Work Text:
The room is dark.
You never let Dean turn on the overheads, there are no windows in the bunker, and you angle yourself to stay away from the hallway light—leaking under the door—so it’s as dark as you can possibly make it.
It’s still not enough.
Your eyes aren’t your friend, and they adjust. You can still hear your skin slapping against Dean’s as he guides you up and down his cock, and his groans of your name whenever you squeeze around him or scratch at his chest. You can feel him, everywhere, and it’s the best, cruelest thing in the world.
He’s deep inside of you, pressed right on that spot no one else can ever it, and you can feel it lighting up in every nerve of your body. He keeps trying to grab your hand, and you don’t know what that’s supposed to help with, but you can’t let him. But there’s not winning, because the only way to avoid it is planting your palms flat on his chest and feeling the firm muscle shift and flex whenever he ruts up into you. He’s got a hand secured on your hip to keep you above him and the other playing with your tits. Flicking at your nipple and palming at them more for himself than you, but it still feels good. Then his hand will shift down to flick at your clit, and you’ll arch your back with a high gasp, and it’s too much and never enough.
It really doesn’t matter if Dean is doing this for you, or for himself. You’ll give him whatever he wants.
But it’s not dark enough.
So you keep your eyes squeezed shut, and try not to think about who’s below you. It’s an impossible task, when nobody else is a good as he is. Nobody fits into you like Dean, no one else has that deep, gravelly voice and says your name like it’s a baseline in their favorite song, no one else knows that if they grab you by your neck and press their thumb into your mouth, right as they slam up into you, you’ll make that stupid, high, breathy sound and your pussy will flutter around them.
And Dean always laughs to himself after, and the sound rumbles in his chest and vibrates against your clit, and then you let out the loud moan of his name that means you lost.
You know it’s Dean below you. It’s always going to be Dean below you, until he kicks you out to the curb. And even then, you’ll just sit in the gutter and hope he comes back.
You love him. You’d never want anyone else but him.
But Dean doesn’t do love.
And you knew that, the first time he kissed you after a bad hunt, right after yelling at you for ten straight minutes about trying to get yourself killed. You knew it when cornered you in the hallway with a hungry expression, licking his lips and muttering that he didn’t mean to yell, but he needed to be able to touch you. You’ve known it, every time you’ve fallen back into bed with him—only more and more as the months pass, until it’s more of a routine than an itch being scratched—and he’s pulled you apart, and you’ve failed to find a room that’s dark enough.
Because this is the part that you always try so hard to avoid, and never can. Dean moans your name and tries to pull you down into a kiss, and you can’t stop him—you don’t hate yourself that much, or enough—but you still can’t look at him. And then you can taste the cherry and whiskey from dinner on his lips, and feel him a little more than everywhere, and he mutters your name again.
You push up. You always sit right back up, even when Dean tries to trap you against his chest.
But you also fail again.
Your eyes open.
And he’s art. Looking up at you will the sex-addled expression you only see half shrouded in shadows, where his eyes are hooded and he’s licking his lips. And he looks like he was carved from marble rather than just made, and his chest is heaving as he fucks up into you at a brutal pace, and when your mouth falls open in a silent scream he pushes up and kisses you again.
You manage to close your eyes.
The damage is already done.
You love him. You love his face, and how he never stops you from digging your nails into his chest until it’s littered with small marks, and how when he cums in you he moans your name in the only way you’ve ever wanted to hear it. You love how he always stays in you for another moment after, and buries his face in your breasts like he can’t bear to move—even though he always does, and you know he just likes boobs—before kissing your neck and going to clean you up.
The cleaning you up is the worst part. You have to wait for him, because whenever you try to leave after that he just picks you up and tosses you back onto the bed. And your heart won’t be able to take that, right now. The way he’ll just wrap his arms around your stomach and carry you to the mattress, pinning you down and grumbling that you’re like a stray cat sometimes, just taking his food and running away before he can take care of you.
And you always tell him he doesn’t even like cats, and he just laughs, shrugs, and pushes your legs apart to clean the mess between them.
Today, you don’t try to run. It’s already too much to have him watching you so carefully as he works, and leaving soft kisses on your knees and thighs. You have just stare at the ceiling and take it, trying to fight down the soft sob rising in your throat.
