you to stop, or go, or just do the simple thing and kick him out. 

You won’t. Not now. When he’s there, and maybe yours, and- And- 

You could have him. 

In all his broken, drunken and exhausted beauty, you can have Dean. 

“What would you say?” You murmur, and his lips press in a tight line.

“I- I dunno-“

“Can I tell you what I would say? If- If you’d ever asked?”

Dean swallows, but nods. You smile again. It’s so easy, when you’re looking at him.

“I’d tell you I love you.” You whisper. Dean’s grip tightens. “That I’ve been in love with you for- Pretty much the whole time. That I hate watching you leave, and I hate when you pretend like you don’t care if I’m dating, and I hate when you remind me that you might not come back, because I need you. I need you to come back. Every- Every time you go-“ You cut yourself off, your voice starting to ache. “Every time you leave me I hate you. But I love you so much it doesn’t matter. I- I like loving you so much more than I hate missing you. Dean, I-“

He says your name, words tight and choked, and you shake your head.

“I love you. I love you so, so much, I’m never gonna-“ You take long unsteady breath. “You just leave me here. And I wait. Because I love you.”

And Dean just stares at you. Holds your hand and stares at you, his face pale and flushed all at the same time. 

“No.” He finally mutters. He still doesn’t let go of your hand. “Sweetheart, that’s- You love the idea of me, you don’t love the real thing-“

You snort dryly. “The real you?”

“Yeah.” He snaps, sitting up suddenly. “The real me. I’m not just some fuckin’- Sex guy who drops in, fucks you, then runs off to a day job. I kill people, baby. I got a body count bigger than any documentary is gonna tell you, I got people who hunt me down for what I’ve done, there ain’t anyone in my life because everyone who was there is fuckin’ dead, and I-“ He shakes his head, starting to pull back. “I’m not lettin’ that happen to you. No. No way in hell-“

“Why?” You demand, and your voice isn’t harsh or even that loud, but it cuts Dean off completely. “Why don’t you want it to happen to me?”

He makes a sour expression. “Because.”

“Because?”

“Yeah. ’S what I said-“

“Is it because you love me?”

Dean scowls. “That doesn’t matter-“

“It matters to me-“

“‘Cause you think you’re in love with me.” He spits. He’s still holding your hand. “And I’m tellin’ you, you’re not, so it doesn’t matter-“

“I am in love with you.” You sit up, making your voice firmer. Unwavering. “And I know you, Dean. I’m not just some girl who got the wrong idea about something, I know you. You’ve told me everything, even the ugly shit, and I kept opening the door.” You glare at him, and he freezes, staring at you with wide-eyes. “I sit with you after all your nightmares, I let you bring a gun into my house, I look you up on the news every day because I am terrified you’re going to die and come back all wrong or whatever, and I’m going have to figure out how to be strong enough not to open the door.”

Dean’s mouth falls a little bit open, and you glare at him, far from done. 

“Because I would. I’d let you in with those creepy black eyes and I don’t even think I’d regret it. Because I love you.”

Dean makes a strangled sound, and you poke his chest.

“You show up covered in blood and talking crazy about angels and demons, you give me fuckin’ gun and booby trap my apartment and make me do codewords, and I let you in. I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know exactly who you are.”

He catches your hand on his chest, expression fully broken, and pleads your name. You curl your fingers on his chest and hold his hand.

“You’re a good man.” Your voice turns soft, and he cringes like you hit him. “You’re a good man, Dean. I don’t love you because of the sex, even if the sex is great.” You laugh softly. 

Dean looks like he tries to laugh, but it comes out more in a sound like a wounded animal. Silent tears are streaming down his face, and you sigh. 

Reach up to wipe them away, and let Dean bow into your touch. His eyes are hooded, and trapped on yours. 

You offer him a small smile. 

“I love you because you make me happy.” You say. “I love you because you keep trying to protect me, even when it hurts you. I love you because when I tried to hit on you at a bar by saying you had big shoulders, you gave me pointers about how to pick other guys up, then asked if you could be the first I try them on. I love you because when I laughed, you apologized and started just talking to me. And we talked for so long, and you called me pretty, and I- I’d been called that before, but-“ You give him a sad smile, tears staining your own cheeks. “You didn’t want anything. You just- You just said it because you wanted me to know, and it felt good to be known.” 

You shift toward, rising on your knees to press your brow to his. 

“I like you.” You whisper. “Like like you. I like like knowing you. And I like like loving you. I- Never used those moves on anyone else.” You giggle softly, tears still falling. “They worked once really well. And I don’t want to try them again. I kind of really love what I have.”

Dean blinks at you slowly. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes flicking down to your own, breath still ragged. If he needs to kiss you, you’ll let him. 

But instead, he just starts to cry.

Dean folds over you, body shaking, and cries. It starts muffled and restrained—like he’s still trying to shove it back down—but you rub his back and hold him close, and he slowly falls apart. 

You move slowly, so that you’re lying against the headboard and Dean is in your lap. You keep him gently in your arms, kissing the top of his head every few moments and running your hands soothingly over his shoulders, his back, through his soft hair. Slowly, the choked sounds turn to heavy breaths, and he eases himself down. 

His face presses into your stomach as his chest rises and falls. You wait, cradling the back of his neck and humming to yourself softly. Eventually Dean turns to look up at you, eyes still red, and lets out a heavy sigh. 

“I- I do.” He says, voice rough, and you just smile.

“I know.” 

He heaves, crawling a little up your body. “I mean it, baby, I do-“

“Dean.” You cup his face, and he freezes. “I know.”

His mouth twitches. You just smile in return. Dean grabs your hand, turning to press a kiss to your wrist. His eyes shine when you giggle, tension releasing from his shoulders. 

He collapses over your body with a heavy sigh.

“I’m gonna feel like shit in the morning.” He grumbles, and you laugh. 

“It’s six, De. Basically is the morning.”

“Great. I feel like shit now.”

“You could go to sleep. That might help.”

Dean hums skeptically. “Are you gonna sleep.”

“No.” The whole night still has you too wound up. “Not tired.”

“Hm.” He pushes up over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, pinning you to the mattress. 

His nose bumps yours, and your eyes widen, hands flying to his chest.

“I could help with that.” He murmurs, and you swallow. 

“Dean-“

“I got a clear head.” He kisses the corner of your mouth gently. “Swear. I’ll do the alphabet backwards if you wanna hear it, but if I’m bein’ honest I can’t do that front or back-“

You tug him down for a full, deep kiss. It’s slow. Lazy. His tongue traces your lips and you open with a soft moan, legs spreading as Dean’s mouth works you up quickly. 

But still, you gently push him back. He goes easily, raising his brows, and you flush. Glance down to his shirt, where your fingers have started to play with the soft fabric.

“Are you…” Your eyes dart back up to his. “Are you gonna stay? In the morning?”

Dean nods, no uncertainty in his voice. “Yeah.“ He grabs your hands, pulling them up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m gonna stay until you kick me out, alright. Might come and go, but- You can come if you want. An if you don’t, I got a phone, and my brother’s phone, and a laptop that I can steal-“

“Dean-“

“Point is I’m yours.” He says quickly, sounding a little frustrated with himself. “I stay until you kick me out.”

“I won’t.” You say quickly, and Dean grins. 

Truly, fully grins. 

“Guess I’m gonna be here a long time, then.”

“Yeah. Guess you are.”

His grin impossibly widens, eyes darting down to your body. “And…”

You laugh. “We can have sex in the morning.”

Dean collapses back over you with a dramatic groan of relief. “Thank god. And- After that, too?”

You giggle, kissing the top of his head, and he curls further into your body. Looks at you like you’re more than an angel, his voice still teasing, but also just a little more. 

Filled with affection, and hope, and love.

He’s yours to love. 

“Yeah.” You say, and Dean beams. “We can do whatever you want.”

You’ve played it over and over again in your head. You’d looked at yourself in a mirror after, to check if you’d had something smeared on your cheek, or your clothing had been too baggy, or if there was maybe just something sharp in your features Dean didn’t want to cut himself on. But there had been nothing. And you’d been so, so sure.

There had been months, of wanting it and saying nothing. Wanting Dean and sewing your mouth shut. He’d call you sweetheart and you’d pull yourself to the level of a waitress who brought him his pie. He brought you snacks from the corner store without asking, and you go to be something that occupied his mind, a parasite that didn’t ask for more than attention. His hand would grace your lower back as he walked past, and you’d stand taller. Promote yourself to maybe a soft body he could find warmth in.

“What do you call a group of owls?” You’d asked him over breakfast, and he’d grinned up at you.

“I don’t know, a hoot?”

“No, that doesn’t fit.”

“Fit what?” He’d leaned to the side, squinting at your computer. “Oh. I, uh- Thought you were asking me a riddle or something.”

You’d snorted, turning the screen for him to read. The crossword was almost fully done, but there were always three or four you couldn’t get until the very end. Usually you ask Sam, but Dean had been there. And you’d liked how close he had to be, to read the screen. His knee bumping yours under the table, his breath on your neck. Your vison had gotten a little blurred and vivid. Everything in you had narrowed down to Dean.

Somehow, you’d managed to keep your voice steady. “What kind of riddle would that be?”

“I dunno, you asked it.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s why it was so lame, sweetheart.” He’d drawled, and you’d bitten the inside of your cheek to try and stop a flush. “Maybe it’s parchment.”

“Parchment-“

“Fancy paper-“

“I know what parchment is.” You’d snapped, and his grin had widened. “But it doesn’t fit, there’s no l in parchment. And a parchment of owls doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, a parliament of owls doesn’t sound any better.”

You’d blinked at the screen, then Dean’s slightly grumpy, mostly teasing expression.

