A/N: this is for @impala-dreamer ‘s “Tell Me a ME Story Drabble Challenge.” Thanks for letting me join, Beka! xox
Warnings: NSFW
Words: 435
Pairing: Dean x Beka
Prompt: “Can we just lay here forever?”
“Can we just lay here forever?” he murmurs against your skin, sweat-slick and heavy, breathless and soft.
You’ve only known Dean for a day, but you feel like you really know him. He and his son Jack saved you from a werewolf of all fucking things. You wanted to thank them, so you invited them to dinner. You made stuffed shells with red sauce and set the table for three. When Dean arrived alone, you weren’t disappointed.
You sigh, shift under him, feeling him move inside you. He’s soft, but he’s also so thick that the slight movements he’s making thrill you more than you’d have ever guessed.
“I wish we could,” you answer quietly, running your hands over his shoulders and down his back, rest them on the curve at the base of his spine, and feel him shiver.
Dean hums and nuzzles into your neck. He’s bracing most of his weight on his forearms, yet he feels perfectly heavy over you and between your thighs. You raise your knees around his hips and he groans.
“You feel so good,” he mutters before kissing you. Then he gently thrusts, and you feel it – feel him getting hard again.
“Jesus,” you whisper, feeling the stretch and the growing heat. You tuck your hips into those feeling. “Dean, fuck…”
“Yeah?” he whispers back, nips at your trembling lips. “Want me to fuck you again?”
“Yes,” you breathe, bite him back, lick into his mouth.
Then he pushes up onto his hands, spreads you wide with his knees, pulls out and pushes back in slow and hot. He’s fully hard now.
“How d’you want it?” he asks, looking down on you, brows arched, challenging. “Hard?”
Your breath shakes and you nod, reach for him, touch him everywhere you can, and he moves.
He moves slow but hard – so hard, the air leaves your lungs in a huff with his every thrust; and so slow that you can feel every inch, every curve, and every ripple of his cock with each solid slide.
You trail a hand down between your bodies and press two fingers over the flesh that hugs your swollen clit, and you both gasp.
“Shit, Beka.” Dean swears and shakes. “C’mon, I wanna feel you come again. Please.”
He hangs his head, but his thrusts are still hard, still deep, still so fucking hot. What starts as a light flicker ignites into a raging fire, spreading from your core up through your belly and out your fingers and toes.
And Dean doesn’t stop fucking you until you’ve drained him of all he has to give.
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
The shower is running, and Dean’s phone is buzzing with a call as you tidy your motel room. Over the past 24-hours, you’ve become more aware of your feelings, of sensations – even if you’re still not entirely sure of the implications of your bond with Dean Winchester. Regardless, you want him desperately and completely, just as he wants you, and you wholly satisfy each other.
You glance at Dean’s phone when it buzzes for the sixth time in 10-minutes and see the caller ID reads “Sam” again. You’re instinctively protective of your time with Dean, even though you don’t know why, so you don’t interrupt him to tell him his brother is incessantly ringing his phone. You need to fulfill whatever the fates have decided your destiny with the hunter to be – to fulfill each other and to realize your fortunes.
Once you’d finally gotten through to Dean to let happen between the two of you what is the natural progression, Dean didn’t hold back. He’s still questioning the whys and hows of this connection, but you are determined to soothe his distress.
As you hear the water taps wrench to off, you snag Dean’s phone from the nightstand, automatically disable notifications, and stash the thing in a drawer. You can feel that you’re on the precipice of something important – surely nothing of grave concern, but momentous nonetheless – and you don’t need justification or proof because you can feel it in your soul.
When the door to the bathroom opens and steam rolls out, ushering Dean, wet and glistening, strong hips wrapped in the thin, cotton towel, you grin. “Feeling better, lover?” you ask, turning and wandering toward him, bared to his eyes head-to-toe.
Dean pulls a wry half-smile; his eyes are emerald fire and his jaw is tight as he rubs a smaller towel over his wet hair and the back of his neck. “Completely fucking confused, lover.” Dean shakes his head and drops the hand towel to the floor before reaching for your delicate wrist and pulling you in.
You roll your fingers over the makeshift waistband of his damp towel and push it to the floor. He’s hard again – or still, you really don’t know anymore – and sacred gods is he perfect. “You are-”
“Everything, perfect, the only one – I get it,” Dean interrupts then dips his head to kiss your lips, gripping your biceps just enough to maneuver you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then he pushes you to sit and snatches his flannel from the floor, wrapping your shoulders in the soft fabric. “Honey, we’ve fucked 27 ways to Sunday. It’s time to talk.”