This isn’t fair. You love him, and he’s just doing this to you like it’s not breaking and remaking you every single fucking moment, and you want to hit him then climb right into his chest forever.
And you know Dean cares about you. He’s your friend, and that’s probably why you’re allowed to stay in his bed after. Why he always brings you water and food to get your energy back. Friends is still a part of the arrangement. Even with benefits.
But it’s been too much, today. So before Dean can even grab the box of your favorite snack he keeps in his mini fridge—just for you, which is even crueler—you’re running. Grabbing your clothing and scrambling into it, then slipping out the door before he can stop you.
It’s fucking cowardly.
But you need a shower so you stop feeling his phantom warmth on your body. To wash away the smell of him all over your hair, and give you a safe place to cry on the floor until it feels a little better. And if you’d told Dean you needed a shower, he’d just try to shower together.
It’s so mean. How he does sweet things like that and expects you not to fall for him, to keep the line between sex and friendship so firm.
You can’t even tell him he’s being mean. He doesn’t know you love him. He has no way to know.
You still need to curl up in the corner of the shower and cry, though. Where the soft sobs that shake your body are drowned in the water, and the tears are washed away the same second they fall. Then you can pick yourself up, drag yourself back together where Dean had unraveled you, and just keep moving.
It’s not good form, to ignore him. You have to smile at Dean when he walks into the kitchen the next morning, and not start crying when all you get is an odd frown in return. You just drop your gaze back to your cereal, and bite your lip to keep it from wobbling. And when you go to town with Sam you can feel him staring at your back as you leave, and when you’re putting away the groceries and talking to Sam about something stupid, Dean won’t stop walking in and out of the room without saying a single word.
He’s still your friend. You smile at him every time, but wait for him to speak first, and he never does. He just frowns and grumbles something at Sam, then fucking walks away.
He’s ignoring you.
Maybe he’s done with you. Maybe he called it, last night, and now he’s trying to figure out how to tell you. And that fractures at your heart all day, right until you’re curled up in the library, trying to think about anything but Dean, and failing just as drastically as you always do.
Or maybe Dean’s just Dean. Grumpy and bad at talking about anything.
Because he doesn’t seem done with you when he leans over your chair and starts to kiss along your neck.
You shouldn’t let him. Not when he’s barely said a word to you all day.
But you love him. And he hasn’t been angry or rude. He might have just had a bad day.
So you angle your head a little to the side to grant him further access, and let out a long sigh.
He bites and sucks a deep mark against your skin.
You’re going to fall apart again, and he’s barely even touched you.
“Dean,” you mumble, trying to keep your attention on your book. “Sam’s in the other room.”
He grunts, big hands brushing your hair to the side. “So? He’s seen me do a hell of a lot worse than kiss a pretty girl.”
“But- It’s-“ Your breath hitches as he nips at your throat, and you shake your head weakly. “Dean- I can’t.”
He freezes. “Can’t what.”
“Have sex.” You mumble, turning another page, having not read a single word on the first one. “I- I’m busy.”
“That’s fine, sweetheart, we can just sit.”
“But- I- I’m busy-“
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” He sighs, right in your ear, and it sends a shiver up your spine. Then he says your name, and you have to just keep fucking looking at your book.
He repeats it. You just hum. You can’t-
“Look at me.” He grunts, and you swallow.
All the words on the page look more like scratching marks. All you can really see is Dean in your periphery, moving to kneel before you and taking your face between his hands.
You still can’t look. Even as he tilts your head up, you keep your eyes fixed down.
You don’t know what he’s trying to do, when he grunts your name again.
You know it’s mean.
“Son of a bitch,” He mutters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, and you almost start crying again. “Fucking- Just look at me-“
You shake your head weakly. “I- I’m busy-“
“Too damn busy to look at me?”
There’s no good answer to that. And Dean know is, because he lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head.
“C’mon, baby, I- I know you’re pissed at me, but-“
That gets your gaze to snap up to his. And he looks devastated. Like you’ve been kicking him on the ground, with a deep frown and furrowed brow and open expression of strain over his handsome features.
You really don’t know what’s happening. At all.
“What?”
