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Come tomorrow, feel no pain

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She's been staying at the bunker only for a few weeks. 

No tragic backstory for her, thankfully. She still doesn't have a good reason to hate the Winchester - then again, they'll probably get her killed sooner or later anyway. Dean doesn't get to keep anything, ever; it's one of the few unwritten rules of the Universe he still hasn't managed to break. 

 For now, though - for now she's just a girl they're keeping safe. She's an ancient languages student they met her during a hunt, the only one who was willing to help them with the translation of a Greek spell. One thing led to another, demons got involved, and...well. Sam had insisted not to leave her alone after that, and she had agreed to move out of her little apartment to go stay with them.

 Dean focuses back one the opened book in front of him. “Fuck my life”, he mutters, taking a swing from his beer bottle and turning the page. The tiny font of the text gave him a headache roughly 20 chapters ago, and he's no closer to figuring out what the monster they're hunting is.
Sam's out on a grocery run, his laptop sitting on the table, some Wikipedia page about Celtic folklore still open. 
Dean is seriously contemplating just taking a nap now that his brother's bitch face isn't there to make him feel guilty, because goddamn is he tired, when he hears someone enter the room.
“Sammy, back already?”, he says. “You better have brought pie. I need some good reason to live after five hours of-” he gestures vaguely to the lore books - “ this .”

 The footsteps stop right behind his chair. “Well, I'm not Sam”, says a female voice, “but, uhm - I did bring pie.”
Oh, it’s her. A manicured hand puts a plate in front of him, with a generous portion of still hot apple pie on it. It smells heavenly .
“Sweetheart”, he says, turning his face to see her, “that's better than being Sam.” Dean feels a smile tugging at his lips when he sees her blush. 
She’s cute with her cheeks all red from embarrassment. God, he probably should feel like a dick, using pet names just to see her flustered - and he does, a bit, but not enough to stop. 

 Hey, he never claimed to be a good guy. 

 “Don't tell him though, he'll get all pissy about it.” 
She chuckles, still trying very hard not to make eye contact with him, despite how close she's standing to his chair. “I'll keep your secret”, she promises. 
Dean turns to take a bite out of the pie before he says something stupid like I'll give you a better secret to keep - which doesn't even make sense, really, but he knows her eyes would widen anyway. Who knows, maybe she does have a dirty mind. It's always the quiet ones, right?

The pie tastes as good as it looks. Dean scarfs it down in two minutes, forgetting for a moment the killer headache and the back pain and the endless hours of deciphering old English texts for the case. 
The girl takes the empty bottles of beer that clutter the table while he eats his slice, and looks awfully proud at how much he's enjoying it.
When he's done with the last bite, Dean sighs and shoots her a lopsided smile. “Thank you for that, sugar.”
There's something fond and warm in her gaze when she finally looks him in the eyes. “No problem, Dean. I - well, I thought you could use a pick-me-up. Sam told me this case is a tough one.”
Dean is about to say that yes, fuck this monster and whatever obscure old-ass folklore it comes from, when her words register. “Wait”, he says, “you baked a whole pie for me?” 

God, that's - the only person who has ever done that was his mom

She looks slightly panicky. “Like, there's enough for everyone, you know? But uhm, yes. I know that it's your favourite. So” - she does a vague gesture with her hand that he can't begin to decipher - “sure, it's for you. Feel better?” 
If he's honest with himself, which he doesn't like to be, Dean feels touched at the gesture. This girl that has known him for a month heard that he was stressed and thought to herself, you know what? I'm gonna bake for him his favourite dessert
He's more used to a very different brand of tough love, that's for sure. 
It's a nice change. 

“Yeah, I feel” - cared for, he doesn't say - “definitely better.”



They're coming back from a supply run, Sammy riding shotgun while she sits in the back of Impala, resting her back on three sacks of salt that must weigh more than her.
Thank God that shit is cheap , Dean thinks, or we would need to clone credit cards much more often with our line of work. 

 For once, he didn't force the other to listen to one his tapes. The radio is on, and Dean's in a good enough mood to let Sam go through the stations. 
The, truthfully, not half-bad rock song by a new British group finishes, and his brother tinkers with the radio until Dean hears the familiar notes of Total eclipse of a heart coming from Baby's speaker.
He wouldn't admit it under pain of death, but he fucking loves that song. It's a classic for a reason, okay? Fuck you for judging him. 

 He softly nods to the rhythm, trying to hide it from Sam. He even starts mouthing the words when he notices that his brother's attention is on his phone, but then he glances at the rearview mirror and catches her eyes. Shit, she must have seen him, judging by her amused smile.
Dean refuses to blush, but he puts on his best I'm-strictly-into-classic-rock-what’s-this-garbage face anyway. 
“Ugh, why did I even stop on this song?” Sam says from beside him, oblivious to his internal crisis. To Dean's chagrin, he moves to change the station - and right before the chorus, too, like that isn't the best part .
“Uhm, Sam?”, the girl interjects. Dean can see from the mirror that she's still looking at him. “Can you leave it for a while longer? I really like this one.”
Sam raises one eyebrow and shoots Dean a glance. “If he promises not to bitch about it, sure.”
Dean shrugs with feigned nonchalance. “Sure, we're almost home anyway. Doubt there's anything better on.”
Sam snorts. “You really must be in a good mood today, jerk.”
“Shut your cake hole, bitch.”

