[ She's leaning up against a rental parked outside the bunker when the boys come back from a hunt, down two cigarettes (judging by the butts stamped out on the hard-packed earth) and halfway through a third; anxious or simply passing the time — hard to tell at first. Beverly showing up unannounced is unusual especially since she keeps in regular contact with Dean, but she's impulsive when the mood strikes right and in the 24 hours since they last spoke, he put down a tulpa and she packed a bag and flew outta New York to Kansas.
She tells them, over takeout and drinks, that she just needed a break. Her ugly and very public divorce was finalised after months and the media circus surrounding it hasn't died down. So she asks if she can just camp out for a week or two, just to breathe — because if the bunker can withstand monsters then she definitely can hide out from the press with no one figuring it out. (The Losers are covering for her if anyone asks.) And it's gonna be nice being out in the middle of nowhere, a drive away from a small town where no one could give a damn about some designer from New York much less recognise her at the grocery. It'll be nice not having a schedule. And it's especially nice seeing Dean.
It's usually weeks between each little rendezvous and often for no longer than a day or two. So it's really no surprise that even though she's been given her pick of the guest rooms, she winds up slipping into his late in the evening, studying the space with an idle interest while he's in the shower. They've always been together at her place; he's intimately familiar by now with her bedroom, her kitchen, the nooks and crannies where he's warded it against anything that goes bump in the night. This is her first time here and it feels deeply personal, which is why she looks but doesn't touch. Not without invitation. (That's something they've understood about each other since the first time they slept together.)
She's sitting on the edge of his bed when he comes in, comfortable in sweats and a tank top, red hair loose and a little longer than it was when they saw each other last. ]
Hey, [ she says at first, soft and fond and not even remotely sheepish. Her gaze flickers over him, taking in the bathrobe, towel around his shoulders, damp hair. Her lips press into a smile. ] I let myself in. Hope you don't mind.
[ In the moments between her words and whatever he answers with, she's crossed the space between them, walking him back against the door until there's nowhere else to go, hands curling into the front of his robe as she leans up for a kiss. She'd wanted to do it the second she saw him outside, but she was being polite. Had kept it to a hug, a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. This, behind closed doors, is hungrier; needier. Fuelled by a long day and an even longer stretch of weeks before it. This one says it's been a long time and I want you. Tall and broad as he is, she pins him neatly with her body, one hand releasing fabric to skate higher, cupping his jaw as she deepens the kiss, just a touch, before she breaks away.
( when dean sees bev outside the bunker from the window of the impala, his first instinct is mild panic. if she was coming to visit, wouldn't she have texted? what the hell happened that she drove all the way out here without saying anything? he assumes something must be wrong, that it must be something bad — and it is, sort of. but not as bad as dean was imagined it to be. the only monster in this story is bev's shitty ex-husband, and after an even nastier divorce, dean's more than willing to let her camp out in the bunker for a while. as long as she needs. it'll be nice to have her around, to not have to drive two hundred miles just to see her. and this way sam can't complain about dean going out of their way for a girl. the way dean sees it, this will finally give sam and bev ample opportunity to bond or whatever.
of course, he can't promise they'll be at the bunker with her the whole time — cases crop up and sometimes they have to go, but he does at least make an effort to contact hunters who might be in the area to take the job if the case is more than a couple states over so they won't have to bail and leave her alone for the few days they'd be gone (sometimes sam takes a case on his own when he needs to get out, or when he feels like he needs to give them their privacy, as if they aren't all adults who can keep it in their pants long enough to make it to the bedroom). he's sure she'd be fine on her own, but he'd feel more comfortable staying at the bunker with her when he can, showing her around what little lebanon has to offer. he even takes her into lawrence one afternoon, gives her the grand tour of his hometown, drives her past his old house, tells her stories about his brief childhood there, treats her to dinner and a movie. if he thought about it long enough, he might even consider it a date.
it's already late when he and sam get back from taking care of a haunting out in, ironically, winchester, about a three hour drive from lebanon, and all he really wants to do is hit the shower, scrub the dirt and ectoplasm out of his hair, rinse off the sweat of gravedigging. he checks in with bev before he goes, just to let her know they're back and if he doesn't see her before he's out to have a good night.
he doesn't expect to find her in his room when he gets back. or, well — maybe part of him had hoped that he would. still, she catches him a little off guard, still scrubbing the towel at his damp hair. he lets it drop when she smiles, feels the corners of his mouth twitching upward at the sight of her. )
Hey. ( honestly, it's always a nice surprise to see a woman waiting for him. his mouth curves all the way into a self-satisfied smile, and he's on his way to saying something sarcastically charming, but she's already on her way to him, closing the distance, pushing him against the door, her mouth against his before he the words have time to form. he doesn't mind, of course, smiles against her lips as he leans into her, his hands sliding over her hips to grab at her ass, two seconds away from hauling her up against him and depositing her on his bed. he's still thinking about it when she pulls away, her breath warm between them. i missed you.