Dean clears his throat, and suddenly you can hear how hoarse his voice is. “You’ve been ignoring me all day-“
“You’ve been ignoring me-“
“I’ve been giving you space.” He grunts. “And don’t try and tell me something isn’t wrong. You fuckin’ bolted last night, so I know something’s wrong.”
Fuck. “I- I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are. And I know I fucked something up, and I’m gonna fix it-“
“You can’t fix it, Dean.”
His brows raise. “So there is something.”
Fuck. “You- Uh-“
“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters, tracing his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. “I’ll fix it, baby. Promise.”
“I-“ You let out a long, slow sigh. Too late to go back now. “Dean, I told you, you can’t.”
“Not if you don’t tell me.” He grumbles, holding your gaze. “Did I forget something? Say something? Was- Uh- Was it bad last time-“
“It’s never bad.” You say quickly, and his frown twitches. “And you- this isn’t your fault-“
“It sure goddamn feels like it’s my fault.” He snaps. “And you just need tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Swear I will, I’ll do anything, just tell me how to fix it.”
You need to look away from him. He’s on his knees and begging you, and it hurts. He’s pressing on a raw, open wound in your heart and he doesn’t even know it, and you’re confused and trapped in him, and he doesn’t know. He can’t know. He’s never known. And you have to look away but you can’t. You’ve never been able to. To look away, or walk away, or stop loving him.
And Dean looks like he’s in pain, and that should make you mad, but it just breaks your heart even more.
“Dean.” You hold his hands against your face, giving him a small, sad smile. “It’s not your fault. I promise.”
His eyes narrow. “Alright, then tells me whose fault it is, and I’ll kick their ass-“
“It’s my fault.” You whisper, your voice already cracking. “I- I know you don’t do relationships, Dean, and I’m not trying to like, give you an ultimatum or something, but I can’t- I can’t keep-“
You take a shaking breath, and Dean mutters your name, but you just squeeze your eyes shut and keep pushing.
“I- I love you, and this,” you gesture between your bodies. “It’s hurting me, Dean. It really hurts. And that’s not your fault. But it still hurts. That’s it.”
He’s not saying anything. And you’re still not looking at him, so you can’t work out if he’s pissed, or annoyed, or indifferent.
Pissed you can take. At least you can try and let him fully break your heart, so you’re cured of him. Annoyed you can handle too. You’re annoyed with yourself too.
But indifferent might break you. The idea that Dean simply doesn’t give a shit that you love him, and he’s willing to keep fucking you as long as you don’t expect more-
That will slam you into the dirt, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to drag yourself back up.
He says your name, and you can’t read that tone. “Open your eyes.”
You shake your head. He’s still touching you. Rough, warms hands so gentle on your face. Maybe he knows he’s about to shatter your heart, so he’s trying to be careful with the rest of you.
“Baby, I need you to look at me.”
Baby.
That’s not fair.
Your eyes drag open, and Dean’s frowning at you. But it’s not his angry frown, where he looks like he’s gunning to rip something in half. It’s not his bored frown either.
It’s just that hurt look. Like a kicked dog, wet from the rain and whimpering to be let inside.
You were wrong about the indifference.
This hurts more.
“You love me?” He whispers, and it’s hard to talk through the lump in your throat.
“I- I’m-“
He mutters your name, firm and demanding, and you nod.
“Yeah. I do. I’m sorry.”
His jaw clenches. “You- You’re fucking sorry?”
You blink. “I-“
“And you think I don’t love you?” His voice is raising. Not to a shout, but still something angry. “You- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re-“
“Dean-“
“Of course I fucking love you!” He snaps, and you might be floating out of your body. “I- Goddamnit, I’ve been- I thought you just- Fuck-“
“Dean.” You try to make your voice sound firm, but it just comes out a plea. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t, babygirl.” He mutters, shaking his head, and you bite on your lower lip until you taste blood. “Shit, I’ve been such a dumbass-“
You frown. “No you haven’t-“
“Yeah, I have. I didn’t know this wasn’t a-“ He swallows, scanning over you with a broken expression, his voice almost a rasp. “I thought we were dating.”
