Summary: You’re an ancient, powerful supernatural entity on the run with Dean as your bodyguard. Neither of you knows your identity or your purpose, but the pull between you is so strong that you can’t resist each other. When you begin to regain memories, you aren’t sure whose they are; and Dean begins to pull away. Meanwhile, Sam, Cas, and Rowena are on the case.
Pairing: Dean x You
Warnings: possible dub/con, supernatural bond, nsfw
SPOILERS FOR SEASONS 13 AND 14 LIE HEREIN
xox: @glassjacket @boondoctorwho @cracksinthewalls @naughtygirlsarebest @fatestemptress @adoptdontshoppets @pisces-cutie @dean-winchesters-bacon @maddiepants @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @tumbler-tidbits
Accidentally Like A Martyr is a song by Warren Zevon from where I pulled the title of this fic.
His breath is a steady rhythm, humming from the other side of the dilapidated motel mattress, but you know that he’s awake. You wonder what he’s thinking about, if he’s pretending to be asleep. You wonder if he wants what you want – what you’re too afraid to ask for or to take.
You think about how to entice him. You think about this a lot, but you haven’t had an opportunity as you do right now, alone and vulnerable. You think about rolling your back to him, wriggling, maybe whimpering a little – see if you can’t get that infamous Winchester protectivity to rear its beautiful head. But then you realize that your feigned weakness won’t lure him; he’ll just want to comfort you, to keep you safe – what he’s already sworn to do.
After moments upon days of deliberation, you decide to move. You roll to face him and he’s just inches away, one arm bunched under the flattened, old pillow, his other hand, gripping his bicep, smooth face soft in the moonlight. He’s atop the blankets that cover you, and you’re still so unsure of what you’re about to attempt, so you stare.
Dean doesn’t open his eyes or stir when he speaks in a low, quiet voice. “Everything okay?” he asks.
You’re silent, unanswering until his tired, shining eyes flutter open. His face is still when you answer. “No.“
Dean’s brow creases in question. “What is it?” Then he stirs, the hand once gripping his opposite arm reaches for you, and he smoothes the flannel of his shirt you’re wearing over your tense arm, fingers gently wrap your wrist.
“I need-” You start and stop yourself. You want him, and maybe you need him, but is it wise to tell him that so baldly? Will you scare him?
“What?” he asks, encouraging eyes and soft lips and sweet, rough fingers tingling your skin to itch. “Tell me.” He moves to prop himself on his elbow, brushing his thumb over and over the inside of your wrist, making you shiver. “You’re cold,” he says, eyes scanning the room, ever the hunter and gatherer. “I’ll get you another blanket.” He moves to roll from the bed and you reach out and grip his wrist tight.
“Wait,” you say. “I’m not cold, Dean. I just… want you.”
His face is a wave of confusion then shock then hesitation, all in the space of one second; but before you can release him for rejection, he’s twisting his wrist and clasping his hand with yours. He doesn’t move into you, but you feel him heavier now as if he were actually closer. One of the damnedest things about Dean is how he occupies space, how it shifts and spreads, how he can fill a room to the brim just by being in it.
Want or need, your desire for Dean is primal, rooted in your soul. You do need him – to fill something in you or complete it. And over the last few days, you know he needs you, too.
Dean keeps his distance, but settles back into the mattress, holding your hand in his. “Okay,” he says with a slight bob of his head. “I’m here.”
You swallow and close your eyes, reveling in the warmth and size and feel of his hand around yours. “Touch me,” you breathe, opening your eyelids to a slit. You hold Dean’s gaze as he searches your eyes for an answer you don’t have. “Please.”
After a few beats of breath and uncharacteristic indecision, Dean’s fingers twist from yours and glide back up your arm, his eyes skimming your face. He stops to grip your shoulder, pressing his fingertips into the coiled muscles of your upper back and rubbing, quietly cooing something soothing and hot. His thumb brushes back and forth until the placard of his flannel moves away for his calloused fingers to graze across your exposed collarbones, and you sigh.
You don’t touch him or speak; you just hold his eyes and feel his fingertips dance over your skin. What he’s doing isn’t at all sexual, but the pull inside you is growing stronger with every second.
