Chapter 1: That's it. Just behind the ears...
“And never again shall I touch you, you godforsaken thing.” Finally you can put that book away on the shelf forever, having scanned every creepy-as-fuck soft page of human skin. Uuuuuhuhuhuhuh.
You sit back down at a library desk and scroll through the list to see what’s next, but the front door slams and you think maybe you’ll take a break since the guys are back.
“Y/N?” you hear Sam, bellowing down the corridor. His unusual volume is curious.
Then there’s a “Y/N!” It’s kinda breathy, almost hoarse, and you assume it’s Dean.
There’s some noise, like they’re arguing and you hear your name again in two parts - “Y! N!”
Dean must have some news.
You push your chair back and turn to look at the platform, watching where they’ll appear.
“Dean! Dean!” Sam says sternly. “No!”
“Y/N!” Dean says again as he appears and you smile at whatever it is that has him so excited.
Sam calls, “Y/N!” and he’s right behind Dean but not keeping up. “Just hold your ground!”
Dean’s scrambling down the steps, almost at the bottom.
“What?” you call. “Sam?”
“Hold your ground, Y/N!”
Dean hits the floor and starts running toward you, happy and gallumphing. You grip the chair to keep yourself still and can only watch as the most delighted Dean you’ve ever seen, with a bouncing slack-jawed grin, leaps up the steps and gallops straight for you.
“Saaam?!” You’re calling for help.
“Dean!” you squawk, knees and hands up to defend yourself as he lands on you, all over you. “What- are you- doing?!”
“Dean!” Sam barks.
Dean’s landed on his knees, between yours, his hands flumped onto your shoulders panting “Y/N!” and licks you, licks you right up your face, chin to eye, over your ear-
“Dean! No!” you try to push him off but he’s heavy and leaning, your arms almost pinned.
He keeps licking, slurping wet stripes up your face and you crane your neck to see Sam, his hopeless trot having stopped a few feet behind Dean. He’s exasperated and sorry, hands landing on his thighs in defeat. Your neck and ear are getting ridiculously wet, even as you push on Dean’s shoulders.
“Dean! Get off me!” you yell, and his next lick slides right over your mouth and beside your nose, flapping your upper lip as his tongue goes past. It’s a tipping point. “Dean! No! Down!”
He closes his mouth and looks at you in stunned silence. You look him in the eye, stern and dominant, point at the ground beside him and repeat “Down!”in your Mom Voice.
He sits on his feet, puts his hands on the floor, and diligently awaits your next instruction as he licks his lips and teeth, resettling his tongue back in his head.
You stare at him a moment, instinctively saying “Good-” but can’t finish your words. “…God. Sam?” You look up at him.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “He’s just missing the fur and the tail.”
Dean’s chin falls open and he breathes, almost pants, while he watches you.
“And the fucking leash,” you mutter.
“I am not putting a leash on him,” he admonishes, coming around to the other side of the table to sit and hold his head. “Seriously, he’s been mind melded with dogs – animals – before, but never anything like this. It’s completely incapacitating.”
“He said my name,” you look at Sam.
“Yeah, he uses words, but they’re like… representations of thought. No sentences, no human stuff other than that and the walking. It’s like… he’s just acting exactly like a dog. In a kind of human way.”
“Uuuh,” Sam checks his watch, “three hours ago. Hasn’t changed or lessened at all.”
“Has he eaten?” you ask.
“Um, no,” Sam frowns, realising he had prioritised getting home over everything else.
“Okay,” you say and lean over for your bottle of water. As soon as it’s in view Dean shuts his mouth and follows it with his eyes. “Are you thirsty Dean?” you ask, but he’s not listening because he clearly is thirsty and waiting for you to open the bottle.
With the cap off you offer it to him, just to see if he’ll take it, but he ducks forward a little, watching the spout, expecting you’ll tip it for him. Sam watches awkwardly as you tilt the bottle towards him, saying “Okay, here you go,” and hope to God he’ll wrap his lips around the mouth of it to drink but he just gets himself under the flow and laps as it spills over his tongue and chin.
“Okay, no, Dean,” you hold his jaw and look at him, “can you do this?” You pout your lips as if to drink but he doesn’t even look at them, just dutifully glances at your eyes a second before looking at the bottle again. So you give in and pour a slow trickle for him, your wincing gaze flicking between the dribbles on his chin and throat and the puddle on the floor. “Uuuuuugh, this is so baaaaad,” you groan. “I can’t believe I’m watching him do this.”
“I know,” Sam joins you, putting his forehead in his hand as he leans on the desk.
Once Dean’s taken enough he settles back to sit, lapping and licking the water around his mouth. You put the bottle down and look at him with concern. “Dean?” you ask gently and he looks at you. “Are you in there?”
Nothing but solemn interest and patience. You wait four, maybe five seconds, hoping you’ll get something, but he just breaks into a soft, panting smile.
“He’s like a fucking German Shepherd, Sam,” you mutter. “Did she use words or a powder or what?”
“Words,” he groans, “and I don’t know them.”
“That fucking woman,” you gripe, sitting back and crossing your arms. “What’s he been like with you?”
“Fine, for a dog,” Sam gripes. “But yeah, he’s been good, doing what I ask, keeping close. Wouldn’t sit in the back though.”
You try not to smile at Dean over that. It’s such a curious thing, to have him sitting before you, not watching you, as such, but ready to.
Sam goes on, “He knew exactly where we were going, started saying your name before I opened the car door and that was it; listening to me was over.”
“Right,” you wonder. “Happy to be home.”
“Something like that,” Sam sighs.
You look at him, his butt sticking out as he waits idly for whatever’s coming, blinking as his eyes look at nothing in particular. A sense of worry flickers in your chest, his complete lack of self-awareness making him seem so vulnerable. You feel an overwhelming need to protect him, from Rowena, from ridicule, from misfortune, clumsy accidents… heartworm…
“I can’t help but think he might be able to see himself,” you say, turning to Sam, “Like he’s going to be absolutely mortified at these memories. I don’t know whether to treat him like a dog or a Dean trapped inside the mind of a dog.”
“I know,” Sam leans his forearms on the desk. “I’m the same. He’s so completely doggish that I keep realising I’m just responding like he is one.” Sam tries not to smile but he can’t help but be amused because, as you’ve been talking, Dean has rested his chin on your knee and you’ve run your hand back and forth through his hair a few times as you’ve been listening and talking.
You look down at Dean, his eyes closed under your touch, and you yank your hand away in surprise. “Shit,” you whisper and look at Sam cautiously. “I, uh, grew up with dogs.”
“Yah,” he grins. “You know what though? He’s probably mostly feeling like a dog… I suppose… I mean, he didn’t try to drive. Let’s just roll with Dog Dean and see if we can crack the curse.”
“Yeah, okay,” you say. “I think some food is in order.”
Dean’s head pops up on ‘food’ and you smile at him hesitantly, slightly self-conscious when you say “You got that huh? You want something to eat?”
Dean stands as you stand and follows you closely as you head for the kitchen.
“I think he likes you,” Sam comments.
You roll your eyes back at him saying “Oh, can we keep him?”
You and Sam put some sandwiches together for yourselves and consider the options for Dean. “Ugh, well, let’s see what happens…?” Sam asks you.
“Go for it,” you shrug and let Sam make a sandwich for Dean too.
At the table, Dean tries to sit on the stool but his knees and feet slide off the shiny surface. Then, when he does try to eat, even as he topples around the seat, he puts his hands either side of the plate and drops his head, not even attempting to pick up the food. He can’t seem to get enough stability to make a start.
“Okay, hang on,” you say, unable to bare the scene any more. You take his plate and put it by you on the floor. “Here you go.”