 Dean can see her mouthing you're welcome from the mirror when he glances at it. 

 He enjoys Bonnie Tyler's singing until they arrive back at the bunker.  



Dean doesn’t knows if it's him that makes her uncomfortable or if she's just as bad with people as Cas is. At least the angel, lucky bastard, doesn't seems to suffer from that annoying human thing called embarrassment.
Dean has no doubts she's familiar with it. 

 Then again, maybe it's just him being an asshole.
Maybe, next time they're together, he'll bite his lips and not call her babydoll just because she passed him the salt shaker or some shit. 
He needs to stop laying it on so thick, it's just - she blushes so pretty, everytime, making him wonder how far down her shirt the rosy hue goes. If just a word can make her burn hot...oh, the things he could do for her with his hands, his tongue. She'd be a sweet one, he's sure - no race for who makes the other come first, no fight to stay on top.

 Anyway, he'd let her win that particular fight no problem .

 Dean's pretty sure he’s staring at her, sitting cross-legged on the far end of the couch, like he wants to eat her alive. 
He digs into his aching shoulders to distract himself and make it clear to his dick that no, now is not the time.

A groan escapes his mouth when his muscles clench painfully under his fingers. Fucking werewolf, throwing him and Sam against walls and on tables before they finally managed to gank him. It's been three days and his back still aches - he remembers the good old times where he would have bounced back in a couple of hours. Fuck , he's getting too old for this shit. 
At the sound, she raises her eyes from her book, looking worried. “You ok?”
Dean gives her close-lipped smile. “Yeah sweetheart, I'm fine. I've had way worse.”
Predictably, her cheeks redden. Dean tries very hard to keep in a smug grin, almost fails.
“You always say that”, she mutters. “Is it your shoulders?”
She uncrosses her legs so she can scoot closer to him, bare feet touching gingerly the cold floor. He can feel the warmth of her naked thighs - God , she's wearing shorts , like his mind wasn't wandering enough on its own - on his jeans-cladded ones, and that's enough to distract him from the pain.
“Yeah, you know”, he says, “got thrown around a bunch, as usual. I'll steal Sammy's Tylenol if it doesn't pass on its own.” 
“Do you, mh…” She clears her throat, risks looking him in the eyes for a second. “Do you want a massage?” 

A massage?

A massage .

 Dean blinks away the graphic flood of images filling his head, before his anatomy betrays him and she notices. Wouldn't want her to feel mortified for the rest of her life or something, he's not that much of a dick. 
And anyway, he must be ‘confusing porn and reality again’, as Sam once put it. 
“I mean, like, only if you want. Obviously”, she adds when he doesn't answer. She’s beet red, and looks like she's regretting all the life choices that brought her to this moment. “Because you're hurting. And, uhm, maybe I can help. If you wa-I think I said that already. I'm gonna shut up now.”
Dean can't help chuckling. “No, no hey”, he reassures her, “I was just surprised. If you're offering, a massage sounds nice.” 
She seems both relieved and taken aback. Come on, really?, he thinks, did she think I was gonna say no?
Pretty girl wants to touch him and he refuses? For fuck's sake, he's not made of stone. 

(Also, his back does hurt like a bitch.)

 “Okay, then.” She smiles at him, a bit more relaxed. “Turn around?”
Dean does, also taking off his flannel so he's sitting only in a thin camo green t-shirt. He hears her shuffling behind him, getting closer while they both try to find a comfortable position on the old couch. 
A second later her hands settle on his either side of his neck, small and soft and warm against his exposed skin. The feeling makes him sigh softly. 
She starts digging her thumbs in the tense muscles of his neck, hesitant at first like she doesn't want to hurt him - like he's not used to getting beat up by people and monsters three times her size anyway.
Her fingers get more confident the longer he goes without so much as a hiss of pain, and by the time they reach his shoulders Dean feels like putty in her hands. 
His head lolls softly back and forth, until he just lets it fall on her shoulder. She smells nice , he thinks, breathing in the flowery scent of her hair. 
Her soft noise of surprise makes his reopen his eyes, which apparently closed on their own. He didn't even notice. 
“Damn, you're pretty good at this”, he says. His voice has gone lower and rougher than usual because of the massage - or, yeah,  maybe it's the feeling of her tits pressed against his back. He could get definitely get used to this. 

 Her breath hitches when he turns his face enough to leave a chaste kiss on her neck. No matter that what he really wants to do is bury his face between her legs and eat her out until she begs him to stop - she's a good , proper girl and he can behave, for once. Ease her into it, go slower...could be nice, actually. It's not often he gets to do that.
“Oh, okay”, she murmures back. “No wait, I meant thank you. Because you said-yeah, thank you.” One of her hands moves from his shoulder to cupping his face, the thumb stroking his cheek. “Feel better, then?” 
“Much better.”
She's staring at his lips. Maybe if he smiles just right, if he tilts his head further back she'll get the hint and - oh, fuck yeah, she's leaning in, a second more and he'll get to taste the lipgloss she's wearing, he hopes it's cherry or strawberry or something else he can lick right off-
“Dean are you- oh, hi guys.”
Her head snaps back up, and with a groan of frustration Dean turns to the door.
“Hi, Sam”, she greets him. Maybe Dean's projecting his annoyance on her, but she sounds colder than usual.
“Always with the bad timing, Sasquatch.” It's far from the first time his brother cockblocks him, the kid must have some internal sensor that tells him when he's about to get laid - he could tolerate it when they used to share the same motel room, but in the bunker it's almost unbelievable. 

