Tumgik
#what is dean winchester but a receptacle for baby
saltchurch · 3 years
Text
dean is a nuisance and an asshole but thats okay because he also hold a little baby
22 notes · View notes
peridottea91 · 3 years
Text
Chapter 3
Tumblr media
Summary: Everyone has secrets, some good and some bad. Bree Wildes, a  witch and god-daughter to the late Bobby Singer, is keeping far too  many for Dean’s liking, leaving Sam torn between giving her the benefit  of the doubt and his brother’s suspicions. But what happens when the  holidays cause Bree to come crashing down? Sometimes, we need someone to  lean on, even if it breaks us.
Pairing: Sam x Witch!OFC
Word Count: 3,994
Warnings:  angst, eventual fluff, eventual smut, mutual pining, mentions of  depression, mentions of attempted sexual assault (nothing happens  though), mentions of familial loss, asshole!Dean, mentions of past drug  use, depictions of PTSD, mentions of past trauma, eventual holiday cheer
Beta’d by: @wingedcatninja​
Divider by: @firefly-in-darkness​ / @firefly-graphics​
A/N:  Story takes place in s12,  beginning just before “LOTUS”, and then diverging canon from there.
THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.  
MAIN MASTERLIST  - SERIES MASTERLIST
Tumblr media
That afternoon, Dean announced that he was making a quick supply run in town, and Bree leapt at the opportunity to escape the bunker for a bit.  She told Dean that she wanted to mail out holiday cards and maybe get some fresh air.  In reality, she was looking for any excuse to avoid any more questions from Sam.  Bree may have been somewhat uneasy about Dean, but she was willing to deal if it meant not having any more invasive questions.
Naturally, Dean dug in his heels and was adamantly against the younger witch coming along.  He had argued that, between the British Men of Letters and the rogue Grand Coven witches, bringing Bree along was a liability.  She still had a bounty on her head and, if he was being perfectly honest, Dean didn’t entirely trust her not to try something.  
After about half an hour of her incessant begging and pleading, Dean finally gave in.  Perhaps he was feeling a little bit of holiday spirit and goodwill towards man (well, woman).  Or perhaps he had finally had enough of how pitiful Bree was acting.  Regardless, Dean granted her request, leaving Sam alone in the bunker and, admittedly, disappointed.
The drive into main street Lebanon had been uncomfortably quiet.  It had been months since the pair had actually been in any sort of space without Sam around to referee, and Bree didn’t entirely know what to say.  Dean would glance at her out the corner of his eye every now and again, while Bree stared awkwardly out the window.  The tension between them became so thick it could be cut with a knife.  It honestly reminded Bree of when her mother would drag her around to run errands but act as if she weren’t there, only adding to her discomfort. Thankfully, it took no time at all for the pair to reach their destination.
Once out of the car, the mood between the hunter and the witch improved tremendously.  Each of them grabbed a basket and went their separate ways to roam the store, though Dean occasionally would subtly backtrack to make sure Bree was still there.  Eventually, they reconvened in the candy aisle, as a much-heated debate over candy cane flavors ensued.  Dean was more of a classicist, declaring matter-of-factly that peppermint was the one, true candy cane flavor.  Bree, on the other hand, argued that peppermint was reserved strictly for hot cocoa and old people and that the best ones were fruit-flavored.
The two of them bickered relentlessly to the front of the store, at the check-out line, and back out into the parking lot.  Once back in the comfort of the impala, the argument then escalated to all varieties of candy.
“Licorice is disgusting.”
Dean gasped dramatically, causing Bree to laugh, “You take that back, you heathen.”
“No!  It’s nasty!  And tastes like ass and dirt.”
“Bullshit!  It’s delicious and a classic candy!” Dean retorted with his mouth full of the sweet in question.
“Pfft.  If you’re old or dead, maybe,” Bree sassed back with a smirk
“See, this is why no one likes witches,” Dean pouted.
“Why?  Because I hate licorice?” she mocked before taking a bite of cookies and cream Santa.
“YES!”