god. he's missed her too. it hasn't even been that long. still. ) I could say the same. ( he kisses her again, softer, almost sweetly, betraying the hunger coiling in his belly, though neither is less true because of it. it's only been a few months since they started this ... whatever it is — dean hesitates to call it a relationship because he's never been very good at those, and, frankly, being in a relationship only makes things more complicated — but he can't deny he feels something for bev, something beyond basic attraction, something that keeps him coming back and not just for the sex. she understands him in a way no woman ever has, which, in his line of work, is pretty damn rare for someone not in the business of hunting monsters. trauma does that to people.
it makes him think about cassie every now and then — the first woman he was ever in love with, the first person he told about being a hunter — and then he remembers how that ended, with a promise he could never make good on. (sometimes, he still thinks about going to see her again, but it's been too long and they've both moved on. it's for the better not to dig up old graves.) he tries not to think about lisa — a year away from the life, a year without sam, a year of playing house and pretending to be someone he's not, living a life that was never supposed to be his — and how badly that ended, because it was the only way to keep her and ben safe. it's the last thing he ever wants to happen again.
but bev has been through it, and not because the winchesters brought the monsters to her doorstep. she may not be a hunter, but she knows what's out there now and she's kicked its ass. would he go all in if she asked him to? probably. there's a possibility they could make this work, but dean's been around the block enough times to know there's a better chance he'd fuck it up if it got more serious than it is now. and right now he just wants to enjoy this. enjoy her.
his voice drops, sultry, almost a whisper. ) You know, you didn't have to wait for me. I would've liked the company. ( which sounds as much like an invitation for next time as any. his mouth wanders toward her ear, a kiss pressed along her neck just below the lobe. ) Ain't exactly what I imagined you seducing me in, but I ain't complaining.
[ It's a pleasant surprise, the natural rhythm they fall into within days of her arrival, and she's infinitely grateful for it — the space they allow her, the way they've welcomed her into theirs, how Sam is warm and easy to talk to, how Dean is protective without being overbearing (in the way that would set her teeth on edge; it's so unlike the way other men in her life watched her every move). Because yeah, it's only been a few months of this between them and it should scare her with how easy it's been to slide into it, but between the chaos are the stretches of the completely mundane and it's like the tension in her chest just melts away with it: trips into town, long drives, quaint mom and pop diners, a hometown tour. (She liked that afternoon the best, knowing not everyone had someplace as shitty as Derry as the backdrop to their childhood.) Hell, they even stopped by a secondhand shop so she could pick up a sewing machine, fixed it right up while Dean sat across and cleaned his gun. It's almost surreal if she lets herself think on it too long, the balance they've struck despite the vast differences in their lives. Dean carries a lot of weight and she can see it — like recognises like, even if her past doesn't bear the same load — and if her being here eases it for the both of them, well. She's glad.
Beverly wouldn't go as far as saying she's letting herself play pretend here, she knows a respite from her own life doesn't mean one for the Winchesters, but she does appreciate slowing down in her own way. And she can't stay idle for too long, anyway, even with the work she makes for herself; she finds herself jumping into the research (it's fascinating as hell, she can't wait to tell Mike), sometimes getting looped into the occasional fraudulent phone call. (Her FBI supervisor voice is very good.) She's asked to learn how to shoot, too. Ever since Tom and the clown, she'd taken up self-defense classes in New York. And the bunker has a range, so why not step it up? Really, she likes the feeling of finally having control — of her own life, of situations she finds herself in.
Like this one right now, wrapped up in Dean's arms with his breath warm over the shell of her ear. It's enough to send a thrilling shiver down her spine even as she laughs, equal parts delighted and amused and entirely into it, wow. ]
Yeah? [ To the first part and the second. Her chin lifts a fraction, as much part of her quip as it is to bare her throat to his wandering lips. The hand on his chest releases his robe to slide under it, cool palm to warm skin and steady heartbeat. Her tone flutters with teasing. ] Sweatpants not doing it for you? Guess I left the good stuff back in New York.
[ She turns her head to press a kiss to whatever bit she can reach: temple, the sharp angle of cheekbone, lips curving into a smile against him. Her voice lowers. ]
Tell me what you imagined during your solo shower and I might make it up to you.
( it's definitely not the first time they've done this since bev showed up practically on their doorstep — and it most certainly won't be the last — but every time with her feels unique, like every time he learns something new about her (maybe even learns something new about himself, too). not just the way her body feels, reacts, responds to his touch, but the array of different laughs she has; the way his name comes out hoarse around the edges when she's close; the way she looks at him with that fierce confidence in her eyes when she rides him into the mattress because she's never had that much control before; the way his chest swells when he looks at her smile in the afterglow.
his hands travel up her back, pushing under the hem of her shirt, following the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. he bites at the soft skin just above her collarbone, sucking at it until it blooms under his mouth, soothes it over with his tongue. )
You're telling me you, Beverly Marsh, fashion designer extraordinaire, came all this way to see me and conveniently forgot to pack any lingerie? ( he finds that hard to believe. still, his mouth meets hers again, tongue slipping past her lips, one hand brushing over the plane of her torso and further down still, beyond the waistband of her sweatpants. maybe he is a little disappointed to find something other than satin or lace, but it's a fleeting thought that's easily overtaken by the warmth of her under his palm as he presses against her.
he pulls back from her lips just barely, enough to look her in the eyes when he tells her exactly what he imagined during that shower, the air hot between them. ) I was thinking...