At least Sam has the decency to look apologetic. “I’m sorry to interrupt but, uh - I think I found a case.”



If he stops to think about it, he's probably too old for her. He guesses he's at least ten years her senior, he never thought of asking her age - but if the wide-eyed jovial attitude and smooth skin didn't scream “early twenties” already, the university student status certainly does. 

Sometimes he almost feels like a dirty old man, then he thinks back to what kind of shit he was doing at her age and he realizes that no, she's a big girl and can make her decisions. If she wants to bake him pie, give him a once over everytime he walks into a room or almost kiss him after a back rub, Dean certainly isn't gonna stop her. 
Actually, he's up do to way more.

She helped them with the hunt, this time. 
Sam is pretty good with Latin, and Dean himself picked up a few things along the way, but with Greek they both suck. When they realised that the monster that kidnapped four people in Bumfuck, Idaho had Greek origins, Dean stopped himself from thinking this is the sort of thing Bobby would have helped us with , and asked her to do the research with them.

It turned out to be a honest-to-God harpy, kidnapping people for blah blah blah, who cares, just tell him how to kill it.
(“Why never something simple anymore, uh? All I ask for is a Wendigo once in a while, I swear-”)

 “We're back!”, Sam exclaims as soon as they open the front door of the bunker.
Dean hears footsteps getting closer and a second later her head pops into view. 
“Hey, guys. You told me you would call when you killed the thingy there, the harpy.” She looks half-asleep, hair tousled in a way that reminds Dean of the Cas of back in the day. 
“It was 5 in the morning doll, thought we would let you sleep.” 
He lets his bag fall from his shoulder onto the table. The cut on his back is starting to soak through the bandage he slapped on there before leaving town - harpies pack helluva talons, apparently. The bitch got him good .
“Yeah, well, maybe send a text next time”, she says, “like, ‘didn’t die’ would be enough.” 

Sam pats her shoulder when he passes by her, his hand looking comically big against her tiny frame. Dean worries for a second that she's gonna topple over, but as always his brother is a gentle giant. “You're right, we should have sent a text. But hey, we're fine! Everything went ok.”
Almost , Dean thinks. He hopes he's not bleeding through the shirt. 
“Alright, well, that's good.” She smiles, sleep still clouding her eyes. “Mh, maybe go take a shower?”
“Yeah Sammy, you're stinking up the place.”
That's not true, Sam's just half covered in drying mud, but he dirtied up poor Baby’s upholstery so Dean's gonna tease him all he wants.
She looks mortified. “That's not-”
“Yeah, don't worry, Dean's just being a dick. He's cranky ‘cause I got to kill the mythical beast this time.” 
And then he's off to the shower, leaving Dean with a cut that probably needs stitching (ugh, fuck him) and a pretty girl in yoga pants and flimsy tank top that does nothing to hide the absence of a bra (fuck him, please ).

She shuffles on her feet, nervous all of a sudden. Sam seems to make her more at ease - again, Dean doesn't know whether to be flattered or offended. He decides to give her an out either way, he has to fix the damn cut anyway.
“You can go back to sleep, you know?”
Fucking smooth, Dean, he thinks to himself. Why don't you tell her to fuck off and die while you're at it?
Her eyes go wide, the blood rises to her cheeks - up to tip of her ears, too, and then the blush spreads tantalizingly down her chest. It disappears under the tank top.
“That came out of wrong”, Dean tries to explain, snapping his eyes back up. “I just meant - it's still early, I'm sorry Sam screamed like a Banshee and woke you up.”
The girl walks up to the table where he's rifling through the bag for their first aid kit. “I'm not, I much rather know you guys are okay.” She shrugs. “I was worried.”
Ain't she sweet, Dean thinks. No tough love from this one.
Out loud, he says “Don't worry babygirl, it takes a lot to bring a Winchester down” and shoots her a wink that makes her giggle and hide her face. You, you’d just need to ask nicely. I’d go down on you no problem-
“Yeah, yeah, monsters everywhere tell their kids 'behave, or Sam and Dean will come and getcha’.”
Dean smirks. “Damn right they do.”

He finds the damn first aid kit at the bottom of the duffle bag - and then he realizes that he can't exactly dislocate a shoulder to stitch a cut on his back. He'll have to wait for Sam, who always takes ages in the shower, and goddamn, he's so tired. He drove all night, he wants to pass out on his memory foam mattress, stat.
“What's wrong?” 
He sighs, turns to look at her worried, bright eyes. “The harpy got me in the back, I have to wait for Sam to put stitches in.”
“I can do it”, she says without a moment of hesitation. “I've never sewn... human flesh , but I have a steady hand. I've seen you guys do it before.”

 Dean thinks about it for a second, then decides that, fuck it - he's tired and bleeding and what red-blooded American doesn't have a mild fetish for cute nurses taking care of them? He ranks his eyes down her body, from the line of her collarbones down to her legs - her leggins hug her curves just right; Dean imagines how soft and warm her thighs would feel wrapped around his waist while he holds her up. 

Fuck, man, it's been a while

The effort it takes not to fuck her stupid right there on the table is frankly embarrassing, but Dean doesn't have much shame left. “Why not? Let's see if you'd make a good surgeon.”


Five minutes later he's sitting on a chair while she cleans the wound. 