You might be drowning. Or dead. Maybe Sam crashed the car on the way back from town, and this is just hell or heaven or limbo. The world is blurry, but you can see Dean clearly. There’s a ringing in your ears, but you still heard him.
You think you heard him. You’re really not sure.
“What?”
“You’ve been it for me,” Dean says your name, and your grips tightens on his hands. “For a goddamn year, you’ve been everything. And I- I thought I told you. We- we go to bar together, and we sleep in the same bed on hunts, and I- Son of a bitch, we’ve gone on dates-“
“No, we haven’t-“
“We go to the movies all the goddamn time-“
“As friends.” You protest, and Dean snorts.
“Friends don’t give each other hand jobs in the theater, sweetheart.”
You flush, but still shake your head. “But you- You never told me-“
“Yeah, I did.”
“Dean-“
“I said I had to have you.” He mutters. “That I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t need you.”
Your eyes widen. “I- I thought you meant my body.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I figured that out myself.”
“It’s- You’ve just always said you don’t do relationships-“
“I didn’t. Before you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He pauses, scanning over you carefully, his voice still a rasp. “Do you- do you want that?”
You frown. “Want-“
“Me.”
You can’t stop your mouth from falling open. “Of course I fucking want you, dumbass, I just said I loved you.”
Something flashes over Dean’s face, and he nods slowly. “Good. That’s- Good. C’mon.”
He starts to tug you to your feet, and you just stare at him. “Dean, what-“
“Move, sweetheart, I’m trying to fuck you properly-“
“You always fuck me properly-“
“Apparently not, if you thought I didn’t love you-“
Your heart does a little stutter stop. “You really love me?”
“Course I fuckin’ love you. More than anything. But you didn’t know, so I gotta fix that- Son of a bitch.”
He’s staring at you, and you blink up at him in open confusion. “What?”
“That’s why you always make me turn off the lights.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “And why you’re always on top, and you never hold my hand, and- Fuck, baby, I thought you were just shy-“
“Dean, I-“
“No.” His hand moves to cover your mouth, his eyes narrowed on yours. “We’re doin’ this right, this time. I’m gonna fuck you with the lights on, and you’re gonna look at me and take everything I give you. Blink twice if you’ve got it.”
You’re only staring at him, something dying then rebooting in your brain. He loves you. Dean loves you. And he’s looking at you as if you’re all he’s ever wanted, and you need him, and you can’t remember how to do anything but look at him-
“I need you to blink, sweetheart.” He mutters. “I’m not doing anything until you’re good with it.”
That’s the reset. You need him, now, and you can move again.
You pull his hand down slowly, holding his gaze as you speak. “I’m good with it. Please.”
His throat bobs, and you get a tight nod in return. “Good. Hold on.”
“Hold- Dean!”
At the very least, Dean moved your book out of your lap before he tossed you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He’s walking before you even get a chance to wiggle, and the moment you try, a sharp slap lands on your ass.
You squeak, twisting and pushing on his back to glare at him, and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Dean Winchester, I’m gonna kick your ass-“
“You’re cute when you threaten me.” He turns to nip at the exposed skin of your thigh, and a moan escapes your throat. “C’mon, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
You frown, but still slump into his hold. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I- I dunno-“
“You better not be talking about what we’re about to do.” He hums, and you go almost boneless as one of his hands trails right between your thighs, rubbing your pussy over your shorts.
“Dean-“
“Trust me, baby.” He shoulders open the door to his room, and lowering you down to sit on the edge of the mattress and settling between your legs. “This is about me.”
You swallow, nod, and Dean’s smirk splits into a full, wide grin. He holds your face so carefully, as he pulls you into a kiss. Trailing his tongue over your lips and nipping at the corner of your mouth, chuckling as your arms wrap around his neck and you must be dreaming. You’ve had this dream. The one where you bite his lower lip right back and he growls, deepening the kiss until melted against him and clinging to his as tight as you can, pulled entirely apart from only a kiss. The dream where you’re still Dean’s to do whatever he wants with, but all he wants is you.
It hits you fully, when he helps you out of your shorts without ever fully breaking the kiss, presses his hand against your clothed pussy, and groans into your mouth.
All Dean wants is you.
“So fucking wet,” he mutters your name, rubbing his palm in a slow circle. “You ever get this wet for anyone else, sweetheart?”
