#and this precedes the weirdest arc I’ve ever seen

[atrenchcoatfilledwithbeees]

Yotsuba arc! Light: I was put on the earth to do one thing and one thing only

Yotsuba arc! Light: luckily I forgot what that was so I can do whatever

[sophisticated-angel]

Professional

Character: Dean Winchester

Warning: None

Word Count: 1,951

Request:  Dean and Reader are on an FBI case and Dean is having a lot of trouble remaining professional around Reader

Pairing: None

Story

   His reputation precedes him. You’ve heard stories about him and the notches in his belt, how he survived Hell, traveled through time, destroyed multiple mega monsters and even became one himself. Friends tell you about his intelligence and cunning; female friends come back swooning and ranting about how dreamy he is. All in all, you hold him in high regard, so when a mutual friend suggests you work a case together, you look forward to meeting him. When you knock on the door of their motel room, it’s opened by tall man wearing a worn gray button up.

   “You (y/n)?” he asks.

   You nod. “Which one are you?”

   The man chuckles. “I’m Sam. Fair warning, you’re an attractive woman, and my brother hasn’t gotten laid in two months.”

   “I can handle it.”

   “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

   Inside the room is another man nursing a beer and reclining in a crappy dining chair. His denim jacket is rolled up to his elbows and hangs unbuttoned, and though his outfit is wrinkled and dirty, his short hair is damp from a recent shower. When he sees you, he stands and sets the bottle down.

   “You must be (y/n).” He dons a sly grin. “I must say, Garth did not do you justice because I was not prepared for all of this.”

   “So, you’re Dean.”

   “I can be anything you want. Like what you see?”

   Shrugging, you drop your duffel bag on the floor and take a seat on the nearest bed. Judging by the way Dean raises an eyebrow, you’ve probably chosen his, but he can think whatever he likes. You’re here to do a job.

   “What’ve we got?” you ask the room.

   “Uh, not much.” Sam picks up an open laptop from the other bed.

   “(y/n)?” Dean says. “Top, bottom, vertical.”

   Sam raises his voice. “Couple of weird deaths, some occult signs, but there’s other clues we’ve never seen before. Nothing fits together. Kinda been hoping you can make heads or tails of it.”

   “Super strange and extra weird. That’s my specialty.”

   “I’ll bet you’re real fun in the sheets, eh?” Dean winks at you.

   With a bit of focus, you manage to ignore Dean’s immaturity, so basically his existence, and convince everyone to go out to a diner for a bite to eat while you review the case. A pair of women wearing tightly fitted, swooping V-neck shirts and shorts no longer than their self-respect sits by the window in the restaurant, and in moments Dean has joined them. While the older brother lures the other fish in the sea, the younger one suffers from secondhand shame and helps you try to extrapolate from what little information you have. Dean’s back in a few minutes – as the waiter appears with the tray with everyone’s food, in fact – just as you and Sam have decided that a stop at the police station is the best move.

   “What’d I miss?” he asks.

   “If you’d been over here, maybe you’d know,” you snip. “And by the way, I know you’re trying to make me jealous.”

   “I wasn’t, but it sounds like I did. I’d be happy to help with that frustration.”

   “You’re focus should be on the job, not on getting into my pants.”

   “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

   “I’d rather be dull than sleep with you.”

   “Wow. That hurt.”

   “Good. Now finish your food so we can go.”

   He must have been caught off guard by your statement, because his immaturity takes a back seat. You think you’ve got him beat, but a man like Dean can’t be stopped by words alone. But he behaves, and you relax a little. After changing into your FBI suits, you drive to the station for a word with the police chief: a casual man who leads you to the break room and offers you donuts and coffee. Everyone but Dean declines, and once again you and Sam do most of the work. Dean participates just enough to be a convincing federal agent, but he drifts into donut land and meanders around the chief, staying in your line of sight.

   A single powdered donut is his victim, but he can’t just eat it. Instead, he slowly slips his finger through the hole in the center, smirking and looking directly at you. Then he replaces his finger with his tongue, licks all the way around, darts in and out sensuously. Donuts should not be this sensual, but you won’t ever look at a pastry the same way again. To your horror, you realize you’re a little bit turned on.

   “You alright, Agent Miller?” inquires the chief. He turns, and Dean shoves half the donut in his mouth.

   “Yeah, I’m good.” You clear your throat and smile reassuringly, but you glance at Dean and receive a wink that makes you blush with embarrassment. “Um, you were saying about Miss Paroli?”

   “New in town, so she couldn’t have made any enemies.”

   “Did she seem nervous?” Sam chimes in, “Maybe someone followed her here?”

   “Don’t think so. Then again, nobody really knows her, but people say she was odd.”

   “Odd how?”

   “Well, one of my officers was over at the trailer park on a call about a month ago, and he said her trailer was decked out with gypsy stuff. Had a sign out front for a mystic arts business. Healing, fortune-telling.”

