•Ramiel: Allies. Is that what you call three humans with one good liver between them and a busted up angel? •Crowley: I admit, they don’t sound like much. But every Armageddon, every bloody “this is the end of all things,” a Winchester stopped it. Like it or not, they’re an asset we can’t afford to lose.
-Supernatural: 12x12 “Stuck in the middle (with you)”.
Summary: Everyone’s two favorite things: baking and (oral) sex with Dean
A/N: written for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing ‘s Favorite Things Challenge! (sorry I was so agonizingly close to the deadline) also, it’s my first time writing smut for Dean, so be kind to me… also i’m not here for the “Dean’s favorite pie” discourse, so don’t hit me up with messages about what his actual favorite is. I don’t give a shit.
Warnings: Oral sex (f receiving), baking with dean (yes that’s a warning), minor angst, mostly smut tbh
The smell of baking pie sits heavy
on the air, growing stronger with each pie you pull from the oven. You slide the hot tin onto the table, and
stare at the collection of pies and cookies you’ve baked over the last four
hours. So far you had two apple and one
pecan pie, a dozen chocolate chip cookies and a dozen of your own personal
enough, was all you could think. The
stress of your argument with Dean was still weighing on your shoulders. Cherry
was Dean’s favorite, was the next thought.
You eyed the bowl of fresh cherries you’d pitted and washed when you’d
first started baking. When you’d rolled
out of the bed this morning, you’d been disoriented until you realized you were
in your old bedroom, without Dean. Then
you’d remembered the argument from the previous night. Which was why you’d started baking at six this
morning when you usually found yourself sleeping in Dean’s warm arms until
Imagine a change of plans while sharing the bed with your favorite Winchester
Pairings: This is an attempt of “choose your own brother” x gender neutral! Reader (sorry if it sux)
Warnings: sexy times, smut-ish, not actual intercourse though.
Word count: 511
Tags under the cut.
Imagine a change of plans while sharing a bed with your favorite Winchester
The old mattress gives in under his weight causing your body to roll closer to him, no that it’s a problem. You yawn and stretch your sore tired limbs, drag the soils of your feet against the sheets and on his hairy calf. He complains, wincing when you pull at his hairs.
You ignore him and turn around with a little hop and pulling the sheets with you, making him grunt in annoyance, shaking his head he follows you and moves behind you settling in as the big spoon. You sigh and wiggle your back to his front, teasing him as you finally find the right position and slips an arm below your neck, the other one lands your midsection, resting on the little exposed section of skin between your sleeping shorts and T-shirt.
He nudges on the back of your neck, inhaling your scent and sighing in content. You’re both exhausted after a long, demanding day, there’s not gonna be sex, you both know it. It’s like a silent agreement. But somewhere in between you backing up and him rearranging his hands ‘accidentally’ grazing one of your nipples, your sharp intake of air, his scruff scratching your jaw and your stomach clenching unexpectedly, his cock transitions from soft to fully hard.
And it’s on.
His fingertips on your chest move around, feeling all of you through the soft material. Your lips part since you’re unable to breath deeply through your nose anymore. And his lips latch on your neck and his hips work in tandem with yours. Low little grunts fill your ears, mixing with your own.
He finds a little pebble and twists at it leaning on you to find its twin, pulling at them from time to time, provoking deep gasps and strangled whimpers from you as the muscles of your lower stomach contract, barely relaxing with every turn of his hips and your underwear sticks to your soaked sex.
He’s quick, almost desperate pulling your shorts down your hips, one side at the time and then his. A scratchy thumb pulls your cheeks apart to help himself settle in between. You moan at the boiling hot, smooth length, already weeping for you. The slick coating your crack as he thrusts. The hand not occupied on your chest goes between your legs working you out the way you like and your own nectar dripping down helps with the slippery slope. His hands work in team. His low, husky voice praising you, your body, your movements until you’re standing at the edge of the cornice ready to fall as coaxes you to do it and you dive. Your whole body exploding when you sink down the deepest pit. After a quick moment he’s there with you, pulsating behind you, quaking and growling. Soothing with kisses where his stubbled burned your skin.
You clean yourself with your discarded shorts or his, you’ll never know until come the morning. “G’night,” you sigh.
“Night.” He wraps his arm around your middle again, this time there’s no layers of stupid fabric in between.
He didn’t say much as the reaper came to him in the night, telling him that it was time, that he was going to have to pay the debt that he created that one evening. The reaper handed him the scythe and said that there was no world without death. He who kills death must become death himself.
And so that’s what Dean became.
He watched with tired eyes as his brother desperately tried to find a way to save Dean from this fate of an immortal eternity. He tried all the way up to the moment that Dean came for him one night, hand outstretched, saying that it was finally time to come with him.
And Sam did without question. He followed Death into the endless abyss, bowing his head for one final time.