( he's already half hard under the robe, desperate for contact, friction, anything. but tonight feels slow, lazy, and as much as it'll drive him wild, he won't regret it for a moment. )
About you, those hands of yours, wishing it was you touching me, working out all that tension, how good it feels, how good you make me feel, Bev. How good I could make you feel, on my knees, lapping you up until you tremble, breathless, barely able to say my name.
[ He's absolutely right: Beverly Marsh, fashion designer extraordinaire, did no such thing. Just because her decision to book a last minute flight out of New York was impulsive doesn't mean it wasn't well-thought out. (Be rude to show up without a host's gift, huh.) There are a few choice pieces tucked in the drawers of her guest room, simple and delicate designs that sit better under a cocktail dress than borrowed flannel and jeans — maybe that's the point. Maybe she's just waiting for the right bit of downtime to get a little dressed up with nowhere to go. As a treat. If she wasn't so goddamn distracted by what his mouth is doing, she'd tell him that; tell him about plunging, curving lines in deep emerald lace and how he'd have to be so damn careful peeling them off her one by one. To go slow, to feel her watching him do it. She knows the strength in his hands; she loves when they're tempered by gentleness.
Like now. Fuck. Her eyes flutter closed with a soft exhale, savouring the press of his lips to her throat, the glide of callused fingertips down her spine, ticklish when they dip to her lower back; she arches reflexively into him with a quick inhale, whatever quip she had lost in the heat of his mouth when they kiss again. God, this isn't the first time they've done this but the rush is always just like it; he still manages to make her feel lightheaded and even if she's got him pinned, he's the one holding her steady in his arms. There's no place better.
When the kiss breaks, her eyes drift open to half-mast, blown with arousal and barely ringing bright blue. Their noses brush, she can count every freckle when they're this close, her breath as quick as her heartbeat as she listens to him. Not sure if it's the words or the low rumble of his voice that makes heat curl low in her belly.
(It's both. Her thoughts go spinning off to the shower, bodies slick, skin to bare skin. The hand on his chest slides lower, skating over broad planes of muscle, curving over his bare hip. How tightly tied is that robe, Dean Winchester?) ]
Yeah, you love that. Doing that to me. [ She brushes her lips over his, teasing for another kiss, voice a bare whisper. ] I think about it when you're gone. Riding your mouth, my hands in your hair. You're so good at it, and you look... God. [ She breathes in, her hand drifting lower, squeezing his ass. ] So good doing it. That what you were doing in there? Working out all that — tension — without me?
[ Her gaze flickers over him, searching, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile. The hand caressing his face shifts, her thumb tracing over the swell of his bottom lip. ]
( how tightly is that robe tied? not very tight at all, it seems; the belt loosens as her hand passes under the plush fabric, pushing it open further when she reaches his hip. he really can't be blamed for not tying it any tighter. how could he have known she'd be feeling him up once he got back to his room? if he had known, he might not have bothered with the robe at all, would've waltzed back in wearing nothing but a towel.
he draws her in closer, his hand traveling upward again, brushing against her skin under the fabric of her shirt, palming her breast, kneading it gently under his hand. with nothing left between their hips, he wants her to feel how hard he is already, pressing into her thigh, the thrill of her words pooling hot and low in his abdomen. he laughs breathily, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. )
Please, I'm just getting started. We've got all night for you to tire me out.
( which sounds a lot like a challenge, and maybe it is. he hasn't had this much physical contact with anyone in two months and he's starved for it; he'd let her do anything to him at this point, whatever she wants, just to feel her doing it. not that he wouldn't have before, but there's something more intense, more intimate about it now that she's touching him like this for the first time since they last saw each other in november. (as much as it would have passed the time, he hadn't exactly been doing a lot of jacking off in government solitary. he's all about putting on a show for the camera, but considering his fantasies usually involve bev these days, he definitely hadn't wanted to give them anything they could have potentially used against him. bev wouldn't have been a lot to go on, but it's better not to underestimate the power of the secret service.)
so to call the last two months a dry spell is a little bit of an understatement; it was practically the fucking sahara of getting none and he's been desperate for it ever since he laid eyes on her bundled up outside the bunker. the fact that they've even made it out of his room long enough to do anything but find new ways of moaning each other's names is a fucking miracle in itself. he almost feels bad about subjecting to sam to his perpetual sex hair and afterglow attitude, but sam's a big boy who can deal with his older brother having an active and healthy love life. after the shit they've been through recently, dean fucking deserves the amount he's getting laid — and if sam really wanted to, he's just as capable of putting on his own night moves (not that there are a lot of options in lebanon, unless sam is suddenly into gilfs).
dean leans into her hand, chasing her thumb to catch it between his lips, sucking at it with the flat of his tongue. he gazes down at her through long eyelashes, his green eyes bright with adoration and want. )
Plenty of tension left to work out, too. ( he leans in to meet her mouth, gently nudging them away from the wall as he kisses her. ) What're you feeling? Whatever you want, babe, you got it.
