Never Letting Yall Forget This Look 🫠

dean should have ended up with cassie

she made him look 10x hotter

i said what i said

─ FRIEND FROM COLLEGE, dad's best friend ! jackles

your welcome home party from college is joined by none other than the man your father based all of his warnings about boys around: his estranged best friend from college. little did he know that it wasn't the signs you needed to be warned away from, but the man himself.

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this one if you're a minor. hefty age gap. unprotected p in v. semi - public sex (maybe?). choke kink. daddy kink (lite edition). spit kink? maybe? manhandling. creampie. romanticization of sneaking around. mentions of alc/hol & drinking. word count. 6.7k (SORRY.)

happy birthday to my bree bree, @titsout4jackles <3 thank u for forcing me back into writing smut with this one HAHAH.

OF COURSE YOU'D HEARD ABOUT JENSEN; an infamous character from your dad’s past, a faceless name that frequented in all of the stories that he ended with, don’t try that, or don’t repeat my mistakes. you’d heard infinite stories about your dad’s time in college involving that man, his name spoken around an exasperated sigh, so at adds with the story in mention. your father, wistfully telling you at the dinner table to not do any keg stands while you were away at school, because of the time jensen had done three in one night, somehow, and ended up in the emergency room.

it was just one of those things you accepted about your parents’ lives, before they met and made the family that was you: jensen was either a scapegoat character made up to teach you obscure life lessons, or those three keg stands in one night killed him, considering you'd never met him once in all of your twenty-something years. either way, those stories did have some sort of influence on you, because your years away at college went by without issue, or hospitalization from alcoholism. 

you were so happy to be back home. your term was up for the year, landing you back in the summery sunset heat enveloping your parents’ home, coating everything in a thick sheen of inescapable warmth. your mothers rose bushes in the front yard were blooming flowers of beautiful shades of pink and red, loose petals scattered across the bright green of their front lawn, the floral-and-pollen smell a warm greeting as you walked up the front steps. 

music drifted outside from the open windows, the navy blue shudders rattling against the creamy white clapboard siding on the house. you could see, just faintly, through the blinding white of the sun’s glare, the outlines of people in the sun-darkened interior. 

were you supposed to knock? this was the house you grew up in. your heights over the years were etched into the doorframe of the closed off upstairs staircase, the graphite of the pencil faded with time but the grooves in the wood a permanent staple. the living room’s cream paint job was dulling, too, except for that one spot by the warm brown skirting board, where a littler you had just learned that crayons and markers worked as well on the paint as they did on the papers you colored, and your parents had to cover it up. 

were you meant to knock on a door that held so many memories within its grasp? did it suddenly stop becoming your home just because you’d spread your wings and flown south for a little while? 

the debate is interrupted when a hush falls over the chatter inside, even the volume of the music dropping to a low murmur. before you can even process that your presence had been noticed by someone, the front door pulls open, putting a final end on the internal debate racking through you and gnawing on the inner workings of your mind.

“honey!” your mom exclaims, her arms tossing around your neck, dragging you in for a tight hug. she smells like the solo cup she has in her hand around you: malibu rum, with a twinge of sweet pineapple juice. when she tugs back away from you, the cup in mention is offered to you. "finish this for me, will you? your father's cutting me off."

your lips tilt up in amusement, taking a little testing sip from it. expectedly, your mother's unmistakable heavy hand is evident in that one sip, the burn of alcohol slipping down your throat with the faintest trace of coconut on your tongue. "i wonder why."

"hey," your mother scolds teasingly, her arms folding across her chest in a way so similarly to how you do, it almost aches, "you can't scold your mother before you give her a proper hug." you remembered a time when you were as tall as her hip, and attached to it too. growing up was as much a blessing as it was a curse, the memories of the simpler days like wounds that didn't ever fully heal. you supposed it was something that got easier to manage when every year circled around again.

you laugh, reaching around her to set the cup down on the entrance table in the living space, right beside the bowl of keys filled halfway, before you properly hugged your mother. you'd known that they were throwing you a welcome home party, but this many people? you can't draw your eyes away from the bowl, trying to pick apart the ones you recognized.

your father's and your mother's, of course; you were pretty sure that was your aunt's, with the frilly pink puff on the key ring, and one of your dad's friends, your honorary uncle tom—

caught up in the impossible task of assigning names and faces to a bowl of keys, you miss your father's booming voice, echoing through the scattering of people in the living room, eyes locked in your direction like they were waiting for their turn to say something to you while you were caught up in the embrace of your mother. "there is my little girl!"

you were hardly little anymore, you were over halfway through your college experience by now, quickly approaching the final year. like you looked at this house and saw all the remnants of your youth, it seemed that your father didn't look at you without seeing the girl you used to be.

your mom releases you, and you wait with bated breath to be crushed into your father's chest— but he's interrupted, and you're stuck holding your breath for no reason, by a voice you don't recognize.

"so this is her?"

he has a beer bottle between big fingers, a smirk poking through the scruff of dark facial hair smattering across his cheeks and jawline, dusting across his upper lip. his eyes are a piercing tea green, framed by dark eyelashes that only prove to emphasize their paleness. his hair is slicked out of his face, a couple of loose straggling strands hung over his eyes.

your mouth runs completely dry. somehow, like a piece fitting into the gap in a puzzle, you know without being told that this is—

"jensen," his free hand shoots out in greeting, and stirring you away from the muddle of your thoughts and out of the silent stupor you'd gotten stuck in, "it's nice to put a face to the name i've been listenin' to this guy rave about for the last few hours."

it wasn't embarrassing, per se, but you found your face warming with it, anyways. had your father shown him the doorframe with your heights etched into it? did he see the baby pictures on the coffee table photo album, and the ridiculous number of times you'd had birthday cake smeared all over your face in it?

you manage to find your voice at the same time as you clasp his hand, but it feels awkward in your mouth, like none of the right words are coming forward to claim the sentence you try to force out. "it's— yes. it's nice to have a face."