Dean climbs off and moves himself around to face the plate, gets himself on all fours and picks up the sandwich with his teeth, chomp-tossing it back into his head as best he can and biting off chunks of bread. The plate clatters on the tiles as he picks up the fallen contents with his mouth-
“I can’t watch,” you close your eyes and sit straight, deciding to pretend he’s not there.
Sam seems stuck, riveted by the sight of his older brother on all fours and eating off the floor. Slowly he stares at you, still trying to take it in.
“Shit, Sam, he won’t use his hands,” you realise.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Sam replies.
“Bathroom,” you state. “What the hell happens there?”
Sam drops his sandwich and rubs his face with his hands. “For fuck’s sake. This is the worst.”
“You know what? Let’s put him in just boxers and a bathrobe. If it is cold outside he probably won’t even notice, and just… take him for a walk,” you suggest.
Sam sighs deeply and picks up his sandwich again, “Yeah, that’s probably easiest. Not like we’re travelling anywhere soon.”
“Just pretend like you’re old already and he’s lost his beans,” you grin.
Sam huffs a laugh, then breaks into a proper wheezing chuckle. “Probably the closest we’ll get to that,” he says.
“There you go! Silver lining!”
Dean’s finished his food and licked the plate clean, dragging it a foot or so along the ground before sniffing the floor a bit to check for crumbs. All done and finished, he drops on his side, facing your stool, and stretches his limbs, hands and feet quivering at the reach.
Sam gets up to make a drink and Dean lifts his head to see where he’s off to, dropping it back down when he’s satisfied. He taps your ankle with slack fingers, kind of dragging his hand over it.
“What?” you ask.
He does it again and tilts his torso back, staring at you through lazy eyes.
“Seriously? You want me to rub your belly? You just ate.”
He leans his hand on your foot again and blinks slowly, like Loook at meeee, how can I go without someone rubbing my bellyyyyy?
You groan, kick off your shoe and lightly rub his lower ribs with your socked foot, determined that this is the extent of your affection right now. He closes his eyes and tilts back further, his upper arm hinging off his chest as your action works his shirts up his stomach.
You look up at Sam, something like a glare or a prayer, but instead of compassion he says “Hey, I’m trying not to be offended here. He’s all over you. I’m the one who’s made the sandwich… and doing the walks.”
“He’ll thank you later,” you promise.
Later in the afternoon, Dean is changed, which wasn’t easy, and you’ve dragged a spare mattress into the library for him to lay on if he wants.
Sam has written down what he recalls Rowena saying. Each word is rewritten in every language it could belong to so you can search with the most likely spelling. You’re scouring what documents you’ve already scanned, trying to use text recognition software to analyse the texts not yet interpreted. It’s tedious work.
Barely 20 minutes into the job and Dean’s up and trotted over to the stairs in the war room, his bathrobe almost coming undone. “Walk!” he huffs. He stares at Sam across the expanse.
“You wanna go out for a walk?” Sam repeats back.
“Why yes,” you say for Dean. “Your astute observations are spot on. A walk is what I would adore. Shall we?”
“Walk! Walk!” he repeats, taking a few steps up the stairs.
“Okay, hang on,” Sam says, getting up to follow, scowling at your shit-stirring as he walks away.
“Good luck,” you call. “Don’t tell me about it.”
Another 20 minutes later and they’re back, Dean jogging back down the stairs and over to your chair, kneeling on the floor and dropping his hands on your arm rest. Sam heads into the kitchen. You’ve got a finger dragging along a line of intricate text, trying to see if it matches anything you’ve got.
“Hey how’d you go?” you ask Dean absently, taking in the script. “All good?”
He pants at you and puts a hand on your arm. You lift your hand and pat his shoulder, saying “Good boy,” as you try to think about what you’re reading.
He pants some more and noses your shoulder, encouraging you to do something.
“One tick,” you murmur, “one tick Dean.”
He noses again and bursts out “Y/N!” It snaps you out of your study and he grins at you slackly, eyebrows high, pawing at your leg.
“Hey, sorry,” you say, smiling kindly. “You doin’ okay?” you ask, rubbing your hand on top of his shoulder, near his neck. Petting him feels awkward when he has no fur; you’re worried you’ll actually scratch his skin so keep to the robe.
But it’s not what he wants. He ducks his head under your forearm to encourage your hand onto his head. It feels wrong, but somehow Sam being absent makes it easier to be generous. You run your fingers through his hair, using the kind of motions you would for a dog, but when you get to the hair behind his ear he closes his eyes and leans into it. You don’t scratch, exactly, just kind of rub and stroke. He rests his chin on his knuckles, occupying the arm rest, and seems settled there, so you go back to your piece of text and keep petting his head, while you work.
Your brain is teetering on a point between being unable to focus and completely unravelling at his attention. You realise that this wall you have up inside you, between now and the memory of every time you’ve thought of your fingers in Dean’s hair, is to protect him. Because it seems he can’t choose this - it’s just what Dog Dean wants - and it feels unfair to make him sad now because you can’t keep your crush in perspective.
Sam returns with a bowl of water and some snacks for the table. He notices what you’re doing but decides to not comment because, considering what he’s just been through outside, head pats are nothing.
“Dean?” he says. Dean opens his eyes and lifts his head. You take your hand back to scroll and click. “Got you some water,” Sam nods at him and places it on the floor by the mattress, doing that fake telepathy people do with our eyebrows that says Watch, I am putting it here, for you, okay?
Dean closes his eyes and rests his head back on his hands. Sam sighs and goes back to his seat. Then Dean thumps your leg again to prompt more patting. You glare at him, just a bit, but his expression is a pleading stare and that’s… just… not comfortable.
You sigh and lean back for your report: “Okay, so I’ve found a few of the words scattered around, all Latin-based languages, but they’re all one at a time.” Your patting hand slides down Dean’s head and rubs up and down his back, just because it’s easier to reach, and you don’t even know you’re doing it. His breath drops to a slow, throaty purr. “I’m beginning to think Rowena’s good enough to just make up a solid spell on the spot,” you level with Sam.
“Which means we need to make up our own reversing spell,” Sam reasons. “Can you interpret the words themselves?”
“Roughly, but all the different contexts aren’t always a helpful. It’s going to take ages.”
“Okay… so… worst case scenario: it takes ages-”
“No, worst case is you have a dog for a brother,” you correct.
“No, we will find a way,” Sam assures firmly, “even if we go via a few mistakes.”
“Shit,” you look at Dean, “brace yourself for that buddy.”
He blinks at you sleepily.
“We’ll just be out of action for a while,” Sam explains, “and if something important comes up we’ll… I dunno… leave him with Garth?”
“Oh he would love that!” you say sarcastically, knowing full well it’s the best option you have. “Actually, he may really love that.”
You lean forward to get back to the interpretations and Dean paws at you again for more patting. “No, that’s enough,” you say, but he persists, nuzzling what he can reach of your forearm. “No, Dean, I need both hands. Go on,” you encourage, “go on Dean. On your mat.”
He sighs, though it sounds more like a “Humph” and turns away. You give him a goodbye pat on his back and he lazily crawls towards the mattress. It’s not that far away, but again, the sight of him on his hands and knees twists in you.
“We are fucking figuring this out Sam,” you promise.
Dean turns a few circles on the bed and flops himself down. You hope, at the least, he’ll get some proper rest now.
Dinner is macaroni and bolognese sauce, a.k.a messy as hell, especially when Dean breathes in a piece of mac then hacks it up again. Poor Sam thinks a different meal will work better and almost loses a finger trying to take his plate. “At least his priorities haven’t changed,” he grumbles sorely.
Afterwards, you and Sam are back opposite each other at the desk while Dean naps on the mattress some more. Before long, both of you notice his feet and wrists twitch as he dreams, chasing cars apparently. He starts to whimper and woof through his lips. You try not to watch and are thankful when he calms and stills.
