taraschof

[taraschof]

[taraschof]

Lessons in obedience

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader 📖Word count: ~4500 ‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, power imbalance (age, experience), age gap (22/late thirties), sexual tension, mutual pining, teasing, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, oral (m receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, manhandling, soft dom, hair pulling, aftercare.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: You're young and fearless; he's older and guarded. When you start pushing his boundaries in the bunker, your age difference suddenly feels less important than the heat between you.

Rain taps steadily on the roof of the bunker, a soft, relentless percussion that fills the quiet space like a lullaby laced with tension. Thunder grumbles somewhere far off, low and patient, as though even the storm is holding its breath.

You're curled up on the bed in Dean's room like a bored cat, legs tucked under you, wearing nothing but an oversized flannel that's definitely not yours and a pair of thigh-high socks that definitely weren't meant to be subtle. An old lore book rests in your lap, its cracked spine and dog-eared pages untouched for the better part of an hour. You're not reading it. You never were.

You've been alone all day. Again.

And then—finally—the sound of the bunker door groaning open breaks the silence. Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor, growing louder, rougher, more familiar with every second.

Dean walks in like a storm in a body.

He's soaked to the bone, rainwater dripping from the hem of his flannel and trailing down his jeans. His boots are caked with mud, one knee of his denim torn wide open, a smear of blood darkening the fabric. His jaw is lined with scruff and tight with tension, his knuckles scraped raw and dark. He looks like a man who's been through hell—and somehow came out of it even hotter.

And God, that scowl. You could bottle that and sell it as a kink.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't even look at you.

But you look at him. Oh, you drink him in shamelessly. He's furious, worn, beautiful. That flannel is clinging to his shoulders like it was made to stretch across that body, damp and heavy and outlining every flex of muscle beneath. His presence fills the room before his gaze ever touches you.

You know that look. You've seen it before. The tension in his shoulders. The hard set of his jaw. The storm behind his eyes. But there's something new tonight. Something hot and hungry, simmering just beneath the surface.

And you? You know exactly how to stir it.

"Welcome back, sir," you say sweetly, just loud enough to cut through the hum of the rain. You don't look up from the book. Just offer a lazy little smile and a wink.

You hear the stillness, feel the shift. His eyes snap to you, sharp and wary. That word again. Sir.

You've been using it for weeks—always with that infuriating little smirk, always like a joke. And every single time, you see it flicker across his face: heat, buried deep, before he shoves it down like something shameful.

His eyes rake over you—those long legs tucked up on his bed, those socks, that shirt, his shirt. The book you're not reading.

And then, finally, he speaks. Rough. Dry. Almost bored, but not quite.

"Gonna tell me why you're in my room again?"

"Hmm." Your voice is honey and mischief. "Would you believe me if I said I got lost on the way to the library?"

You glance up then, just long enough to meet his eyes—long enough to let him see the spark behind yours.

"Swear this place is a maze when you're not around to guide me."

He grunts. Doesn't respond. Just kicks off his boots with more force than necessary and peels off the wet flannel, leaving him in a clingy black tee that does absolutely nothing to hide the shape of him. He tosses the shirt onto a chair and stalks over to the mini-fridge.

Beer. Of course.

He's trying to be normal. To keep it together. To not look at you.

It's adorable, really.

You stretch—long and slow—arms over your head, spine arching, just enough to make the hem of the shirt (his shirt) slide up your thighs. Just enough to catch the corner of his eye.

"I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me," you murmur, flipping a page like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. "You know, if you're gonna keep leaving me all alone in this place, the least you could do is leave me a toy or two."

He stills, beer halfway to his lips. His jaw flexes.

Your grin sharpens. "I didn't say what kind of toy."

He slams the bottle down harder than necessary, the sound loud in the quiet room.

You glance up at him, all wide eyes and mock-innocence. "Long hunt? Need my help to take the edge off, sir?"

Dean's gaze drags down your body—slow, deliberate, lingering on bare thigh and slouched posture, the suggestion of skin beneath fabric that belongs to him. You're draped across his bed like a reward he hasn't decided if he's allowed to touch. But you're here. Young, shameless, teasing.

And so damn patient.

You know exactly what you're doing.

You see the crack in him. The shift. The coil of restraint inside him beginning to fray.

"You think this is a game?" he asks, stepping closer. His voice is low. Dangerous.

You blink up at him, head tilted just slightly. "What if it is? You gonna play with me, sir?"

He stops in front of the bed, close enough to touch, towering over you. The air between you thickens, electric, charged with sexual tension that's been building ever since the two of you met.

"You keep calling me that," he says, voice sharp with warning. "Like you want me to put you in your place."

Your lips part—just slightly. Just enough. "Maybe I do."

He's breathing harder. That rigid self-control he wears like armor? It's cracking. And you love it. You live for it.

You then proceed to say the one thing that'll tear it all down.

"C'mon, sir," you whisper. "What are you afraid of? That I won't be able to take it?"

He surges forward before you can blink, one large hand closing around your jaw—not rough, but commanding. Solid. The kind of grip that reminds you how much stronger he is. How much older.

How much he could ruin you if he wanted.

His fingers are warm, calloused, and the pressure is firm as he tilts your chin up to meet his eyes. They're blazing. Dark green and sharp with heat and something more dangerous, barely leashed.

"You have no fuckin' clue what you're asking for, sweetheart," he growls, voice low and gravel-edged. That end-of-the-day rasp that does something dark and delicious to your insides.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and shameless. "Oh, I know exactly what I want."

Your smile deepens, slow and knowing, eyes flickering down to his mouth before snapping back up like a silent dare.

His breath hitches, jaw tightening as his eyes darken, the flicker of restraint warring with something fiercer beneath the surface.

A heartbeat passes. Just one.

Then his mouth is on yours—hot, demanding, all tongue and teeth.

His lips crash into yours, parting them instantly. His tongue pushes past, sliding deep, tasting you like he's starving. It's wet and messy, his breath hot against your cheek as he takes as much as he gives.

You meet him without hesitation—tongue pushing back, mouths open, slick and frantic. His teeth catch your lower lip, making you gasp. He groans into it, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your mouth.

Your tongues slide together, fast and hungry, breath coming in sharp little bursts between kisses. His hand tightens in your hair. He tilts your head just so, and kisses you deeper, slower now, but still just as hard—his tongue sweeping the roof of your mouth, pulling another moan from your throat.

You taste beer. And most importantly him.

You whimper into the kiss, hips lifting off the bed involuntarily, and he groans—a deep, broken sound—as he tears away just enough to rasp:

"That fuckin' mouth. You never shut up, do you?"

You smile against his lips, breathless. "You gonna make me, Daddy?"

His hand tightens in your hair instantly. That word always hits different. You feel the shift the moment it leaves your mouth—like something snaps loose inside him.

His gaze drops to your lips, then lower. "On your knees."

You don't hesitate. You drop fast—obedient and eager, grinning victoriously—the carpet biting at your bare knees, but you barely feel it.

You look up at him, wide-eyed, breath coming fast. Your thighs are already pressed tight, slick and throbbing from the heat burning off of him.

Dean stares down at you like he's never seen anything more sinful. His chest rises and falls under his tee, breath heavy as he slowly, deliberately unbuckles his belt. You hear the soft clink of metal, the sound loud in the quiet room.

You swallow hard. A tight, involuntary thing—like your body's bracing for what it already knows is coming.

You shift on your knees, slow and subtle, trying to ease the pressure building between your legs—but it doesn't help. It only makes you more aware of it. The throb. The heat. The wetness. The sharp edge of wanting.

You feel it everywhere now—under your skin, in your chest, between your thighs. The ache. The tension. The helpless, full-body need.

This is real. No more games. It's happening.

Finally.

"You've been driving me insane," he mutters, mostly to himself. "Wearing my shirts. Teasing me. Walkin' around like you don't know what that does to a man."

You tilt your head, feigning innocence with a flutter of your lashes. "You're the one who keeps leaving them out. I thought you wanted me in them."

He exhales through his nose, like he's trying not to lose it. "You're twenty-fuckin'-two," he mutters.

You grin, slow and wicked. "And you're what—pushing forty? That makes this even hotter."

He groans, undoing his fly, dragging down the zipper with exaggerated patience.

"Are you sure you're not going to regret this?" he asks, voice low and rough. "Because of the age difference. I'm not sure you want someone that much older."

You meet his gaze without hesitation, a slow smile tugging at your lips. "I know exactly what I want," you say, voice steady and sure. "And it's you. Age doesn't scare me. Hell, I like it. So don't worry��I won't regret a thing."

His eyes flash, all doubt gone, and he strokes himself once—slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on yours.

"Open up, sweetheart," he orders, voice thick with heat and command. "Let's see if that bratty little mouth's good for more than mouthing off."

You part your lips as soon as the words leave his mouth, tongue flicking out like a promise.

Dean stares down at you, chest rising and falling, his fingers tightening in your hair. He's barely keeping it together—and you love watching it happen.

"That's it," he mutters, guiding the head of his cock to your mouth. "Let me see those lips wrapped around me."

You close them around him slowly, deliberately. Just the tip, tongue swirling over the sensitive underside. His breath shudders out of him like he wasn't ready for how good that would feel.

"Good girl. God, you're such a good girl," he groans.

You hum in response, sending vibrations through him, and his hips twitch forward instinctively.

You open wider, easing down farther, lips stretching as you slide more of him in. He's thick, heavy on your tongue, and you can feel every ridge, every vein pulsing against the soft heat of your mouth. It's overwhelming—and addictive.

Dean keeps one hand in your hair, the other braced on the wall behind you, muscles taut, eyes burning down into yours like he's trying to memorize the sight.

"Goddamn," he whispers, voice breaking. "Look at you. Fuckin' perfect."

You keep your gaze locked on his, cheeks hollowing as you start to move—slow and steady, working him with practiced, teasing strokes. You let him slip free with a wet pop, licking from base to tip before taking him in again, deeper this time.

His jaw clenches. His hips roll forward, just slightly. Testing your limits.

And you take it. Every inch he gives, you swallow greedily, letting him feel the tight heat of your throat as he sinks deeper. When you gag, your eyes well up, but you don't stop. You grip his thighs for balance, and moan low in your throat.

"Shit," he hisses, head falling back for a second. His voice is ragged. "You like this, don't you? You fuckin' love it."

You nod as best you can, his cock stretching your lips, spit beginning to drip down your chin. You pull back to breathe, gasping through swollen lips, eyes glassy and slick with tears. But you're smiling.

"Love it when you lose control," you whisper, voice hoarse but full of wicked delight. "Bet you've been dreamin' about this every night."

He lets out a guttural sound—almost a growl—fisting your hair tighter.

"Don't talk with your mouth empty," he snaps. "Get back to work."

You take him in again, deeper this time. He guides you now, slowly rocking his hips forward, not harsh, but deliberate—filling your mouth over and over. His cock slides along your tongue, bumping the back of your throat as you fight the urge to pull away.

Your throat constricts, and he groans—deep and wrecked. "That's it, baby. Fuck—just like that. Gag on it. Show Daddy what that pretty mouth can do."

You moan around him, and it vibrates all the way up his spine. His thighs tense under your hands. He's close—you can feel it in the way his breath turns ragged, in the rough heat of his praise.

"Bet that tight little throat's gonna remember the shape of my cock tomorrow."

You suck harder in response, eyes fluttering closed. Sloppy now, wet and intense, your lips dragging over him again and again as spit slicks your chin, strings of it glistening in the low bunker light. You let him use your mouth—let him fuck into it slow and deep while you take it like it's your favorite thing in the world.

Because it is.

His hand tightens in your hair. His other thumb drags over your cheek, gentle in contrast to the way he's fucking your mouth.

"Look at me," he growls, voice full of strain.

You do—eyes wide, watery, eager.

"That's it," he breathes. "You wanted Daddy's attention, sweetheart? You've got all of it now."

You press your tongue flat, take him to the hilt—gagging hard—and he curses, dragging you back just enough to let you breathe.

Then his thumb traces your spit-slick lips again, voice thick with possessive heat.

"Get on the bed," he says, voice wrecked. "Before I lose my fuckin' mind."

Dean doesn't give you a second to catch your breath.

The moment you're on the bed, he's there—looming, dominant, hot with tension. His hands are on your hips before you can even blink, and in one fluid motion, he flips you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing. His palm finds the small of your back, pushing you down, guiding your chest into the mattress, and you go willingly—submissive, shaking, soaked.

Then he drags your hips up, slow and deliberate, until you're on your knees with your spine arched and your ass high in the air. The position is filthy—spread open, presenting for him—and you know exactly what he sees. You want him to see it. To fucking lose it.

"Stay just like that," he growls behind you, low and rough. "Don't move unless I say."

His voice alone sends a fresh pulse of heat through you. Your thighs tremble.

One hand grips the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you open while the other runs up the slope of your spine, slow and possessive, his fingers dragging goosebumps in their wake. You gasp, burying your face in the sheets, already dizzy with how on-edge your body feels.

He makes a sound low in his throat—somewhere between a groan and a growl—and then mutters, "Fuckin' hell. Look at you."

You feel the heat of his breath as he leans in, his words molten against your ear.

"I should've bent you over this bed the first time you mouthed off."

You whimper, grinding back into him on instinct, but he slaps your ass, sharp and sudden. You cry out, the sting blooming fast, but the heat that lingers beneath it makes your whole body tremble with want.

"Mouthy little brat," he snaps. "You've been beggin' for this. Teasin' me. Teasin' yourself. Now you're gonna take every inch and thank me for it."

The head of his cock nudges between your folds—hot, hard, slicked with your wetness. He doesn't push in yet, just slides it through the mess between your thighs, coating himself in your arousal. You hear his breath catch when he lines up again, pressing right against your entrance.

"You're fuckin' soaked," he groans. "Jesus, sweetheart... this little pussy's been aching for Daddy, hasn't it?"

"Yes," you whimper. "Please, please—"

And then he pushes forward.

You gasp, your spine arching, muscles tensing as he starts to fill you—inch by thick, impossible inch. He's slow with it at first, torturous, letting you feel every ridge, every stretch, your body pulling him in like you've been waiting for this moment forever.

"Oh my god—Dean—"

"Shhh," he grits out. "Just take it. Let me feel you."

He sinks in deep—so deep you see stars—until his hips are flush with yours and you're completely, devastatingly full. You clutch at the sheets, mouth open, breathless.

"Fuck, you're tight," he hisses, voice fraying at the edges. "Like this pussy was made for me."

You try to speak but can't. The stretch is delicious—perfectly overwhelming—and you can already feel yourself fluttering around him.

"You good, sweetheart?" His voice comes low, close, laced with concern even through the grit.

"Yes—yes, fuck, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Dean pulls out slowly, almost all the way, before slamming back in. The impact rocks your whole body forward. You scream into the mattress, fingers curling in the sheets, your thighs shaking already.

He sets a brutal rhythm—deep and fast, hips slapping against your ass, balls against your clit, skin to skin, sharp and loud. The sound is obscene. Your body jerks with every thrust, heat coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke.

One of his hands fists in your hair and yanks your head back, arching your back even more. His chest presses to your spine as he leans down and snarls:

"This what you wanted?" His voice is ragged, breath hot. "To get wrecked like the little tease you are?"

"Yes—yes, Daddy, just like that—please—"

He shifts his angle just slightly—and you sob. He finds that spot inside you, and hits it again. And again. And again.

He grabs your wrists next, pinning them behind your back in one strong hand, using the other to steady your hips. You're completely open, completely his, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

"So fuckin' good," he pants, voice guttural. "This tight little pussy—grippin' me like it never wants to let go."

Your cries are incoherent now. Your body trembles with every thrust. Sweat slicks your skin. Your vision swims.

"You've been drivin' me insane," he pants. "Little smirks. Wearin' my goddamn shirts. Callin' me sir like it's funny."

He thrusts harder. Deeper.

"You're not laughin' now, are you?"

You sob out a moan, body trembling, your orgasm building with every drag of him against that perfect spot inside you.

"Daddy—Daddy—I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, you are," he growls, voice low and rough. "You're gonna cum for me. Just like the good girl that you are. My good girl."

And that's all it takes.

Your orgasm detonates—violent, blinding, all-consuming. Your walls clamp down around him, your whole body convulsing as you scream into the sheets, barely able to breathe. You don't just cum—you break apart. Your muscles tremble. Your vision goes white. You go boneless in his grasp.

But Dean doesn't stop.

"Goddamn," he groans. "That's it. Squeeze my cock, baby. Fuck, that's so good. You're so good."

He groans—loud, wrecked—but holds back. Keeps fucking you through it, dragging it out, keeping you shaking.

"Shit," he grits out. "That's it. That's fuckin' it. You feel that? That's what happens when you tease me, sweetheart. Look how pretty you cum."

You whimper beneath him, legs twitching, overstimulated but still clenching around him with aftershocks.

Then—finally—he slows. He's still hard inside you, panting above you, one hand dragging gently up your spine. The change in his touch makes your chest ache.

He doesn't pull out. Doesn't let go. Just leans down and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your shoulder. His breath hits your ear as he whispers:

"I'm not done with you yet."

You smile into the sheets—wrecked, and ready for whatever he does next.

Dean pulls out slow, careful despite the wreckage he just left you in.

You collapse fully onto the mattress, cheek pressed against the sheets, limbs loose. Your body feels boneless—used in the best possible way—and the warm ache between your legs makes you shiver.

Then his hands are on you again. Big, calloused palms smoothing down your spine, over your hips, gentle now. He leans down, presses a kiss to your lower back.

"Flip over," he murmurs.

Your heart stutters. You obey.

He helps you gently, lifting you by the waist like you weigh nothing. When you're on your back, he settles between your thighs again, eyes sweeping down your body. You feel bare under his gaze, stripped of all your teasing, your bratty quips.

You've never seen him look at you like this—half-wild, half-reverent.

He strokes his cock, still hard, already slick from your body. When the head brushes your entrance again, you gasp.

