lokischickadee - Tumblr blog

lokischickadee · 28 days ago

Note

Hi! I'd like to request a Dean Winchester smut. Dean and the reader are best friends with benefits, but Dean realizes he's in love with the reader when the reader is getting hit on at the bar. Dean takes the reader back to the bunker and shows the reader that they're his girl. Let's be real here, Dean can be dense when it comes to his feelings

(or something along those lines 🤷🏼‍♀️)

Ask and you shall receive.

18+, smut, oral, p/v smut, possessive Dean,

You’re not trying to make him jealous. Not really.

If you’re honest, you didn’t even notice the guy at first; just another tall, clean-cut stranger in a bar full of beer and bad lighting. The three of you - you, Dean, Sam - had come here because the bunker was just a bit too quiet and you needed a drink that wasn’t the same thing you always drink. One drink, Dean had said. That was three rounds ago.

You’d peeled off toward the bar to give them space; some case debrief you were already too tired to follow. That’s when the guy slid in beside you.

He had smiled, almost apologetic. "You look like someone who never gets to rest."

He had a nice smile. Friendly. Confident. A mop of messy brown hair, cute brown eyes. Said his name was Matt. Said you looked like you needed a break. You smiled, not because he was especially charming, but because he was easy. Predictable in a way that felt safe.

“So, you local?” he asked, leaning a little closer. “Or just passing through?”

You laughed. “Something like that.”

When he touched your hand, light, casual, the barest graze, you didn’t pull away. Not because you wanted him, necessarily. But because for one second, it felt good to be looked at like that.

To be wanted openly.

Dean never looked at you like that. Not in the light.

With Dean, everything was behind closed doors. Quick, quiet, drunken makeouts in motel beds. Heat with no words. Touches that lingered a second too long before they vanished. You never talked about it, because if you talked about it, it would become real, and real things could break.

This guy? He was offering something different. Simpler. A quick fuck and some decent banter. You were pretty sure you could probably bully him into making sure you came too.

You heard yourself laugh at something he said. Not because it was funny, but because you wanted to hear yourself laugh. To pretend you were normal for one night. And in the back of your mind, something clicked into place. A tiny, terrifying thought:

You could go home with him.

You could say yes. Let him kiss you. Let him take you back to whatever sad bachelor apartment he lived in. You could have forgettable, pleasant sex. Wake up in a bed that wasn’t soaked in history and secrets and Dean’s scent. You could leave before breakfast.

Maybe that was easier.

Maybe that was better.

You were about to say something - about to test the waters, see if you were bold enough to go through with it - when a warm, calloused hand landed on the small of your back.

“Hey,” Dean said, low in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You ready to head out?”

The words weren’t possessive, not on the surface. But the way he said them made your stomach drop. Like a warning.

Matt blinked. “Didn’t realize you were with someone.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. “You didn’t ask.”

His hand slid a little lower on your back. Not enough to be obvious - just enough to make a point.

Your chest tightened. The heat of Dean’s body behind you, the way he said it, calm, cold, final. It made your brain stall.

You stepped away from the bar without meaning to.

“Dean,” you said, uncertain.

But he was already turning, striding toward the door like it was done. Like you’d already made your choice.

You looked back at Matt, who gave a little shrug, polite but not unkind. He’d already figured it out: you weren’t available, not really. Not in any way that mattered.

You followed Dean out into the night.

The door swings shut behind you with a thud that feels too final.

The parking lot is cool and mostly empty, lit by the orange glow of a flickering streetlamp. The buzz of neon and distant laughter floats behind you, but the second you step outside, it’s like everything goes still.

Dean’s at the Impala already, one hand braced against the roof like he needs the car to hold him upright. He’s not looking at you. That jaw - that stupid, chiseled, tense-as-hell jaw - is clenched so tight you half expect it to shatter.

You cross your arms. “What the hell was that?”

He doesn’t turn around. Just mutters, “You were gonna go home with him.”

“And why does that matter?” you snap. “We’re not - We’re not a thing, Dean. You made that clear.”

He finally looks at you, sharp and blazing. “You really would’ve left with him?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, even though your pulse is a riot under your skin. “Maybe. What difference would it make to you?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

You push forward, heart pounding. “You don’t get to pull that possessive crap out of nowhere. You’ve spent months pretending this was nothing. You wanted casual, remember?”

“I never wanted casual,” Dean growls. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

You blink, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.

He steps closer, eyes locked on yours. “You think I don’t notice every time you laugh at one of Sam’s jokes? Every time you look at someone else? Every time you get dressed and leave my bed like nothing happened?”

“That’s what you wanted,” you say, suddenly breathless.

“No, it’s what I thought I had to want,” he snaps. “Because I don’t get to have things. Not good ones. Not you.”

The words hang there between you, heavy and charged.