A minute or so passes and he starts muttering “No! Sam! No!” His twitching begins again but looks more like grabbing and going for things, and then says, sleepily but gruff and firm, “No, you leave her alone!”
You look at Sam, his face mirroring your curious concern, and get up to quietly creep over to Dean.
“No! Sam! Don’t you-” he twitches big enough to make you pause as you kneel beside him. You take his hand in yours, palm to palm and thumbs hooked, and run your hand over his hair. It’s a gesture you’d never have done so easily before today.
You lean over to talk quietly and low by his face, “It’s okay Dean, you’re okay, you’re dreaming.”
Sam’s standing a little way away now, thankfully not saying anything about letting sleeping dogs lie.
Dean snatches at your hand so tightly you flinch and you repeat yourself a little “Shhh, s'okay Dean, we’re right here, you’re okay, you’re sleeping,” and you stroke his head some more to soothe. He takes a shuddering breath in, rolls onto his back and slips into a position that looks wholly un-dog like and very Dean. He holds onto your hand, resting it on his chest, one leg bent and the other straight, an arm wrapped around the top of his head, and mutters “No, not si- 'n the back. Go home t-nn…” and slides back to a quiet sleep.
You have to wait three or four breaths before you can ease your hand away and once you do, he rolls over onto his front to quietly snore.
When you get back to the desk you ask Sam “Did that seem a whole lot of human to you?”
“Yeah, just about,” Sam agreed, thoughtfully frowning at his brother. “It’s like his subconscious is still human Dean.”
“Yeah, took a while to surface though,” you think aloud. “But whole sentences? Hand holding? Gives me hope,” and Sam nods in reply.
By the time you’d call it late, you and Sam have at least four permeations of what the words could mean exactly. Both of you decide some rest will be worth while and you clean up a bit while Sam takes Dean out for another 'walk’.
When you head off to bed, you’re interrupted from your routine by impatient fingers dragging on your door. You open it to Dean, rosy cheeked from the cool night air. He roughly shoulders his way in and stands on your bed, happy and panting.
“No! Dean, down,” you say, pointing at the floor. He circles a few more times, pretending to ignore you, leaving traces of dirt on the comforter. “Off the bed!” you repeat. “Down now! You sleep with Sam.”
He finds his place and settles into a curled position, blinking at you innocently, apparently hoping you won’t notice him there, or that he’s disobeying you.
Somewhere between your expectation that a dog listen to you, and your fear of what might happen if he sleeps on your bed, you kind of crack it. You lean over a little, still pointing at the floor and say through clenched teeth “Down! Now!”
He curls a little tighter and waits to see what will happen.
This time your volume matches your mood. “Get off my bed or I will drag you off Dean!”
Now he looks slapped. He pulls his hands out from under himself and slowly, lowly, crawls off the bed, this 6-foot-something man slinking onto the floor as pathetically as possible and working the saddest face he’s got.
“Go on!” you persist, pointing out the door. “Go to Sam’s room! That’s it! Go-on!”
By now he looks plain hurt and you wonder if you’ve been too harsh. At the door he holds onto the frame and stands – another reminder of how weird this is – and looks at you hopefully.
“That’s it, all the way!”
Slowly he skulks off to where he came from, the bathrobe making him look all the more depressed. You stand by your doorway in the corridor and watch him mope and glance back at you glumly. “Aaall the way,” you repeat, “You’ll be okay,” and when he gets far enough away you call “Good boy Dean” because it’s the only praise you can think of and, dammit, he deserves some kind words.
The next morning you open your bedroom door and find Dean curled up right where a doormat would be.
“Shit,” you whisper, then it occurs to you that maybe the spell might have worn off. You talk to Dean like he might be himself: “Hey, Dean, it’s morning. Time to wake up and wonder what the hell’s going on.”
He blinks a bit and lifts his head, looking around, then down the corridor and cranes his head back to see you. As soon as he smiles you know it’s still not him, his dopey grin full of raw happiness.
He hops up and for a moment you want to keep talking to him normally, wishing it would snap him out of it, but he starts walking you backward, looking at you as he happily turns and figure-8s in front of you. You retreat into your room saying “Okay, you had a good rest huh? Okay-” He puts his hands on your shoulders, even jumping a little as though he had to reach up instead of down, and as your legs hit the bed you’re knocked down to sit, then lay and he grins at you as he rests his forearms on your chest.
You wriggle to get his weight off your breasts, and remind him “No licks!” but he doesn’t respond, just pants and smiles, and you smile back, in case he can see you from in there. It’s getting easier to smile at him when he seems so happy. Your hands land on his head and rub back and forth and he makes this guttural happy sound as he smacks his mouth, like he’s eating good food. He drops his chin onto your chest, unaware of how he’s crushing you, and lets his eyes blink heavy while you pat him.
You wonder if your imagination would ever have come up with this being the way Dean got in your bedroom and between your legs.
“Let’s go get some brekky yeah?” you say and he's pushed off and gone, winding you a little. You go into the corridor to find him half way down, waiting for you, his robe half open. You notice a bit of morning chub, you assume, and think again of what Dean would want you to remember about this. Which, unfortunately for him, is going to be everything.
Sam’s making a proper breakfast in the kitchen and Dean presses himself at your back to see the bacon.
“This looks awesome. Thank God he can’t figure out his hands,” you comment.
“Yeah,” Sam realises. “Sorry about him being at your door. I took him out for a walk and that’s where he settled when we got back. I just figured it was easier to let him be rather than wake you with ordering him away.” He plates up the meal and you grab some utensils before taking a seat.
“No problem,” you say, “I just hope he’s not sore from it.”
Sam leans down with a bowl of chopped bacon and eggs while Dean kneels and watches his hand, his tongue almost hanging out of his head and making a start before the dish even touches the ground.
“Sam, don’t give him bacon! Dogs shouldn’t -oh shit!” you slap your hand over your mouth at what you’re saying.
Sam laughs at you and adds “You know though, while we’re in control of his food, we probably should keep it healthy.”
You grin at him slyly, “Can you imagine the feedback on that decision?”
“He’ll probably puke it up on my pillow before then,” Sam chuckles.
“Let’s do it!”
“Sam!” you gasp, “Shit! I just thought of the words-”
“One of them, near the beginning, it was something like 'this day’-” you think at him, talking over the sound of ceramic being pushed over tiles and against your foot.
“Yeah, what? You don’t think it meant 'now’?” he prompts you.
“It’s just, the context is vague all over. What if it mean 'for a day’?” you ask. “What time did she cast the spell?”
“Around 10:30,” he says. “It’s a shot, actually.”
“Well, it’s not like we’ll have a counterspell in the next few hours anyway,” you calm down. “Let’s wait and see.”
Dean’s head pops up next to you, crumbs of egg and bacon debris across his face like a beard. “God dog, keep it together yeah?” He doesn’t notice you take a napkin to him, just looks at your plate while you wipe.
“Food!” he huffs, looking at you hopefully.
“My food,” you tell him. “No more for you.”
“Food!” he repeats loudly.
“No! Mine! Go ask Sam! He’s in charge of feeding you.”
“Ugh, thanks,” Sam groans.
Dean shuffles around to your side, almost behind you, butting his head in between your elbow and ribs and resting a loose hand on your thigh. He pauses there, staring intently at your unfinished plate.
You pick up your fork, your other arm loose around his neck, load it with some eggs and jab a bit of bacon onto the end. Carefully you raise it to your lips, Dean following it from plate to palette. You notice the drool pooling around his tongue but he doesn’t notice, at all, that he’s pushing the side of his face into your breast, so you lean away for you both. You shovel the food into your mouth and look at him as he cranes his head and pines, watching the food go away.