[ That dry spell went both ways. Of course the memories of their handful of sunlit days spent together in November sustained her through the holidays — she's not sure she stopped blushing for days after he left at just the thought of what they got up to together, tangled in each others' arms and in her bed. (God, it had been a difficult necessity, washing her sheets after he'd gone; she loved turning her face into her pillows, breathing in the last traces of him as her hand drifted between her thighs.) But the heat of it faded the longer they went without speaking, the more her worry and maybe even a flash of hurt began to replace the warm glow in her chest. But that spark, well, it never faded — hell, it's been rekindled in the days since their reunion, brought to roaring life by the way their hands and mouths trail fire and friction and desire in their wake. He kisses her thumb and her stomach swoops seeing his lips wrap around it, giving her ideas. Fuck.
God, yeah, she's missed him. Body and soul. His laugh, the fondness in his gaze, the reverent way he caresses and kisses her. Even now, cupping her breast in his callused palm and holding her flush to his broad form as they cross the room as their lips meet, she feels just like she did in her bedroom all those months ago: electric, moving too fast and too slow, that buzzing urge under her skin to get under his. He's asking her what she wants and fuck, she adores him for that, but as the backs of her knees hit the headboard, she's thinking back to working out that tension, thinking of the hot press of his desire against her belly, thinking how touch-starved they've both been but him especially.
Tonight does feel slow, languid. Indulgent. She didn't ambush him in his bedroom in the wake of a hunt just to have him do all the work. She's a polite, generous houseguest. ]
I want you... [ she murmurs, tipping her head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the fluttering pulse in his throat as her hand slides from his ass to between them, gliding down his stomach, ] to relax. [ Her lips begin to wander over his collarbone just as her hand wraps around his cock; she plants a kiss to his tattoo as she gives him a slow, deliberate stroke, waiting for the groan she knows will follow. ] Been a long night, huh?
[ She lifts her head just enough to look up at him through her lashes, eyes sparking with teasing and arousal. It's a check-in, nothing more, because then she leans back up to kiss him with a sweep of tongue just as she swipes the pad of her thumb — the same one he kissed — over the head of his cock before giving it another slick stroke. ]
( the groan rolls through him just as she expected it, and for a moment dean has to brace himself on the edge of the bed, one knee bent into the mattress, his face pressed into her hair. he meets her eyes when she turns to look at him, his heart beating wildly in the wake of the kiss pressed to the tattoo on his chest and the stroke of her hand. )
Yeah. Better now. ( he says, a little rough around the edges — and it's confirmation of something else, too, something closer to yeah, i want you. i want this. if his voice breaks in the back of his throat from the brush of her thumb over his cock, it gets swallowed by her kiss, searing through him, slowly fraying every nerve. she's barely even touched him and already his knees feel like they might give. maybe it's just the exhaustion of a rigorous hunt, or maybe that's just what she does to him. christ.
a low, breathy sound passes his lips, a huff of a laugh spreading through the thin air between them. it's hard to tell if he's laughing at himself or the fact that bev is surprising him all over again. ) Hold on a sec, huh? ( not to ruin the mood, but if he doesn't sit down they're gonna end up crashing into the bed when she makes his legs tremble — and he firmly has no doubt she's fully capable of making him weak at the knees. he leans in to steal another kiss, his hands drifting to her waist as he turns them in place, backing himself onto the edge of his mattress; it creaks faintly under his weight. in the shift, his robe has come undone, spread open, leaving him on full display, the waist belt hanging loosely at his sides. he should feel exposed, vulnerable, but he's never felt shame about sharing his body, especially not with someone he cares about, someone he knows understands him in a way no one else could. after all, his body is the one thing he's always had control over, even when everything around him felt impossibly out of control — and why the mark terrified him as much as it did.
he reaches out for her hand, the one she'd touched him with only moments ago, brushes his thumb over the back of it. )
You know you don't have to. ( which isn't the same as i don't want you to. hadn't she told him the same thing the first time they did this? you don't have to — or, i don't want you to feel obligated. he'd be more than happy to pull her in, let her sit on his lap, straddle him all the way, let her ride him until she unraveled; happy just to watch her take her pleasure of him, knowing he could give that to her. but the look in her eyes has a different intent, something dean has rarely experienced in all his years of one night stands and failed romances: it seems to say let me do this for you because i want to — and who would he be to deny her? he knows intimately the pride that comes with making someone else feel good, so of course he wants her to feel the same, wants her to be able to view this not as an obligation but a gift, something they can both share. something they can both enjoy. ) Ain't nothing wrong with missionary if you change your mind.
