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You know you’re far from the first, who’s dreamt about Dean Winchester. It would be like thinking you’re unique for liking ice cream, or wanting world peace. Nothing worthy of note. You gawk at him when he walks around the yard shirtless, and you’re no better than all the suburban moms and bar girls that lick their lips at his smallest smile. It’s really front page news, to be in love with the handsome, muscular man that holds open doors and helps old ladies cross the street. You’re really breaking barriers, drooling over his biceps when he works on a car and pressing your thighs together when he catches you watching and winks.
But that’s where you do start to get a little ahead of the curve.
Dean looks back.
He’s not supposed to. You both know he’s not supposed to, and you’re both awfully good at pretending you care. Dean walks into your house without invitation, saying he’s looking for your dad, and you suddenly have about fifty different reasons so bend over and stretch and wear the shortest skirt you can find. Your dad asks you to drop something off at Dean’s garage, and his secretary—an even older man named Bobby, who detests the word secretary, but doesn’t really have any other kinds of duties since he stopped being able to work on cars—doesn’t exist anymore. Dean needs to come out to greet you himself. He has to take the package and let your fingers brush, and his sleeves need to be rolled up, and he’s so sweaty he simply must use his shirt to wipe his face.
You gape at his thick, muscled chest and abdomen. He says your name, grabbing your waist for attention, and you both stare at each other a little too long.
He licks his lips. His throat bobs. Your breath hitches, and you take the smallest step forward. His dull nails dig into your hips, and your hand lands on his belt for balance. There’s an electricity in the air you can taste. It shoots down your spine like a lightning and makes your skin wet and hot. Dean’s eyes go dark, and you push up on your toes.
Then something rattles. Someone calls. Your dad walks back inside with a wide grin and spread arms, and you and Dean jump apart like children playing cooties. He steals a glance at you, before you walk away. You lock yourself in your room or car and rub your inner thighs, eyes squeezed shut with frustration, face burning from the flood of arousal between your legs, sticking your panties to your cunt and filling up the air with the smell of shame and need.
Neither of you speak of it. The dance replays itself for almost a year, and you’re not brave enough to change a single step.
But Dean isn’t either. Though he’d call it not stupid enough. It doesn’t matter than he’s told you he’s more at ease with you than anyone else he’s ever known. He doesn’t think the evidence of his need for you—impressive and mouthwatering, straining through his jeans whenever you accidentally let your ass press against him—amounts to anything but a desire that makes him sick.
It’s wrong, he’d say.
And you’d agree, if it wasn’t growing over your life like a weed. If you hadn’t tried to move on—over and over and over, with boys in clubs and co-workers and dating apps—but failed more times than you can count, all because of Dean. He lives in your dream, now. You structure your day around trying to steal a glimpse of him, because it’s all you’re allowed to have. You stop trying to work the weed of your love out. It’s prettier than all the other deadened brushel of your previous crushes. It breeds a new kind of ecology, makes you brave in different ways than you were before. You know more about cars than you ever thought you would. Bobby let you into his old man book club—even Dean and your father aren’t allowed—and you can drive a boat because summer vacation comes with even more Dean, and it was just impossibly important that you basically sit on his fucking knee while he taught you to drive.
You won’t change yourself for him. You won’t play pool—there’s too much math and just… standing around—or pretend to like things you don’t. But you know you’re not the only one changing.
Your dad says Dean’s been listening to different music lately. That he doesn’t kill the fish after he catches them anymore, when they go out to the docks, and you’re sure it has nothing to do with you getting teary eyed when he tried to do it in front of you. He let you describe your makeup routine to him once, and remembered everything you told him, to the point that his sister-in-law Eileen noticed that he understood her product before his brother Sam. He’s even—supposedly—driving slower, after you hit his arm and told him not to get himself killed.
And the big one.
He doesn’t flirt.
Not the way he used to. He doesn’t do cheesy pickup lines that only work because he’s a living Adonis, and he doesn’t stuff numbers in his pockets like spoils of war. You overhear your dad making fun of him for having lost his game, and Dean just chuckles and shakes his head.
“Maybe I’m growin’,” he drawls. “You ever think of that?”
Your dad laughs, and it echoes over the lake. “Why the fuck would I have thought of that?”
Dean shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. You can feel his gaze, over the firepit. It’s warmer than the raging flame. You pull your knees into your chest, and don’t dare to look back.
“You really looking for something serious, Winchester?” Your dad asks, and Dean hums.
“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”
Your dad beams and starts to talk about single women he knows, who might be good for Dean. They all sound perfect. Intelligent and kind and age-appropriate, with no weird complications. Your throat hurts like you’re catching a virus. You excuse yourself for the night, and lock yourself in your room.
And it goes like that for a long, long time.
But when the weeds grow over everything, it does, so slowly, start to change.
It’s almost inevitable. Like you both accept that there’s nothing to do but go with the tide, even if it’s sweeping you out to sea. It’s still not spoken about. It just… is.
“You doin’ something tonight?” Dean asks you, and you shrug.
“I never do anything. Any night.”
He snorts. “That ain’t true, sweetheart-“
“I don’t do fun things,” you counter, and Dean hums.
He’s lounging on your couch like he owns it, his arm tossed over the back of the seat and a beer in his hand. He watches you move around the room with lidded eyes and a hand fisted on his thigh. Neither of you acknowledge the almost bungee like tension, that sends you walking past him, even when you don’t need to be.
“I think you’re plenty fun,” Dean offers, and you roll your eyes.
“Yeah, sure.”
He frowns. “I’m not joking-“
“Dean,” you give him a flat look. “It’s okay. I know I’m not- You don’t have to make me feel better about it. I have other redeeming qualities.”
“Redeeming-“ Dean cuts himself off with a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, woman.”
“What?”