Her movements are careful, dabbing the disinfectant-soaked piece of cotton so lightly on his skin that he barely feels it. The slight sting helps him stay awake, because he's so drained that being treated with white gloves like this is lulling him to sleep. 
“Dean this is- this is a very deep cut. You drove with this on your back all night ?” She sounds very upset, voice choked up and angry.
“Shh, just let me be pissed for a second”, she interrupts him. “I don't like seeing you hurt.”
Dean decidedly ignores the guilt pooling in his stomach - she shouldn't be up at fuck-o'-clock in the morning and worried about him. He is fine .
“Thanks, I guess.” God, I suck at this. “But really, I'm ok. I'm used to way worse.”
She doesn't respond, instead taking the threaded needle he prepared for the stitches. 
Her touch stays soft the whole time, her free hand pulling gently at the skin so that the needle passes more easily through. She even hisses in sympathy with him and murmures apologies for every stitch, which is a nice change from the “oh, suck it up” he usually receives from Sam. 
Yeah, definitely no tough love from this one.

“Okay, I'm done. I think I did a decent job. Hopefully.”
“Doll, I think you did great.” He smirks at her, head tilted back on the chair. “You should consider medical school.”
“I don't think they would let me use dental floss there.”
“Eh, works just fi-”

 The sentence dies in his throat when she kisses him, a honest-to-God upside-down spiderman kiss.
She's still standing behind him, and Dean immediately misses the way their bodies touched back on the couch, when she gave him that massage, because now they're separated by the damned chair. 
He kisses back as soon his brain reboots - the angle is awkward but her lips are soft and delicate and hot under his tongue. Fuck, it all feels so nice after the rough treatment of the harpy. She bites his bottom lip, not harshly, - Dean forgets the sting of the cut... - and he sucks lightly on her tongue - ...the ache of his muscles for running too much and sleeping too little fades, too, to the back of his mind… - until they both have to come up for air.  
He wants more, has wanted more for weeks, but her soft sigh of pleasure will have to be enough for tonight. He's so, so, tired, he risks falling asleep on her before he can get her naked.

 Dean regretfully pulls back from her lips. “Sweetheart, I can't believe I'm saying this, but - it's better if we stop.”
Even upside down, she looks breathless and blushed and mortified. “Oh uhm, okay, yeah.” 
Well fuck, that came out wrong again.
As soon as she takes her warm hands away from his face, Dean stands up and does a quick job of putting the shirt back on. 
“Hey, the only problem is that I'm dead on my feet.” He pulls her in for another quick kiss, and she melts in his arms as soon as their lips touch. “And I'd like to make a good first impression.”
“Dean”, she whispers, “you couldn't disappoint if you tried.”
Which wow, first: so wrong - but also, how sweet. He chuckles, pressing a hand to the back of his neck to stifle the heat he feels creeping up.

“Yeah, let's not put that theory to the test.”



 It's been two weeks, and Dean has almost forgotten the promise of more he made to her.

 He doesn't know what's wrong with him today - but hey, what else is new? Dean Winchester feeling like shit is not news to anyone, but usually he’s got...a reason , you know? Plenty of them, actually, piling up and weighing him down and justifying one too many trip to the liquor store.
But the world is not ending right now; Sam is okay and Cas is doing good, things are as fine as they ever get.  And yet he feels- down. Blue. Whatever the fuck other word he can use to avoid saying ‘depressed’.

 He's drinking too much, he knows. Sammy is passed out in his room - thank fuck , because he couldn't deal with his sad puppy dog eyes right now -, while Dean is still sitting at their kitchen table pretending to do something useful. His sight is getting blurry, every limb feeling heavy while his mind still, fucking God, still refuses to go numb enough to let him sleep.

 He tosses back the remaining of his drink, taste buds so fried by now that he doesn't even know what he's drinking - but also who gives a fuck . Dean just wants to pass out. 
Or, or maybe, something else could help, if he's drunk enough -- or sober enough, maybe, to go knock on her door…
“Fuck it”, he half slurs, decision made, and stands from his chair on unsure legs.  


 Two minutes later he's standing in front of her room - it should have taken less to travel the short distance from the kitchen to there, but cut him some slack, alright? Dean can hold his liquor, but he has his limits.
He's so fucking drunk he can barely stay upright, which makes this whole thing a terrible idea. 
He passes a hand over his mouth, trying to focus on the golden numbers attached to the door. What's he gonna do when she opens the door, uh? Kiss her? Cry about his woes and ask for a hug? Ugh, yeah, sounds like a grea-

 The door opens, and his whiskey-soaked brain takes a second to register her standing in front of him, wearing a threadbare shirt that barely covers her thighs. Suddenly 'kissing’ sounds like a much better idea. 

 So he does. He ducks down, before she can say anything, and kisses her deep and wet and messy - a bit sloppy, probably, with too much teeth, and Dean wishes he could do better but he can't coordinate his hands in her hair, let alone his tongue in her mouth. 
He swallows down her sound of surprise, tugging her close to him. Dean squeezes her tighter, raising her on her tiptoes so he can lick into her mouth better - but he must have done something wrong, because one second Dean has her petite form pressed against his front, and the next he’s hit like a slap to the face by the the loss of contact.

