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[ God, he's so good for her, to her, the way he's looking at her and holding her like she's the only person in the world; she could lose herself in the intensity of his focus, his passion — hell, she does. Everything else falls away, the only thing that matters is Dean in front of her, above her, right here and as close as she's ever yearned for him to be, consumed by his kisses, wrapped up in his arms, trading gasping breaths like they're drowning and they're all the oxygen the other needs. Because fuck, she does need him, and he's so generous, attentive, Jesus Christ, he's giving her everything she's ever missed and everything she never knew she'd gone without to begin with.

Their kisses are hurried, careless now as they hurtle towards the edge together, peppered with moans of encouragement, whimpered names, ragged pleas for that barely even make it into the charged air between them. Beverly's fingers curl into the sides of his hair, holding him right there, foreheads pressed tight together and skin burning and thrumming where they meet, dewy with exertion as nice and slow goes out the window for more, faster, good, yes. This close she can feel the way his muscles go taut, the rhythm of his thrusts picking up, chasing the release he's resisted all night, and one hand releases his hair so she can cup his flushed cheek, whisper in a hot rush against his open mouth as her name dissolves into a ragged groan. ]

Perfect. [ She kisses him as he rides through it, never lingering for long because God, the sounds falling from his parted lips, the thrill the proof of his pleasure sends through her and straight between her thighs, squeezing him tight like she can take him deeper this way, draw out his orgasm as long as she can. The pad of her thumb sweeps over his bottom lip as she draws back to look at him, drink in the twist in his expression, fuck, he's so — ] Perfect, Dean, that's it, that's right, honey.

[ She's so caught up in this, in him, dragged into the undertow of the kiss that follows that she doesn't even notice the slide of his hand until his fingers find her clit again — she bucks up into him with a startled moan, the sound tapering off into a soft, high whine when the pleasure starts to skirt the edge of too much, a sharpness to it she can't even breathe through; she writhes beneath him, pinned by his hips, her own jerking like she's trying to grind up into him or draw away when the tension builds to the point of snapping, her heels digging into the bed now. ]

B-baby, [ riding on a gasp, back arching. She forces her eyes open (when did they fall closed?) to look at him again, noses brushing and hair clinging with sweat at her brow, her neck, as they move together. Gorgeous, he says, and she repeats it in a whisper, because he is too, not just her, two halves of a whole. And then — and then — ] Yeah, yeah, Dea... Dea—

[ Can't even say his name, can't catch her breath enough to do it, because suddenly she's coming with a broken cry, almost a sob or a prayer or both, arching up into him and curling around him — squeezing — as her orgasm slams into her. She holds his gaze as long as she can, lashes at half-mast when the first wave hits, wanting him to see what he does to her; his fingers don't stop, his hips don't stop, and her eyes roll back as her climax hits its peak, her head thrown back as she shatters apart, her moans racheting higher and higher until she's suspended into silence.

She doesn't know how long she drifts there, doesn't know when she sags bonelessly into the mattress in the comedown; all she knows is how overwhelmed and lightheaded she feels, aftershocks still lighting up her nerves and making her shiver and tremble under him, breath stuttering. No words; not yet. But somehow, blindly, she still tips up to him in search of his lips. Can't sustain it long, not when she's trying to catch her breath, but she can't find her voice to say his name, either: so she says it with a kiss. ]

( she calls him perfect and his eyes water involuntarily, but he has enough resolve to blink back the emotion, swallow the thickness welling up in his throat. (christ. has anyone ever called him that?) the sincerity of it, the way she strokes his face as the tension spasms out of him, his back arched, shoulders pulled tight over her as he rides through it, brows pinched, mouth falling open at her touch, his lip kiss-swollen and wet under her thumb. he can barely think, his mind emptying, replaced with the bliss of release, her voice sweet and soothing as he floats down from the height of it, any words of substance lost to the incoherent sounds rising from his throat. his teeth scrape against his lip as if that might contain the swell of adoration in his chest.

when she reaches her peak, not too far after his own — desperate, writhing under him with wild abandon, his name broken and beautiful on her lips (like a prayer, like please, i need you) — it shoots through him like wildfire, winding up his spine as she arches into him, her hips jerking into him, the tight squeeze of her shooting through him with an extra sharpness after his own release — but he doesn't stop, rides the waves of it with her, buried in her all the way to the hilt, too much but just enough, sloppy kisses traded when he manages to catch her mouth between the hitched sounds of her pleasure. )