his mouth twitches. this was not supposed to happen. jensen ackles was never supposed to be real, or, hell — alive. you'd come to terms with the fact that he was as imaginary as the tooth fairy, a figure for life lessons like smoky the bear or something. he wasn't supposed to be standing in front of you, letting you make a fool of yourself in front of the entirety of your family and friends.

jensen keeps his hand around yours for a few longer seconds, the bigger palm hugging yours sending a rush of chills up your arm. he was so warm. and tall. and real. wasn't that crazy? "yeah, it is nice to have a face, sweetheart." he shoots you a wink that takes a detour from your eyes to your chest, sending your heart racing in a frenzy. "you've got a real pretty one, too."

your dad's lips thin, prying jensen's fingers out of yours. "that's enough of that," he grumbles, stepping in jensen's place in front of you to tug you into his chest. "welcome home, baby."

it's a wonderful distraction from whatever that was, clawing at your ribcage and threatening to steal your stuttering heart along with it. you take a deep breath and sigh, eyes closing. it was nice to be home. "i see you guys started without me."

"your lovely mother got excited," your dad explains, shaking his head as he steps back and releases you, "you know how excited she gets about a party."

hence why she'd disappeared, inevitably looking for the digital camera to document this. this was why the photo album was splayed on the coffee table, and why you had a picture for every birthday, every swipe of frosting smeared around your hands and face. hopefully, there wasn't any cake this time around.

like a warm balm to the racing beat in your chest, you could feel jensen's gaze on you still. you refused to meet it head on, though, knowing innately that the entire world would tilt on its axis and never return to its natural state. like the butterfly effect; something so small was capable of changing the world.

you're saved by your father's hand on your shoulder, guiding you toward the glass screen doors that opened up to a fully decorated back patio. fairy lights strung between the trees and over the navy blue awning, a full fold-out table underneath the awning with a big bowl of icy punch, and a cooler sat next to the table with bottles of beer coated in ice water and sweat.

snacks of all kinds lined the opposite side of the table. bags of chips lined out by flavor, a cooking tray with barbecue and hamburgers laid out on it, condiments on the opposite side. the air smelled like charcoal and food, and beneath it all was an underlying scent of—

"oh no."

your dad laughs brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. "your mom insisted. you know she couldn't have a party without her little girl having a cake."

"is she expecting me to drop headfirst into it again?" you weren't planning on doing that anyways, hadn't since you were too little to know how utensils worked, but with jensen here? you were definitely not doing that in front of him. no way.

he shrugs, slipping around you to steal another bottle from the cooler. "doubtful. she will want a picture of you with it, though." he tips the neck of the bottle toward you in acknowledgement. "mom's got more alcohol inside, if you don't want whatever the hell they tossed in that punch bowl or beer. i'm gonna start bringin' the smores stuff out, if you want to get situated by the fire."

you wave your hand in a polite dismissal, stepping out of the way for your dad to disappear inside again. standing in front of the refreshments table, you bend to grab a beer for yourself, cracking it open as the sweat coated your palm. it was a welcome distraction from the sun blazing one last time before it clocked out and the moon took its place.

you were a few steps away from the bonfire pit in the center of your backyard, the patio chairs entangled in with metal foldouts in a circle around it, when you sensed him behind you. it was impossible to not know it was him; he was the only person here whos eyes you weren't familiar with how it felt to be watched from. across from the patio chair you chose, the grill still smoked with the last of the charcoal cooking away, and in the haze of that smoke, he dipped into focus.

under the golden light of the sunset, he looked even more devastating, somehow. a maroon button-up with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. khaki shorts that hugged his thick thighs, leaving little to the imagination as he closed the final remnants of distance.

"already so quick to run away?"

your back straightens, as if the idea of slouching in front of him was something detrimental. your fingernail swirled patterns in the dripping sweat on the bottle, eyes locked on the motion to avoid looking at him. you still heard it, though, when jensen's weight collapsed into a chair across the fire from you, his legs spread wide as he makes himself comfortable in his own patio chair.

"for your information," you say, your eyes flicking up to meet his finally, and it's just as intense as you remember, "i was not running away. i got told to sit out here."

"okay, princess, stand down." his eyes are sinful, raking up and down the length of your body. he was so shameless about it, like he didn't feel an ounce of guilt at all about the fact that you were his best friend's daughter. sure, he'd never met you before, but didn't that thought enter his head at all? wasn't he clinging to that little reminder like you were?

your eyes dance over to the patio doors, split open and inviting, letting the breeze into the interior of the home, deep blue curtains flapping. it was comforting for you, in a way, just as much as it was suffocating, knowing at any moment, someone else could step outside.

the nylon of the patio chair creaks across from you, and you glance over at jensen again, just to see him shift forward with his elbows on his knees. "what are you so scared of, beautiful?"

you were not scared. where he got that assessment was beyond you, considering you were ramrod straight in your seat, unable to look at him at all, finding every blade of grass in the lawn much more enticing. see? definitely not scared. "maybe," you start, tilting your head to the side in mindless thought, "it's because you're a stranger, following me around."

"do you want to get to know me?" his smirk cuts a dimple into his cheek. he’s captivating, utterly captivating. there was something so enticing about him, about the forbidden nature that came with everything about him.

you arch an eyebrow at him. “what’s to learn?” your finger circles the mouth of your beer before you lift it to your mouth for a quick swig of it. his gaze is locked on the bob of your throat. “dad told me plenty of stories.”

“i thought i was a stranger.”

“i thought you were smoky the bear.”

jensen’s laugh is music, echoing in the growing dark of the night. the golden cast over his face was now a warm orange, casting a darker shadow of the deep dark of his gaze. "smoky the bear?"