 “Dean? Dean, wait, what's going on?”, she asks, tugging the hem of her shirt lower. “Are you okay?” She takes a step back from him, looking worried and - God, he's not sure ‘cause the room is dark and he's seeing double, but she seems nervous. Her voice is trembling. 
“I’m golden, baby”, he replies. Through the fog in his mind, he feels his feet moving closer and hers stepping backwards until her calves hit the bed. 
“Sure you are, Dean- hey, wow, alright!”, she exclaims when he bends down to nestle his face in her neck. He starts kissing the skin there, hot open-mouthed kisses that go up, up to that spot behind her ear where she probably put few drops of perfume hours ago. Dean's so swayed by the floral, girly scent (and yes, of course, all the whiskey) that it takes a moment to register she's stalking. 
“God, listen, sit down a second?”
“You always smell so nice, doll, makes me want to…” He would finish the sentence, but he's too preoccupied with sliding his hands under her shirt, on the warm soft curve of her waist. 
“Dean! Dean, Jesus, you're so drunk, come on-” 
Small hands push at his shoulders, and reluctantly he raises his face to look her in the eyes. Her big, bright, scared eyes.

 And suddenly Dean looks at the scene from her perspective, thinks of how he must look like: drunk off his ass, probably reeking of alcohol, and knocking on her door in the middle of the night before basically pouncing on her.
Was she even kissing back, a minute ago? Had she been struggling for a while and he just didn't notice? “Shit, sweetheart, I’m sorry”, he says. His fingers leave their place on her ribs like he got burned. “Shouldn't ‘ve done any of that. You 'kay, yeah?” 
Shame coils fast in his gut at her guarded expression. What the fuck am I doing , he thinks, being shitty to her, of all people? Fucking idiot. 
“Am I okay?”, she huffs. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, you know...bad day, today. Drank too much. I didn't mean to-to attack you, or whatever just happened.”
Fucking hell, is that what he did? He feels nauseated. Maybe he just needs to throw up. 

 Her eyes loose all the hard edges, become warm and loving in the pale light of the room. “You call that ‘attacking’?”, she says. “Damn, I’m jealous of the monsters then. ‘Kissed to death by Dean Winchester’ sounds like a nice way to go.”
Dean puffs a surprised laugh at that, relief washing over his shoulders at the reassurance. Tired as he is, he doesn’t even resist when her arms circle his shoulders - he just melts into her hug, bending her back a little so he can hook his chin on her shoulder. “Do I need to leave?”, he murmurs as clearly as he can. His eyelids are heavy, the warmth of her lulling him to sleep.
“Of course not, Green Eyes. Lie down, okay?” - she scratches lightly at the short hair of his nape, leans back from the embrace - “I’ll be back in a minute.”

 Dean nods and watches her leave the room. He lets himself fall on the mattress, slides out of his shoes and shirt - he starts fumbling with his belt, too, considers if she’ll be okay with him sleeping in his boxers...decides that yes, if anything she’ll be happy...And a minute later he’s comfy and warm in her bed. Even if they just sleep, this day is ending on a much better than note than how it started.

 He’s almost asleep when the mattress dips near his arm. “Dean? Come on, buddy, wake up a second.” 
Half-heartedly, he opens an eye. “You c'mere, I’m fine.” She smiles, but still bullies him into sitting up to drink a tall glass of water, and then another, which he knows will help him in the morning but still feels like an unnecessary struggle. He brings her down to cuddle against his chest as soon as he’s done.
She slides her leg against his in a long caress, leaving a couple of chaste kisses of his collarbone - and Dean wonders if it’s okay to feel cherished, to think ‘ she wouldn’t be doing this for anyone else ’; wonders if he will even remember any of the warmth and love in morning. 



It’s the feeling of something touching his face that wakes Dean up.

 Despite the pounding headache, he snakes his free hand (the other one is blocked, probably under the same something , he doesn’t lose time checking) fast enough to catch the thing before it retreats. But then his eyes focus, his heartbeat slows down and - holy shit , thank God there wasn’t a gun under his pillow this time.
“Uh- good morning?”, the girl says, and Dean releases her wrist with a shuddering exhale.
“Sweetheart, fuck, don’t do that ”, he almost barks. He could have really hurt her, and the hangover is making it difficult to calm down. It's probably too early in the morning to have all this adrenaline in circle, fuck his life.

 She tugs the covers higher up, hides her soft laugh behind them. “Scared you that much?” 
The only response she gets is Dean manhandling her (just a little, gee, relax) so he's spooning her. “No, but you did disturb my slumber”, he says in the deepest voice he can muster, thankful that she wasn't put off by his outburst. “You'll pay for it.”
She presses her body back into his, one of his thighs between hers and her ass nestled against his hips; she fits so nicely right there, it makes Dean wonder why the fuck they waited months to do this.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time”, she half sings in the rhythm of a song he doesn't know. She ends it with a sigh as his hand slides under her shirt, drawing lazy circles on her stomach. He can feel her muscles jump under his touch. 
“I ain't threatening, babygirl.” Dean mouths at her neck, slightly scraping the soft skin with the stubble on his jaw. “It's a promise. Been thinking about this since I first saw you.” 
She sucks in a breath and arches closer to him. “Fu-uck, for real? Me, too. Dean-” Her hand sinks into his hair and tugs a bit at the top, where it’s longer. “Dean, I wanna kiss you.”
“Yes, ma'am”, he grumbles, and lets her turn so they're face to face, nose to nose. She kisses him the second she can, and positively melts into him when he opens up enough for their tongues to meet. 

