Chapter Text
The bunker feels different when we return. Almost… subdued.
Sam wastes no time lingering. He drops the keys to the Impala in the bowl by the door. [You heard me right, Sam was the one who drove, not Dean]. The sound is disruptive in the silence, then he adjusts the strap of his duffel like he suddenly remembers how tired he is.
“I’m gonna turn in, pretty exhausted after all… that,” he pinches the bridge of his nose like it'll keep the tiredness and memories at bay.
Dean doesn’t bother to look his younger brother in the eye. Maybe he couldn't, in fear that he'd see how torn up they both are after the confrontation with Evan. “Yeah.”
Sam pauses at the bottom of the stairs. I can almost see a joke forming; his mouth twitches, the familiar setup of it hovering right there. Something like don’t stay up all night fucking or try not to do anything reckless.
But it dies before it’s born; not the time or place for a joke right now.
“I’ll be sleeping with my earbuds in,” he murmurs instead. A statement. Not a jab or a warning.
Dean manages a thin smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Night, Sammy.”
I wave goodnight to him, failing to find coherent words.
Sam nods once and disappears down the hall, his footsteps fading into the bunker’s endless depth. When they’re gone, tension claims the space he left behind.
Dean sinks into a chair with a loud plop at the war table and opens his laptop, hinges creaking softly. The screen lights up his face, a blue-white glow catching the lines around his eyes, the exhaustion he’s been carrying since before the hunt even started.
He scrolls. Stops. Scrolls again.
Case files blur past, but his gaze doesn’t focus on anything in particular. He’s looking through the screen, not at it, jaw set tight like if he relaxes even a little, something might crack or fall apart.
I watch his shoulders. They’re drawn up, rigid, like he’s still bracing for the moment Evan lunges again. For the second where mercy and violence blur into the same action.
I move closer, quietly, and stand behind him. After a moment of hesitation, my hands settle at the base of his neck where it meets the shoulders, fingers brushing warm skin through worn cotton.
He freezes instantly, muscle memory snapping tight, but when I press my thumbs in gently, kneading the knots under the surface, the tension drains out in his long, controlled exhale. The knots are bad, worse than usual. So, I work in small circles.
He looks over his shoulder briefly, as if he wants to say something, but it's met with hesitation.
“Today was a rough day… “I give him a slight squeeze before continuing my ministrations. “If you want to talk, I’m here. But if you don’t want to, don’t feel obligated to make small talk. Just let me take care of you like you did for me.”
The laptop screen times out, but he doesn’t take notice. His shoulders start to drop as he leans back into my hands, millimeter by millimeter. The bunker hums softly around us, the low whirring of old machinery and lights.
When a shapeshifter had me cornered, wearing Sam's face, it was Dean who stayed close afterward. He sat with me, handed me water, and didn’t rush me. Just stayed until the shaking stopped. I knew it wasn't Sam who made the aggressions, but the precision of the doppel was uncanny and it took me a while to snap out of it.
This feels like returning the favor, in a way.
His hands rest flat on the table now, fingers spread, like he needs the solidness of it. I work lower, easing the tension along his spine, careful not to push too hard.
“The kid didn’t deserve that,” he whispers suddenly, barely audible.
“I know,” I agree softly. “At least… now he doesn’t have to go through the suffering of full transformation. He held onto humanity as long as he could. You and Sam allowed him to make the final decision for himself and handled it with compassion. It would have destroyed Evan if he had to eat a human to survive while still battling that conscience.”
Tilting his head back, Dean closes his torn eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they’re clearer; still tired, still shadowed, but present again. He reaches up and squeezes my hands on his shoulders.
His mouth opens, and it takes a while for him to speak. “Thank you… Sometimes… Sometimes the morality of hunting is an absolute bitch.”
“Yeah, that's an understatement…” I fight a scoff. “It's also not fair that it all fell onto your plate at such a young age. The choice between ignorant freedom and letting people die isn't… really a choice, is it?” The sentiment is rhetorical. Just about every hunter has had to think about it in one way or another.