Jovial laughter filled the car.  For the first time in months, even since perhaps before coming to the Winchesters for help, Bree laughed wholeheartedly.  Even Dean couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.  This was the best that Bree and Dean had gotten along in years, as well as the longest the pair had gone without trying to rip each other’s heads off.  It was… refreshing, actually.  Dean glanced over at the petite blonde next to him, studying her—fluffy, messy waves tossed back in laughter, crinkled nose, and surprisingly bright blue-green eyes.  
When was the last time he had seen her laugh?  Or smile?  Dean furrowed his brow slightly in thought.  Looking back, this was honestly the happiest and most carefree she’d looked in years.  The last time she’d even remotely smiled like that, Bobby had been joking around with her before shit hit the fan with the Leviathans.  Hell, she’d never even smiled for Sam that way, not since she came crawling back into their life, bloodied, bruised, and needing help.  
She’d basically been a shell of her former self, not that Dean would ever say anything.  He’d noticed, sure, but his distrust and suspicion of Bree’s past always prevented him from letting himself care more about her.  And he did care, more than he’d like to admit, but he couldn’t risk letting secrecy bite them in the ass, and he sure as hell was not about to risk Sam getting used or hurt again.  If Bobby could see the way they were now, he’d probably ream all of them a new asshole.  And maybe he’d been right—maybe Bree did deserve the benefit of the doubt.  But years of shit hitting the fan kept Dean from letting her any closer than an arm’s length.
Dean shook himself free of the thought and focused his attention back on the road, taking an overly aggressive bite of licorice as he did.  In the blink of an eye, the pair was pulling up to the Lebanon Post Office.  Throwing the car in park, they made their way inside—Dean going to check his and Sam’s PO Box, while Bree scurried over to the outgoing drop-box before checking her own mail.
“Got anything good?” Dean asked as they walked back to the impala.
“Well, I got a card from my great-aunt.  Just had hip surgery.”
Dean hummed in response, “Anything else?” When she didn’t answer, however, Dean turned to look back at her.  
Bree stood frozen in place, staring blankly at an envelope addressed to her in a familiar scrawl. Despite having been years since she last laid eyes on it, the penmanship was unmistakable.  The letter felt unnaturally heavy in her hand, which trembled slightly.  Bree’s mind was suddenly spiraling and a cold numbness settled over her, and not just because of the chill winter air.
Surprised to find Bree rigid, Dean called out to her, “You alright kid?”
Bree snapped out of her trance at his question and quickly shredded the unopened letter, forcefully stuffing it in a nearby trash can. “I’m fine.”  
Bree stalked back to the Impala, refusing to look at the older Winchester, and climbed into the car with a slam.  Dean stared after her for a moment, confused by the sudden change in demeanor.  Curiosity piqued, he subtly plucked the letter remnants from the receptacle and shoved them in his pocket, before making his way to join her.
The drive back to the bunker was even more uncomfortable than the drive into town.  Any niceties that had developed during their outing had now long-since dissipated.  Bree sat erect and stone-faced, jaw set as she silently stared out the window deep in thought.  Dean kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, concerned about the disconnected look in her eye.  Admittedly, after the display outside the Post Office, he wasn’t entirely sure what to say.  
In all the years he had known her, Bree had never acted like this.  Facetious and snarky, yet mysterious and secretive, she had always seemed to have a weird sort of control over herself.  Or, at the very least, the parts of her she had allowed Dean and Sam to see; Bree was a surprisingly private person.  She may have put up a wall of ice as cold as the Antarctic between them, but Dean had seen small chinks in her armor.  As brief as it might have been, however, Dean couldn’t help but wonder why.
“So...  Unwanted mail?” Dean inquired cautiously, testing the waters.
“Yep,” Bree continued to stare out the window.
“Do ya wanna—” 
“Nope.”
Dean paused at the terse response.  If he was being perfectly honest, he wasn’t as good at handling distressed women or being emotionally open as his brother.  Sure, he was a smooth-talker and definitely a ladies’ man, having far more success than Sam in the bedroom department.  But once they caught an attitude, Dean floundered.  Before he could come up with anything else to say, Bree continued, as if reading his mind.
“Mind your business, Dean.  And stop asking questions.”
Her tone was harsh and icy, something which he had not expected.  Dean side-eyed her awkwardly, balking under the tension in the car.