"i thought he made you up," you were not biting back a smile. jensen was your dad's former best friend, something potentially had gotten revived, considering he was here. off-limits echoed in your head like a mantra, growing quieter with each passing moment you tried to pretend that he wasn't looking at you like that. "since i never got a face to the name of the guy who supposedly ate a worm for three dollars."

you expect him to deny it. his mouth curves in a crescent, his eyes glimmering in the deep amber light. "three dollars and seventy five cents."

"no."

"bought myself a gumball that day."

your head tips back in a laugh, the harmony of yours atop of his sending a chill up the arch of your spine. you open your mouth to say something, beer bottle tilted in his direction in a half-attempt at a cheers, but voices start to filter outside behind you.

whatever you planned to say is swallowed down, the intoxicating energy of your banter sucked up like a vacuum. your mom hooks a hand on your shoulder, tugging your head toward her to kiss your temple. "i see you've been getting to know jensen," she hums, taking the metal foldout chair next to you. "i hope he's not giving you too much trouble."

you don't look away from him as you shake your head. "nothing i can't handle."

"of course," she agrees, taking up one of the metal prongs and sliding a marshmallow on each of the ends. "you got that from me, you know. your father was unbearable back in the day, to everyone but me."

jensen's chiming in draws your eyes back to him. "it's true. she domesticated him."

you cock an eyebrow at him. "who's domesticating you then?"

his only answer is a wicked grin. your mom, thankfully, says nothing about it, her attention on the marshmallows warming over the lick of the flames, stretching and sticking to the heated prongs.

"m'gonna go get another drink," jensen sighs, palms patting the spread of his thighs as he rises. after a long term of simplicity, no time to even ponder the idea of doing three keg stands, or something disgusting for a couple of bucks, the leash that jensen had around your interest was tight. you couldn't look away as he walked up the wooden steps of your patio, disappearing through the fluttering curtains.

next to you, your mother has captured the marshmallows between two squares of graham crackers, a piece of chocolate melting into the sticky sugar. "want one?" she asks, offering one out to you through the light pinch of her two fingers.

you wave your hand before you can think any of this through. "actually, i'm gonna go run to the bathroom, i think."

"of course," she says with a little smile, and you almost feel bad for denying her, knowing she just wanted to spend time with you on your first night back home. there was plenty of time still in the night, the fire only having just started, and the night having only just now dipped from warm oranges and pinks to deep blue.

the stars winked at you, knowing exactly where you were heading as you stood and started toward the sliding glass doors. they'd keep your secret, whatever that secret turned out to be.

somehow, even after having heard him announce where he was going, you're surprised to see jensen at the mahogany countertop, a crystal tumbler between his fingers that nurses a finger of bourbon. outside, you can hear the cackle of your uncle tom, followed by the hollering laughter of your father. the rest of the guests had settled into the spread of chairs around the firepit.

it was you and jensen in the dim dark of the house, the natural light having disappeared behind the horizon, drenching the both of you in a pale light that danced in the open space between the curtains.

"naughty girl," jensen drawls, his voice low and guttural at the base of his throat. he hasn't turned his attention away from his drink, watching you out of the corner of his eye. "runnin' from the party in her name to hang out with the big, bad wolf."

your heartbeat stutters in place in your chest, but you aren't so easily deterred or riled. your head tilts up in an air of defiance that only makes the wolfish expression on his face widen. the dull point of his canine clamps on his bottom lip. "for your information," you echo from earlier, "i'm going to the bathroom."

"this ain't the bathroom," he muses, nodding back toward the hallway like you were the one who needed directions in your own home. "gone so long you're gettin' lost in your own home?"

"i think you wanted me to come in here with you." you don't know where the words bubble up from, but they're out of your mouth before you can swallow the soap of them back down. "you had beer earlier. you could have gotten another."

jensen laughs, the sound of it pooling like heat in your lower belly. "dictatin' what i drink now? that's bold, naughty girl. we just met."

you stutter on a response. "i'm just saying—"

"maybe i wanted somethin' richer," jensen rasps, turning to face you now, the base of his spine pressed back into the edge of the countertop, "to try n' get another flavor out of my imagination."

every rational thought leaves your head. anything you could have said dissipates into vapor, floating back up toward the sunless sky. the innuendo is clear, written in vibrant shades like words atop a birthday cake — or, for today's sake, a graduation cake.

you're speechless, neither of you breaking the intense eye contact you shared. maybe he was a big bad wolf, what with the way he eyed you, all of you, like he was looking for the treats you'd tucked away underneath your red cloak.

"i'm gonna go to the bathroom now," you manage to breathe out, the crack in the center of your sentence shifting like tectonic plates. the earthquake was bound to hit any moment.

his eyebrows raise in his own amusement. "use mine."

the illusion cracks. the earthquake doesn't yet hit. you're both on one side of the plates, waiting to see who stumbles into the other first. "what?"

"your dad is a helluva host," jensen hums, downing the rest of his bourbon in one fell swoop, "invites me to a party and offers to let me stay a couple of nights too, to catch up."

you still don't say anything, the realization like a knife. you were home for three months; jensen was here for a few days, rekindling an estranged friendship with your father, assumedly going to be over often. your mouth felt like cotton, like you'd swallowed a handful of cinnamon, choking on the dry sweetness.

"do you know what he said?"

the glass clinks on the countertop when jensen sets it down, his footsteps echoing heavily on the linoleum beneath his boots. "he said," he continues without your prompting, close enough that his breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, "he had a pretty daughter he wanted me to meet. thought i'd like her."

your voice is weak when you say, "he didn't say that."