“He’s still not answering,” Sam sighs in frustration. His brow is furrowed, and his jaw is tense, working tightly and rapidly as his worry grows.
Castiel crosses the room with a large tome balanced in the palm of his left hand. “We need to go to him, then, because she isn’t going to stop until she gets what she’s tasked to obtain.”
Sam nods fear clouding his frustrated gaze. “Cas, you’re sure?” Sam’s voice softens with the strain of hours of research and stress and anxiety. “Even Rowena believed Jilyxih was telling the truth – that she didn’t know where she was from and why she was here.”
Castiel nods once. “She was likely telling the truth, but…” He snaps the book shut and places it on the table next to Sam. “Now that we know who she is, there’s no question. Jilyxih is the mother of all succubi. I don’t know why she doesn’t remember, but her power is still great.”
“Someone’s tryin’ to mate them,” Rowena says as she enters the room. “With Michael’s abominations and Jack runnin’ ‘round, and…” She motions to her own plumped belly. “This.” Rowena closes her eyes with a distant look of longing, shudders, then returns her strengthened gaze to Castiel and Sam. “Someone’s tryin’ to create another new powerful race.”
“Ahh, yes,” Castiel says with a certain amount of inappropriate relief in his tone. When Sam gives him a chastising look, Castiel replies, “What? It makes sense. At least we know now what we’re dealing with.”
Sam heaves a heavy sigh and shakes his head, returning his exhausted gaze to the very pregnant Rowena. “Why Dean? And who’s doing this?”
Rowena looks at Sam like he’s the silliest of all children. “Samuel, Dean is very important to the structure of our universe.” She scoffs. “You both are. This isn’t new information.”
“Okay, but he’s only human-”
“So was Kelly Kline!” Rowena growls in frustration. “You boys aren’t ignorant to this world. Stop thinkin’ inside boxes! And we need to get to Dean now as we know that boy cannot think outside his own pants.”
“How do we find him?” Jack appears in the doorway, worry plain on his young face. He seems to have picked up traits from each of his surrogate parents, Sam’s furrowed brow being one of the most obvious. “Rowena’s right, we can’t waste any more time.”
Rowena sighs heavily and reaches for Jack’s hand. “How was your rest, wee one?” she asks, and Jack bows his head, nods noncommittally. “You aren’t comin’ with us if you aren’t feelin’ better.”
“Whoa – us?” Sam asks, standing and closing his laptop. “Rowena, you can’t think we’re taking you anywhere near Jilyxih at this point.” Rowena bristles at Sam’s tone and Cas rolls his eyes before turning his back to pace his frustration into the floorboards.
“Samuel,” Rowena’s own tone is clipped, and it makes Jack visibly cringe. “May I remind you that I am a centuries old and very powerful witch?” Sam deflates slightly and shakes his head, but she continues. “I have gone up against the devil himself – twice – and come back as strong as ever.” Rowena inhales deeply and glares down her nose at the hunter. “I am carrying the child of the archangel Gabriel. Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”
Sam sighs and speaks softly and quietly. “Rowena, I know you’re carrying Gabe’s… child.” He pauses for impact, and Rowena’s flinch is infinitesimal. “Which is why we need to keep you off Jilyxih’s radar. We have no idea who’s behind her or the plans they have.”
Rowena narrows her eyes then turns to Jack with a smile. “Come, Jacky,” she chirps. “Let’s go find us a snack, hmm?” She shoots Sam and Cas a look before huffing and turning on her tiny, heeled boots to head to the kitchen.
Cas groans. “Sam, we need help,” he says, squaring his stance and holding Sam’s wavering gaze.
“I know, Cas, but until we see and talk to Dean, we don’t have any idea what we’re really up against with this.” Sam’s eyes are pleading. “We need to be smart, I agree – but we also need to be quiet.”
Cas sighs in agreement. “Okay.” He nods. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Dean, you’ve got to believe me,” you plead. “Everything I feel is honest and pure. I have no intention of hurting you.”
Dean nods slowly, lips pursed, cradling your hands in his. After getting you to agree to talk, he pulled his jeans on and sat in a rickety chair to face you.
“I believe you,” he says, and the warmth of his gaze relaxes you. Now that you’re talking and not acting, your head hurts a little bit. You feel an odd sense of being split through that you can’t grasp, and you could never even begin to explain to Dean.
Maybe you don’t have to explain anything to him.
“But someone’s messin’ with your memories,” Dean continues. “You say you remember everything…” He shakes his head. “But you’re just goin’ through the motions.”