You shake your head, your fingers curling on his neck. “N- No, Dean-“
“I know,” he coos, almost teasing, and you start to grind into him. “You need it bad, don’t you-“
“Yes-“ You gasp as the heel of his palm starts to rub over your clit. “Feels so good-“
“Yeah, it does.” He mutters, and you buck into his touch. “Jesus, baby, someone would think I’ve been neglecting you-“
“Dean-“
“Sorta have, I guess. Need to fix that.” His fingers drift up, playing with the band of your panties. “You like these?”
“No-“
“I’ll buy you new ones anyway.”
You hear the rip of the fabric, but a weak protest barely leaves your throat before Dean’s diving down, and everything narrows to heaven. It’s always heaven, when Dean licks a firm stripe your pussy and sucks your clit between his lips, giving it just enough attention drive you insane before he moves away. Dragging down and tasting every bit of your pleasure, groaning against you when your thighs squeeze his head, the sound vibrating through your body and making you fall flat back on the bed.
Your hands fly into his hair, as he pushes his tongue into your entrance and lets his nose rub on your clit. His stubble is tickling at your inner thighs, and he keeps moaning into you, and whenever you gasp his name, it only seems to spur him on.
“Shit- I-“ You take a sharp breath when his teeth scrape against you, and his hands squeeze your ass, angling you a little higher. “Dean-“
He groans, and when you angle your head up, he’s fucking rutting against the edge of the bed.
He’s getting off on it. On eating you out like he’s been starved of you.
And you’re seconds from toppling over the edge when he pulls away, and a high whine leaves your throat.
“Taste so good,” He mutters, kissing right over your clit and sending a shiver of pleasure through your body. “Son of a bitch, baby, the sounds you make-“
His thumb presses on your clit, a loud moan pushes itself out of your throat, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah, just like that.”
“Dean,” you mumble, tugging at his hair. “I was so close-“
“I know, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, dragging your hand away before kissing over your knuckles as well. “But want you to cum on my cock. You think you can do that?”
You nod frantically, and Dean grins.
“Good girl.”
He rises up, shedding his clothing like it’s coated with toxins, and crawls over you with an almost feral grin. You can see how hard he is, thick and long and all yours, and your legs spread wide to let him settle between them.
This is usually the part where you make him flip you over, and you fix your gaze anywhere but his face. But tonight, it’s all Dean. And he’s keeping you right below him, twinging his fingers in yours and squeezing your hand with a wide grin.
You don’t know how you ever lived without this. Without your eyes wide on Dean’s as he pushes into you, watching his nostrils flare, and mouth fall open in pleasure. You’re never going to be able to not have it, now. But that was always the fear.
Now you get to have Dean bottom out, lean down to give you a heavy, hot kiss as he lets you adjust, and fall apart from only the adoration in his gaze.
“Ready?” He mutters, his voice a deep, gravely sound that makes you clench around him, and he groans. “Goddamnit, sweetheart-“
“Sorry,” you whisper, and he laughs.
“No, you’re not.”
You’re really not.
Because Dean starts to fuck you.
He’s everywhere. Drilling into you until your right back on the edge, his lips attacking every bit of bare skin he can find. One hand stays in yours as the other angles you up to drive himself impossibly deeper, until he’s hitting a deep and needy spot that makes stars cloud your vision. Every time you roll to meet him, he moans your name and captures your lips back against his, and your arms wrap around his neck to keep him a close as possible. So his body is molding into yours, and there’s no clear line between you, and every time you plead for more he just swallows it with a kiss, and throws it right back to you.
The hand on your hip moves without warning, pressing right over your clit, and you fly apart. Warmth washing over you like a wave as your scream, and Dean just eats that sound too.
He’s not stopping. His cock slams right back against that spot, and you’re thrown even higher up. But Dean just keeps catching you—fucking you into oblivion and rubbing your clit until you’re a messy, whining frenzy—and when you sense him reaching the edge, you hook your legs around his waist to try and keep him.
You know you have him.
But you don’t want to miss a single thing.
Dean slams home with another moan and pinch of your clit, and you cling to him as tight as you can. You’re a boneless, heated mess of want, but you’re Dean’s. And he’s still rutting into you as your last orgasm shivers up your spine, and he collapses over you with a grunt.