“Ours were outside dogs,” you say matter-of-factly around your mouthful.
He droops in rejection, groans sourly as he licks around his mouth before resting his chin in your lap. You take a deep sigh, trying not to feel anything about his throat being over your pockets and put your hand on his shoulder.
When you look up at Sam, he’s serious and concerned. “You got an opinion about all this?” he asks, nodding at Dean and his closeness.
You look at your plate, chew carefully and finish a mouthful. “Lots, to be honest, but I’m going to wait till I can talk to him before I pick one in particular,” you answer.
“Fair enough,” he says, getting up for a coffee, “but for the record, I’m not surprised.”
“Really?” you ask in curiosity.
“Yeah, you are?”
“Well, you’re his brother, why isn’t he all over you?”
From your lap, Dean cranes his head so his eyes can follow your last forkful of food, a heavy sigh huffing out of him as you don’t give him that one either.
“Coz I’m a given, I’m family,” Sam reckons. “You’ve only been here a few months, and he doesn’t want you to leave. Like, at all… You really don’t think he looks at you?” He sits back down with a hot mug for you each.
“I figure he cares about me, but I don’t really see him with other women, like day-to-day, so I don’t know,” you reason, glancing down at Dean with a vague feeling he’s listening to you. “I, um,… I don’t want to stuff up the friendship.”
Sam chews on his smile a bit, hiding it behind his coffee as he says “Okay, well, you talk about your friendship when he’s back to normal, okay?”
“Pff. Yes Mom.”
The more you look at the words, the more hopeful you are that it’s a 24-hr thing. You glance at your watch every now at then, your frequency climbing to every two minutes by 10:20am.
At 10:25, Sam’s watch goes off and he leans back in his chair to watch his brother.
Dean’s sleeping on his side, arms and legs paired much like a dog’s would be, and you wait.
“How quickly did the spell kick in?” you ask.
“Pretty quick, I think,” Sam replies.
Seconds pass, enough that you wish you’d timed them, but nothing changes.
Dean rolls onto his back and rests his arm over his eyes. Not unheard of for a dog, but he’s also sleeping so it’s hard to go one way or another. Then he groans, a proper What’s going on groan and he shifts his arm back to his forehead to look at the ceiling.
You and Sam sit forward and Dean slowly pulls himself up, turning to face you both and resting his elbows on his knees. He rubs his face, looks down and frowns at his robe, closing it a little more and rubbing his thighs and arms, like his muscles are itchy.
“Yeah?” Sam says, “is that you?”
Dean looks at him and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh thank fuck,” Sam sighs and slumps back in his chair.
You’ve sucked your bottom lip into your mouth, waiting to see how he’ll look at you, ready to forget the last day ever happened. If that’s what he wants.
Sam laughs a little and says “That was a hell of a day.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” Dean says, running a hand back and forth over his head. “Fuckin peculiar.” He stares at the floor a moment, before Sam gets up and walks over to him to offer a hand.
You stand as Sam pulls him up. “Thanks,” Dean says, “for all that.”
Sam twitches his eyebrows at him, as if to say Of course I would. “Don’t worry about it,” he grins. “You were a good dog.”
Dean groans but pulls him in and smacks him on the back for a solid bro-hug.
“Good dog,” says Sam over his shoulder as he smacks him back.
“No,” Dean points at him firmly. “Never again.”
Sam laughs and leaves, quite tactfully you think, and Dean tucks in his bathrobe.
He stares at you so long you feel like bad news is coming.
“I’m betting you want to take a shower or something,” you say, shifting a few papers on the table with your fingers.
“Yeah, I feel pretty ripe,” he reports. “Think I’ve still got forest dirt on my feet.”
“You remember then?”
“Yeah,” he tells you. “Everything.”
“Right then… well you really will need that shower,” you say and smile as kindly and casually as you can… and leave.
Chapter 2: ...a little lower...
Dean is a good man, which is why he was a great dog.
Half an hour or so later there’s a knock on your bedroom door. You’ve managed to suspend hope and grief, so open the door with a fairly ready heart, your “Hi,” coming out almost as usual.
“Hey,” he says, standing there with damp hair, clean shaven, upright and present and looking at your face so pensively. You think back to the way he was last night, his gaze looking into you without a shred of fear or worry.
He straightens himself a little. “I wanted to thank you-”
“That’s okay,” you brush off, too quickly.
“For being so kind. You were really patient with the whole thing,” he swallows and licks his lips. “I kind of… asked a lot of you.”
“Yeah, so, what, were you like screaming on the inside or just rolling along with it?” Your question is forced as you turn away and leave the door open. You’re ridiculously uncomfortable and nervous and trying not to think of why.
Dean steps into your room and closes the door, watching you as you move things that don’t need moving and tries to answer the question. “Uh… more the second one. Like, I was surprised at what I was doing but I didn’t really want to do anything else.”
“Like, curious,” you shrug.
“Like embarrassed, but… happy.”
“Yeah,” you say, stopping in your tracks. He shrugs a nod and you scratch your face somewhere, rub your knuckles on your mouth while you think. “You did look happy.”
“Yeah?” he asks, sitting on your bed.
“Very,” you sigh. You throw whatever garment is in your hand on the pile and sit in the desk chair that faces the bed. “I’ve never seen you more peaceful.”
“Huh, my luck,” he says. After a while he shares, “You know, at the time I didn’t seem able to think about what I was seeing. I’d sorta register you were angry or happy or whatever and see you, but I couldn’t really interpret you very well. I remember what I saw though.”
You want to know what he thinks of everything, what he thinks he saw you give him in each encounter, but there’s no way you can ask without blushing.
“I remember how happy I was to be with you,” he goes on. “I mean, no wonder dogs are so happy. When you patted me it was like seventh heaven. Complete indulgence.”
“Well, that’s all you wanted,” you excuse.
“I didn’t want Sam to pet me,” he says. “And my favourite moments were when you did that without thinking- Like the first time!” he explains, like he’s trying to convince you of something, “When you were talking with Sam. And here in your room, I didn’t even ask-”
You stand, your nerves cranking up again. “Look, Dean,” you’re unable to exhale properly, “you don’t have to say all this just to make me feel better. I’m just glad you’re not avoiding me or being a dick, you know?”
Dean stands too, concerned over your reaction. “That’s not why I’m telling you this,” he says steadily. “Why are you so upset? I just spent a day being a dog!”
“I’m not upset!” you say loudly. “I’m nervous.”
He starts at that and you feel like you should explain.
“Sam… Sam suggested-” you search around for what’s going on with you and have nothing, no part of your brain helping you out. When you do talk, it’s freaking arranged by a committee and you say it like you’re listing options. “It was nice. I don’t want to ruin our friendship… We can be whatever you prefer. I’m fine.”
Dean thinks hard, tilting his head adorably as he tries to string it all together. “Uuh, can you pick one of those, for us to cover?” he requests in confusion.
You look at him, wishing to hell he could help you out… “You’re never going to look at me like that again, are you?”
He breathes out, with you. “Like what?” he asks, coming closer.
“Like… you’re unburdened,” you describe and turn so you’re facing him squarely. Your eyes run over his eyelashes and jaw-line the way you wish your fingertips could. “Like yesterday doesn’t matter, and things are simple and simple to get. Food, rest, comfort…” you kind of poke at him, running a digit down his belly with a rueful tone. He catches your fingers. “That look dogs do that says there’s no one else in the world,” you peek up at him. “It’s nice to be looked at like that, you know?” and smile a bit to pretend you mean generically.
Dean pulls your hand down by his leg as he steps closer still, keeping you from backing out. He’s close enough to share his soap-laced warmth with you, t-shirts almost touching, and it’s not helping your thoughts come together. “I look at you like that all the time,” he says quietly.