"i took creative liberties."

your mouth opens, closes. nothing eradicates the dryness in your mouth, the plague of it starting to curl down your throat. finally, you manage to choke out in response, "what other creative liberties have you drawn about me?"

jensen smells spicy. cloves and musk and bourbon and cinnamon. you wonder, in a brief, fleeting thought, if he tastes like it, too. "little things," he finally breathes, "wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs. how those legs would feel wrapped around me when i bury myself so deep in your—"

"there you are, jens," your dad's voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin, his head peeking through the open glass doors of the back entrance, "everything okay?"

jensen settles back on the heels of his shoes as if he wasn't all but tracing the shell of your ear with his tongue. "all good," he agrees, giving your father a smile that gave nothing away of how he'd been talking about burying himself in you. "we were talkin' about school. i held her up on goin' to the bathroom. that's my bad."

he lies so easily that you know it had to be a reason why he and your dad fell out. your dad hated liars, hated secrets. everything happening underneath his nose with this was soon enough going to break his heart when it came to light, but the thrill of that possibility sent electricity jolting down your spine.

"actually, i think i'mma head in for the night," jensen sighs, that smile of his becoming something lazier and more tired than what it'd been moments before. "thanks for invitin' me to stay the weekend again."

weekend. today was thursday. that meant...

you barely manage to move out of the way before jensen brushes past you, his fingertips ghosting along your ribs that were turned away from your father. the invitation was clear when you met his eyes for a final time. go to his bathroom.

"sorry about him," your dad says with a bemused shake of his head, "i've been invitin' him to come around again since we graduated, didn't expect him to actually show up today. hope he's not givin' you too much trouble."

your mother said the same thing. you wondered idly about what sort of trouble they must be referring to, and why it seemed to trail him. "he's fine. i was asking him about which of your stories were true."

he winks at you. "all of 'em."

"well, i learned that," you laugh, ducking your face in a useless attempt to hide the fact that he was more right than he knew. troublemaking womanizer from my time at college that once did three keg stands in one night, who spent his weekend in the hospital. nothing but trouble, doing anything for a dime or a laugh.

you nod behind you to the hallway. "i'll be out in a few, okay? i'm just gonna run to the bathroom and get a little snack first. i haven't eaten all day."

maybe you were doomed to fall out of your close relationship with your father, too, the easy way you lie to him.

he nods, patting the glass doorframe. "okay, sweetheart. mom's makin' enough smores to feed the town, so save some room."

over your shoulder, you smile warmly at your father. "okay, dad."

the house falls silent again. there's nothing but the thudding heartbeat in your chest, punctuating the decision you were dooming yourself to make.

all the bedrooms were upstairs. the guest room and its bathroom and your bedroom were on one side of the hallway, the main bathroom upstairs at the very end, and your parents' and the other guest room were on the other. you bypass your bedroom and hesitate in front of the cracked door of the guest bedroom.

anxiety ripples through you. bad decision, your head says again, one final time, before it vanishes completely, your subconscious giving up on trying to offer you the chance to back out.

you push the bedroom door open, and there was jensen ackles, the maroon button-up discarded, leaving the expanse of his abdomen on display in the reflection of the mirror he stood in front of. your eyes trace sinew and muscle in his back, how his shoulder blades shift beneath his skin as he stands a little straighter at the sight of you.

he doesn't say a word. doesn't move an inch. he can't be as bad as everyone says, you can't help but think, because he's letting you call the shots here. you could stand in this doorway and tell him goodnight, and he'd let you go.

you could do what you already were without realizing: step inside the bedroom and close the door behind you again.

again, he doesn't yet move from where he was, only turning around to fully face you. he was so broad, the muscles indenting his stomach sturdy and solid. he was shameless in how he eyed you up, so you didn't shy away from returning the favor now that you felt safe enough to do so.

there's a heated moment when nothing happens except the air in the room charges. heats and heats until it bursts through the wire coating and catches flame, burning everything in its path.

one moment, he's a couple of feet away, watching you like it was your turn to act on the chessboard. the next, his feet are carrying themselves over to you, his lips crashing against yours like a hurricane.

jensen kisses like he, too, knew that this was doomed. his palms slip under your thighs and hoist you into the air, and you break apart from him in a harsh intake of breath, your hands grasping at his shoulders for stability.

your back collides with a wooden door, and neither of you move for a split second. his tongue laps into your mouth, meeting yours stroke for stroke, his fingers squeezing handfuls of the skin of your thighs between them. he shifts after a moment, knees bending to reach better as he plants your ass on his forearm, his freed hand gripping tight on the doorknob and shoving you both through it.

two doors between you and someone who could catch you was better than one. this one, too, jensen locked behind him, before he slid you onto the marbled countertop of the sink.

there was no time for the simple luxuries of teasing. you were on a time crunch, and jensen seemed to guess such, too, as his big palms slide underneath the skirt of your dress and shove it upwards. the glossy marble is cold on your bare skin, but he doesn't give you any chance to adjust to it before he's shoving your legs open and stepping between them.

"i knew you were a naughty girl when i met you," he rasps into your throat, two fingers dipping into his mouth before he pops them free, a string of saliva following the motion. "show me how naughty you can be, baby girl. open up."

you would have on your own, but he pushes those two fingers between your lips and presses them against your tongue. his eyes are hooded, heavy and dark, as they take in the sight of your lips wrapped tightly around his fingers.

the thought enters your head on its own, like for once, your subconscious has decided to work in your favor tonight. wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs.

your cheeks hollow as you suck on the digits, the taste of his saliva coating the inside of your mouth. it does taste spicy, the subtlest taste of bourbon burning as you swallow the mix of saliva down your throat.

jensen's head tips back in a groan, shoving his fingers farther into your mouth, enough to make you choke on a cough. his laugh is breathy, the sound of it intermixing with another sound, something metallic jingling.

his belt hits the floor and the sound stops. his fingers don't. "who would have guessed such a pretty little thing had such a filthy little mouth?" jensen muses, popping his fingers free from your mouth and thumbing away the tears that sprung in the corners of your eyes. "might just have to keep you. you'd like that, huh?"

his free hand shoves the dark, tight boxers hugging his legs down, and before your eyes can drift down to see what springs free, that hand comes up and holds your jaw between his thumb and index finger, making you nod in answer. "yeah, baby girl would like that."

