Winter by Tori Amos was on heavy rotation during the writing of this here fic.
She’s awakened by him keying into her loft. It’s 1 a.m. and the weather outside is subzero and blowing snow. The last time she saw him, she was in her bed, much like she is right now, but he was leaving, it was early morning instead of late at night, and it was June.
“Dean?” she questions. She’s asking if this is really happening, if he’s really there, or if this is just a dream.
His hair’s a little longer and his jaw is covered in scruff. He’s got a split lip and his left hand is wrapped in a makeshift bandage. All of this and as chilled as he surely is from the biting cold, he looks so, so warm.
“Hey,” he says, letting the door swing closed behind him. It’s like he’s moving in slow motion – his chest rising and falling with each deep breath, one hand clutching the strap of his duffle bag, and the fingers of the bandaged hand hanging at his side, deliberately rubbing together as if they themselves are concocting something clever to say.
She finally rolls out from under the heavy fluff of bedding and quickly shuffles across the bare floor in her socked feet to meet him. He lets his bag slide from his shoulder and drop to the hardwoods before welcoming her into his arms with a hum.
“Oh, I missed you,” she whispers into his chest as his arms secure her small frame to his much larger one. She can feel his heat underneath the cold that’s seeped into the layers of denim and flannel and Carhartt. She can smell winter laced through his iron and mint and gunpowder scent.
Winter by Tori Amos was on heavy rotation during the writing of this here fic.
She’s awakened by him keying into her loft. It’s 1 a.m. and the weather outside is subzero and blowing snow. The last time she saw him, she was in her bed, much like she is right now, but he was leaving, it was early morning instead of late at night, and it was June.
“Dean?” she questions. She’s asking if this is really happening, if he’s really there, or if this is just a dream.
His hair’s a little longer and his jaw is covered in scruff. He’s got a split lip and his left hand is wrapped in a makeshift bandage. All of this and as chilled as he surely is from the biting cold, he looks so, so warm.
“Hey,” he says, letting the door swing closed behind him. It’s like he’s moving in slow motion – his chest rising and falling with each deep breath, one hand clutching the strap of his duffle bag, and the fingers of the bandaged hand hanging at his side, deliberately rubbing together as if they themselves are concocting something clever to say.
She finally rolls out from under the heavy fluff of bedding and quickly shuffles across the bare floor in her socked feet to meet him. He lets his bag slide from his shoulder and drop to the hardwoods before welcoming her into his arms with a hum.
“Oh, I missed you,” she whispers into his chest as his arms secure her small frame to his much larger one. She can feel his heat underneath the cold that’s seeped into the layers of denim and flannel and Carhartt. She can smell winter laced through his iron and mint and gunpowder scent.
He sighs and hugs her close. “Me too,” he mutters, pressing a kiss then his cheek into the sleep-mussed hair on the crown of her head. “M’sorry I didn’t call.” She smells like honey and dreams – dreams that don’t tear at his skin or his mind.
“Don’t be,” she says, turning her head and rising onto her toes to kiss his mouth. “You’re here, that’s all that matters.” She brushes the tip of his nose with her own, and he exhales on a smile.
He looks the worse for wear. He’s always beat-up when he comes to her, but his eyes are tired and dark, and she can feel the weight of the world that drags him to the ground. She asks if he’s hungry, and he replies quickly, affirmatively, relieved that he didn’t have to ask.
One beer down and cracking another, shoving fork load after fork load of alfredo smothered chicken into his mouth, and Dean’s untethered the last 6-months’ worth of trauma and drama. She doesn’t know Sam and she doesn’t know Cas, but that’s all right with Dean. Her simple nods of understanding, gentle eyes and smile, ground him in a way he hasn’t known any other place than as a child in his mother’s kitchen.
“Thanks for lettin’ me crash,” he says as he leans back into the counter and watches her drop a pod into the dishwasher door before starting the machine.
“You know you’re always welcome here,” she says with a small smile. “It’s too cold to sleep alone anyway.” Her smile slides into a smirk, and he huffs a small laugh as he pushes away from the counter and turns to pull her into his body.
He can’t keep his hands off of her. “I need a shower,” he says, the rage inside him subsiding as he brushes his lips along her jaw and drags his hands over her long Jane encased curves. “Then I can properly thank you.”
She sighs and nuzzles into him. “Lemme get it started for you,” she says, reluctantly pulling out of his embrace, his hands following her until they can’t. “I’ll get a fire goin’, too. We’ll get nice and cozy.” She winks, and he grins, watching her disappear into the bathroom.
Dean stretches his long limbs and arches his back. As his joints snap and pop, he groans with the aches and pains. He can hear her turning the water on, her shadow casting across the floor of the open doorway to the bathroom. As he makes his way toward his duffle bag for fresh underwear, he shrugs out of his heavy work shirt and tosses it over the back of the couch.