“Okay then…”
A short time later the pair returned safely to the bunker.  Baby had barely stopped before Bree jumped out and made a beeline for the iron door that led inside.  Dean sighed, letting himself decompress from the tense drive before following suit.  He was not looking forward to the interrogation from his brother that he knew would ensue.  
From where Sam sat at one of the library tables, he could hear the familiar creaking of the bunker’s door open and shut.  The entire time they were gone, Sam dug through several news articles for cases or any signs of the witches that hunted Bree.  Unfortunately, he once again came up empty.  Looking up at the sound of the door, Sam was surprised to see Breecome flying down the stairs.
“Hey!  Get anything good?” Sam greeted.  Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion, however, as she barreled onward, either unable to hear him or just flat-out ignoring him. “Bree?  Bree!”
Dean came through the door next, eyes wide in exasperation and sighing heavily as he descended the stairs.
“Dude!  What did you do!?”
“Hey, I didn’t do anything,” Dean answered defensively as he crossed the war room.  Leaning back to ensure their now tempestuous companion wasn’t still within hearing range, Dean fished the shredded letter from his pocket, “Apparently she didn’t like what she got in the mail because she freaked and ripped it up.  Didn’t even open it.”
Sam took the bits of letter from his brother, a puzzled expression on his face, and rearranged them so the envelope was legible. “Treegap, Ohio,” Sam looked up at Dean, who merely shrugged as he took off his coat, “Did she say anything about it?”
“Nope.  Shut down and told me to mind my own business.  Thought she was stroking out for a minute there.”
“Then… we should do what she asked and leave it alone,” Sam stated definitively as he leaned back away from the table.  Dean, however, was not satisfied with that answer.
“Maybe, but little Miss Witch is definitely hiding something.  All these years and we barely know jack about her?  C’mon Sammy…” Dean said with a disgruntled expression, “I get it, you’re sweet on her, but open your eyes, man!”  
Sam gave his brother a warning glare.  Before he could open his mouth to speak, however, Dean cut him off.
“And yeah, I know Bobby swore up and down that we could trust her, but something’s up.  Why isn’t she in any of Bobby’s journals?  And why hadn’t we met her all those years we got shipped off to Sioux Falls while dad was on a hunt?  I’m telling’ ya, something’s fishy about this whole thing.  She’s hiding something, and I wanna know what it is before it comes back to bite us in the ass, just like everything else.”
With that, Dean picked up the bags of groceries and strode towards the kitchen, leaving Sam alone once more.  As much as he wanted to argue with Dean about it and give Bree the benefit of the doubt, he knew his brother was right.  More and more lately, there had been a nagging feeling at the back of his mind.  Why didn’t they know much about her?  Anytime conversation drifted towards family or personal life, Bree would shy away and change the subject.  It made Sam increasingly restless—just what was she hiding?
Bree remained mostly tucked up in her room for the next day or so, only coming out to eat and use the bathroom.  When Sam and Dean did catch a glimpse of her, she looked tired and refused to give more than one-word answers.  She was now avoiding both brothers, creating even more tension among the bunker’s residents.  
Sam had managed to tape the letter back together, his curiosity having finally gotten the better of him.  Once able to read the whole thing, he was surprised and concerned by its contents.  Drunken ramblings and religious delusions were thrown up all over the pages—constant repetition about Bree needing to find God because she’s going to burn in Hell, endlessly berating about her appearance, emotionally abusive language, and so on.  Sam had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t the first time their reclusive companion had received a letter like this, and highly doubted that it would be the last.
When he showed Dean the letter, he was just as floored.  The brothers discussed it in private, not wanting to upset Bree further with any questions.  However, they both knew that it would only be a matter of time before they would need to address the elephant in the room. 
“Karen Wildes?  Who the hell is that?”
“Her mother, maybe?  When we talked about mailing Christmas cards, Bree tore off after I mentioned her.  Guess we know why,” Sam responded.
“Yeah seriously…” Dean nodded, looking over the letter once again, “Can you imagine growing up with this?  I mean, I know we didn’t have the best childhoods but woof.”
“Yeah, no.  Probably best not to mention it, though.”
“Oh, hell no.  We don’t need to poke the bear here,” Dean agreed.