you swallow thickly, your lips red and swollen from his kiss, parted to try and suck down a solid breath. you weren't sure you'd breathed since he kissed you, your chest aching with it.

the grip he has on your chin tilts it downwards, shaking it gently until your eyes drop his gaze and land on what you'd tried to get a look at before, and were denied. "might have to keep you regardless," he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your bottom lip, "'cause i don't think anyone else's gonna live up to me."

your lips twitch, some semblance of control reentering your system. "you're cocky."

his head dips downward, brushing his mouth over the swell of your bottom lip, the stubble of his facial hair tickling and electrifying the skin of your upper. "you don't know cock yet."

his two fingers, still wet with the mix of both of your saliva, are back under your dress, the cool wet of them tracing a line up your inner thigh. "say yes," he breathes, stopping just above where your panties cover the evidence of your arousal, "daddy wants to hear it."

you're not breathing again, at least not solidly. instead, your mouth opens and closes fruitlessly, a choke of a "yes" loosing from your throat. those two fingers curl underneath your panties and tug you closer to him by the hold on the fabric.

"good girl," he murmurs in his approval, and one more harsh yank draws a whimpering gasp from your lips, along with the sound of the thin fabric tearing.

the roughness is put on pause as jensen's hand grabs one of your thighs and hooks it around his waist. his two fingers stay between your legs, smearing your wetness along the slit of your folds, not dipping his fingers in like you wish he would.

you catch yourself watching his face again, like every microshift of his expression is something you want to witness. especially as you move your other leg for him, hooking your ankles behind the lower half of his bare back.

"i knew you were trouble," he says, nosing your chin up to take your bottom lip between his teeth. "stay quiet for me, yeah?"

it wasn't something you needed explained to you, but you don't argue with him. not when his fingers finally slip into the creamy folds of your pussy and drag upwards, lazily circling over the sensitive bud of your clit, and not when he captures your mouth in a proper kiss to swallow the squeak of a noise that breaks free from your throat, anyways.

jensen takes his cock into his hand and replaces the drag of his fingers with the sensitive tip of it, keeping up the slow circles with deliberate slowness. you're about to beg, your lips parting against his, when finally, with that same agonizing slowness, he pushes the tip inside of you.

and doesn't move.

when your eyes open, jensen is already staring at you, his pupils blown. "keep goin'?" he asks, as if this is something leisurely to him, as if you can't feel the throb of his hard cock just barely granting any sort of relief to either of you.

"don't be an ass," you breathe, your voice cracking on the words.

jensen's mouth quirks at the corners. "baby girl, asshole is my middle name."

there's no warning to the way his hips jut forward in one harsh movement, filling you completely. your back arches, pressing your chest into his, a choked gasp of a moan stuttering out of your mouth.

his pace is set and relentless, the obscene sound of his balls slapping against your skin as he ravishes you and forces you to stretch around his size. each thrust, your walls grant him more reprieve, the wet squelch of you squeezing around his cock joining the onslaught of obscene noises in the room.

jensen's eyes are laser focused on yours, watching the curve of your mouth to make sure nothing slips free. it's almost more intense like this, being fucked in silence than if he were making you scream and mewl.

you didn't doubt asshole was his middle name, either; not when his palms slip under your ass and squeeze handfuls of the flesh, lifting you off of the countertop. the shift in the position has you clawing at his shoulders for purchase, the only thing keeping you from stumbling to the ground being your legs around his waist and his guiding hands on your ass.

he held you like you weighed nothing, the muscles in his biceps flexing with ease, veins outlined beneath the skin. you were helpless to how he moved you around, using his grip on the supple flesh between his palms to bounce you up and down on the hard fullness of his cock.

the pace slows, just enough for him to maneuver your body down the entirety of his length, the tip of it buried in your cervix. it's almost enough to make you crack, your head pressing into his shoulder, but you bite it back. it was too detrimental to risk being caught just because he was right; he was ruining you for anyone else.

but jensen starts to move you again, starting that deep within you and guiding you back down to that spot, over and over again. you weren't going to be able to walk after this, didn't know how you planned to get back outside to enjoy your party, not with how you could feel the bruising pleasure of him splitting your puffy walls open and grinding into your cervix like this.

you can't even help it when the sharp moan falls out of your mouth, your lower stomach pooled with heat that only seemed to deepen each time he sheathed himself deep inside of you.

"shh," he rasps, the gravel in his voice an intoxicating mix with the strain of it, "don't make me make you quiet. don't want your family hearin', do we? wonderin' what their baby girl's doin' up in here with me?"

your whines are embedded with each harsh thrust of his hips into you. "can't help it," you try to answer, but you aren't sure at all if it came out in a coherent sentence.

his one hand stays cupped firmly over your ass, fingers denting the skin as they dig in. the other comes up to take your throat into his palm, thumb and index pressed hard enough to your pulse points to make you see stars.

"shh," he echoes, the same rasp to his tone as the last time, but much more gentle now, his voice only a whisper, "daddy's got you."

your eyes are wide when they lock onto his, every sound you want to make cut off with the grip he had over your skin. not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make your pulse beat harder beneath his touch. "y'wanna come, baby?" he watches your eyes, hissing in a breath when your nails bite into his shoulder again. "go on, baby girl, give daddy all y'got."

the heat builds and builds in your lower stomach, the pleasure roiling through you intensifying until you choke on a little sob, only barely heard over the pressure on your throat. everything explodes into clarity, every color in the golden-lit bathroom growing more vibrant, your body going slack in his grip. your legs tremble around his waist, each thrust past your orgasm making you soundlessly mewl and writhe against him.

jensen lets out a low groan, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his relentless pace stuttering to something slower inside of you, the warmth of his cum filling you and dribbling down the length of his cock, and your thighs. he doesn't fully stop, still driving into you, fucking every drop of cum back into you.

his nose traces across your cheekbone as he lifts his head from the smooth skin of your neck, his fingers loosening around your throat in the process. for a moment, he's gentle again, every trace of the man who defiled you for anyone else gone and replaced with a side you didn't have enough time to figure out.

his thumb brushes lightly over your pulse point, his gaze taking in the mess that he'd made you: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, fingerprint marks ever so slightly evident on the soft skin of your throat, the tears welled in your eyes.