"Dean—"

"Not done," he growls. "Not even close."

He pushes back inside slowly, stretching you all over again, and your head falls back against the pillow.

"Fuck," you whimper. "So deep..."

"Look at me," he orders, voice low.

You do.

Dean's eyes lock onto yours as he begins to move—deeper, slower this time. Every thrust feels deliberate. Measured. Like he's trying to carve himself into you.

"You feel that?" he murmurs. "How good you fit around me? Tightest fuckin' pussy I've ever had."

You moan, fingers digging into his shoulders. He grabs your legs and lifts them over his shoulders, folding you open, tilting your hips just right—and you shatter again.

"There we go," he breathes. "That's it. Let me take care of you, baby. Daddy's got you."

You reach up and cup his jaw. You're not even sure why—maybe to anchor yourself. Maybe to ground him. But his eyes flicker when you do.

He leans down, forehead pressing to yours.

"Is this what you needed all this time?" Dean growls and fucks into you harder.

"Yeah?" he pants when there's no other response apart from your moans. "You wanted this?"

"Yes, Daddy—fuck—yes—"

He braces one hand beside your head, the other slipping between your bodies again. His fingers find your clit—slick, throbbing—and he rubs tight circles, perfectly in rhythm with his thrusts.

"Come on, baby, give me one more," he commands, breath hot against your lips. "I want you to cum while you're looking at me."

Your whole body tightens.

"That's it," he whispers. "God, you're so fuckin' pretty like this. Give it to me."

You tremble beneath him, desperate and undone, every nerve on fire. Your breath hitches, eyes locked on his, raw and hungry.

"Dean," you gasp, voice barely more than a shiver. "I'm—fuck, I'm right here."

Your orgasm hits hard—blinding, overwhelming. Your walls clench tight around him, and he lets out a strangled curse before slamming in one last time, hips jerking.

You feel him cum—deep and hot—and his breath stutters against your cheek.

You stay like that for a minute. Locked together. Bodies slick with sweat. Chests heaving.

Then Dean slowly lowers your legs, kisses your ankle, your knee, your stomach. He slides out gently this time, fingers tracing the mess between your thighs like he's proud of it.

"Look at that," he murmurs. "So full of me. You took everything, sweetheart. Every fuckin' drop."

You whimper, dazed, and he leans up to kiss you—softer now. Slower. Tongue licking gently into your mouth, his hand cradling your jaw.

"I've got you," he whispers. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He disappears into the bathroom for a moment. You hear the faucet run, the soft clink of glass. When he returns, he's carrying a warm, damp cloth and a bottle of water.

You're still sprawled across the sheets, too blissed out to move. Your skin's flushed, marked in places where his hands held too tight, your thighs trembling with the aftershocks of everything he gave you.

"Hey," he says gently, climbing back onto the bed beside you. "Easy."

He nudges your legs open just enough to clean you up—slow, patient swipes of the cloth between your thighs, careful around your sore, swollen folds. He murmurs something when you twitch, but it's too soft to catch.

You look at him then.

Gone is the cocky, dominant version of Dean that took you apart like you were made for it. What's left is the man underneath—jaw tight, brows drawn, expression unreadable as he focuses on the task like it matters more than anything else.

When he's done, he tosses the cloth aside, then presses the bottle of water to your lips. "Drink."

You obey—lazy, pliant, and aching in the best way. He watches you gulp down half before taking it away and setting it aside.

Then, to your surprise, he gathers you into his arms.

No words. Just strong arms and warm skin and the steady thump of his heartbeat as he pulls you onto his chest like he needs you there.

You settle against him, cheek to his shoulder.

The silence stretches.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Rough. "You shouldn't've pushed me like that."

You smile against his skin. "But you liked it."

"Doesn't mean I should've touched you."

You stiffen a little. "Dean—"

"No, hey—" He tightens his grip. "I'm not sayin' I regret it. I just..." He sighs. Runs a hand down your back. "You're younger. And I've been tryin' real hard not to cross that line."

You pull back just enough to look up at him. "I wanted it as much as you did. Maybe some lines are meant to be crossed."

His jaw flexes. He swallows hard, eyes flickering away for a moment before locking back onto yours. "Maybe you're right." He breathes out, voice low

You blink. "Yeah?"

Dean looks down at you, and there's something raw in his eyes. Something vulnerable he doesn't usually let anyone see.

He cups your face in both hands, kisses you again—soft this time. Like he's saying it all without words.

When he pulls back, his thumb strokes over your cheek. "You wrecked me, sweetheart."

You smirk. "Guess I learned from the best."

He groans and buries his face in your neck. "You're lucky I like your smart mouth."

"I'm your favorite brat."

"No contest," he mutters.

You fall asleep in his arms, your body still humming from what he did to you, your heart full from the way he held you after.

Dividers by @easytiger-xo

[taraschof]

The Show Between Us part 3?? 🥺🥺🥺

The show between us - Pt. 3

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~2000

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, dirty talk, praise kink, mutual pining, sexual tension, oral (f receiving), fingering, orgasm, p in v sex, unprotected sex, motel-room setting, soft dom, manhandling, body worship.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: After days of simmering tension, one quiet night becomes the breaking point. Promises are kept, boundaries fall, and nothing between them is left unanswered.

It had been five days.

Four nights of falling asleep wrapped around each other — warm breath on skin, thighs brushing underneath the blankets, the pulse of want steady and ever-present beneath every innocent touch.

You didn't talk about it. Didn't need to. It was there — in the way Dean's fingers lingered too long on the small of your back, in the way you traced circles over his wrist while pretending to read lore. It was the pause before lights out. The silence just after. The heat between two people who'd made a promise.

And tonight?

Tonight was the match drop.

The case was done. Salt lines drawn. Weapons cleaned. The motel-room was quiet — the comfortable kind. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers on a closed manila folder in your lap, your bare feet brushing the carpet. The only light came from the cracked bathroom door — a slice of golden warmth that flickered against the dark.

The sound of the shower stopped.

A few seconds later, Dean stepped out — towel slung low around his hips, hair wet and messy, skin glistening in the warm light.

You looked.

Of course you did.

His chest was still damp, rivulets of water running down his freckled shoulders, the slope of his collarbones to the hard plane of his chest and stomach. His shoulders rolled as he moved, broad and slow, like he wasn't in a hurry for anything. Like he knew you were watching. Like this was part of it.

You dragged your eyes back up to his — and found him already staring.

He didn't speak right away. Just stood there, barefoot on motel tile, towel clutched loosely in one hand. His jaw was tight, his chest rising a little too fast, like he was holding something in.

Then, finally, his voice came low. Hoarse. "You remember what I said?"

You didn't need to ask what he meant. You looked up at him through your lashes. "About taking it whenever we want it next time?"

His jaw flexed. "Yeah. That."

Your thighs pressed together. Your mouth was suddenly dry. "And?"

Then he dropped the towel.

It hit the floor with a soft, damp thud.

Dean took a single step forward — naked, muscular, gorgeous in a way that wasn't even fair. His cock was already thick and semi-hard, hanging heavy between his thighs. Even soft, he was big — the kind of size that made promises without speaking. His skin glowed golden in the light, all lean muscle and quiet power.

Every part of him looked sculpted by function, not vanity — broad chest, strong thighs, arms roped with muscle from years of hunting. The kind of body that could ruin you and still hold you after.  He looked like want made flesh. Like something carved from need.

Your breath hitched, eyes tracing the sharp cut of his hips, the thick vein along the underside of his shaft, the water still clinging to the hollow of his throat.

He stopped just in front of you — close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. Dean reached down and touched your face — just two fingers at first. They traced the edge of your jaw, dragged down your neck. His thumb skimmed your bottom lip, slow and reverent, like he was committing it to memory.

"And I want it," he said. Then softer — almost like a confession — he added: "I want you."

Your mouth parted. Heat spread low in your belly.

"Then take me," you whispered, voice barely there. "What the hell are you waiting for, Winchester?"

And that was it.

That was the match drop.

You stood without looking away — slow, deliberate — rising until your chest brushed his, until your breath ghosted over his mouth. Your skin tingled just from the nearness. From the heat radiating off him in waves. He smelled like motel soap and steam, like skin warmed by water — clean, raw and masculine.

Dean didn't touch you at first.

He just stood there, naked and still, letting you take him in. His chest rose and fell a little too fast, the muscle flexing just under his freckled skin. His lips were parted, his jaw tight, and his cock hung thick and flushed between his thighs, already twitching in anticipation.

You reached up slowly, fingers brushing his chest — the slope of his shoulder, the edge of a fading bruise, the scar above his heart you'd only ever seen through torn shirts and half-glimpses. You ran your hands down, mapping every inch, like he was something holy. Something earned.

Dean's breath hitched. His hands came to your hips — not pulling yet, just there — heavy, grounding.

And then you shifted to your toes, bridging the height difference between you and kissed him.

No hesitation.

The moment your lips met, it was like setting a live wire to dry grass. Weeks of tension went up in flame. Dean groaned low in his throat, grabbed you hard, and kissed you like he needed it to breathe — tongue deep tangling with your own, lips bruising, hands roaming fast.

You were already tugging his hair, clawing at his shoulders, when he finally backed you toward the bed, walking you back without breaking the kiss. His palm slid under your shirt — over your ribs, up to your breast — and he groaned when he felt the stiff peak of your nipple through the thin fabric of your lacy bra.

"Fuck, baby..." he rasped, voice shredded. "I've been dreamin' of this. You. All of you."

Clothes came off in a blur. Shirt, panties, everything else — pushed up, dragged down, discarded on the floor. But it never felt rushed. Every exposed inch got a moment. His hands mapped your body with reverence. His mouth dragged slow over your skin — collarbone, sternum, breasts and nipples, down your belly, the inside of your thigh and just above your pussy. Worshipful.

When he finally knelt between your legs and looked at you — bare, flushed, dripping for him — something in his expression shifted. His eyes darkened even more, the green irises disappearing almost completely.

"Jesus," he muttered, fingers spreading your lips open, slow. "Look at this pretty pussy. All wet and needy."

Your hips jerked when he touched you — two fingers gliding through your slick folds, teasing your clit, then dipping down to gather more. He groaned at the feel of it — at the way you whimpered just from the lightest pressure.

Dean smirked — dark, cocky, undone — and grabbed your thigh, pushing it wide.

He leaned in and kissed the crease where your thigh met your hip — slow, deliberate. Then again. And again. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your inner thighs, watching every twitch, every gasp.

When he finally licked you — one broad, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit — your entire body jerked. You cried out, already trembling, and he moaned against you like he was tasting the divine.

"Mmm, baby," he growled. "You taste so fuckin' good. Such a sweet little pussy."

And then he dived in — teasing you with his tongue and lips until your thighs shook around his shoulders. He sucked your clit into his mouth and rolled it gently, then harder, then again, until you were nearly sobbing. His fingers joined in — two of them pumping inside you slow, curling just right against that spongy texture inside of you — and when your hand flew to the back of his head, he groaned against your cunt like it spurred him on.

You came like that — hips bucking, mouth open, back arching off the bed as you sobbed his name. He didn't stop until you were twitching, too sensitive, begging.

Only then did he rise — slow and sure — wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, pupils blown wide.

He leaned closer and gave you a slow kiss. His eyes boring into yours as he pulled back an inch and whispered, "You want it?"

He was rock hard now. You reached for him — wrapped your hand around his cock, thick and ready in your palm, already leaking from the tip. "I want you, Dean. I want to finally feel you inside me."

Dean hissed through his teeth when you gave him one firm stroke. "Fuck," he hissed. "Lay back. I'm going to fuck you so good, just like you deserve."

You obeyed.

He climbed over you like something feral — muscles tense, eyes locked on yours. He held himself over you with one arm, the other hand guiding his cock down, dragging it through your folds again, teasing your clit just enough to make your legs shake.

"Look at me. Eyes on me, baby," he said, low. "Don't look away."

Then he pushed in.

One slow, claiming thrust.

Your mouth dropped open, a strangled sound leaving your throat as he filled you — thick and deep and so perfect it felt like your body molded around him. Dean groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, breath catching.

"God, you feel like a dream," he groaned, voice raw right in your ear. "Tight... warm... fuck, I could die right here."

You whimpered — overwhelmed already — fingers clutching his shoulders. He didn't move right away. He stayed still, buried to the hilt, just breathing — like if he moved too fast, he'd lose it. One hand pushing down on your stomach, right over where he was filling you. His thumb stroked your skin, gentle.

"Feel me, baby?" he asked, voice softer now, awed.

You nodded, biting your lip. "So big, Dean. You're so—big."

Then he started to move — long, deep, deliberate thrusts that made your whole body rock into the mattress. His pelvis hit your clit every time he bottomed out, sending sparks of pleasure straight up your spine.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist. Your hands tangled in his hair. His mouth found your throat, then your collarbone, then your breast, tongue flicking your nipple before sucking it hard enough to make you cry out. His hand gripped your thigh and kept it in place around his waist.

"That's it," he panted, lips parted, eyes dazed and heavy-lidded. "Let me hear you. I want to hear how good I'm making you feel."

You did. You couldn't be quiet.

"Dean," you whimpered. "Oh my god—"

Every thrust pushed something helpless out of you — soft moans, broken gasps, little prayers to god, whimpers and other sounds you couldn't even name.

When he angled his hips, hitting that spot so deliciously deep inside you, you arched under him and clawed his back.

"Dean—fuck—right there—"

"I know, baby," he grunted, sweat beginning to form on his forehead. "I feel you clenching—God, you're so fuckin' tight when you're close."

He kissed you again — rough and messy, tongue claiming your mouth while his hips snapped forward, dick claiming your pussy. The slap of skin filled the room, along with the wet, obscene sound of him fucking into you.

His hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. You arched under him, head tipping back and eyes closing.

"Shit—fuck—don't stop—"

"I'm not," he growled, biting your shoulder. "Not until you cum on this cock."

You spiraled fast. Your climax hit like a tremor — a long, rolling quake that made you shake around him, sobbing his name into his mouth. Dean didn't stop. He slowed just enough to really feel it — to ride your spasms and milk every second of your orgasm.

But he wasn't finished.

He pulled out slowly, gently — and you whimpered at the loss — only to flip you with those strong, steady hands.

"Turn over," he rasped, kissing your shoulder gently. "On your knees. Gotta see this ass bounce when I fuck you."

You obeyed — shakily — hands bracing against the headboard. When Dean knelt behind you and spread you open with both hands, he moaned like he'd been punched.

"Fucking perfect," he muttered. "So pretty. So wet. All for me."

He didn't tease this time. He lined himself up and thrust in hard — one smooth stroke that knocked the breath out of your lungs. His hands gripped your hips like handlebars, and his pace went brutal fast.

You cried out, hips pushing back instinctively, desperate for more—more depth, more pounding, more of that delicious pressure only his cock could give from this angle.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it. You look so good taking my dick from behind. That bounce... so fucking perfect. Makes me want to fuck you harder, faster."

"Yes—fuck, yes—Dean—"

His cock dragged over your sweet spot perfectly with every thrust, hand slid around your waist — fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles — and your whole body went rigid.

"God, Dean—I'm gonna cum again, fuck—"

"That's it, baby. Cum for me. Let me feel you squeeze my cock one more time."

You shattered — loud, helpless, writhing under him as your climax ripped through you. Your cunt clenched hard around him, and he groaned deep in his chest.

"Shit, shit, fuck—" Dean cursed, pulled out just enough to slam back in one final time, and then he lost it. He spilled deep, groaning your name like it was a vow. His whole body tensed behind you — cock twitching, hips stuttering — and you felt every pulse of heat inside you. He collapsed forward, chest against your back, breath heavy in your ear.

Neither of you moved for a while, just catching your breaths and panting against one another, riding out the remnants of pleasure.

Eventually, Dean pulled out slow — careful — and dropped beside you, pulling your spent body into his arms.

You were both slick, sticky, flushed and open and exhausted.

But smiling.

Dean brushed your hair back from your face, kissed your temple.

"God, I'm glad you caught me jerking off that night," he said, voice rough but sure, laced with humor.

"Me too," you echoed with a breathless chuckle, curled into his side.

This time, when you fell asleep — bodies bare, souls laid open — it was exactly as it was meant to be.

Only you and him.

Dividers by @easytiger-xo🩵

I hope you enjoyed it! I love how this turned into a mini-series. 🤭🩵

[taraschof]

Do you have anything in the works currently? I love your posts❤️

Hey! Thank you very much! I’m so glad you’re enjoying them. And, yes, I do!🩵

- I’ve got a Dean fluff in the works (almost finished).

- I’m also working on The show between us - Part 3 that was requested.

- And finally, I’m nearly done with chapter 6 of my fic Whispers off the spiral. Which reminds me that I still haven’t moved it to Tumblr (lol, I suck at this 😭). You can read it on Wattpad and AO3 if you’re interested though!

[taraschof]

Behind the dive

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~3000

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, semi-public sex, rough sex, wall sex, choking (light), degradation (verbal, light), praise kink, dirty talk, jealousy, mild possessiveness, dom!Dean, manhandling, p in v sex, unprotected sex, aftercare.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: One teasing dance was all it took. Now the alley's quiet, the bar's still thumping—and Dean's making sure you learn what happens when you push him too far.

The bar was already hot and loud when you walked in with Dean. A greasy little biker dive off a forgotten Alabama highway, thick with cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey, ceiling fans barely moving the air. The scent of sweat, beer, and testosterone clung to everything — the leather booths, the sticky floors, your skin.

You still smelled faintly of motel soap and the clean cotton of worn denim — fresh from a quick rinse and a change of clothes, skin still warm from the shower's heat. A touch of perfume lingered at your pulse points, soft and subtle, just enough to draw him in if he got close enough.

But Dean?

Dean smelled like trouble and want — leather worn soft from years of use, a hint of motor oil, and that intoxicating mix of sweat and aftershave that hit you low in the gut. His scent was thick and masculine, heady like whiskey and fire, and it wrapped around you the moment he stepped too close — curling between your legs and lighting your blood on fire.