“So, what do we do now?” Sam asked, looking up at his brother.
Dean pondered for a minute, his arms crossed over his chest and one hand rubbing the scruff on his chin, “We look for a case.  Distract her for a bit, get her calmed down again.  At least until we get a ring on Lucifer.”
“You sure that’s the best idea?” Sam questioned with concern, “She still has that hit out on her by the Grand Coven.”
“True.  But staying here isn’t helping her right now.  Plus, she’ll be with both of us, so we can protect her.”
“I dunno, Dean…”
“Look, I don’t like it, either.  I still think the bunker is the safest place for her.  But when we were out on the supply run?  That was the happiest I’d seen her in a long time. It…  I, just…”  Dean let out a heavy puff of air through his nose as he fidgeted in place, “I kinda felt guilty, okay?” 
Sam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  That was certainly something he hadn’t been expecting to hear. 
“Look, just…  Shut up.  I just think she could use the break, is all,” Dean dismissed, obviously uncomfortable.
Sam simply nodded his head, “Alright, then.  I’ll see if I can find us a case.”
Later that afternoon, however, everything took a turn.  Sam and Dean rushed off to investigate the death of a CEO whom Lucifer had been possessing, only to run into Castiel and Crowley at the morgue.  This led them to an archbishop in St. Louis who had been Lucifer’s next vessel.  Not long after, much to everyone’s dismay, Crowley popped up in the bunker with news of Satan’s current vessel—one Jefferson Rooney, President of the United States.  The news had barely had an hour or two to sink in before the situation got horribly complicated. 
“Something's happened.  Something...” Cas stated in a panic while Sam and Dean held him upright, “Angel radio...  There are so many voices.”
“What are they saying?”
“There's been a massive surge in celestial energy.  A Nephilim has come into being.  It's the offspring of an angel and a human,” Cas explained.
“And that's big news?” Dean asked in confusion.
“Yes, but the power to produce this is immense.  It's much, much greater than a typical angel.”
Realization dawned on Sam’s face, “Lucifer.”
“Lucifer?” Dean asked in disbelief, “I didn't know he was dating.”
“Alright, so what now?” Sam asked, looking between the hunter and the angel.
“We head out to Indianapolis, try to cut Lucifer off on his charity trail.  I’m gonna grab Bree.  Her being a witch can only help,” Dean stated before taking off towards the east wing bedrooms. He’d barely rounded the second corner when he collided with Bree, catching her arms before she could fall on her butt.
“Dean!  What happened?  I heard glass shatter and it felt like an earthquake ran through.”
“Whoa, hold on, wait…  You felt that?”
Bree shook her head in confusion, “Felt what?”
“Lucifer is possessing the president—” 
“President Rooney!?” Bree interrupted, eyes wide in shock.
“There’s more—he’s just sired a Nephilim.  The devil’s gonna have a baby.”
“Oh, God…  Please tell me you’re joking…”
“Don’t I wish.  Look, this is a code red, all hands on deck situation.  We’re gonna need all the help we can get,” Dean stated.
“Right,” Bree nodded with a sigh, “Give me ten minutes.  I’ll go pack a bag and meet you in the garage.”
“Deal.”
The pair took off in opposite directions—Dean back towards where his brother and Cas were waiting and Bree to her bedroom.  Shutting the door, she turned back to the mess of wrapping paper and holiday things that covered her desk.  Following the incident at the Post Office, Bree had locked herself in her room to avoid the Winchesters’ questions.  But after a day or two, she had thrown herself head-first into the holidays and making sure everyone’s presents were wrapped.  Admittedly, she may have fallen down a bit of a rabbit hole.
Wiping her hands on her pants, Bree rushed about the room, hurriedly packing a few days’ worth of clothes, and tripping on her pants as she did.  She didn’t quite know how long they would be gone for, so she figured it was better to overpack slightly than under pack.  Her head was buzzing with anxiety as she continued to process what Dean had just told her.  She really shouldn’t have been surprised that Lucifer had jumped the president, especially after he got a taste of the limelight as Vince Vincente.  It hadn’t even entirely sunk in that this would be her first case in months.  