"you should get back to your party, naughty girl," he whispers, wiping away a stray tear that'd slipped from your waterline, "they're probably wonderin' where the girl of the hour went."

all of the softness is clamped down again before you could catch a final glimpse of it. jensen, at the very least, helps to readjust your dress and clean you up, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead that he doesn't pay any mind to, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin. it's when you look presentable enough again, when you spin around to say something, anything, and his back is to you in the bathroom, closing the scene you'd both had without so much as a cut.

he doesn't meet your gaze in the mirror this time, either. you didn't think he was shutting you out for good — he couldn't, he was staying three more days — but you recoiled regardless. whatever he was going through, you weren't close enough with him to be a part of or know about.

you were just his former best friend's daughter, who he'd just thoroughly wrecked, in that friend's own home.

what had you done?

notes. IF THIS IS CRAZY I'M SORRY BUT NOT REALLY. pls let me know if u guys want part twos & threes & fours for this bc i have so much lore about dads best friend!jensen i cannOT BE FORCED TO KEEP IT IN. & IF U WANNA REQUEST STUFF FOR HIM PLS DO. HE'S TAKING ME OVER LIKE A DEMON. IF U READ THIS FAR GO SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BREE RN. ───ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfeedback & reblogs appreciated <3 !!

tags. @deansbeer @figthoughts @ultravi0lence14 @whyyouegg @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @angels-silhouette @seven7lee @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @theosaurous @beausling @soldiersgirl @mahi-wayy @unfortunate-brat @losers-clvb @jensenacklesballsack @chevroletdean @h8aaz @stereotypicalbarbie @sunsbaby @samslovebug @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @briisbananass @fuckedupfate @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @bitchykittenconnoisseur @faiszt @moonstruks @chiierful @collywobblvs @severe-mental-illness @doublecrazyyymofo

@aylacavebear thank you for reading and leaving a comment! I’ll tag you :) <3 I’m gunna do my best to get it out by this weekend!

Ten Years Gone {d.w.}

1. Strangers in a Bar

Hi everyone!! This is my first Dean Winchester fic! Please let me know what you think of it, happy reading!

Summary: Dean hasn't been out of Purgatory for long and finds himself in a small town on the coast of Maine. He runs into a mysterious woman and she makes him question his retirement? Will Dean actually step away from the job? And what is this woman hiding from him? Warnings: slight aggression. +18 MDNI (even though there’s nothing R rated in this)

It’s late on a Tuesday night, the jukebox is humming in the corner of the bar playing slow country music. The air smells of liquor that’s dried on most surfaces of this place, a smell that’ll cling to your clothes until you wash them. It was the kind of late where only the restless or wrecked hung around, and tonight, Dean Winchester felt like both.

He sat at a table nursing a whiskey, tracing the edge of the glass with his middle finger. The bar was mostly empty, but Dean always made it a point to observe even when it’s not needed; the bartender wiping down the counter, two guys at a table loudly arguing about whether the Bruins are going to the playoffs or not, and a woman a few seats away from Dean, scribbling away in a notebook. He can’t tell if she comes here often or if she’s in the same boat he’s in, restless. Making sure to keep a watchful eye on her, especially since she’s the only woman in the building.

Dean shifted in his seat, trying not to think about the fact that he’s on the road by himself, again. It wasn’t the first time his brother needed a break from this life, and it wouldn’t be the last. They’ve been hunting nonstop for eight years, and after everything Sam has been through with the demons and Lucifer, the Leviathan’s and not knowing if Dean was dead or not for a year—he was bound to crack. The two of them fought over the fact that Sam didn’t hunt for a year, that Kevin was abducted and nothing was done about it. Sam was adamant about stepping away for a while, so he’s with his girl, while Dean is on the lookout for The Prophet. 

For some reason this time feels different. Dean’s gotten older, he’s not young and stupid anymore, and he sure as hell has been through the wringer more than he’d like to be. He has a hard time lying to himself that he’s fine on his own. He needs Sam. The feeling of crippling anxiety that won’t cease is new, and it’s a feeling that’s not easily quieted by liquor. His hand shakes while he downs the remainder of his whiskey. The job is his life but is his life worth the job? It’s a hard decision to make, almost impossible.

He was so lost in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice that the woman had gotten up and started walking towards the bar. She distanced herself as far away from the other two men as she could then ordered, “A margarita with a salt rim and a double whiskey, please.” It didn’t take long for them to notice that she’d gone up there. Dean didn’t like the looks of them, they had a mischievous gleam in their eyes when looking at her. One of the Bruins fans stood up and advanced towards the bar.

“Hey there, pretty lady,” the man slurred, propping himself up against the counter. “What do ya say I buy your drinks for ya, sweetheart?”

Dean sighed, his grip tightening around his glass. He knows how these movies end, and they don’t end well. 

The woman didn’t so much as flinch, without turning to look at him, she said, “I can take care of it myself, thanks.”

Her voice was cold and sharp, the kind of tone that could cut through steel, but the drunkard didn’t take the hint. He leaned in closer. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, see his eyes narrow in determination, and sense his bad intentions. 

“Aw, come on honey. Let me treat ya, then maybe we can head back to my place, if you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I said no. Walk. Away.” Her gaze finally snapping to him, one so chilling that it could turn a man to stone if she tried hard enough. 

Dean was not expecting her to be as harsh and as direct with the guy, he admired that. He knew that a guy like this wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he pushed out of his chair loudly and started to make his way towards them.

