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Dad’s gonna kill me.
The thought rings out as clear as day in the midnight hour. Dean sighs and turns the Impala’s giant steering wheel with practiced ease, traveling down another residential street.
He’s supposed to be wrapping up his own hunt two states over. That’s the story as John knows it. But the truth is, Dean torched that spook this morning.
Now, he’s headed somewhere else.
If John found out Dean was taking a detour, he’d be pissed. If John found out where Dean was taking a detour, he’d be insufferable.
Fall in line.
Do your job.
And really, that’s the crux of the matter.
Dean has been following John’s orders since he was four years old; he’s used to it. But the weight of that constant responsibility somehow seems even heavier now. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have his pain-in-the-ass little brother around to make him smile once in a while.
Sure, Dean doesn’t have to watch out for Sammy every second of every day, but the worrying about him never stopped. Actually, it’s grown worse.
Sam leaving for Stanford--that did something else entirely. That took Dean’s legs right out from under him.
Dean just… He needs a break. From family and expectations and fear. Even if it’s for one night.
When he pulls into the driveway, he notices his headlights beam into the house’s front windows. He should’ve flicked them off earlier; the streetlamp could’ve lit his path. He probably just blinded her into wakefulness.
Great start, asshole.
Dean flings open the driver’s door and exasperatedly climbs out.
After several steps, the reality of what he’s doing hits him. The anger in his gut flips to dread.
Who the hell does he think he is? Showing up at her place in the middle of the night because she was kind to him once, months ago? She told him she hoped to see him again, which was unfathomable, but he still believed she meant it. But what if she didn’t? What if she was just being polite? What if she was talking about back at the library, not at her door?
Dean halts, panting into the cool air, trying to make a decision.
And then it’s too late.
***
“Dean?”
She shuts the front door behind her, adjusting the blanket hung around her shoulders as she descends the steps.
To say she’s shocked would be an understatement; she never thought she’d see him again.
She’s already glad she was wrong.
When she gets close enough to make out his face in the low light, her stomach immediately twirls over how gorgeous he is. Even more so than she remembered. But she pushes that down because the look in his eyes has her pulse hammering for a different reason.
“What are you doing here?” she asks softly.
Dean’s gaze searches hers thoroughly, and he must find what he’s hunting for because his tense shoulders drop a few degrees.
He swallows thickly, but it doesn’t erase the tremble from his voice. “I don’t know.”
Oh, this boy. How he’s wrapped himself around her heart. And it’s not even about his looks. The last time she saw him, he talked to her. He opened himself up to her. His words were heavy, but she carried them willingly. It was an unusual exchange between two people who were little more than strangers. But it was also the most invigorating experience of her life.
She hasn’t been able to let him go since. And now, he’s here. He’s here, trusting her again, and maybe she can finally do the things she’s been dreaming about.
She shrugs off the blanket and envelops him in it. Beneath the paisley fabric, she locates his hand and intertwines their fingers.
With a gentle tug, she whispers, “Come inside.”
***
What a difference.
Her instructions compared to John’s orders.
Guiding versus demanding.
Being led along instead of being jerked around on a leash.
Dean follows, and he follows willingly.
And when she brings him to her couch, he gladly accepts that instruction, too.
“Get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” she prefaces before turning toward her kitchen.
His hand shoots out and grasps her wrist. “No.” The desperation in his voice surprises them both. “Don’t go. Please.” Now that he has her--her softness--he can’t bear to give it up. Not even for a moment.
She sits beside him without hesitation, so close in the lamp light that he sees the tiny sparkles in her irises. Like fairy dust. Some kind of magic.
“Okay.” Her tone is soothing as her hand returns to his and squeezes. “Okay.”
Dean's face flushes, and he wishes he could say it’s from the combined warmth of his leather jacket and the blanket that’s still draped around him. But it’s not. Embarrassment, vulnerability, and attraction redden his cheeks.
To his relief, she looks away from him and picks up a nearly-full glass from her coffee table. Thanks to its presence, he realizes she was probably awake and watching TV when he arrived. A trace of his guilt dissipates.
She offers the water to him. “Here.”
Dean’s more of a beer guy, but he grabs the drink with a grateful smile. A sip proves how thirsty he is. He gulps down the remainder of the water, and she takes the empty glass from him.
She’s so… attentive. A form of treatment he’s definitely not used to, but it feels damn good.
“What do you need?” she wonders, spine straightening.
He owes her a better answer this time, not another I don’t know.
“I’m tired,” Dean confesses. It’s not a perfect response, but it’s honest, and that has to count for something. He’s so tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Deep in his bones. Down to his soul.
She nods, observing him closely. Without a word, she slides to the opposite end of the couch and places one of the floral accent pillows on her lap. Her nearest arm extends in invitation.