“Okay,” she says, emerging from the bathroom as it quickly fills with steam. “You’re all set. Use all the hot water.” She smiles and Dean chuckles and nods, squeezing her hand as he trudges past her. She puts her wood-burning stove to good use, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, wondering if she can put him back together this time – she’s not so sure.
As she sets glasses and a decanter of whiskey on the trunk at the foot of her bed she hears the water turning off and the shower door slide open. She arranges her pillows and blankets in a way that will allow them to cozy up to the fire and sip their whiskey. Then Dean appears in the doorway, steam trailing behind him as he exits the bathroom, toweling his wet hair, clad in a pair of boxer shorts.
She’s briefly taken aback by the freshly stitched gash across his chest and the various bruises and abrasions scattered over his torso, arms, and legs. She swallows back a gasp. “How was your shower?” she asks, smiling through the tears that sting her eyes.
“Good.” He nods, exhaustion twisting his voice and hunching his shoulders. “Thanks.” Dean drops the towel to the floor, snatches a pillow from the foot of the bed and tucks it under his head as he collapses into the bedding away from the drinks she’s set up.
“Got us some whiskey,” she offers as she rounds the bed, mimicking his pillow retrieval.
He shakes his head. “I just wanna touch you.” This is why he’s here; he needs her. He reaches for her, and she joins him, burrowing into his side. He wraps around her, nuzzling into her sweet scent.
The first time she met him, she was serving him pie. She’d taken over for a co-worker who had to leave mid-shift, and if anything was an example of divine intervention, that moment was one. She felt a charge of energy when his hand brushed hers, and his eyes… he was so beautiful and so bereft.
“How long’ve we known each other?” he asks like he’s read her mind. His voice is quiet, and she can hear the overuse that’s worn on him. She can almost hear the tension hissing as it leaks from his body to dissipate into the air.
“Ten years?” she guesses. “Give or take.” She lets him twine their fingers together and rest his cheek on her head. She’ll let him do anything he wants.
He nods and hums in agreement, his hands slowly wandering, reacquainting themselves with every dip and slant of her body. He closes his eyes and rolls her to her back and slots himself between her thighs, finds her mouth with his and slips his tongue inside slow and lazy.
She lets him take all of his time, reveling in his hands on her skin as he bares it and his warm tongue twisting with hers. He whispers her name and sighs, and she wishes she could take him entirely inside of herself, hide him away from the world so that he didn’t have to keep giving everything to it every day.
“Dean,” she breathes, cradling him in her thighs, muttering the words he needs to hear between kisses. “Take whatever you want, Dean.”
Their first night together was everything she’d wished her first time had been. He was gentle but sure, he took things slow but didn’t hesitate to do what felt good, and he asked for permission to touch her, taste her, to fuck her. He still does.
“Take it,” she whispers in his ear, and he groans before pushing inside her.
He buries his face in her neck as he moves. His lips brush her skin as he speaks low and quiet. His words are sweet and lush and hot, but he doesn’t make any promises; Dean isn’t a liar.
He rises up on his hands and picks up his pace. She’s so wet with everything he’s said and done since he walked through her door. Every tight, hot slide of him sends shocks of need from where they’re joined – where he’s pounding that need into her – and out to her every extremity.
Dean reaches down and loops one forearm after the other under her legs. He’s breathing so heavy, his ruined chest heaving with it. She grips his wrists and takes everything he gives, lifts her feet to rest on his shoulders and he’s hitting her right where she wants it, right where he wants to.
“Ahh, fuck,” he breathes, swiveling his hips and making her gasp. “I wanna make you come.” He pushes to his knees and drags his hand and hers to slide fingers over her slick clit. “C’mon.”
She nods and presses their joined fingers onto her clit, gasps for air, throws her free arm to the side and thrusts against him. She completely lets herself go with Dean – always. With him is when she feels safest. She knows he’ll catch her when she falls, and she’ll catch him.
When he feels her start to vibrate he grips the headboard and slams into her. She ripples and gasps under him. In seconds he’s coming, too.
He hangs his head and breathes deep, slowly moves to unravel their limbs and settle them both to the bed. He wraps the down comforter around them and runs his hands all over her sweat dampened skin. “Sorry, that was-”
“Sorry?” She snorts a chuckle. “Dean, that was not something to apologize for.”
He smiles and nestles against her jaw. “Just felt like it went quick.”
“It did, but that’s not a bad thing,” she answers, gingerly sliding her hand up over his chest, avoiding his wound. “Should we bandage this?”
If she had a dollar for every time she patched him up…
“Nah, just gotta keep it clean.” He yawns and snuggles into her, making her yawn in return before kissing his tattoo. “I’m gonna take a nap,” he mumbles. “Then I’ll do ya right.”
She shakes her head and sighs, listening to his heartbeat and breathing even into sleep before letting herself follow.