You shake your own head, defiant, determined. “I’m not-”
Dean silences you by sitting straighter in his seat, bigger than you, his face harder than moments before. “You don’t know who you are, or why you’re really here.” You try to interject again but stop dead when your hands are compressed in his much larger ones, his head tilted, his eyes warning. “And don’t say we belong together, again.”
You’re quiet for a long time. You feel unfamiliar, small and weak. This isn’t what you’re accustomed to – you aren’t weak – but Dean makes you feel that way. Part of you thinks that’s the natural order of humanity – that he’s a man, he’s bigger and stronger than you are, and he’s meant to protect you. Part of you wants to scream and scratch…
You shake away your warring emotions and focus on Dean’s eyes.
“I remember how to love,” you say, quiet and calm and certain. “Isn’t that enough?”
Dean breathes and he’s just as quiet as you are for a moment. “I wish,” he says. “But you talk like you’re a million years old and act like you’re brand new – it doesn’t add up. More than that, it’s about 900 red flags of fucked up.”
You feel part of yourself accept that no matter how good it feels to just have him near you, inside you, on you, you’re missing… something. You wonder briefly if your human vessel is rationalizing and accepting Dean’s argument. Could it be that powerful?
And what’s the other part of you – really?
“Sweetheart,” Dean begins again, leaning forward, pulling you close. “We gotta call Sammy, circle the wagons.” He holds your regretful gaze. “We thought hidin’ you was the right thing, but…” He twists your fingers with his. “It’s just muddyin’ the waters.”
The way he looks at you – like he’ll never let you go, like he trusts you completely – makes your chest ache. It’s guilt you’re feeling, you think, and the fact sends your mind spinning. Guilt is a human emotion like shame and regret. Aren’t you more than human?
You sigh and drop your eyes to the floor. Arbitrarily assigned sides of right and wrong battle for your decision. You don’t want to look at Dean because the human side will surely win out. But your heart is just as traitorous as your vision.
“Sam called while you were in the shower,” you admit, turning your gaze up to meet his once again. “Your phone’s in the drawer.”
Dean sighs and closes his eyes, sits back, letting your hands slip through his. Your stomach drops, and you can’t breathe. He’s angry. You knew he would be, and you knew what the unpleasant physical repercussions would be. Soon you’ll feel your skin covered in a cold sweat.
“A’right,” he says, standing and crossing the room to the nightstand where you hid his phone.
You watch him, feeling thick, dark emotions wash over you. Is this how humans live with each other? Is this what motivates them – the desire to feel or not feel certain things? It’s all so crude.
Dean pulls the drawer open and grabs his phone. “Seven missed calls,” he says, turning a wilting gaze on you. “Beautiful.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling and grips his phone tight at his side with a heavy sigh.
You truly hate it, though. You truly hate that he’s angry and disappointed in you. You know the anxiousness will pass, but you also know you’ve forever tainted your beloved connection with Dean Winchester.
“Dean, I’m sorry,” you apologize, and you mean it.
He turns to you and you just now noticed how tired and drawn he looks. “Just… get dressed,” he says before lifting his phone to his ear.
You nod and draw in a deep breath. “Okay,” you reply, but he isn’t listening anymore.
You stand and cross the room, readying yourself for what’s to come.
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
Dean lies panting heavy breaths as you climb up his body once more. This time, you drape yourself over his large frame, entwining your legs with his, and he easily wraps his arms around you, holding you in place and making you beam from the inside out.
“See? We’re still alive, the world didn’t end,” you murmur, resting your head over his heart and listening to the staccato beat slowly steady.
Dean sighs and you can feel his body begin to tense again. “This is risky,” he says, his fingertips keeping your skin tingling. “Just being close to you sets off all kind of alarms, and that…” Dean shakes his head. “I’ve had plenty of blow jobs in my life, but that was like… shit, I don’t even know.”
“Spiritual?” you suggest, tilting your face to look at his.
Dean tilts his own head in uncertainty, eyes wide and cautious. “Maybe. Or… more.”
You’re both quiet for several moments. You know exactly what your connection to the hunter is, and you’re pretty sure he knows it, too; but he seems to be afraid of it. At the very least, he doesn’t trust it.
“It is more,” you speak quietly. “And you know what this is.”
He shakes his head again and you feel it, feel the exasperation and bewilderment. “I don’t. Neither of us does,” he asserts.
“Dean, why do you think I’m here?” You prop yourself up on one elbow, and Dean’s eyes travel from your eyes over your bare skin, landing on your chest, your nipples tightly puckered. “With you.” Then his eyes dart back up to meet yours.
