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bettystonewell · 5 months ago

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Part 2: It Should've Gone Down By Now

Story Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Reader

‘Twas the night of fake Christmas and all through the halls, creatures were stirring, eventually on all fours… or …Mrs Butters isn’t just messing with Dean’s underwear drawer. She’s messing with your love lives, too. MDNI 18+ only 3.4k words

Tags: SMUTfriends to lovers, love potion, language, dubious consent, pining, eggnog, Mrs Butters is a terrible wingman

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

Something else going on, huh? Well, you were right. There was definitely something else going on because Dean felt like shit. He’d dropped a load off twice, and still wasn’t faring much better. What with his insides rumbling and… squeaking, he could liken his stomach to a volcano or a geyser, ready to erupt.

It had to be that turkey.

That bird was the most awesomest thing he’d ever eaten. Moist and meaty. And with those potatoes and the pumpkin and that cheese covered stuff on the side? Man. Who knew vegetables could be so delicious? He’d had two helpings of it, and… oh right. The dairy.

Heh-heh.

Eh. He’d slow down tomorrow.

Mrs Butters had promised him apple pie, and he needed room for that if her cookies were anything to go by.

Or were they your cookies?

Yeah, he still didn’t know what’d gone on there besides you having beef with Mrs Butters, and really? What else could be going on besides Christmas, monster radars and lactose causing him grief again? He could tie all of it back to Chuck, no doubt if you gave him a minute.

He sauntered back to his room, extra careful to not make a sound as he passed everyone else’s. The tips of his boots tip-toeing over the polished floors. But when those tips reached his door, he felt the first niggle of something being up other than his heels.

Pulses, tiny but strong, kinda like how it felt when he got his rocks off, strummed to the beat of his heart. It travelled from his queasy stomach to his now warm junk and had him looking down to find little Dean stirring.

Huh.

Well, okay, nothing that unusual. Maybe for not seeing or thinking ��bout anyone special, but it’d been a long day full of victories. The vamps, the nymph turned housemaid. A bit of sugar, even though forced and unexpected, was kinda nice. Stressful, but nice, and he figured he’d earned himself some time to rub one out.

Heh. Who was he kidding? He was wired, his gut issues weren’t about to let him sleep, and it was just another regular Tuesday night. He didn’t need an excuse to cook up his own batch of cookies.

Ever.

So he shut his door, locking it behind him in case Mrs Butters let herself in again and went straight into getting everything he needed ready. Lube. Tissues, an old sock… okay, no on the sock...

The even older wood nymph was a little too efficient, but no bother. He had plenty of tissues and a sink by the door. He’d make do with what he had. Just needed to pry open his favourite Miss January 1973 from his collector’s edition and he’d be in business.

Thank god she hadn’t found that.

He ripped his clothes off, ‘cause who needed them anyway, and planted his ass with a wriggle, into the sweet memory foam on his bed. Comfort was key. Getting it hard, even more so, though, surprisingly (or maybe not), he was at full mast. Must’ve needed this more than he thought, and he shrugged and reached for the lube.

He squeezed out a decent dollop and wasted no time wrapping his hand around the base. Ho-ho, he really was in business. Slightly cool, but warming rapidly under his touch, his balls pulled tighter and his skin lit up. Seemed he really needed this.

No, seriously.

As he fisted himself, squeezing just the way he liked with a swipe over his head to boot, his slit was already leaking his own brand of special sauce. Warm and creamy.

Heh-heh. You and your stupid special sauce. His hand was on fucking fire, and you were…

Shit.

No.

Why was he thinking of you when Miss January was right there in front of him? Yeah. He needed to dump whatever thought that was and bring his top head back to Miss January.

Fuck. Miss January.

His free hand spread the glossy pages further apart, and his eyes roamed over her body. She was lovely. A fine and upstanding citizen. With pretty titties he could rub it between, and a round ass he’d plough in and out of. Yeah. Bet she’d like that.

Bet you’d like it, too, and he grunted at the thought of touching.

But, nope. Nuh-uh. He wasn’t going there, remember? He was looking at Miss January with her legs spread nice and wide for him. She had hair the same length as yours if he squinted just right and he squeezed his fingers tight. Dragging perfect pressure up the length of him and to the sensitive tip that twitched when he rubbed that reddened head.

Though wait. Fuck. If your drapes looked like hers, did that mean your carpets matched hers, too? Dean sped up his hand at that thought. And oh, oh, okay. He was doing this and picturing you?