“...Sweetheart.” His voice cracks before he regains composure, “Every day, it’s so damn tempting to just drop it all and pretend it doesn't exist. But if we do that… Then it's not just the innocent humans that suffer. Some of these creatures were thrust into the thick of it too. Vampires, werewolves, Rugarus… most of them didn't choose to live that way. And not all of them get a chance to adapt like… like…”
“... Like Benny or Garth…?” I ask softly, helping him finish the searing thought without elaborating. “I get it, Dean… Too much is at stake for too many beings.”
My heart clenches, and I imagine Dean's is too. I may not have had the opportunity to meet them both, but I had heard a few hunting and purgatory stories from Sam when we were prepping to take down some vamp nests. Benny and Garth sounded like solid people who made the most out of the path they found themselves walking.
“Son of a… Yes...” His dumbfounded shock at realizing his brother even brought them up is pushed aside as he clears his throat to deflect the topic. “Anyway, it's not just morality. We have a difficult job to do and if you… if you ever want out, just let us know. We won't judge you in any way…. This life isn't for everyone.”
“You're not getting rid of me that easily, Winchester.” I quip, moving my hands up to massage the back of his head next. “I'm in it for the long haul, whether you like it or not.”
Dean groans so low it's almost a growl, eyes fluttering close and body tensing again.
I pause immediately. “Oh shit, did that hurt?” Come to think of it, I'm not sure if he sustained any injuries.
“No, no, don't stop. I… Uh… I love head massages and… having my hair played with.” He nudges his scalp deeper into my fingers like a puppy hinting it wants more scratches. “If you tell Sammy that, though, I will disown you forever.”
I comply with a warm chuckle and continue from where I left off. Dean's spirits are starting to lift again, so it's the least I can do.
“Disown me forever?” I jest instigatingly. “My stubborn ass can't be ‘owned’, ya know.”
His head droops forward when I caress a part of his crown. A shiver travels up his spine before his skin heats and his inhales deepen. Short hair cascades over my fingers, tiny waterfalls of brunette silk that I can't help but marvel at. Dean always picks on Sam for his self-care routine, but it looks like he does it too, secretly.
“Is that a challenge, princess?” I can see the corners of his mouth twitch, fighting a smile, as I rake my nails gently across his scalp. “Because I can think of a few ways to claim you and make you scream otherwise…”
“Hmm, is that so?” I lean down, letting my breath coast over his ear until bumps erupt on his neck. “I guess you'll have to try your hardest and prove me wrong.”
"Yeah? I'll mark every god damn part of you so that earth, heaven, and hell knows your mine..." Those half hooded, insatiable green eyes meet mine. There's a spark of longing in his gaze as he lightly bites on his lower lip.
“I hope you’re hearing this boldness Chuck and Crowley. Looks like my soul is about to be bound eternally to a Winchester; neither of you are getting it.” I wink at the rafters, standing tall with movements graceful and slightly overplayed. I walk over to my bag and open the front pouch, my fingers closing around the cool, smooth container hidden safely inside.
When I turn back to him, a mischievous glint shines in my eye and I tug him toward my bedroom.
He follows, peering down at what I’m holding, letting a sensual laugh ripple through us both. “My reward for keeping your pie safe, you didn’t forget.”
“Forget about disowning me over a hair massage fetish. I’d expect to be disowned for not giving you the pudding I promised.” I fumble with my key to unlock the door, partly because of excitement, but mostly because Dean wraps his arms around me from behind and places sweet kisses along the sensitive parts of my neck. Everywhere his body touches is like fire through my clothing.
We stumble in clumsily.
Placing the container on my nightstand, I start to unbutton my shirt, my movements slow and teasing. In hindsight, I kinda wish I kept his shirt on this morning for additional effect, but this'll do.
His eyes follow my hands, a soft intake of breath escaping his lips as I reveal the soft, lightly scarred skin beneath. The shirt falls to the floor, becoming a puddle of fabric at my feet.