He shrugs and takes a long swig of his beer. You cross your arms and glare at him, trying not to get too stiff. You know you’re not fun. Not like the women he’s used to, not like most people. You can be fun, but you’re never anyone’s first choice to get a thrill. You keep yourself in your head, and you read, and you work, and that’s it.
Dean’s type, if your dad is to be believed, is long legs that are hard to catch and batting lashes that try to outdo his smirk. You’re very easy to catch. All Dean would have to do is offer a hand, and you’d fall to your knees. You couldn’t outdo his smirk if you tried, because the only weapons you have are eye rolls and sharp words. Difficult, you’ve been called.
Not fun.
But Dean’s looking at you like he’s having the time of his life, staring you down from the couch. You tip up your chin and narrow your eyes, and he raises his brows, amused and lazy.
“What?” You demand, and he shrugs.
“Didn’t say nothing-“
“Yes, you did, you- You said Jesus, woman,” you drop your voice to mimic his, and he snorts.
“I don’t sound like that-“
“You sound exactly like that.”
“No-“
“Yes.”
And this is what you mean. You’re stubborn and mean and a lot of teeth for a girl who doesn’t really know how to use them. But Dean’s eyes gleam, and his smile only grows. Suddenly you’re restless. You need to press your away from that dangerous, hungry gaze, or you need to throw yourself into the dark and hope it’s as warm as you’ve dreamed.
“I think you can be plenty fun, princess,” Dean teases, and you bite your lip. “You just don’t go out.”
“You don’t go out,” you snip, because it’s all you can think.
Dean just hums, looking you up and down. “You’re right,” he muses. “We should fix that.”
You huff, then pause. “We?”
Dean grins, and that’s how it starts.
It’s not a date. You remind yourself of that the whole drive there, that this is not a date. Dean’s just taking you a dive bar he knows, far enough out of town that your dad wouldn’t catch you—though it doesn’t matter if he does, because this is not a date—and he’s going to buy your drinks and sit next to you in the booth and listen to you babble about nothing like you’re telling him the secrets of the universe.
He turns down a waitress with boobs almost spilling out of her shirt, and keeps his hand on some part of your body almost the whole night.
But it’s not a date.
“So,” he murmurs, his thumb drawing small circles on your wrist. You watch him with wide eyes, your breath caught in your throat.
He hasn’t been drinking. You didn’t know that was something he did. And he smells like sweet, summer smoke and leather and oil, and his body radiates heat like a furnace, and you think you might just melt under his gaze.
“You from ‘round here?” He drawls, and you swallow.
You know that tone. He’s inviting you to play, but in a way that feels far more dangerous than usual. Dean leans down until you’re only inches away. Your eyes flick to his lips, and his hands fists on the table.
You shake your head, and his lips twitch.
“Just passin’ through town, huh?”
You nod, and he raises his brows.
“What’s got a pretty little thing like you, hangin’ out in a place like this?”
Oh. He wants to play play. To have the exact kind of fun you warned him you weren’t capable of.
But you can try.
Under Dean’s gaze, it kind of feels like you can do anything.
You pull all your confidence together with clenched knuckles, and lean forward. Close enough for your lips to brush, if either of you dared to breathe a little too heavy. Dean blinks, and his ears go a little red, but he doesn’t back away. You smile as coy as you can manage, and run your nails lightly up his forearm. You’ve watched a lot of movies, and you might not be fun, but you’re a fantastic actress.
“My daddy did me wrong,” you coo, fluttering your lashes. “Hurt me real bad, and now I’m lookin’ for something new.” You lean a little further forward. Dean’s throat bobs. “Can you help me find it, sir?”
Dean stares at you, and for a horrible second, you think you took the bit too far.
Then he laughs. It’s strangled and tight in a way you’ve never heard. It sends a rush through your blood, and paired with his red face and squared shoulders, you think you might get addicted.
“Fuckin’- Christ.” Dean takes a long drink from his beer, grinning like he doesn’t know what else to do with his face. “That was- Good one.”
You beam, your heart glowing under his pride. He pats your shoulder, throat bobbing, and your eyes dart down to his jeans.
To the thick outline, threatening the fabric. Your mouth waters, and you frantically look away before Dean looks back. He’s grinning when he does, casual but wide. His arm slings fully over your shoulders, his thumb dragging in those small circles, and you wonder if he has any idea, exactly what pathetic kind of doll he turns you into.
“See, princess,” he taps your nose, and it scrunches against your will. “You’re real fun.”
“I think,” you say slowly, trying not to sound too breathless, too desperate, too his. “You have a low standard.”
Dean shakes his head. “I think I got a high standard. You just never seen anyone else clear it.”
“But-“ You try to fight the question. It slips out anyways. “I- I clear it?”
And something in Dean’s face softens. You don’t know how to pinpoint it, because it’s so small, you didn’t even know there was tension. But it eases, and it’s like the clouds clearing from the sky.
“Yeah,” he says. “You clear it.”
You smile. He smiles back.
And before either of you can realize what’s happening, you both let go of that edge at the same time. The one you’d been clinging to, that plunges from stares to… Something.
Not dating. There’s nothing but soft touches shared the whole night. Dean looks at your lips but never moves. You stare at his chest but never climb it.
But there’s something.
And together, you start to fall.
Once a week, you go to the bar.
You tell your dad you’re going for a walk, or to a friend’s. You go down the street, and Dean picks you up. Neither of you talk about why you’re sneaking around, even though you’re not sleeping together, because you know.
Whatever this is, it isn’t above board. It’s stolen glances and bodies pressed together against the bar. It’s Dean’s hand on your ass, but only ever over clothing, and you sitting in his lap but never kissing more than your drink. It’s secrets whispered in the dark and being backed up against a wall with no way out, and nothing close to a desire for one.