“I saw you with him,” Dean says, quieter now. “Smiling. Thinking about it. I don’t blame you. Guy looked normal. Probably has a job that doesn’t involve stabbing things. Probably doesn’t wake up every night thinking about the people he’s lost.”

You swallow hard. “Dean-”

“But when I saw him touch you…” His jaw flexes again. “I wanted to kill him.”

You take a shaky breath. “You don’t own me.”

“I know,” he says, softer. “I just… I want to. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine, and I know I’ve been a goddamn coward about it.”

You stare at him, stunned. You’ve never heard him say anything like this. Not even close. It doesn’t sound rehearsed. It sounds like it hurts him to say it.

Finally, you ask, “You never wanted me before, not really.”

Dean takes another step closer. He’s in your space now, heat rolling off him in waves. His voice is low, shaking. "You don't remember, do you? That night in Omaha. You were laughing in the rain. I almost told you then. Almost."

“So, why now?”

“Because someone else saw you,” he says, voice low and guttural, “and I realized I’ve been taking you for granted. I thought I had time. I thought if I just didn’t claim you, I couldn’t lose you.”

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

Not when he’s looking at you like that: like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff and already knows he’s gonna fall.

“Come back with me,” he says.

"No, I wanted you to say it before," you whisper, angry tears spilling over. "I waited so long, Dean. I thought I'd rot waiting."

“I’m sorry,” he breaths, like it’s the first real thing he’s ever said.

You raise an eyebrow. “So you can what? Fuck the jealousy out of your system?”

His mouth twitches, not a smirk, not quite. Something darker.

“No,” he says. “So I can show you you’re mine. And so I can finally ask you to stay.”

The drive back is silent, not cold, but loaded. Dean’s fingers are tight on the wheel. His eyes never leave the road, but his mind is miles ahead, already playing out what he’s going to do to you when you’re alone. You can feel it in the air, thick and buzzing, crawling up your spine with anticipation.

You’re not scared. You’re just bracing.

Because Dean Winchester doesn’t do halfway.

When you step inside the bunker, the door’s barely shut behind you before he’s on you.

His hands slam against the wall on either side of your head, caging you in. His eyes are wild, dark with something dangerous and aching. You barely get a breath in before his mouth crashes into yours. All teeth and heat and desperation.

You moan into it, grabbing his jacket and yanking him closer, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. His thigh wedges between yours, pressing up against your heat through your jeans, and your body answers before your brain can.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead against yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he growls. “I should’ve said it a hundred goddamn times.”

“Said what?” you whisper, breathless, already knowing.

His hand slides up your side, hot under your shirt, rough with calluses. “That you’re mine.”

You swallow hard. “Dean…”

“That guy…he didn’t even see you. Not like I do. He wanted a night.” His hand grips your hip, tight. “I want every-fucking-one.”

You’re done pretending.

You grab his face and kiss him like it’s the last time you ever will. Teeth clashing, tongues tangling, fingers tangling in his hair. He groans into your mouth, like he’s breaking apart, and lifts you effortlessly by the thighs. You wrap your legs around him, clinging to him as he carries you through the hallway toward his room.

You don’t even make it out of your clothes before he has you pinned to the bed, hands fisting in your shirt as his mouth crashes over yours again and again. He kisses like a man on the edge - like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling.

And then you feel him grind against you - hard, thick through his jeans - and he groans into your mouth like it physically hurts not to be inside you already.

He kisses you like you're the only thing anchoring him to this world. You moan against his mouth, overwhelmed.

Then he hesitates.

"I-" he starts, then stops.

You flinch, pulling back slightly. "What? Gonna say it was a mistake?"

He blinks, stunned. "No. I was gonna say I love you."

Fuck.

“Now, get undressed,” he pants, pulling back only long enough to yank his own shirt over his head. “Now.”

You scramble to obey, heart pounding, skin flushed. You’ve never seen Dean like this. Not just turned on - possessed. Starving.

By the time your shirt hits the floor, he’s already naked, cock flushed and leaking, and you barely get your jeans past your knees before he’s crawling over you again.

“You’re shaking,” he mutters, voice rough.

"You said you love me," you whisper, voice still husky.

Dean tenses slightly. "Yeah?"

"So what now?"

He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “I’m going to fuck you, because you’re mine.”

Then he grabs your thighs, yanks you to the edge of the bed, and drops to his knees like he’s praying at an altar.

You gasp. “Dean-”

He cuts you off with a groan, burying his face between your thighs like he’s starved. He licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and reverent, then locks his arms around your legs and devours.

It’s obscene: the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth, the way he growls when your hips buck, the way he doesn’t let up even when you’re whining, writhing, begging.

Your hands clutch the sheets, your thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He drags his tongue over your clit in firm, relentless circles, one finger sliding into you, then another, curling just right.

You fall apart on his tongue, crying out so loud it echoes in the stone halls.

He doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it with his fingers and tongue, eyes locked on you the whole time like he needs to watch you unravel.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please, I need you.”

Dean growls low in his throat and pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are wet, his pupils blown wide, his whole body practically vibrating.

“You gonna let me ruin you now?”

You nod, breathless, still trembling. “Do it.”

He climbs over you, fists the base of his cock, and teases it against your soaked entrance.

“Beg for it.”

“Dean-”

He slaps the head of his cock against your clit and you whimper.

“Beg.”

You stare up at him, wrecked and shameless. “Please, Dean. I need it. Need you inside me. Need you to fuck me, claim me. Make me yours.”

That’s all he needs.

He thrusts in hard, all the way to the hilt in one go, and you both moan, loud, ruined.

His head drops to your shoulder, forehead damp with sweat, and he just stays there for a second, buried inside you, letting the heat, the tightness, the closeness sink in.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

And then he starts to move.

Slow at first - deep, grinding thrusts that make your eyes roll back in your head. Then faster. Rougher. His hand curls around your throat - not choking, just holding - like he needs to feel your pulse beneath his thumb.

He fucks you hard enough to rock the bed, and you’re gasping, clawing at his back, dragging your nails down his spine as he drives into you like he’s trying to etch himself into your body.

“You’re mine,” he pants. “You hear me? Mine. No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”

“I’m yours,” you cry. “All yours-”

He flips you without warning, grabs your hips, and slams back into you from behind. You scream his name, hands fisting the sheets, ass slapping against his thighs as he pounds into you.

He leans over your back, lips at your ear. “You like this? Like being fucked like a good little slut who knows who they belong to?”

You whimper, wrecked. “Yes - yes, Dean, I love it-”

He slips a hand around and starts rubbing your clit again, fast and hard, perfectly timed with his thrusts. You shatter with a scream, legs giving out, body pulsing around him like a vice.

Dean groans, loud and raw, and pulls out just in time to flip you over again - onto your back and onto his lap. He spears you back onto his cock and holds you there while he thrusts up into you from below.

“You’re not done yet,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. One more. One more for me.”

You whimper. “I can’t - Dean, I-”

“Yes, you fucking can. Ride me, baby. Take what’s yours.”

You do - hips rolling, thighs burning, tears on your cheeks - and when he brings his hand down hard on your ass, you fall apart one more time, trembling, twitching, wailing his name.

Dean’s had enough.

He flips you again - again - onto your back, pulls one leg over his shoulder, and fucks into you deep, desperate now, lips on your mouth, your cheek, your neck.

“I love you,” he groans. “Fuck - love you, baby, you don’t even know-”

He comes with a roar, spilling deep inside you, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he lets go.

But you don’t.

You stay.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

Just the slow decrescendo of Dean’s breathing behind you, arm locked around your waist, your legs still tangled, his cock still soft and warm inside you, staying in even after the tremors passed. As if letting go would mean rewinding the whole night. As if he needed the closeness more than the orgasm.

-----

Now it’s morning. Sort of.

The bunker’s too deep for real light, but the bedside lamp is on, casting gold over the room - over Dean’s bare chest, the curve of his shoulder, the soft lines of his face. He’s still asleep. Or pretending to be.

You shift slightly, only for a bolt of soreness to shoot through your thighs.

“Mm - fuck.” You wince.

Dean’s eyes open immediately. “You okay?”

You laugh, breathless. “Barely.”

He groans, buries his face in your neck. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

He snorts. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Then he pulls you closer, kisses your shoulder, and doesn’t say anything else for a minute.

It’s quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that only comes after total ruin, when there’s nothing left to hide behind.

Finally, Dean speaks.

“You were really gonna go home with him?”

His voice is soft. Not jealous, not angry. Just… aching.

You hesitate. “I thought about it.”

Dean’s breath hitches.

You turn your head on the pillow to face him. “He was nice. Smiled at me like I mattered. Asked me about myself. And he didn’t act like… like I was something he could lose without it ruining his life.”

Dean’s eyes flicker. “Shit.”

“I didn’t want him,” you say, gentler now. “I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you, Dean. But I didn’t think you-”

“I do.” He cuts you off, voice raw. “I do. I just didn’t know what it was. I kept telling myself it was just makeouts, just stress relief, but then you started pulling away, and I felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

His fingers find yours under the sheets.

“I love you,” he says, quiet and sure. “I should’ve said it a long time ago.”

Your throat tightens. “You sure you’re not just saying that ‘cause you finally got laid?”

Dean smirks, that lazy, boyish grin curling his lips. “Babe. I’ve had sex. What I did with you last night? That was something else.”

He kisses you. Slow, sleepy, sincere.

And then?

Then his hand slips under the sheets.

You squeak. “Dean!”

“You sore?”

“Yes.”

“Too sore?”

“…No.”