Dean’s jaw drops, disbelief flooding his system and longing pulling at his gut.
He’s not sure how to do this. To accept this kind of generosity. To take.
But he wants to. So he does his best.
Slowly, he falls to her lap--his head on the pillow, the blanket cocooning him as he clutches the ends of it to his chest.
He’s turned away from her. He can’t show his face yet. Not when the forecast of oncoming tears is undetermined.
She lays a palm on his arm, and for once, he feels steady. No one needing something from him. No worrying. Just a ship and its anchor.
Soon, her other hand goes to his hair, and she begins scratching her fingernails along his scalp.
He shivers, his muscles melting in a way he thought impossible, and suddenly, the heaviness of his eyelids becomes too much to fight.
***
Her dreams are coming true.
Dean Winchester is not only on her couch, he’s draped across her thighs. She’s been able to lull him to sleep with gentle touches and continue offering the same affection for a couple of hours while he snores quietly.
Even without seeing his face, she finds him absolutely adorable, all snuggled up against her. His short, spiky hair is beyond disheveled, and she’s decided she likes it better that way.
Her thumb inadvertently grazes his forehead on her next path through his locks, and he stirs. When he starts to turn, her hands retreat, giving him space.
He winds up lying flat on his back, looking up at her. His gaze is a little dazed, a little needy, and greener than springtime.
“Hi,” she greets him, fingertips fixing tufts of hair that became matted in his sleep.
Dean blinks those long eyelashes at her, and she’s staring, she knows, but he’s just exquisite. Eyes as vast as the ocean. Juicy, petal-pink lips. Freckles galore.
Maybe it’s time to make another dream reality.
She lifts her palm and lets it hover near his cheek. In a heartbeat, his scruff is rasping against her skin as he nuzzles into her hand.
The pinch between his brows signals the hurt he’s carrying in his chest, and she realizes she’d do anything to make it better. She needs to make it better.
Her hand slides down until her thumb brushes his bottom lip. She watches his throat bob, and her body comes alive like an army of fireflies celebrating dusk on a summer’s evening.
The eye contact is intense, and when Dean plants the tiniest kiss on the pad of her thumb, she’s ready to move things to the next level.
“Sit up,” she instructs him.
He obeys, and she rises once his weight is off of her, leaving the discarded blanket on the cushion. His stare tracks her as he sits against the back of the couch, boots on the hardwood floor.
Standing tall in front of him, she fists the lapels of his leather jacket. “Can I take this off?”
Already breathing heavily, Dean nods. She slips her hands inside the collar and pushes it down his arms as he leans forward to assist her efforts. She throws it behind the couch, out of the way and out of sight.
She lowers herself, a knee on either side of Dean’s thighs, but still poised above his lap.
His hands shake as they lift to her hips.
She ducks her head, breath fanning over his nose, and then drops a gentle kiss to his waiting mouth.
Oh, those lips. Warm. Soft. Sweet as pie.
When she pulls back a little, he chases her, eyes still closed. A display of the trust he’s placed in her. She has no desire to betray it. She wants to feed it.
She touches her forehead to his, pausing. “This is okay?”
Dean swallows roughly. “Yeah.”
It’s not enough. “Dean, look at me.” Staring into green, she repeats, “This is okay?”
“Yes,” he confirms, tightening his grip on her hips. “Please…”
She smiles and kisses him again.
***
She’s so gentle.
It makes him ache. Yes, below the belt, but more than that. Blooming in the center of his chest. With electricity flying down his arms and legs. His fingertips tingle as they scrunch up the fabric of her shirt.
All he can do is feel. Thoughts escape him. Everything is her. Her scent, her warmth, her touch.
Her hands cupping his jaw, she continues to kiss him. Slow and sweet and real.
He could die a happy man like this.
And then she sits down.
And he whimpers.
Honest-to-goodness whimpers at the friction.
She devours the sound before he can get lost in his head about it.
His hands slide up her back, needing to feel more of her. She shivers against him, and a small rush of pride for doing something right crashes over him.
***
She’s losing her mind.
Never in her life has she wanted someone so badly. But even with that passion, her pleasure is not her top priority. She wants to make him feel good. To bring him peace. To undo some of the damage that caused him to appear in her driveway in the wee hours of the night.
Her curled index finger tilts his chin so their gazes mingle. “More?”
He nods almost frantically.
She smooths her palm along his temple, and his eyelids flutter. “I need your words, Dean.”
“More. Please.”
After a peck as a reward and a thank-you, she shoves his olive overshirt from his arms. When she reaches for the hem of his t-shirt--the last barrier between her and bare skin--a new question teeters on the tip of her tongue, but Dean allows her to bypass it by lifting his arms above his head.
His naked chest heaves, and the pendant of his necklace glints in the dim light. He’s dotted with sweat, and her mouth waters at the prospect of its salty taste.