Apparently so.

His hips were lifting off the mattress. His heels dug into the sheets and the plush foam beneath them to keep up momentum. He’d say he was going to hell for that, but he’d already been, and the pull in his stomach, hard to ignore. It was just… Too. Damn. Good.

What would you look like out on display like Miss January? he wondered. Would you let him touch you? Let him spread you open with his fingers?

“Oh shit.” The hand that’d held the mag open swept down to cup his sack and the base of his spine jolted. He was so close. His thumb on the other swiped over his slit, pulling out a large drop of more sauce that kept him wanting for more.

What would you taste like? Better than stupid cookies, no doubt. A little sour when you let him lap you up? Tangy if he spread your pussy open with his tongue and fucked you with it?

“C’mon, Deano,” you’d said under the mistletoe. “This sweet skin aint gonna kiss itself.”

No, it would not, and, yep. Oh, god. He was gonna… Yeah… He was gonna fucking burst.

“Take it, baby,” he said, and his visual changed to you with your mouth wide open. A rim of eggnog ‘round your lips just to hit that sweet visual home.

You’d take it alright. You’d take every last drop, as did his hand and stomach.

There was no time for tissues or socks. Warmth bubbled in his still queasy gut and his pelvis went rigid. His own freckled skin, taking it all as he moaned your name.

That had to be a record time, but he didn’t fucking care up on cloud nine. His languid strokes drew more and more out of him until he was sure he was spent. Only little Dean didn’t go down as expected. Not even slight.

Nope. Dean even rested his wrist, but nothing was changing. There was no refractory period whatsoever. His dick, still straining in his hands, was hard, stiff and throbbing. And those pulses? Yeah, they still hadn’t stopped, either. No. His balls remained tight.

Of course, Dean saw it as a blessing. He still had it, and you… heh… you were kinda hot.

He looked down at the mess and back at the mag, then back to his dick. May as well go again, right? Take his time, ‘cause he did deserve it.

There was just one problem he hadn’t realised yet, and by the end of the night, less than a few hours really, you all would.

You see, you were also wired. And if you couldn’t get to sleep before, you certainly couldn’t get to sleep now.

Not only was your head running through that peck and Dean’s last words to you over eggnog, but your stomach churned and the same, overthinking made it pound.

You and Dean? You and Dean? Fuck no, it’d never happen, but the pounding still didn’t let up.

Your skin felt clammy, too. You’d say you had a fever, but touching the back of your hand to your forehead was no different from placing it anywhere else on your body. So, maybe you weren’t sick, but getting there?

Had… had Mrs Butters given you food poisoning? The cookies? The ham? The cheese-covered cauliflower?

It was all plausible, and you were up outta bed again for the second time that night because lying there, tossing and turning, wasn’t helping. Neither had the eggnog.

Only difference was, last time you walked free and steady. This time you stumbled, tumbled and fell more than once.

Through the halls, past Dean’s room, your hands fumbled over the tiles on the walls. It was a surprise no one woke up to the sound of your distress. The aches. The pangs. They were spreading all over, causing you to groan and gripe.

You’d say you were getting your period. Had it not been for it coming and going two weeks ago, though maybe it was ovulation cramps? That was a thing, right?

Whatever it was, you needed aspirin. Or a hysterectomy, stat. But with only the former available to you, that’s what you sought, and you somehow found your way towards the infirmary. The smoke from a train still running in the war room, making you even more nauseous as you passed by it.

Oh god.

The pain.

You. Were. Going. To. Die.

But so was Dean a short while later, by Sam’s hands, no less, having been called out to, twice. God. Sam was not in the mood for his crap.

No. His jaw tightened, but he held back the sigh that wanted to escape him as his brother’s voice thundered out his name once again.

“Sammy!”

What the hell had he done now? He sounded… pained? Panicked? The last time he’d called out like that, Kevin had been trying to communicate with them from beyond the veil, so Sam presumed it was urgent. At least it better be.

He turned back to his computer screen open on his bed and signed, “I’m sorry,” to Eileen’s confused face. “Can I call you back?” His hands added ‘jerk’ to the mix, and pointed to the door, knowing she’d get a kick out of it.

She giggled in that way that had her nose scrunching up, and Sam’s heart raced. All he could give her in return was an apologetic smile, and another, “Sorry.” This better be quick, he thought.

