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sophiuhhsthots · 16 days ago

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LOVE NOTE : petty

WORD COUNT : 1849

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mal gets petty when she’s frustrated at dean sometimes, and sometimes she’ll just pretend like dean doesn’t exist, just to annoy him. like, he keeps leaving his boots in annoying places? he doesn’t exist this afternoon. he starts talking and mal asks sam if he hears something. dean’s laying on a couch? she sits on him just to be annoying.

she doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam doors — she just acts like dean has been wiped from the face of the earth and she is totally fine with that.

boots left in the doorway again? dean no longer exists. she’ll step over them, dramatically avoid eye contact, and when he starts talking about something, she’ll turn to sam — very seriously — and ask, “do you hear that? sounds like a breeze. or maybe a mosquito.”

dean, baffled and amused, will try to poke at her side or kiss her neck to win her back. she shrugs him off, still ignoring him like he’s a ghost.

he sits on the couch, trying to play it cool? she flops down on top of him, back to his chest like he’s furniture, arms crossed, muttering something like, “i’m cold and you’re a heater, not a person.”

when he finally starts whining, “mal, come on,” she’ll glance over her shoulder with a saccharine smile and go, “oh, you’re still here?”

she’ll make herself a coffee, none for him. grab a snack, not offer a single bite. tell sam he looks handsome today and completely bypass dean.

sam, for his part, just watches in exhausted silence, used to this particular drama and very, very determined not to get in the middle.

the front door clicks shut after sam heads out, and mal doesn’t even flinch. she’s curled on the couch with a blanket and a movie, expression perfectly neutral, not even acknowledging the sound of dean’s heavy steps heading down the hall.

there’s the telltale thud of boots being shoved begrudgingly into the closet. a pause. a sigh.

then — shuffling.

she hears it before she sees it; the soft sound of denim brushing over the rug, the exaggerated huff of someone suffering through self-inflicted penance.

when she finally looks down, dean’s on his knees, crawling across the living room like a wounded man in a war film, eyes locked on hers, tragic and ridiculous all at once.

“i did it,” he breathes dramatically, reaching her like she’s the oasis in his desert. “they’re not even in the doorway. they’re in the closet, mal. the closet.”

she arches a brow, unmoved. “congratulations. you’re housebroken.”

he whines, laying his head on her lap and grabbing at her waist like she’s his teddy. “i’m a changed man,” he mumbles into her thigh. “do i not deserve love? affection? maybe a kiss?”

“depends,” she says, tone light, eyes still on the screen. “are you gonna keep pretending the floor is where your laundry goes?”

“i have a system,” he protests.

“your system sucks.”

he groans and presses his forehead against her, nuzzling until she finally lets a hand drift into his hair, slow and lazy. he melts.

“love you,” he mumbles, voice muffled by her lap. “even when you ignore me. even when you’re mean.”

“good,” she hums, threading her fingers through his hair. “because i’m gonna keep being mean.”

he just sighs, utterly content. “yeah. i know.”

“you’re so lucky you’re hot,” he grumbles.

“you’re so lucky you’re whipped,” she shoots back, smug now.

he exhales hard through his nose, then grins up at her like a man defeated — and proud of it. “fine. i’ll stay down here. but i want it on record that this is abuse.”

“duely noted.” she smirks, reaching to tousle his hair again. “now be quiet. my movie boyfriend’s talking.”

he grins harder. “bet he doesn’t leave his boots everywhere.”

she shrugs. “he also doesn’t do that thing you do with your mouth.”

he sits up, about to climb onto the couch when she clicks her tongue at him disapprovingly.

his hands brace on the edge of the couch, knees still on the rug, and he pauses mid-motion — like a guilty dog caught with a sock in its mouth.

he doesn’t get far before she clicks her tongue at him, disapproving and sharp.

that little sound from her stops him cold. he blinks up at her, a perfect picture of wounded surprise, brows furrowed, mouth parted. “what?” he asks, almost offended. “i earned it.”

mal doesn’t even look at him. just calmly reaches for her drink and takes a sip, like she hasn’t just shattered his dreams. “did i say you could come up here?” she murmurs, feigning boredom with the kind of cruel grace only she can pull off.

“mal.” he says her name like a prayer. or maybe he wants it to be a threat. it’s hard to tell with the way he draws it out, pouting, dragging his hand over her knee. “c’mon, baby. don’t be cruel.”

“should’ve thought about that before you left your boots in the middle of the room again.”

he groans, forehead back on her thigh like the world’s ending, like she’s sentencing him to death by couch-floor separation. “i just wanna sit with you, i’ll be good. i swear.”

“but you seem to have forgotten your manners.” she scolds, fighting a snicker.

he lifts his head just enough to squint up at her, all wide green eyes and wounded pride. “i said i’d be good,” he repeats, slow and sulky, like it should earn him immediate absolution. his thumb starts rubbing little circles into her knee, sweet and calculated, like he’s trying to cast a spell.

“that doesn’t sound like an apology,” mal says, cocking her head, still not letting her expression crack.