   By the donut box, Dean begins licking powdered sugar off his fingers, and he somehow makes this as suggestive as everything else. You get distracted again, and Sam has to give you a quick pinch to bring you back down to Earth.

   Thus far, you aren’t impressed by Dean. He doesn’t live up to all the hype, all the stories you’ve heard, and you’re a little worried that he won’t be much good in a fight, not if he’s focused on you. Maybe if you slept with him he’d be able to focus better, but maybe it would encourage him to behave like this in the future. You’ll have to make it clear that you’re only interested in seeing him grow up and do his job, but you’re willing to give him one more chance.

   He blows it.

   You’re alone in the motel room with him, both of you poring through web pages and books while Sam pokes around Anna Pelori’s trailer home. You’ve changed into loungewear to combat the warm afternoon and chosen to recline on the bed, and Dean sits at the table. Every few seconds, you catch him looking your way, but he doesn’t say or do anything, so you let it slide. But then he crosses his legs, uncrosses them, fidgets in his chair, crosses them the other way, tugs on his pants . . . and does it all over again.

   “Seriously, Dean?” you sigh.

   “What?”

   “Do you want me to say it out loud?”

   “I can’t help it, okay?”

   “You could be a little less conspicuous about it!”

   “Or you could help me.”

   “Oh my God.” Slamming your computer shut, you gather it and the book you’re reading in your arms. “You’re being a child, and I am so done with it! You need to grow up, Dean!”

   Whatever response he has falls on deaf ears because you meant that. You are done with all of him. The next time someone suggests you work with the Winchesters, your ‘no’ will be a firm one.

   But Dean surprises you. Hours after you’ve given up on research for the day, he bursts through the door, eyes bright and proud, and draws an arc in the air with his hands as he announces the name of the creature he’s concluded is to blame.

   “Really?” You lift one eyebrow. “I’ve only comes across that thing once.”

   “They don’t usually pop up in the States. Heard about one in Alaska a few years ago, but not anywhere else in the country.”

   “Do we have the stuff to kill it?”

   “Give me an hour.” He steps out but sticks his head back in an instant later. “I call wielding the weapon.”

   “You’re geeking out.”

   “Yup.”

   After this, he just . . . stops. There are no more flirtations, not even a wink. Now he runs like a well-oiled machine. He prepares the weapon, shows you how to make defenses you’ve never heard of, and, finally, starts validating his reputation. In the throes of the hunt, Dean is rather magnificent. He moves with a unique grace and confidence and wields the weapon brilliantly. A few mishaps are had, mostly to do with stealth, but the monster is slain, and no one dies. Ten minutes after the fight ends, you stagger back into the motel room, your mind changed about Dean.

   “I hurt all freaking over,” you groan.

   “Most of it’s probably tension,” says Dean. And then he winks and adds, “I know a couple of stretches that are perfect for relieving tension.”

   Your mind changes back, and you shove him against a wall, suddenly, furious.

   “Would you stop?” you hiss. “I am sick of you! I didn’t come here to be hit on, and you have been an absolute child the whole time! You know, I thought you were an adult and a good hunter! You’re a damn good hunter, but you’re so damn immature! You took way too many risks tonight, and look at yourself! Son of a bitch, nobody should look this good covered in this much blood!” Chest heaving, you shut your mouth. Dean just watches you.

   “You gonna kiss me or what?”

   “Hell yes.”

   What you do next can be most accurately described as smashing your mouth against his mouth, but it’s okay. Frustration you denied is released and relieved the moment you kiss. You get into it quickly, and the following minute turns into the hottest, sloppiest make-out session you’ve ever had. Dean decides he knows your face well enough and works his way down your neck – kisses warm, wet, and eager. His hands are eager too. They play in your hair, down your sides, pull your hips close and hold you there. Yours caress his face, trace his neck, press palms in his chest and push him against the wall.

   Then he spins you around, swaps places with you so that you can decided when to move. So that’s how he likes it. You shove him bodily towards the bed, press down on his shoulders to make him sit and lie back with his head on the pillow. Straddling him, you pull of your shirt in a single motion before kissing him again from above.

   “I guess this means I win?” he murmurs.

   “Whatever you want.”

   “This is so hot.”

   “Thank you.” Another deep kiss. “My specialty is the super strange and extra weird, and you” —you smirk— “are the strangest, weirdest man I have ever met.”

   “I have never been more turned on than I am right now.”

   “Shh. It’s better if you don’t talk.”

   Everything descends into a rolling wave of passion. If he’ll have you, you’re willing to go all the way. So beautiful. Only seconds pass, however, before Sam bursts into the room and flips on the light.

   “Congrats to the both of you,” he says in a rush, “but in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got the cops on our tail.”

   “What the hell, Sam?”

   “Can’t sleep with her in prison. Get a move on!”

   Groaning, you get off of Dean and put your shirt back on. Dean sits up, shakes his head, and gets to his feet. He rushes appropriately, shoulders both your bag and his, and stops you before you get to the door for one more kiss.

   “That’s an IOU.”

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