“No problem,” she said. “Don’t be long.” And with that, she waved and signed off.

Sam stood up, taking his time. There’d been no gunshots or screaming from anyone else, so it wasn’t a life or death situation. Yet. Just needed investigating.

Of course, Dean couldn’t come to him. Never in a million years. It was always Sam making the middle ground like now.

He traipsed the far-enough-distance down the hall to Dean’s room, where he found the door locked. Great. The least he could’ve done was open the damn door.

“Dean?” He knocked, not bothering with being quiet, though he was rather surprised the rest of you weren’t up now, too. How could you not hear his brother’s cries? Your door was only three down. He’d think you’d have been the first to arrive, and he took a step back to check. Yours was open?

Weird.

“Sammy?” Dean finally said, followed by shuffling, ruffling, and footsteps that stopped shy of the crack below the doorframe. “That you?”

“Who else would it be?” he asked.

Silence sounded back.

“Are you going to let me in or not?” He jiggled the handle, but a force from the other side made him stop.

“Okay, okay,” Dean said with a defeated tone and a huff, clicking the door open by only a crack.

Having had enough of his antics, Sam pushed it aside and marched in. He scanned the room the second he had, finding Dean and his purple nightgown with ease.

It was hard not to miss.

As was his one-eyed-snake, reddened and sticking out from under it.

“Dude.” He… He… “Would you put that thing away?”

Thank Chuck, Dean listened to that instruction. It was bad enough seeing it before in the kitchen, not hard. This was… This was… “What the hell do you want me for?” And what was he supposed to tell Eileen?

“It’s stuck.”

It… “What do you mean it’s stuck? Just beat it out and go to sleep.”

“You don’t think I tried that already?” Dean said. “I’ve jacked off three times, man.” He raised his fingers in the air. “It won’t go down.”

“Okay. That-that-that is way too much information.” They were brothers, they knew the drill. Knew all about what happened behind closed doors, but you didn’t talk about it. Not a word… unless you were Dean, and you got yourself into something like this. Whatever this was.

“Did you take something?” Sam dared to ask.

“No!”

To which he glared, and Dean grinned.

“Well. Not this time.”

And Sam drew his hand down over his nose and chin, trying to adjust. Why was he always the one cleaning up Dean’s mess? Even just thinking about it like that had him shuddering.

He could see how Dean was upset, though. He had some empathy if he really hadn’t done or taken anything because three times and still being up would probably be painful.

But, “What’re we gonna do?” Dean asked. His hands were now on his thighs in a weird-ass brace. At least the tent was outta sight.

“We? Dean, this is your problem.”

Except it wasn’t only him.

No matter the position you sat or stood in on the infirmary floor, the ache between your legs would not yield. It weighed your whole body down like a heavy period might, only there was no blood. Just wet upon wet that’d soaked through your pyjama bottoms.

Mrs Butters’ housecoat was looking mighty fine right now.

The satin finish with dainty embroidered flowers would cover the stain on your ass, assuming you could even make it back to your room without toppling over again.

The aspirin hadn’t kicked in yet, and your legs were like jelly. The pain, excruciating.

Pins and needles had travelled the back of your calves, and up your thighs to settle in your core and your wet, wet heat. It continued to throb in time to the pounding in your head, and it wouldn’t die down.

You were hot, burning up really. You were buzzing, and you were horny. It just took a minute for you to figure out what your body had been trying to tell you. You’d even tried to assist by flicking the bean.

But then Dean had gone and yelled out to Sam and you’d removed your fingers from your panties quick smart on the off chance one of them came upon you.

It was agony. Pure agony.

Just when you thought you’d get some sleep, this shit had all gone down.

You needed to get off, but you were also desperate for the guys to find you ‘cause something wasn’t right here. Dean’s timbre was doing things to you, and Chuck, a part of you, hoped it would be him that did the finding.

His thick fingers could work wonders. Other parts, more so. And after that kiss earlier, those lips of his were welcome on any piece of skin of yours, inside and out.

“Oh. shit.” More heat gushed out of you, if that were even possible, and your legs clenched together on instinct. It felt way too damn good, and you did it again. And again.

Your ass cheeks were working the aerobic commercial circuit. One squeeze, two. Clench, release. Tighten, relax. Hips gyrated too, and oh fuck. Just a little more.

Screw the guys. Your middle finger was pushing back under the elastic as you spread your legs and got comfortable on the tiled floor like some bitch in heat.

