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“Look at you.” He coos, running a hand up your side. “So pretty, baby. All pretty and dumb, riding my cock.”
You whine, above him, and Dean just chuckles.
He does this. He always does this.
You spend the day shooting him your best smiles and twirling your hair like an idiot. You walk too close to him on purpose, bend over with your ass high in the air, wiggling over him in diner booths.
He’ll glower at you, but then grab your hand if you try to step back. Cough and turn red when you catch him staring, grab your thigh or hip so tight he’s going to leave a mark.
You smile at him sweetly. Brush your fingers over the bare skin of his wrist, tease him with every one word through the whole case.
He keeps his distance. Hands fisted, jaw tight. Something you know too well burning in his eyes, as you drag his control further and further from his hands.
Dean considers himself a man of willpower. You know, because he’s told you with his arms crossed and body braced. Like a wild animal he was ready to wrestle with, an axe over his head he was going to try and catch.
He’d said you test him. That he wasn’t a good man, but he sure as hell wasn’t weak enough to give into something like this.
Like you.
And Dean Winchester is a lot of things. A bad man is not one of them.
But a liar is.
Every single time, he snaps. Every single time Sam leaves you alone, he walks you back against the wall and attaches himself to your body. Strong, rough hands cradle you so delicately, his mouth claims yours like he’s trying to leave a mark, and he fucks you like the world is slipping from under his feet. Like you’re the last thing he really knows.
Sheets get tangled. He whispers promises in the dark, with a hand around your throat and his cock splitting you open, then doesn’t keep them in the morning.
Mine, is what you get to be when there’s no one to notice the claim.
Too young, is what you are whenever you push.
In the daylight, you were the kid partner. The smile and kindness that both Sam and Dean seemed have wrung out of them a long time ago, a light inside of you refusing to go out.
It almost did. Once.
When Dean told you that he was done with this for good, and you felt a tiny little thing in your chest—with wings that had been looking to rest for a while, and thought they’d finally found a safe place—broke. You hadn’t spoken to him for a week. Hadn’t spoken to anyone.
He’d snapped. Caved. Knelt before you and apologized, kissed all over your face and taken you slower. His mouth worshipping between your thighs in an apology, before he’d rolled you over him and held you carefully, grinding you down onto his cock. Offered you a million apologies. Done something for you that was rarer to see from Dean than two nights, even rarer than an apology he’d meant.
He’d changed.
Let you share his bed and held you in the night, just to keep you there. Kissed you where there were eyes to see, even if the eyes were only Sam. Let his hand rest on your thigh in the car, and said the closest you knew he’d get to I love you.
“Need you.” He’d rasped one night, eyes hooded and red from another nightmare he wouldn’t talk about, but still let you witness. “Don’t go, I- I need you.” His face had buried into your neck, hands digging into your soft skin like he was trying to memorize every inch. “Please don’t go.”
You’d swallowed, and brushed your fingers through his hair. Hummed softly, and leaned back into the pillows. There until the sun rose, and the shadows became a little easier to look at without seeing their eyes.
“I won’t go.” You’d whispered, kissing the top of his head. “I’m here, Dean. I’m here.”
And you know that Dean hasn’t mistaken your light for weak or naïve since. Hasn’t seen it as anything but what it is.
Hope, that’s made of something a lot more spiked and angry than it shoulder be. Defiance that breeds only from being beaten down and standing back up. A deep, unyielding love for things that blooms in the dark, because that’s the only place it was taught to be.
Dean worships it in you. When there’s a door between you and the world, you’re the only thing he looks at. The only thing he needs to see.
But when there are others.
You’re still just the kid.
He doesn’t kiss you in public. Lets you hang off his arm, but won’t hold your hand unless you’re afraid. He’ll smile in that lingering way he saves just for you, but nobody knows what that means.
To any outsider, you don’t mean all that much to Dean at all.
But then he does this. He kicks the door closed and tackles you. Rips your clothing off and tosses you onto the bed. Kisses his way lazily up your body, before sticking his tongue down your throat and running two big fingers between the lips of your pussy. Smearing your arousal and teasing, filthy words whispered against your lips.