I open the pudding and dip, my fingers coming out coated in the sweet, creamy substance. Caramel flavored, one of Dean's favorites. My eyes lock with his as I slowly trace a messy path down my body. Starting at my collarbone, my fingers paint a line all the way down to my navel. I can see his throat work as he swallows and licks his lips, eyes hungrily following the trail.
I sit down on the bed in front of him, my legs on either side of his body. When he kneels before me, my hands tangle in his hair, bringing him closer until his face is pressed against my stomach. I can feel his breath, hot and ragged, against my skin.
“Fuck… I just might have a new fetish, Sweetheart.” Dean grips my hips, his tongue gliding up the path my fingers took in reverse.
A sensation, sweet and warm, spreads through me. My head falls back, a soft moan escaping my lips as I rake my fingers through his hair. Between the texture of his tongue, his kisses, and the light biting, I’m not sure which is more intoxicating. It's a symphony, a dance of pleasure that leaves me breathless.
He sucks at the hardened peak of one nipple, lapping up the sweet stickiness that coats it. A jolt of neural electricity shoots straight to my core and my thighs squeeze around his sides.
As he reaches the end of the path, he rises until his face is level with mine. I can see the desire written on his face, the hunger that mirrors my own. I tilt my chin, my lips meeting his in a soft kiss. The taste of the pudding mingles with the heat of his mouth.
His hands work at the waistband of my pants, slowly pulling them down, revealing more of my skin to his touch. I shift my hips, helping him as he slides the pants down my legs, leaving me bare and vulnerable before him.
His fingers glide up my legs, tracing a path of fire as they go. His thumbs brush against the sensitive skin, causing heat to build inside me, a slow burn that's threatening to consume me.
He captures my other breast in his mouth now, giving it the same torturous attention. As he does, a hand moves closer to my center, drawing circles around my clit at a teasing, maddening rhythm that has me squirming beneath him.
I can feel the wetness between my legs, a testament to my arousal and gradual loss of self control.
That blessed mouth is still on me, demanding, answering, devouring. My legs lock around his waist, and I pull him closer, greedy, unashamed. His teeth move up to graze my jaw and an embarrassing sound breaks from me; one that's entirely needy and helpless. He moves lower, to my throat, and every nerve in me shudders, lighting like kindling.
He pauses with a brazen smirk, knowing he found the most sensitive spot.
“[Insert your name]…” His voice frays at the edges, and the way he says my name nearly undoes me. “You want to be devoured and bitten by me? What a devious little hunter you are.”
I couldn’t answer that truthful accusation. My moan catches somewhere between a plea and a shiver, and then his mouth is on my favorite spot again. It is everything I’d craved, everything I’d forbidden myself after assuming the life of a hunter.
Wanting him this way is reckless. Ruinous. There's a reason why most hunters didn't commit or marry.
The bedroom might as well vanish. There’s no monsters, no world beyond this. Only him. Only us.
His grip is unyielding at the back of my head, his teeth nipping hard, yet restrained at the threshold of bruising. My pulse thunders in my ears, louder than the hollow echo of our bodies colliding with the stone wall. I was so caught up that I hadn't even realized he lifted me.
“Fucking hells, Dean…” I gasp, clawing at the back of his shirt.
He holds me tighter, all restraint unraveling at once. His eyes burn fiercely and raw before kissing me again, harder this time, as if the only answer he could give is surrender.
It steals what little breath I have left.
I cling to him, desperate, as if the world itself could split apart beneath us and I would still not let go. His hands roam down my back, anchoring me closer, pressing me against every line of him until I felt the truth of his hunger, the depth of his need throbbing against my abdomen.
My body arches against him in helpless betrayal.
My nails scrap against his shoulders, grabbing fabric, forcing his shirt off. It draws a growl from him that vibrates against my lips. The animalistic snarl drives me crazy, I writhe on top of him, egging him on even further.
He presses me harder to the wall, the stone biting cold at my back while his body burned against me. Every shift of his hips sends sparks surging through me, my legs tightening around his waist, urging him closer, deeper, until I thought I might lose myself entirely.