That's it, baby, that's it. ( he echoes her words back to her, his gaze focused on her, the way she throws her head back, the shape of her mouth when there's nothing left but sound, then no sound at all. god, she's stunning, and he did this to her. his rhythm slowing as the final waves of her orgasms begin to taper off, both of them coming down from a high he hasn't felt in a long time (that she hasn't felt maybe ever, which twists a whole different emotion in his gut, a shade of pride reserved purely for firsts). ) I got you.

( a stretch of time passes in shuddered breaths, limbs loosening from being stretched taut, two bodies pressed together, desperately holding onto one another. he fears that if he moves too soon it might break this spell cast over them, over this moment that hardly feels real now that it's settling back around them, reality crashing down onto his shoulders. distantly, he's aware that he's still got a job to do in the morning, but the haze of sex and bev's lips against his sweep the thought away. he'll do the job when it's time to do the job — right now his only concern is the woman in his arms, the taste of her lips, the warmth of her he has little interest in removing himself from.

they lie there entangled for what feels like an age, but eventually he shifts to ease out of her slowly, gently rolling onto his side to face her, taking a hand to brush the damp hair from her forehead. he's still catching his breath (harder to when she consistently takes it away) but he smiles at her nonetheless, leaning in to press a soft and lingering kiss to her lips, his forehead pressed against hers when he pulls away, breathing her in, eyes shut to listen better to the soft rise and fall of her chest. he kisses her again, lighter this time, as if trying to convince himself to finally draw back. not that he particularly wants to get out of bed, but he doesn't exactly want to lie here with his release hanging warm between his thighs either. )

Hey, ( he says in a low whisper, still rough around the edges but thoroughly contented. his nose brushes hers, his lips almost meeting hers. a promise he intends to keep when he comes back. ) Gonna clean up. You okay? Need anything?

[ They could lie here like this until tomorrow afternoon and Beverly would be absolutely fine with that. It feels almost luxurious to be sprawled out in her bed together, bodies tangled and pressed flush, hearts beating in time with each other (for each other), and the only sounds filling the silence are their ragged breaths and the distant hum of New York City beyond her wide windows — not that she's even entirely aware of where she is right now, still floating in the haze of post-coital bliss and feeling like she'll never come back down again. Because this is a first for her, Dean's right about that; she meant it when she said she never thought it could feel this good (sex, but also just being with someone). It feels like her skin is almost too sensitive, her nerves are thrumming, she's still quivering in the afterglow, and all that's holding her together are his arms. There's no stopping the soft groan — of protest, exertion? — that scrapes out of her when Dean eases out and off, immediately missing the warm weight of him.

It's overwhelming, the flood of emotions and sensations that rushes in to fill the void left by her climax. Her breath hitches like she's close to tears, but the rawness of it all is softened by endorphins and the sweetness of his kiss. And kissing him, well, that's easy, the easiest thing she's ever done; it's only been a few short hours but already it's a reflex woven into her DNA, the way she turns to him like a flower to the sun, chasing his lips for another and another, each one soft and lingering. She doesn't have the presence of mind to do or say much else, still blissed out with static and the desire to be near him the only thing left with crystal clarity — but she can do this: kiss him until he world comes slowly back into focus.

And it does in increments, tingling across her body like pins-and-needles coming back to life. She's first aware of the brush of his fingers across her face (even if it came before the kisses — and maybe her sense of time is still a little hazy, beyond curses and magic), the tenderness of the gesture making her heart twist in some funny way. She thinks she can feel him looking at her, smiling at her, and her eyes finally drift open to see it for herself and — oh. Oh, there he is, so close she could reach up and caress his face if she thought her arm would cooperate with the impulse. God, he's beautiful. The thought strikes her without warning and melts away just as suddenly. She can't articulate it, so she smiles instead, a lazy, beatific thing. ]

Hi, [ she whispers back to his hey, voice airy and distracted. She blinks slowly at him, the question landing gently but still taking a beat to process it, and after a delay, she shakes her head once. It's not really an answer that holds any weight; she should get cleaned up too, maybe drink some water, something, but that all seems like too much effort. She just wants to lie here with him.