He’d raised his brows. “You thinking something?”

“I- No, but-“ He’d been so close. If you’d tripped sitting, you wouldn’t fallen right into a kiss. “How’d you get parliament?”

“I can see the other clues.” Dean had shrugged, reaching past you to tap the screen. “This one’s gotta be an accord, ‘s a kinda car that’s pretty shit, but it’s got that exact axel and horsepower. Then this,” he’d looked at you, eyes shining, and you’d blinked at him a little like a baby deer seeing the sun for the first time. “Rocket ball rifle. That’s a Winchester, sweetheart.”

You’d laughed, but it had been weak and breathy. “Good work.”

Dean had sat up, looking back to his pancakes with a grin. “Thanks. Not just a pretty face, y’know.”

He’d said it like a joke, so you’d bumped his shoulder. You’d kept your words light, because he needed them like that.

But you’d been dead fucking serious.

“I know. You’re the whole package in a very handsome bow.”

Dean had laughed, but you’d felt his gaze for a while after. When you’d glanced over, he’d looked away and coughed. There had been a blush creeping up his neck, and you’d smiled to yourself.

You’d made him feel good, just as his friend. And that’s enough. Had been enough.

Then the baby slipped.

It hadn’t been dramatic. You’re sure he’d never even noticed.

I’ve got it, baby.

He’d patted your leg and stood up. You’d gaped after him, your whole world wiping and rewiring and adjusting to new code with each passing heartbeat, pounding in your ears.

Dean didn’t call anyone baby. You’d never heard it in a low drawl for some bar hookup, all the gorgeous women you’d envied until it made you sick. When he used to bring them back to motels and you’d pretend you needed a walk, you’d never hear it moaned or whispered in dirty talk.

Not that you were listening.

But he’s loud. And it used to be the only line to sanity you had.

It’s easy to fall for Dean. It’s magnetic. You think you felt it the first time he offered you a hand, and your whole body had started to warm and blister like you’d been shoved into an oven. It had faded the first few weeks of knowing him, burning up fast, a wildfire of desire that swept through you until you spent every night with hair stuck to your brow and the sheets stained with sweat.

When it had faded, you’d hoped it would be nothing more than a pile of shameful ash. Dean wouldn’t never have to know that the kid he’d taken under his wing was a little pervert who listened to him have sex, then cried in the shower after. Nobody would ever have to know.

But there’s this thing. Where sometimes the fire ripping through the world isn’t to destroy. It’s to help grow. The flames curl into tightly locked seed pods, open them up, and make room for a new forest to grow.

And Dean is kind. And funny. And handsome, and strong, and loyal, and sometimes you want to punch him in his perfect, stupid face because you never stood a chance.

Loving him in silence was harder than wanting him. Wanting him could be satisfied with makeshift men. The right height and build, similar hair and a few scars, their faces Dean’s when you close your eyes.

Dean used to mutter that he didn’t like you sleeping with so many older creeps. That they only wanted one thing from you.

“I only want one thing from them.” You’d told him, and his jaw had ticked.

“You shouldn’t be looking for it there.”

“Why not-“

“They could be your father,” he’d snapped your name, glaring up from his beer bottle. The label had been picked clear off and crumpled in his hand.

You’d leaned back a little, brows raised, and he’d let out a slow breath. Shook his head, mouth pressed in a thin line.

“Dean-“

“There are plenty of-“ His brow had furrowed. He’d glared at the bottle, like your taste in men was it’s fault. “Lotta other options. You don’t have to settle for some creep that’s eyeing you up like fuckin’ meat.”

You’d wanted to laugh. You might’ve, if Dean hadn’t looked like he was one word from breaking his own teeth.

“It’s a two way road, Deano.” You’d hummed, and he’d looked like you punched him in the gut.

You don’t know if he noticed. How you stopped sleeping around after that. Phantoms of attention were nothing, compared to the tiniest hit of Dean’s concern.

There was no dare to fool yourself. Nothing you were clinging to, about having a chance. Dean didn’t see you like that. How could he.

You were a little bit of a devoted heretic. You’d made your alter at the foot of a god, and you just liked that you were allowed to stay. If he kicked you, you’d tumble down and crawl back up until he crushed you completely. A single scrape of his touch was more than most were offered.

Being Dean’s friend was enough. Something he cared about was a rush of it’s own.

And you’d been ready to sleep alone for a long, long time. To keep all your love gathered in your chest, and let it bleed into every little thing you did. It wasn’t angry love. Wasn’t bitter for being left to fester.

Mold grows. Weeds can be beautiful flowers.

You covered every little thing in your love for Dean, until you were sure it stained over your skin like a tattoo. Everyone seemed to see it but him. Sam knew after you screamed for him on a hunt, when he’d gotten driven onto some rebar and you’d felt your own chest split open. Jack gives you strange looks whenever he visits, and when he asked you just waved him off. Even his fucking dog looks at you like you’re some sad, pitiable little fool.

But Dean was happy with you. As his friend.

Then he called you baby.

And the world stopped, and rewound. A cassette tape reaching the end of a track and flipping itself over, letting you listen to the song one more time.

Letting you notice what you’d missed, too absorbed in your own love—it was a loud, consuming thing—to look outside your head.

Dean had stopped sleeping around too.

He touched you, maybe more than you touch him. Bumping your shoulder, thighs pressed under the table, a hand brushing through your hair when he walked past.

You’d counted them as nothing. You’d drowned in the luck of his thoughtless motions, but baby.

He kissed your forehead before he split off from you on a hunt. He knocked on your door when he had a nightmare, like he had nowhere else to go. At the grocery store, he’d linger a step behind you like he was guarding you from the peanut butter on the shelf and the slabs of beef in the butcher’s display. Close enough you could feel the heat from his body. Too close to be an accident.

You’d asked Sam.

Sam had coughed, and told you to talk to Dean.

You’d asked Sam again.

He’d begged you not to.

“Dean will kill me,” he’d whined like a child. “And I kind of like life now? Like, we’ve got really good things going, and I don’t want to die over Dean’s stupid secrets-“

“So Dean has secrets.” You’d crossed your arms over your chest. Sam had flinched.

“Um- Yeah. Which you should talk to him about, because I know nothing about them.”

“Sam-“

“Just- Whatever you’re thinking, that’s it. You’re right.” He’d sighed. “Please don’t make me say it. You’re both grownups. Make him use his words.”

You’d snorted. “Make Dean use his words-“

“You have more power over him than you think.” Sam had shrugged, voice dropping under his breath. “Like, a lot more.”

“What are we talkin’ about?” Dean had walked into the kitchen, looking between you and Sam, and you’d coughed.

“Nothing.”

“Relationships.”

You and Sam had spoken at the same time. Dean had raised his brows.

“Alright, what’s goin’ on-“

“Are you seeing anyone?” Sam had shouted, before you could gut punch him hard enough to shut him up. “Or, you know- Thinking about anyone, or anything with anyone, or- What the fuck-“

A spoon had gone flying, hitting Sam square in the jaw. He’d rubbed the hurt, gaping at his brother, and Dean had just shrugged.

“Oops.” He’d said flatly. “Hand slipped.”

His eyes had been narrowed. Sam had dropped it.

And the loop playing in your head had become obsessive.

He felt something. The more you played back and analyzed, the more certain you’d become. It might not be the concrete, resolved adoration you felt for everything that even stemmed slightly from Dean, but it was something. Something big enough he’d go to you first, in any room. That he’d hug you like he was trying to pull you into his chest, and breathe you in so heavily you felt a little stupid for missing it.

Enough you’d been willing to take the risk.

But not enough for him to say yes.

That day plays in a blur now. Your confession. His expression, like you’d shot him pointblank.

His head, shaking, and every color in the world inverting as he told you no.

You were wrong. He didn’t want that.

Just the night before you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, but still been lucid enough to feel him pull you closer. He’d kissed your brow. Whispered something you hadn’t been able to make out, but had sounded soft. Affectionate. It was the same tone you used, when you told his sleeping form that you loved him, just to try and offer yourself a little bit of control.

It’s gone now, though.

Not the love. That’s boiling and bubbling over the edges, an ocean put under a flame. There’s so much of it you might be about to choke, because you can’t let it show anymore.

Dean told you no, and you tried to shove it into the cavity of your chest and lock it up.

But it was too big. Too much, to have your heart broken and all your love just… stalled. No where left for it to go.

And you didn’t do anything wrong.

Dean sent the mixed signals. Dean told you no, then expected everything to be fine. He said he wasn’t into you like that, then followed you to the bar the next night and stopped you from numbing the pain in another man’s body.

So he earned this silent treatment.

And you’re not going to be the first to break.

Your fingers fidget in your lap, and it’s the only movement you allow your body to have. It’s more for warmth, than anything else. Dean doesn’t get to see your discomfort. How ever cell in your body is trying to drag you into him, to forgo dignity for his touch. For the heat rolling off his body, that would cure you of this cold fever in a few seconds.

Dean coughs, stretching too causally to be natural, and his arm ends up around the back of the bench.

He’s like a radiator. Your shoulder almost slumps into the slight brush of his fingers, into the comfort they offer.

You lean forward, forcing a distance. You won’t break.

Dean can be stubborn. You’re going to give him a run for his stolen money.

“You think this is the guy?” He asks, withdrawing his arm.

You just shrug. Dean sighs.

“If you don’t, we can just go get a drink. Night’s almost over anyway, isn’t much he’d be able to do-“

“I want to wait.” You say, and you didn’t know your voice could sound that cold.

Dean tenses up at your side, then nods. “Alright. Guess we’re waiting.”