It’s Dean glaring at men who get too close, and you dressing up in a way you’ve never done for anyone else. He’s a causal man, but he turns wolfish when a guy your age sits next to you at the bar. You never wear anything you don’t want to, and you’ve never been lazy about your appearance, but with Dean you try. You get high on his dragging looks and glinting eyes, giggling and smoothing your skirt like a schoolgirl.
You’ve never been a fool for a man. But Dean doesn’t count.
Because he’s a fool for you in return.
“I don’t need the doctor-“
“Everyone needs the doctor, dumbass,” you tap your fingers on the wheel, and Dean grunts.
He’s slumped like a child in his seat. You rub his neck, trying to soothe him, but all you get is a lean into your touch and a few less complaints.
He made the mistake of telling you he hasn’t been to the doctor since his late twenties. You’d like him alive, so you’re putting an end to that now.
And neither of you mention, that you’re out in broad daylight. It’s dangerous. You can’t care, when Dean holds you hand walking into the office and demands you go back into the room with him. He’s restless the whole appointment, looking at the door like he’s thinking about running. You grab his knee, and he shoots you a glare.
“Please,” you whisper, and his shoulders slump.
“Fine,” he mutters, holding your hand on his leg. “For you.”
You smile, and float through the rest of the day.
For you.
He said it simply. Like it was all the reason he’d ever need. He agrees to eat a banana every once and a while, and lower his salt intake, for you.
“I’m fuckin’ old,” he whines on the drive home, and you smile at the road.
“You complain like you’re young.”
“Haha,” he rolls his eyes, then gives you a strange look. You try not to squirm beneath it, but Dean never makes that kind of thing easy.
“What-“
“You really don’t mind,” he cuts you off with quiet words. You don’t have to ask what he means. “I mean- Princess, you could be runnin’ around with a real white knight, instead of-“
“Dean,” you give him a firm look. “Shut up.”
He raises his brows. He doesn’t look convinced, but his mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and you huff.
He is a knight. Not the fairytale one, but you’ve never liked things that are so perfect they have to be plastic. You like Dean with all his scars and callouses and rough words. He doesn’t save you, and you don’t save him, but that’s not what this is about.
Your dad says Dean looks alive, in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Your friends say you look happy, in a way they’ve never seen. You don’t cry into pillows anymore. You drive to Dean’s place and knock on the door with teary eyes, falling into his arms because it’s safer than any fortress in the world.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he mutters, carrying you up to his bedroom. “Let it out. I’m right here.”
You still don’t kiss. Dean’s knuckles graze your bare skin, and his morning wood rubs between your thighs, but that’s it. You wear his shirt, and pretend not to notice that your panties go missing, every time you stay at his place.
There’s this line in the sand, and it keeps getting washed away. All that’s left is you and Dean, both pretending it’s still there. So the dance turns. Both of you take new steps in perfect time, staying in the boundaries of something acceptable. Something deniable.
Something leaveable, even if neither of you seem to be eyeing the exit.
Something safe.
It’s all still safe. Your dad has no idea. You think Bobby’s noticed, but he doesn’t say a word. You hold Dean’s hand with both of yours when he pulls you through a crowd, and he looks back to make sure you’re still smiling, but it all coated in the illusion of a friendship.
A friendship where he says he loves you, when he thinks you can’t hear. A friendship where your lips brush his neck when you’re cuddling, and you pretend not to feel his cock rut against your thigh. It’s not sustainable, but you’re willing to let the candle burn itself out, just to have him like this.
But it doesn’t burn out. It’s electric and solar powered, and every bit of warmth only lets it sustain itself long. Nothing dies. Nothing changes. You and Dean never let yourself touch deeper than your souls, and neither of you dare to ask for more.
Until something snaps.
It’s nothing. Compared to the everything that you and Dean have been pretending not to notice, there’s no real reason for this to be the break.
“You goin’ out?” Dean asks from the couch, and you nod, sorting through your purse.
“Yeah, um- Groceries.”
“Ah.” He glances at the fridge. “We outta something?”
Your mouth twitches. “We’re out of everything.”
“We ain’t outta everything, sweetheart-“
You yank the fridge open, revealing it’s bare innards, and Dean cuts himself off. You give him a pointed, smug look, and he drums his fingers on his knee.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” You snort, closing the door. “I think sorry is better.”
Dean laughs, low and rough, his gaze raking over your body. You flush, but don’t shy away. He always does this. It never amounts to something worth being flustered over.
You cross your arms and raise your brows, pretending to wait for your apology. Dean’s jaw works. His tongue flicks out, and you shift on your feet.
“You’re real dressed up for the store,” he mutters, and you shrug.
“So?”
A vein pushes in his brow. “Nothin’. Just- C’mere.”
He stretches out a hand, and you swallow. “Dean…”
He beckons. Two fingers, crooked and pulling you forward like he’s got you on a string. You almost stumble between his legs. You flush for the first time in a while, tucking your hands nervously behind your back. It’s never been this close before. You’ve stood here, but never with his hand so securely on your hip, with him leaning forward so his breath fans over your midriff. His hand drags down the back of your thigh, goosebumps rising in its wake. You shift on your feet, heat pooling in your core.
“You want to come with me?” You whisper, because it’s all you can muster.
“Nah.”
He doesn’t even look up, as he answers. He watches himself touch you, retracing sensitive spots and furrowing his brow in a brutal focus that makes your head spin. You open your mouth to say his name again, but nothing expect a tiny gasp comes out. His fingers are teasing your inner thigh, and it turns your knees to jelly. You brace a hand on his shoulder. His eyes snap to yours, and there’s nothing teasing or restrained behind them.
His face is blown out with hunger, and you could so easily shove yourself away, but you don’t want to. He doesn’t need to give chase or fight. You’re not a hunt he’s going to lose. You’re laying yourself down like an offering, and whatever he does with it, you’re more than happy to comply.