[ She feels him tremble against her and she feels pleased to elicit such a response, laughing with him — never at — into the kiss. She murmurs something like mmhmm when he tells her to wait, tipping her head to kiss at his jawline before he captures her lips again as they turn, savouring the softness of it and the way he smells like soap. Woodsy, a little, even if she knows he's showered off the gravesmoke. Fucking intoxicating — or maybe that's just Dean and her being so into him. When he breaks the kiss, she can't help chasing after it on his way down and she thinks hey, that's my move but then it clicks that they're slowing down for a reason and she blinks her way back to focus.
Granted, it's hard to focus when he's sitting there like that and looking up at her, so at ease with himself and with sharing his space with her, and God, his eyes. Beverly smiles as he reaches for her hand, skin tingling where he brushes the pad of his thumb over it. It's such a little thing but so painfully tender, it tempers the heat a little. And then — ]
I know. [ Soft, sweet. She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] I want to, though. If that's okay.
[ She thinks a lot about that first time. Not just the way they burned for each other but the care in each brush of their hands and lips — is this okay; if it gets too much, we don't have to — and it's present here too, of course it is, it always is. It's only been a few months since their relationship turned intimate, physical, and even with most nights spent wrapped in each others' arms they're still learning how to read the moments in between the pounding heartbeats. Yes, she came to him in his room; yes, he kissed her back, whispered desires into her ear, but if the hunt left him more tired than he realised, Beverly wouldn't mind putting the brakes on this until morning. Until whenever. No shame, no awkwardness, no misgivings. The understanding is why they work and why she trusts him more than she has any man in her bed; she only wants to give him as much as he gives her.
Beverly leans down and kisses him again: forehead, cheekbone, the shell of his ear where she whispers, ] Just tell me what you like.
[ Because it's been a while and this is one of the first times she's actually wanted to do this. Like, really, really wants to do this. She slides the towel from around his neck and drops it to the floor; the robe's next, pushed back just enough to bare his shoulders to her wandering mouth — already trailing down the side of his throat, the slope where it meets the rise of his deltoid, his tattoo again until she can't bend over any more and has to kneel (on the towel, good thinking, Bev).
She doesn't touch him yet. Wants to draw this out. Her hands rest on his thighs instead, brushing back and forth as she tips her chin up to kiss him again, searing and slow with a slip of tongue; sometimes she trails her nails lightly up his sides, back down, ghosting his inner thighs, kissing him all the while. There's a thrill in making him feel good, making him unravel, and she's discovered the little things that earn his gasps. She wants to find more, explore him as he's explored her, helped her relearn her own body and enjoy it. He deserves that too. ]
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🔥
She tells them, over takeout and drinks, that she just needed a break. Her ugly and very public divorce was finalised after months and the media circus surrounding it hasn't died down. So she asks if she can just camp out for a week or two, just to breathe — because if the bunker can withstand monsters then she definitely can hide out from the press with no one figuring it out. (The Losers are covering for her if anyone asks.) And it's gonna be nice being out in the middle of nowhere, a drive away from a small town where no one could give a damn about some designer from New York much less recognise her at the grocery. It'll be nice not having a schedule. And it's especially nice seeing Dean.
It's usually weeks between each little rendezvous and often for no longer than a day or two. So it's really no surprise that even though she's been given her pick of the guest rooms, she winds up slipping into his late in the evening, studying the space with an idle interest while he's in the shower. They've always been together at her place; he's intimately familiar by now with her bedroom, her kitchen, the nooks and crannies where he's warded it against anything that goes bump in the night. This is her first time here and it feels deeply personal, which is why she looks but doesn't touch. Not without invitation. (That's something they've understood about each other since the first time they slept together.)
She's sitting on the edge of his bed when he comes in, comfortable in sweats and a tank top, red hair loose and a little longer than it was when they saw each other last. ]
Hey, [ she says at first, soft and fond and not even remotely sheepish. Her gaze flickers over him, taking in the bathrobe, towel around his shoulders, damp hair. Her lips press into a smile. ] I let myself in. Hope you don't mind.
[ In the moments between her words and whatever he answers with, she's crossed the space between them, walking him back against the door until there's nowhere else to go, hands curling into the front of his robe as she leans up for a kiss. She'd wanted to do it the second she saw him outside, but she was being polite. Had kept it to a hug, a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. This, behind closed doors, is hungrier; needier. Fuelled by a long day and an even longer stretch of weeks before it. This one says it's been a long time and I want you. Tall and broad as he is, she pins him neatly with her body, one hand releasing fabric to skate higher, cupping his jaw as she deepens the kiss, just a touch, before she breaks away.