“All for me, sweetheart?” He’ll drawl. “Or are you spreading your legs behind my back?”
“Just- Just for you.“ You gasp, scratching at his back. “Only for you, Dean, always for you-“
“That’s damn right.” He slaps your pussy once, and your hips buck off the bed.
“God, fuck-“
“You’re my girl, aren’t you? Such a fuckin’ slut, baby, but only for me.”
You nod stupidly, your legs stretching wide. Dean smirks, and kisses your open mouth.
“Words.” He murmurs against your lips, and you whine.
“You, Dean.” You roll your hips against his hand, eyes already stinging with desperate tears. “Only you.”
He hums in low approval, and kisses you again. Drags you over the edge so fast, with tight, firm circles of his thumb around your clit. Flips you over, before guiding you down on his cock.
Holds you there, just filled up and dripping over his thighs. A wreck in his arms, and the prettiest sight he’s ever damn seen.
When he’s had enough of your begging—which always takes a while—he starts to fuck you slow. Lazy. Grabbing your waist and rolling your body over his, getting you into an agonizing pace that’s, at the very least, easy to maintain once he leaves you on your own.
Leaving you here. Grinding down onto his cock with your mouth hanging open, tits bouncing and legs aching while Dean’s hands uselessly roam your body. Setting fires that build you higher and higher, but not offering you anything to snap that painfully, needy coil in your gut.
His cock bumps deep inside of you, his attention making you dizzy and deep voice stopping you from collapsing in an exhausted, ruined mess.
But it’s still not enough.
“There she is.” He drawls, one hand wandering up to play your breast. Pinch a nipple, then roll it between his fingers to soothe the hurt. “That’s my good girl. Riding this cock, takin’ me so well. Feels good, doesn’t it sweetheart.”
“So- So good.” You moan, a little drool running from your lips.
Dean reaches up and wipes it away. It’s unfair, how composed and amazing he looks, when you’re sure you’re a hot mess.
“Dirty, baby.” He coos, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Fuckin’ you so good you can’t even think, can you. So cockdrunk my smart girl is gettin’ stupid.”
You whine, trying to pick up the pace, but your legs are sore. Tears of need stream down your thighs, every sinful wet sound just reminding you how easy it would be for him to fix this. To help you let go.
You babble a plea. Lean down with your lashes fluttering and hips still grinding hopelessly, and whimper his name.
“Dean,” you dig your nails into his chest, trying to bounce your ass a little faster. “Please.”
He makes a low, deep sound from his chest, and that’s always all it takes.
Dean flips you over, pinning you beneath his massive frame, and starts to fuck you brutally. Hips drilling into your weeping cunt, pressing open kisses over your throat and face. You cum from just the first thrust, when he hits a spot you can never quite get on your own, but he always finds within seconds. Your body shakes and your pussy clenches around him, sobs of pleasure breaking from your throat.
He isn’t far behind you. Pressing his brow against yours and rutting against your cervix. He cums inside you with a heavy kiss, and drags his cock in and out as you both float down.
And he’s good to you.
Dean’s a good man, no matter what he claims. And he’s so good to you.
Maybe he’s a bit of a menace—pulling out slowly and dragging the head of his cock all over your pussy, smearing his cum with a satisfied, feral sound—but he cleans you up. Runs you a bath that you get carried like a princess into, sits at the edge of the tub and holds your hand until you talk him into joining.
You rest your head on his chest, his arms wrapped around your body. Under the water, he traces meaningless shapes your hips.
“You good?” He rasps, and you nod. You know he worries about hurting you. It took you months to convince him he was allowed to touch you like a person instead of a baby bird made of glass.
No matter what he does, as long as it’s Dean, he manages to make you feel good. Feel close to him, important. Wanted.
He says he needs you, and that’s big.
But better is when he tells you that you’re wanted.
And sometimes, when he won’t even hold your hand, you’re not sure if you really do matter. If you’re just the temptation he failed to resist.
If he doesn’t regret you, when the afterglow fades off, and you’re just another broken person he’s waiting to lose.