Dean Winchester was sex, bottled and walking, wrapped in scowl and swagger. And tonight, he looked criminally good.

His faded jeans rode low on his hips, hugging his strong thighs like sin, a white tee clinging to his chest beneath that goddamn leather jacket, outlining every hard muscle beneath. The sleeves pushed up just enough to expose those strong forearms, the kind that could pin you down without even trying — thick, corded with veins. Boots scuffed from years on the road and countless hunts.

But it was his eyes that cut through everything. Those green eyes — hungry, sharp, locked on you like a goddamn weapon.

Tonight, you danced just to provoke him.

The jukebox crackled out classic rock — Zeppelin, maybe — as you slid your body across the floor. Not grinding on anyone, not really. Just moving. Letting the heat soak into your skin. The sweat bead at the back of your neck. Letting your hips roll just slow enough to make a statement. You could feel every eye flick to you, but especially Dean's.

You danced just to provoke him — partly because you were horny, and partly because of that thing he said in the car. One hand on the wheel, that smug little smirk tugging at his mouth when he'd muttered, "You always come back for it eventually." Like it was nothing. Like you were the one chasing him. Like he wasn't the one who'd showed up at your door at 2 a.m. last week, hard and half-drunk, begging to take the edge off.

So yeah, maybe you were feeling bold. Maybe you wanted to remind him who could make who sweat.

This wasn't about love — it never was. You and Dean fucked sometimes. Simple as that. When the tension got too high, when the job was done, when the room was too quiet and you didn't want to think. No strings, no promises. Just hands, heat, and the kind of chemistry that didn't ask questions.

Tonight, you wanted that again. You wanted him watching you — jaw tight, fists clenched, trying not to give you the satisfaction. You weren't just teasing. You were lighting the fuse.

Let him burn.

And so far, it was working. Dean watched you from across the bar like a predator watching his prey. Jaw clenched, knuckles white around his glass of whiskey. His tongue darted across his bottom lip once — the subtle sign that he was losing it.

And then you bent over the pool table. Just enough to flash a bare thigh, the hem of your skirt hitching up teasingly. Just enough to snap him.

You were already close to breaking him, when something you couldn't predict happened, escalating the situation in an instant. Behind you, a guy — some leather-vested wannabe biker with cheap cologne and a reckless grin — leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your neck. He didn't touch, but it didn't matter. The message and intention was clear, and the tension snapped tight.

That was the last straw for him.

Dean stood so fast his chair screeched against the bar floor. Set his whiskey glass on the table harder than necessary, eyes locked on you with fury. And then he was moving — fast — through the smoke and sound, crossing the bar to you with determination.

He didn't say a word. Just grabbed your wrist, rough but not painful, and pulled you through the crowd like he was on a mission.

Past the jukebox.

Past the bar's back hallway.

He slammed the metal door open so hard it bounced off the frame with a clang, and lead you into the alley behind the building.

The air outside was humid, thick with the smell of rain on hot pavement, motor oil, and something sharp — like the moment before a storm. You stumbled a step before Dean had you pinned against the wall — his chest pressed hot and heavy against your back.

One hand tangled in your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a possessive grip. The other sliding boldly up your bare thigh, fingers greedy and hungry. His body heat poured into you like a fire, spreading fast.

"You wanna act like that in front of me?" he growled, voice low and thick, vibrating through your spine. "Grind on strangers like a little tease?"

You gasped, nails digging into the rough brick instinctively. In one swift motion, Dean turned you around to face him. Your back hit the wall, chest rising and falling fast in shallow breaths that had nothing to do with being afraid, and everything to do with the thrill and excitement. Dean stepped between your legs, knee pressing up, forcing you open. The rough denim of his jeans scraped your inner thighs, heat radiating from the hard line of his body.

"You think I'm gonna let that shit slide?" he hissed against your ear, hot breath skimming your neck, sending a trail of goosebumps down your spine. "Nah, sweetheart. You don't get to walk around shaking that ass and not pay for it."

He was bigger than you — stronger — but it was never fear that he evoked in you. It was raw control, the kind that made your pulse spike, your thighs tremble and your core slick with anticipation. You could feel the hard length of him, pressed tight against your thigh, restrained only by a zipper of his pants and his dangerously thin patience.

Then his hand slipped beneath the edge of your skirt.

Fingertips rough, tracing slow, tantalizing circles up your thigh until they brushed the damp fabric of your panties, already soaked through.

Dean chuckled low and dark, a sound that sent a fresh jolt of heat flooding your core. "God damn, look at this. You love this, don't you? Acting like a brat, knowing I'll drag you out here and remind you who you belong to."

You gasped again, this time louder, as he pressed two fingers firmly against you through the thin fabric. Your hips moved on instinct — grinding against his hand, chasing friction — and that's when his grip on your waist tightened, steadying you as your knees threatened to give out.

"Fuckin' dripping for me and I haven't even touched you right yet."

You were already shaking, back leaned against the wall behind you, your hand gripping Dean's arm like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The pulsing beat of the bar thumped through the walls, mingling with laughter from inside and the faint murmur of voices down the alley.

Two guys stood near a dumpster, smoking, their faces shadowed — close enough to hear, but too far to see every detail.

And you didn't care.

Neither did Dean.

He moved his hand again, dragging your panties to the side deliberately slow, and slid a single finger between your folds, just enough to make you moan. You rocked your hips back into him without thinking, chasing the pleasure he was promising and providing.

"This what you wanted?" he whispered, lips brushing your ear. "You wanna get fucked right here in this dirty-ass alley while people walk by and hear you whimpering for me?"

You swallowed hard, every nerve ending screaming with need for him. You tilted your head up, locking eyes with him. That look in his eyes — dark, wild — like he wanted to devour you whole.

You bit your lip and nodded.

Dean's gaze dropped to your mouth. His expression turned from dangerous to downright deadly. "Say it."

"Fuck me," you whispered, voice hoarse. "Right here. I want it."

His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, his chest rising. He crashed his mouth to yours, rough and possessive, tongue plunging deep like he needed to taste every sound you'd make. He kissed like he fought — full body, no hesitation, total domination.

Then he spun you to face the wall again. The sound of his zipper coming down was the loudest thing in this dark alley.

"Brace yourself, baby," he growled, voice fraying with hunger. "This ain't gonna be gentle."

The sound of Dean's jeans hitting the cracked concrete by his ankles echoed sharply in the dark alley, but the real noise was the quickening thump of your heart. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat as every nerve ending in your body sparked alive, sending waves of desperate need rippling through your skin. The cold night air brushed against your exposed thighs, goosebumps rising where it dared to touch.

Dean's hands were heavy and sure, rough fingertips digging into the soft curve of your hip, pulling you flush against him. The hard planes of his body pressed into your back, heat pooling where your skin met his — a scorching contrast to the chill brushing your legs and the roughness of the old brick wall beneath your palms. You could feel every ridge of that wall digging into your palms, grounding you as your fingers spread wide, nails grazing the mortar in a silent plea for more.

With one swift movement, his fingers hooked under the thin fabric of your panties, tugging them down your legs. The silk slipped off easily, pooling at your ankle and exposing your bare skin to the crisp air. The sudden freedom made your skin flush hotter, the contrast between the cool breeze and the fiery heat where Dean's body hovered just behind you setting your nerves ablaze.

You could feel him—his breath hot against the shell of your ear, the weight of his hand settling firmly on your hip, fingers digging in just enough to leave a mark. His other hand slid slowly down your thigh, tracing the path with deliberate slowness that teased your senses raw. The heat of his palm seared against your skin, sending tingles that radiated outward, pooling deep where you were slick and aching.

His cock was already out, heavy and hard, pressed thick and pulsing against the slick seam of your folds. You gasped, hips grinding to meet him as he teased, giving you every delicious inch before he even pushed inside. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed as the tension built, every muscle tensing in eager anticipation.

Your skirt was bunched up around your waist. Your panties clung damp to one ankle, stretched and useless. And Dean was right there — grinding against your soaked center, not rushing, not plunging in — just rubbing.

Dragging his length slowly through your slick, over your clit, then back down, again and again.

You whimpered, pushing your hips back against him, the motion greedy, instinctive. The head of his cock caught perfectly against your swollen clit on every upstroke, sending sparks of pleasure licking up your spine. Your thighs trembled, your breath hitched, and you felt your heartbeat pounding through every inch of your body — a dizzy, molten ache that built with every teasing grind.

"You feel that?" Dean's voice was a low growl, the words vibrating deep in his throat, sending a shiver down your spine. "So wet... you're making a goddamn mess, and I haven't even put it in yet."

You couldn't speak — just nodded, eyes fluttering shut as you arched into him. The way he moved — slow, grinding with filthy precision — made it impossible to think. Every roll of his hips smeared your slick down his shaft, your clit catching perfectly against him, over and over, until your legs felt boneless.

Dean groaned behind you, low and wrecked, like he was losing control, too.

"Jesus," he muttered, grinding deep and hard against you, his cock trapped tight between your soaked folds and the press of your ass. "You like this, don't you? Me rubbing all over this greedy little pussy while you're dripping down your thighs?"

His fingers tightened on your hip, pulling you back harder against him, making every drag of his cock through your folds louder, messier. The slick, obscene sound of skin on skin filled the alley, mixed with the muffled pulse of bass from inside the bar — and your soft, broken moans.

You were trembling now, your body rocked by the friction, grinding right back against him with abandon. Your clit was swollen, sensitive, and every pass of his cock made your breath stutter.

"Dean—please..." you gasped, voice cracking, wrecked with need.

He chuckled darkly, the sound low and mean. "Please what, sweetheart? This?" He rolled his hips again, slower this time, dragging the thick head of his cock all the way up and back, teasing your entrance — just barely nudging it — then gliding through your slick once more, deliberately not giving you what you wanted.

Your whimper was pure desperation.

"Say it," he growled. "You want me to fuck you right here? Want me to shove this cock into your soaking pussy where anyone could walk by and see?"

"God, yes," you breathed, nearly crying from how badly you needed him. "Please, Dean, just fuck me—fuck me."

He hissed between his teeth like your words physically hit him. His cock twitched where it lay against you, still coated in your slick.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice turning ragged as his restraint finally snapped. "You're ready for it. Fuckin' begging for it."

Dean's fingers dug deeper into your hip, a grip hard enough to bruise but grounding you as he shifted. His other hand guided him forward slowly, the tip pressing into your opening before he finally pushed inside. The stretch was intense, a searing burn that stretched every fiber of your body, filling you completely. Your breath caught, a ragged gasp escaping as his hips slammed forward, pressing you harder against the wall.

The grind was over.

The fucking had begun.

"That's it," he hissed, voice rough and urgent as his hands locked onto your hips, pulling you back onto him. "Take it. Fuckin' take all of me."

He didn't give you a moment to adjust, setting a merciless pace that sent shockwaves through your entire body. The harsh smack of his hips against your ass echoed in the narrow alley, the wet sound of your slick skin meeting his filling the space like a heated drumbeat.

Your moans tumbled out, raw and breathless, swallowed by the enclosing brick walls as you melted into him. Your legs trembled, chest almost pressing tight against the cold stone for support, while your arms quivered under the strain of holding yourself up. Each thrust drove you closer to the edge — a fierce, urgent ache growing in your core, building into a storm you couldn't hold back.

Dean's hand slid up your back, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of your ribs, curling around your throat in a possessive grip that sent a rush of heat flooding your face. His breath was rough against your ear as he growled, "Look at you — out here, stuffed full of my cock like the dirty little slut you are."

His words were a wildfire in your veins. You clenched around him instinctively, legs shaking as the tension inside you spiraled out of control.

"You like this?" he whispered, teeth grazing your earlobe, voice thick with lust. "Like the thought of someone walking out, seeing me balls-deep in your horny little pussy, huh?" he rasped, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. "Seeing what a good little whore you are for me?"

"Yes... I like it," you whispered, voice shaking. "I want them to see... see what you do to me."

Laughter echoed faintly from the alley's entrance, the flick of a lighter sparking a brief flare of light in the darkness.

Dean didn't stop.

He bent you forward, hand flat against your lower back, pressing you closer to the wall. His other hand slipped between your legs, fingers brushing over your swollen clit with fierce, punishing circles that drove your body wild.

"Come on, sweetheart," he rasped, breath hot and heavy, voice rough as gravel. "I wanna feel you cum on my cock right here, right now. Like the little cock-drunk slut you are."

Your head dropped forward, eyes rolling back as the overwhelming wave broke inside you. A loud cry tore from your throat, muffled against your palm as your muscles clenched around him, shaking violently. Your knees buckled, trembling under the rush of pleasure that left your body trembling and raw.

Dean groaned, hips faltering as he felt your tightness squeezing him relentlessly. "That's it," he growled, voice ragged. "Tight little pussy gripping me like you're begging me to fill you."

You felt his cock swelling inside you until he buried himself even deeper. "Oh God, I'm cumming," Dean gasped, voice rough and ragged, his body trembling with the rush. "Fucking cumming deep inside your little pussy."

You could feel it. His cum was hot and heavy, a fierce, guttural grunt escaping him as he spilled into you. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you pressed to him as your breaths mingled — harsh, uneven, desperate.

For a long, suspended moment, the alley was silent except for your ragged panting and the distant bass of the music.

Then Dean pulled back with a hiss, leaving you aching and slick. You whimpered softly, the loss of him inside you almost unbearable. Your legs still shook, your back tingling from the cold stone and the blazing heat that still smoldered between your thighs.

He knelt before you, fingers gentle now as he slid your panties back over your trembling legs, smoothing the fabric over the mess. The tenderness of the gesture was a stark contrast after the storm of sensation.

Looking up at you, his eyes dark and wild with satisfaction, Dean gave a crooked, knowing smirk. "Hope you're not planning on walking in there like nothing happened."

He stood, zipped up, and captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss — one that promised this was far from over. His hand tangled in your hair, rough and possessive, yet impossibly tender.

"Next time you wanna tease me in a bar," he murmured, voice low and filled with heat, "just remember what happens when I lose my patience."

Dividers by @easytiger-xo 🩵.

[taraschof]

I hope you're feeling better 🤗

I am. Thank you!🩵🫶🏻

[taraschof]

Part 2 to The Show Between Us?

The Show Between Us - Pt. 2

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~4000

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, dirty talk, oral (f and m receiving), orgasm, mutual pining, sexual tension, motel-room setting.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: After weeks of dancing around what was left unspoken, a quiet night in a shared motel bed finally shatters the distance between you and Dean. Tension gives way to confession, restraint to need, and nothing feels uncertain anymore.

The rain hadn't stopped pouring down for three days. Gray clouds shrouded the windshield of the Impala, leaving the steady whir of wipers the only sound heard between you and Dean for miles. You were somewhere in Kansas, halfway through a case that neither of you were really invested in — missing hikers, maybe a wendigo — but it was something to do. People to save. Something to chase that wasn't the memory of what happened in that motel room three weeks ago.

Because neither of you had dared to bring it up. Not even once.

Dean was Dean — cracking open beers in the evenings, dropping snark over drive-thru burgers, humming classic rock under his breath. Everything was normal. Or semi-normal at least. And that's what bothered you.

It had been easier when the memory was fresh. When you could still feel the ache in your thighs from the way you'd come, trembling and breathless, with his name on your tongue. When your mind was still clouded with the sound of his groan, his hand moving over his cock as he watched you fall apart.

And the promises after that:

"Next time, we're not sleeping apart."

"Next time, I'm not doing it with my hand."

You'd hoped — maybe even expected — that something would change after that night. That promises would solidify into actions. But it hadn't changed. Not really. Not in a way you wanted it to. You still checked into motels the same way. Still claimed your separate beds. Still brushed your teeth side-by-side in yellow-lit bathrooms like none of it had ever happened.

Except it had.

And now you couldn't stop watching for signs.

Dean didn't touch you anymore — not even the casual, familiar brushes of your shoulders in tight hallways or the shared looks when a witness said something stupid. He was more careful now. Deliberately distant.

And the worst part? He was quiet. That was the real gut-punch.

It wasn't the kind of quiet that meant something was wrong and signaled trouble. The kind that made you feel like everything was fine, that whispered nothing had changed. But it had. Like that night — his voice, the ragged rasp of your name, the shared unraveling — had been a dream. A mistake, maybe. Just two tired hunters getting off to the sound of each other in the dark.

You caught yourself studying him now in ways you hadn't before. When he shrugged off his flannel in the evening, you'd glance away before your eyes could linger. When he got out of the shower with wet hair and no shirt, you'd bury your face in your phone and pretend not to notice.

And Dean... Dean didn't look at you.

Not really.

Which would've been fine — except sometimes he did. When he thought you weren't watching. When you were washing blood off your hands in the motel sink, or rubbing the back of your neck after a long drive. You'd catch him in the mirror, eyes locked on you for a second too long.

And then he'd look away. That part got to you.

Because you knew him. You knew what it meant when Dean Winchester couldn't meet your eyes.

At this point, you'd been on the road for five days or so. Three towns, four nights in motels with two double beds. Always the same distance between you. Always the same unspoken agreement to pretend like your bodies hadn't once said all the things your mouths were too afraid to.

Tonight was no different.

A beat-up little place just off the highway — cracked tile, flickering sign, a room that smelled faintly of mildew and cheap air freshener. Dean tossed you the key without looking, and you caught it one-handed like always.

The beds were made up stiffly — scratchy blankets, too-thin pillows, bad lighting. You took the one by the door. Dean threw his duffel on the one farther away.

Same old routine.

He peeled off his jacket with a grunt and set the salt lines while you changed into your sleep shirt — the same old oversized thing you'd worn the night it happened. You saw the way his eyes darted once, just briefly, before he dropped to one knee to pour a line under the door.

You didn't speak and pretended you didn't notice.