“No you don’t-” you frown in disbelief.
“Yeah, I do-”
“You look at me like I’m confusing!” you say, tipping your head back to see him and struggling to keep yourself even with his nearness.
“That’s coz I couldn’t figure out what I should do about it,” he says and tilts his head down so that his lips are almost next to yours. “About what I want with you.”
He turns a little, barely half an inch, into the middle-space between you, the place where you would kiss if you had both moved. “What should we do, Y/N, about us?”
He holds himself there and, as you pause, he looks from your lips to your eyes, his face saying Well? Then, when his breath down your neck distracts you for too long, you see his expression shift to Please?
You put your lips on his, close your eyes for two seconds, and finish it saying “Of course.”
“I mean,” you take a deep breath, “I would like it if we did this.”
He smiles a little and kisses you again, short, warm and dry. “You’d like it if we kissed,” he says, “like this.” He does it again, just as before, with surprising softness.
“Um-” his kiss interrupts you, “Yeah, but-” kiss, “are you-” kiss “what?”
“We can do this,” he says quietly, his cheeky smile returning. And kisses you yet again, only a fraction longer. “You smell good.”
You stop to look at him. He seems relaxed and confident, waiting for you to be the same. “You’re fucking killing me,” you mutter.
“Mmm,” he replies, looking back down at your lips and drifts his fingertips up your forearm. “More?”
“Yes, longer more please,” you reply. He puts his lips on yours and slides his fingers up your arm as his other hand lands on your waist. The kiss barely changes, the shape of his mouth only moving against you slightly, and he holds you as he walks you backwards to the wall.
You hit the cold surface and breathe in, moaning a bit at this sustained contact on your mouth, so limited and specific, the tickling breath from his nose contrasting with the warmth of his chin.
You rest your hands on his chest and arm as he holds you, those muscles familiar but unexplored. When he pulls away you’re almost panting and he’s looking at you intensely.
“What are you doing?” you ask, you don’t even know why.
“I’m just trying to keep my mouth closed,” he mutters, “for a change.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s enough of that though.”
His fingers slip up your arm to the back of your head, flashing goosebumps across your back, and he kisses you again. You detect his tongue lick at your lip, just inside the wetness he can now feel, and you lick back. It’s all the sign he needs and it’s as though he dives onto you, his knees bending to match your height, his hand pushing firmly around your waist to collect you and his forearm slipping around your shoulder as he opens the kiss properly, pulling you into the curve of him so he can have you how he wants. You can’t remember if your breath should be going in or out.
Dean moans against you, tasting and rolling, and your replying noise quivers. Your hold on his arm slides up to his neck, up into his hair, over his crown and pulling back down over his scalp. He moans again, breaking away and looks at you, slack-lipped and surprised.
“That still feels really good,” he breathes.
“Like this morning?” you remind him.
“Yeah… I suppose,” he licks his lips and swallows, “there’s residual… stuff.”
“I’m not going to rub your belly, just so you know.”
“Aw c'mon,” he smiles slyly, dragging his hand down your waist and over your ass. He tucks himself under your jaw and licks each kiss over your skin, dully biting the muscle before working his lips back up to yours and smoothly mumbling “I’ve been a good boy.”
Ohh ff-fffuck, you think. “Mmm,” you reply, the noise tight and short.
He kisses back down your other side and says “I was so obedient,” his hair tickling your chin and ear as he holds you tightly and nibbles and kisses. “I’ve been such a good boy,” he repeats, voice grating like stubble.
Your eyes stop working. You don’t know why or how but that just made you slip overboard.
“That-” Damn, all this has you swooning so hard you lips are tingling. “That’s not true,” you say weakly.
He stops and lifts his head to look at you, and then recalls, “Oh yeah, I wouldn’t get off the bed,” he grins. “Can you blame me?”
“You were pretty cheeky,” you describe, trying to cover your reaction, “pretending you didn’t know what I meant. And such a sulky thing about it.”
“I felt pretty sad,” he says, his face nearly reliving the memory.
For a moment you wonder exactly how much dog is left in him.
He lets go of your head and pulls the elastic out of your hair, running his fingers over and through it. “Would you order me off the bed now?” he asks, almost quiet enough to whisper.
He kisses you, full and generously, and you hold each other warmly. “I was hoping,” he says around your lips, “maybe I could rub my belly against yours.”
“Hmm,” you laugh a little, “have I been a good girl?”
“What?” he stops, eyebrows tilted in confusion or concern.
You drag your fingertips over his ear and down his neck as you explain. “I’d have to have been a very good girl to get that kind of belly rub,” and smile up at him tentatively, with no clue that you’re returning the favour with your words.
Dean clears his throat and swallows, swaying himself a little.
“Does that sort of talk work for you?” you ask, curious about what’s going on.
He nods a little and you look at your hand on his chest, how close you are to him now inside his arms. You can’t believe he’s sharing this with you, wanting it with you even. So you share something back.
“What you said before,” you say, still staring at your hand, “about being a good boy,… uh, me too.”
In the edge of your vision you see his lips pick up at the corners. He leans back from the wall and starts to walk you both toward your bed, teetering side to side as he talks.
“You like telling me I’m a good boy?” he asks lowly. The delicious curl of his voice weakens you so much it almost makes you want to take it back.
“No, it’s not that,” you look up at him, trying to figure it out… “it’s… it’s the wanting something from me.”
“Ah,” he says, and your calves feel the mattress, “you want me to beg.”
“Dean, I don’t want you on your knees-”
“Y/N,” he says heavily, leading you to sit and lay back as he leans and climbs over you, “you’ve already had me on my knees.”
He kisses you, pausing the conversation to taste you deeply. He holds your head but his actions still rock you back and forth. When he breaks away he ducks and nudges to kiss under your chin, breathing in your closeness and licking lightly. He keeps talking as he works his lips down your skin, the weight of his chest reminding you of those sweet moments only hours ago. “And you were so good to me… kind…” - he kisses down your throat- “…fair…” - and nuzzles under your breast, nosing your nipple and catching your breath - “…patient…”
As he gets down past your belly button, your fingers brush his hair, and he lifts your shirt to kiss along the waistband of your jeans. “If there’s anyone I trust to have me on my knees, it’s you.”
With your heart in your throat, you look down at him, all sincerity and want, and watch him steadily work your pants open. He inches them over your hips and legs, fingertips dragging over your skin as he goes. You drop your head to look at the ceiling, stealing a second or so to reflect and think. …have me on my knees…
Dean rests his arms over your thighs, his chin a few inches from your panties as his breadth pushes your knees apart, and plays with your fingers. “I know you said no licking…” he says.
“I take it back,” you breathe. “Lick whatever you want.”
Without a pause, he slips his fingers into the waistband and pulls the cotton down. You feel his ears against your inner thighs, just for a second, before his breath hits you, the heat of it flowing down. Without warning, he starts, the warm, wet muscle pushing between flesh, directly toward your core, hot air enveloping the space, and the pressure slides up, broadening, pushing your lips aside to lap firmly over the delicate folds and clit, the tip of his tongue flicking off the hood. You let out a shaky aa-Ah!, curling a little in surprise at all the different things triggered. He does it again, the initial penetration beginning to tease and tempt, and you can feel his breathing coming in puffs, much faster than usual. On the third time he drags his tongue back down, nosing between the folds and settling his lips in the wetness, takes a deep breath and moans heartily.
One of his hands is still tangled in yours, but the other he’s let go so he can hold your hip and encourage it still. Your hand is in mid-air, hovering over his head, as he runs light friction over the ridges of your folds and tip-taps your clit. You feel your neck tense and jaw tighten, frowning an oh! Oh! on each beat. But when he pushes his lips around that bud, suckling and massaging it’s hidden roots, your fingers find his head and you take a desperate gasp.