You huff, and neither of you try to speak again. When the guy comes out, you track him to the vamp nest and make quick work. It’s barely a hunt worth breaking a sweat over, not with Dean swinging his machete and your dead man’s blood bullets. When you’re done, there’s some dirt and guts on your jacket. Your nose wrinkles, and you feel Dean’s presence before you hear him.

“You alright?” Dean sounds worried. You just wave him off.

“Yeah.” You mutter, tossing the stained jacket in the trunk. “Just cold.”

“You can take my jacket-“

“I’m good.”

Dean already had his jacket half off, and he pauses. You turn away, not wanting to see whatever look was on his face.

You climb into the car, waiting for him to catch up. When he opens the door, his jacket is fully gone.

He shoves it into your hands without a glance. It’s warm like a blanket. It’s going to smell like him, and your fingers curl into the fabric against your will.

“Dean, I don’t want this-“

“Well, you got it.” He snaps, and you hold it tighter.

“I’m not going to wear it-“

“Don’t care.” He starts the car, shooting you a glare. “Toss it, burn it, see if I give a shit. It’s yours.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have anything to say that isn’t a curse or a plea.

The air feels like it’s getting more and more wired, with every passing second. It waves with heat, and starts to clog up your throat. You can breathe, but everything is sticky. The tension resting in your throat, swelling to keep words from spilling out of your throat.

Dean keeps looking at you. You wish he’d stop. Wish he’d make this easier on you, by not flexing his hands every three seconds and seeming like he’s going to reach out. To touch you, when your skin has gotten so, so cold.

When you get back to the motel, Dean goes right to the bathroom, and you stand uselessly in the center of the room. You still haven’t let go of the goddamn jacket.

You look at the door, and hear the water running. He’s taking a shower, and Dean takes long showers. 

You shrug on the jacket. And you were right.

It smells just like Dean.

Leather and amber, something a little spicy and a deep, comforting, unnamable scent that’s just Dean. It’s even stronger than the lingering musk of his cheap aftershave and cologne. You don’t even know why he bothers with that stuff, when he’s a natural aphrodisiac.

You wrap your arms around your stomach, staring at the bathroom door. It almost feels like he’s there. Like he’s hugging you and telling you everything is going to be okay.

And you sway on your feet, tears pricking at your eyes for the first time since he told you no. You’d shut it all down, refused to let yourself cry over it, and now-

He was your best friend. He’d acted like you lingered in all his dreams, the same way he lingered in yours.

And he told you no, and wouldn’t even give you the space to let your love die.

You don’t think it can die. But you’re not strong enough to leave him. Even with all this pain, you don’t want to. You refuse to be another person who leaves Dean, just because he won’t sleep with you.

But you can’t be here right now. Not while the wound is open and raw.

There’s a bar, just down the street. You text Dean that where you’re headed, and leave with his jacket still wrapped tight around your body.

It’s a fairly crowded bar. Enough people that the noise in your head can be drowned out, enough business that they keep good stuff in stock. You drink, but not enough to lose control. That’s not the goal.

You’re trying to get yourself to the point that you can return the smile of the man down the bar. He’s not bad looking. Dark hair and eyes, warm looking skin, a casualness to his stance that’s welcoming. He’s got broad shoulders. Big hands.

He’d be a good night.

But he’s not Dean. 

You need to be just tipsy enough to pretend that he is.

And it’s pathetic. You should be trying to get over him, but it’s like trying to drag your feet out of quicksand. The more you struggle against it, the more you think about every reason to stay in love with him. The way he sings loudly in the car, grinning at you the whole time. His dumb little bow-legged walk, and how he never breaks pace when he’s carrying you to the car after a bad hunt. His jokes, how safe you feel when he’s next to you, how even when he turned you down he hadn’t been cruel.

He’d just said no. You got it wrong. That’s- I’m not doing that to you.

You take another drink, breathing heavy through your nose. Wearing the jacket was a mistake. You can smell him all around you, and it’s a tantalizing, sadistic way to torture yourself. You swallow, looking up to the yellowed bar lights like they can offer you some strength.

They just stare back, and your eyes burn.

Maybe you should just go home. Call it a night, wallow in the bathtub until you either get it together, or sink under the water. Dean could save you. He’d bring you to bed and comfort you, then just leave you again. You’d be naked, and he’d have no interest, and you rub your eyes because you won’t cry in a public bar, you won’t-

Dean says your name, and you freeze.

“What the hell are you doing?” He’s not shouting, but it’s worse. “I come out and you’re just gone, you got any idea how much that freaked me out-“

“I texted you.” You don’t turn around. He doesn’t get to see the tears, still stinging at your vision.

Dean scoffs. “That’s not enough and you know it. Your phone coulda been stolen, you could’ve gone out then gotten grabbed, you- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you damn near gave me a heart attack-“

“Sorry.” There’s a stone-like lump, settling in your throat. “But I’m fine, Dean. And you could’ve called.”

He grunts, and you see him move into your periphery. You bow your head lower. You don’t want to see him. It will only make the pain worse. 

Dean mutters, your name. You don’t look up.

“How many drinks have you had?”

You shrug, and he sighs.

“Are you… feelin’ okay?”

“I feel amazing.” You mutter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your tone.

Dean swallows. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Neither of you move. You take another drink, and Dean’s voice becomes strained.

“Look, I- I didn’t mean to yell, just- Come on-“

His hand lands on your shoulder, and you shove it off.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“I don’t care.” You spit, finally letting your gaze turn on him.

He leans back, eyes widening slightly, and it immediately hurts. You don’t want to hurt him. But you’re too tired to stop.

“I was just- You worried me-“

“I’m fine.”

“You’re getting drunk-“

“You get drunk all the time.”

“That’s- It’s not the same- I’m not-“ He runs a hand over his face. “We can fight about this back at the room, okay, let’s go-“

“No.” You hiss, and something tight flashes over his face.

He says your name, and you shake your head, looking back to your glass.

“Leave me alone, Dean.”

And you want him to fight. You want him to tell you he’s not going anywhere without you, because you never want to go anywhere without him. You’d sew your hands together, stick your shoulders together with glue, wrap around his back like a growth just to remind him how amazing he is, all the time.

You’d fight for him.

But Dean doesn’t. He nods.

“Sorry.” He mutters, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard. Not the deep drawl that he uses to tease and joke with you.

Just… Heavy.

Defeated.

And he apologizes, and walks away. You look over your shoulder, and find him staring back. His throat bobs, his hands fist at his sides, and he leaves.

Leaves you. Alone.

You down another shot, and it burns your throat with your eyes. You won’t cry over this. He’s allowed to not want you, and you’re going to be mature about it, and go sleep with someone else.

It takes another drink, but you walk over to the man on the other end of the bar. It feels like you’ve been moved into an autopilot, all your smiles too tight on your face and your voice far away. You bat your eyelashes, and lean forward without recoiling at how not Dean he is. He tells you you’re pretty. You laugh, and tell him he’s not so bad himself.

He puts his hand on your lower back as you walk to the parking lot. He’s a local, with a house not too far he’d like to show you. If he notices how you arch away from the touch, he doesn’t say anything.

And under the parking lot lamps, you can just see his silhouette and pretend it’s Dean.

But then he brushes your hair from your face, and leans in for a kiss. It’s an instinct, to turn your cheek. You’ve made it all the way to the car, and his heater is running, but the burning feeling over your skin isn’t from desire.

It’s prickly and sore.

Shame.

You mumble a sorry, the world moving so fast everything turns to a blur, but it might just be the tears pricking in your eyes. You try to take off your jacket, to cool down and collect yourself.

But the smell of Dean is gone, and now you’re sick, and you-

You can’t.

You just can’t.

It’s with scrambled apologies and a flushed face, that you run out of the car. There’s no excuse for it. Nothing that you can say to rationalize fleeing the moment like it’s a crime scene, running from a kiss like it threatened death. But you feel sick.

He’s not Dean.

When you get back to the motel room you’re out of breath. Your fingers are numb and there’s bile in your throat. The shame burns under your face, and your lips are wobbling pathetically. You’d rip the love out of you, if it wouldn’t feel like carving out a piece of your soul. You’d stay away the whole night, if you didn’t know the world would slow back down the moment you saw him.

He told you no, but he’s still your Dean. The world is safe with him. And you like loving him, you do, but right now you just…

You hate yourself. Blame yourself.

Wish you were anything else, that you loved him a little less, so the wound could be cauterized without splitting itself open.

Every movement just splits it open. And Dean isn’t going to come and stich it back up.

You take a ragged breath. Collect yourself by your throat, refusing to let your guts just spill all over the ground for Dean to see. For him to think he has to clean up, when you’re trying so hard not to blame him. He didn’t know what he was doing to you. He told you to stop. And you can’t.

All the mixed signals earned your silence, but not your wrath. You’re grabbing your heart and throttling it, because you don’t want to be mad.

But you open the door, and Dean is still up. He’d sprawled on his bed, watching TV, eyes locking onto yours before you’re even in the room. You try to ignore him, and kick off your shoes. He pauses his show.

“You have fun?”

You shoot him a glare, but his expression is unreadable. There are long shadows on his face that only make him more handsome, and you can feel the anger clawing up your chest.

He raises his brows in slight challenge, and you’re too exhausted to ignore the bait.

“No.” You snap, tossing off the jacket. “I didn’t.”

If Dean has a reaction, he doesn’t show it. “Sorry.”

You snort, and his lips twitch down.

“What’s so funny-“

“You’re not sorry.” The words fall out of you, lined in venom.

And he shrugs.

Dean just shrugs, like that’s all your love is worth, and something inside you snaps.