As she was turning to leave the counter, the guy grabs her by her bicep and pulls her into him, “You’re a good for nothing bitch, is what you are–”

Dean walks faster, boots thudding against the worn out floorboards. “Hey!” he barked. His voice low and dangerous as he got right in the drunk’s face. “When a lady says no, you listen. Now, let her go before this gets ugly.”

The man sneered then released her, muttering curses under his breath as he stumbled back to his friend. Dean turns to the bartender, his expression sharp. “And you–what kind of place are you running where this shit flies? Do better.”

He turns around to meet the woman, “You okay?”

She nods, her hardened features softening just a fraction at his kindness. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a problem, Miss..?”

“Novena.” She smiles up at Dean and reaches her hand out to shake his. 

“I’m Dean.” He gave her a warm smile back and took her hand in his. Her handshake was firm, he’s even more impressed.

“I was actually getting you a drink, believe it or not.” Her voice was rid of any trace of bitterness that had been there before, “I saw you sitting by yourself and you looked upset. Thought I’d bring you another round.”

“Thank you, I definitely need it.” Dean takes the glass from her, his fingers brushing against hers. Novena tenses up and her gaze immediately meets his, but within a second her state of shock is gone. Dean notices but doesn’t think too much of it. He doesn’t mean to be cocky, but a lot of girls in the past have frozen up around him before. Usually from being a flirt but he’s made no effort tonight—maybe he still has the juice after all.

Novena gives him another smile, then makes her way back towards her seat. This was the first act of kindness anyone has shown him since he got back from purgatory, and it was refreshing. A total stranger noticed that he wasn’t doing alright. He had been standing in the same spot, staring into space long enough for the bartender to give him the look of, “dude, you good?” He wasn’t good, but maybe he could distract himself from his anxiety for a little while, she was mysterious and that intrigued Dean. 

Making his way over to her slowly, he notices that she had been making a sketch of someone. “Mind if I sit with you?” She closes her book when she hears his voice, as if not to be caught with her doodle. “I know it’s late and I, I don’t wanna seem like that scumbag over there—“

“Sit. I can tell a tortured soul when I see one,” she gestures with her hand for him to take the chair opposite from her. Novena emphasizes, “Please.”

Also not what he was expecting, but her voice was calm. Demanding but gentle. He does as he’s told.

“Yes ma’am.” They stare at each other, scanning each other's features in a way that is more intimate than it should be. Dean finally speaks up, “So, if you’re a tortured soul like me, what’re you doing out so late on a Tuesday?”

Novena sighs and takes a sip of her drink, “There’s a lot going on but to keep it sweet and simple, my dad recently passed, my boyfriend, well…ex now, destroyed my car when I ended things,” with sad eyes, she looks down at her fingers, fiddling with one of the rings she has on. She clears her throat before asking, “What about you, Mr-New-In-Town? What brings you into The Salty Dog?”

Dean lets out a small chuckle at her enthusiasm when saying the name of the bar, but says seriously, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad, I am. It’s not easy losing a parent,” He takes a swig of his whiskey, thinking of Bobby especially. “I uh, lost my father figure not too long ago as well.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” Novena’s brows furrow and she places her hand over Dean’s so naturally, gently rubbing her thumb over the top of his knuckles. 

He’s taken aback by this, he almost jumps at her touch. His eyes dart to hers and he’s met with empathy and compassion; there’s a lump in his throat that’s unbelievably painful with the grief that’s been hidden away. Not one soul has been able to break through Dean’s wall as easily as the woman before him. His eyes are jumping from their hands to the table, scoping out the rest of the bar to see if anyone is paying attention, which no one was, then back up to Novena. Tears were threatening to escape the corners of his eyes and once he saw that her mascara had run down her face, was when Dean let go. She removed her hand from his, leaned over the small table, cupped his face and wiped away the dampness on his skin. 

It almost felt like Novena was taking away his pain with her touch, and it looked like it too. The eye contact hadn’t broke since he looked up at her. Dean was a mess and he couldn’t decipher if what he was seeing was a figment of his imagination or not—but it seemed like his struggle was held within her eyes? There was this humming noise that was coming from somewhere, the jukebox or the overhead lights maybe, that was soothing. Ultimately easing Dean to breathe slower and to quiet his racing thoughts. 

“I, I don’t know what that was.” Dean whispers, “I’m sorry, that’s embarrassing. This never happens to me…” he gestures at himself.

Novena pulled away from him concerningly, “Showing human emotion never happens to you?” 

“Wow—that’s not what I was expecting you to say. But, yeah. I usually don’t allow myself to show people how I’m feeling. To be frank, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Long day I suppose.”

She didn’t know how to respond to him. He’s different from other men she’s met, that’s a given. Dean almost immediately crumbled under her touch. It felt like he was begging to let someone in, wanting to be understood. If they hadn’t mentioned that they’ve both lost someone dear to them, then Dean probably wouldn’t have been easy to get a reading from. Novena liked that he related so much to her, that Dean felt so deeply that his emotions had transferred through their touch.

He was trying to brush off what had just happened. Novena could see it in his eyes, that he was questioning the intense moment they shared. Dean covered his face with both of his hands and sighed. This was the perfect moment to change subjects.

“I better get going, it’s getting late–I have to be up early for work. But I’ll see you around?”

—

A/N: Any and all feedback is appreciated! Feel free to send me asks or dm’s :)) I'm just making things up as I go, so be patient with me lol. This will be multiple parts as well as blurbs. I have a busy schedule but I’m going to try my best to write these chapters cuz I’m really obsessed with the idea I have!

tags! @ambiguous-avery

Not me putting on long ass nails and not realizing I can't type as fast on my keyboard. (currently typing with pens cuz it's faster)

i love saying “i’m being normal about it” bc i’m actually a filthy fucking liar and i’ve never been normal about anything a single day in my life

This is the closest I’ll ever be to Jensen (I’m three hours away from Austin)

“WRITE IT BADLY. Write it badly, write it badly, write it badly, write it badly. Stop what you’re doing, open a Word document, put a pencil on some paper, just get the idea out of your head. Let it be good later. Write it down now. Otherwise it will die in there.”