 He's already hard in his boxers, erection pressed on her inner thigh, but Dean's happy to be coddled and petted for a while if that's what she wants to do. 
They're fully making out now, like he hasn't done in long while - like teenagers who can't go further for risk of being caught. Feels nice, going slow for once; drawing things out. 

 (If Sam interrupts them this time 'cause he found a case or something, Dean's gonna break his nose and not even feel bad about it.)

 “Do it again”, he says without taking his lips off of hers. “The uh- the hair thing.”
Dean clears his throat. “You pulled it, ‘felt nice. Do it again?”
She blinks at him a couple times, enough for him to doubt she's gonna do it, but before he can say something (‘Nevermind’? 'Please’ ?), she's kissing him again and with more fervour. Both her hands sink into his hair, a caress that starts on his neck, and where it's long enough she grasps and pulls, hard enough to make him groan. 
The sharp sensation gives him goosebumps and drives his hips forward. As pliant as she is in his arms, the light thrust makes her roll on her back with him on top. 

 Fuck, fuu-uhck , Dean wants her naked and wrapped around him. The need for skin-on-skin contact makes his eyes glass over, and so does the way she's grinding against his thigh, already so wet and hot he feels it through her panties. 
He tugs at the fabric of her shirt until she gets the idea and raises her arms; moments later she's lying back on the bed, naked from the waist up and flushed a rosy color exactly like he imagined. Sooo many times. In detail.

 Just - wow. Dean has to physically lean back to keep things under control, even if he can't resist palming himself while he watches her over. “You're gorgeous”, he says, ‘cause he's thinking and it's true . “Fucking stunning, really.”
She's so embarrassed at his scrutiny she actually hides her face under the pillow, which makes him chuckle, but also - holy shit, suddenly he wants to make her cum so hard . Let's see if she's still shy with her thighs clamped around his head. 
“No, you're beautiful”, she says like it’s a comeback, words still muffled by the pillow.
He doesn't respond to that, wouldn't know how to take a compliment anyway, but he does lower his body on hers until he can nose at the curve of her breast. His hands join his mouth, and soon enough he's palming and stroking up and down her body. 
Still, he avoids the most sensitive points, the ones that would make her squirm. 

 “Look at me”, Dean says. He's resting his face on her chest, can hear her heart beating so hard she's shaking with it. “Sweetheart, why are you hiding?”
Her fingers tighten on the pillow case like she's ready to suffocate herself with it or something, but thankfully she just takes it off her face. 
As soon as their eyes meet, Dean takes her nipple in his mouth, licking and sucking while peering at her from under his lashes. 
“Aah, nggDean”, she breathes out. “‘M not hiding, I'm just - I don't know, intimidated?” 
She says it like she's scared of his reaction, which for someone who currently has one his hands halfway down her panties doesn't sound too good. 
“Sweetheart”, he says, “I'm in bed with a smoking hot, twenty-something girl. Meanwhile, I'm the weird, old guy who drinks too much and passed out on you last night. Pretty sure I cried at some point.” He kisses her on the lips in case she comes to her senses and kicks him out. “You could do so much better than me. No need to feel intimidated.”
Wow, whiney much?, he scolds himself. Aiming for a pity fuck, are we?

 Her expression softens, turns straight-up dreamy as she ranks her eyes along his face, his shoulders, the way his body is tucked between her legs. “I don’t think I can do much better than you.”
He scoffs. “Sure you can.”
“You’re right”, she says, turning serious. “Castiel is way hotter.”
Dean hides his surprised laughter in her neck, bites her there in fake retaliation. Soon he’s just sucking kisses and listening to her moan - and, holy fuck, he hopes she doesn’t mind hickeys ‘cause, uh...kinda too late to fix it, now.

 There’s something intimate about having her almost naked underneath him while he’s still dressed, but Dean doesn’t complain when she starts tugging at his t-shirt. He lets her take it off and run her hands on his exposed skin, up and down his back until her fingers dip in the waistband of his boxers. 
His own fingers are sliding along her folds, the elastic of her panties pushing them closer. She’s so wet he keeps just slipping inside with no effort, which, if the sheer heat of her wasn’t enough, is nearly driving him mad.
“God, fuck , sweetheart”, he groans against her mouth, “what do you want me to do? Tell me what you like.”
Dean knows what he'd like to do, has been fantasizing about it for weeks. But how can he get her to - to force him there, to tug and push and pull until he virtually has no choice but do it ?
“You're , ohGodohyes - you're doing great”, she stutters. Dean rolls his fingers on her clit until her legs are shaking.
“No suggestions, then?”, he says, and licks into her mouth to give her a few ideas of what he could do.
“Oh, mh, well- well”, she says when he comes back for air. “You could...” - her eyes flicks to his lips - “Please?”
“Please what, doll? Want me to use my mouth?”
Her hips buck hard against his hand at that, and Dean - Dean is really trying to keep his composure here, but the promise of a million dollars couldn't stop him from grinding on her thigh. God, he wants be inside of her like yesterday, but first, first…

