South; the waffle house.
Dean/ofc, mild sam/ofc. Het. Werewolf AU. Oh! And my first foray into second person.
He slams into the cabin, ten to midnight. You take one look at the tight line between his brows and flick your eyes back down to your book, don't ask. Pretend to read as he throws the bathroom door shut, kicks his boots off against it, two angry thuds that rattle the place.
He comes into the bedroom in his shorts and stands at the foot of the bed, paces and watches you read for ten minutes before he growls out at nothing, scratches his hands through his wet hair.
"I'm goin' for a run," he swears at you, seething like it's your fault, and slams the back door after him hard enough that your african violet falls off the window sill, spills its dirt everywhere.
You don't clean it up. Switch the light out and curl down under the wool blanket. Fall asleep to the sound of Dean mourning, howling out his frustration, miles and miles away.
He's still gone when you wake up. You shuffle around the spilled soil, step over it, getting dressed. Hit the store for milk and bread, fresh vegetables. Coffee and sugar and chocolate.
Lily's place smells like dinnertime when you let yourself in. Sam grins at you, carrot in the corner of his mouth like a cartoon cigar, takes the bags. Nods you upstairs to the bedroom.
"Did you bring chocolate? Oh my god, I know you did. I love you," Lily says dramatically, squeezes you with her free arm when you move close enough to the bed. You don't know how it happens but you tear up before you even get a chance to hold him, and Lily laughs, passing him over. Makes sure you're both settled before she buttons up the front of her nightie.
"He's real easy, that one. They say the second ones are easier. Last night was a love-in."
"Mmm," you hum, smitten, watching him sleep. Little battery of heat, snug. So content.
"Dean took off," you admit eventually, as Lily drifts, eyes out on the hills through the window.
Lily clucks her tongue, adjusts her pillow. "Dean's just a fuckin' jackass, maybe if he spent a night at home - kept you company in that bed - you'd have one of your own by now," she frowns, almost asleep.
You get up to leave, put him down in the nest of blankets by his mother.
"Jackass," Lily mutters, asleep.
When you get back, Dean's on the porch drinking a beer. He follows you inside, traps you up against the sink when you turn the tap on for a drink of water. Snuffles his nose into your hair, smells at the back of your skull.
"You smell like 'em," he says.
"Went over there," you tell him. "He's beautiful."
Dean makes a puppy sound in your ear, upset. Bites your neck.
He leaves you alone for the rest of the day. Falls into bed a few hours shy of dawn and only wakes you up for a second, bringing in his cold outside aroma, the greenery and the rocks. One of his big wide hands spread low on your belly.
"He acts like it's your fault, like you're doing it on purpose" Lily scoffs, holding your foot in her lap, lacing her fingers between your toes, slick with oil. You make a face, dig your thumb into the ball of her foot.
"He doesn't get it," you defend, leaning back against the bed rail.
"He needs to relax," she chides, "It's never gonna happen if he's got you stressed out all the time."
"I'm not stressed out," you snap, then yelp when Lily tugs your little toe sharply. You retaliate by digging your knuckles into the arch of her foot, hard, but she just hums, satisfied, sex sound to rile you up.
The baby cries, down the hall, and Lily moans, drags her feet away to towel them off.
You watch how Sam is with her, how he's always smiling, soft touches at her elbow. On her cheek when she laughs. Different to the Sam you've heard about.
You roll your eyes.
You get sick of waiting so you toss your book away, pull on a pair of his socks and go lookin'.
He's making something on the porch, fresh cut wood drying out, filling the whole place with the sweet, earth stench of it. Bark sticks to his socks when you wade out to find him.
"What is it?" he asks when you get close, looks up and sucks a bloody knuckle into his mouth.
"I. I was wondering – "
And you stop, sigh, 'cause Lily and Sam are two fucking mutants and Dean's just not the foot rub type. He's just... not.
You don't need him to be.
"Why don't you come inside and we can – I'll make you some dinner or something?" you try. But really, he knows better than anyone that you're not real lucky in the kitchen. Your mother gave up on you when you set a sink full of nothing but soapy water on fire one Easter Sunday.
Somethin' dawns on his face, wipes his frown away, and you're grateful. He stands up and dusts off, trails you inside.
