Word Count: ~1500

So, yeah. This has some low-key smut in the beginning, but it's pretty vague. I realized that I haven't written much for the Supernatural fandom lately, but i hope this will smooth things over - since I've hit a wall with 'Tip Jars' for the time being...

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural... and I still don't see why I have to put this up for nearly every single story I manage to upload

Her hand flew to Dean's head, hoping he'd get the not-so-subtle hint to keep doing what he was doing. His stubble was scratching against her skin and she knew the sensitive flesh would be red tomorrow.

But she didn't care.

As long as he didn't stop.

He made a noise against her as she pulled his hair and she could feel the vibrations all through her body, shooting straight to the hot coil that was already wound tight - too tight.

He did that thing with his tongue and her other hand - the one that had been clenching onto the sheets above her head - flew towards her mouth. She closed her teeth on her knuckle to stop herself from making a sound that would definitely wake Sam.

"Fuck." She felt rather than hear Dean say against her inner thigh. She opened her eyes and squinted down at him, wondering if anything was wrong. He was looking up at her. And she could look past the lust blown pupils and find another emotion in his eyes. Adoration - maybe - or awe. Or-

No, she wouldn't even think of that word. The one she had been craving ever since she knew what it meant.

But Dean kept looking at her. Even when he reprised his ministrations, his eyes stayed on hers - and she couldn't look away.

The coil got tighter.

And tighter.

And-

Her eyes shot open to the sound of something crashing. She scrambled out of her seat in the library - where she had fallen asleep researching ways to help Cas out with his angel problem - and crept over to the kitchen, wondering who could be on the other side of the wall.

And it was Dean, hastily picking up coffee mug off the floor and setting it on the counter. One of his hands - the one dangling limply at his side - was sporting a lovely shade of red at the knuckles. Her eyes trailed up his arm and to his face, where she could see the tell-tale signs of a bruise blossoming along his jawline.

"What the hell happened to you?" Dean jumped and spun around to look at her, the muscles in his shoulders slightly relaxing when he realized it was her.

"You should see the other guy." He threw a small smile in her direction and a snippet of her dream flashed before her eyes, spinning her mind into a panic.

"Really?" She took a step closer, unable to really meet his eyes since she was just fantasizing about him going down on her.

Oh god. She was fucked.

"Yeah, a couple of frat boys wouldn't leave a lady alone at the bar."

"And so you punched through mirror in the men's bathroom to intimidate them." She said as she grabbed one of the many first aid kits that they had stashed everywhere in the Bunker. She slid it onto the counter but his coffee mug and shut the cabinet door under the sink.

"I did not punch a mirror." He scoffed. "If they would just respect other people and cut their damn hair,"

"Oh my god." She looked up at the ceiling as she faked having an earth shattering epiphany. "I actually live with an angry old man." An old man that she had thought about getting down with for a while now.

"I am not old!"

"You kind of are." She took a closer look at his hand, congratulating herself on not shaking when she held it in her smaller ones. Progress, right?

"I'm not old, I'm experienced."

She knew. She had envisioned just how experienced he was. With his hands and his mouth and his-

Fucking hell. She was so fucked.

She could feel her face heat up as she finished her examination. Nothing too bad, she mused. His knuckled would just need some cleaning up, but at least no bandaging or - God forbid - stitching.

"Is that what you tell all the girls you try to pick up from the bar?" She poked at him, trying to keep the light banter up between the two.

"Funny enough, most of them don't have a problem with my skill level." She snorted as she pulled out an antiseptic wipe and got to work on his hands.

"Did that come up with your mystery girl tonight?"

"We didn't talk much before or after I kicked those boys' asses in the back lot behind the joint."

"And she didn't give you her number?" She asked cheekily. "Chivalry really must be dead then, huh?"

"I wasn't really going to ask for it, if you must know." She didn't even have to look up to know that he was tilting his head up haughtily.

"Then what the hell were you doing at a bar?"

"Drinking away my problems."

Now she was concerned. "Dean, you know you can tell me anything, right?" She forced herself to look up at him. "And I won't charge you excessively for the beer." She added with a smile, hoping he'd do the same.

He mumbled something as she opened the freezer door and pulled out a couple ice packs - one for his knuckles and the other for that jaw of his.

"Want to share with the class?" She asked as she gave one to him and placed the other on the side of his face herself.

"Just the usual problems - Sam, Cas, the world in general."

"You really are an old man." Again, an old man that she saw not even half an hour ago between her legs.

God. Damm. It.

Honestly.

"Am not." She raised one of his eyebrows at her and - god - she was so close. So close that it wouldn't take much to raise herself on her toes and-

And she was staring at his lips. She looked up, expecting to inevitably find that smirk that had been a feature in a couple of her recent dreams, but instead found his eyes not looking into hers like they had been a few moments earlier.

What the hell was she supposed to do? Kiss him? Hit him? Make things unbearingly awkward? Keep things casual between the two of them so that she wouldn't have to deal with all these illegitimate emotions that were churning through her? Would she have to-

She was pulled out of her thoughts as she heard something clatter against the floor. The coffee mug. She looked down from Dean's face and bent down to pick it up, thankful for the distraction. She straightened up and put the mug father along the counter - nowhere near the edge of said counter - and moved to put the first aid kit back in the cabinet under the sink where it belonged.

A yawn wracked her body, stretching her arms above her head and closing her eyes in exhaustion. "I think I'm gonna turn in for the night." She turned back to him and noticed that he had been following her every move with his eyes. She pulled down the hem of her tank top where it had ridden up as she blushed again.

"Don't get into anymore fights," She admonished lightly. "I don't want you to break a hip or something, pretty boy." And then - before she could really think it through - she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek before turning around and exiting the kitchen, her bed and a hopefully dreamless night of sleep ahead of her.

Dean watched her go, knowing that he'd have a few more bits to add the the dreams he had been having recently staring her. Even a night of drinking couldn't get him to forget about the problem he had. The problem - that should actually be plural - pertaining to the way he had felt against her or the way she said his name or even-

He had to shake his head to get the images out. Although he'd settle for just keeping them in the back of his mind for later - you know, when he didn't have to think about doing simple activities like picking up a fucking coffee mug or actually dealing with these urges of his - when he was alone and in his own room.

He. Was. So. Fucked.

Aaaand I'm done with this one. It has been here in my drafts for such a long time, but I'm glad I was able to put it up. And I have no idea how that first part came to be, honestly. I had all the dialogue done and an actual game plan to follow, but that never really happened and look at where we are now. Oops #sorrynotsorry

Remember to Smile :)

~Becca