Dean tugs you down to his lap in one movement. You squeak in surprise, and his free hand wraps around your neck. You barely have time to brace yourself, before he’s kissing you.
And this is better than dreaming.
This is Dean, warm and strong and demanding beneath you. He kisses you like he’s both going to and returning from war. His mouth slots perfectly over yours, lips chapped and warm and coated in a thin layer of spit. His tongue slides over your teeth, then presses down your throat, working in a way that makes your legs spread wide, imagining that heat against your count. His fingers press into your soft skin, encouraging you to mold easily into his body. You coo, throwing every bit of friction back, and a low rumble rolls through his chest.
Dean settles back against the couch. You straddle him, your wet core pressed against the tent forming in his jeans. You comb your fingers through his hair, and his beard scrapes against your cheeks and jaw. He sucks on your lower lip, squeezing the back of your neck. Your hips roll, and he groans.
He’s hard. Thick and hard beneath you in every possible way. Combined with the heat and unrelenting kisses, it makes you dizzy. You need him. You need him in a way you’ve never needed anything, so much it hurts, so much you think you’re going to scream.
And there’s a little problem. You think he knows about it. You’re less sure than you’d like to be. The tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh, and you buck against him with a whine.
Sensitive. Too sensitive. You think you could cum just from grinding against his rock-hard bulge, because it’s the only way you’ve cum before, and combined with Dean’s mouth roaming over your neck—planting open, messy, possessive kisses—you’re already halfway there.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp, and he groans against your skin. “Dean, slow down-“
He pulls back immediately, his brow knit with worry. “What- What’s wrong-“
“No- Nothing’s wrong, I just-“ You swallow, and Dean’s frown deepens.
“Sweetheart, if you ain’t ready-“
“No!” You shout and Dean’s mouth curves in a smug, surprised smirk. “No- No, I just- Stop looking at me.”
It’s a pathetic whine, but Dean obeys it like an order. He squeezes his eyes shut and cups your cheek, like he’s still trying to keep track of where you are. You giggle, and his thumb drags over your upper lip. You let your tongue flick against the pad of his finger, and he groans.
Dean drops his face against your chest. Still not looking, but mouthing at the curve of your breasts, in a way that really isn’t fair to anyone. You weave your fingers through his hair, trying to only breathe steady. Dean rubs your waist, humming against your skin.
“Talk to me, baby girl.”
“I- I’m not-“ You’re stumbling. Stuttering even in your own thoughts, unable to think outside of Dean’s lips. “You know I’ve never- Been serious with anyone.”
Dean grunts, nipping at the swell of your tits, and you hide your face in his hair.
“It’s- I’ve never been anything,” you whisper. “Except myself. And I- I’m not very good at it.”
That’s an understatement. You cum too fast and it’s nothing more than a small, disappointing shiver. Toys barely help. Nothing helps, except thinking of Dean.
And now you have him below you. Completely still, breathing so heavy it makes you nervous. He’s gripping your hips tight enough to leave a bruise. Tears start to prick in your eyes, having nothing to do with the dull pain.
“I- I’m sorry-“
Dean’s head snaps up. His massive hand covers your mouth, and you blink with glossy-eyed, nervous confusion. You’ve never seen his eyes so dark, his jaw so set. That hidden gleam, that shines just for you, it’s out and free. Dean looks at you like you’re an angel, falling from Heaven, ready to be dragged to the deepest pits of his desire. Your body starts to tingle with excitement, your heart pounding out of your chest and in your pussy.
“Never?” He asks, his voice impossibly low. You nod nervously, and he swallows. “And you want- You want me?”
He asks it as if you’re insane. As if you could ever want anyone else. You grab his wrists and squeeze gently. His throat bobs, and he shakes his head.
“Princess, you could be doin’ so much better- Yes, you could.” He gives you a stern look, when you shake your head.
You push your hips further against him, and a vein in his neck throbs. You drop your brow against his, and he releases your mouth, cradling the back of your neck instead.
“Baby…” He rasps. “I- I might love you, but I ain’t the only douchebag who’s gonna feel that-“
“But you’re the only one I love back.”
Both of you fall silent. Dean tenses, and you hold his stare. He said it first. You just said it back. Now it’s on him to actually fucking do something about it.
You’re offering to crash into the waves and drown together. He can either stay in line, or try this new dance. Be the one to show you, to have you, to finally just fucking take you. It’s not the noble thing to ignore this anymore. It’s only cruel.
Dean’s throat bobs. You wait.
“Yeah?” He chokes out, and you don’t hesitate.
“Yeah.”
“Are you-“
“Dean,” you breathe. “Please.”
His throat bobs. He nods, once to himself, then once more. Something sharp settles over his features, like a picture coming into focus. His hold on your body tightens, his breath steadies, and his tongue darts over his lips. A satisfied yet starved light shines in his eyes, and your heart thunders. You didn’t know anticipation could feel like wildfire, until you were trapped under Dean’s attention. But he looks at you the same way he looks at a pool table before he makes a move, his hands starting to slowly massage your hips, and you’re being unraveled with nothing but his gaze.
“Please?” His tone is low. Close to mocking. “Please what?”
You swallow, your voice stuck in your throat. You’ve practiced this, in the mirror. Ever since this—this strange, beautiful dance—began, you’d spent hours under the steaming shower water, imagining Dean pressed behind you, the roll of his voice, the way you’d be cool and collected and match his every sparring tease with the ease of a woman he’d want. The older, leather-wearing, red lipstick models that wrap boys around their finger like they’re collecting rings.
But the practice is paying in nothing. You’re not one of those girls. You’re nervous and wired and wound up so tight, you can’t do anything but lean further over Dean’s chest and pant.