He swallows and licks his lips. “You’re an important piece of this fucked up puzzle we’re trying to solve,” he states in a dry, matter of fact way that doesn’t match his posture or the moment the two of you are sharing. “And I’m keeping you safe and off the grid.”
“Dean,” you smile and chuckle quietly. “You know I don’t need you to protect me.” You reach for his hand and bring it to cup the heavy flesh that you know he wants to touch and taste. “But staying off-grid, as you say, is good for us. We can be together alone.”
You squeeze his hand around your heavy tit, showing him what he can have if he’ll just take it. His eyes haven’t left yours; they’ve narrowed and heated as his rough fingers pull at your nipple. You hiss and shudder and your eyes roll back as you jut into his caress. Then his mouth is on your other mound, tongue swirling the puckered nipple, teeth scraping. He rolls you to your back, moving with purpose, now, determination, and there’s a distinct edge to his gaze and his movement.
“Why me?” he asks, and you think he isn’t asking you – not really – he’s asking the universe. Dean has never believed that he’s as important as he is. He uses his resources well, he uses his body and the tools provided him. He’s sacrificed himself for the world and for his loved ones, but he’s never believed in what he deserves, what is rightfully his.
“You’re the only one,” you answer, watching Dean rise to his knees between your naked, open thighs to shuck his jeans and boxers to the floor. He’s hard again and your soul soars at the sight of him broad and thick, looming over you, pulling you in and settling you. “In all my millennia, it’s only ever been you, Dean.”
He dips his head to kiss your jaw and your throat, trailing wet and hot over your sensitive nipples, nipping at the lower swell of each of your tits. You love what he’s doing – every move and touch and kiss fills you with bliss, recharges you. You cannot wait to have him inside you, all the way, deep and hot and hard, filling you whole.
When he drops to his forearms, he’s caging you in, simultaneously spreading you more open with his knees, thick, strong thighs making you gush at the thought of what he could do to your human vessel, if he really did what he wanted, really let himself go.
Dean groans and whispers against your skin. In the depths of his soul, he knows what you’re saying – and what you’re not saying – is true. He just doesn’t trust what he knows. You don’t push him, though. Instead, you lie open to him, praying that he’ll find his way soon.
His mouth is on you again, his cock insistent as he works his way inside your wet cunt. He’s slowly stretching you and the feeling is overwhelmingly exactly what you hoped it would be. It’s the physical manifestation of what your soul feels when you share space with him.
You want to surrender everything to him – your heart and soul and body and mind, your will to live and thrive. You want to be his. He is your sovereign and you are his subject.
“Take what you want,” you whisper, gasping as his thick cock slides out to the tip. When he slams back in all the way, you grunt and shriek with a delight you’ve been searching for since you first felt him near.
Dean’s strength of character and morality defines him. His unbreakable will is legendary. You know that even in Hell, when Alistair thought he broke Dean, Dean was still in control. You’re going to convince him of that truth, to convince him of his worth and intention.
You remain open and pliant as Dean hammers into you. Your legs hug his strong hips, your hands roam the scarred skin that’s stretched tight over hard-earned muscle, and your breath is pushed from your lungs with his every thrust. Your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders and you hold tight for the ride.
“You can have anything you want,” you breathe hard and gasp with his roughness. “Dean…”
“What-” Dean groans and gasps for air. “What d’you mean?” He grits his teeth and his hips stutter as he hangs his head and slows his thrusts. When he looks in your eyes again, his gaze is filled with desperation.
You cup his jaw in your warm palm. Dean closes his eyes and nuzzles into your touch. “Just feel,” you say. “Feel us.”
He rolls his head from your hand and moves again, this time slower, lazy and deep. His lips join yours and he pulls you up by the back of your neck. You fold your legs and then you’re straddling his lap, kissing him, feeling him deep inside.
His eyes are still closed and he’s muttering words you don’t understand. He’s cursing, not making any sense, but you feel a force surrounding you both, encasing you and Dean in warmth. And there’s a kind of softness that contrasts epically with the way Dean feels inside you. He’s so hard and so eager, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips.
“Dean,” you gasp and stutter. “We’re almost there. Do you feel it?”
He slides a hand up into your hair, twists and pulls and his mouth is on yours again. “What the fuck is this?” he whispers around lips and tongue. His teeth scrape over your jaw and you feel wetness against your cheek. You feel his tears.
“Oh, Dean,” you moan, canting your hips to ride him all the way to the end. He drops a hand into your lap, hooks his middle finger to the second knuckle inside you with his thick cock, stretching you further, pressing that soft spot, thumbing your clit, and you explode.