“Dean?” Your voice is strained. You have to know.
If you don’t, it’s going to boil over and burn you up from the inside.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Do you… Like this?”
He’s silent for a moment. His fingers still on your skin.
“What, the bath?” He says carefully, and you sigh.
“No. This.” You prop your chin on his chest, blinking up at him in the dark.
He looks truly confused. There are deep lines on his face, and a small pout on his lips. You almost don’t want to ask.
You have to know.
“Me.”
His jaw clenches. His arm wraps a little tighter around your back. Like he’s afraid you’re going to try and run away.
“Of course I like you.” He snaps. “Don’t be fuckin’- You think I do this with every person I fuck-“
Your face falls, that light in you flickering the tiniest bit, and Dean sees it. He cuts himself off with an almost panicked look.
You try to look away. He grabs your chin and tips it back up.
“Look at me,” he mutters your name. “Please.”
You do. Slowly, under your lashes. Trying to hide your tears.
“I- Fuck.” He drops his brow against yours, hand dragging up to cradle your cheek. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t. You’re not just- I just didn’t think you were gonna ask that.” His eyes scan desperately over yours, his face open.
Vulnerable.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t-“ He swallows. “‘m sorry.”
Don’t leave.
You won’t. You’re stronger than that.
But you still can’t stop yourself from whispering, “Sometimes I- I-“ You swallow. “Dean, it’s like you don’t even want to be seen with me. Like I’m that… Nothing. To you.”
“You’re everything to me-“
“Really?” You give him a sad smile. “Because you don’t really act like it.”
His throat bobs.
The silence stretches long. Too long. You drop your face back into his chest, and feel your heart move up your airway. Your eyes burn, your skin crawling with shame because you shouldn’t have said anything at all-
“Doesn’t it fuck with you?” His voice is raw. Weighted and pained. “That you’re never gonna get a full life with me?”
You look up, and he’s staring at you. Those handsome, tired lines even deeper on his face.
“What?” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I’m only gonna get older, sweetheart. Half my life’s never been mine anyway, and- Don’t get me wrong, it would- I’d want the rest of it.” He traces a hand lightly over your cheek. “With you.”
You swallow. “Dean-“
“But you got your own life. It’s ain’t halfway up like mine, and- If you met someone, who could give you more-“ His shakes his head. “I wouldn’t wanna be the thing that stops you from takin’ it.”
You stare at him. His eyes are fixed somewhere on your chest, his grip still tight but his expression filled with such defeat.
He really doesn’t understand at all.
That when you reach up and touch his face, it doesn’t feel like you’re touching some frail shadow of a man, already wasted away.
He leans into your palm, and it’s like some great hero—weathered and run down by storm after storm, beaten so bloody they had to grow skin like stone and build walls that rooted into the earth—is coming alive, just for you.
“I don’t want more.” You whisper. “I want you.”
Dean’s eyes art to yours, and for a second you can see it.
The pain of him starting to hope.
“You shouldn’t-“
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
You stare him down. Caring so much, but still unyielding.
His lips twitch.
“I’m gonna get gray.”
“You already are. I like it.”
His hands squeeze on your hips. “Might get all senile.”
“I’ll love you the same.”
Won’t be able to keep up with you.”
You smile. “I look forward to seeing you try.”
He laughs, just a small one, but it’s enough.
Dean scans over your face, and you know he’s looking for it. The he could stay that would prove him right, and make you leave.
“If shit- Stays good. If nothin’ pops out and we get to slow down.” He swallows, running a hand slowly through your hair. “I’m gonna die first.”
You laugh. Soft and broken, because you know. You’ve thought about it. How much it’s going to hurt.
Because you love him. And you only get to have the back end of his life.
You’d rather have that—and make it good, make it something so so good—than never have him at all.
And loving him, it doesn’t hurt at all.
“I know.” You murmur, hovering your lips over his. “Still worth it.”
Dean blinks slowly. Nods, like he finally understands.
But he doesn’t kiss you.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck like all those nights before, and just holds on.
You hold him back. Hold him close.
And you promised.
You were never going to let go.