In record time, Bree had packed her bag and stripped out of her pajamas, changing instead into an oversized sweater, maxi dress, and booties.  Rushing out the door, Bree hurriedly made her way to the garage.  Once out on the road, Sam called up the King of Hell with an update and gave instruction.  When Dean said that it was “all hands on deck,” he wasn’t joking. 
“Yeah, and hey, Crowley?  Uh, find out from your government mole if there's a girlfriend or a mistress or a favorite hooker.  Someone we don't know about…  Got it,” Sam hung up the phone and let out a strained sigh, “All right.  Crowley and Rowena will meet us in Indianapolis.  Do we have a plan?”
Dean shook his head in response, “Impeach LOTUS and find Rosemary's Baby.”
Bree nodded slowly in response, already regretting her decision to join the boys.  She had never particularly liked hunting.  Bree had always been ultra-sensitive to ghosts and spirits, among other things.  Being a witch only served to amplify that sensitivity.  Couple that with having been out on the road for years by herself, and it was a recipe for fear, one which she tended to keep to herself knowing full well that Dean would only give her a hard time about it.  But Lucifer?  Demons?  Angels?  It all went way over her head.
Bree shifted uncomfortably in her seat and chanced a quick glance at Castiel, who sat in the backseat beside her.  She knew that the Winchesters trusted the angel implicitly, but she had always been wary around him.  It sure as hell didn’t help that the first time the two of them met back in 2010, Cas declared her an abomination and kept trying to convince both Bobby and the Winchesters to get rid of her.  Thankfully, Bobby put his foot down and laid down the law—as long as he was alive, Bree was there to stay.  Oh, the irony.
Her relationship with the angel seemingly improved over time, to the point where he was almost nice to her.  However, if Bree’s 27 years of life had taught her anything, it was that looks could be deceiving.  No one could be trusted, and the people closest to you are always the ones to hurt you the most.  So, she had built up a wall around herself and kept everyone at arm’s length, or tried to, anyway.
The Impala had just rounded an intersection when a black SUV came up from behind, sirens blaring and lights flashing. 
“Aw, crap.  Alright.  Stay here, we got this,” Dean threw over his shoulder as he pulled the car onto the shoulder while the SUV pulled in front.  Turning off the ignition, Dean and Sam both climbed out of the impala and met three men in suits.
“Gentlemen, is there a problem?”
“Federal Agents, guys,” Dean stated with a flash of his FBI badge, “We need to keep going.”
The shorter of the men scoffed in response, “And I need six-grand by Saturday, but that ain't happening either.”
“You guys know who you're talking to?” Sam asked, taken aback slightly.
“Winchesters,” the man stated matter-of-factly, “You make those toy badges in craft class on the psych ward?  Nice car, by the way.  Really stands out.”
The shorter man suddenly pulled a gun out of his waistband.  Dean was quick to react, however. Grabbing the man’s arm, Dean swung and punched him in the face.
“Hey.  Wait a second now,” Sam raised his hands in defense.
The other two men marched forward.  Grabbing one, Sam slammed him into the Impala, then turned and punched the second man.  Bree gasped in surprise and tried to rush out of the car to help the boys.  However, Cas placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head, silently telling her to let the Winchesters handle the situation.  The two men and Sam continue to quarrel while Dean and the shorter guy continue to struggle over the gun.  However, all it took was one split second of Dean getting distracted by Sam’s fight for him to lose his grip on the gun.
“Stop!  Don't move!” he shouted, pointing the gun at Dean.
Seeing the gun aimed at his brother, Sam instantly let go of the man he had in a headlock. Raising their hands in surrender, the Winchesters glare at the three men in suits.  Upon seeing the shift in the situation, Cas climbed out and walked behind the Impala, Bree hot on his heels.
“Bree…”
“Cas, don't,” Dean warned as he held his arm out in front of the angel.
Just then, a black luxury sedan came to a stop behind them, Jazz music blaring from the speakers.  The driver smoothly stepped out of the car, grenade launcher in-hand.  Seeing the launcher, everyone in the group ducked for cover—the Winchesters and Bree on the passenger side of the impala while the men attempted to run for the field.  Meanwhile, Cas just stood in the middle of the road, watching quizzically as the SUV was blown up and caught fire. 