Then he’s over you, pinning your wrists to the mattress and fucking you hard. He’s making noise and dropping salty sweat and tears to your skin. You can’t be open enough to take everything he gives. You curse the human vessel you’re in for its inadequacy until you feel another wave building where he’s rubbing against your clit hard with each thrust.
“Fucking sonuvabitch,” Dean groans loud, and it’s wet and it hurts so well when you come again as he empties inside you, calling your name with a sob.
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
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
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.
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.
The hunt is long over. You ganked a djinn, showered, had some greasy food and a few beers, and you should be in bed fast asleep. Instead, you’re in an old beat-up armchair, knees spread wide astride Dean Winchester’s lap, taking his tongue in your mouth and two of his fingers in your pussy.
“More,” you moan, your lips dragging over his squared jaw and down his neck, begging him to use his whole fucking hand to get you off. You want to come and you’re certain he can make you; you just aren’t sure how far you want to go to let him.
Dean smiles against your temple before brushing his lips across the thin skin and slipping a third finger into your slick and swiping his thumb over your clit. “Should get these pants off,” he rumbles, pulling your earlobe between his lips. “Get my mouth on you.” He takes your mouth with his again and you moan into it.
Dean’s the most beautiful enigma. He’s crass and socially awkward, he’s a ruthless and exacting hunter, and he’s the most generous lover you could ever imagine. That last part sent you for a loop 15-minutes ago when you climbed into his lap, expecting him to throw you down and fuck the shit out of you, fast and hard.
Now, here he is, taking his time, making you so fucking wet and kissing you senseless of all fucking things.
“Then what?” you whisper, clenching around his thick fingers, digging your nails into his shoulders.
He chuckles. “Then you come,” he says like it’s the only possible answer before swallowing your tongue and sliding his lips against yours. He curls his fingers and you groan.
Part of you wants to get yours right here in his lap on his big, battle-worn hand then get the fuck out, go to your room and have a good night’s sleep. You could tell all the other male-attracted hunters of the world all about how you got Dean Winchester right where you wanted him, got off and got gone. Most hunters don’t kiss and tell; but if you bag a Winchester? You fucking tell.
“I’m coming now,” you gasp and you’re trembling. Dean holds you in place by the back of your head as he kisses you through it.
Your fingers slacken from the cotton of his white t-shirt, slide in toward his neck, and up to hold his face in your hands. You moan into his kiss again because you can’t even remember the last time you were kissed, or you kissed someone else in any other way than the obligatory one-night-stand or casual-fuck kiss. It’s really a lost art for people like you and him – no one has time for foreplay or tenderness in your world.
You break your connection and rest your forehead to his, catching your breath. Dean’s pulled his fingers from your body and he’s lifting them into view. He rolls his head to the side then slips his fingers into his mouth one at a time to the last knuckle, slowly dragging them through the purse of his full, wet lips. When he closes his eyes on a moan, you lose your breath.
“Dean,” you whisper, pulling back to get a better look at him.
You cup his jaw, and he nuzzles into your palm. His eyes flutter open, long, pretty lashes lightly beating his flushed cheekbones. With a significant amount of inexplicable joy, you notice the freckles you’ve heard so much about. The subtle sweetness, the boyishness in his rugged features, is so totally incongruous with everything you’ve ever heard about him and you’re unreservedly fascinated.
Then his face blooms with a striking grin and his eyes are sparkling – literally fucking sparkling. “What?” he asks, lazily perusing your face. He rests both hands on your hips and licks his lips as his gaze settles on your mouth.
“What d’you want?” you ask, shocking yourself, your thumb traces his cheekbone and you marvel at the way his tongue can keep your attention for so fucking long, running along his bottom lip and flirting from behind his teeth.
“This,” he answers in that same tone as earlier, like you should already know the answer.
“What?” you ask again with a bit of a chuckle, combing your fingers through the sides of his hair and massaging his scalp. You’ve never been the most nurturing person, but something about him makes you want to pamper him.
Dean drops his eyes and smiles like he’s shy. Then he gathers you to him and stands up out of the chair. He’s kissing you again and you might be giggling as you wrap your legs around his waist. He takes two long strides to the bed, knees onto the lumpy mattress with you wrapped around him then lays you both down flat in the center of it all.
He doesn’t speak for a long time, he just entwines his fingers with yours, gently presses your hands into the bedspread on either side of your head and brushes his lips everywhere he can reach in this position. He murmurs and sighs and sometimes he uses his tongue and teeth. Your knees are bent but fallen open, and your indecision earlier about how far you’d go with Dean Winchester is no longer up for debate.