He was quiet when he climbed into his bed, pulling the covers to his chest, lying flat on his back. One arm behind his head. Other resting on his stomach. The same position you'd found him in before.

Your throat tightened.

You didn't want to think about that night — but it was impossible not to. Every muscle in your body remembered it. The way your skin had flushed under the neon light. The sound of him saying your name like a confession in the dark room. The way his breathing got heavier, muscles tightened. The sound that left his throat when he came all over his fist and chest.

You shake off the thoughts and lay down. Switch off the lamp. Let darkness settle over the room.

But your body didn't relax.

It hadn't, in nights.

You stared at the ceiling and counted the seconds between the hums of the AC. You listened to his breathing — slow and even, like he was already asleep.

You weren't sure what was worse — the fact that he hadn't touched you since, or the fact that you still wanted him to.

Maybe he'd regretted it. Maybe he'd only said those things because he was too worked up to filter them. Heat of the moment. Maybe he didn't mean any of it.

You rolled onto your side, facing away.

Sleep refused to come. You were too wired to fall asleep. Too desperate for release you haven't had in weeks.

Behind you, Dean shifted. You heard the creak of the mattress. The sound of his breath catching, just briefly. Then quiet again.

And for a moment, just one — you thought maybe he was lying there like you were. Staring at the ceiling. Remembering everything he wasn't supposed to.

Wanting what he couldn't have.

Eventually, you fell into sleep.

The following day, case wrapped late.

A wendigo in another nothing town with tired cops and muddy roads. By the time you got back to the motel, you were soaked through from the rain, boots caked with wet gravel and mud. You peeled off your jacket just inside the door and hung it over the chair to dry.

Dean didn't say much. Neither did you.

You both moved like people who'd been doing this too long — a silent, practiced choreography. He grabbed two beers from the mini-fridge. You went straight for the bathroom to scrub your face and body clean of dirt and blood. When you came out, he handed you the bottle without looking.

His hands were dirty too. Soot under the fingernails. Blood at the edge of his collar.

"Shower's yours," you said quietly.

He nodded, eyes on the wall, refusing to meet yours. "Thanks."

You didn't watch him go. You wanted to — you always did lately — but you sat down on the edge of your bed and took a long sip of the beer instead. The kind of sip that burned a little going down.

The shower came on. You listened to the water, tried not to imagine how his skin looked under it. Tried not to picture the trail of suds sliding down his chest. His stomach. Down the V-line. The way his hand might drag through his hair, frustrated, tired.

Your bed creaked as you lay back, but it wasn't comfort you found. The sheets were cold. The room was cold. Even with the heater rattling somewhere under the window, it felt like nothing could get you warm.

By the time Dean emerged, the bottle was empty beside you and your heart was beating too loud.

His hair was damp, his skin still flushed pink from the water. He wore only sweats and a worn-out T-shirt. You watched him out of the corner of your eye — the way he moved around the room, slower than usual. No jokes. No grins. Just quiet. Like he was caught in the same place you were — half-there, half-somewhere else.

When he climbed into his bed, the light was already off. You didn't speak.

You stared at the ceiling in the dark, blanket pulled to your chin, and told yourself to sleep.

You didn't. Couldn't.

The space between your beds felt wider than it ever had before. Like a canyon, empty and stretching for miles and miles.

You turned over — again — facing his side of the room.

"Dean?" you said softly.

He didn't answer right away. You thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. But then he did, "Yeah?"

Your fingers clenched the blanket. You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "You awake?"

A pause. Then, "Yeah."

Your pulse skidded. You didn't let yourself think. You just sat up, threw the blanket off your legs, and got to your feet.

The carpet was scratchy under your bare soles. The air colder here in the open.

Dean didn't move, didn't say anything. You could just barely make out the shape of him in the dark — lying flat on his back, one arm under his head, eyes trained on the ceiling like they always were lately.

You crossed the small stretch of room slowly. Quietly.

When you reached the edge of his bed, you hesitated.

He didn't look at you.

And still, not a word.

The air between you both felt thick — electric. You could feel the way your skin buzzed, even without contact. Even without looking at him. Just standing there beside him made your chest ache.

So you said screw it. And you slid under the blanket.

Dean didn't move, but you felt him tense next to you — a subtle shift in the mattress, the way his muscles locked up just slightly. His breath hitched, but he still didn't say a word.

You lay beside him on your back, staring up at the ceiling. The heat from his body was immediate — radiating in waves through the inches of space between you. Not touching. But close.

You were aware of everything. Every inch of him. The way his chest rose and fell next to you. The curve of his shoulder. The warmth of his thigh, just barely not brushing yours.

Neither of you said anything and it was unbearable.

The silence roared louder than your heartbeat.

You could feel it in the room — something building. Unspoken and hot and heavy. Every breath you took felt charged. Like if either of you moved, even just a little, the dam would break.

But you didn't move and neither did he.

You just lay there. Still. Waiting. Wanting.

Pretending the space between your bodies wasn't already burning.

Minutes passed.

Nothing moved but the motel shadows and the slow, steady whirl of the heater. That same old neon light from outside the window flickered like a heartbeat — slow, irregular. The hum of electricity buzzed through the thin walls, just like it buzzed in your veins.

And then he rolled slightly to face you, almost imperceptibly, turning just enough that his thigh brushed yours beneath the covers. It was nothing. And at the same time, it was everything. You didn't dare to turn your head to look at him. Not yet.

But then you felt it.

Subtle at first. A shift. A pressure.

His cock, thick and unmistakably hard, pressed against the fabric of his sweatpants, bow pressing into the side of your thigh. He wasn't moving — not grinding against you, not touching. He was still. Rigid. Like if he didn't acknowledge it, it didn't exist.

But it did.

God, it did.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

Your pulse roared in your ears as the memory slammed into you — the heat of his voice that night weeks ago. The way he'd said it, rough and breathless, just after you'd pushed him over the edge with your words:

"Next time... I'm not doing it with my hand."

You swallowed audibly. Heat spread in your chest — down your arms, into your stomach, lower, to your core, dampening your underwear even more. Throbbing.

And still, Dean didn't move.

Didn't say a damn thing.

He was giving you the chance to pull away. Pretend it wasn't happening. Let it pass like a fever dream.

But you didn't.

You turned your head slightly toward him. Watched his face, what you could make out of it in the dark. Jaw clenched. Lips parted just enough to breathe. Eyes on your face.

So you moved.

You rolled on your side, facing him, your hand slid across the blanket, over to his side — slow, tentative at first. Your fingertips found the hem of his shirt and slipped underneath.

He still didn't stop you.

Your fingers drifted up, brushing the soft skin of his abdomen. Warm and firm and familiar. You'd felt him under your hands before — during hunts, patching him up, those rare, unguarded moments — but never like this. Not with intent. Not with desire behind every inch of skin.

Dean exhaled — sharp and low through his nose. His body went tighter beside you.

But still... nothing from him.

You pushed a little further.

Your hand slid lower, past the waistband of his sweats but only just, letting your palm hover over the heat of him.

He was solid. Heavy. Straining against the cotton.

And fuck, he was trying so hard not to react.

Your palm pressed down gently — just enough to feel him twitch beneath your hand. The groan he held back made your throat tighten.

"Is that because of me?" you whispered.

It came out breathy, teasing — but your voice cracked slightly, betraying the storm churning inside.

His eyes met yours in the dark, and what you saw there stopped your heart.

Need. Desperation. Restraint.

He didn't answer right away. His throat worked like he was trying to force words through it, but couldn't.

Then, voice gravel-rough, he finally responded. "Been like that because of you ever since that night."

Something cracked open in your chest.

All that uncertainty. All the nights you'd laid awake wondering if he meant it — if you imagined it — if you'd made it up out of loneliness or lust. It all unraveled right then with those words.

He did mean it.

And he still did.

Dean's eyes were still locked on yours in the dark.

You could barely breathe.

His voice was barely a rasp when he said it — like it had taken everything in him just to get the words out.

"Always you."

It hit you low in your belly. Warm and aching and unbearable.

You stroked him again, slowly, hand curling around the thick length of him through the cotton. He twitched in your palm — hot, full, already leaking. Your thumb slid over the damp patch at the tip, spreading it in a slow circle, teasing.

His breath hitched.

"Have you been hard for me all night, Dean?" you murmured, your voice a smoky whisper in the dark.

His jaw flexed. He didn't answer — just pressed his head back against the pillow like he was praying for strength he didn't have.

But you didn't need an answer. Not when his silence said everything. Not when his cock throbbed under your palm like it had been waiting for you.

Still, you leaned in, brushing your lips near his ear, your breath warm. "Tonight, you're definitely not doing it with your hand."

He exhaled harshly. "Hope you know exactly how to take care of it, then."

That was all you needed.

Your fingers slipped under the waistband of his underwear, teasing the warm skin just above his pelvis before dipping lower. You freed him slowly, letting the elastic drag over his hard length before it bounced into your palm — hot, thick, heavy.

God, he felt perfect.

Your hand wrapped around him, and you swore you felt him twitch at just the first stroke. He was flushed at the tip, already leaking. You smeared the wetness with your thumb, dragging it in slow, slick circles before gliding down that thick vein underneath.

Dean's abs jumped. His hips bucked once — a sharp, instinctive movement — before he locked his jaw and gripped the sheets like he needed anchor.

"Jesus," he whispered, barely audible.

You didn't let up. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, the way you knew would drive him insane. The drag of your hand was torturous — just enough pressure to keep him there, right at the edge of begging.

"You've been holding back this whole time, haven't you?" you murmured, brushing your lips over his neck. "Sleeping in a separate bed, getting hard every night thinking about me. About what you said you'd do. Or maybe about the things I said I'd do."

He grunted low in his chest — raw, needy. "You have no idea."

"Oh," you breathed, kissing just under his jaw. "I do."

Then you disappeared beneath the covers.

The motel room seemed to shrink around you, swallowed up in the hush of your breathing and his. You nudged his thighs apart gently and settled between them, one arm curling around his hip to hold him steady.

He couldn't even pretend to stay quiet after that.

Your mouth closed around the head of his cock — warm, wet, deliberate. Your tongue licked up the underside first, tracing that thick vein before circling the swollen tip. You sucked gently, then deeper, inch by inch, letting him feel every torturous slide.

Dean swore — sharp, breathless. "Oh, fuck— baby..."

His hands scrabbled for the sheets, one fist twisting the fabric hard enough to tear. His other hand hovered above your head like he didn't know whether to guide you or surrender.

You moaned softly around him, just enough for the vibrations to ripple through his body.

He hissed through his teeth, a sharp, strangled sound. "Fuck..."

You answered by taking him deeper — slowly, until your nose brushed his lower stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to feel that good.

Your hand worked what your mouth couldn't take, the rhythm filthy and perfect. You bobbed your head slowly, dragging your tongue on the way back, letting your spit make everything slick and obscene.

He was shaking beneath you. Breathing ragged. Whispering your name over and over like it was a prayer — or a plea.

You wanted him wrecked.

Wanted him to remember this the next time he looked at you across a dusty diner table, or when you sat side by side in the Impala, brushing shoulders. Wanted him aching for more — not just the act, but you.

Dean moaned your name — not loud, but with something close to reverence. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

His thigh trembled under your hand.

"God, you suck me so good," he breathed, voice cracked and low. "Don't stop. Don't—"

You didn't.

You worked him with relentless, reverent rhythm. Let him roll his hips gently, his body reacting like he didn't have a choice. You could feel the tension building — his thighs tensing, breath stuttering, abs flexing every time your lips hit the base.

His fingers finally tangled in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Grounding.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," He tried to warn you, but it broke off into a strangled sound. "Baby, I can't—"

You moaned again — deep, guttural — and that's what did it.

Dean came with a shout muffled into the back of his hand, his body locking up, then unraveling beneath you. His cock pulsed hard in your mouth as you swallowed around him, every drop. You held him through it, gentle now, tongue tracing soft circles while he twitched and sagged and whimpered your name like it still meant something.

When you finally released him, he was a wreck — chest heaving, hair damp at the temples, eyes half-lidded with awe and wreckage.

You crawled back up beside him, lips still damp, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. His arm lifted, instinctive, and you nestled there — not saying a word, just letting your body rest against his. His skin was flushed, still hot, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

You felt the way his arm curled around your back, pulled you a little closer.

Nothing about it was rushed.

No jokes. No deflection. Just the two of you and Dean's heavy breathing.

You laid there like that — warm, tangled, unsteady. And for the first time in weeks, you didn't feel the distance between you.

You just felt him.

You felt his hand stroke up your spine. Gentle.

Then, when he finally caught his breath, he kissed you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just him — mouth hungry, deep, tongue sliding in like he was claiming you all over again. The kiss wasn't sweet. It was filthy. Honest. The kind of kiss that said, You're mine, without ever speaking the words. It tasted like sweat, sex, and everything you'd both been starving for.

You whimpered into him, hips shifting against his side. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan.

Your breath caught. Fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. Or maybe it was his skin. You weren't even sure anymore. All you knew was heat — him, everywhere.

He pulled back, but not far. His breath was warm against your lips.

"Are you sure you want to cross this line?" he asked, voice low, dangerous, wrecked. "Because if I touch you, I'm not stopping 'til you're fucking shaking under me."

You didn't answer right away. You just looked at him — his eyes dark and glassy, like he was afraid you'd pull away. Like he was afraid he'd imagined the whole thing.

But you shook your head — eyes stormy, mouth parted, your whole body screaming yes.

"I don't want you to stop," you whispered. "I'm sure."

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, messier now — tongue pushing deep, teeth catching your lip — and his hand slid down, bold and greedy, palm branding a path across your hip. You arched into him, needy and hot, your thighs falling open beneath the blanket. When he pulled it back and started trailing kisses down your torso, it wasn't gentle anymore. It was worship, yes — but filthy. Like every inch of you was sacred and he'd been dying to defile it.

When he reached your thighs, he didn't hesitate — just spread them, hands gripping the backs like handles, like he'd been fantasizing about this exact angle for months.

"You know what you do to me?" he murmured, his voice dropping into something dangerous. "Lying so close to me night after night, all soft and sweet and fuckin' hot. Do you even realize how close I was to losing it every damn time you sighed in your sleep?"

You whimpered, back arching, hips rising to meet his mouth — so close, not close enough.

"Why didn't you?" you breathed, voice raw. "You said next time we wouldn't sleep in separate beds..."

Dean looked up at you — eyes dark, full of something messy and beautiful and starving.

"Because I didn't just want to fuck you," he said, blunt and low. "I wanted to keep you. And I didn't know if I could have both."

You reached down, fingers brushing through his hair, your voice raw. "Of course, you can have both," you whispered.

He dipped his head closer to your core, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear to pull them down your legs. After that, he didn't waste time and devoured you.

His tongue met you with a groan that rattled your bones, slow and lethal, licking a long, obscene stripe up your slick center. His grip tightened as your hips jerked.

He didn't ease into it — he feasted like he'd been starving. His tongue circled your clit with surgical focus, then flattened and dragged, then sucked, then flicked, each change designed to destroy your composure. He moaned against you, and the vibration made your toes curl, your vision white out.

"Fuck, baby," he growled between strokes. "This pussy tastes like everything I ever wanted and couldn't touch."

Your hands fisted in his hair, nails biting skin. You couldn't stay still. Couldn't stop chasing the pressure he was building like a wave — slow, relentless, cruel.

He looked up for a second, face slick, eyes deadly.

"Look at you," he murmured, tongue teasing. "Dripping down my chin and still greedy for more. You're gonna fucking drown me, aren't you?"

"Dean—please—" you gasped, thighs trembling.

He smirked darkly.

"That's it. Beg. Let me hear how much you need this mouth."

"I need you," you choked. "God, I need you—I can't—"

He sucked hard on your clit, then licked into you with deep, obscene strokes of his tongue, and your orgasm slammed into you like a wrecking ball. You sobbed his name, body bucking, thighs clamping around his head.

But he didn't stop.

Not even a little.

He rode out your climax with his mouth still working, slower now, coaxing every twitch, every whimper, licking like he had all the time in the world. You were wrecked, boneless, barely coherent when he finally kissed his way back up your body.

Your lips found his and you tasted yourself on his tongue — raw, dirty, yours.

"I thought about that night," you whispered into his mouth, still trembling. "Wondering if it meant anything."

Dean cradled your face in one big, calloused hand, thumb tracing your lips.

"It meant everything," he said. "You were right there. I could hear you breathing. And all I wanted was to turn over, get out of bed, touch you, keep you. But I was so fucking scared I'd lose what mattered most."

You pulled him down into a kiss that told him: you already have me.

"We're not going back," you said. "Ever."

He nodded slowly.

"No more space," he whispered, brushing his lips against your cheek, your throat, your collarbone. "Next time we want each other..."

His hand slid up your thigh, palm warm as it settled at your hip, his body still pressed to yours — not pushing for more, just holding you there, skin to skin, breath mingling.

"...we take it. For real."

Dividers by @easytiger-xo 🩵

A/N: Also, sorry for the long wait. I was busy with work and had some health stuff come up. I hope you like it.🩵

[taraschof]

In his hands

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~4000

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, choking (light), praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v sex, orgasm, manhandling/physical restraint (consensual), soft dom, body worship, hands obsession.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: You'd always been obsessed with his hands — steady, rough, built to break. You never guessed how slow they'd wreck you once they finally touched you.

You'd always known Dean's body was built for war. But his arms and hands—that was where the obsession lived.

They didn't just hold weapons. They were weapons. The kind that flexed with every breath he took, the kind that promised damage and worship in equal measure. Biceps that made sleeves seem optional and too tight. Veins that mapped out down his forearms in taut lines —always raised — always visible, always ready, twitching under the surface like they knew you were watching. And you were obsessed.

They moved with purpose, never just staying idle. Always fixing something, loading something, pulling the world back from the edge by the seam of his fingers.