 “But I have been using it, haven't I?” He leans down to lick and suck on her nipples, probably leaves some beard burn on the delicate skin. 
“Dean, please”, she says. She cradles him close with both her arms and legs. “Don't- don't make me say it.”
He locks eyes with her and smirks. “I don't want you to say it.”
A moment of confusion and then, then finally, fuckingshit sohot , finally she just grasps his hair and pushes him down. 
He goes so easily it's frankly embarrassing, but who cares when he has her legs over his shoulders and his tongue on the damp cotton of her panties. 
Those disappear in thirty seconds, and it's a bit of a blur after that: there's the sharp feeling of her nails on his neck, that familiar salty-sweet taste on his tongue; he's aware that she's saying his name over and over (but quietly, carefully, like it's a secret no one else gets to hear), and he feels a wave of protectiveness building up inside of him so he dives in deeper, holds onto her legs tighter. 
He laps at her wetness, makes a mess of her inner thighs and his own face at how desperate his movements are getting - tongue dipping inside as far as he can go, or lips sucking on her clit while his chin scrape her folds, his stubble making everything redder and more tender. She doesn’t help much, trashing and grinding against his face as she is, and Dean takes it all like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do this to a woman. 

 By the time she comes shuddering around his tongue and two fingers, he feels scrubbed raw and exposed.
What the fuck is he doing. 
No, honestly, what is he doing? What is he doing in bed with her ?
God, the ways she kisses him when he comes back up, deep and gentle like she's grateful and so, so lucky she gets to have him. Who has ever kissed him like that?
Lisa. Cassie. Robin, maybe, all those years ago before John came and reminded him he didn't get to be just a simple teenager in love. 

 He feels guilty all of a sudden, 'cause he's gonna break her heart, if he's reading things right, or someone is gonna use her to get to him and she's gonna die she's gonna die she's gonna die she's gonna-

Fucking damnit, he he must have stopped kissing back at some point. Are his eyes as red and shiny as they feel? Talk about killing the mood. 
“‘Fine”, he chokes out, “I’m fine, got distracted a second. You look stunning, doll - you feeling okay?”
She frowns a bit, even as she strokes his cheek bones with still-shaking hands. “I literally can’t feel my legs, that’s how hard I came - of course I’m feeling okay. “ She blushes her way through the sentence. “Dean, are you-”
“Good, great, do you wanna do more then?” he interrupts, too fast and awkward, but he has to shake away the images of her body all broken and bloody from his brain. Now that the thought entered his head, it’s hard to stop seeing it: burned sockets, slit throat, veins emptied until she’s so white it looks like she’s fading-

 She cups him through his boxers, where he refuses to acknowledge he was softening, and that’s enough to snap him back to the present. Everything’s okay , he says to himself, and focuses on the pleasure of being touched, the promise of more to come. Everything’s fine.  
“I want you inside me”, she whispers in his ear. “I’ve thought about it so many times. Please?”
Dean can basically feel his blood rush back to his dick at the words. “Fuck, princess, me too”, he groans. “You got a condom?"
The dreamy expression on her face turns slightly panicked. "Uh, no? Never really thought I'd need one, to be honest."
Dean's brain is lagging a bit behind because of the hand finding its way inside his underwear, but that shocks him a little. She didn't think they would've ended up like this, sooner of later? He fantasized about it so much he basically has a full feature film of how the night (morning? Afternoon? What hour is it, again?) with her would go.
"You're right", he says instead of all that (because Jesus, desperate much? He's not eighteen anymore, let him keep some dignity). And he’s glad to have a dustraction, anyway - something to shake off the weird mood he fell in. "We might need more than just one now that you mention it."
"Promises, promises", she jokes, maybe grateful that he doesn't look like he's gonna cry anymore. 
She arches her back like a cat under the sun, her fingers stroking up and down his cock while she smiles. Still all pliant from her orgasm, a couple of love bites already blooming on her chest and neck, her thighs resting spread on his…
Jesus Christ, if he stares any longer he'll have the view impressed behind his eyelids.

 Dean makes the executive decision to get a condom from his room in thirty seconds tops , and then he's gonna come back to her bed and not leave for at least a week. Perfect plan. Possibly the best plan he's ever had.
"Okay, you", he says hurriedly, "stay here and for the love of God don't put clothes on. I'll be back in a second." He snatches his jeans from the floor and puts it on in case he find Sam along the way - it's not gonna do much for the hard on, but whatever. 

 Dean ducks out of her room and half-runs-half-walks to his, hoping not to bump into his brother on the way. He takes one condom from his sock drawer (shut up, okay, where is he supposed to keep them?), and he’s back to her door before he realizes it. 
"I'm back!" Dean belly flops on the bed, and she laughs when it makes the mattress shake. "Miss me?"
“Yes! It took you so long - like, almost a minute!”
“Ugh, tell me about it", he says while taking off his pants. 

He scoots to the head of the bed to sit against the wall, and he tugs her close to sit on his lap. She slides her leg over his, in one fluid movement that makes his mouth dry and his eyes glass over, and straddles him. Dean palms over her thighs and ass, digging his fingertips where she’s softer, and he’s momentarily swayed by the warmth of her and the longing that comes with it. He feels very, very lucky.
Dean smiles, a bit lopsided. “So, where were we?”, and then they’re kissing again, his dick pressed between his abdomen and the soft skin of her belly - and Dean wants, wants, wants so much there’s no space in his body for anything else. 
“Hold on, hold on”, he shudders, and fumbles with the condom until he manages roll it on. He likes to think he’s usually more suave than this, but maybe that’s just one of the more innocent lies he tells himself. 
Whatever, who cares, he just tugs her close and rolls on his side until she’s underneath him again. Her awed “ ooh! ” makes him chuckle, a bit breathless, and smile down at her. “Yeah, see? I’ve got some moves.” 
“I noticed”, she says. “Do you have one where you put your cock inside of me and fuck me into the mattress?”