“i’m sorry,” he tries, overly dramatic and utterly unserious. “i’m so sorry. i’ll never leave my boots out again. i’ll scrub the floors with a toothbrush. i’ll—i’ll cook dinner and do the dishes. i’ll do what whatever you ask.”he whines, pressing a kiss to her thigh. “c’mon. one little spot. you won’t even notice me. i’ll sit real still. like a very handsome throw pillow.”

“i’m not hearing a ‘please’.”

he groans again — loudly this time, theatric and hopeless — as if the act of humbling himself further might kill him right here on the rug. he slumps dramatically, nose still pressed to her leg, fingers now curling into the edge of her blanket like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this cruel, unjust world.

then, in a small, pitiful whisper, he tries again, “…please.”

mal raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

he lifts his head just enough to try again, this time with his best kicked puppy face. “please, baby. i’m sorry. i’m a caveman. a heathen. a disgrace to cleanliness and floors everywhere. but i’m yours. your very, very sorry boyfriend who just wants to cuddle while you watch your dumb movie.”

“dumb movie?” she repeats coolly, one hand reaching down to gently flick his forehead.

he winces. “excellent movie,” he corrects quickly, scrambling to redeem himself. “cinematic masterpiece. ahead of its time.”

she hums, pleased, brushing a hand back through his hair in slow, absent strokes.

he sighs into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

she sighs, long and indulgent, then pats the couch cushion beside her with a theatrical roll of her eyes.

he scrambles up with way too much enthusiasm, before freezing in place. “wait.” she demands, holding up her hand. “gun show.”

he pauses mid-climb, like someone hit him with a tranquilizer dart labeled “ego boost.” one brow arches in delight, lips tugging into a crooked grin as he straightens up on his knees, backlit by the soft glow of the television.

“you want the gun show?” he echoes, mock scandalized. “mal, it’s the middle of the week. people aren’t ready.”

she smirks, slow and lazy. “who cares? i’m ready.” she lifts her drink to her lips. “flex, winchester.”

he huffs a breath of laughter, then rolls his shoulders like a prizefighter, tossing her a wink. the sleeves of his worn henley strain just a little as he flexes his arms — biceps drawn tight, forearms tense, the whole show perfectly framed by dim lamp light and self-satisfaction.

“ta-da,” he murmurs smugly, striking a faux bodybuilder pose.

mal hums in approval, dragging her gaze from his arms to his eyes, languid and appreciative. “it’s a shame you’re not this obedient when i ask you to put your laundry in the hamper.”

he grins, all teeth and trouble, and finally climbs up onto the couch, sprawling beside her like he’s earned the right to exist again.

“i am obedient,” he argues, curling into her like a golden retriever who’s finally been let back inside. “just… selectively.”

“yeah,” she says, carding her fingers through his hair again. “selectively irritating.”

he hums contentedly. “your favorite kind.”

she pinches his chin, tilting it up to kiss him, slow and gentle before humming against his lips, “be good all the time, kay?” and patting his cheek.

he leans into the kiss with a soft, satisfied noise, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth lingers on his. when she pulls back with that little hum and a tap to his cheek, he opens his eyes, dazed and utterly besotted.

“yes, ma’am,” he breathes, grinning like a fool. “i’ll be so good, you won’t even recognize me.”

she raises a brow. “that so?”

“mmhm,” he nods, shifting closer, resting his head against her shoulder like a cat curling into sun-warmed blankets. “saint dean. model citizen. poster boy for domestic bliss.”

mal snorts, tossing an arm lazily around his shoulders. “you’d combust in a week.”

he grins against her collarbone. “maybe. but you’d miss me.”

“i’d miss the chaos,” she admits, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “and maybe your dumb face a little.”

“that’s the spirit,” he mumbles, already halfway to dozing off against her. “see? i am a good boy.”

“mm,” she hums, amused. “we’ll see how long it lasts.”

“haven’t i already proven i can last long?” he snickers against her neck, yawning mid-sentence.

she smirks, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp, her lips brushing the side of his head. “yeah, well, i was talking about patience, not stamina.” she pauses, letting the silence stretch between them before adding with a wicked edge, “though, that part’s not so bad, either.”

he chuckles softly, the sound low and pleased, pressing his face further into her neck. “don’t think you can distract me with your filthy little comments. i know what you’re up to.”

“oh, you do, huh?” she teases, voice low and amused. “and what’s that, genius?”

“i dunno,” he shrugs, sighing contentedly, his arms snaking tighter around her middle.

“i know, baby,” mallory purrs against his temple, gently running her nails up and down his back.

his breath hitches just slightly at the sensation, the feeling of her fingers tracing slow, deliberate paths across his skin. he sighs again, the sound turning into something soft and warm, like he’s wrapped in comfort and temptation all at once.

#sophiuhhwrites #dean winchester #supernatural #dean winchester smut #mallory hawthorne #supernatural smut #mallory hawthorne smut #he’s so babygirl #i want him so bad #hes so presh

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