Softer still, ] I missed you.
no subject
of course, he can't promise they'll be at the bunker with her the whole time — cases crop up and sometimes they have to go, but he does at least make an effort to contact hunters who might be in the area to take the job if the case is more than a couple states over so they won't have to bail and leave her alone for the few days they'd be gone (sometimes sam takes a case on his own when he needs to get out, or when he feels like he needs to give them their privacy, as if they aren't all adults who can keep it in their pants long enough to make it to the bedroom). he's sure she'd be fine on her own, but he'd feel more comfortable staying at the bunker with her when he can, showing her around what little lebanon has to offer. he even takes her into lawrence one afternoon, gives her the grand tour of his hometown, drives her past his old house, tells her stories about his brief childhood there, treats her to dinner and a movie. if he thought about it long enough, he might even consider it a date.
it's already late when he and sam get back from taking care of a haunting out in, ironically, winchester, about a three hour drive from lebanon, and all he really wants to do is hit the shower, scrub the dirt and ectoplasm out of his hair, rinse off the sweat of gravedigging. he checks in with bev before he goes, just to let her know they're back and if he doesn't see her before he's out to have a good night.
he doesn't expect to find her in his room when he gets back. or, well — maybe part of him had hoped that he would. still, she catches him a little off guard, still scrubbing the towel at his damp hair. he lets it drop when she smiles, feels the corners of his mouth twitching upward at the sight of her. )
Hey. ( honestly, it's always a nice surprise to see a woman waiting for him. his mouth curves all the way into a self-satisfied smile, and he's on his way to saying something sarcastically charming, but she's already on her way to him, closing the distance, pushing him against the door, her mouth against his before he the words have time to form. he doesn't mind, of course, smiles against her lips as he leans into her, his hands sliding over her hips to grab at her ass, two seconds away from hauling her up against him and depositing her on his bed. he's still thinking about it when she pulls away, her breath warm between them. i missed you.
god. he's missed her too. it hasn't even been that long. still. ) I could say the same. ( he kisses her again, softer, almost sweetly, betraying the hunger coiling in his belly, though neither is less true because of it. it's only been a few months since they started this ... whatever it is — dean hesitates to call it a relationship because he's never been very good at those, and, frankly, being in a relationship only makes things more complicated — but he can't deny he feels something for bev, something beyond basic attraction, something that keeps him coming back and not just for the sex. she understands him in a way no woman ever has, which, in his line of work, is pretty damn rare for someone not in the business of hunting monsters. trauma does that to people.
it makes him think about cassie every now and then — the first woman he was ever in love with, the first person he told about being a hunter — and then he remembers how that ended, with a promise he could never make good on. (sometimes, he still thinks about going to see her again, but it's been too long and they've both moved on. it's for the better not to dig up old graves.) he tries not to think about lisa — a year away from the life, a year without sam, a year of playing house and pretending to be someone he's not, living a life that was never supposed to be his — and how badly that ended, because it was the only way to keep her and ben safe. it's the last thing he ever wants to happen again.
but bev has been through it, and not because the winchesters brought the monsters to her doorstep. she may not be a hunter, but she knows what's out there now and she's kicked its ass. would he go all in if she asked him to? probably. there's a possibility they could make this work, but dean's been around the block enough times to know there's a better chance he'd fuck it up if it got more serious than it is now. and right now he just wants to enjoy this. enjoy her.
his voice drops, sultry, almost a whisper. ) You know, you didn't have to wait for me. I would've liked the company. ( which sounds as much like an invitation for next time as any. his mouth wanders toward her ear, a kiss pressed along her neck just below the lobe. ) Ain't exactly what I imagined you seducing me in, but I ain't complaining.
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Beverly wouldn't go as far as saying she's letting herself play pretend here, she knows a respite from her own life doesn't mean one for the Winchesters, but she does appreciate slowing down in her own way. And she can't stay idle for too long, anyway, even with the work she makes for herself; she finds herself jumping into the research (it's fascinating as hell, she can't wait to tell Mike), sometimes getting looped into the occasional fraudulent phone call. (Her FBI supervisor voice is very good.) She's asked to learn how to shoot, too. Ever since Tom and the clown, she'd taken up self-defense classes in New York. And the bunker has a range, so why not step it up? Really, she likes the feeling of finally having control — of her own life, of situations she finds herself in.
Like this one right now, wrapped up in Dean's arms with his breath warm over the shell of her ear. It's enough to send a thrilling shiver down her spine even as she laughs, equal parts delighted and amused and entirely into it, wow. ]
Yeah? [ To the first part and the second. Her chin lifts a fraction, as much part of her quip as it is to bare her throat to his wandering lips. The hand on his chest releases his robe to slide under it, cool palm to warm skin and steady heartbeat. Her tone flutters with teasing. ] Sweatpants not doing it for you? Guess I left the good stuff back in New York.
[ She turns her head to press a kiss to whatever bit she can reach: temple, the sharp angle of cheekbone, lips curving into a smile against him. Her voice lowers. ]
Tell me what you imagined during your solo shower and I might make it up to you.