Oh, those fingers — long, thick at the knuckles. The ones that looked capable of curling into fists or cradling your jaw with the same precision. You'd seen them fix a broken carburetor and wipe blood off a blade in the same hour. You'd seen them grip the wheel of the Impala like he was anchoring himself to the only thing left in a world always trying to take something from him. They could snap necks and patch you up right after.

And you wanted those hands on you.

In a way that made you ache thinking of what they'd feel like dragging over the softest parts of you.

You imagined it when you were alone—how those fingers would slide over your skin, not just touching, but claiming you. How that grip would feel locked around your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, whether it be pinned to the wall or the bed. How that arm, thick with muscle and tension, would slide under your back, lift you like you were weightless, and fuck you into whatever surface was closest.

But you didn't say it.

You just watched. Watched the sleeves of his henleys struggle, watched his forearms stretch when he reached for the salt rounds, watched his fingers smear blood from his jawline like it was water.

And tonight, he caught you staring.

You were in the war room, late at night, case closed. A bottle open. He leaned against the table, arms folded — biceps pushing tight against his sleeves, forearms bulging as he rubbed a thumb across his palm like it was sore—it shouldn't have been erotic. But God, it was. You tracked the motion like it was magnetic. Like you could feel that roughness on your thighs already.

"You got a fixation, sweetheart?" he asked, low and amused.

"Maybe," you admitted, "your arms are kind of distracting."

Dean tilted his head, slow, his smirk twitching at the corner. "You've been quiet all night. And now I know why."

He took a slow step toward you, his eyes never leaving you. Like a predator stalking its prey. And that damned smirk on his lips.

You didn't move. You stayed in place, keeping your eyes on him.

"I've seen that look," he went on when you didn’t speak. "You think I haven't caught the way your thighs press together when I roll my sleeves up?"

Your lips parted, heat crawling under your skin in a way that made it hard to breathe. To move.

Dean came closer. His arms dropped to his sides, hands flexing once — almost thoughtful.

"Are you just going to stare all night?" he asked. "Or do you want me to show you what these arms are for?"

You breathed, "Show me."

He made a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a scoff and a growl. "Took you long enough."

But those two simple words were all he really needed.

He closed the space between you, one hand going to your waist. You felt the press of his palm through your clothes like it was touching your bones. His grip tightened. Not painful. Just enough to make you feel owned.

The other hand came up, slow, and he slid his fingers through your hair, gripping it at the nape — tugging your head back just slightly, exposing your neck.

"I know exactly what you want," he murmured against your throat. "My hands all over you  - touching, gripping, marking. You want to feel how strong they are, don't you?"

Your breath caught. You tried to answer, but nothing came out.

He brushed a knuckle along the hem of your shirt. Light. Barely a graze. But it lit a fuse inside of you.

"Think about what they'd feel like," he said, voice dropping a note, "wrapped around your hips?"

"Yes," you finally breathed out, even if it only was that one simple word.

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "You think about them on your throat, holding you just tight enough so you feel it when I tell you what to do?"

Your knees threatened to give, the heat of his voice and the weight of his presence suddenly too much to stand. Not even mentioning the fact that his hands were finally on you.

Dean's hand slid to your jaw, thumb along your cheekbone, fingers curling under your chin. That hand—that grip—made your whole body go still.

"You want them on your thighs," he whispered. "Pinning you open."

Your thighs did part at his words. Instinctively.

Dean chuckled low. "Thought so."

He leaned in, intention clear, and you moaned before he even kissed you.

His mouth moved like he was learning you with his tongue, and his arms. His tongue slid over your lips, soft and probing at first, then deepening, exploring, claiming.

Your body melted into his arms as they tightened around you, strong and unyielding, pulling you impossibly closer. You tasted the faint hint of his skin, the sharpness of something uniquely his, and it set fire to your senses.

Each breath you took was stolen, mingled with his, ragged and desperate, as if you both were trying to memorize the other's mouth, the way it moved, the way it demanded.

His hand was still under your jaw, not hurting—just controlling. Like he was testing how you felt under his fingers before moving to the rest of you.

One arm then wrapped behind your back and lifted you — easily. Like you didn't weigh a thing. Your ass hit the table with a thud, and you didn't even get a chance to steady yourself. Dean was already there, between your knees, pushing them open with both hands like they belonged to him.

Your hands found his biceps, curling there, digging in just to feel them flex. He liked that — you could feel it in the way his arms flexed harder, just to give you something to hold onto.

"Feel that?" he rasped, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again. "That's what happens when I get my hands on you. That's just the start, sweetheart. My hands don't do gentle - they take what they want. And now... now they want you."

His right hand slid up your shirt, slow. Palm grazing your stomach, pushing higher, fingers brushing over your ribs, the underside of your breast. He didn't rush. He didn't need to.

Because those arms? They held you in place like iron.

And his voice — Jesus, his voice — was a low, gravelled confession in your ear. "You ever wonder what it's like to be handled by someone who knows exactly what to do with you?"

"Yes," you whispered.

"I bet you touch yourself thinking about it. Imagining these hands pinning you down, fingers dragging over your pussy nice and slow until you're soaked and aching, and I'm just watching you cum all over them."

Your breath hitched, and that was enough of an answer for him. Dean smiled — teeth against your skin.

"Next time you think about it?" he said, sliding his hand between your legs, easily slipping under your skirt. "Don't bother using your own fingers."

He cupped you through your panties—firm, confident, just enough to make your hips jolt. "Why would you, when you've got these?" He flexed his fingers just enough to make your breath catch. "You know damn well they can do it better than your smaller ones ever could."

You whimpered, and he chuckled low in your ear.

"Spent all that time fantasizing about my hands... and now you've got them exactly where you wanted. Bet your fingers never made you this wet, did they? Never felt as good."

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first—just a sharp breath, broken and desperate. Then, barely a whisper a few words came through. "God—no. Never."

You didn't even recognize your own voice—wrecked and aching, like he'd pulled it straight from your throat.

He grinned against your jaw. "That's what I thought."

His fingers pressed deliberately against your clit through the thin fabric, slow and teasing. Your breath hitched, hips jerking forward against the hard surface of the table, fingers clawing into the wood as a desperate moan escaped you.

"You like that?" he whispered. "I could keep you like this all night. One hand under your skirt, one arm holding you down, and you still wouldn't get away from me."

You weren't trying to. You didn’t even want to.

You were soaked.

Dean dragged your panties to the side with two fingers. Then those same fingers slid through you—slow, slick, obscene.

He didn't look down. His eyes stayed fixed on your face, watching every flicker of your expression, every little reaction—the way your brows knit together in anticipation, your lips parting just so, the way your breath hitched before you even moaned.

His gaze was sharp, hungry, as if memorizing everything that made you tick, every tremble running through you. He was enjoying this.

Then his forearm flexed, bracing you firmly against the table, and he slid two fingers deep inside you—full and deliberate.

Your head fell back, a shudder ripping through you, breath catching in a ragged gasp. "Oh my God—"

"No," he growled, moving his fingers in you with a rhythm that made your legs shake. "Don't pray. Just take it."

And you did.

Dean's fingers inside you weren't rushed — they were slow. Every movement had weight. Intention.

The pads of his fingers dragged along your walls with an unholy kind of rhythm — not fast, not even trying to be. Just deep, deliberate pressure, curling with precision every time he thrust them in, filling you enough to make your knees shake.

But what did you focus on?

His arms.

The way his forearm strained as he worked those fingers inside you. Muscles dense and flexed under your eyes, skin tight over strength that didn't falter. Veins tracing up from his wrist like roads you wanted to map with your tongue.

One strong arm locked around your lower back, holding you up on the edge of the table like you weighed nothing — like he could've carried you into the next room and never even break a sweat. That pressure grounded you. You could feel the tremor in his biceps every time you shifted too much. Could feel him correcting you — containing you — with a squeeze that was more command than comfort.

And then his voice dropped, warm and rough against your ear. "You hear yourself, sweetheart?"

You didn't answer. You were too far gone—moaning, panting, hands clutching his sleeves just to feel the flex of muscle as he worked you open.

Dean grinned, lips ghosting over your jaw. His stubble scraped, rough and teasing.

"You sound wrecked already. And I've barely even started to fuck you."

His fingers slowed—less rhythm now, more tease. He pushed in, spread them slightly, then dragged them out again. Your walls clenched, your head fell back, and Dean's arm caught you as you nearly folded in half.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me keep you up. Let me hold you still while you cum all over my fingers."

You whimpered, desperate, unbearably full. Every drag, every curl of his fingers against that spongy texture inside of you sent fire shooting through your spine.

"I'm going to cum," you breathed, voice trembling. "Fuck, Dean, you're going to make me cum..."

"Yeah? Gonna give it to me?" His mouth pressed to your throat, teeth nipping at your skin. "You gonna cum for me right here, in my arms?"

Your voice broke, breathless and raw. "Dean... please..."

That was all it took.

He groaned against your neck, shifted his grip again, and suddenly — he was grinding into your clit with the heel of his palm.

His forearm pinned your hips in place, his fingers still buried deep, and that grind — slow, tight, controlled — undid you like a match to gasoline.

"Fuck, there it is," he rasped. "Right there. Come on, baby. Let me feel what that mouth couldn't say."

You shattered.

It was messy. Full-body. Your muscles clenched tightly around his fingers, pulsing with a rhythm of their own — spasms rolling through you like crashing waves, each one deeper and more intense than the last.

Your heart hammered in your chest, breath ragged and uneven, every nerve ending alight. You felt your pulse racing through every inch of you while Dean held you together. Literally.

One strong arm locked firmly around your waist, grounding you, keeping you upright even as your body threatened to give out. The other hand never stopped—his fingers still moving inside you, coaxing, dragging your orgasm out with a cruel, deliberate patience that had your thighs trembling uncontrollably.

Your nails bit into his forearms, desperate for some anchor, as if you needed him to bruise you just to prove you were real—just to prove you were his.

"Good girl," he growled. "Cumming all over my hand. Showing me how much you like it."

Dean pulled his fingers out slow and you whimpered at the loss, your body still trembling from the waves crashing through you. But Dean didn't make you wait long.

Slowly, he slid those slick fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean with a dark, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes locked on yours, burning with something fierce and possessive.

Then his hand came up to grip your jaw again, thumb brushing gently over your swollen bottom lip — a silent promise that this wasn't over.

"I'm not done with you," he said, voice low and steady. "That was just your warm-up. Now I want to see what you look like when you cum on my cock."

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted you again, arms sliding under your thighs with practiced ease, carrying you like the prize you were. Your eyes traced every muscle flexing under your skin—the way his forearms tightened, veins rising, strength so raw it made your breath hitch.

At the edge of the bed, he lowered you down slowly, his hands steady on your hips, not letting go.

You whispered, voice trembling with need, "I want your hands on me... all over."

Dean's eyes darkened, thumb brushing over your skin, slow and deliberate. "That's the only place they'll be."

He discarded his shirt and stood bare to the waist, every muscle flexed, veins like rivers beneath his skin. His pants and boxers joined his shirt soon enough, leaving him completely bare in front of you. You felt your pulse quicken, completely undone by the power in his arms—the hands you worshipped holding you like you were weightless.

One hooked under your knee, dragging your leg up slow. The other flattened over your stomach, palm heavy, fingers spread so wide they almost wrapped around your side. He looked down at where he touched you — like he couldn't believe his hands were finally allowed there.

"You fit under me better than I dreamed," he murmured. "I knew you would."

You shivered, breath shaky. "I'm right where I want to be."

Dean's gaze snapped to yours. And then he moved. He was climbing over you, his body huge and hot and unrelenting. He didn't give you space. He filled it.

His arms caged you in. One hand caught both your wrists, pulled them up over your head. The other braced beside your ribs, elbow locked, every line of muscle etched in tension.

"You want it slow?" he asked, mouth brushing your jaw.

You nodded, breath caught. "I want to feel every part of you."

Dean's mouth twisted into something dangerous. "Good. Because I want to watch you fall apart on every inch of me."

He released your wrists only to shove your thighs open with both hands, spreading you wide, pulling you closer—not gently. Like it was his right.

When he lined himself up, he didn't push in fast.

He took his time.

You felt the stretch, inch by inch — the heat, the thickness, the deliberate press of him opening you up slow enough to burn.

His forearms bracketed your shoulders now, holding himself just high enough to watch your face. His eyes darkened when you gasped, when your brows knit, when your thighs trembled and your breath hitched as he finally bottomed out.

"There she is," he breathed. "Knew you'd take me like this. Tight as hell."

You clung to his arms, fingers digging in to the hard curves of his biceps, nails lightly raking over skin.

"You're so big," you whispered, voice shaking.

That grin again—feral, satisfied. "Yeah? You like how my cock stretches that tight little pussy?"

"You feel fucking perfect."

He let out a broken sound that had you clench around him. "Can barely move with how tight you're gripping me."

You bit your lip, breath hitching, voice barely more than a whisper. "Dean... fuck... please, move."

He stayed there a little longer, buried to the hilt, just letting you feel it—his cock stretching you, his arms wrapped around you, his hands keeping you grounded, owning every inch of you.

And then he began to move.

It wasn't fast.

He pulled out slow, like a promise, and drove back in with a controlled, deliberate precision. The kind of thrust that didn't just fuck — it claimed. You felt him deep, low, hitting places that made your eyes flutter and your legs instinctively try to close around him. Dean didn't let that happen.

One hand slid under your thigh and yanked it back, forcing you wide open. The other came up to anchor your throat — not choking, but owning. His thumb traced a slow path along your jaw as he pushed in again.

"This," he growled, voice thick with need, "this is how I want you. Stretched out, trapped in my arms while I give you everything I've been holding back."

You swallowed hard, breath shaky. "Then don't hold back."

Dean's jaw tightened. His next thrust hit harder, still slow — like dragging velvet over raw nerves. You moaned, fingers clawing at his broad shoulders, feeling every flex and shift of muscle, thick and relentless beneath your touch.

He slammed into you deeper, even slower this time, dragging every inch in with brutal intent.

You arched, legs trembling, every slow stroke hitting with unbearable intimacy.

"You like the way I feel, baby?" he murmured into your ear.

"Yes," you gasped. "You — Dean — God—"

"Yeah?" His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers pressing deep into muscle. "You like how I hold you? How every inch of me is wrapped around you, keeping you exactly where I want?"

You nodded, mouth open, helpless.

"Good," he growled. "Because I'm not even close to finished."

He shifted — settled back on his knees and hooked your legs over his arms. You watched his muscles tighten with the effort, shoulders drawing taut as he drove deeper, slow but crushing.

Each grind of his hips dragged a burning trail up your spine. His cock stroked the deepest parts of you with a precision bordering on cruelty — and you never wanted it to stop.

And he watched you.

Every twitch, every moan, every broken whisper from your mouth was something he'd been starving for.

"You should see your face right now," he rasped, voice rough and low. "Wrecked. And still so fucking beautiful. That's my girl."

You whimpered, voice trembling, "I want to make you feel this good too."

Dean leaned down, arms bracketing your body, crushing you beneath his heat.

"You already do," he whispered, breath hot against your skin. "Every time you squeeze me, every time you say my name like that."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him tighter, desperate. You squeezed around him, voice trembling with need. "Dean... I'm so close. Don't stop. Make me cum."

His hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady. "Cum for me, baby. I want to feel that pussy milk my cock."

You gasped, voice trembling with need. "Dean... you're making me cum... your cock is making me cum so hard."

A raw, satisfied sound ripped from his chest. "That's it. I can feel you, baby. Cumming all over my cock like a good girl. Milking me with that pretty little pussy."

Your walls pulsed around him, tight and trembling, as the heat spiraled through you, washing over every nerve ending with sharp, delicious fire. Your breath caught, high and broken, nails digging into his arms to keep from falling apart completely.

Dean's hand slid under your cheek, gripping hard enough to ground you, while the other pressed your thigh wider, holding you open like he owned every part of you.

You were still trembling from your orgasm, body oversensitive and warm beneath him. But even through the haze, you could feel how close he was — the tight strain in his muscles, the way his thrusts had turned desperate, almost shaky.

He groaned against your throat, voice frayed. "Fuck... baby... you feel so good. I'm not gonna last much longer..."

You smiled lazily, satisfied and breathless, and let your voice drop into something softer, sultrier. "Good. I want you to cum for me."

He let out a sharp breath, hips stuttering.

"You made me fall apart, Dean," you whispered, fingers dragging through the sweat-damp hair at the back of his neck. "Now I want to feel you lose control."

His hand gripped your thigh harder, pace faltering.

"You feel how wet I am for you?" you whispered against his ear. "Still dripping from how hard you made me cum. That's all for you."

"Shit," he growled, the word nearly a gasp.

You squeezed around him, even though you were sensitive, loving the way it made him groan deep in his chest. "Come on, baby. Fill me up. I want it — I want all of it. I want to feel you throb inside me."

His body tensed above you, his breath catching. "I'm gonna cum—fuck, I'm cumming—"

You gasped, your body arching to meet him as you felt the heat flood into you, thick and hot. "Yes, Dean... I feel you," you whispered, voice trembling. "I feel you cumming inside me. God, that's it—give it to me."

He moaned into your skin, hips rolling through the aftershocks as you held him tight, grounding him while he emptied himself inside you.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, breathless. "So deep... I can feel all of you."

He slumped against you, heart racing, forehead pressed to yours.

"...That was unreal," he said finally, voice rough, low in your ear.

He pulled out slow—too slow—and you felt every ridge of him drag against your walls. His hands stayed on you—one steady at your waist, the other trailing lazy, possessive circles on your thigh.

After a few beats of silence, he shifted slightly, breath still uneven. "Talk to me. You got quiet..." His voice was low, a little rough, but softer now. "Did you... like it?"

There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, just for a second — like he wasn't sure if he'd taken too much or given enough. Like he needed to hear it.

You looked up at him, eyes still half-lidded, dazed. The words were slow to form, thick in your throat.

You nodded, barely able to speak. "You're everything I imagined."

Dean smirked faintly. "And those hands?"

You slid your fingers along his forearm, kissed the inside of his wrist.