Dean raises his brows, dragging one hand down to kneed at your ass. Your breath hitches, and your hips mindlessly roll. Dean’s jaw ticks, his eyes going so dark you think you might be drowning in them. He pulls you closer, his lips parting as he watches you fuck yourself against his thigh, and it starts to dawn on you with the rising heat, electric up your spine.
For whatever reason, Dean doesn’t want the cool, collected woman. He’s entranced by you, confused and rigid and so frantic for him that you don’t know what to do with yourself.
And you’re in the best kind of trouble about it.
Dean splays his hand on your lower back and shoves you down, trapping you against him with no chance for friction. You whine, and his hand slips under your shirt. He drags a rough, light touch up your spine, bunching the fabric against his wrist, and wraps his fingers around the base of your neck.
“You’re gonna need to use your words, sweet girl,” he warns, dragging his thumb in tiny circles. “I ain’t able to help brats that won’t talk to me.”
You nod, but you’re still breathing too fast to speak. Dean hums, settling fully back into the couch cushions, and waits. Patient and cruel, rubbing your lower back and squeezing your neck in a gentle prompt.
“C’mon,” he coos. “Where’d all that smart talk go?”
You don’t know. You dig your nails into his chest and watch him with wide eyes, trying to drag your thoughts out of the humid, demanding throb between your thighs.
“Deeean,” you manage to whine, and Dean’s throat bobs.
“Right here, baby,” he rasps. His voice dropped. It sends a rush through your blood, the ache between your thighs growing.
“I- I-“ You try to grind down, to show him what you need, and a sharp spank lands on your ass. You squeal, and Dean’s mouth twitches in amusement, massaging the sting until it fades to only pleasure.
“You like that, huh?” He mutters, right before landing another. “Dirty girl. Been neglected too fuckin’ long, haven’t you?” Another spank. You fall against his chest with a cry of need, and his hand drags down, letting him thumb at your pussy through your shorts.
You wrap your arms around his neck, and he weaves his hand through your hair, delivering one more spank before kissing the side of your head.
“No one’s been takin’ care of you,” he says, low and rough. You clench around nothing, nodding uselessly, and Dean hums. “Needy fuckin’ baby, doesn’t even know what the hell to do with herself when she’s finally gettin’ some attention.”
“Dean,” you whimper. “Dean, please-“
He moves his hand around, grabbing your jaw and forcing you a little back. You blink at him through teary lashes, the eye contact too intense, too addictive.
“Please, what?” He taps your cheek, and you swallow.
“Please. Fu- Fuck me-“
Dean yanks you forward, cutting you off with a demanding, bruising kiss. Your nails sink into his shoulders, your body turning to putty as his tongue pushes back down your throat. Dean grunts, groping your ass and angling your head so the kiss deepens.
“De- Dean-“
“I know,” he grunts against your lips, barely giving you a second to breather between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. “I know it’s achin’, baby. I’m gonna take care of it.” He kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I’m gonna take care of it.”
You mewl, nipping at his lower lip with every bit of energy you have. Dean grunts and stands, keeping you tight against his chest. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, and he half-stumbles down the hall and up the stairs. You make it five steps before he’s pressing you against the wall and focusing on sucking and licking your neck, then another five before he’s pulling at your skirt, teasing his thumb back over your clothed cunt. Like he can’t help himself from touching you. Like everything is secondary, to getting his hands all over your body.
The paintings on the wall shake, when he kicks open the door to your room. You hug him tighter, kissing over his beard with sloppy, uncoordinated lips. He grunts, swaying against the door frame. You dare a glance up, and find his eyes rolling back, his jaw gaping and breathing ragged. You double your efforts, hypnotized by the effect you seem to have on him. His fingers dig into your ass, and he moans, pressing further back against the door frame.
His eyes flick down to yours, and you keep thinking you’ve hit the bottom of his desire, just to find a new, rawer layer below.
“You like watchin’, sweetheart?” He rasps, and you flush so hard you think you’re on fire.
Dean chuckles and pushes off the wall, kicking the door closed behind him. His kisses turn suddenly sweet and slow, exploring your lips, working you up until you’re panting and scratching at his shoulders. It’s romantic in the worst way. He’s treating you like a delicate flower—setting you down on the edge of the mattress, kneeling between your legs and massaging your thighs—when you just want to be tossed around and fucked like a doll.
Then his hand glides ever so slightly up, his knuckles teasing against your clothed pussy. Your breath hitches, and Dean chuckles.
“You’ve never let yourself feel good, have you?” He murmurs against your lips, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t-“
“’S okay,” Dean kiss over your cheek, his knuckles grinding into your weeping slit. “Should’ve known my busy girl was neglectin’ herself. So smart, so sweet,” he nips at your jaw. “So fuckin’ bad at relaxing.”
You moan a broken agreement, and Dean hums. His mouth travels down your neck, sucking love bites right as his fingers hook around your panties. Your eyes go wide, your cry a strangle, desperate sound you didn’t really know you could make. Dean smirks, pressing his knuckles right against your clit before he rips your panties clean off.
“Dean-“ You cut yourself off with a choked whimper, your elbows shaking with the effort to keep yourself upright. The air on your pussy is cold, and the need just makes it impossible to do anything but blink at Dean’s set jaw and devout gaze.
He brings your panties up to his face and takes a deep, slow breath, his gaze never leaving yours. You whimper, grabbing his hand on your thigh, and he flips it palm up, letting your fingers lace together.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he grunts. “Bet you’re gonna taste even better, won’t you.” He squeezes you hand, and you whimper.
“De- Dean,” you spread your legs wider, shameless and needy under his stare. “Just- Please.”
Dean’s gaze drops. He shoves your skirt higher up, fully revealing your slick, pulsing pussy. You’re not sure you’re breathing, as you watch him take you in. He glances up to your wrecked, hopeless expression, a vein ticking in his brow.