He moves down your body, pushing your tank top up with one hand, grazing those fingers over your rib cage and under your back to clamp around your side, brushing his thumb just under your bare breast, and pulling your leggings down with the other hand, fingers wrapped around the waistband. You push your fingers into his hair and lift your hips to give him better access. He swirls his tongue in your belly button, pulling at the ring with his teeth and you gasp.
“Oh!” Sometimes when you’re alone you tug at that ring for the sensation you crave, to remind yourself that you can feel something good, but no one else has ever paid it any attention.
Dean huffs a quiet laugh over the damp skin of your belly, making you shiver with delight, then he raises to kneeling, dragging your leggings and underwear the rest of the way down your legs and off. He tosses them over his shoulder before pulling his t-shirt over his head, baring that infamously thick, solid torso of his then resting his hands on your open knees.
“Can I taste you?” he asks, tilting his head in interest, watching your expression shift from dazed to confused.
Dean Winchester is asking permission to eat you out and you’re floored. As if you’d ever say no.
You nod dumbly, breathlessly, and he grins then drops over you to plant a solid kiss to your lips before retracing his path downward. He pushes your tank all the way over your breasts on his way down and palms one, pulling the nipple between his roughened thumb pad and the calloused knuckle of his trigger finger.
When he reaches his destination, he settles between your legs, drapes your knees over his shoulders, and slides his hands under your backside. His fingers wrap the crease under your ass and his thumbs splay you open. He licks you bottom to top and circles your clit with the flat of his tongue.
The sounds he’s making almost have you coming on the spot. Then it occurs to you that you’re on the verge of your second orgasm and you haven’t even seen his dick yet.
“Dean,” you breathe, pushing up onto one elbow and combing your fingers through the mess of hair on top of his pretty head. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, though his eyes meet yours in question. “You should let me-”
He grips your lower belly, heel pressing into one hipbone and fingers wrapping around the other side. He shakes his head and smiles bright. “Not yet.” Then he sets back to work, sliding his tongue through your slick and pushing one middle finger inside.
You sigh and drop your head back, reveling in the velvet of his tongue, the plump of his lips, and the slide of his finger. You took three of his fingers in the chair earlier, but you’re swollen now, and you’re at a different angle, and he’s placing the most pleasant pressure over your belly in time with his tongue against your clit.
He pushes you to the edge until you’re almost coming again. Then he pulls his finger back and removes his mouth, leaving you gasping for air. You look at him and he asks, “Trust me?” with reverence and eagerness in his eyes. You nod because you do without question.
Dean smiles and rolls you to your belly. You cast your gaze over your shoulder and see him wedging himself between your thighs. You rest your cheek on your folded arms and pop your ass in the air and enjoy the show.
He palms your ass, spreads you open, and licks you long and deep. Then you hear him spit before feeling his thumb brush your tight hole and push two fingers inside your swollen sex. You’ve never experienced this with another human, only your vibrator, but if you’re going to let anyone touch you there, it’s going to be Dean Winchester.
“Aah,” you whisper, pulling your knees up under you, pushing your ass further in the air, opening yourself more, and his mouth and hand follow. He’s licking and fucking and stroking you so good. You imagine all the times he’s done this, all the women who’ve taken it with utter fucking bliss, you feel yourself turning to liquid and you groan. “Dean, God.”
He buries his face in your ass and slops his tongue and lips against you, slips another finger inside your pussy, twists them and presses down on your g-spot. When his tongue persists against your back hole, you shriek and clamp around his fingers. Then you’re gushing wet and there’s a buzzing sound and you see spots.
You’re panting as he lays you down on your side and you feel the bed shift with his departure. You lie staring at the door, listening to the bathroom sink turn on and Dean banging around in there, gargling, washing up. When the water turns off, you roll to see him approaching the bed.
“Want a beer?” he asks, and your eyes drop to the bulge in his pants.
“Sure,” you answer, sitting up.
“I’ll get it,” he says, holding up a hand to still your movements. You watch him move to the small motel fridge to retrieve the beers.
“Like walkin’ around with a hard-on?” you ask with amusement and hear him snort before he stands and turns to walk back to the bed, twisting the caps off the bottles and letting them drop to the floor. He climbs onto the bed and hands you one of the beers then settles next to you.
“Not particularly,” he answers, sipping from his bottle and eyeing your bare form. “But I do like the way you’re gonna feel now that you’ve come twice.” He licks his lips. “Swollen and full.” His eyes meet yours again and he wraps his lips around the bottle opening to take another swig.
