***Special thanks to @marvel-ash for this beautiful graphic that I’m all heart eyes over! I’m in love with it! Thank you isn’t adequate!!! xoxo***
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: Dean and the reader meet in a bar just days before he’s set to go get Sam and look for their dad. While he didn’t mean to drag her into the life, and he tried with all his might to keep her out of it, fate has other plans.
Word Count: 20k+ (I know, I know. @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit has officially dubbed me her Wordy Princess, a title I gladly accept. But really, I hope the word count does not deter you.)
Warnings: Major angst, smut (fingering, handjobs, unprotected and protected sex, etc.), language, minor canon divergence (i.e. Lisa doesn’t exist), but also the glory that is Dean through the seasons. I love this man, and this just intensified that for me.
A/N: This fic was for @lipstickandwhiskey ‘s AC/DC song challenge and the song I chose was Whiskey on the Rocks. Now, originally, this was going to be PWP, well, the closest I could get. But then, this fic had other ideas and here we are, 20k of plot. I would apologize, but well, this may or may not have quickly risen to my all time favorite fic, and I hope that y’all love it as much as I do. It’s also written in a style I’ve never written in: third person, present tense, and entirely from Dean’s POV. I happen to love it, I love the way it reads and flows, and I hope you do too. Enjoy!
Tags: At the bottom. Happy to add anyone to my tags list (I currently have an Everything, Dean, Sam, and Benny list) as long as you’re following me. Cheers!
The first time, Dean picks her up in the bar, using a cheesy half-assed pick up line, only half expecting her to be open to his advances.
But she succumbs to his smug grin in record time, pulling him into the bathroom minutes later and locking the door behind them, whispering ‘fuck me’ into his ear as he kisses down the column of her neck. He sucks a dark mark right above her pulse point, and he is more than happy and ready to obey. It’s in the grimy bar bathroom, on top of the sink, just enough clothes shoved down and pulled aside to give access. It’s handsy and furious, all teeth and fingernails, scratching and biting, grunts and growls of ‘more’ and ‘harder’ and ‘yes, right there,’ both chasing their release as if it were the last thing on earth they’d ever do. They still manage to meet it together, unable to keep their moans quiet, her hands clutching at his shirt, his buried in her hair.