How dare he. How dare he stomp on your heart and treat you like a child, and how dare he make you keep loving him by putting water on your beside table for your hangover and staying up just to make sure you get home safe. He’s a good man but he’s being so cruel and it’s only just to you. Like you deserve some punishment for loving him. Like he’s daring you to bite him back.

You can bite.

You can rip something in him, and make it almost half as deep as he’s buried himself into you.

“It’s your fault, you know.” You cross your arms, glaring at him across the room.

He chuckles, looking back to the TV. “Yeah, whatever sweetheart-“

“Don’t call me that.”

That makes him go rigid. His eyes fly back to yours, and you mimic his challenging look.

“What,” he stares at you, like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Don’t call you sweetheart-“

“Yes.” You raise your chin, and he sits up.

“I- Why?”

“Why?” You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Why do you think, Dean? Why on Earth wouldn’t I want you to call me sweetheart, when you fucking- You-“

He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach.

“No, you- You keep-“

“Is this about you askin’ me to-“

“Of course it’s about that!” You scream, and Dean’s hand fists on his leg. “You turned me down, Dean, you said no, and that’s- That’s fine, you’re allowed to- To not want me-“

Dean moves slowly to his feet, watching you carefully. “Sweetheart-“

“Don’t call me that!” You scream, taking a large step back. “Don’t talk to me like that when you don’t mean it, Dean, it- It’s awful-“

“I wasn’t tryin’ to make you-“ He swallows, reaching a hand for you before yanking it back. “Look, I just- I didn’t think-“

“You didn’t think? You’re not stupid, Dean, how could you not think that you rejecting me when I- I’d been so sure, when I love you-“

“Don’t.” His voice raises suddenly. You flinch a step back, pressing your back to the wall.

Dean’s face falls in second, and he moves forward, arms flexing like he’s trying to control every movement.

“Baby, I-“

“Don’t yell at me.” You whisper, blinking away your tears.

He swallows, voice strained. “I know, I didn’t mean to-“

“You’re the one who said no, Dean.” You mutter, staring down at his knees. “You told me I was wrong, but- You follow me to bars and you call me sweetheart, and- and Baby-“ You wipe your nose, sniffing through the words, all your anger just evaporating into hurt. “You can’t do both. You can’t. It’s not fair.”

“I know.” He says immediately, taking another step forward. “I know, I’m sorry, just- Don’t cry. Don’t, I’m not worth that-“

“Yes, you are.”

Dean falls completely silent, and you look up to find him barely a foot away. Every muscle in his body flexes, his chest heaving like the air is thin. He’s staring at you like he’s not sure you’re there. You tip your head back against the door, and give him a tired smile.

“You’re worth everything.” You whisper. “I- I still love you, Dean, and you don’t have to feel it back, but- I love you, and you-“

“No.” He almost chokes out the word, face twisting like he’s in pain. “You had a crush. That’s not love, it’s-“ he shakes his head. “You got rose colored glasses, alright? I’m not some kinda hero that’s gonna live up to the fuckin’ fantasy-“

“It’s not a fantasy.” You snap. “I love you, I know I do-“

“I promise you don’t.” He grunts. “I drink too much, I don’t go to the doctor and I got no plans, I’m an old ass who sleeps with a gun, hell, I’m old enough to be your dad, that’s not love-“

“Stop telling me that!”

Dean blinks at the certainty in your shout, and you push up on the wall, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what a crush feels like, and I know what love feels like, and I- I feel better around you, Dean!” Your voice cracks. “You make everything better, you make me feel- Feel wanted, you make me smile and you make me happy, and I- I love seeing you because it tells me I’m going to be okay.” The tears are falling again, and Dean looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You’re being such a dick but I still love you, and I- I think- I think I need space because you can’t- You don’t have to want me but you can’t act like I don’t know what I want, because I know, and it’s you, it’s just you-“

Your voice breaks fully, and Dean moves.

He crashes forward, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you like he thinks you’re going to disappear. You squeak, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he presses closer.

His body is draped over yours, warm and sturdy. His mouth is certain, moving against yours like a wave. Pulling at your lower lip then sucking, open and passionate. You’re trapped between him and the wall, and your knees get weak from the force but he wraps an arm around you, keeping you afloat as your head starts to spin.

“De- Dean-“

“It’s just you,” he grunts your name, speaking between frenzied, wet kisses. “It’s only you, been you since the first time you smiled at me and it was like the sun was finally fuckin’ shining, there’s nothin’ else, no one else- Son of a bitch, you’re the only thing that gets my ass outta bed in the morning some days, just fuckin’ you.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, drags his lips in a hot line down your neck. You shiver, pulling him closer and trying, so desperately, to be sure this isn’t a dream.

“You- You said-“

“I know what I said.” He pulls back, taking your face between his hands. “Thought-“ He laughs dryly. “Hell, I still think, you’re better off running around with someone your own age. Someone who’s got a future, who can give you things-“

“You can give me things.” You whisper, staring up at him. He swallows.

“I told you, I’m old with ten bucks to my name, and I don’t think I’m hittin’ the lottery any time soon-“

“But you have you.” You smile at him, reaching carefully up to cup his cheek. “That’s all I want, Dean. That’s all you need to give.”

Dean’s eyes close, screwed shut as he breathes through his nose. He grabs your hand on his cheek, holding it there with a crushing grip.

“Do you want me?” You breathe out, still not fully trusting that this is real.

He nods, and tears slide down your cheeks.

“I- I need you to say it, please-“

“I want you.” He rasps, eyes locking onto yours. “And I don’t just want you, sweetheart, I- I-“ His jaw flexes, like he’s gagging on his own words.

You wait, and he presses further over you, consuming your whole vision. Your hand is guided over your head, and when you reach with it’s opposite to wrap around his neck, he takes that one too. You’re caged between his massive chest and the wall, your fingers scraping at the back of his hand, and he looks at you like the stars have been poured into his bathtub. Like he’s being offered the universe to drown in, and he’s just trying to build the courage to drive.

“I can’t stop calling you.” He mutters, and your breath hitches. “I call for you in my sleep, call for you when I think I’m running outta luck and I gotta start saying my prayers. Call for you on every hunt, even when I know you’re gonna be okay. Think about shouting for you when you leave the room, stare at my phone when you go away and hope you call me, so I’m not being a fuckin’ pervert.”

“You- You’re not a-“

“Yes, I am.” Dean brushes his lips over yours, and you gasp softly. “Things I think about doin’ to you aren’t winning me any sainthoods. Call for you there, too. When I got an hour to myself, just me and my imagination, and you.” He kisses your cheek, then under your ear. “Sometimes I get so loud I think you’re gonna hear. You don’t look at me after and I worry I’ve lost you forever. Can’t lose you, sweetheart. Can’t.” His voice falters slightly, and he draws back.

Drops his brow back against yours, all the teasing confidence waning in a second. His voice is raw. Pleading and hopeless.

“You- You don’t have to forgive me, alright? I thought you’d be better, thought you just got swept up in something, I didn’t- I’m sorry.” His expression is bare, filled with so much pain you feel it echo in your chest. “I’m so sorry, baby, but don’t- Don’t go. Please.” He grabs your hip like it’s his last anchor in a storm. “Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything, give you anything, please-“

You can’t stand it anymore. The pain in his voice.

So you press up, and kiss him.

It’s a little faster than Dean’s kiss. More chaste, too. A tiny press of your lips over his, and an attempt to draw back. But Dean is faster, and strong. He grabs the back of your head, ducking down to meet you and kissing you with such a fervor your legs give out.

He catches you. His grip squeezes on your hands, and he pulls you upright in a second, his mouth managing to never leave yours. You gasp, rising up to trying and meet every bit of heat he can offer. You open your mouth, and he takes full advantage, pushing his tongue over yours as his knee slides between your legs.

You moan, rolling your hips, and Dean squeezes your wrists. He rubs his thumb in small, soothing circles as he tugs on your hair gently. Just enough to tip your head back, and allow him further access.    

Dean kisses you like he’s done it a million times before. Your head is spinning with the passion, but he never breaks pace. When you start to run out of air—whining against his lips and straining at his hold on your wrists—he drops his lips to your neck, sucking and nipping gently as you try to collect yourself.

It’s a pointless endeavor. Every brush of Dean’s teeth, every flick of his tongue, they send a bolt of lightning through your body. You’ve never been taken this high with just kissing, but it’s Dean. He could be taking about diseases and you’d want to climb him like a tree.

You’re not doing much climbing right now, though. There’s a pressure building between your thighs, and you’re mostly just fighting yourself from humping him like an animal.

It’s hard, when he’s making out with a sensitive spot under your jaw. You’re not even sure how you manage to speak.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“Not God.” He teases. “Just me. Call my name, sweetheart, let me hear it-“

You try to, but it turns into a strangled moan when Dean’s hand drops from your head to your hips. The firm squeeze of the skin, his fingers dancing over your inner thigh, it’s too much. You start to rut against his jeans in tiny, uncontrolled movements, and it only makes all that building need worse.

Dean groans, pushing his knee further up. It’s overwhelming, the mix of relief and desperation the motion brings. You squeak, grinding down onto him, chasing more, more, more-

“That’s it.” He mutters, encouraging and low. “That’s a girl, fuck my leg, come on-“

You moan, and Dean molds his lips back over yours. It feels like where he’s supposed to be. How he’s supposed to be.

So completely with you.

Almost yours.

And it gnaws at the back of your head, even as release builds in your core. He apologized, he said he wants you, but- But-“

“Dean,” you bite down another moan, the coil wound too tight. About to snap, when he starts to push his knee up in time with every roll of your hips. “Oh- Dean- We- We still need to talk-“

He stops immediately, and you almost whine.

“Right.” He grunts, wiping his mouth with his free hand. Your thighs clench around his knee, core still throbbing, and he smirks. “Talk about what, baby?”