You swallow and feel your heart flutter in your chest and your belly flip. The air has left your lungs and you can’t find the witty retort you’d like to use.
“Gonna drink that?” he asks, nodding to the beer in your hand.
You blink then shake your head and set the beer aside. When you turn back to face him, his chin is dipped to his bare chest and his eyes are turned up, watching you. He’s picking at the label of his beer bottle, and you take it from his hands then put it with yours.
He takes your hand in his and pulls you to him. You settle over one of his thighs with a hand on his belt. “You are nothing like I thought you’d be.” You gaze into the pure iridescence of his shallow ocean water eyes.
He smiles and tilts his head again. “What’s that mean?” He twists and twines his fingers with yours and studies your face.
You take a deep breath. “You’re so,” you pause. “Indulgent.” Dean chuckles at that then pulls the hand that’s clasped in his until you’re kissing again. He kisses you for several moments until you pull away. “See?” you say, chuckling a little yourself.
He shrugs. “It’s just me, sweetheart.” That glint in his eyes makes your heart skip, and you sigh.
“Okay,” you answer softly and use both hands to run over his chest and shoulders before dragging them down to open his pants. He grins and bites his bottom lip, runs his hands up your bare thighs, and watches your hands work his dick from his pants.
“It’s obnoxious how perfectly made you are, you know that, right?” you say, gripping and lightly stroking his length. “From your head to your toes to your fingertips to…” You look down at the thick mass in your hands; it’s the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen. “This.”
Dean groans when you tighten your grip and slide backward, smearing his thigh with your wet. You drop and dip your face to swipe your tongue along the underside of his length. He twitches and swells further as you get him wet with your mouth.
He produces a condom from somewhere and hands it to you. It seems such a shame to you to cover up something so beautiful, but you roll the latex over him anyway.
“Come up here,” he says, hooking his hands under your armpits and hoisting you up his body until you’re mouth to mouth. Then he rolls you to your back, slotting his hips between your thighs. His half-shed jeans chafe your sensitive skin, and you like it, but you want him naked.
You bring your knees up and try to tuck your toes in the pockets of his jeans to push them down, and he laughs. Dean scrapes his teeth from collarbone to collarbone and pushes his jeans down and off with his own hands.
Seconds feel like minutes as he pushes inside you, breathing against you, holding you down with his hands and his weight. You’re so keyed up; you want everything at once. You close your eyes and exhale and hook your ankles behind his back. You kiss him and hold him close and tell him what you want. “Fuck me, Dean.”
Dean nods. His face is a portrait of hedonism, jaw slack and eyes hooded, a small smile turning the corners of his lips, tongue dancing between his teeth. He braces his forearms and his knees, opening you so, so wide and starts to move in hard and deep – so deep. “Talk to me,” he says, nuzzling your jaw. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Ung, Dean, so good,” you moan, kissing him wherever you can. Your hands caress his skin, smooth and scarred and stretched tight over muscle. “So hard,” you gasp. You feel every inch of him sliding inside you.
“I wanna feel you come.” He breathes, gripping one of your hips and holding you in place. “Please?” With his hands and his voice and his solid slide inside you – he’s taking you apart piece by piece.
You slip a hand between your bodies and press two fingers over the flesh that hugs your clit. He slams into you, slow but hard, rises to his knees, taking one of your legs with him, your calf over his shoulder. His fingers join yours to toy with your clit and he’s smiling down at you.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, running his hand down the front length of your extended thigh. “C’mon.” His smile is wide, and his breath keeps coming in pants. “Lemme feel that pretty pussy come on me.”
He doesn’t have to tell you again. Watching him above you, broad chest and shoulders, glistening with sweat, his jewel eyes shot through with moonlight from the window, and that lady-killer smile – and you’re coming hard.
He groans and stutters his hips, scoops your other leg over his shoulder and drops to all fours to pound you, fucking your orgasm to its shaking end. You finally cry out his name when you feel him throbbing and coming.
“So,” Lana says, from the back seat of your Jeep. “Heard you were on a hunt with Dean Winchester last week.”
“Ooh, yeah,” Tracey reacts from the passenger seat, flipping the visor back into place and turning to watch you closely. “Dish, sister.”
At the mere mention of his name and that hunt your skin ripples with goosebumps.
You woke up as the little spoon with lips latched over the pulse point in your neck. One big, warm hand roamed your hip and thigh, and you pushed back into his warm body. He slid between the tops of your thighs and along your slick slit, hard and thick.
“Not much to tell,” you say, reaffirming your grip on the steering wheel, making a show of gauging the traffic around you. “We got the djinn, had a burger and a couple beers.” You shrug, and you can see your hunter colleagues exchanging wry glances.