Eventually, her hand does lift to touch him, whatever part she can reach — his hand, arm, cheek — like she can anchor him to her for a few more moments. He might resist kissing her one more time but she won't, closing the scant distance between them with a simple tip of her head. Finally, necessity (and the cooling sweat on her skin) wins out and she draws away to mumble, ] Through the closet. [ Does that make sense? She tries again on a breathy laugh: ] Bathroom.

[ Jesus, what he does to her. She feels like jello. ]

( she makes a strong argument for him to stay right here with her when her hand lands on his arm, her mouth tipping into his one last time. god, how the hell is he supposed to say goodbye to her in the morning when it's this hard to walk into another room? he takes her hand, presses a soft kiss to her knuckles, then finally forces himself to sit up. )

Don't miss me too much, babe.

( his hold on her hand lingers as long as his reach will allow while he slides off the bed, careful not to let the condom slip. he gives her a wink over his shoulder once he's standing, ass bare, before he heads through her closet to the bathroom. the luxurious shower doesn't escape his notice — if he's honest, it's the first thing he notices (mind already wandering ahead to morning: imagining lazy kisses under the hot spray of water; hands roaming over soft, wet skin; the knead of her fingers shampooing his hair). but he doesn't want to keep her waiting too long, so he makes quick work of disposing of the condom and washing his hands, cataloging what he can as he casts brief glances around her bathroom: a bathtub on one wall (definitely big enough for two), crisp white towels (and a few in a soft green) neatly folded and arranged on a shelf, the sprawling sink where he stands. certainly miles more lavish than most of the motel bathrooms he's had to use over the course of his life (nicer even than the bunker, perhaps, but the bunker wasn't built for style).

before he heads back, he grabs a small washcloth and runs it under hot water until it's soaked. he wrings it out just enough so it won't drip on her rugs (which are alone probably worth more than everything he has to his name; he can safely say she's the richest person he's ever slept with, not that any of that really means anything to him). as he wanders back through her closet, he pulls open one of her drawers on the drive-by, absently picking out a pair of her underwear. )

Bev. ( he says softly to get her attention once he returns, offering her the washcloth. ) Here. ( in his other hand he holds the pair of her underwear. belatedly, he lets out a short laugh at the implication of how that might look. ) Wasn't just an excuse to go rooting through your unmentionables, promise. Just thought you might like something fresh. ( his mouth curves upward as he crawls back into bed with her, setting her underwear on the sliver of mattress left between them for her to take or leave. he shifts in a little closer, his hand brushing over the curve of her bare hip. )

Shame there wasn't anything in my size. ( in a whisper with his mouth upturned, which sounds like a joke on the surface and definitely lands like one, his eyes crinkling around the edges — but there's something almost disappointed about it (like he might have seriously considered grabbing a pair for himself if he knew they would fit), a hint of a guilty pleasure swimming just beneath the veneer of sarcasm. )

[ Don't miss me too much, he teases, but it's easier said than done when they spent the better part of the evening wrapped up in each others' arms, the closest they've ever been in the months they've known each other, longed for each other. After spending so long wanting and finally having, the slightest bit of distance is difficult to bear — him shifting from above her to alongside her, no longer pressed flush; now him sliding from her bed and leaving her cold beyond the late November night, her fingers curling into the lingering warmth left by his touch.

She's thinking the same as she watches him walk down the short corridor towards her bathroom (gaze drifting over his broad shoulders and frankly great ass): how the fuck is she supposed to say goodbye to him tomorrow? (Even with her half-dozen date ideas waiting for them when the job is done.) How is she supposed to kiss him on the threshold of her apartment, on the sidewalk outside her building, and watch the Impala drive out of the city? It wouldn't be the first time and their friendship has survived the distance before; hell, the foundations are as strong as they are because of the distance. But — don't miss me too much. Easier said than done. She already does.