You scowl. He knows what he’s doing, the asshole. “We- We can’t just sleep together-“

“Who said we were sleeping together?”

You flush, your eyes going wide, and Dean sighs.

“No, sweetheart, I was just teasing, come on-“

You turn your face, flushed with embarrassment. Dean leans forward, kissing up your jaw gently.

“I wanna sleep with you,” he murmurs in your ear, and you press your lips in a thin line. “I do, Christ- You got no idea, but if you’re not ready I’m not rushing anything.”

He presses his brow against the side of your head, lips brushing under your ear.

“I don’t wanna ruin this,” he rasps. “It’s the first good thing I got, you- You’re the only thing I’ve never-“ He shakes his head. “I still got you, alright? I got you. We can talk if you wanna talk, and I’ll keep my mouth shout. But I want you. Want you so much it hurts.” He rolls his hips up, and your eyes dart to his as you feel the proof.

Hard and thick through his jeans. Rubbing on your inner thigh, making your thoughts run away with all kinds of ideas. With the image of him sliding in and out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing. Your nails dig into his wrists, your breath picking up, and Dean notices.

His eyes soften, even as his tongue flicks over his lips.

“Tell me what you want.” He mutters, and you drag the words from the molten pit of your stomach.

“You.”

Dean’s face flashes, his voice getting hoarse. “How.”

And you know. He’s not just asking about this. About your bodies woven together, or his hand gliding under your shirt.

So you smile, and turn your head to fully kiss him. Slow and soft, enough to soothe the tension in both your bodies. Dean lets you lead this kiss, dropping your wrists to weave his fingers through your head.

Your voice is gentle and soft, when you speak into his mouth.

“However you want.” You whisper. “I’m yours.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. A deep sound rumbles through his chest, and before you know what’s happening you’re being picked up off the ground. Dean carries you to your bed like you weigh nothing, muscled arms wrapped tight around your body and kissing you with less and less control each second.

You’re not tossed onto the bed, but placed down like something precious. Your arms rise, trying to hold on as Dean stands up, and he doesn’t seems all that willing to let go either. When you yank on his hair, scratching at his neck, he groans.

Falls back over you, herding you up the bed with desperate, unrelenting kisses.

“Brat.” He grunts, bullying you back against the headboard. “I was gonna get undressed, gonna take my time, but you’re just that needy, huh? Need me so bad you can’t give a man five seconds?”

You shake your head, his every dirty word shooting right to your already dripping cunt.

You’re sure you’ve ruined this pair of underwear. Dean certainly isn’t helping, with his wandering hands. Squeezing your hips and thighs, teasing your sides with featherlight touches and knuckles grazing your breasts. He presses his tongue flat on your neck as he sits you up against the headboard, and your legs fall open at the sheer display of strength. He’s folding you and moving you like you’re a doll, all while touching you like you’re a diamond.

“Too long.” You gasp, grinding up against his knee. It’s moved back between your thighs, as Dean grabs your face between his hands and rises over your body.

He stares at you in wonder, lips swollen and eyes shining.

You blink at him, core still dragging against him. You’d been so close before, so so close, and you might be about to cry from desperation.

“Dean, please.” You beg without caring, and his fingers dig a little into your neck. Your head spins with desire, and you grab his wrists, fucking up into his leg. “Please, it- It’s been so long, I’ve needed you so bad, fuck- Dean-“

Your whining is cut off with one, long and searing kiss. It’s shockingly sweet, for what a wreck you are below him. Dean grins against your lips, swaying you back and forth, unmoved by your little whimpers and squirming. When he pulls back, it’s with the control of a man who knows what he wants.

You.

Dean’s seen the world, and he wants you.

“Take off your clothes.” He mutters, smiling at you as he pulls away. His voice is deep and dangerous. It sends a thrill of desire through your heat.

Then he leans back, and you try to follow, but he doesn’t let you. Dean press a hand flat over your stomach, and gently pushes you back against the headboard.

“Ah,” he smirks, dragging his fingers slowly down your stomach. “No touchin’ right now, baby girl. Want you to show me.”

You swallow, voice small and breathy. “Show you?”

“How much you want it.” He mutters, those fingers dragging right over your core. “How much you want me.”

Then, right as he’s pressing at your core through your pants, he pulls back.

Dean sits on the bed, thick thighs spread, watching you expectantly.

“Strip.” He reminds you, and you nod.

And you don’t know how you find the confidence, under the intensity of his gaze, but you move. You peel off your shirt, then unclip your bra.

“Good girl.” He grunts, and you shine under the praise, sitting up a little taller. Dean jaw tightens, and he rubs his thigh as he stares at your breasts. His tongue flicks over his lips, and he looks almost feral.

That’s how you find it. Dean wants you, wants to see you, and he looks at you like you’re beautiful. You feel beautiful.

Watching Dean nostrils flare, watching him palm himself and hearing his low groans, you’ve never felt more beautiful in your life.

You peel off your pants, then your underwear. Lean back against the headboard and watch Dean seem to fight himself. He strains, leaning forward like he can’t help himself. He’s still trapped in his jeans, but you can see the hard outline of his cock, and your pussy flutters at the sight. Slowly, watching his thick hand move back and forth on his length, you drag two fingers through your pussy lips.

“Oh.” You gasp, tipping your head back. “Dean-“

He makes a sound close to a growl, and your fingers dip into your heat. They pump slowly, and you look under your lashes at the tent in Dean’s pants. You clench, hips pushing up to offer yourself a better angle. Dean groans, croaking your name, and you move a little faster.

“Fuck, Dean-“ You moan, words pouring wantingly from your mouth. “I- I want your cock so bad. Want you to fuck me, make me stupid, want to feel you-“

He hisses, eyes flashing as he scrambles with his belt. “Jesus, you can’t just fuckin’ say that shit, baby-“

“But I want you.” You pout at him, pulling your fingers out to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Want you to fill me up, Dean, please-“

You push up and start to crawl across the bed. Dean freezes, watching you with wide eyes as you settle between his legs. You press your face into his thigh, right against his half-pulled down pants. He grunts, his hand shooting into your hair, and you let your body sink into the mattress. You kiss over the seam of his pants, along his hips, over his cock.

He hisses, twitching under your touch. You snake your hand down your body, pushing your ass in the air as you start to finger yourself again.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groans, and you hum, pressing your nose into his balls as you fuck your hand. “You’re killin’ me, you’re- Chist-“

You lick him through his underwear, moaning as you rub your clit back and forth. Dean’s hand fists, but he doesn’t push you further. You can tell he wants to. That he’s still trying to be respectful and loving.

But that’s not what you want. Dean’s a marvel of a man, and you want all his attention. You want to choke on it, to be covered in his marks, to never have to doubt what you mean to him again.

You moan against him, wiggling your ass and pressing your own face down. Your lips graze under his balls, and you roll onto your back. Spread your legs, rubbing your clit and letting your legs spread wide for Dean to see your mess of arousal. He grabs your breast, kneading and rolling your nipple, and you giggle with an almost dizzying pleasure.

Dean’s hips jerk forward, and you use your free hand to pull at his boxers. You need to feel more of him, need to have as much as him as he’ll let you take while you’re in control. Dean’s hips slam forward, when your fingers wrap around the base of his thick cock, squeezing your tits tight enough you squirm.

You need two hands, to get him fully out. One to move the fabric, the other to try and guide him where you want. When he’s fully freed, you grab his knee for support and like as firm stripe up the underside of his dick. He’s beautiful, right down to the thickness in your hands. You didn’t know someone could be beautiful like this. You’ve certainly never seen a cock you wanted to worship.

But it’s Dean. It’s always Dean.

You squirm, tipping your head back so you can lick his head. Dean pushes further up on his knees to accommodate you, moaning your name. His hand slides down your body, the other bracing him somewhere near your ass.

“Fuckin’- Fuck-“ He groans, and it gives you a little extra push. You wraps your lip around him, flicking your tongue over his weeping slit.

His hand grabs your inner thigh, and you feel his whole body tense as he seems to fully realize how turned on your are. You squeak around him, when his thumb drags over your clit, and he jerks into your mouth.

“Sorry.” He grunts, voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, I’m- You’re so wet.” He sounds wrecked, fucking shallowly into your mouth, and you moan happily. Grab his thighs, as his thumb starts to circle your clit in tiny, fast strokes.

You hum, unhinging your jaw, and Dean groans. He bumps against the back of your throat, and you feel your eyes roll back with pleasure.

Then he shifts slightly. Leans down, his warm breath fanning over the heat of your cunt. Your nails dig into him, and you think you’d scream if your voice wasn’t being stolen by his cock. You’re only breathing out of your nose, lightheaded from the way he’s using your mouth.

Dean kisses over your clit. Wet and open mouthed, lips moving like he’s in a trance.

He moans, and repeats the motion. His arms lock around your legs as he spits on your pussy, spreading them wider before his whole face presses into your core.

And you’ve heard about him. Even just rumors, of how he’s learned to play a body over the years.

The stories do him no justice. This might be better than heaven.

Dean eats your pussy like he’s been training for it. Like it’s a sport and he’s trying to win. His tongue drags, his beard scraping your thighs, and his hands splay on your ass to keep you exactly where he wants. His tongue licks, fast and tight on your clit. His nose rubs against your entrance, his hands squeezing as he pulls you up, hits deeper, and you can feel that heat in your, about to explode.

He feels it too.

And he pulls back.

“Hold it.” He kisses your clit lightly, then spanks your pussy. “Gonna make it good, sweetheart, but you gotta hold it.”

You moan around him, but it’s a sound of desperate agreement. You trust him.