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his hands travel up her back, pushing under the hem of her shirt, following the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. he bites at the soft skin just above her collarbone, sucking at it until it blooms under his mouth, soothes it over with his tongue. )
You're telling me you, Beverly Marsh, fashion designer extraordinaire, came all this way to see me and conveniently forgot to pack any lingerie? ( he finds that hard to believe. still, his mouth meets hers again, tongue slipping past her lips, one hand brushing over the plane of her torso and further down still, beyond the waistband of her sweatpants. maybe he is a little disappointed to find something other than satin or lace, but it's a fleeting thought that's easily overtaken by the warmth of her under his palm as he presses against her.
he pulls back from her lips just barely, enough to look her in the eyes when he tells her exactly what he imagined during that shower, the air hot between them. ) I was thinking...
( he's already half hard under the robe, desperate for contact, friction, anything. but tonight feels slow, lazy, and as much as it'll drive him wild, he won't regret it for a moment. )
About you, those hands of yours, wishing it was you touching me, working out all that tension, how good it feels, how good you make me feel, Bev. How good I could make you feel, on my knees, lapping you up until you tremble, breathless, barely able to say my name.
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Like now. Fuck. Her eyes flutter closed with a soft exhale, savouring the press of his lips to her throat, the glide of callused fingertips down her spine, ticklish when they dip to her lower back; she arches reflexively into him with a quick inhale, whatever quip she had lost in the heat of his mouth when they kiss again. God, this isn't the first time they've done this but the rush is always just like it; he still manages to make her feel lightheaded and even if she's got him pinned, he's the one holding her steady in his arms. There's no place better.
When the kiss breaks, her eyes drift open to half-mast, blown with arousal and barely ringing bright blue. Their noses brush, she can count every freckle when they're this close, her breath as quick as her heartbeat as she listens to him. Not sure if it's the words or the low rumble of his voice that makes heat curl low in her belly.
(It's both. Her thoughts go spinning off to the shower, bodies slick, skin to bare skin. The hand on his chest slides lower, skating over broad planes of muscle, curving over his bare hip. How tightly tied is that robe, Dean Winchester?) ]
Yeah, you love that. Doing that to me. [ She brushes her lips over his, teasing for another kiss, voice a bare whisper. ] I think about it when you're gone. Riding your mouth, my hands in your hair. You're so good at it, and you look... God. [ She breathes in, her hand drifting lower, squeezing his ass. ] So good doing it. That what you were doing in there? Working out all that — tension — without me?
[ Her gaze flickers over him, searching, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile. The hand caressing his face shifts, her thumb tracing over the swell of his bottom lip. ]
Hope you didn't tire yourself out, babe.
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he draws her in closer, his hand traveling upward again, brushing against her skin under the fabric of her shirt, palming her breast, kneading it gently under his hand. with nothing left between their hips, he wants her to feel how hard he is already, pressing into her thigh, the thrill of her words pooling hot and low in his abdomen. he laughs breathily, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. )
Please, I'm just getting started. We've got all night for you to tire me out.
( which sounds a lot like a challenge, and maybe it is. he hasn't had this much physical contact with anyone in two months and he's starved for it; he'd let her do anything to him at this point, whatever she wants, just to feel her doing it. not that he wouldn't have before, but there's something more intense, more intimate about it now that she's touching him like this for the first time since they last saw each other in november. (as much as it would have passed the time, he hadn't exactly been doing a lot of jacking off in government solitary. he's all about putting on a show for the camera, but considering his fantasies usually involve bev these days, he definitely hadn't wanted to give them anything they could have potentially used against him. bev wouldn't have been a lot to go on, but it's better not to underestimate the power of the secret service.)
so to call the last two months a dry spell is a little bit of an understatement; it was practically the fucking sahara of getting none and he's been desperate for it ever since he laid eyes on her bundled up outside the bunker. the fact that they've even made it out of his room long enough to do anything but find new ways of moaning each other's names is a fucking miracle in itself. he almost feels bad about subjecting to sam to his perpetual sex hair and afterglow attitude, but sam's a big boy who can deal with his older brother having an active and healthy love life. after the shit they've been through recently, dean fucking deserves the amount he's getting laid — and if sam really wanted to, he's just as capable of putting on his own night moves (not that there are a lot of options in lebanon, unless sam is suddenly into gilfs).
dean leans into her hand, chasing her thumb to catch it between his lips, sucking at it with the flat of his tongue. he gazes down at her through long eyelashes, his green eyes bright with adoration and want. )
Plenty of tension left to work out, too. ( he leans in to meet her mouth, gently nudging them away from the wall as he kisses her. ) What're you feeling? Whatever you want, babe, you got it.
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God, yeah, she's missed him. Body and soul. His laugh, the fondness in his gaze, the reverent way he caresses and kisses her. Even now, cupping her breast in his callused palm and holding her flush to his broad form as they cross the room as their lips meet, she feels just like she did in her bedroom all those months ago: electric, moving too fast and too slow, that buzzing urge under her skin to get under his. He's asking her what she wants and fuck, she adores him for that, but as the backs of her knees hit the headboard, she's thinking back to working out that tension, thinking of the hot press of his desire against her belly, thinking how touch-starved they've both been but him especially.