“Fuck off,” Lana says with a scoff of disbelief.
“What, were you puking blood or something? Because…” Tracey shakes her head and drills you into the driver’s seat with her skeptical glare.
When you reached up behind you to grip the back of his head, he rolled you to your stomach, straddled your thighs, and slid his forearms under your shoulders, bracing himself on the mattress. You clasped your hands over his, and he began to move.
You laugh. “No, I wasn’t puking blood,” you shake your head and take the turn to pull into the Target parking lot. Part of you wants to keep the experience to yourself. There was something almost sacred about it and it feels like if you talk about it, you’ll sully it.
“Concussion?” Lana posits, as you park.
“No,” you laugh again. “Nothing like that, just…” Your voice trails as you hop out of the Jeep.
Dean rutted against your ass with his hips, making his hard cock slide over and over your distended clit. His weight held you down, but you arched your back enough to cant your hips and ass to let him slide home. You both groaned when he hit that spot.
“Just?” Tracey prods as the three of you make your way to the big box store entrance. “Bitch, there is no way I’m buying that you slept in the same motel as Dean fucking Winchester – post-hunt, no less – and didn’t fuck the living Hell out of him.”
You shrug again. “Well, I didn’t,” you say, which isn’t a total lie. Truth be told, the fucking was all done by him; you just reaped the benefits. “D’you guys have supply lists?”
“Oh, my God,” Lana grumbles, gripping Tracey’s arm. “She’s changing the subject.” Then she gasps and looks at you with shock. “Wait- was it bad? Please tell me that gorgeous asshole has a tiny dick or is a rotten lay. Please.”
He banged into you, with hard languorous thrusts, taking your breath with each inward slide when he’d hit your g-spot. You lay there, taking what he gave, gripping his fingers with yours.
“Fuck, you’re so wet and tight,” he groaned. “Come with me.”
“I can’t tell you that, no,” you say, poking through a clearance end cap of cleaning rags. Their speculation is getting to you, making you feel like you need to defend Dean’s honor.
“So, he is good,” Tracey surmises, pulling a face. “Of fucking course.”
“Great,” Lana rolls her eyes. “Now I won’t be able to sleep again for a week just thinking about him fucking me into a tree or on the hood of the sex mobile.”
“What a dick,” Tracey bemoans, and you laugh again.
“Harder, Dean,” your breath shook and everything in your gut tightened. “Coming. Want it harder.” Dean grit his teeth and pushed up to his hands, hammering into you, fucking you into the mattress with abandon.
“Shit,” he stuttered, and you felt him spill inside you, pushing you further into your orgasm.
“Okay,” you stop and turn to face them. “This is all I’m gonna say and then we’re done. Capisce?” Lana and Tracey nod eagerly with big, expectant eyes.
“It was the best sex I’ve ever had and probably ever will,” you start. “He’s a kisser.” You smile wistfully, remembering his mouth on yours, on your skin, between your legs. “His hands are strong and calloused, but gentle? And more than capable.” You nod in agreement with yourself. “And that mouth…” You shake your head and sigh. “Suffice to say that Dean Winchester knows exactly what to do with every last inch of his gloriously hard body.”
You come back to the moment at hand with a grin. Your shopping partners are staring, eyes glazed over, and you wink before wandering off, leaving them standing, mouths agape, in the storage container aisle.
“We got a bunker in Lebanon,” Dean said, tossing your duffle into your trunk. “If you’re ever in the neighborhood, gimme a call.”
You smiled and nodded. “Will do.”
Dean pulled you in for a hug and a chaste kiss to your forehead before releasing you. “See ya ‘round, kid.” He smiled then turned and made his way to his car. You climbed into your own car, started her up and pulled out of the parking lot, headed in the opposite direction as Dean.
You watched in the rearview mirror as the Impala got smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared
Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Explicit Relationships: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader Characters: Dean Winchester, Supernatural Being – Character, You, Reader Additional Tags: Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Bond, Spiritual bond, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Kissing, Touching, Angst Summary: You’re an ancient, powerful supernatural entity on the run with Dean as your bodyguard. Between you is a pull so strong that neither of you can resist, even though you should.
Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Explicit Relationships: Dean Winchester/Other(s) Characters: Dean Winchester, Supernatural Being – Character Additional Tags: Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Bond, Spiritual bond, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Kissing, Touching, Angst Summary: You’re an ancient, powerful supernatural entity on the run with Dean as your bodyguard. Between you is a pull so strong that neither of you can resist, even though you should.
IncogNinja 