“You, angel.  Wipe their memories,” the newcomer ordered as he strolled forward, his voice thick with a British accent.  The leader of the three suited men attempted to heave himself up, only to be kicked in the face by the British man.
“U.S. government plates.  Elite dogcatcher level.  Someone special wants you,” he commented, turning towards the Winchesters, Bree, and Castiel, who all now stood together in the street, “Whose hydrant have you lads been tinkling on?”
“I'm sorry.  Who the hell are you?” Dean demanded, a bit shaken by the explosion.
“Oh, where are my manners?  Arthur Ketch.  British Men of Letters.”
Tumblr media
20 notes · View notes
Text
Yearning for More
This is for @trexrambling‘s Daring Drabbles - but I did break your 500 word rule, I’m so sorry, but it HAD to be longer. You’ll thank me - I hope! Challenge: Y for Yearning, John Winchester Word Count: 1250 Characters: John x Reader, Sam and Dean for a moment Warnings: SMUT without a plot! NSFW aesthetic made by @jayankles (but had to be taken down due to T&Cs) A/N: I wanna thank @manawhaat @codenameruby @feelmyroarrrr @ohmychuckitssamanddean @grace-for-sale and @papawinchxster for spamming me with gifs when I was stuck; y’all made this happen. Also, thanks Mana and Grace for talking John through with me! If you’re not 18+ please do not read further. This is not for you.
Tumblr media
The Winchester brothers and I had taken a break, from talking to witnesses, for lunch and were in the process of comparing notes when my phone rang. “Detective Benson.” I answered, not bothering to check the caller ID as I kept reading over the witness notes Sam had taken earlier. “I need to see you.” The gruff and demanding voice made me stiffen in my seat. I instantly looked across the table at the boys, my thighs squeezing tightly together, my cheeks flushing. “I’m just gonna take this…” I whispered to Dean and Sam, both not looking up, Dean waving me off. I stood from the table and headed towards the back of the bar, hoping for a quiet corner.
“Where are you?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t too long of a drive. “Too far. I need to see you, now.” He demanded once more. “John, I’m in the middle of a case, I want to see you too but -” I began, almost as a whimper, it had been weeks and his last instruction had left me hornier than ever before: Don’t touch yourself, not till I tell you to. “You have a camera on your phone.” The gravel of his tone had me swallowing thickly and itching to touch myself. How would he ever know? “I’m in a bar.” I explained, but I was already looking for the restroom. “You’ll figure something out.” He said, making my knees almost buckle. I headed straight for the restroom and checked the cubicles were free before locking the main door and sealing myself in a cramped stall. I pulled my phone from my ear and tapped the video call button, biting my lip when his face came into view. The salt and pepper matched his hair, but the smattering of curls across his chest, just visible at the top of a V’d tshirt, was still dark. “Balance the phone somewhere so I can see you.” He instructed, the predatory smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Yes sir.” I answered, placing the phone on top of the toilet paper receptacle on the back of the door. I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and closed my eyes, breathing erratic already.
“Hitch up that skirt, love.” I did not have to be told twice, I inched the fabric of the pencil skirt up my thighs and over my hips, already hooking my index fingers into the panties I had on. “That’s my girl, you know what to do, take them off, let me see you.” John’s voice was like a good whiskey, rough and warm. I pushed the offending material down to my ankles and then sat back, legs wide for him. I licked my lips as I noticed his arm was moving, hand out of sight, but I knew he was touching himself. Slowly stroking his hard cock, looking for relief from the ache, but not yet chasing an end.
“It’s been too long, John, I need your touch. I’m so pent up I don’t know what I’m doing half the time!” I begged, knowing he wasn’t a fan of begging unless it was for him to stop whatever torturous play he was busy performing. “That’s dangerous on a hunt, my girl, need you clear minded.” He said with a snarl, I saw the flick of his eyes as he took in the screen in front of him. “You can touch yourself.” My hand flew straight towards my already jumpy clit. “Slowly.” He growled, watching as I jerked my hand back before teasing it towards my clit. I ran my fingertips over my hip, down the inside of my thigh, then around my lips, before finally reaching my clit. I let out a soft moan as I made contact. The tight little bundle of nerves had been screaming for attention since leaving John that now it was like stepping into heaven itself.