But that's for tomorrow and for a few days from now. Tonight she's content, settled under the covers and basking in the afterglow, turning her head just enough to admire Dean from afar, silhouetted by the warmth of the bathroom light. So much about this has been new and this is no different — she's used to being the one dragging herself out of bed for the clean up, every step as inelegant as the act that came before. A chore, (just like everything else about her marriage), a tool to placate an angry man. It feels indulgent to stay right where she is for once, savouring every gentle moment of her comedown without a twinge of guilt or shame; neither has a place here and never has, not with him. She's never felt more relaxed — or safe. But that's Dean. He's been safe since the moment they met, eyes locked in her foyer with Tom's shadow looming over her shoulder. (I got you penetrating the fear.) It's knowing that when she comes to, it'll be with him at her side. (I got you piercing through the passion.)

Her eyes drift open again at the sound of her name, the mattress dipping under his weight as he rejoins her. A washcloth and a pair of underwear, the offer buoyed by his laughter and echoed by her own. (I got you thrumming under both.) It's so goddamn thoughtful, she thinks her heart might burst from such a simple kindness. Beverly breathes in, feels steadier for it — stomach fluttering when their fingers brush during the hand off — then smiles back at the quip he tacks on at the end. ]

Yet. [ Whether it's a joke or not, the offer is sincere if he wants it to be. (Safe. That's what they are.) ] Can make whatever you like. [ A beat, like she's willing herself to move again; her arm lifts and she lays the hot washcloth against the slope of her neck, groaning softly at how good that feels against her buzzing skin. ] Later — oh my god, that's so nice. [ Softly, with feeling, ] Thank you.

[ She lifts the comforter and wipes herself down anywhere his mouth lingered for long, north to south, soothing the points where he might have left marks behind, folding and flipping the washcloth over just as it dips between her thighs. It's a nice recap, honestly, shivering a little at the memory — or maybe that's how sensitive she still feels down there. (Yeah, no, she's not getting up any time soon.) Beverly pushes herself up on her elbow with some effort and squints across the room for aim before flinging the washcloth into the hamper. ]

Ha, [ she laughs when she makes the shot, elbow slipping a half-second later and sending her sprawling back on the bed with an audible oof; she's still laughing, still riding that high, looking back at Dean like, Did you see that? ] Gave myself fifty-fifty on making that, y'know, [ she says as she wriggles into her underwear. ] Still kinda feel like jello.

[ It's a compliment. She lets it hang between them, warm and effervescent with teasing, and then Beverly rolls onto her side to be closer to him, expression softening the moment her hand reconnects with his waist. God, she could get caught up in gazing at him for hours. They've known each other for a while now, but it feels like she's seeing him for the first time; he seems softer, somehow, worry eased from his brow and replaced by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes brought on by what can only be fondness.

She doesn't even realise she's reflecting it back at him, her voice sweet and soft as she murmurs, ] You good, honey?

Edited 2020-09-27 01:35 (UTC)

( his mouth pulls wider, a secretive little smile settling into the curve of his lips, the soft crinkle of his eyes.can make you whatever you like, and maybe he'll take her up on it, maybe not. either way, it's something he feels comfortable exploring with her, eventually, which isn't something he thought he'd ever say about anyone. (bev's safe, always has been.) there's never been any shame between them (in apologizing or for crying or even wanting); he's made sure that was a foundation of their relationship from the start, so of course she would do the same for him (and yet it still manages to surprise him all the same). but she's right, that's for later. later, after the emotions from tonight have settled; later, when they aren't both still coming down from an epic high.

he's quiet for a stretch as he watches her lay the washcloth against her neck, his stomach flipping itself inside out when thank you leaves her lips. crazy what two little words can do to him, what they mean to someone who rarely ever hears them. ) Sure thing. ( he's never been very good at saying you're welcome without it sounding condescending, but the sentiment remains the same.

while she works the washcloth over her skin, he quietly hums to himself the main guitar riff from bad company's can't get enough, his gaze following her hand even when it passes beneath the comforter, smiling softly at the memory of her, the way she tasted, the way she felt. if he thought he could move without feeling the ache in his arms, he'd slide his hand between her thighs with hers, but it's already been a long, whirlwind of a night and he thinks they both deserve this break to just bask in the glow of each other. he thought she was glowing before, when she'd told him about the divorce being finalized, but now? she's practically a supernova, radiating her affection so brightly next to him he can't help but be captivated even by the mundane act of washing herself.

he follows the cast of her arm as she throws the washcloth across the room, grinning brightly when it thwumps into the hamper. he's laughing with her when she falls back, the arch of his brow reflecting the pride in his voice. ) The crowd goes wild! That's three points to Marsh, the league's first ever jello player.