Holding it feels almost impossible, but fuck if you aren’t going to try.

“Good girl.” He slaps your pussy again, pulls himself out of your mouth and rolls you both over with a small grunt. Suddenly he’s flat on his back, and you’re being manhandled up and around.

Onto the top of his chest.  

You push at his shoulders, and he just chuckles, catching your hands easily.

“Dean, what are you-“

 “Having you sit on my face.” He kisses the inside of your wrist. “You’re gonna love it, baby, trust me.”

You swallow. “I- I might crush you-“

“Noble death.” He shrugs, grinning when you glare.

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“I’m serious. You’re not gonna hurt me, I know what I’m doing. If you don’t want to, that’s another conversation, but don’t hide from me just cause you’re worried I can’t handle some good fuckin’ pussy on my face.”

Jesus Christ, that almost makes you cum on it’s own. Dean beams when you nod nervously, starting to crawl further up. He guides you further, a playful glint in his eyes, and kisses the very inside of your thigh.

“Remember.” He winks, and your fingers shoot into his hair. “Don’t cum.”

Your mouth falls open, and Dean yanks you down.

Any snapping words you had are driven from your mind in a second. He was right. You do like it.

It’s even better than being under him. He’s still got you in a tight hold, pinning you on his face as you try to wriggle away, but the pleasure is so overwhelming you can’t do anything else. It’s like a warm, sentient vibrator has been trapped against your pussy. Dean groans and kisses you with a wet open mouth, the sound rolling through your body. Even as your writhe over him, gasping his name and making loud, choked sounds you didn’t know your body was capable of, you’re pulling at his hair trying to get closer.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to stop yourself from coming. He’s keeping you on his face, but not restricting your movements. Every time you try to chase more, he moans. You look over your shoulder and find his cock still at attention, fucking the air like he can’t help it.

That almost tips you over. You gasp, eyes rolling, and-

Dean pulls you off. Sits you back on his chest, reaching up to play with your tits while you gape uselessly.

“Dean-“

“Soon.” He promises, pinching your nipple gently. “You’re doin’ great, baby girl. Doin’ so good for me.”

That does exactly what he wants. The burning need in your core wanes, but not enough to kill anything. You’re just pulled a little off the edge, grinding onto his broad, thick chest as he plays with your breasts.

Then, again, Dean picks you up and sits you back on his face. This time one hand doesn’t leave your breast, continuing to tease a nipple while Dean groans against your pussy. You shove at the arm locked around your back, but his fingers just tickle your side, and make you drop right back down with a scream. He laughs as your thighs start to tremble, and you stop fighting it, even for play. You’re wound too tight, you need it too much-

Dean stops again. Smiles at you, and kisses your knee near his head as you try to shake yourself out of the daze. Then, again, when you’re settled, he pulls you forward.

This time you’re limp over him, grinding desperately down on his mouth. He groans, letting his hands wander. Dragging up your spine, one cupping the back of your neck as the other splays possessively on your lower back. You get to the edge faster that time.

And Dean stops again.

You don’t know how long he does that. You lose track somewhere around the fifth, when you’re a sobbing mess of desire.

“Dean, please-“ You whimper, pulling at his hair as he guides you back down. “I- I can’t- Can’t hold it, I need to cum, please-“

“Soon, sweet girl.” He reaches up, wiping a few tears from your cheeks.

You lean into his warm, calloused hand, and he smiles. Something reverent and soft settles on his features, almost jarring in the mix of sweat and sin filling the room.

“You have no idea.” He mutters. “How beautiful you are.”

You swallow, lips parting. Dean drags his finger over your lower lip, rubbing a calming circle on your lower back.

“You need to come?” He asks gently, and you nod.

“Please.”

“Alright.” He picks you up again, moving you further down his chest. To his dick, big and dripping with pre-cum, pressing against your ass as you stare at him. “Take what you want.”

You stare at him, and finally see the tiny smirk on his lips. He’s still playing with you. And when you pout, he laughs, dragging your down into a long, deep kiss.

“I’m not young anymore, baby.” He teases, kissing your nose. “This is what happens when you decide you wanna fuck a dinosaur.”

You glare at him, shoving his chest. “You’re no a dinosaur-“

“And you’re not coming till you ride my cock.”

A new, heavy determination fills you. You stick your tongue out at him, pushing up on his chest, and he just smiles at you like you’re an angel.

“You’re such an ass.” You mutter, letting a little affection drip over your words as you sit up on your knees.

Dean laughs, grinning easily up at you. “Yeah, but I’m your ass now. You said you love me. No take backs- Fuck-“

There’s a jolt of pride, as you line Dean up with your hole and sink onto him in one movement. It’s only because he’s prepped you to the point of near ruin, but it’s working in your favor now. Dean grabs your waist, tipping his head back with a long moan as you just sit on him for a second.

The stretch burns a little, but it’s perfect. You didn’t know you could be this full, feel someone so everywhere. The sensation darts from your pussy to your toes, your lips, your fingers sinking into his chest as you just try to breath. It’s not too much, but it’s more. Enough that you think you could come just by being filled with him, if he let you stay there long enough.

But you’ve been teased too much, tonight. You need release, or you might start crying for real.

You swivel your hips in experiment, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman-“

“’S big.” You mumble, repeating the movement. Every thought is slowly draining from your head, leaving only an instinct of Dean. “Oh- Oh my god-“

You find a good angle that drives right into your g-spot, and start to grind down. Dean says your name through his teeth, grabbing at you in a way that’s going to bruise in the morning.

It goads you on. You pick up your pace, trying to drag yourself back up to that edge Dean brought you to like it was nothing.

His cock is dragging and pressing inside of you, and it’s too much for you to let go of him. You moan, staring down at Dean, and that helps a little more. His muscles ripple below you, his head tipped back and lips gently parted as he watches you move on him. You can see his restraint again, as he just rubs your body and mutters low, rumbling encouragement.

“That’s it, baby girl.” He squeezes under your ribs, that awe shining in his eyes. “So fuckin’ tight on my cock, taking me perfectly. Never felt this good, sweetheart, never fuckin’-“

You drag forward, clenching around him, and he moans. Tips his head back with fluttering eyes, but still doesn’t just rut up into you. You whine in frustration, movements becoming short and uncontrolled as you get closer and closer.

But it’s not enough. Your thighs feel like jelly, and you can’t quite get yourself there. You’re trying, you’re trying so hard, but your mouth his hanging open and you can barely breathe through the feeling of Dean buried inside your cunt-

Dean grabs your jaw, forcing your glazed eyes onto his. His mouth twitches as you blink, and his voice is only sweet, as he murmurs your name.

“Sweetheart, you having some trouble?” He coos, and you’re mostly just shaking above him now. “Need some help.”

You can only nod, clawing at his chest hopefully.

Dean grins, and drags you down. Your mouth falls over his, and you moan openly, collapsing totally into his embrace.

His arm slides around your lower back, and you squeal as he rolls you over one more time. You’re pressed into the pillows, your legs nudged open, and Dean thrusts slowly, giving you a pace to adjust to the shift.

He’s deeper like this. Folding you under him to hit spots you couldn’t, kissing you so lovingly the whole time. You’d expected him to drill you through the mattress, but there’s no rush to his movements at all. 

Dean’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, and he knows exactly how he wants to spend it. Buried in your pussy, dragging everything out of you like a professional. His cock slides in and out of you, and it’s an even more lewd picture than you’d managed to imagine before. He presses all the way down to his balls, circles his hips, then pulls almost all the way out. It’s not slow, but it’s not rough. And it makes you only putty in his hands, staring up at him as he starts to pull a burning, powerful feeling from deep in your gut that no one else has ever been able to give you.

Stars dance at your vision, and Dean kisses you lazily. Firm, but slow, tasting your every moan and whimper like it’s his favorite pie. You grab his face and he hums. His thrusts start to get a little uneven, pressing deeper every time you clench around him. He moves one hand between your bodies, rising up to watch you below him with an adoring gaze.

You’re beyond words, when he starts to rub your clit. You don’t think you remember how to speak.

Dean leans down, his head pressed into your cheek as he kisses your neck, watching you start to roll below him. He groans as your pussy flutters again, that heat getting impossible to hold down.

He kisses you, words gentle but firm against your mouth.

“Now, baby, soak my cock like a good girl, cum for me, come on-“

Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision goes white. Your body spasms, Dean’s name falling from your lips like a prayer. He groans as you gush around his cock, fucking you through it with shorter and shorter thrusts until he’s kissing you with teeth and spit, pumping his release into your abused, oversensitive pussy.

You make a tiny sound of protest, as the feeling of him overflowing in your cunt forces a tiny, mind-numbing orgasm through your body. Dean kisses you gently, moving you with light hands onto your side. For a second, you think he’s going to try and leave. You grab his arm, twisting to give him a pleading expression.

He frowns. “Sweetheart, you gotta clean up-“

You shake your head, giving him your best doe eyes. He sighs, and lies back down, huffing in a amusement at your wide smile.

“Can’t even smile and still bossing me around,” he mutters, kissing your neck.

You wrinkle your nose, and he laughs, kissing that too.

Then he pauses. Leans up, something serious shadowing his eyes.

“You, uh-“ He clears his throat. “You know, right? What you mean to me? That I…”

He trials off, swallowing, and you smile. Reach over to cup his cheek, beaming at him with everything you have. Every bit of love in you, finally able to just flood into him.

Dean mouth twitches, and he nods. Bows his head, wrapping an arm tight around your stomach.

“Good.” He mutters, and you know.

He’s never meant anything more in his life.

“Cause I mean it.” He rasps, kissing your cheek. “It’s only you.”