"Obsessed."

Dividers by @easytiger-xo 🩵

[taraschof]

DEAN WINCHESTER in one random episode per day ‣ 327/327 1.14 NIGHTMARE

[taraschof]

Masterlist

Dean Winchester oneshots

Under the hood - Unable to sleep after a hunt, you find Dean in the garage. One thing leads to another, and the tension between you finally boils over.

The show between us - Two bodies, two beds, one burning show of want — no touching, just raw need and shared release.

Yours (Request) - Years of tension explode when Dean finally claims what's always been his — you. Steamy, emotional best-friends-to-lovers.

In his hands - You'd always been obsessed with his hands — steady, rough, built to break. You never guessed how slow they'd wreck you once they finally touched you.

The show between us Pt.2 (Request) - After weeks of dancing around what was left unspoken, a quiet night in a shared motel bed finally shatters the distance between you and Dean. Tension gives way to confession, restraint to need, and nothing feels uncertain anymore.

Behind the dive - One teasing dance was all it took. Now the alley's quiet, the bar's still thumping—and Dean's making sure you learn what happens when you push him too far.

The show between us Pt.3 (Request) - After days of simmering tension, one quiet night becomes the breaking point. Promises are kept, boundaries fall, and nothing between them is left unanswered.

Lessons in obedience - You're young and fearless; he's older and guarded. When you start pushing his boundaries in the bunker, your age difference suddenly feels less important than the heat between you.

Dean Winchester series

- Originally posted on Wattpad, I’ll move them here as well soon.🩵 (Can also be read on AO3.)

What he doesn’t know - age gap, father’s best friend, Dean x female OC, smut, romance, fluff, drama, betrayal

Whispers of the spiral - mystery, action, adventure, romance, Dean x female OC, slowburn, smut

Dividers by the amazing @easytiger-xo 🩵

[taraschof]

The request you wrote was so amazingly written! You're so talented!!! ❤️❤️

Thank you so much, that means a lot to me! I’ve never written a request before, so I wasn’t totally sure what direction to take. I wasn’t sure if you were hoping for something more smutty like my other oneshots or fluffy, but as I started writing, the fluffier tone just felt right.🩵

[taraschof]

Hi! I'd like to request a Dean Winchester smut. Dean and the reader are best friends who have been secretly pining over each other for years. Dean realizes he's in love with the reader when the reader is getting hit on while working a case or something. Dean starts crossing the line in the Impala on the drive back to the bunker or motel room, they fully cross the line when they get to the bunker or motel room. Dean shows the reader that they're his girl.

(or something like that 🤷🏼‍♀️)

Yours

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~3700

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, praise kink, dirty talk, fluff, soft!Dean, emotional vulnerability, friends to lovers, mild possessiveness, mutual pining, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), aftercare, jealousy.

🔞Minors DNI

📍Summary: Years of tension explode when Dean finally claims what's always been his — you. Steamy, emotional best-friends-to-lovers.

The hunt was over. The bones were burned, the EMF was silent, and for once, nobody ended up bleeding or half-dead. Dean called that a win worth celebrating.

So, naturally, the bar you ended up in was small-town classic — neon signs, creaky floorboards, and a jukebox that hadn't been updated since the late '90s. It wasn't fancy, but the drinks were strong, the beer was cold, and the people didn't ask too many questions. Just Dean's kind of place.

You were laughing when he slid the first bottle across the table toward you, your eyes bright in the amber glow of the bar lights. "One of the few times we've wrapped a case without a trip to the ER or patching each other up in a motel room," you said, clinking your bottle with his.

Dean grinned, leaning back in his chair. "We're gettin' soft."

"Speak for yourself, old man."

He gave you a mock glare, but your smirk only deepened. The truth was, this was his favorite part of the job — not the salt, not the blood, not killing the bad guy, but this. You. Sitting across from him, grinning like you belonged nowhere else. Even with the scars on your body from the werewolf hunt last fall. Even with the dark circles under your eyes from a week of research and restless motel beds. You were radiant.

And he was in so much goddamn trouble.

Dean had been fighting it for years. Telling himself it was just the job, just the way things were when you spent every day and night with someone. Of course you got close. Of course you got protective. Of course he noticed the way you smiled when you were tired and tried to hide it. Or how you always sat shotgun in Baby like it was your throne.

But tonight, something was different. He could feel it, creeping under his skin.

It didn't help when you slid off your bar stool, heading toward the jukebox with a sway in your hips that made his mouth go dry. He didn't even think you were trying — hell, you were just you. But Dean's eyes followed you like they were on a leash.

And that's when it happened.

Some local — tall, scruffy, too clean-cut to have ever seen a ghost — sidled up beside you while you were scrolling through the song list. Dean's beer paused halfway to his lips as he watched the guy lean in, saying something that made you laugh politely.

Dean's jaw clenched.

He tried to play it cool, took another sip, but his eyes stayed locked on the two of you. The guy was still talking. You were smiling, a little uncomfortable but too nice to blow him off.

Dean hated it.

The guy touched your arm.

And that was it.

He was up before he even realized it, beer bottle left sweating on the table. He crossed the room in a few long strides, slid up beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, laying his hand low on your back — possessive, warm. Your eyes widened slightly, catching the warning heat in his gaze. "Everything okay here?"

The guy looked between you and Dean, backing off with an awkward chuckle. "Didn't know she was taken, man. My bad."

Dean didn't say a word — just raised an eyebrow, arm still around you. The guy muttered something and disappeared into the crowd.

You stared at Dean, your voice low. "Seriously?"

He finally met your eyes, a little breathless and full of something heavy. "What?"

"You chased off a guy who was just talking to me."

"He had his hand on you."

You snorted. "Barely."

"Didn't like it."

The air between you shifted, like something pulling tight. You studied him, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again. The music from the jukebox started — something classic and slow, but his brain barely registered it.

You were still looking at him like you were waiting for an answer.

"Just didn't," he said, too soft.

You exhaled, brushing your fingers through your hair. "We should go."

Dean nodded, his voice caught in his throat. "Yeah. Let's go."

The night air was cool as you walked side-by-side toward the Impala, but Dean didn't offer a joke or a sideways glance. He was quiet, pensive, unlocking the passenger door without a word.

You slid in, glancing at him as he circled around to the driver's side.

Inside, the Impala was dark and intimate, filled with the scent of old leather and motor oil — and you.

Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary as he pulled onto the road, headlights carving through the night. For a while, neither of you spoke.

You finally broke the silence. "Dean."

He glanced over, jaw still clenched. "Yeah?"

"You gonna tell me what that was about back there? Or are we gonna pretend you didn't nearly growl at a stranger for saying hi to me?"

His fingers drummed on the wheel. "Didn't like him."

"You don't like anyone I talk to."

"Because they don't know you."

You blinked. "And you do?"

He turned his head slightly, gaze serious. "Better than anyone."

Your breath caught.

Dean looked back to the road, but his hand left the wheel — drifting between you, resting palm-up on the seat. An offering.

You stared at it, then slowly reached over, placing your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, rough and warm.

"I know you, sweetheart," he said, voice low. "And I've been tryin' real damn hard to pretend that's all I needed. But it's not."

You turned in your seat, fully facing him now. "Dean..."

"I saw that guy looking at you," he went on, like he couldn't stop now that it had started. "And I wanted to knock his teeth in. That's not just a best friend thing. That's not 'watch each other's back on a hunt' kind of thing."

You were quiet, watching him with wide, soft eyes.

Dean glanced over again, and when he saw you hadn't pulled away, hadn't laughed it off, he kept going.

"I don't want to be the guy who drives you to your date. I want to be the guy, the reason, you don't need anyone else around."

You squeezed his hand.

"You've always been that guy, Dean."

The road stretched out in front of you, long and dark, lined with pine trees and the occasional flicker of distant headlights. Inside the Impala, silence hung heavier than ever — not awkward, not empty. Just... charged.

Dean's thumb was tracing slow, deliberate circles on the back of your hand. Every now and then, his fingers would tighten just slightly, like he was checking to see if you were still real.

You were watching him out of the corner of your eye. The steady cut of his jaw, the way his mouth twitched like he wanted to say something but couldn't get the words out.

You broke the silence first. "You actually meant it?"

He didn't look over. "Yeah."

"You've been holding that in for how long?"

His laugh was a single breath through his nose. "Too long."

"I always wondered."

That got his attention. He glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. "Wondered what?"

"If you felt it too. I thought I was crazy some nights. Especially after hunts. Or when you'd get that look in your eye and I'd catch you staring."

Dean's grip on the wheel flexed. "Wasn't just looking."

"I know that now."

He swallowed, hard. "You could've had any guy. That guy back at the bar? He looked at you like you were the goddamn sun."

You leaned in, voice soft. "And I still wanted you."

Dean slammed on the brakes.

Not hard — not screeching or dangerous — just enough to pull off the road and bring the Impala to a stop on the gravel shoulder. Trees surrounded the car, the world beyond cloaked in quiet darkness.

You didn't ask what he was doing. You didn't have to.

Dean turned toward you, his face cast in moonlight and shadows. "Say it again."

Your pulse skipped. "I still wanted you."

He didn't hesitate. His hand came up, cupping the back of your neck, pulling you toward him like he couldn't hold back another second.

The first kiss was rough, hungry, years of restraint finally crumbling. His lips claimed yours with a growl in his throat, his other hand sliding up your thigh like it belonged there. You made a soft noise against his mouth, and that seemed to unravel whatever was left of his control.

Dean broke the kiss just long enough to mutter, "Come here," tugging you across the bench seat. You climbed over without protest, settling into his lap with your knees bracketing his thighs, one hand braced on the seat behind him, the other curled into his flannel.

"This okay?" he asked, voice wrecked, like it killed him to even ask.

"Yeah," you whispered. "God, Dean, yeah."

He kissed you again, slower this time, lips soft but insistent. His tongue swept past your lips, teasing, coaxing moans out of you that you couldn't hold back. His hands were everywhere — one gripping your waist, the other tangled in your hair. You could feel him growing hard beneath you, shifting under your weight.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown. "You're mine," he said, like it was a promise. "You know that, right? I don't give a damn how long it took me to say it. You're mine."

"I've always been yours."

Dean let out a sound that was almost a groan, resting his forehead against yours. "You say things like that, and I'm not gonna make it back to the motel."

You grinned. "So don't."

That earned you a shaky laugh. "Tempting."

You rocked your hips once — just enough to feel him twitch underneath you. His breath hitched.

"We should—" he began, then cursed. "We should get back. But as soon as we do..."

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean."

His arms tightened around you. "I need to show you. All of it. Not just the wanting. Not just the sex. I need you to feel how much I love you."

You kissed the corner of his mouth. "Then drive."

The motel wasn't far — just fifteen minutes down a back road — but it felt like an hour. Dean kept one hand on the wheel and the other gripping your thigh, thumb dragging lazy circles up and down your thigh. Every red light was torture. Every glance he stole in your direction was laced with heat.

By the time he parked, the silence between you had morphed into a wildfire.

He didn't speak as you both got out of the car. Didn't speak as he unlocked the room, stepped inside, and waited for you to follow.

You barely had the door closed before he was on you again — pressing you back against it, mouth devouring yours with a hunger that made your knees weak. His hands slid under your shirt, over your back, your ribs, cupping your breasts through your bra like he was memorizing every inch.

"Fuck," he breathed against your neck. "You're perfect. You're so goddamn perfect."

You pulled at his jacket, flannel, shirt — anything you could get your hands on — until he was warm and bare under your touch. Dean made a rough noise as your fingers skimmed his chest, his hands going to your hips, tugging you against him.

"Need you," he said, voice shaking. "Need you right now."

"Then take me."

His mouth crushed against yours again, and then you were being lifted — legs around his waist, his hands supporting you with ease as he carried you to the bed. He laid you down gently, reverently, before crawling over you like a man starved.

"I've dreamed about this," he murmured, kissing a line down your throat, over your collarbone, hands sliding under your top to push it up. "About you. About hearing the sounds you'd make for me."

You arched into him as he dipped his head, mouth latching onto your breast through your bra, sucking gently before tugging the fabric down to expose you fully.

"Dean," you gasped.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured. "Say my name. Let me hear it."

He worshiped you with lips and hands, slow and thorough — like this wasn't just lust, but something deeper. Like you were holy. Untouchable by anyone but him.

And when he finally slid your underwear down, kissed the inside of your thigh, and looked up at you with fire in his eyes, you knew: this wasn't about possession.

It was about love.

And it was just beginning.

"You have no idea what this is doing to me," he murmured, voice low and rough. "Seeing you like this. Trusting me like this."

"I've always trusted you, Dean," you whispered.

His expression shifted — softened — but there was something behind his eyes now. Not just want. Need.

"Not like this," he said, dragging his fingers slowly up your thighs, palms warm and reverent. "Not when I've got you naked and moaning my name. Not when I finally get to touch you the way I've dreamed about for years."

You gasped as his hands found your hips, guiding your legs apart. His mouth hovered just over your center, warm breath ghosting against your skin. He looked up at you with that look—dark, intense, completely focused on you.

"Tell me you want this," he said. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," you breathed. "I've always wanted you."

That was all it took.

Dean dipped his head and ran his tongue through your folds, slow and deep, like he was tasting something forbidden. Your back arched off the mattress immediately, a moan catching in your throat as he groaned against you like you were the one unraveling him.

"Jesus," he murmured. "You taste so fucking sweet."

He settled between your thighs like he was meant to be there — like he'd never let anyone else near this part of you. His tongue was firm and skilled, finding your clit and laving slow, rhythmic strokes that built you up with devastating precision. One of his hands splayed against your stomach, the other wrapping around your thigh, keeping you open for him.

"Dean," you gasped, threading your fingers through his hair.

He looked up again, mouth wet, lips curved into the faintest smirk. "Say it again."

"Dean—fuck, please—"

"That's it, sweetheart," he growled. "Wanna hear you fall apart for me."

And you did.

It wasn't just the way he moved, or how easily he read your body. It was the way he moaned into you when your hips bucked. The way he praised you like you were a gift.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured between strokes. "So fuckin' perfect. Mine. All mine."

Your orgasm crept up fast — hotter, deeper than you expected — and when it broke, it ripped through you with a sob of his name. Dean didn't stop until you were shaking, hips twitching beneath him, eyes glazed and mouth slack from the pleasure.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick, his eyes dark with awe and hunger.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, chest heaving. "Better than okay."

Dean leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You groaned into his mouth, clinging to him as he settled his weight above you.

"I need to feel you," you whispered against his lips. "All of you. Please."

He didn't respond with words. Just kissed you again and reached down between your bodies, undoing his jeans with one hand. You watched, breath caught, as he pushed them down along with his boxers.

Your mouth parted slightly at the sight of him — thick, hard, flushed and leaking.

Dean noticed. Smirked, but just barely.

"Still with me?" he asked, voice rough.

You smiled and reached down to wrap your fingers around him, earning a hiss through his teeth. "I've been waiting for this forever."

He let his forehead fall to yours, eyes fluttering closed.

"Condom's in the bag—" he started.

You cut him off. "I'm clean and on birth control. It's okay. I trust you."

Dean froze for a second, then groaned low in his throat. "Fuck."

He lined himself up, but didn't move — just hovered there, looking at you like you were everything.

"This isn't just sex," he said quietly, seriously. "This is me giving you every damn part of myself. You sure you want that?"

You pulled him in, hands on his face. "Dean, I'm already yours."

He kissed you once, softly — and then he was sliding inside.

The stretch made you gasp — thick and slow and deep — and he gritted his teeth, breathing hard through his nose like he was barely holding on.

"God, you feel good," he groaned. "So tight around me. Like you were made for me."

You moaned, clutching at his shoulders, and he finally began to move — slow thrusts that rocked your body into the mattress, his chest pressing against yours with every roll of his hips.

He kissed you through it. Touched you like you were fragile and precious and powerful all at once. Every movement was careful but needy. Intense.

"I've thought about this," he panted. "So many nights. Fucking into my hand and thinking about you. About how you'd sound. How you'd feel. How good it would be to finally make you mine."

"Dean—" Your voice cracked, the words caught between pleasure and emotion.

"I've got you, baby. You're doing so good for me. Taking me so well."

His hand drifted between your bodies, fingers circling your clit again, sending lightning through your core. He kissed your cheek, your neck, your shoulder — whispered more praise, more truths.

"So perfect."

"So goddamn beautiful."

"My girl."

The second orgasm hit harder — pulled from you with a cry, your body convulsing around him. Dean cursed as he felt you clamp down on him, his rhythm faltering.

"Fuck—'m not gonna last," he groaned. "You feel too good—baby, please—"

You kissed him again, your hands in his hair, and whispered, "Come inside me. I want to feel it. All of you."

Dean let out a strangled sound — and then he was burying himself deep, body tensing as he spilled inside you with a low, broken moan of your name. His arms shook around you, breath ragged, forehead pressed to yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathing. Just holding.

Finally, Dean lifted his head, kissed your nose.

"Mine," he whispered again, softer now. "Always been mine."

You smiled up at him, eyes glassy. "And you've always been mine."

Everything was quiet for a while, except for the hum of the motel's old heater and the sound of Dean's breathing — still heavy, a little uneven as he hovered above you, one arm shaking slightly with the effort to keep his weight off you.

His forehead was pressed to yours. His eyes were closed.

He wasn't rushing. Wasn't pulling away.

Dean Winchester, the man who used to bolt after one-night stands and awkward morning-after silences, was staying exactly where he was. Because this wasn't just a night. This was you.

And you were still holding him like he was something precious.

After a long moment, he finally shifted, kissing you slow, soft. It wasn't desperate this time. Just real.

He whispered against your lips, "You okay, baby?"

You nodded, threading your fingers through his hair. "Better than okay."

Dean smiled — really smiled — then pulled out slowly, carefully, like he couldn't stand the thought of hurting you. He rolled over beside you and immediately pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head.

