Dean imagine requested by anon. This imagine has been edited for reposting, just to add description to my beginner’s writing. Hope you like it.
WARNING: Implied smut
You strode into the bar, tailing Dean as he paved his way through the sparse crowd of drunken strangers, the sound of an Irish drinking song bouncing off the walls, the air vibrating with the fervor of the patrons. As was so common in the bars your type visit (‘your type’ here meaning men and women with low life expectancies and even lower standards), the lighting was seedy, a murky yellow hue cast onto the furniture, wood gleaming dully, the whole place smelling strongly of cheap liquor and generic multipurpose cleaner, citrus, bleach, and prayers. The wood floor was scuffed and splintering beneath your feet, shards of pine stabbing into the soles of your boots, a precarious, danger-riddled dance floor, open-toed shoes unwelcome. Dean’s hand snaked around your waist as you moved forward to the counter, his shoulder leaning into yours, his body acting as a human shield to ward away any unruly customers, your eyes shifting to the end of the bar, where your subject was sitting. Her skin-tight black bandage dress and slender stiletto heels made your combat boots, skinny jeans and bomber jacket look oh so lower class in comparison. Her hair, spilling from an elegant updo in curly tendrils, was a feat your uncooperative locks could never dream of accomplishing. You beat back insecurities with the likelihood of your poor informant earning her keep as a prostitute, your confidence swelling like an injured bird, sporadic bursts of envy nipping at your heartstrings. Dean waltzed to her side, tapping her shoulder to assure her attention was on him before flashed his faux fed badge. She turned expectantly to you, brown eyes squinting and perfectly plucked eyebrows raised, she pursed her lips, ruby lipstick gleaming, the yellow sheen of the residence playing on the colour like light on water, an infuriatingly charming effect you deemed hostile. You sighed, struggling to remain professional, presenting your empty palms to the seductress before you, fighting your frown to keep your face neutral, pleasant even.
“I’m in the internship program. I don’t have a badge yet.” You explained, speaking through your teeth, cracking an admittedly pathetic version of a smile to keep up your officer-of-the-law charade. Dean’s badge went back inside his jacket, his hands fidgeting within for a moment too long, practiced as he was in retrieving or replacing his fabricated plastic identity. The woman’s eyes darted within his jacket, devouring his muscled chest beneath the tidy white button-down, her eyes glimmer hungrily, gaze lingering too long for your liking. Dean buttoned his jacket, emerald eyes fixated on hers, never breaking eye contact.
“We’re here to talk to you about the attack you witnessed. Is there anything you remember? Details, faces, the, uh, sex of the offender?” Dean asked, stumbling over his examples, his voice dipping deeper, his tone suaver than usual, your eyes locking on his profile, face heating. The woman licked her berry-stained lips, leaning herself against the counter of the bar, picking up on your boyfriend’s subtle flirtation, as you had.
“I don’t know, but a drink might help.” She had the nerve to sleaze, her fingers fiddling with the hem of Dean’s jacket, tugging him closer. To your shock, Dean inched closer to her. You may have growled, or huffed in disgust at the least, because the woman refocused her attention, her face displaying her irritation like war paint, her lips parting with her distatse. “I’m sorry, who are you again?” She asked.
“I’m an intern, as I said before, the only time you spoke to me, but more importantly, I’m his gir-” you started, your tone building in harshness, working your way to a verbal smack-down, but you were cut off by Dean, who gave you a telling look of… disapproval, it appeared.
“Sister. She’s my sister. Why don’t you go wait in the car while I talk to this beautiful young woman over a glass of wine?” He suggested, smiling at the woman, her fingernails fidgeting with the glossy buttons of his jacket, staring at you with victory floating about in the slimy gleam of her eye. You couldn’t believe your ears. You scoffed in disbelief, turning from the happy couple, storming out of bar, shoving your way through the crowd, your exit accompanied by a chorus of disgruntled, slurred insults at your hasty departure. After an hour of waiting, Dean climbed into the car, apologizing the second he opened his door.
“Y/n, before you tear me a new one, I was just doing my job. I was just doing it for the information.” He said, turning the key in the ignition. You struggled to maintain a nonviolent demeanor.
“Did you get it?” You snarled, steam whistling in your head. Dean nodded, holding up a slip of paper. You snatched the note, unfolding it to find details of a supposed mugging jotted down in hasty, sloppy scribbles. Surely, you were looking at a vetala. You flipped the paper over to its opposite side, ten digits greeting you beside a berry-lipstick kiss. You clenched your jaw, hands trembling in rage.
“Oh, come on, Y/n! Its not like I’m going to call her! Y/n, she’s a skank. You aren’t… jealous, are you?” He asked, revving the engine. You laid a hand on his, prepared to prohibit him from driving, but he quickly explained that he hadn’t actually had anything to drink. He ppulled the car out of the parking lot, engine roaring as Baby’s tires raced along the highway.
“Of course not,” you mumbled. You driven for ten minutes, tops, when you thought the time was right. “Pull over.” You commanded, voice flat as abandoned soda, your face locked on the road ahead. Dean glanced at you, checking you over, eyes flickering to the expanse of asphalt every second or two, his expression crumpled with his concern.
“What? Why? You’re not gonna puke, are you?” He asked. “You feeling alright?” You kept your face blank, turning your head to face him.
“Pull. Over.” You repeated, the hunter edging toward the outermost lane of the highway. He drove the Impala off the shoulder, wheels sinking into the cushioned grass ribbon between the road and the forest. He looked at you expectantly, awaiting an explanation. You simply removed your seat belt, pealed your jacket from your shoulders and climbed into the back seat, grabbing Dean by the hand and forcing him to follow you. He very happily obliged. Once he was on top of you in the backseat, you moved your lips to his, teeth dragging his lips closer when he parted for breath, his chest pressing against your own. He held himself above you, his arms flexed beside your shoulders, his hips dipping between yours, his dress pants wrinkling, cramped as you were in the cabin of the classic Chevy. You unbuttoned the first few buttons on his dress shirt, reaching within, pulling him closer by the necklace you found beneath the cotton, hands tugging his suit jacket sleeves. He shimmied out of both jacket and shirt, garments falling to the floor of the vehicle, your hands roaming the planes of his scarred, yet perfectly muscled chest. Your palm fit over the handprint scar left behind from his trip to Hell, ridges of inflamed skin warming your flesh where they touched. Your fingers threaded themselves into the hair on the back of his head, pulling him away. He winced, then grinned, a breathy chuckle filtering through his excited panting. You were both already sweating, his forehead glistening with the beginnings of dew.
“Not jealous, huh? Not at all?” He whispered, his voice husky, eyes bearing down on your form. You kissed him again, moving until you were laying on his chest, pinning him down with both hands on his chest.
“You’re mine, got it?” You whispered, bending yourself forward atop him, pressing your words against his lips. His breathing was heavy, agitated. You snickered, fingers tracing down his abdomen as you worked your way away from him. His eyes rolled back in his sockets, lips parted in frustration.
“Oh, screw it.” He growled, quickly flipping your bodies over, his hand securing you to his chest, until he had you pinned, his hands holding yours above your head as he kissed his way down your neck, across your collarbone, stopping where they meet in the hollow of your neck. You tried to hold in a strangled whimper, the shift of power unanticipated, but lovely nonetheless. Dean smiled mischievously, planting a wet kiss by the collar of your shirt, smiling into your skin.
“I think she might be the jealous one.” You breathed, pulse hammering in your head. Dean laughed into your skin and kissed you again, his heart pounding against yours as your bodies began to move.