( but even as he jokes about it, it's clear by the color of his cheeks that he heard her compliment, understood what she meant by it, appreciates it more than he can express right now. his face softens, the weight of the world held by someone else's shoulders for the moment. why should he be doomed to be atlas when all he's ever done is sacrifice for the sake of the world? bev's touch centers him, grounds him, and when he looks at her this time, she is the world, worthy of his devotion and his sacrifice. )

Yeah, I'm good. ( he laughs softly, almost disbelieving. he's had a lot of good sex in his life — and a lot of pretty mediocre sex — but there's something distinctly great about being with someone fully, heart, soul, and body. he feels like that with bev, like they've been irrevocably tied together and he wouldn't have it any other way. it's just — well, he may use the word awesome more than any normal person in their thirties, but this particular moment feels worthy of truly inspiring awe. maybe he's still reeling a little, too, wondering if any of that was really real. he reaches up to brush a hand through her messy curls, feel the warmth of her drying neck. that's real, alright. she's real. this is real. they're real, aren't they? thing thing they've just begun, it's real. ) You're incredible. That was — dare I say — awesome.

( just in case there was any doubt. )

[ It's been a long time since she's basked in the afterglow of anything. She figures she'd be a broken record by now if she said as much but it's hard to shake the feeling that so much of tonight has been new, a first; and even though she knows that, it still takes her by surprise. If it were anyone else, these moments after might feel awkward — the pair of them stripped bare in every literal and figurative way, having crossed a line they can't come back from. But Dean is safe, always has been, and their friendship was built on that foundation from the start. It hasn't wavered since. If anything, she's never felt more certain in her life — of this, him, choosing him. This happened because they both wanted it; mutual, reciprocal, unconditional. (Not like before where she was just a means to an end.)

He's right — there's something great about being with someone fully. It's such an intoxicating feeling, Bev still feels lightheaded with it, helpless to do much else but smile when he answers her, gratified by it. Her eyes fall closed for a heartbeat when he touches her, the gesture so delicate it's like he's handling a soap bubble — like he's not sure she's really in front of him, like she might disappear. His fingers rest on her neck and it doesn't even occur to her to flinch, the glowing affection for him washing out old reflexes formed by fear. (Safe, safe, safe. She never wants him to stop touching her. She'd feel a little unmoored without this anchor point; but even without, he's still her harbour.)

You're incredible lands differently now that they aren't lost in each others' passionate embrace. It's as honest now as it was then, but something about it being offered so simply instead of gasped between their hungry kisses makes her blush deeper now; her eyes blink open again to look at him in the lamplight, pleased and flattered and delighted. (Maybe a little self-conscious. There's a flicker of old anxiety, wondering if she'd done enough for him, but then he says awesome and that worry goes quiet.) But her laugh is as warm as ever, bubbling free without shame. ]

Thank you? [ God, look at him. He's just lying there, looking at her like she's holding the universe together, and she thinks her heart might burst. She almost can't take it. Almost. (She almost can't get enough.) She grins, bright and playful. ] You're pretty awesome yourself, Winchester. Actually, I think the word is — mindblowing.

[ It's teasingly said, but she means it. How can she find the words to convey what this meant? What he means? She doesn't want to ruin the moment by burdening it with too much expectation, but there's no denying there's something there, something that goes beyond tonight. She knows he can feel it too. And she knows the best and only way forward is one step at a time — together. God, she wants nothing more than to explore this together.

Beverly studies him for a moment, curled up on her side and legs tangled with his under the covers. They're close, but not close enough. ]

C'mere, [ she murmurs, voice still buoyant with immeasurable fondness, as she leans up to kiss him. Words are hard, but she can do justice to half of them with this; it's chaste, but no less tender because of it, the press of their lips soft and lingering. When she breaks away, she doesn't go far, her nose brushing his as she whispers against him, ] You should stay.

[ Here. The night. With me. It's almost a question, almost a request. And it's entirely up to him. ]

Edited 2020-10-10 00:59 (UTC)

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