"You feel that?" he murmured, heart pounding under your ear.

You nodded against his skin.

"That's yours."

You closed your eyes, wrapping an arm around his waist.

He kissed your temple, lingering there like he never wanted to leave. "I should've said something a long time ago."

"You're saying it now."

"Yeah," he whispered. "But you were right there. All this time. You were mine and I was too stupid to see it."

You looked up at him, eyes soft. "You weren't stupid, Dean. We both needed time."

He traced your cheek with the back of his hand. "No more time," he said. "No more pretending. You're not just my best friend. You're my everything. My girl."

Your heart clenched at the raw honesty in his voice — the way he said it like it was being ripped from his chest.

You leaned up and kissed him, slow and sweet. "Then be mine."

He smiled against your lips. "I already am."

You nestled back against him, and Dean shifted to drape the covers over both of you. His hand settled on your hip, fingers splayed like he couldn't stop touching you even now. He pulled you in tighter, your bare legs tangled with his, skin to skin.

Minutes passed like that. Quiet. Close.

Then Dean spoke again, voice soft in the dark.

"You know, back at the bar... when I saw that guy looking at you, I felt like I couldn't breathe. Not just because he was touching you. It was more than that. I realized if I didn't say something, I might lose you to someone who would."

You tilted your head up, brushing your nose along his jaw. "You never had to worry about that."

Dean looked down at you, eyes shining even in the low light. "You mean that?"

"I've loved you for years, Dean. You didn't have to touch me to have me. You already did."

His throat worked around the lump there. "Say it again."

"I love you."

He kissed you, again and again — slow and sweet and overwhelmed. "I love you too. So much it scares the hell outta me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You better not," he said, arms tightening around you. "Because now that I've had you like this, I'm never letting go.”

Later, when you finally drifted to sleep wrapped in his arms, Dean stayed awake a while longer, just watching you breathe. His fingers traced gentle patterns across your back, his lips brushing your shoulder every so often like a silent vow.

He didn't know what came next — what hunt, what danger — but one thing was carved into him now, clearer than salt lines or sigils.

You were his.

And he was yours.

Always.

Dividers by the amazing @easytiger-xo🩵

[taraschof]

The show between us

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~2900

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Mutual masturbation, voyeurism, sexual tension, motel-room setting, two beds, mutual pining, fingering, dirty talk, handjob.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: Two bodies, two beds, one burning show of want — no touching, just raw need and shared release.

You’re not sure what woke you — maybe it was the buzz of the neon sign outside bleeding red into the cheap motel curtains, or the faint hum of the AC rattling in the wall. Maybe it was the familiar ache of bruises blooming beneath your skin, reminders of the nest of vamps you and Dean took down six hours ago.

Or maybe it was just him.

Dean Winchester — lying six feet away in the next bed, close enough to hear breathe, far enough to pretend he's never looked at you the way he has.

You're curled on your side, eyes open now, facing the window. The sheet is bunched around your legs, your oversized sleep shirt twisted across your hips, the cotton damp at the small of your back. You tell yourself it's the leftover adrenaline. That it's the motel mattress. That it's you being in your head again.

But that's not it. Not really.

The truth is: you've never been able to sleep well when he's this close. And not just because you've been hunting together too long. Not because he's loud, or moves too much, or leaves the room smelling like leather and warm soap and aftershave.

No. It's worse than that.

You're restless because you want him. Always have. In every moment he's stood too close, and every night he's tossed you the keys to the Impala with that half-smile and a "Try not to wreck my baby." Every time he's said your name like a warning. Or a prayer.

And still — you've never crossed that line.

It's not like you didn't come close.

There was that motel in North Carolina, last spring. Your thighs wrapped around his waist, both of you too drunk on adrenaline and whiskey and whatever-the-hell-that-case-was to pull back. But he did. Right after you kissed. Just before you could fall headfirst into something you wouldn't come back from.

You never talked about it.

You just kept hunting. Kept sleeping in two beds. Kept pretending you didn't hear his footsteps pacing the floor when he thought you were out cold. Kept pretending you didn't hear the low, strained noises he made behind locked bathroom doors.

You'd started doing it too — late at night, when you were sure he was asleep, hand between your legs and Dean's name in your mouth.

So tonight, when the silence deepens, when the hum of the AC becomes a backdrop instead of a distraction — you know exactly what's happening.

You hear it.

Soft. Subtle.

The creak of the mattress. The slide of a sheet. A breath, drawn in deep and slow.

Your body tenses before you can stop it. You know that sound.

You've imagined it.

You've wanted it.

And Dean thinks you're asleep.

You lie perfectly still.

The motion is slow, practiced. You can picture it — the arch of his brow, the furrow between his eyes, his sharp jaw tight as he fists himself under the covers. The stutter of breath he never lets anyone hear.

Except now. He's letting you hear it.

By mistake.

You press your thighs together, heart thudding. You shouldn't be listening. You shouldn't be this wet just from the sound of him needing something you're right there to give.

And then, low and ragged:

"Fuck... Y/N..."

It's not even a moan. It's barely above a whisper.

But it breaks you.

Your eyes fly open. You stare at the window, breath caught in your throat. Heat floods every inch of you.

He said your name.

You shift just slightly, the sheet rustling against your skin. You don't mean to make a sound — but it slips out anyway. Barely there. But enough.

The motion on the other bed stops.

A pause.

Then his voice — quiet, raspy, too casual to be casual. "You awake?"

You swallow. Mouth dry. Every nerve on fire. Not knowing what to do. Do you pretend to be asleep? Do you acknowledge what you've heard? After a brief moment of hesitation you just say, "...Yeah."

There's a longer silence this time. You imagine him trying to decide whether to play it off, pretend it didn't happen. But then he says,  "Shit." A mutter. Almost self-directed. "Didn't mean to— I thought you were out cold."

You roll over. Slowly. Face him.

The red light from the window flickers across his bare chest. His sheet's fallen to his waist. His hand — the guilty one — is no longer moving, but it's not hidden either. His skin is flushed. His hair mussed. And his eyes... his eyes are all over you.

"Were you saying my name?" you ask, voice like smoke.

Dean doesn't answer immediately.

He just looks at you — no bravado, no smirk.

"Yeah, sorry," he says, finally. "I didn't mean to."

That admission hangs between you, trembling with everything unsaid.

You don't feel embarrassed. Not even close.

Instead, your thighs squeeze together again, and you swear his gaze drops — just for a second — before flicking back to your face.

"Were you thinking about me?" you whisper.

Dean drags a hand down his face. Frustrated. Like the truth's already out, and it's too late to put it back.

"I always think about you," he says. "Try not to. Doesn't work."

You breathe out.

Slow.

Measured.

Your fingers curl in the sheet, knuckles whitening.

"Then why haven't you—"

"Because I didn't want to mess it up," Dean cuts in. He sits up slightly, his voice rough, urgent. "We work good together just the way we are. You and me. The job's already hell. I didn't want to make it harder. Didn't want to lose you."

Your heart stutters. Not because it's not what you've felt, too — but because it is.

You've spent months trying to keep your hands to yourself. Trying not to let your eyes linger when his shirt rides up. Trying not to react when his voice drops low and he calls you sweetheart in that way that's too intimate for casual, but not enough to mean something.

And now here you are. Two people. Two beds. A line drawn in the dark.

But tonight... tonight feels different.

"I'm still here," you say. "Even after hearing you say my name like that. You haven't messed it up."

A short, breathy laugh escapes him.

"Yeah?" he murmurs. "Still gonna be there if I tell you I've been losing sleep over you for months?"

"You want honesty?" you ask.

"Always."

You hold his gaze.

"I've touched myself thinking about you. In this bed. The last three motels. Hell, even in the back seat of the Impala, when I thought you were asleep."

Dean's eyes burn. His jaw clenches like he's fighting every instinct to get out of that bed and cross the space between you.

But he doesn't.

Because that's the unspoken rule.

No touching.

Not tonight.

The air between you is charged — not just with want, but with years of restraint, all of it unraveling thread by thread.

You don't breathe. Not really. Just let your fingers slowly, carefully curl into the sheets like you're bracing yourself for something you can't take back.

"Keep going," you say suddenly, surprising even yourself for a second. The words fall out like smoke — thin, hot, dangerous.

Dean blinks once. Twice. His brows lift slightly, but his mouth doesn't move. Like he's trying to catch up with what you just said, or maybe trying to stop himself from hoping he heard you right.

"What?"

You push up onto your elbows, the sheet sliding down your body just enough to reveal the edge of your thigh. The motel air kisses your skin, already warm from anticipation.

"You heard me." Your voice is firmer now. Steady, deliberate. Like you've made your choice. "Keep going."

Dean doesn't move at first.

He just looks at you — long and hard — like he's scanning for signs this is some elaborate dream. Like any second now, you're going to vanish and he'll wake up stiff and aching in a cold bed.

"You sure?" he asks, voice roughened with restraint.

"Dean," you say, voice low, mouth curving at the edge, "don't make me say it again."

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

Then slowly — deliberately — his hand moves again under the sheet.

You watch the slow shift of his wrist beneath the fabric, the subtle ripple of muscle in his arm, the rise of his chest as he breathes harder through his nose. His knuckles graze the edge of the sheet and you catch a glimpse — just a glimpse — of the head of his cock, flushed and glistening.

You could look away.

You don't.

"And what about you?" he rasps, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "You just gonna watch me lose my fuckin' mind, or..."

Your hand moves, almost involuntarily — down your stomach, over the swell of your hip. You let your fingers drift down your body, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh just as much as you're teasing him.

Dean's breath hitches audibly.

That's when the air in the room shifts — goes from warm to molten.

There's no turning back now.

Dean doesn't say another word.

He pushes the sheet down with one flick of his wrist, revealing the full length of his cock, thick and hard and gleaming under the flicker of neon light bleeding through the window. His hand is wrapped around it, slowly dragging upward with a practiced stroke that makes your mouth go dry.

"Goddamn," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

His eyes snap to yours.

And he smirks.

Not the cocky bar-smile he throws at waitresses and demons and things that want to kill him.

This one is darker. Private. Like it belongs to you alone.

"This doin' it for you?" he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. "Me, just stroking it for you like this?"

Your hips shift, need pulling tight in your core.

"More than you know."

His hand moves faster. Not hard — not desperate — just steady. Controlled. Like he wants to show you exactly how he handles himself when he's alone with your name in his head.

"You ever watch me when you thought I didn't know?" he asks, voice like sandpaper and sin.

You nod, breath catching.

"You in the Impala," you say. "Hands on the wheel, jaw tight, thighs spread... You'd bite your lip when you were angry. All I could think about was getting between them, sucking the anger out of you."

He groans like the sound is being pulled from his spine. "Fuckin' hell..."

His hand works in a steady pace, the wet slick of skin audible in the thick quiet. His thumb rolls over the tip, smearing precum as his hips jerk slightly under the pressure.

"Your turn," he growls. "Play with that pretty pussy for me," he rasps, voice thick with need.

Your fingers dip between your thighs at his command, teasing the slick folds of your pussy.

Already soaked. Already swollen and desperate. The ache's been there all night — no, longer — but now it's sharper. More focused. Him.

Dean's watching you like he's starved.

"Stroke that cock for me," you breathe, repaying the command, voice rough, eyes never leaving his.

His hand tightens around himself, moving faster now, steady and sure.

"Jesus, sweetheart..."

His eyes drop to your hand as you circle your clit with slow, deliberate strokes, back arching off the bed slightly. You part your legs wider, letting the sheet fall further down.

"This what you wanted to see?" you murmur. "Me, soaked and moaning your name while you stroke that cock for me?"

Dean hisses between his teeth. "That's exactly what I fuckin' wanted."

"Thought about your mouth," you whisper, fingers rubbing steady circles. "How good it'd feel when you made me cum. Over and over."

His hips buck at that, cock twitching in his fist. "Goddamn... You're fuckin' filthy."

"So are you."

"You got no fuckin' idea."

His voice is a rasp now, almost guttural, chest heaving with every breath. His forearm flexes with each stroke, veins standing out, and every time he groans it feels like it vibrates through your ribs.

Your hand moves faster now, slick sounds filling the room alongside his heavy breathing.

"Dean," you murmur, voice barely audible, "if I asked you... what would you do to me right now?"

His eyes darken, that smoldering heat building until it's nearly unbearable.

"I'd start with your neck—kiss it slow, make you shiver. Then my hands, sliding down your sides, gripping your hips tight enough so you know I'm not letting go."

You swallow hard, heat blooming through your chest.

"I'd trail my lips lower," Dean continues, "over your ribs, your stomach, down to where you're wet and waiting. I'd tease you—light touches at first, then, legs spread, eyes on me. I'd start slow — tongue teasing your clit, fingers working you open. I'd take my time, make you beg."

His hand moves steady and sure, strokes firm, matching the image he's painting.

"I'd want to hear you—soft moans turning to desperate gasps. I'd make you come undone with just my mouth and hands before I even touch the rest of you."

His breathing is heavy and desperate, just like yours.

“And when you're right on the edge, moaning my name, hips trying to grind into my mouth, I'd hold you down... keep you there until you fall apart just for me. Wet. Shaking. So fuckin' beautiful."

You suck in a breath, thighs squeezing around your hand.

"Then I'd flip you over," he growls, the words spilling like sin, "grab your hips, and slide inside. Hard. Deep. Until you're dripping down my cock."

His voice roughens to a whisper.

"And when I finally let go, I'd bury myself in you and cum so deep, you'd feel me for days."

Your breath stutters — a soft, broken sound.

Dean's still watching you, hand working on his cock, chest rising and falling with every word he can't take back.

"Now you tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you'd do to me."

You shift on the mattress, heat rolling off your skin. You want him to hear it — every filthy detail.

"I'd straddle you," you say, voice steady but thick with want. "Hold your wrists down and kiss you until you're gasping into my mouth. I'd grind on you slow, just to feel how hard you are. Tease you until you're begging me to ride you."

Dean groans softly, hand moving faster as he imagines what you're describing for him.

"Then I'd slide down," you continue, "wrap my lips around your cock and take you deep. Hollow my cheeks. Work my throat around you until you're grabbing the sheets and cursing my name."

Your fingers work on your clit, slowly, deliberately, making you pant and moan.

"Then I'd climb on top and sink down on you. Tight. Wet. I'd fuck you so hard, Dean. Hands on your chest, nails in your skin. I'd keep going until you're losing control."

His head tips back, eyes closing and jaw clenched, chest heaving.

"And when I cum..." you whisper breathily, "I'd do it with your name on my tongue, screaming it while you're buried inside me, filling me up, pulsing deep, making me feel every fucking drop."

Dean's breath stutters, a low groan tearing from his throat. His hand moves frantically now, with urgency and desperation. "Bet you're clenching already," he pants. "Bet you're fuckin' dripping."

You try to answer, but the only thing you're capable of getting out is a moan.

Your wrist flexes, two fingers plunging into yourself, pace matching the rhythm he's set. Your other hand squeezes your breast, fingernails biting in just hard enough to sting.

“You close?" you whisper, watching him unravel.

"God, yes. You?"

"On the edge."

"Then cum with me," he growls, voice rough and breaking. "Make that pretty pussy cum for me. Let me hear you."

You moan aloud, no hesitation.

"Cum with me," you whisper, breathless. "I wanna see that cock twitch, watch you fall apart."

The orgasm hits you like a freight train.

Your whole body jerks, thighs clenching, fingers soaked and still moving as you cry out — not shy, not quiet. Raw.

Dean's groan rips through the air as he falls with you — hips jerking, cum striping his stomach and chest as he calls your name like a prayer he's been holding in for years.

You're both wrecked.

You lie there, panting, trembling, staring at each other across the room like you've survived a war.

And maybe you have.

Maybe the years of wanting and not having were a kind of battle.

The room falls quiet, save for the low hum of the motel AC and the sound of your breathing trying to find its rhythm again.

Dean exhales a slow breath like he's been holding it for years. His forearm drapes across his stomach, slick with sweat and cum, chest rising and falling like he's still trying to make sense of gravity.

He glances sideways at you, mouth twitching like he's not sure whether to smile or say something stupid.

"Well. That escalated."

You let out something between a breath and a laugh, cheek pressed to the pillow, limbs heavy and loose. "No shit."

"Next time," he murmurs, "we're not sleeping apart." Dean turns his head, lips parted, voice barely a rasp. "And next time..." he adds, "I'm not doing it with my hand."

You smile, eyes closing as your body starts to settle.

"Next time," you whisper back, "you won't have to."

Dividers by @easytiger-xo

[taraschof]

Do you take requests? 🥺

Hey.👋🏼 I’ve never done any, but I could certainly give it a try.🩵

[taraschof]

Under the hood

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~4000

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex, choking (light/breathplay), degradation (verbal), praise kink, fingering, oral (f receiving and m receiving), unprotected sex, mild possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, aftercare.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: Unable to sleep after a hunt, you find Dean in the garage. One thing leads to another, and the tension between you finally boils over.

The bunker was quieter than usual.

You padded barefoot through the cool stone corridors, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, fingers tucked in your palm like they might warm themselves. It was late — well past midnight — but sleep wasn't coming tonight, not after the hunt. Blood still sang in your veins, your muscles twitching from the echo of adrenaline, and your brain refused to power down.

You'd tried everything: hot shower, whiskey, even lying in bed with your phone screen turned low, scrolling through old texts like nostalgia might lull you to sleep. Nothing worked.

Eventually, you gave up and wandered.

The metallic scent hit you first — oil, steel, and something darker, something so distinctly him. A song drifted down the hall from the garage, low and gravelly: Bob Seger's "Night Moves." You didn't even need to look.

Dean.

You should've turned around. You didn't.

Your feet took you closer without asking permission, your pulse tapping against your ribs. You paused at the threshold. There he was — shirtless, his broad back glistening with sweat under the soft, golden light. He was leaning over the Impala's open hood, one hand buried in the engine, the other wiping at his brow with a grease-streaked rag.