“Oh fuck Dean!” You can’t decide if you should curl or arch, almost thumping yourself on the bed. For a little while he works the pressure and suction with his jaw, faster than you expected, and all you can feel is the exquisite pull of your softness. Then he releases your hip, dipping one, then two fingers into you and steadily pushing over and over.
Arching. Moaning and arching and pushing towards him is how your body responds and he grips your hand to anchor you. He moans on you too making you suck air in and shake it out. Under his chin, his fingers begin to curl and stroke, mimicking his tongue, working you towards something that’s hijacking your legs and they begin to squeeze around his head. You give up trying to control yourself.
When you come, your fingertips raking over his crown, all he can see is your belly pulled taut by your spine, and all he can hear are your cries telegraphed through you, muffled by thrumming blood and trembling muscle in your warm thighs.
After your feet are resting on the floor again, Dean starts kissing around the cushiness and soon some background part of you notices him moving around. You assume he’s getting his clothes off, and the feeling of his chest, back, hairy thigh, all of it brushing against the inside of your legs, wakes you further but you don’t want to leave the puddle you’re in just yet. You hope he can find a condom on his own. When you hear the foil packet, almost unconsciously you murmur “Good boy” in the softest of breaths.
“What was that?” he asks, his voice tight and hopeful.
“Oh, just,” you writhe a little, while you wait, “sorry, it’s almost a habit.”
“Say it again,” he asks, and leans over you. He slides an arm under your chest, sitting you up so he can remove your t-shirt and bra. Although you’re distracted by his urgency – not the cool, pacing lover you expected – you spy the protection on him and pause at the sight while you let him undress you. The moment is interrupted by him leaning towards your bust and looking up at you, but that too is surprising: Dean’s face and lips are an inch from something so delicate, something of you he's never touched before.
“Say it again,” he repeats, and opens his mouth as he watches and waits for it. You’re stuck, unable to function. He licks your heat-softened nipple, curling his tongue to pull it in.
Your hands land gently on his neck, fingers threading up the back of his head. You’re that captivated by the sight of him doing this that you even don’t hear yourself say “You’re such a good boy.”
Dean takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, licking and nipping at your heavy curves till the nipple pebbles. He spreads his fingers around your ribs and tilts you towards him, prompting your head to fall back as he shifts to the other breast, pushing his face into the underside. When he does finally get his lips on the peak, it’s hard and waiting and so sensitive you cry out on behalf of your nerves, breast and clit pulsing with each tap and tug.
“Uh! Please Dean,” you gasp, waking enough to move your hands up and down his back. “Please…
“What?” he kisses up your chest, pausing to push under your chin again. He helps you sit straight as he kisses your lips, letting you pant through the light attention. “What’s next huh?”
“Ugh, Dean,” you kiss him back more firmly, “you know.” You feel him smile and you moan at his play. “You want me on my knees too huh?”
He groans ruefully, talking around his kisses, “Oh, God, don’t start that again, Y/N. I won’t even make it into you… it’s so hard to go slow.”
You didn’t think you had been going slow, yet still you test him a little. “But I’ve been such a good girl, Dean. Please don’t make me beg-”
“Fuckin’,” he growls his warning, looking at your earnestly. “Y/N you don’t understand-”
“Do I have to make a joke about begging for a nice juicy bone?” you grin.
“Oh fuck,” he shakes his head.
“C'mon, rub my belly,” you sigh and run your hands over him, pulling at him by the meat of his ass. Then you notice now how hard his eyebrows are tilting. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t-” he looks over you and starts to look down, his gaze finally dropping to your chest. “I really- Fuck, I keep wanting to turn you around and just… bend you over.”
Your eyebrows go up at that confession. “You mean, you want me…?”
“Yeah, it’s just a-”
“Do you mind if we don’t?”
“No, I don’t think we should, I just…”
“Will you be okay if we don’t do that?” you ask again. “Coz… I think, maybe, we’ve done enough things doggy-style today.”
Dean huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Yeah, no, of course. It’d be weird. We shouldn’t encourage it.”
“Probably not,” you agree and rub your hands up and down his arms to soothe. He still looks a bit sad.
It’s not that you don’t like that position – it’s pretty awesome, actually – you’re just not sure you want to find him channelling an Alsatian behind you, mid-thrust. “Okay, well… you okay? Can you think with your ass and not your tail?” you ask kindly, trying to joke things regular.
“Yeah! Yes,” he nods solemnly. “Sorry, that was an over share.” He cups your jaw and he presses his body against yours, high into your thighs, and tilts your face up so he can taste you while you push your breasts against him.
“Compared to what, she asks the naked man between her legs who licked her teeth yesterday,” you remind him.
“That I definitely want to do again,” he murmurs. He rocks his hips to drag his length through your wetness. You hum at it and grab onto his shoulder in anticipation while your other hand pulls lightly at his waist, your thumb tickling the light skin inside his hip and encouraging him to you.
You look down a moment and see you both, all the hair and heat, the bones and dips. He looks down too and you both watch as he guides himself to what’s waiting and leans into you a little. He kisses your cheek, waits for you to turn your face to him, and when you do he moves flush against you, his heat seemingly rolled out from your chest down to your pelvis, over your clit and lips, under and up into your pussy and right back down to the special flesh that cradles him.
The bed is just that bit too high for his full length to reach you and he says “Lean back for us,” before he moves anything.
“I wanna hold you,” you reply.
“Trust me,” he nods, kissing your cheek and jaw. “Hold me later, baby: lie down.”
You tsk and reluctantly let him lead you away, his palm under your neck, realising that now you can watch him do this with you. Although you’re not sure you can cope with that…
He takes hold of your hips and pulls you a few inches, enough to get your sitting bones off the edge of the mattress and drop a little lower. You plant your feet on the floor, hoping you can help stabilise yourself if Dean can’t. He runs his palms over you, long, warm strokes dragging your nerves towards him, before resettling his fingers around your bones again.
He pulls out then in and you gasp sharply, the tilt of you both dragging him over your g-spot, hinting at what’s to come.
“Okay?” he asks tightly.
You take a moment, your fingertips sliding a few inches down his lower belly. “Yes?” you hope.
He moves back and forth again with a little more force, helping you check, and tightens his hold on you when you slide your head back and drop your jaw to breathe.
“Y/N?” He says it through clenched teeth. You can’t tell, but the sight of you open and laying there for him, with your eyebrows tight, your hair swept, lips heavy and hopeful, and your soft breasts and belly starting to sheen, even just your curves… he’s swallowing and holding on already, but desperate to see you move and bounce, to hear you take the pleasure, your flavour still thick in his nose and coating his teeth. He wants to see, so badly.
You can already feel your pussy rolling a pulse, the depth of his thickness raising gates on things you haven’t felt in so many months, while your vulva still hums from his attention before. “I won’t last,” you say, your voice already strangled. “It feels so good already.”
“Okay baby,” he says and leans over to kiss your sternum, “I’ll try to take it easy.”
“No, Dean, please, take what you want.” You trace your fingertips over his ears and throat while he leans over you, then down his neck and shoulders. “I’m good.”
“Yes you are,” he replies, fairly confident that he’s not going to last long either.
From the first thrust it feels wonderful for him, your warmth and pressure working against his hardness, and he can tell you’re pacing yourself from the start.
Then he sees how your breasts move and it sets him off, the motion too sexy to let rest, and he starts rocking into you eagerly, dragging and nudging, pushing himself into you. You snatch onto his wrists and throw your head back, letting your volume free as your voice climbs, chasing the pleasure he’s stoking.