“You’re gonna be loud,” he mutters, and you blink.
“Ma- Maybe, I’m not- I’ve never-“ God, you’re seconds from sinking into the bed and never coming back up. “I’ve never- Finished,” you whisper, and Dean’s hand flexes in yours.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep, almost labored breath, and shakes his head.
“Gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Swear to god, sweetheart, you could make a man lose it just listenin’ to you.”
You swallow. “So- Sorry-“
“No,” Dean glares at you, and your mouth snaps shut. “No apologies. Never to me. Just gotta- Hold on.”
He kisses the back of your hand, and stands suddenly. You watch, trembling and cold without his touch, as he stuffs your panties into his jean pockets, then yanks his shirt over his head.
And dear lord, he’s a work of art. You’re only able to breathe shallowly, as if something too deep and loud will wake you from this heated, perfect dream. The one where Dean’s towering over you, all muscle and broad shoulders and warm, tanned skin. His chest alone is massive—his tits might be bigger than your—and his biceps bulge with every single movement. You don’t even realize you’re drooling under he’s wiping the spit from your lower lip, smiling with such adoration it makes you squirm.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he mutters, careful and slow. “I’m takin’ care of you, and you’re just gonna lay there lookin’ nice and pretty, alright?”
You nod frantically, trying to lie down immediately, but Dean catches you by the back of your neck. You falter, blinking up at him in confusion, and his lips twitch.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he says to himself, squeezing gently. “Gonna make that wet little pussy feel better, baby girl. Gonna make it feel so good.”
You whimper, and Dean lets out a ragged breath. He ducks down, pressing his lips slowly against your, and you push up on trembling fingers to kiss him back. He rubs your thigh, tracing his tongue over your swollen lips, and slowly presses you back into the sheets. You’re fully trapped beneath him, wrapped in pure warmth and safe, worshipful strength.
Dean glides one hand up your side, teasing over your hips and ribs before resting it right under your breast. Callouses fingers flick your nipple once, before dragging gently over the hurt. He smiles against your lips, at your tiny squeak, the sensation sending a jolt right to your pussy.
“I know it hurts, princess,” he coos. “But you’re bein’ so good for me. So fuckin’ patient.”
You make a disgruntled sound. You’re not exactly choosing to be patient. You just don’t have the strength to wrestle with him, or the mind to argue. You’ve watched enough porn and read enough smutty fanfiction to think you’d understand how this would go. In all your carefully crafted fantasies, Dean rips off your clothing and pins you to the mattress, fucking you suddenly and desperately, like an animal finally let out of its cage.
But Dean’s not the kind of animal that others kept trapped. He had himself on the leash. He’s more practiced in control than you could’ve imagined, an expert at letting himself have just enough to be satisfied, without actually having anything at all. And now you’re spread on the bed for him to take without any kind of consequence he could make matter, and he’s not going to do anything but take his time.
“First time I fuckin’ saw you,” he mutters, lips brushing against yours. “Knew I was goner. Spent four years, hearin’ about how smart and kind you were, never knew you were a fuckin’ knockout too. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven, before I realized who you were.” He bunches the fabric of your shirt in his hand, slowly pulling it up your body. “Didn’t realize I was gonna be trapped in a hell where I couldn’t have the one girl I’d ever thought about wantin’ forever.”
Dean pulls off your shirt and begins to pepper kisses over the curve of your breasts, massive hands massaging your sensitive tits. Your back arches, a soft whimper leaving your throat as snaps your bra strap against your skin, then slowly traces the line of the fabric, all the way around to the clasp. He undoes it with a single, easy motion, and, before something ugly and green—reminding you of how many times he’s done before—settles in your gut, he squeezes your tit, and kisses his way back up your neck.
“You got no idea,” he purrs. “How much I’ve been dreamin’ about this. How fuckin’ hard,” he pushes his hips against your thigh, forcing you to feel the length of his hardened cock. “It’s been to keep my hands to myself, when you were runnin’ around looking like every fantasy I’ve had since I was a goddamn teenager. Used to pop one just watching these bounce around,” he ducks back down, mouthing at your swollen tits. “And thinkin’ about how reactive you’d be, how good you’d feel…”
He trails off with a groan, wrapping his wet, warm mouth around your nipple, his free hand teasing the neglected bud with careful fingers. You pull on his hair and he groans, pushing his boner harder against you, all while offering no friction to your pussy. You try to protest and whine, try to shove his face lower, but he’s set on taking his time.
Dean switches attention between your tits, letting his hands roam your body with leisure. He maps every curve and dip, letting that dirty mouth follow the wake of shivering, burning need his touch leaves. He pulls your skirt down slowly, kissing over your stomach and hips, wrapping a massive arm around your knees and trapping them together when you try to grind into his face.
“Be good,” he warns, letting the tips of his fingers drag under your ass, barely brushing the lips of your pussy. “I know what you want, baby, but you’ve been waitin’ this long. You can be good.”
You think, somewhere in your lust addled brain, that he has a lot of misplaced faith in you. You cannot be good. Not when Dean kisses everywhere around your dripping mound, but never lets anything but his nose touch that little button. Not when he fully drags your skirt off your legs and teases your knees and feet, smiling to himself when you squirm and splaying a huge hand over your tummy, pinning you to the mattress and kissing his way back up your trembling legs.
He pushes your knees to your chest, and sucks dark, possessive marks on your inner thighs. Two broad fingers press the lips of your fluttering pussy together, and your hips buck, tears starting to spring into your eyes. You’ve never been teased like this. So careful and deliberate, like he’s trying to find every possible way to pull you apart. He kisses every spot twice, glancing at your slack, drunken expression like he’s measuring and memorizing each and every reaction. He blows on your pinched pussy and you cry out, grabbing his wrist and trying to roll away from the touch.