He hadn't noticed you yet.

Or maybe he had, and he was just letting you look.

Your eyes traced the lines of his back — powerful shoulders, the dip of his waist, the sharp V that vanished into worn jeans riding low on his hips. His body was all tension, coiled muscle and quiet control, like a wolf half-asleep in the grass, but ready to pounce.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, voice rougher than gravel, pulling you from the stare you didn't know you'd let linger.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to play it cool. "Neither can you apparently."

Dean glanced over his shoulder, smirking without turning fully. "You know me. Never really learned how to sleep unless I'm half-dead or half-drunk."

You stepped inside the garage, drawn to him like iron to a magnet. "Baby acting up again?"

"She's just being temperamental," he said, patting  the hood fondly. "Needs a patient hand."

You cocked a brow. "Didn't realize you were the patient type."

He straightened and turned toward you fully, rag in hand. The sight hit you square in the chest — sun-kissed skin dusted with freckles and old scars, pecs slick with sweat, a glint of amusement in those green eyes. The towel dragged across his collarbone slow, deliberate, like he knew what he was doing.

"You offering to help?" he asked, the words casual, but there was something loaded beneath.

You took a step closer. "Sure. I'm not bad with my hands."

His grin curled higher on one side. "Yeah? I remember."

That memory wasn't about engines.

You hadn't crossed the line — not fully — but things had danced along it. Too many near-misses. Too many "accidental" touches. Too many nights pressed shoulder to shoulder on motel beds, pretending the tension wasn't thick enough to choke on. But neither of you had been stupid — or brave — enough to take it further.

Until maybe now.

"I could use a second pair of hands," he said, backing away from the hood and tossing the rag to the side. "Come on."

You approached slowly, drawn to the scent of him — leather, sweat, and a trace of whiskey. He handed you a flashlight and gestured toward the engine.

"I'll hold this," you offered, angling the beam. Your arm brushed his as you moved in. He didn't flinch, didn't move away.

His voice dropped low. "You're good at this. Getting in places you shouldn't be."

You angled your head, letting your breath hit his shoulder. "You saying you don't want me here?"

Dean didn't answer right away. He turned slightly, meeting your eyes, and the air between you charged like a live wire. For a long moment, nothing moved except his fingers, idly tightening a bolt that probably didn't need fixing.

Then he said, voice rougher than before, "That's the problem. You're always where I want you."

Your breath hitched.

There it was. The line. Clear as day.

And neither of you were stepping back. Not this time.

He was still so close — close enough that when you exhaled, it ghosted across his lips. Close enough that the heat rolling off his body made your skin ache. His eyes dipped to your mouth, lingered, then dragged back up.

You moved first — or maybe it was him — but suddenly the space between you vanished.

His mouth was on yours, not soft, not sweet. Hungry. Desperate. You kissed him back like you'd been starving too long, and maybe you had. His hands found your waist, pulling you in until you collided chest to chest. The sweat on his skin dampened your hoodie, but you didn't care. Your fingers tangled in the back of his neck, tugging, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

You weren't sure who started moving first, but suddenly your hips were rolling up into his, slow and needy. His jeans were rough against your thighs; your leggings did nothing to mute the heat where you ground against him. Every motion made your clit throb, each pass of friction building pressure that felt criminal to hold back.

Dean growled against your mouth. "You trying to make me lose my mind, sweetheart?"

"I thought that was mutual," you breathed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you — no, pulling you — into each thrust. You rocked together, bodies fully clothed but desperate, lips colliding, teeth catching. You could feel how hard he was through the denim, thick and unrelenting, grinding right against the bundle of nerves that had you gasping with every pass.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasped, pulling back to watch your face. "So goddamn needy... rubbing that pretty little cunt on me like it's all you know how to do."

A sound escaped your throat — something between a whimper and a moan.

He smirked. "That's it. Let me hear it."

You rolled harder into him, chasing the friction like it might save your soul. Dean dipped his head to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, tongue following.

"I could keep you like this all night," he murmured against your skin. "Just grinding on me, soaking through your clothes while I hold you down and tell you what a good girl you are."

Your hips bucked at the praise. "Dean..."

He nipped at your earlobe. "Yeah? That what you need? To be told how fuckin' good you are for me?"

His hand slipped between your bodies and cupped you through the fabric — firm and full-palmed. You gasped, legs tensing.

"Jesus, you're wet. Bet you've been like this all damn night."

"Dean—" It came out like a cry, more plea than name.

Then — just as abruptly — he stepped back a half-pace, his breathing ragged.

For a split second, you thought he was going to stop. Thought maybe sanity had clawed its way back in.

But he reached above your head and slammed the Impala's hood shut with one clean motion. The sound echoed through the garage like a gunshot, final and sharp. His gaze never left yours.

That wasn't a goodbye.

It was a green light.

Before you could speak, he was on you again, one hand fisting in your hoodie to pull you forward, the other bracing behind your thigh as he lifted you effortlessly, guiding your ass back against the warm metal of the car. The Impala's steel groaned softly beneath you, but Dean didn't stop. He kissed you hard, devouring your mouth with his, before pulling back just enough to say, "Take your hoodie off. Let me see you."

You obeyed without hesitation, peeling it off, revealing nothing but bare skin underneath. His eyes darkened.

"No bra?" His voice was low, reverent.

You smiled. "Didn't think I'd need one in the garage."

He made a guttural sound that barely resembled a word. "You're gonna kill me."

He bent and took your breast in his mouth, tongue swirling over a nipple as his hand toyed with the other. You arched under the attention, crying out, thighs clenching around his hips.

"Fucking perfect," he muttered between licks. "You know that?"

Your hands fumbled at his belt, needing more, everything. But Dean caught your wrists.

"Not yet," he said, voice rough. "I'm not done watching you beg."

Then he dropped to his knees.

The shift in power made your breath catch. Dean Winchester — hunter, hero, man who could end gods — was on the ground in front of you, spreading your legs with his big hands, kissing the inside of your thigh through your leggings.

He looked up, voice hoarse. "Can I?"

You nodded, lifting your hips to help him, already unraveling.

He pulled your leggings and panties down in one motion, tossing them somewhere behind him. The cold air on your soaked skin made you shiver — or maybe it was just the heat in his eyes when he saw how wet you were.

"Fuck me," he whispered. "Look at this. Look what I do to you."

Dean didn't dive in.

He took his time.

He kissed the inside of your thighs like he had all night — long, slow licks that barely touched your heat, teasing you until you trembled. His thumbs stroked soft circles along your skin as he spread you wider, his breath ghosting over your center.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm aching,"

Dean looked up at you — pupils blown wide with lust. "Good. I want you strung so tight you'll beg me to let you come."

You let your head fall back, breathless. "Cocky."

"No, baby. Hungry."

Then his mouth finally met your pussy — slow, reverent, and intentional. He started with one long stroke, tongue flat and firm, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. You gasped so sharply your body arched off the Impala.

Dean groaned against you. "Fuck, you taste like heaven."

And then — he devoured you.

He didn't let up, didn't pause, just sucked and licked and fucked you with his tongue like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. His hand gripped your thigh hard, thumb brushing your clit when his mouth needed a second to breathe — not for himself, but to watch you come undone.

He traced every inch of you with his tongue — the soft folds, the slick entrance, the aching bundle of nerves he only touched with maddeningly light flicks. Each time you bucked, he backed off. Each time you moaned, he hummed like he was savoring it.

Two fingers slid inside you, slow at first, letting you feel the stretch. He curled them just right — right there — and your hips jumped, a cry tearing from your throat. His fingers worked you in tandem with his tongue, perfectly in sync, perfectly cruel.

Every flick. Every curl. Every pulse of suction pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

"Already so close," he murmured against you. "You gonna come on my face, sweetheart?"

You nodded frantically, hips canting up into his mouth. "Dean—please—don't stop—"

He didn't. In fact, he doubled down — fingers curling right where you needed them, tongue flicking quick and steady until the pressure snapped.

You cried out his name as your orgasm hit — loud, shuddering, thighs clenched around his head. Dean held you through every wave, drinking you in, not stopping until you twitched with oversensitivity.

He pulled back, jaw slick, eyes half-lidded. "Jesus. You're fuckin' unreal."

Before you could answer, you were sliding off the hood and onto your knees in front of him.

His cock strained hard and thick against the front of his jeans, the fabric darkened where he was leaking. You palmed him through the denim first — slowly, deliberately — pressing your cheek to the bulge just to feel the heat of him, to breathe him in.

Dean groaned low. "Fuck, sweetheart..."

You looked up at him through your lashes as you undid his fly. "Let me, Dean."

He didn't stop you. Couldn't. His jaw was tight, fists clenched at his sides as you pulled him free — flushed and heavy, already twitching in your hand. He was big, thick, the kind of full that made your mouth water.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, gave a slow stroke just to feel the weight of him, and he growled.

"Look at you," he rasped. "Down there like it's where you belong."

You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, teasing, tongue dragging just enough to make him curse under his breath. Then you smiled up at him, lips brushing his crown. "Maybe it is."

Dean hissed, hips bucking instinctively into your mouth. "Fuck. You're gonna be the death of me."

You took him into your mouth, slow at first — tongue swirling, lips tight, hand stroking the rest. He pulsed on your tongue, already so hot, so hard you could feel him fighting the urge to fuck into your mouth. His thighs tensed under your palms. His stomach jumped when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him deep.

"Just like that," he groaned, one hand tangling in your hair, guiding. "You suck cock like you need it."

You moaned around him, letting the vibrations travel straight through him. Spit dripped down your chin, slicking your hand as you twisted it at the base. You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, then pushed deeper again, throat stretching, eyes watering with the effort — and the need.

Dean was panting now, watching you with a look that was half-worship, half-wrecked. "Fuck, baby... You keep this up and I'm not gonna fucking last."

You pulled off with a messy pop, hand still stroking him as you caught your breath. "Then stop me."

And that snapped something in him.

He hauled you to your feet with one hand under your arm, the other fisting in your hair as he kissed you — deep, filthy, open-mouthed. He tasted like sweat and salt and you, and he didn't seem to care, groaning into your mouth like he couldn't get enough.

Then he turned you roughly, spinning you until your stomach hit the Impala's hood. His hand splayed over your back, pressing you down just enough to make you feel it — the weight, the heat, the control he was barely hanging onto.

"Gonna fuck you now," he growled, voice wrecked. "You ready for me?"

You pushed your ass back into his hips, hips with a slow roll, arching just enough to drive him wild. "I've been ready since you opened the hood."

That earned you a slap to your ass — not too hard, just enough to sting and make you gasp.

"Smart mouth," he muttered behind you. "Let's see if I can fuck it shut."

Then he pushed in.

Not all at once — slowly, deliberately, like he wanted to savor every second of your tight heat wrapping around him. You felt every thick inch stretch you open, every ridge drag against your walls until he was seated deep, buried to the hilt. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry as your forehead hit the cool metal of the Impala.

"Jesus, you're tight," he said through gritted teeth. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He gave you a second — one breath, maybe two — before pulling back and slamming forward, the impact rocking you up onto your toes. He set a brutal rhythm, fast and deep, like he was trying to carve his name into your body with every thrust.

"Every time you walked into a room," he grunted, hand gripping your hip tight, "every time you smiled at me, wore those tight little leggings, I thought about this. About bending you over this car and wrecking you."

You moaned, grabbing the edge of the hood. "You're doing a hell of a job at that."

Dean chuckled darkly, thrusting harder. "You like that? Like being used like this? Stuffed full of my cock?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Fuck, yes, I love it. Love how you feel inside me."

His hand came up and wrapped lightly around your throat, guiding your body back against his. His chest was slick with sweat, breath hot against your ear.

"Then take it," he growled. "Take every inch. Be a good girl and take what I give you."

He kept pounding into you — rough, relentless — and you felt yourself climbing fast, too fast, the heat coiling deep in your belly. Every drag of his cock along your walls lit you up. His thumb found your clit, slick from your arousal, and you shattered with a cry — body spasming, thighs shaking, pussy clenching so hard around him that he groaned and nearly lost it right there.

"Shit. I feel that," he hissed. "You're squeezing the hell out of me. You gonna let me come inside this perfect little pussy?"

"Yes," you moaned. "Want it. Want you to come inside me."

His thrusts turned ragged, desperate. He slammed in once, twice, then cursed and came with a roar, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you. He stayed there, breathing hard, chest pressed to your back, arms braced on either side of your body like he needed to hold himself up — or maybe like he couldn't let go.

Slowly, he pulled out, your slick and his dripping between your thighs. He exhaled shakily, forehead pressed to your shoulder, before turning you gently, catching your waist and lifting you onto the Impala's hood, this time facing him.

"I'm not done with you."

You blinked, wrecked. "What?"

His grin was wolfish. "You think I only had one round in me? Sweetheart, I've been waiting months for this."

You laughed softly, shaky, but there was something warm blooming in your chest.

Then his fingers drifted between your legs — slow, featherlight touches that made you twitch. He dragged two fingers through your folds, coated in both of you, and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a moan.

"Still so sweet," he murmured. "You want more?"

You nodded, hips instinctively tilting forward.

He let his hand drift lower again — stroking over your swollen clit, slow and deliberate, while his other hand gripped your thigh and spread you open. He watched the way your body responded, the way your breath hitched.

"I wanna see you fall apart again first," he said. "Wanna watch you come one more time before I fuck you full again."

His fingers slid into you — two, thick, curling right where you needed them — and you cried out, already so sensitive, so raw. But it built fast, sharper this time, pressure curling like a fist in your gut. Dean kissed your inner thigh, then your hip, then your mouth — kissing through your moans as he coaxed another orgasm from your trembling body.

You came with a cry, hips jerking, his name on your lips like a prayer.

And he was hard again.

You felt it when he pressed against you — his cock stiff, hot, pressing against your entrance. This time, he didn't slam in. He took his time, sliding deep with a low groan, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time.

It wasn't rough now — it was intimate.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, legs tight around his waist, grounding yourself in the heat of his body and the way he filled you so completely.

His pace was slow, deep — hips grinding into you in long strokes that made your breath catch. Between each thrust, he whispered things against your skin. Not just filthy, but honest.

"Always wanted you."

"Didn't know how bad until now."

"Wanna wake up with you."

You held him closer, forehead pressed to his, overwhelmed by the connection crackling between you — all heat and heart, all need and something dangerously close to love.

When it started to build again, it felt different. Sweeter. Softer. Like coming home.

He kissed you through it — your mouth, your jaw, your throat. "Come with me," he whispered. "Let me feel it."

You did — together, bodies trembling, breath tangled, everything melting into a perfect, breathless hush.

Dean was still half on top of you, the curve of your body cradled against his. Your legs had slid from around his waist, but his arms hadn't moved an inch. One was beneath you, palm splayed across your back, the other resting protectively across your stomach, fingers curled just under your ribs like he couldn't quite stop holding on.

His chest was still rising fast against yours, each exhale hot where it hit your collarbone.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Just the ticking of cooling engine metal and the shared space where sweat met skin.

Then Dean let out a breath — low, steady, not quite a sigh. He shifted just enough to nuzzle his nose along your jaw, stubble rasping gently across your skin.

"You good?" he asked, voice quieter than you'd ever heard it.

You nodded, the movement brushing your cheek against his. "Yeah. You?"

He gave a soft hum, chest rumbling where it pressed against you. "Yeah. Just..." He paused. "Still here. With you."

You smiled, and nudged your nose into his hair. It was damp and smelled like sweat and skin and his cologne — sharp and familiar and entirely him.

His hand started moving again — slow, absent circles along the small of your back, grounding you both. You melted into it, the warmth of him, the safety in the quiet.

After a long beat, he spoke again. "Didn't mean for it to go like that."

Your fingers twitched where they were resting near his heart. "Go like what?"

"I dunno." He shifted slightly, adjusting the way he held you, like he wasn't ready to stop touching. "Didn't mean to... lose it."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were soft in the dim garage light, his lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. His vulnerability wasn't loud — but it was there, in the tightness around his mouth, the subtle clench of his jaw.

"You didn't lose it," you said gently. "You found something."

He stared at you, eyes flicking across your face like he was trying to memorize it. Then he huffed — a sound halfway between disbelief and surrender.

"You always talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you see through all my bullshit."

You reached up and brushed damp hair from his forehead. "Only yours."

That pulled a real smile from him — lopsided, boyish, cracking through the weight of everything like sunlight through clouds.

He leaned in and kissed you — not with hunger, but with something deeper. It was slow, deliberate, and full of care. When he pulled back, he lingered, brushing your nose with his.

"Don't move," he murmured. "Be right back."

He slid off the hood and disappeared into the corner of the garage, digging through supplies. You watched him, legs still trembling slightly, the ache between your thighs a tender reminder of everything you'd just shared. He came back with a clean rag and your hoodie, already wetting the cloth with water from a bottle.

His touch between your legs was gentle — reverent. He wiped you clean with careful strokes, and not once did he make a joke or get cocky about it. When he helped you sit up and pulled your hoodie over your head, your throat tightened unexpectedly.

Then, with a quiet kind of affection, he wrapped his own flannel around your shoulders like a blanket — tugging it closed over your chest, adjusting the collar like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

"You're kind of a sap, Winchester."

"Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He took the seat next to you on the Impala's hood, pulling you into his side like you were his. You didn't resist.

You sat like that for a while — bare thighs against cold metal, arms wrapped in worn cotton, Dean's scent everywhere. His hand never stopped moving, stroking your shoulder, your hip, your thigh.

"I don't know what this is," he said eventually.

You looked up at him.

"But I want more of it. More of you."

That was as close to vulnerable as Dean Winchester got. You didn't make him say more.

Instead, you leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, "Good. Because I'm not done with you either."

He kissed the top of your head. "Damn right you're not."

And under the dim garage lights, bare legs swinging off the hood of the Impala, the two of you stayed like that — quiet, wrecked, and completely changed. It was the start of something real.

Dividers by @easytiger-xo