Dean listens to you ache and plead his name, and tries to ignore the tightness building, the heat trying to get to you. Still, he speeds up, giving you the full drag of his cock as fast as he can. His fingers press and he watches you come undone, just as he’d hoped, your body curling back, face almost gone from view, breasts bouncing and soft, but your pull on his wrists, all that strength surprises him and he pummels to match it, driving into your contracting form and making you yell his name as he fucks your orgasm.
Finally he lets the tightness in him snap, the thrilling sensations punching moans from his chest as he gasps “Ugh, Y/N! God!”
His thrusts morph into pushes, each one longer than the last till he stays there, mashed against you while your muscles weaken around him. He moves his fingers, massaging the poor patches beneath and you do the same to him.
Slowly, he begins to lower himself, holding you on him as he slides your hips down and sits on his feet. Your body almost dribbles off the mattress, coming to rest against the side of the bed. He leans over, loosely wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his head on your shoulder, slack lips almost completing a kiss.
After a while, your breathing doesn’t have that tightness any more and your blood’s begun to feel calm. Dean leans back and pulls you with him, his hand splayed flat against your back to press your torso to his. You wiggle a little, rubbing your stomachs together, and feel thoroughly rewarded with his smile, something relaxed and hungry for you. He drags his fingers over your hair and kisses you, soft and lapping, with hums and peeking eyes, limping his lips across your cheek before he settles into a hug.
“I know it’s like, almost lunchtime,” you say quietly, “but I feel like a nap.”
“All right,” Dean groans, “on your matt.”
You grin at him and, for some reason, decide to lick him right up the side of his neck and over his ear.
“Aw! Oh my God! That’s-” he shakes his head and winces at the sensation.
“Isn’t it?” you agree.
“Wow, sorry!” he chuckles with you as you both wipe him dry.
Under the covers and wrapped in each other, you replay the moments of closeness and attention Dean gave you during the curse, all of them seen through a different paradigm now, a nicer filter than before. You try to press each one into your mind like a permanent stamp.
Dean must notice you’re awake: “What was it like for you?”
“Best sex I ever had,” you say without hesiation, and look up at him. “Hands down. A top-shelf fuck.”
He chuckles at your enthusiasm, “No, - I mean, thank you and I agree - but I meant this past day. What was it like?”
So you’re facing him now, sharing a pillow, and he’s watching you for honesty. “Kind of wonderful and terrible-”
“Jeez ya focus on the positives, dontcha? ….Because I wasn’t sure why you were doing it. But I knew why I wished you were doing it.”
His eyes flick over your features while you watch your fingers trickles over his. “But the attention was nice… really nice.”
“Me too,” he confesses. You’re warmed by his low tone, how close he is and the way his voice bounces so closely. “I don’t remember thinking it clearly, but I kinda liked not being able to choose, just asking for you and focusing on you.” He pulls you close again and rubs his hand from your shoulder to your butt, nuzzling his hips against yours. “Being able to look at you as much as I liked.”
You breathe it all in and think of that gaze again, knowing better what was actually behind it. You run your fingers into his hair, not unlike the way you had done that morning. He closes his eyes to feel it and smiles softly. “Thank you for not humping my leg,” you say quietly.
He opens his eyes and says quite honestly “You are welcome,” almost laughing. “You don’t know…” he buries his face under yours to kiss your jaw. “You have no idea.”
He groans long and low, wincing as he comes out from hiding. “There was this moment, in the kitchen. I was- Your ass was at eye level and you were clearing the table I think. And I just-” His eyes widen and look at you shamefully.
“Things fucking twitched.”
“Shit! What stopped you?”
“My brain just went No! Bad dog! Outside! And I followed Sam out the door.”
You laugh put your hand over your mouth as he groans and hides under you again. “You definitely get a treat for being an ethical dog-Dean,” you say, rubbing your hands over him like a reward and he hugs you tightly to his body. Really tightly.
“You still want to go me from behind, don’t you?”
“Jesus so much,” he grumbles, rutting you gently. “Please let me know if you change your mind… Like, the minute.”
The idea of him thumping into you, all of him reaching into you, even the look on his face, has you honestly considering the idea… but you bite your tongue and save it for another day. “Tell you what… I’ll never make you to get off the bed again,” you smile.
“Mmm… I’ll never make you beg for a bone.”
“Ha! You know what though,” you dare to add, “I don’t think I’d mind if you did.”
“Fuck, Y/N,” he says by your ear, “you can’t just drop that sorta shit on me. I’m trying to be a gentleman here and you’re making me wanna lick you again.”
“Really? …Go on then,” you tilt your head back for him. “Be a good boy.”
Chapter 3: ...that's the spot.
It's a very specific itch.
“Y/N?” you hear from the corridor.
“Yeah?” you poke your head out your bedroom door. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Did you just go for a run?” Dean asks, following you as you turn back to your bed. You’ve got your towel ready for a shower, but if he wants to chat it can wait.
“Yeah,” you smile. “I was feeling good.” You toe off your running shoes and slip off the socks.
“Oh yeah,” he grins a little as he approaches. “What got you in that mood?”
“Dunno,” you say blithely, pulling out your hair elastic. “What could possibly have me in a good mood today?” you wonder emphatically and smile at the guy you woke up with for the first time this morning. Also the most handsome fucker you know.
Dean comes closer, but his smile slips into distraction as he approaches. He looks down at your neck and chest and you watch him as his fingers come up to stroke at the sweat on your bones.
“Dean?… What’s up?”
“Nothin'” he says numbly as he comes close, walking you back to the wall. Again. One hand reaches loosely for your waist as he paints your skin with the moisture around your throat.
Your hands have landed on his shoulders in comfort, not too intimately. “I’m all sweaty and yuck,” you remind him.
“Yeah,” he breathes and disappears into your neck to… inhale? He licks, tentatively, just a little taste in the dip, then another.
“What… What’s going on?”
“Nothin’,” he mumbles lightly. “You just… you look… hot.”
“Yeah, I’ve been running.” You’ve noticed that his inhales are through his nose so ask plainly “Are you sniffing me?”
“You smell really good,” he sighs in resignation, kind of melting onto you, curling his body to press everything against you and starts eating around your neck.
“What? You didn’t have heightened senses or anything,” you say, trying to think. “You couldn’t smell me down the hallway could you?”
“No, it’s just, now that you’re close,” he explains breathlessly, smearing himself against you and getting patches of your sweat on his t-shirt, grabbing anything soft and palm-sized. “Uh God you taste so good.”
“Hey, where was all this yesterday?” you ask, and push him back to make him answer you.
Neither of you notice you’ve got your hands on each others breasts.
“Buried,” he says woefully, “You remember how I went so slow-”
“No you didn’t.”
“I freaking tried, Y/N. I was really holding back!” he cries. His hands move up around your upper arms and pull on you gently, emphasising what he says. “We hadn’t been together before and I knew it wasn’t all me, so I pushed it away.”
His pleading face and tugging hands are enough for you to ease him in as he explains. “This was there I just squashed it way, way down, under manners and gratitude and wanting to not scare you.” His lips are back behind your ear and he’s pulling you against his chest - “Because it’s just a temporary thing,” - your hands are trapped between you, and he nuzzles your head - “pushed it deep, deep, down… fuck…” - before wrapping his arms around your body and seemingly trying to touch every bit of moisture on you.
He’s more than last time, eclipsing and smothering, and you’re trying so hard to be sensible before being overwhelmed, especially with the adrenaline you’ve used this morning on top of everything that happened yesterday. You say, almost to yourself, “Fuck. This shit is lasting a long time.”
“Yeah… Y/N,” he says, lapping something like kisses around the bolt of your jaw, his loose hold around your chin tilting you how he wants. “I don’t care about the curse. Y/N… Please…”
You’re distracted by your stinky clothes and lack of shower. “What? You want… Really? …Now?”
His fingers squeeze your ribs almost painfully. “Yes. Please?”