“Can I-“ Dean clears his throat, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. “I’ll clean you up later, promise, but I kinda wanna-“
“Stay?” You whisper, your voice a little hoarse from the everything, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah. That.”
“Okay.”
He pushes up on his palms, remaining sheathed inside of you as he gives you a pointed look. “That easy, huh?”
You flush, your fingers curling on his neck. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he rolls his hips, already semi-hard again, and your lips part in a sharp gasp. “For months. Thought you just didn’t like, y’know-“ He nods down between your bodies. “This.”
“Cuddling?”
“Yeah. And if I knew all I had to do was ask-“ He frowns to himself. “Would you have said yes?”
“To you?” Your voice is still soft, and Dean only gives you a small nod in return. “Yeah.”
“Even though you thought we weren’t together?”
You sigh. “I still loved you, Dean.”
He nods slowly. “And now?”
“Wha-“
“You love me now, right.”
You giggle, tugging him down into a long, slow kiss before humming against his lips. “Now, I’m never letting you go.”
“Good.” He mumbles, twitching inside of you and making your hips jerk. “Not gonna go anywhere. I’ll latch onto you like, uh- What’s something that sticks-“
“Velcro?”
“Sure.” He kisses and sucks a path down your neck, finally stopping to bury his face in your breasts, his words muffled against your skin. “Long as I get to hold you, babygirl, ‘m good.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, and it’s impossibly good to be able to touch him like this. Like he’s yours, and if you so much as try to blow away in the wind, Dean with launch up and catch you. If you start to drift, he’ll tug you right back. And you can see now, all the moments he’s been doing that before—kiss you with too many teeth to not want to leave a mark, holding you to his chest like you’re a lifeline—and it breaks your heart, but it’s already mending. You’ll make it up to him.
And he must be reading your mind, because he props his chin up with a deep furrow in his brow, grunting your name like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Dean.” You mimic back to him, and his lips twitch.
“You’re getting sassy, sweetheart.” He nips at your skin, and you squeal, whacking his shoulder. “I like it.”
You swallow, holding his gaze. “Nobody says sassy-“
“I said it-“
“Because you have the heart of a ninety-year-old, my love.” You boop his nose with a soft smile—now that you’re allowed to do this, you don’t think a gun to your head would stop you—and his eyes widen into a look of what might be awe.
“Marry me.” He whispers, and you blink.
“Dean, we’ve been dating for an hour-“
“Been four months for me. And I meant it, you’re everything for me, I- I gotta-“ He’s pushing up to hang back over you, framing your face with one hand and almost a frantic look in his eyes. “I love you, babygirl, and if I know I’m not gonna be good at telling you that, but you need to know-“
“I know.” You smile up at him, wiggling slightly around his cock, and he grunts. Given the surprise over his face, he might have forgotten he was in there. “I do, Dean. I only didn’t because I was- I dunno- I just didn’t. But I know now. So let’s give it at least another four months before that.”
“Four months.” He mutters, nodding. “What day is it.”
“Uh- I’m not-“ Your eyes narrow. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t know shit, sweetheart.” Dean rolls you over without warning, pinning you to his chest above him and looking up at you like you’re the final answer to every question in the universe. “We’re gonna go on some real dates, and I’ll sleep in your bed and make out with you in front of everyone-“
“You already try to do that-“
“Yeah, but I’m gonna do it more. Everyone will know that you’re my girl.” He kisses to corner of your mouth, and you giggle again.
You sound sort of like an idiot. You’re certainly smiling like one.
You really don’t care.
“I’m gonna make you fall in love with me so hard.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“I am in love with you-“
“Then more. You’re gonna love me more.”
You shake your head, giving him a soft smile. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
His eyes flash again, and get a deep, heavy kiss before he speaks again. It’s all exploration and time, because Dean knows you, but he seems to want more, and you have all time in the world.
And he tucks the hair behind your ears when he pulls away, his touch so soft, and his smirk dangerous as he thrusts up into you, and your breath hitches in your throat.
“Never cared about possible, sweetheart.” He drawls. “You’re mine, and I’m never gonna give you a reason to leave.”