— Brandon Sanderson on overcoming writer’s block to create a first draft as a professional author (via almost-always-eventually-right)

Late Night Worries {h.s.}

Hiii!! I’m fairly new to the Harry fic writing, I only intend to use him as a face/name claim. That’s what makes me comfy :))

This is a blurb about Harry and his wife who has a little trouble seeing past the “bad” parts of being a parent. A mention of previous trauma but no details, other than that hopefully it hits you in the feels!

I hope whoever comes across this enjoys it!! Happy reading :) I love getting feedback, don’t be afraid to message me!!

“Harry? Are you awake baby?”

The only times he’s able to be woken up is either from his wife saying his name for whatever reason she has for interrupting the precious few hours of rest he gets, or it’s when he hears his 3 month old baby boy crying. It’s so natural to him now that it instantly jolts him awake. “Now I am, yeah. What’s wrong?” As he rubs his eyes and sits up and rests on one of his elbows.

Y/N, although she knows that it’s a ridiculous and an irrelevant fear now, she can’t help but worry herself to the brink of insomnia. Ever since she gave birth, her already huge heart, got even bigger and even more emotional. Her “mom heart” as she calls it, doesn’t want to see her pure son turn into someone who will resent her for how she parents him. Not letting him go out too late, or grounding him when he gets a bad grade in school, or sneaks in a girl, or a guy, into the house when he isn’t supposed to.

When Y/N is this upset her throat usually closes up because she’s trying to hold in her tears, so they sit there awhile in the darkness. Harry knows exactly what’s going on with her, which is why he’s being so patient. They’ve been together a while and he has learned not to rush her when she gets emotional, it only agitates her more when he is pushy then y/n usually tells him whatever she’s thinking isn’t really important.

After a few long minutes she’s finally able to swallow normally and that’s when y/n gushes all of her insecurities out, “I don’t want our sweet boy to hate me, Harry. I don’t think I can handle that. What if I do something wrong and he wishes that I was never his mother? I don’t want to be broken like that, I’m not ready for that.” Y/N has to take a deep breath to steady herself. Nervously picking at the remaining nail polishh on her fingernails she proceeds slowly, “And what if I break him? I don’t want our son to know the trauma I’ve been through, I don’t want to project that onto him like my parents did to me. What if I’m not healed by then? What if I’m not ready to be a mom, H?”

Everything that y/n has said rings through Harry’s ears and it’s painful. He doesn’t understand how she can be having all of these stressors. Maybe it’s from the lack of sleep? The first thing that he does is turn on his lamp on his bedside table so he can have a proper look at her. And what Harry sees immediately is her purple-blue under eyes, the tears staining her cheeks and her sad but really cute red nose.

“Y/N, honey, c’mere.” They’re both sitting up at this point and y/n crawls up onto Harry’s lap and hugs him. “Take deep breaths for me, yeah? Only gonna make yourself more miserable and tired for tomorrow.”

He rubs her back and then switches to playing with her hair, that’s what calms her and usually it’s a recipe for sleepiness. He doesn’t do it for too long because he still has to make sure she’s not up all night worrying about situations that haven’t happened yet. Sniffling is a good sign, it means that y/n has settled down enough for her to really listen to what Harry has to tell her. A little trick he’s learned, instead of trying to get her to understand where he’s coming from when she’s too stressed to think of another perspective.

Harry breaks the silence, “Y/N, could you look at me please? There ya go, hi darling.” He smiles warming, looking into her eyes with so much reassurance it almost seems impossible. “I know that you haven’t been getting much sleep the last few weeks and it might be hard not to see this, but I promise you that our baby will not hate you. You wanna know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you are the most caring, compassionate, and loving person that I have ever known and probably will ever come to know. Whatever the situation or punishment might be, you will be doing it with the pure kindness that is in your heart. Like you’ve taught me, what comes with mistakes also comes with great lessons, and I’ve made many. You’ll have nice long conversations with our boy about what’s right and wrong, and you’ll teach him in a way that isn’t demeaning or make him feel like every little thing he’s done wrong is the worst thing he could ever do. He is bound to mess up and get in trouble with his Mum and he might get extremely mad at you, but I can already tell that he will have the same heart as you. He will never be angry for long and will come running back, telling you that he loves you.

“You won’t let yourself break him, or let him anywhere near the pain you’ve gone through. You’re taking care of yourself by going to therapy, yeah? Don’t worry about all these future “what if’s” y/n. I know it’s easier said than done but let's just try to focus on the present. We can figure all of that stuff out when it comes to it. For now, let’s take advantage of when he’s this small and young, because we might be wishing he’d stay a baby.”

They both giggle at that last part, it seems like they’re having a hard time now taking care of him, but both y/n and Harry know the storm of child/young adulthood is another ballgame in itself.

“Thank you Harry, for being the best husband. For listening to me, and helping me see things that I can’t in moments like these.”

“Of course, anything for you my sweet girl.” He pushes a strand of hair from y/n’s face behind her ear, looking into her now serene and cloudy eyes and gives her the softest kiss on her pouty lips. “I love you, and I love our precious boy that we made. If he ever happens to make you cry in the future, rest assured, love, that I’ll whoop his ass, not physically but you know what I’m gettin’ at.”

“I do baby, I love you both so much.” Y/N finally slides down and rests her head on Harry’s chest just above his butterfly. “I appreciate you.”

“I appreciate you too. Let’s get some rest now, how does that sound?”

watching courage the cowardly dog to spark inspiration is next level desperate...

Idk who needs to hear this but just because your writing isn’t good yet doesn’t mean it’s bad either