“Dean, I’m gross! I’m slippery with sweat from running-”
“I know," he whines, "it’s awesome." He pulls back to look at you and there it is: That hopeful, open face again, at your mercy. “Please, Y/N, I don’t care. Please change your mind.”
He kisses you, with growing hunger and urgency, pressing his groin against you so hard his erection slips side to side over your public bone, making your clitoris pulse with pleasure. Your gasp trips on it as you try to think clearly. Change my mind…? About what?
Then he starts grinding against you, as if he’s given up restraining himself, stopping the kiss to feel himself bump against you, a steady, hopeful beat that rubs up your groin and starts working the fabric of your panties between the lips.
“God, Dean, the door’s still open-”
“Please-” he pants and dives his hand into your shorts, sliding his middle finger directly between your folds and down to the hot softness beyond it. You punch out an ohGod in surprise, somewhat aware of him swearing something desperate before turning his hand around to pull your shorts and panties down, roughly dropping to his knees and flat out licking up your pussy.
He laps again, his tongue threading between the folds, over and over, and you’re gasping and Oh!-ing through fat, laving licks that are coming too fast. He moans Oh God and So good between motions, letting you lean on his shoulders as you slowly hyperventilate and collapse under relentless, shoving drags over your clit.
He pops up again, catching your head with his in some sort of pleasure-induced mouth-to-mouth rescue. “Y/N, please can I have you like that? Please, I know how good you feel now,” he puffs as he stands, kissing at you a mile a minute. His hold on your rib cage is so tight you have to breathe with your belly.
“You want me-” you rasp, almost hanging off his shoulders.
“Y/N I wanna take you from behind,” he runs his words together, mouth against yours and pushing you to the wall, “I wanna fuck you, fuck you hard and fast, fuck you from behind and watch your beautiful ass bounce off my cock, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease-”
“Oh my God, you’re begging-”
“Yes, I am. I am begging. Please, Y/N,” he pauses for a moment. “Please.”
You pant, the two of you pretty much breathing in what the other’s breathing out. He leans slightly, just a bit, to reach out with his tongue and start a kiss. His lips brush against yours, hinting at drawing you in.
You hum a little in your throat, tipping a shallow kiss off his efforts. Then you realise: it's not that you're saying no, like you did yesterday, (you've no intention of saying no) but you haven't actually said yes since.
“If you don’t want to, like that,” he says quietly, carefully, “I’ll cope. I’m just-”
“I do,” you correct him. “I like it.”
“Yeah, we can. Let’s-”
“Yeah?” he repeats quickly, louder.
“Yeah-woahw!” Dean lifts you by your rib cage, standing on your shorts to leave them behind, and puts you next to your bed in one move. You watch him whip his t-shirt off with one hand, then disappear and pop up again, track pants apparently dealt with, and he steps out of them as he grabs your head to kiss you, practically sucking you onto his mouth. Then he’s gone again, leaving you swaying with imbalance, grabbing a condom from your bedside drawer, and concentrating furiously to get it on first go.
You think to take your tight singlet off, and even though you hurry your face is still covered in fabric when he gets his thumbs under your sports bra and pushes it up past your breasts. He reaches around to undo it, moaning at the salty musk he tastes under the curve, and once it’s off he’s straining his jaw to suck in a greedy mouthful of nipple and breast and moaning around it. Your hands finally make it back to his skin, if only they could function properly.
Dean straightens, almost taking your nipple with him, and smothers grateful kisses over your mouth and chin, grabbing and pulling you against him, running his hands over your body. You try to keep up and kiss back, settling on cupping his head and getting a firm hold in his hair. That makes him groan, a shuddering ache of anticipation. He squeezes whatever he’s got in his hands and starts to lead you both down, gripping you tightly as you kneel together.
Here he holds you a moment, but not against himself: he lets you turn yourself around, fingers brushing your curves as they go by. You move forward so your thighs are against the side of the bed and begin to lean over.
His hands slide down your back and over the rise of your cheeks and he holds them barely half a second, thumbs just inside your sitting bones and tweaking that nerve beside them before firmly moving lower, pushing along the crease under your butt and into the shadow, pressing the flesh beside your throbbing core and moving it back and forth a little.
He dips his thumbs to check the wetness and hums shortly at what he finds. You feel him gently pull you open, line himself up and pause just long enough to say “Okay?”
You’ve gotten your chest on the bed and turn your head to say “God yes – oh!” and he’s there, all the way, literally balls deep at the flag-fall, and you snatch the comforter into your fists.
“UuhJesusY/N,” he groans through clenched jaw, and holds your hip and ribs as he fucks you harder than you’ve ever experienced before. The bed shudders in time, rattling the bedside table opposite, and you use your whole body to hold fast and take him.
Dean looks down, drinking in the sight of your oscillating flesh and the way he disappears into you, over and over, your tightness and heat swallowing him, all pushing and pulling.
The root of him and his pelvic bone hit your ass deliciously, pushing your pussy apart before it’s truly had time to swell and relax, but it’s a perfect balance of demanding and giving and he’s going so fast your clit only gets a passing glance at his balls. “Oh God!” you manage to say, your voice bouncing because of him. “Uh, it’s so good Dean!”
That’s what he needed to hear.
He spreads his knees a little, spreading yours, and that drop presses you down against the mattress again, his thrust now running over your g-spot with some resistance. He moans achingly, now officially fighting to draw this out, but you’re pushing yourself up with your hands and the curve of you, your sweat-stuck hair and dropped jaw, the way you’re frowning and bearing down on the pleasure- there’s no hope.
Dean punches the next few thrusts into you and tries to catch your clit before he’s home. You grab onto his forearm as he reaches around to help his accuracy amongst all the movement. Three or four rough rubs is all it takes for you to straighten your supporting arm, drop your head and cry out at the chaotic smash happening between your legs.
You quake around him and he yells “Y/N! Ah! God!” holding on and thumping maybe five more times before pushing, so hard, bone to bone, pulling your hips that tightly you’re lifted off the ground as he pulses the last of it inside you.
You drop down to the comforter. Both of your chests heave and you gasp noisily, pleadingly, dry-tongued swallows breaking in open moans. Dean’s hold on your hip starts to lean, the other hand propped on the bed.
“Holy hell,” he puffs, still frowning.
“God,” you reply, fluffing wisps of hair from your face. “…damn.”
He eases himself down, resting on your back and you breathe together.
Enough time passes that Dean starts to get a bit cool. He’s softened but he’s still there, resting in you a little.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, his lips caught in the kiss he started on your shoulder some time ago. He peels himself off you a little and kisses your back, bitey, licking kisses that clean away the sweat.
“You’re a good boy,” you say slackly and reach behind yourself to pat him on the head.
Dean laughs a little and grunts as he moves away to clean himself up. You move up onto the bed with a flop and roll onto your back, waiting there until Dean lays beside you. He reaches down and collects your opposite knee, pulling it up and over his hip to turn you toward him. You feel manky as anything, all your skin coated with a layer of whatever used to be inside, making it catch rather than slide.
Dean doesn’t feel much cleaner, but he’s still keen to run his fingertips over your flushed body, tracing where he stroked before and the planes of breasts gone soft from the heat.
“We both need showers,” he says. “You wanna do that together?”
“Yes,” you answer, cupping his face with your hands to kiss him, properly, generously and thankfully and he matches you for it. It’s lovely.
”You feel better?” you ask.
“Yes,” he says heavily. “Yes.”
“Gave that itch a good scratch.”
“Hm-mm, I’m gonna wanna do that again,” he tells you, “cursed or not.”
“Mmm… Well, if I ever do get around to begging for a juicy bone, that’s what the fuck I’ll be talkin’ about.”
“Sweetheart, you ain’t ever gonna get the chance to beg.”