Tonight does feel slow, languid. Indulgent. She didn't ambush him in his bedroom in the wake of a hunt just to have him do all the work. She's a polite, generous houseguest. ]
I want you... [ she murmurs, tipping her head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the fluttering pulse in his throat as her hand slides from his ass to between them, gliding down his stomach, ] to relax. [ Her lips begin to wander over his collarbone just as her hand wraps around his cock; she plants a kiss to his tattoo as she gives him a slow, deliberate stroke, waiting for the groan she knows will follow. ] Been a long night, huh?
[ She lifts her head just enough to look up at him through her lashes, eyes sparking with teasing and arousal. It's a check-in, nothing more, because then she leans back up to kiss him with a sweep of tongue just as she swipes the pad of her thumb — the same one he kissed — over the head of his cock before giving it another slick stroke. ]
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Yeah. Better now. ( he says, a little rough around the edges — and it's confirmation of something else, too, something closer to yeah, i want you. i want this. if his voice breaks in the back of his throat from the brush of her thumb over his cock, it gets swallowed by her kiss, searing through him, slowly fraying every nerve. she's barely even touched him and already his knees feel like they might give. maybe it's just the exhaustion of a rigorous hunt, or maybe that's just what she does to him. christ.
a low, breathy sound passes his lips, a huff of a laugh spreading through the thin air between them. it's hard to tell if he's laughing at himself or the fact that bev is surprising him all over again. ) Hold on a sec, huh? ( not to ruin the mood, but if he doesn't sit down they're gonna end up crashing into the bed when she makes his legs tremble — and he firmly has no doubt she's fully capable of making him weak at the knees. he leans in to steal another kiss, his hands drifting to her waist as he turns them in place, backing himself onto the edge of his mattress; it creaks faintly under his weight. in the shift, his robe has come undone, spread open, leaving him on full display, the waist belt hanging loosely at his sides. he should feel exposed, vulnerable, but he's never felt shame about sharing his body, especially not with someone he cares about, someone he knows understands him in a way no one else could. after all, his body is the one thing he's always had control over, even when everything around him felt impossibly out of control — and why the mark terrified him as much as it did.
he reaches out for her hand, the one she'd touched him with only moments ago, brushes his thumb over the back of it. )
You know you don't have to. ( which isn't the same as i don't want you to. hadn't she told him the same thing the first time they did this? you don't have to — or, i don't want you to feel obligated. he'd be more than happy to pull her in, let her sit on his lap, straddle him all the way, let her ride him until she unraveled; happy just to watch her take her pleasure of him, knowing he could give that to her. but the look in her eyes has a different intent, something dean has rarely experienced in all his years of one night stands and failed romances: it seems to say let me do this for you because i want to — and who would he be to deny her? he knows intimately the pride that comes with making someone else feel good, so of course he wants her to feel the same, wants her to be able to view this not as an obligation but a gift, something they can both share. something they can both enjoy. ) Ain't nothing wrong with missionary if you change your mind.
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Granted, it's hard to focus when he's sitting there like that and looking up at her, so at ease with himself and with sharing his space with her, and God, his eyes. Beverly smiles as he reaches for her hand, skin tingling where he brushes the pad of his thumb over it. It's such a little thing but so painfully tender, it tempers the heat a little. And then — ]
I know. [ Soft, sweet. She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] I want to, though. If that's okay.
[ She thinks a lot about that first time. Not just the way they burned for each other but the care in each brush of their hands and lips — is this okay; if it gets too much, we don't have to — and it's present here too, of course it is, it always is. It's only been a few months since their relationship turned intimate, physical, and even with most nights spent wrapped in each others' arms they're still learning how to read the moments in between the pounding heartbeats. Yes, she came to him in his room; yes, he kissed her back, whispered desires into her ear, but if the hunt left him more tired than he realised, Beverly wouldn't mind putting the brakes on this until morning. Until whenever. No shame, no awkwardness, no misgivings. The understanding is why they work and why she trusts him more than she has any man in her bed; she only wants to give him as much as he gives her.
Beverly leans down and kisses him again: forehead, cheekbone, the shell of his ear where she whispers, ] Just tell me what you like.
[ Because it's been a while and this is one of the first times she's actually wanted to do this. Like, really, really wants to do this. She slides the towel from around his neck and drops it to the floor; the robe's next, pushed back just enough to bare his shoulders to her wandering mouth — already trailing down the side of his throat, the slope where it meets the rise of his deltoid, his tattoo again until she can't bend over any more and has to kneel (on the towel, good thinking, Bev).
She doesn't touch him yet. Wants to draw this out. Her hands rest on his thighs instead, brushing back and forth as she tips her chin up to kiss him again, searing and slow with a slip of tongue; sometimes she trails her nails lightly up his sides, back down, ghosting his inner thighs, kissing him all the while. There's a thrill in making him feel good, making him unravel, and she's discovered the little things that earn his gasps. She wants to find more, explore him as he's explored her, helped her relearn her own body and enjoy it. He deserves that too. ]