“Ah,” Dean spanks you cunt, pushing up on his knees. “This ain’t bein’ patient, sweetheart.”
“I’m- I’m trying,” you try and push his hand back against your core, but he’s too strong. “Dean, just- Just touch me, pleaaseee- Mhm-“
Dean leans down, kissing you back into the mattress. You’re almost folded in half beneath him, your cunt clenching around nothing, weeping for attention he’s taking his sweet time to give.
“If I’d known I was makin’ you this needy,” he rasped. “I woulda started fuckin’ you that first night.”
He spanks your pussy again, then swallows your needy sob with another kiss. You hump the air, the movements shorts and stuttered with how he’s keeping you pinned down.
“So goddamn wet,” Dean drags his hand against your swollen cunt, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. Your eyes roll back in your head with every short movement, and his lips curve in an adoring, smug smirk. “You like that, baby girl? Feels good?”
“Ye- Yes,” you manage to stutter, clawing at the arm pinning you against the sheets. “Dean- Deean-“
“That’s right,” Dean spanks your pussy again, before running two thick fingers through your soaked folds. “Just like that. Jesus, you’re dripping on my fucking hand.”
He laughs in disbelief, and you didn’t think you were able to flush more, but the heat starts to cascade like a waterfall, a wet pressure building up at the top of your core.
“De- Dean-“ You’re trying to warn him, but his eyes only darken.
“You’re gonna cum?” He pushes those fingers against your entrance, barely dipping them into your tight channel. “Lose it just from hearin’ about how I wanna fuck you?” He leans down, forcing your gaze to stay trapped against his. “How I wanna stuff this pussy up with my fingers, my cock, my fuckin’ cum? Fillin’ you up like you deserve, makin’ you even stupider and prettier than I’ve got you right now, let it drip out, let everyone see who owns this perfect little cunt-“
The heat snaps, and you cum with a long, broken scream of his name.
You’ve never had an orgasm like this. It makes every single one with your vibrator seem downright pathetic, the way this one crashes through your whole body, forcing stars behind your eyes and making you thrash like a dog in heat. Your pussy is gushing in a way you didn’t know was possible, your body rolling in the sheets as the pleasure crests and becomes almost too much to handle.
And you don’t get a chance to come back down. To settle and collect yourself and just beg for his cock, the way he’s been promising for too long.
Your orgasm doesn’t fade, because Dean doesn’t let it.
He presses your knees right to your chest, tangles your hands back together, and shoves his face right into your trembling cunt.
You thought the fingers and the dirty talk were bad. You thought you knew the limit of pleasure your body could take, but Dean seems to be determined to prove you wrong. You knew his mouth was warm and wet and unrelenting, but you hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel against your pussy. It’s like a vibrator got sent on fire and covered in cocaine, giving you a second hand high just from the contact. Dean makes out with your cunt like it’s your lips, but without demanding a single thing in return.
He groans when you pull on his hair, his tongue flicking back and forth over your clit so fast you can’t even find anything but a high-pitched whine in your throat. He licks a rough stripe up your cunt and mouths at your fluttering hole, drawing out every bit of arousal with the tickle and scrape of his beard against your already overused thighs. He draws back for half a second, spitting on your clit and using three fingers to rub your pussy so brutally, your knees give out laying down.
“Dean- Dean- Fuuuuuuck-“ You cry it over and over like a prayer. You hump his face and try to squirm away from it at the same time, but Dean never lets you get too far. He smiles and nips at your clit when you grind against his jaw, and chases you up the mattress when you try to get away, manhandling and dragging you back against his face. Soon you’ve got nowhere left to roll without falling off the bed, and Dean stops putting up with your antics.
You’re still in half below him, but he’s pressing you down too tight for you to move. You sob and crane your neck, holding onto his head for dear life, the slick between your thighs starting to feel too tight again. You don’t have to say it this time. Dean’s eyes glint, opening to look back to yours, and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking on it like the sweetest candy he’s ever tasted.
There’s a thick, slapping sound that fills the room, and you manage to focus from the blur of pleasure just long enough to crane your neck and find its source.
And Dean was already a sight, between your legs. His eyes peeking up, his muscles budging, the hair you convinced to let him grow flopping over his brow. But there’s a reason he’s pushed himself so high on his knees, dragging your ass fully off the mattress.
He’s freed his massive, thick cock from its confines in his boxers, and he’s beating it into his hand like he’s watching the most sinful, lewd porno in the world. He moans against your cunt, almost drinking up your arousal, and his hips jerk into his fist. A shining pearl of precum, falls from his angry red tip.
Your eyes roll back in your head, as your second orgasm rip through you like a storm. Pulling you so totally apart you think you float out of your body, twitching in the sheets and gaping at Dean under hooded eyes.
Dean groans, his mouth working you through it, and when you float back down he’s already started to rub his cock between the lips of your pussy, tapping the head against your clit, and smiling when it jolts you like lightning.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” Dean murmurs, bending over until he’s resting his chin on your knees, still trapped against your chest. “Look at you, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me, takin’ it so well.”
You keen under the praise, past words, past anything but the thought of Dean’s warm skin against your, his dick notched at your entrance, begging to just come inside and take what’s been his since the first time you saw him.
“You gonna talk to me?” Dean kisses the corner of your mouth, and you blink at him under fluttering, doe-like eyes. “Or did I work my girl a little too hard already?”
You shake your head frantically, grabbing his wrist. Dean pauses, raising his brows.
“Baby, if you’re tapped out-“
“No,” you manage to breathe, and Dean’s throat bobs. “Please. Please don’t stop.”
Dean stares at you, the mask of teasing and control slowly slipping away. All that’s left beneath it is a man that’s just as wrecked for you as you are for him. He smears drool over your cheek and takes a ragged breath, glancing down to where your bodies are almost joined, where his dick is begging to just drive into your pussy and make you his.