“Do you know what it feels like to need something so badly…?” you whisper and watch his eyes narrow and crinkle, one single fingertip tracing the shell of your ear and his breath fanning your cheek.
He says your name and his voice and eyes hold centuries of regret and heartbreak. The space between you narrows to a close with the heft of his presence, his sense of duty, his unbreakable spirit.
“Kiss me,” you plead, and Dean sighs, his lips work with no sound for some kind of protest that never comes. He drops his eyes and shakes his head and fists the hem of the shirt you’re wearing.
“Fine,” you say, and you push the blankets off, roll and climb astride him, splay your hands on his t-shirt covered chest, and dip your head to kiss him. His palms rest on your bare knees and he’s pliant as your lips meld to his. You know how to do this, you’re good at this.
Dean’s body relaxes under you as your mouth opens and your tongue swipes his plump lips. His hands skim from your knees over your thighs and wrap your hips on either side, pinky fingers dipping under the waistband of your panties. You swallow his sighs and let his scent envelop you – iron and mint and sunshine.
Then he pulls his mouth from yours. “We can’t do this,” he whispers, his breathing heavier than before. His lips shining and his eyes dark.
“We can,” you argue. “I won’t hurt you.”
Dean shakes his head again. “You said you needed something. What?”
“You, I told you.” You cup his cheeks and his eyes close on instinct, brow furrowed, fingers digging into your hips. “You feel it, too.”
Dean tries to appeal to you with reason, that you’re still raw and new to this world, that neither of you knows what you are or are not capable of, that physical contact between you and any human is a bad idea.
So you kiss him again.
“Let me make you feel good,” you whisper into his mouth and against his skin. “I can do that. I can do it for both of us. I remember everything.” You nuzzle his scruffed jaw and let yourself grind over his solid torso, your hands planted on his chest.
Dean says what you’re doing isn’t right. He says he shouldn’t let any of this happen. But his body is reacting, his hips slowly undulating underneath you, lifting you; his hands dragging up your sides and under your thin tank top. He keeps saying your name and every time he sounds less and less convinced of his own arguments.
“You’re everything,” you whisper in his ear. “You’re bravery and dedication and love.” You punctuate each point with a soft kiss or scrape of your teeth, and Dean is turning to gooseflesh under your ministrations. “And kindness and passion and strength – everything this world should be and more.”
You push your hands under his t-shirt and scrape your nails over hot, scarred skin before pulling the shirt up. Dean doesn’t argue when he feels the cotton tug at his back, he simply sits up and lets you drag the garment over his head and toss it aside. He stays seated, holding you, waiting.
“You deserve so much good and right, Dean,” you tell him, sitting back on your haunches, between his knees, touching him and kissing him. “I want to give you anything I can. Let me give you this.”
Dean sways and sighs, a painful need so clear in his eyes as he shakes his head and grits his teeth. “I can’t.”
“You can,” you say, sliding over his hips again to press your dampening, tightening center over him, grinding. You ride him like that for a few moments, feeling how hard he is. You want to take him inside you, feel him bare and hot, feel him come; but that’s not all.
“Dean,” you hold his head in your hands and bury your face in his neck. “Forget tomorrow. What do you want?” You’re so close to coming from rubbing against him. You keep chasing your orgasm as his hands roam under your tank top, determined and hot, pushing your bra up and cupping your tits in his hands, pulling your nipples. “I know you wanna fuck me; I can feel you. But what do you really want?”
“I can’t…” He can’t tell you what he wants, and he won’t take what he needs.
You yank his flannel from your frame and your tank top over your head with your bra inside it before pushing him down to lie flat on his back. You’ve already got his pants open and your mouth around him and you’re swallowing him whole when he tries to protest.
“Shit,” he breathes, burying his hand in your hair. He raises one knee then slides his leg back out, grabs a fistful of blankets and groans. He says your name, he calls to God, he whimpers, and you feel him start to pulse in your throat.
Dean tugs at your hair, trying to pull you off of him, and you smack his hand away but release him for a brief second. “Come in my mouth, Dean,” you tell him. “I want it.” You swallow him again, and he slams his head back into the pillow, eyes shut tight. In seconds, he’s coming between your smiling lips and you take everything he gives.
IncogNinja 