“What a good girl you are.” He encouraged, “Lick your fingers then circle your clit. Imagine it was my tongue. Tell me what you taste like.” I swirled my tongue around my index finger and then added my middle finger, putting on a performance, hoping he was picturing his dick sliding in and out of my plump lips.
“Baby girl, you’re so eager,” He muttered, his keen eyes trained on the screen in front of him. I made sure to make an obscene pop with my fingers as I withdrew them from my mouth before instantly lowering them between my legs. “Mmm, John, I taste good, but not as good as you.” I hummed, forcing my hooded eyes to stay open as I began to rub gently up and down, my fingers gliding with a mix of saliva and arousal.
“Jesus, baby girl, you are wicked.” He said as he watched the swap of fingers to thumb as my middle finger teased my entrance. I lifted my leg to the handrail for a better spread and grabbed at my clothed breast with my other hand. “Mmm, YN, start fucking yourself. Slowly, in and out, like you do in the mornings.” He said, spurring me on.
“Show me, sir.” I moaned as my finger slid between my lips and into my warm, wet, heat. John’s picture’s quality distorted while he repositioned. But soon I was watching him clearly; one hand helping him remain propped up on the motel bed as the other had a firm grip of his considerable length and pumped it leisurely. “Oh god,” I whimpered, eyes fluttering as I added a second finger and began pumping to match him. I reached down with my other hand and began to circle my clit again. I was chasing my release, and with how good I had been, it was sure to come fast. A low moan from John’s end had my eyes back open and focused on him.
“That’s it baby, faster,” He guided, his hand moved back and forth, his thumb wiping over the tip every so often. I could see the tense of his thigh, his tell tale sign. He was so close. “Wait, together.” I pleaded, I wasn’t quite there, I rubbed at my clit vigorously, my fingers crooking to caress that sweet spot that normally only John could hit. A guttural groan followed by a pleased hiss told me he had come and I began to shake, so close, almost there.
“Stop.” John’s voice was huskier and had the tell tale signs of being spent, but he was still dominating as ever. I whimpered, the fingers inside me slowing, but the fingers working my clit back and forth were still eager, a mind of their own. My pleasure was tied directly to them now, no way my brain was in control. “YN. Stop.” He growled, and that promise of punishment, the kind worse than this, had me ceasing all movement. My chest heaved as I panted, I was so close. My thighs were trembling, my nerves were on fire, my clit throbbed, ready for one last appeal and it would give.
“Good girl.” He cooed, it was the tone reserved for right after the smack that stung more than it gave pleasure, for right after he’d held me over his cock a little too long that I began to struggle for air. The tone that made me feel like I deserved the title. The call disconnected, but not before John gave me one last instruction, “Get back to the motel. I’m waiting.”
If you liked this unbeta’d trash, please let me know by doing something more than liking!  Thaaaanks
Tagging: @akshi8278 @arryn-nyxx @autopistaaningunaparte @babypieandwhiskey @beckawinchester @blacktithe7 @bringmesomepie56 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @charliebradbury1104 @chvalkenberg95 @clairese1980 @dancingalone21 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @fandoms-are-the-best-escape @frenchybell @gabby913 @grace-for-sale @green-love-red-fantasyhearts @hasta-impalasta @i-like-your-assbutt @ilostmyshoe-79 @impala-dreamer @impalaimagining @iwriteaboutdean @jalove-wecallhimdean  @kazchester-fanfiction @kristaparadowski @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @lucifer-in-leather @lucis-unicorn @melonberri @manawhaat @mogarukes @mrswhozeewhatsis @nichelle-my-belle @notnaturalanahi @oriona75 @purgatoan @ruprecht0420 @sdavid09 @sherloki-moriartea @thegreatficmaster @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @waywardjoy @whispersandwhiskerburn @wheresthekillswitch @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @wi-deangirl77 @wideawakeandwriting @you-know-whodoesthat-crazypeople @maddieburcham1 @captainemwinchester @mrsbatesmotel53 @samwinjarpad @kittenofdoomage @room-with-a-cat @atc74
187 notes · View notes