 And, really, it’s the way her eyes stay sweet and innocent even as she says it that really make Dean’s brain short-circuit. He groans at the picture the words paint in his mind, a bit shocked and a lot turned on that a girl so shy in her everyday life is like this in bed. “Yes, ma’am, that I can do.”
She bends her legs high towards her torso, all flushed and spread open for him, and, with a hand on her thigh and the other supporting his weight on the mattress, Dean slides right home.
Her breath catches in her throat when he bottoms out, a soft sigh that makes him want to kiss her again. Soon enough they’re both moving at a pace that’s building, up and up to something more intense - one of her legs is back on the bed so she can roll her hips to meet his thrusts. He breaks off the kiss to look at her face, at the blush spreading from her cheeks down to her heaving chest.
She looks back at him, struggling to keep her eyes open. "God," she says, "you're so fucking beautiful", and her thumbs stroking his cheeks break his heart a little. 
Is this- is she always like this? In bed? In her own head, when she looks at him from across the room and gets all bright-eyed and catches his attention without even trying?
"You, too", he says back, meaning it, and hides from the moment against the damp skin of her neck.

 They don't share other words after that, only kisses that always end with their lips touching as they gasp eachother's air.
It's the sweetest, most intimate sex he's had in a long while - it reminds Dean so much of his night with Anna all those years ago, in the Impala, before he focuses back on the girl currently lying underneath him. He doesn't want to think about Anna - doesn't want to think about anything, really.

 When he feels himself getting close (tension pooling low in his belly, muscles tightening, the pleasure getting sharper in a way he's so familiar with but always catches him by surprise) - when feels himself getting close, he snakes a hand between their bodies to circle her clit, trying to make her come first. 
She arches her back, and her eyes fly open like she's shocked by the feeling. 
"Yes, yes, yes yes yes", comes out of her slack lips, and Dean's movements stutters at how thighter she gets around him. "Fuu-uhck, don't stop-"

 And Dean doesn't, of course. He concentrates on not changing rhythm or angle, and closes his eyes to block the visuals, 'cause if he watches her blushed face bite the pillow to stifle her moans one second more he's gonna lose it.

 When she comes her legs clamp high behind his back, while her hands press his thighs flush on er hips - nails digging in, adding an edge to the pleasure that has always made him weak at the knees.
Whatever praise or words of encouragement he wanted to say die in his throat, voice shattering in a low moan. He waits for her legs to fall back down on the mattress as she relaxes, then whatever self-control he had snaps and he thrusts in her, with more force that he intended, one, two, three times - then Dean loses count, knows only that he could stay in this-precise-moment-forever-ohGod before he comes and his arms give out from under him. 

 Body feeling like jello, Dean lays on her chest and for one minute he forgets he’s probably suffocating her- then clarity sets back in, and he has to roll away despite her frankly adorable "noouh, one minute more".
"Let me take care of this, 'kay?", he says while he throws away the condom in the bin near the bed.
And because he is a gentleman , thank you very much, he ducks into the bathroom, even if he can't really feel his legs, to clean up and soak a towel in a bit of warm water for her. 

 He comes back to her still sprawled on her bed, legs long and hair a mess, and Dean's breath stutters like he's seeing her naked for the first time all over again. He’s very, very lucky indeed.

 He kind of - falls on the bed, cause it's the best he can do at the moment, and moved by the tenderness he can never shake off right after sex, not even in all his years of sleeping around with semi-strangers, he scoops her up on her knees to gently press the towel between her legs. 
To distract her from the overstimulation, Dean kisses her on her bitten-red lips. 
She licks into his mouth to deepen the kiss, softly and...shyly? Definitely more reserved than needed - wasn't he eating her out like it was his last day on Earth not too long ago?
He leans back to watch her expression. "Feeling okay?"
"Feeling great", she answers, but her hands twitch like she wants to cover herself when he removes the towel and tosses it over the bed. 
Yeah, no. That-that really won't do. He tries to shake off the feeling that she’s already regretting the whole thing. “Want me to take my stuff and go?”, he tries to offer. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, if that's why she’s nervous all of a sudden - it’s gonna be a bit awkward, considering they still leave in the same building, but he can at least leave her her room. He was hoping to stay a while longer but, uhm - yeah. He can also just fuck off. No biggie.

 She looks crestfallen, and try as she might the expression doesn’t change. It stays...sad. Maybe even longing. “I-I mean, you don’t have to.”
Oh. Oh. They’re two idiots, that’s the problem. “Sweetheart”, Dean says, and interrupts himself by kissing her collarbone, “I really don't want to leave. Actually, I was hoping we could snuggle together and take a nap.”
She relaxes significantly at his words, a smile tugging at her lips. Embarrassed, she hides her face in a hug that makes them fall back on the mattress - Dean moves one leg between hers and rests his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat slow down. 

 The dread of something awful happening to her is still there, mixed with the worry he always feels for the people he cares about, but he has accepted it as a fundamental part of himself. 
The other shoe is always gonna drop, they’re eventually gonna find themselves in some other “end of the world” situation, but in the meantime… 

 In the meantime he’s gonna enjoy her fingers petting through his hair, thank you very much. Leave the rest for tomorrow.