He looks back to you with a zealous, almost primal need. You tip your head back, offering your neck, your throat, your jaw, anything he wants, just as long as this lasts forever.
“You mine, sweetheart?” Dean says, low and rough, almost desperate. Like he’s afraid to know the answer.
You don’t know why. There isn’t another you could possibly give your heart, knowing their going to destroy it and keep it safe all at once.
“I’m yours,” you breathe, and that’s all Dean needs.
He pushes you into the mattress with shockingly gentle hands, dropping his weight over your legs to keep you nice and curled up beneath his massive body. His cock pushes slowly, inch by inch, into your abused, weeping pussy. You gasp, the stretch both more and better than you ever could’ve possibly imagined.
And the through worship of your body paid off. There isn’t a place in your body you can’t feel him. It’s like you’re being split in half and fused back together, all in the small, shallow thrusts that Dean uses to get himself fully seated inside you. His head kisses your cervix, his balls swollen and pressed against your slick ass, his face buried in your knees and his breath fanning—hot and ragged—over your tits.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he says, squeezing you tighter. “Son of a- You feel so fuckin’ good baby, you- You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”
You giggle. You don’t know why. You can’t really justify it, past being so cockdrunk and wrecked that everything is kind of bubbly and bright. Dean’s head shoots up, his eyes narrowed, and you giggle again, smiling at him so freely, you can’t bring yourself to care about the tears streaming down your cheeks and cunt. You just feel full, and it’s perfect. You never want him to pull out.
Dean’s eyes glint, and you know you’re in trouble.
Good. You really want to be, as long as it’s with him.
Dean snaps his hips, and your giggle falls into a broken, shameless moan. Dean grins, kissing the tears off your cheeks and setting a slow, rutting pace in your cunt. He bumps over and over against your g-spot, fucking you into a whining, squirming mess within minutes.
“That’s right,” he whispers in your ear, pushing your knees a little higher up. “Feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? Sweet girl, takin’ this cock like you were made for it. Lettin’ me use you like the greedy little cockslut you wanna be. Mine,” he kisses a soft spot under your jaw, words rough and possessive. “Fuckin’ mine.”
You nod, babbling out a pathetic agreement. You are his. You’re a useless, soaked wreck beneath Dean’s massive body, but you’re his, and there’s nothing else you’d rather be.
And you were sure that you’d reached the limit for orgasms for the night, especially given that your previous record was one, weak and barely worthy of note.
But you’ve never been fucked by Dean before. And with the way he’s ruining you, you don’t think you’re going to be able to be fucked by anyone else after.
His cock slides in out of your pussy, like your bodies were made to mold together. The sound fills the room, obscene and lewd, mixed with Dean’s low moans in your ear and your own, pathetic whimpering. He bullies that gummy spot inside of you, driving against it over and over, as his thrusts become longer and harsher.
Every inch of your body is so thoroughly claimed by him, you almost can’t stand it. The squelch of his dick, each vein and pulse making your wet pussy throb, his messily connected to yours and his hands groping desperately at your hips as you both reach your peak. The heat is building back up like a flood, making your eyes cross and your head spin. You grip his shoulders with shaking hands, your nose twitching and wrecked pleas falling from your lips.
Dean kisses everyone away, past words himself. He grabs your jaw one last time, angling his hand between your bodies to toy with your clit, and something at the very base of your spine shatters. It’s not like the dreamy floating of your last orgasm. It’s loud and wet, making you feel every single second of overwhelming pleasure as Dean’s thrusts become unruly and frantic. You milk his cock, crying his name, gushing with so much slick that you’re almost worried you’re peeing.
The sound that leaves Dean is almost inhuman. He doubles over, clinging to you with a reverence like you’re holy, emptying thick, hot ropes of cum into your pussy. You’re so full, so loved, you grab Dean’s bicep and gape up at him with open, loving eyes.
Dean grunts, drilling his cock into your g-spot with shallow, uncontrolled thrusts.
“One more-“ He grunts. “One more ‘f me, Babygirl, please-“
One last orgasms blooms and shudders through your core. Dean makes a feral, satisfied sound, and collapses over you with a moan.
And for a little while, you both just lay there. Lost in the feeling of each other, the pure, simple ease. Dean kisses away your tears and buries himself a little deeper, whispering an apology against your lips when you whine.
“’S okay-“ You gasp. “Feels good.”
Dean grunts, still doubtful, and you give him a winning, gentle smile.
“I liked it,” you cup his cheek, pushing your breasts a little higher. “A lot.”
Dean’s cock twitches inside of you. He groans and drops his face between your breasts, shaking his head. You giggle and pet his head, and he props his chin up.
“Too rough?” He mutters, and you shake your head.
“Perfect.”
“Hmm,” he looks you up and down, and you spread your legs a little wide, using your heels to push him closer.
He grunts and braces himself next to your head, eyes soft and gleaming in the dark. He takes you in—boneless, limp, and dizzy with happiness—and lets out a slow, ragged breath.
“Think I mighta just created a monster,” he mutters, and you beam.
“Maybe.”
He raises his brows, kissing the inside of your wrist. And he’s buried inside of you. You’re filled with his cum, and covered in love marks you have no idea how to hide.
You still flush.
Dean’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. He kisses your wrist again, massaging your hips.
“We’re gonna do this again, right?” You ask knowing the answer.
You just want to hear him say it.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, watching you like none of the world matters. Like it’s really only you and him, and a hazy but glowing and certain future. “We’re gonna be doin’ this until you get sick of it.”
“And if I don’t?” You whisper. “Get sick of it?”
Dean shrugs, smiling faintly. “Then I think we’re gonna be doin’ it for a long, long time.”