The car journey back had been full of wandering hands in the dark, had he thought he was being subtle? Tony pawed at her like it was his right, so doped up he didn’t care about the murderous silence that filled the vehicle. Tony only cared about himself.

“You're so beautiful.” Tony groaned through the dark, his eyes wide as he drank in the figure of the woman in front of him. “Always been so beautiful, so perfect, so submissive, so willing.” he continued, stepping forward to run a tanned hand up the y/s/c woman's arm. She was close enough he could smell her. A rich, spicy ambery scent which had begun to drive him wild. “You’d never leave your Tony would you? Not like that bitch” Tony trailed off in disgust at the thought of the blonde woman he’d risked it all for. He couldn’t even stomach saying her name after tonight.

Tony’s words stumbled through the moonlight “Te amo cariño”, his staggered speech began to leak through, evidence of his alcohol intake over the evening. “You don’t love me, you just want someone to be a Mother to your future children.” The Cuban hummed, his hand stopping in its tracks, replacing the soft gentle brushing with an almost vice-like grip. It would probably cause a bruise, but Y/N paid no mind to it now. Instead all she could focus on was the feeling of his wedding ring, the small circle of gold burnt into her. She wanted to scream, to put as much distance between them as possible. She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t show weakness. Tony would enjoy that too much. He was a little sick like that, he liked knowing he had grown from a mob like errand boy to the big man. Somehow Y/N managed to put a whisker of distance between them. Just enough to not feel his soul crushing her. Just enough to regain some semblance of control.

The cold silence returned and with it the course of the evening had been decided. It was her fate, there was no escaping it. He wouldn’t let her.

“You wanna fuck me huh?” the y/h/c woman asked, biting back a mocking laugh, part of her wanted to believe she would have put up more of a fight. But Y/N was tired, so tired of acting like everything was alright. Tonight had just been one monumental fuck up after another. Her usually meticulous makeup was starting to fade along with her tolerance for niceties. Taking a step forward the y/h woman tilted her head, her y/e/c orbs flickering over the man standing before her. He was probably coked out of his mind, that was when he was always at his cruelest. He wouldn’t attack her physically, Y/N was quite sure of that. But the way he leered over her made one thing perfectly clear, she was at his mercy and tonight she was the prey he would mentally stalk like a viper preparing to strike.

Whether it was brave or stupid was yet to be established, but still Y/N took a step forwards. She could feel his breath on her face. “You want to fuck me Tony?” Y/N asked again, her voice sticky and sickly sweet. “You wanna get me all breathless and shaking under you?” she continued, little small pornographic like gasps accompanying her question. The question was rhetorical and he knew that, but still watching his adams apple bop as he gulped greedily at the image she was painting revealed his true intention. Tonight Antonio Montana the once penniless immigrant was going to prove he could get anything he wanted, regardless of the price of the sin.

“Well, here have at it! It’s all yours Tony.” the woman scoffed, the strands of Y/H/C that escaped her previously elegant French twist framing her face so perfectly she looked angelic. Turning on her heel Y/N glided to the grandiose kitchen island. Slowly leaning forward until she stretched across the Italian marble counter top. Shivering slightly as her breasts pressed into the cold stone, before swiftly lifting her dress. The dark green silk revealing her delicious y/s/c legs.

you were just… so sweet.

so painfully sweet and innocent. and dean didn’t want to take that away from you. he wanted you to be that innocent angel, curious of everything as long as you could. without being scarred by an ordinary mortal like him. the fact you happened to love him out of all people still baffled him. but he wasn’t complaining since he was absolutely and utterly in love with you.

but then again, you were driving him crazy to the point where the ache in his pants was getting worse and worse, day by day, where now his hand wasn’t enough to satisfy him. at this point, he got cramps in his fingers and couldn’t squeeze them in a fist properly.

he needed you. badly.

and you were so oblivious to the effect you had on him. every time you brushed against his body. or when you were in his bed, curiously watching scooby-doo as you demanded he put it on since he told you it was his favourite show when he was a kid—and you wanted to know all his favourite things. or when you’d explore your boundaries, testing out some physical contact by randomly taking his hand in yours, tucking your head under his arm as you stood next to each other, cuddling together as you went to sleep or kissing.

christ, you were so adorable. he loved you so much.

and you were so good at stirring his cock to life, unaware of what was happening.

which was pretty much the reason for his current predicament. dean was making something in the kitchen, and as the curious little angel that you were, you came closer and snuck under his arm, so now you were placed between the stove and his body.

he inhaled sharply, his eyes widening as your plush ass rubbed against his crotch. it was enough for a red light to light in his brain, and his thoughts beginning to go haywire.

too close. too close. step back. step back, he kept repeating to himself.

but how could he possibly step away from you when you looked so gorgeous, just innocently trying to learn something new from your boyfriend? dear god, was he going to hell. again.

he looked down since you were shorter than him, which was a mistake. his eyes widened, and his mouth watered as he was met with the valley of your perky breasts, a deep cutout in your shirt doing only so little to help his fantasies.

not only that, but he did start wandering where you even get clothes LIKE THAT.

fuck, who was picking your clothes? stupid question, as if he wasn’t the one to do so.

the truth was that dean spoiled you immensely. now, instead of buying the newest copy of ‘busty asian beauties’, he was picking out some magazines for you to read. you’d look at all the pretty pictures—that’s what you’d call them, and point at clothes you liked. and dean would get them for you when you stopped by some shops. how did he know your breast cup size, though?

well, he was experienced like that. and he loved looking down at your boobs when you were sleeping in his arms.

anyway.

to complete the overall outfit, you were wearing those low-cut jeans that nicely accented your plump ass that he loved swatting as you went past him. and the way your white panties were sticking out just made him imagine his fingers slipping under the fabric and making it dampen as he—

he took a sharp breath. again.

dean took a step back after all, only to discreetly palm his crotch as he hummed some kind of response to the question you just asked him. however, he couldn’t think straight. so, making up some lame excuse, he kissed you on your temple and quickly went to his bedroom, sitting down on his bed and resting his back against the pillow, already propped up.

he rubbed the bulge in his pants, groaning at the feeling of his cock straining against the fabric. he couldn’t take it anymore. he fumbled with his belt and pulled his pants and boxers down, freeing his dick. his massive length sprung free, hard as a rock, already leaking beads of precum. he spat on his hand, not bothering to take the lotion out of his night drawer and started stroking himself.

he started off slowly, imagining that it was your delicate hand, your small fingers grabbing his dick for the first time, barely able to wrap around his girth. he imagined you gasping in surprise as you would start moving your hand up and down, letting him guide you through it, so you’d do your best to pleasure him. and you would—he knew it. you were such a good little angel for him.

dean groaned and squeezed harder, picking up the pace of his hand, his pants and moans getting more audible, but he didn’t care about it at the moment. now, he was imagining you taking him in your mouth. at first, you’d be too eager—you’d gag around him and quickly pull back with that sheepish smile of yours when you did something wrong. holy fuck. he’d reassure you, and then you’d try again, slowly, taking the tip first, gently suckling with your pretty plump lips he loved to kiss. then, you’d go lower and lower, your cheeks hollowing as you—

the door to his room slammed open, and his heart stopped. he widened his eyes and turned his head, seeing… you out of all the people.

fuck him (not that he would mind).

you entered the room with that godforsaken curious expression, closing the door behind you. then, you stood by the side of his bed, your head tilted to the side as you looked at him, blinking slowly, as if you didn’t notice his fat, messy cock, tightly gripped in his hand, with skin slightly reddened from the intense strokes.

“are you okay?” you asked softly, and dean wished that something could just kill him right now, his face as red as it could possibly get.

“yeah. why are you asking?” he chuckled nervously, quickly tucking himself back in his pants, even though it was painful at this point. god, he needed to cum so badly.

“i don’t know. you disappeared. and then you were panting and calling my name, and i thought something was happening and that you needed my help,” you just couldn’t be more innocent than that. “i was scared something was wrong,” you admitted shyly, fiddling with your fingers.

and gosh, he’d take your face in his hands if it wasn’t for one of them being covered in precum.

“hey, don’t worry, birdie. i’m okay. just needed—“ he sighed, straightening his back and trying to muffle a grunt. “some relief.”

“from what?” yeah, of course, you’d ask. your curiosity was picked up again.

“it’s nothing that you should stress your little feathery head with,” he smiled, adjusting himself, trying his best not to moan.

and you took a moment to look at him. you tilted your head as your eyes raked over his body, his twitching hand and the massive tent in his pants. you blinked a few times as that familiar feeling you didn’t know started pooling in your lower abdomen. ogling his groin, you rubbed your thighs together, and dean noticed that instantly.

so angels do get horny.

he swallowed thickly, his mouth practically going dry as he saw your face contorting in frustration as you swayed from one leg to the other, trying to get some friction between your legs.

that’s when dean decided that he wouldn’t leave you hanging like that.

“what are you doing, birdie?” he asked, licking his lips.

“i don’t know. i have this weird feeling in my belly,” you scoffed with a small pout. “like i’m excited or something.”

“that’s cause you are. you’re aroused, baby,” he hummed, reaching his left hand out to you. he hooked his fingers under the hem of your jeans, pulling you closer so you were now standing between his legs. he rubbed your hip and smiled softly. “do you know how babies are made?” a stupid question, but, he needed to know that you were aware.

“dean, i know what sex is. i just didn’t think angels could feel that. apparently they can, and i feel like that only around you,” you huffed in frustration while dean couldn’t be more ecstatic than that. you were horny only around him.

“well, have you ever done it?” he asked, almost breathlessly. it felt like the best day of his life.

“no. i didn’t have to,” this matter-of-fact tone only made the older winchester chuckle in amusement.