Less than two hours later and she’s dragged from sleep by guttural sounds of distress and resistance. Dean’s curled into himself on the edge of the bed with his back to her, sweating and shaking.
She props herself up on her elbow and softly calls his name, counts to ten, then calls to him again. He stops shaking and his coiled frame loosens. She reaches for him and slides a hand along the expanse of his shoulders and down his arm to gather the bunched-up covers, draw into his back, and cover the two of them once more.
He reaches for her hand and brings her fingers to his lips, kissing each one individually. “Woke y’up again,” he rasps just south of a whisper.
She starts to tell him that it’s all right – and it is – but then he’s taking the very tips of her fingers between his lips, lightly swiping each with his tongue. Her breath shakes as she rests her forehead between his shoulder blades.
The things he’s done to her are so uniquely Dean. She can’t imagine being turned on by anyone else tonguing her fingers, but Dean puts his heart and soul into everything he does. Every touch and kiss and lick is intensely erotic. She once came, fully clothed, from just his mouth on her neck.
Once each of her fingers has been given the proper attention, Dean pulls her as he rolls to his back until she’s on top of him. She lets her knees slide to either side of his waist and kisses him. She holds his face in her hands, and he drags fingertips down her spine like he’s counting each vertebra as he goes.
His hands cup her ass, fingers curling into the flesh and thumbs brushing her hip bones. No matter if he puts her in charge – on top like this – or if he’s got her bent over the back of the Impala as he ruts into her like an animal, he somehow makes her feel delicate, like something to be cherished.
“You feel so good,” she says, pushing back until his hard length is straining against her ass. She drops kisses to his chest and shoulders, avoiding the burning hot strip of stitched skin, and pulls his nipples between her lips, making him arch his back and hiss.
When she pushes up to kneeling and reaches between her legs to grip him in her warm hand, she squeezes and pumps him lightly. His eyes meet hers again, eyelids heavy, as she runs two fingers through her own slick, opening herself up to take him in. As she guides him inside and sinks down onto him, Dean moans her name.
His hands ride the slope from her waist to her hips. He grips her tight, digging his fingers into her soft flesh. “Fuck,” he whispers, driving up into her. “So hot and slick.”
She presses him down into the bed with one hand on his belly and grips one of his wrists to bring his hand to her breast as she rides him. He treasures every pull and slide of her, every breathy moan, every ripple of muscle under her skin. He licks his lips, wanting to taste her brine and tang.
“Come up here,” he lifts her, slips from inside her, drags her by her hips until his face is in her cunt. “You always smell like somethin’ to eat.” He licks her long and slow before sliding his thick tongue inside her.
She gasps on a chuckle and grips the headboard, looking down to where his mouth is working her. “That explains a lot.” She can’t remember a time with him when he didn’t go down on her until she was coming on his tongue and lips. She draws a deep breath and closes her eyes, settling into his face.
“Mmm,” he hums and groans into her, his nose and lips and tongue and chin doing things to her that most men could never dream of. He holds her hips with his hands as she fucks his mouth, sloppy and wet. “So good,” he moans, swiping his tongue from her ass to her clit then pulling that bundle of nerves into his mouth, teasing his tongue over and over it.
“Dean,” her breath shudders and she shakes above him. “Coming…” She shouts out loud and her body seizes. “Oh, god!”
She’s still gasping for air and clenching around nothing when he pushes inside her. He’s upright and reseated her in his lap, her knees weakly gripping his hips. “Shit, that feels good,” he whispers, his head swaying until he drops his forehead to her shoulder. “Fuck me.”
She reasserts her grip on her headboard and starts to move. He’s hard inside her, but his breath and lips and words are soft on her skin. She rides him long and slow until he’s coming inside her again. He collapses and drags her with him, his body slackening before falling into a deep, sound sleep.
She’s awakened one last time by him packing his bag. His hair’s wet and he’s wearing fresh clothes – that blue work shirt that sets off the pink in his freckled cheeks and the soft jewel-tone of his irises. The late morning sun washes over his face as his gaze catches hers, and her heart clenches in her chest at the crinkles bursting at the edges of his smiling eyes.
He stops what he’s doing and lets his gaze wander over her arms and legs twisted in the sheets. Her heart races with want and missing him already. She wants to tell him not to go.
With a quiet sigh, he meets her gaze once again. The narrow doorway that he props open for the few hours he spends with her is now closed tight. “Thank you,” he says, fumbling with the zipper of his bag.
She nods, pulling the covers up to shield herself from the inevitable chill. “Always,” she replies.
He nods before zipping his bag closed and hoisting it over his shoulder. Then he grins wide, and her heart skips a beat.
One day she’ll learn that worrying about him doesn’t do either of them any good; she’ll be satisfied with these all-too-brief moments in time; she won’t cry when he leaves. Today is not that day.
Dean drops his eyes to the floor, and neither of them says a word as he turns to walk out the door and face the cold winter renewed.
IncogNinja 