She kisses his neck. Nothing hard enough to leave a mark. Just worshipping.
When her lips tickle the hollow of his throat, he moans for her, and she feels it against her mouth. It makes her hips grind into him, and he responds with another glorious sound.
She wants to pull as many of those as she can from him tonight. They’re poetry.
Her smooches wander to his sternum, her lips buzzing. She flicks her tongue over one of his nipples, and his entire body jerks.
He’s sensitive. Her eyes roll back and a desperate groan tears through her throat.
She continues to tease him, alternating between left and right, enjoying his squirming for what has to be an agonizingly long time.
When she kneels to the floor, he’s panting and his cheeks are flushed. Her mouth explores his stomach. Strong, but not rock-hard. So very kissable.
She has her hands on his hips to steady herself, and soon, he loses control and they buck, his erection brushing her breasts.
He’s still confined in his jeans; it must be painful.
She separates from his stomach, and her fingertips fall to his belt buckle. “May I?”
His voice is wrecked when he manages to grind out another yes.
With the denim discarded, she can see what she’s done to him. He’s leaking through the cotton of his boxer briefs, and it’s the best sight she’s ever seen.
Her thumbs dip into the elastic waistband. His abdominal muscles tense, and she throbs.
“Are you sure?” she asks, breathy, but clear.
Dean licks his dry lips. “I’m sure.”
When he’s fully bare before her, it’s just too much. She slides up so she can kiss him, her fingers threading through his hair.
Looking deep into his eyes, she declares, “You’re beautiful, Dean.”
His lips shake. His nostrils flare softly. A hint of wetness gathers at his lower lash line. He blinks and then kisses her like he’s memorizing the shape of her mouth for a lonely night.
***
Dean doesn’t believe in angels.
But maybe he should.
Because the woman stripped naked before him certainly seems to be one.
“Wow,” he exhales, and only realizes he said it aloud when she shyly ducks her chin.
She recovers quickly, pointing at his jeans that are in a heap on the floor. “Do you have--”
“Yeah. My wallet.”
Dean moves to grab the condom, but she beats him to it. She’s even the one to put it on him.
She straddles him, but stays raised above his lap while she gives him a kiss.
He figured it’d be fierce now that they’re completely naked. Expectant, or demanding.
It’s somehow the gentlest one yet.
What could she possibly see in him to treat him with such tenderness?
A part of him wants to hide away, feeling exposed in a way he never has. But another part--the stronger part--wants to experience this. Wants to take what she’s giving. Wants to believe he’s worthy before the sun rises and shines a light on who he really is.
Just an abandoned boy.
Mom’s gone. Dad’s been a shell ever since. And now Sam--the one constant he’s always held onto--has left him, too.
Dean’s alone.
He’s so fucking alone.
***
“Are you ready?” she wonders, fingertips beneath his jaw.
“Ready.”
Taking him in is a moment she’ll remember for the rest of her life. The slow stretch, the heat in her stomach. His breathy moan, his fists tugging at the upholstery of her couch cushions.
When her thighs meet his, she pauses.
Dean’s looking at her like she has all the answers. Like she can save him.
And she’s sure as hell gonna try.
She presses her chest to his. One arm slips around his shoulders, and the other cradles the back of his head. She guides his face to the crook of her neck, and his arms immediately wrap around her waist.
The rolling of her hips is unhurried. A prolonged drag. One after another after another.
His thighs quake, and he tightens his grasp on her.
He gasps against her collarbone and buries his nose deeper into her neck. She holds him impossibly closer, prepared for when he falls apart.
“I’ve got you, Dean,” she whispers into his ear.
He chokes on a noise. She thinks it may have been a sob, and when his wet eyelashes tickle her throat, she finds confirmation.
The seams of her heart pop, leaving her more determined than ever. She increases the speed of her hips, but keeps the intensity minimal.
With precision, she places kisses along his hairline. When she lays a lingering one on his cheek, his shoulders begin to shake.
She rests her temple on his head, a gesture she hopes translates to, I’m here.
“Let it out, Dean,” she coaxes, running a hand over his back. “It’s okay, baby. You’re okay.”
The sounds he releases blend sorrow and pleasure into a symphony she could have never imagined. But she listens to every single note.
She intentionally clenches around his length--another attempt to hold him tighter--and Dean shudders. He swells inside of her, and she knows.
He moans her name against her sweat-slicked skin. “I-- I’m gonna--”
“Let go, honey.”
Dean’s hips snap up and lock, his groans and grip on her hitting a new level of desperate.
Sensations and emotions crest for her, too, and she comes hard and fast.
They stay tangled together long after their breathing calms, and it clicks into place that this boy she’s been dreaming about has made a permanent home in her heart.