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Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.