“birdie, it’s not something you have to do. it’s something you do to feel good. to have some fun with the person you love. it’s not some obligatory task, y’know?” he explained, squeezing your hip.

“like the pizza man?” you tilted your head to the side, and dean sighed. damn, cas, for showing it to you.

“exactly. like the pizza man,” a small smile on his lips as he leaned forward and placed a kiss on your stomach. “but my question is, do you want to feel good, birdie? do you want to do this with me?” maybe, after all, he’d take some of your innocence. but just a little…

you nodded your head, the ache between your legs only intensifying. dean smiled and stroked your cheek with his knuckles.

“good girl,” and then, he pulled you in for the kiss that couldn’t scream hunger any louder.

he was kissing you with a fervour that you happily returned, your fingers tugging on his short hair, making him gasp in your mouth. he’s tongue quickly dominated yours, tasting the familiar cavern of your mouth.

dean grabbed you by the nape of your neck, pulling you on top of him so you were straddling him. he grunted into the kiss, grinding his hips up into you. the massive bulge in his pants rubbed against your clothed heat, making you gasp so sweetly into his lips.

“fuck, i need you so much, birdie. can i have you?” he practically whimpered, looking into your eyes with so much desperation and pent-up feelings.

you smiled and nodded, placing a small kiss on the tip of his nose.

“of course, deano,” and it was enough to make him feel like he was on top of the world.

quickly, he spun you around, your back on the plush blanket as he made his way between your legs. his breath hitched as he fumbled with your jeans, slowly sliding them down. his eyes fell wide open, and he felt as if his heart stopped when he saw that your white panties were practically transparent from how soaked they were.

“you’re this excited, birdie?” he asked with a small chuckle, throwing your pants on the floor. he lay down on his stomach, right between your legs, looking at your dampened underwear as if it was the most beautiful sight in the whole world. “you’re so wet. for me,” he sighed, almost in disbelief.

meanwhile, you felt shy. you trusted dean, but it was something totally new, and you didn’t know what to expect. angels weren’t supposed to feel like that… at all. but then again, you fell in love with a human, so might as well go to hell with it.

dean started blowing on the dampened spot, his warm breath making you squirm, your thighs trembling. you tried to lift them up, bent your knees, but he stopped you, throwing your legs over his shoulders, scooting closer to your needy pussy.

“i didn’t know you were sensitive like that,” he chuckled and pressed a small kiss against your clothed core. you gasped softly, mindlessly moving your hips as if to grind against his face.

you were flustered and didn’t know what to do. which dean noticed and took it as his personal mission to make it feel good for you. he looked up at your reddened face with a soft smile, rubbing circles with his fingers on the soft skin of your thighs.

“i’ll make it so good for you, birdie. i promise,” he panted, and then, he practically ripped your white panties open. not that he was planning on getting rough with you—he just didn’t want to pull away from his new favourite place.

as soon as your pussy was bare to his eyes, he almost gasped in amazement. your pinky folds were covered in arousal, glistening deliciously as if to invite him to bury his face there. he brushed against them with his fingers, and then, slowly parted them open. he inhaled sharply through his nose as he placed his fingers on your clit, already feeling how swollen it was under his digits. he started rubbing it in soft circles, making you gasp and arch into his touch. jesus christ, it was like all his dreams came true in this moment.

“you have such a pretty little pussy, birdie. and you’re already so eager for me,” he muttered breathlessly, grinding his hips against the mattress as he was touching you.

his other hand moved to your entrance, his fingers probing it open, and then, he slowly slid one finger inside. you widened your eyes and inhaled sharply, sitting up and looking at what he was doing.

“shh, shh. it’ll feel good, baby. i promise. watch and learn so you can help yourself if i’m not around, okay?” he cooed, looking up to meet your eyes.

after receiving a nod of confirmation, dean continued. slowly, he started moving his finger inside of you, feeling your soft walls clamp around it greedily. fuck, he wanted to sink his cock inside you as soon as possible to feel you flutter around him, memorize his shape as it twitched eagerly inside of you, ready to spill his thick cum deep inside your womb, marking you as his. but first, he needed to prepare you for it.

then, he added the second finger, moving them in and out but also trying to stretch your tight hole for his dick. it could barely take in two of his fingers, so he was only imagining how tight you’d feel wrapped around his cock—which made it twitch painfully in his pants.

you were making such beautiful sounds—every shy groan, gasp or a whimper, sending him into oblivion as you watched him fingering you like a good little student.

however, as soon as he felt your walls begin to flutter around his digits, he slowly withdrew them, making you whine quietly at the sudden emptiness. he smiled and looked at you while his thumb was pressed against your swollen bud. “i know you want more, baby. but now it’s time for something better, and i want you to finish with me. but i’ll kiss that pretty pussy later and make you feel good again,” he promised, placing a soft kiss on your forehead as his thumb stroked your clit. you gasped and nodded, biting your lower lip as you looked up at him.

“i need you, dean,” you whined so pathetically that he felt he’d cum in his pants right at that exact moment.

he nodded his head, taking his clothes off at the same time, eager to sink deeply into your warmth. as soon as he pulled his boxers down, his cock sprung free, hitting his stomach. you widened your eyes curiously, tilting your head to the side as you watched it throb, precum leaking down from the tip. subconsciously, you licked your lips, your cunt only getting wetter. dean smirked cockily, getting between your legs once again.

“like what y’see, birdie?” he chuckled, stroking himself a few times, spreading the precum on his length.

then, he rubbed the tip of his fat cock against your dripping slit, coating it in your juices. finally, he nudged the head of his erection in your entrance, slowly pushing in, filling your desperate cunt. you gasped loudly, your eyes widening as you felt his cock stretching you out. with a whine, you leaned back on the pillow, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let out a few needy whimpers.

dean grunted, feeling your walls flutter around him, trying to accommodate his size.

“you’re so fucking tight, birdie,” he panted, slowly pushing forward, trying to sink in fully, just waiting for the moment his tip would brush against your cervix. one hand was firmly holding your hip meanwhile the other moved to your chest, giving your breast a firm squeeze as he rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, feeling it harden in his touch.

soon, he was fully sheathed in you, the tip of his dick pressed against your cervix, your walls stretching on his girth, already memorizing each throbbing vein. he looked down at you with a soft smile, stroking your hair as he moved some of it out of your already sweaty forehead.

“how are you doing, birdie? feels good?” he asked. he wanted to make sure that it was 100% pleasurable to you, and he’d stop as soon as he noticed even a slight narrowing of your brows.

you nodded, biting down on your lower lip. “yhym. y-yeah. feels good,” you sighed, slowly relaxing after the intrusion.

dean smiled and kissed you lovingly on your lips, beginning to move as soon as he felt that you weren’t so tense anymore. you gasped softly when he pulled out, the head of his cock still nestled in your pussy, and then moved back in. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your nails digging into his back, leaving dark crescent marks on his skin. he hissed and groaned in pleasure, picking up the pace.

“you drive me crazy, birdie. feels so good. so wet. i should’ve put my cock in you a long time ago,” he moaned, his hips beginning to slam against yours, the loud sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing through the walls along with the sound of your pussy eagerly slurping him in.

soon, he was pounding in and out of you, your lovemaking echoing obscurely to the point it was heard outside of the room, and you just imagined the look of exasperation on sam’s face as he pondered over getting some earplugs. but it quickly disappeared from your mind, your focus landing back on dean and his cock, basically splitting you open.

he threw your legs over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your thighs as this new position allowed him to go even deeper. you were holding onto the headboard, moans leaving your mouth nonstop, and as he hit that sweet spot inside of you, you almost screamed, clenching around him.

“you’re gonna cum? huh, birdie? cum for me,” he panted, thrusting into you even harder.

you yelped pathetically, feeling a knot forming in your lower belly, your body tensing up as it was preparing to fall over the edge.

“yeah, that’s it. cum for me, angel. you’re so pretty. fuck, i love you so much,” he panted, freeing your legs and just holding your thighs as he made you wrap them around his waist. then, he leaned forward, crashing his lips on yours in a desperate kiss.

and that was enough to send you over the edge. you clenched around him and then relaxed as your juices started gushing out on his length. he helped you come down from your high. however, his movements faltered as he was close too. he shortly followed after you, stilling in your cunt as he spilled thick ropes of his pearly seed inside your warm womb.

he drew out your climax and finally slumped down, resting on top of you. he cradled you in his arms, his head resting between your breasts as his soft cock was still nestled inside of you, your mixed juices dripping out, creating a mess.

“god, you were amazing,” he said, kissing the side of your breast. however, you quickly slapped his arm, making him hiss and raise his head at you, a small pout on his lips. “ow, what was that for?”

“don’t say his name now!” you huffed, your cheeks red as if you were caught doing something inappropriate. dean chuckled and lifted himself up, peppering your face with kisses.

“okay, okay. i won’t,” he murmured, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, just basking in the afterglow of your intense lovemaking.

after a while, he pulled out of you, watching his cum drip out of you. he smiled proudly and scooped some up with his thumb, pushing it back inside.

“just so nothing goes to waste,” he hummed. “we’re definitely going to do it more often from now on,” he grinned at you, studying your face. “you’ll be full of my seed every day.”

and once again, you had that curious expression on.

“can we do it now?”

dean was flabbergasted with how quickly you had recovered. but then again, you were an angel, and his dick was already hardening.

who was he to deny his little angel?

a/n: i didn’t expect it to be so long lmfao😭lmk what you think<3

༄♡ tags: @beausling @deanswidow @titsout4nicholas @a1ecmcdowell @figthoughts @aileenunfiltered @fitxgrld @angelicp0etry @hrtsoldierboy @deansbite @10ava01