Of course, that’s when Sam found you, and he wasn’t pleased.

You weren’t either.

“Not you, too?” he said, and you just stared back. You should’ve been ashamed… but you weren’t.

First Dean and now you? What the hell was going on and would Sam catch it? Yeah, he didn’t want to explain this to Eilleen.

Something was definitely up, besides Dean’s hard on, and you were no better. Wriggling in his arms, squeezing your thighs together like that.

Nope. Nope. He wasn’t going there.

“Would you stop fidgeting? I’m going to drop you,” he said, gripping you tighter. Though why he’d picked you up was still questionable. You weren’t running away. Quite the opposite, actually, and he needed to be careful. There was no way he was going down that road. Least not with you.

But then you said, “It hurts Sam,” and he had to hold back asking where.

So, the walk back to Dean was awkward, but nothing he’d seen could prepare Sam for what lay ahead.

Seeing his brother’s junk twice was one thing.

Seeing him flogging it was another.

And feeling you squirm and then moan in his arms at the sight? Yeah. That was a whole other level of whack, and Sam wanted to call it quits. Now.

Yes. Something was up all right, though you could no longer see the tent in Dean’s nightgown from where you sat.

The library chair was worse than the ground. At least you’d had some wiggle room there. With only so much space to twist your hips in search of friction and your hands and torso tied up, there wasn’t much going for you on the wooden seat.

You should’ve considered yourself lucky Sam had used a scarf on you, whereas Dean had gotten the rope treatment.

“Why am I tied up when Dean is as well?” you asked, staring at the man in question from across the table. The coil inside wound so tight, you were about fit to burst.

He looked better than you remembered. Pure sex on a stick. Those lips were the perfect weapon to counter your needy cunt, and he was looking at you just as wanton.

Okay. Hold up. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” You were a woman who had needs, but this was beyond ridiculous. No one was this… horny.

“You’re looking mighty fine from over here, darlin’.” Dean winked, and it sent tingles to your bits.

No one but Dean, god dammit.

You pressed your thighs together as if your life depended on it. Heaved your chest out like an old-timey harlequin and pushed your pelvis into the chair.

Oh.

Mm-hmm. Mrs Butters would not approve of this, but Dean sure did.

“Would you stop that!”

“But it hurts, Sam.” You elongated his name as far as was possible. The whine you could produce when you wanted to, grating, even to you.

“Yeah, well… I got nothing,” he said, closing the fourth textbook he’d read so far, and scanning the shelves for another. “Something must’ve happened after I left ‘cause you’re the only ones affected. What did you do after Die Hard?”

You grinned at that. Dean did, too, though he had more of a smouldering smirk going on.

“It’s not a Christmas movie!” Sam said, but you both ignored him.

Your tongue swiped over your lower lip. Teeth grabbed it once it had to bite down. Hard. Dean’s jaw had tightened and his shoulders flinched, rippling the bone and muscle under his nightdress that spread taut across his chest. Tighter on account of his arms and the rope. Yes, Dean could rock just about anything. Would probably pick up, even at a bar wearing that thing, if he so dared. The purple brought out his eyes, and when yours met his, they widened as you remembered the last time you’d really looked at them.

“You know how you’re always going with your gut?” you’d said then, and, “Mrs Butters,” you said now.

The eggnog.

You knew it tasted funny, and as far as you were aware, only you and Dean had drunk it. But no. No, no. Maybe it was the mistletoe? You’d both kissed under that, too, and thank Chuck. Dean was also coming to your conclusion.

His head tilted and his face grew pained as he went through the motions. “Dammit. Guess we can’t keep her now.” He pouted, and Sam’s face lit up in delight.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

Next Up

Your white knuckles and sweaty palms held on too tight to the arms of the chair. Damn. That Pink song knew a thing or two, even if the lyrics and your body had differing opinions.

You didn’t want Dean to blow you one last kiss, though. No. Oh no. You’d settle for blowing him, or better yet, him blowing his warm breath over you because everything was on fire. The depths of your panties, the worst. The stiff wood under your ass and your pyjama shorts weren’t doing nothing for you. Neither were your knees rubbing together.

“Would you quit it?” Dean growled, and the echo went straight there.

A shiver. A trickle. A shock? Whatever it was, your cooch clenched tight to trap it and you had to stifle the moan you almost couldn’t.

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