It's reminds you of the first couple of weeks, when all you did was fuck. Every where. Every way. Barely left the cabin. Dean lets you sit on the bed and watch him get naked, stretches over you and plucks at your pyjamas, butts his head lazily against yours, huffs out and digs his teeth in your shoulder, pleased, when he fits his hand between your legs and finds you all slippery, all ready for him.
He turns you over onto your knees, leaves bruises that you've missed being able to press. Leaves a deep space that you'd forgotten you had, makes it ache. Rubs himself all over you. Gasps when he fucks you, whispers, like he loves you.
When you wake up all you can smell is his scent, like you're clogged with it, and it shakes something loose, a little trickle of Pavlovian excitement down your sternum, tingling in your nipples ridiculously. You flop onto his side of the bed and listen to the toilet flush, a wall away.
You sit up when Dean comes back into the bedroom but he doesn't even look at you, just grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and leaves.
"It's not happening," you hiss at Lily, mortified, and she turns away from the fireworks, far away starbursts cracking and fizzling out over the city.
She shrugs, kind but helpless, says, "Maybe you just don't want it to, sweetie... You can't force it, right?"
You go back indoors. Watch from across the kitchen as Dean scowls into the fridge. You hear Sam's voice murmuring some song through the baby monitor and you want to cry.
Whatever he was making out on the porch ends up chopped up for firewood. You notice the lighter, rounded wood, man-sanded, in the bin by the hearth and you hold a piece up, trying to guess what it was.
"Dean –" you start, but he looks up at you from the kitchen table, still pissed, daring you. So you sigh, chuck it on the fire.
Dean knows before you do, when it starts.
You're talking to Julian, the guy who delivers the papers, when you see Dean's head snap up in your peripheral, turn to watch him shoving your basket onto the shelf, toppling the cereal boxes, looking right at you, ravenous, like – like he's gonna do something awful.
You don't even bother excusing yourself, you just turn and go, start running as soon as you get outside.
It feels like you're having a heart attack by the time you make it through the front door of the cabin and you have about three seconds to clutch at your chest, try to catch you breath, before Dean bursts in, momentum making him skid a little.
"Dean? What –"
He rips your shirt, pulling it off, presses you into the wall and you start, shocked when you feel him so hard, rocking into you.
"Dean, I don't –" But he kisses your mouth firm and sloppy, hitches your legs up around his hips and shoves your back against the wall again, too rough, and you yell, confused, still shaking from the run and what the fuck is he doing -
"Finally," he gruffs, and takes you to bed. Lays you out and nips at your throat, holds your wrists. You arch for him, unstoppable, whine a little, trying to push your belly up so it touches his.
"Jesus, finally - c'mon, c'mon –" he chants, stripping you, shuddering out of his jeans. He knows something you don't and his eyes are clear, wet, too much to look at so you turn away, squeeze your own shut, feel his hand around your ankle and then –
His mouth, eager between your thighs, hot shock of rough tongue, mapping you out and you moan for it before you can stop yourself, spread wider and grab for his hair. He laps perfectly; quick hard flutters and you pull his hair, feel yourself going off, building up, clamping on nothing but the butter soft slide of his tongue inside, not nearly enough.
When he stops it's only a half second before he's covering you again, full body heat, and you open your eyes to his red mouth, his canines gone pointed and his stained tongue darting out licks, smudged all rusty down his chin, the tip of his nose, smell of yourself rich on his breath.
Sob his name when he fills you up too fast, and he's so hard. Thick jolt all the way inside, again and again and you can hear him over the base-thumb of your pulse, whuffing out all high and hurt, needing you.
You feel him get bigger everywhere, grow solid muscle, and it prickles up under your fingers at the back of his neck, arrow of mane sprouting and rippling down his spine as he whines in your ear, wanting.
"Please – please –" he pants, eyes squeezed shut against his change and that's it. You scream and feel it all rupture inside, when you come it soars off; your cunt hungry and your jaw popping and your nails go deep into his skin and Dean growls around you, stops holding it off, starts fucking you like he never has, almost all the way dog and taking you with him this time and fuck yes. Finally.
And that's the last thing you remember 'til you wake up in the grass under the back deck, the midday sun right in your eyes.
"First bleed's the worst," Lily pouts, sympathetic like she knows, and makes you tea.
It comes back to you over the next couple of days as you take it easy, strobe light memories of you. Of Dean. Just running and running. Pounding of earth under your feet.
You hear Dean howling his throat out, miles and miles away, and tuck your grin into your pillow. Wait for him to get back.