There’s too many clothes. Too many layers. I need friction. I need him.
When I ogle his tattoo and the muscular delineated lines of his chest, he grows thicker, straining against the confines of his seams. As I work at his belt, he puts me down to allow better access.
The moment he springs free, I nearly water at the mouth. Glistening, veined, and rock hard.
Dean's arm hoists me up to straddle him. The length of his cock presses at my centre teasingly. He slides a hand into my hair, tugging to expose the soft flesh to him, and then he’s kissing, biting, worshipping, each touch more frantic than the last.
He’s no longer careful. No longer composed. He’s fire and hunger and need, and I want every fractured piece of it.
“Say my name,” he rasps against my skin, voice hoarse, commanding and pleading all at once.
“Dean,” I breathe huskily, trembling from stimulation.
And then he thrusts deep inside of me, giving my muscles a moment to stretch. The way he shudders at my scream of pleasure, of my walls clenching around him, it ignites something even wilder in me.
There’s no space left between us. Only the clash of want, the collision of two souls, and the longing and reckless surrender.
If the world ended here, I would not mourn it.
He lifts me higher against him, my body pinned between stone and heat. My legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper still. Every plunge, every desperate press steals the air from my lungs, leaving me dizzy.
Leveraging the wall, his hands roam, frantic, greedy, sliding from my hips, up to my neck.
My breaths come in short excited pants as his fingers close around my throat with just the right amount of force.
“My devious little hunter,” He murmurs the new nickname again with a gleam in his eye, he holds me as though I might slip through his fingers if he lets go.
I cry out a choked moan, the sound raw and unguarded. He swallows it like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Every barrier that had stood between us is now gone, burned away in the heat of the moment.
I cling to him, nails raking down his back, urging him further, harder, faster, until the world narrowed to the rhythm of his skin crashing against mine.
I’m close, so close, the climax kept at bay from lack of oxygen.
My name tears from him, ragged, reverent, desperate. He presses his forehead to mine, breaths uneven, words breaking through the chaos to bring more. “I'll make you come so hard with my hand wrapped around your neck that angels themselves will question why such a beautiful creation of life willingly chases the precipice of death and destruction.”
He unrelentingly fucks me like a man starved, kisses me like it’s havoc and salvation both, and I know we’re teetering on the very edge of no return.
His cock throbs wildly, only then does he allow me enough air, the only tether that had kept me from shattering on the spot.
I scream his name through release and match him with everything I have left to give. The stone wall digs hard into my back, but I welcome the bite of it. It’s proof this is real, that he is real, that I’m not dreaming the impossible.
We gasp for air and I slump limply against his upper body. I’m not sure how he still has the stamina to walk, but he circles back to the bed, sitting me on his lap.
I curl into him immediately, listening to our heartbeats calm slowly in sync. “Fucking fates… You might’ve been right...” I manage a breathless chuckle.
“About what?” He tilts his head curiously, combing his fingers through my knotted hair.
“...About you being able to claim me.” I feign a sigh, dragging my bottom lip through my teeth.
His whole being rumbles with laughter and I warm at the sound. Well, until there’s a knock on my door.
“Sorry for uh… interrupting… I’m going to, uh, go grab an Inn for the night.” Sam’s timid, yet annoyed voice carries through the door and I flush instantly. “I’ll catch you in the morning, don’t wait up for me.”
“You know the rules, Sammy. Don’t hurt my baby.” Dean warns, reaching for the half empty container of pudding on my nightstand.
“Y-yeah…” He mumbles, steps heading towards the bunker exit.
I gasp when a new application of pudding is smothered on my chest.
“I hope you didn’t think I was done with you yet. There’s still plenty of pudding left…” Dean smiles into the crook of my neck. “And skin to leave my mark on…”
It’s a good thing that Sam went to the Inn, because the lust and lunacy continued until we were fully satisfied and nearly forgot our own names.
In the end, Dean kept true to his word and left marks of his claim all over me. And I wouldn't have it any other way.