Chapter Text
“We have two angels posted in… Well, I suppose the ‘armory’ is the best word to use. We also have four higher up, those who run training drills and assign garrisons. You’ve met two of them, but I can assure you of their dedication to the cause. Then we have our ‘ace in the hole,’ so your consort would say, Chamuel.” Pahalia says proudly. “Michael’s first sergeant.”
You nod in confirmation. “His right hand man. Perfect.” You frown at the angel, still standing in front of the kitchen table. “Pahaliah, please sit. You’re making me twitchy.”
The angel rolls her eyes, but obligingly sits. The show of spirit brings ghost of a smile to your face before you continue. “And he’s doing okay, Chamuel is? With the spellwork, I mean?”
Chamuel is, honestly, probably one of your greatest assets. A week after you had to hold hunter’s funerals for your lost angels, Chamuel came to you in a dream. He’s appalled at his superior’s actions, and in a move that speaks of almost unfathomable bravery, he came to you to help.
More importantly, he came to you with the beginnings of a plan.
Chamuel started slowly, subtly, talking to his brothers and sisters that he thought he could trust. There are some angels, quite a few, who believe that Michael’s actions were just. The thought turns your stomach, and makes Chamuel’s caution that much more urgent. You want no more deaths, on either side, but most importantly yours, so secrecy is key until the threat is neutralized.
The fact that there is a plan in action makes everyone, human and angel alike, feel better. Inactivity for the first days after the funerals made everyone restless and uncomfortable. So you did the only thing you could think of, and you sent the angels off to hunt again. They go in pairs now, and most of them choose to stay invisible to humans. They smite and move on quickly, trying to stay on the move. You understand their caution, and are even glad for it.
Your phone buzzing on the table knocks you out of your reverie. The name on the display sets butterflies off in your stomach, and has your face stretching into a smile. You nod once to Pahaliah, who’s watching you with amusement written clearly on her young features. You mock scowl at her as you stand up and answer the phone on your way out.
“Hi, Dean.”
There’s a smile in his voice. “Heya, Princess.”
Something deep inside of you, something that always remains tight and scared and painful when he’s gone, relaxes somewhat at the whiskey sound of his voice. “How’s it going?”
“All right. Got two more recruits. Sammy and me are gonna finish up this werewolf case, and we should be headed back home tonight.”
Sending the angels to hunt with the Winchesters has made everything go much smoother for them, and you’re eternally grateful. The last thing you need is more reasons to worry about your boyfriend and his wayward brother.
They’ve been gone for two and a half weeks, and you’re starting to get antsy. They left on Cass’s suggestion that, as your “consort,” (a title that almost never fails to make you giggle and make Dean blush, no matter how vehemently he denies it), Dean can accept oaths of fealty on your behalf. It makes sense to take advantage of the loophole, being able to meet the newly liberated angels wherever they happen to fall is a huge asset. You know it is in your head, but you miss Dean like crazy, and you’re having trouble not resenting the hell out of Castiel for suggesting it.
The ache you feel in your chest, however, has finally convinced you to be brave and tell Dean what’s going on in your head, and why you’ve been so distant. Even just the thought kind of terrifies you, but you’re going to do it anyway. Because you love him and you miss him and God help you you need him to be with you.
“So, I’m thinkin’ as long as this werewolf goes down as easy as I think it will, we’ll be home before dinner. How’s that sound, baby?”
You smile wide. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”
When he gets home, you don’t even need the angels to tell you that they’ve arrived. You can feel it deep in the marrow of your bones. He’s close.
You’re in a discussion with Rikbiel about how best to strike heaven when you feel it. Without preamble or explanation, you stand and run down the stairs and to the backdoor.
(Later, when you come to apologize, Rikbiel will give you a soft smile and explain that no one expected you to be in any shape to plan an attack when Dean got back. You blush furiously, Dean laughs, and Rikbiel just smiles his little smile as he walks away.)
When you burst through, you only have eyes for Dean. You don’t see the new angels, or Sam, and you really only register the car because Dean is still climbing out of it. He’s chuckling at something, but his eyes immediately seek you out, which is gratifying as all hell. The smile fades into something gentler, sweeter for you, and he doesn’t even move to get his bags out of the trunk before he’s circling the car and meeting you halfway.
You can’t help it. You feel like some sort of romance movie damsel in distress, but you can’t seem to help the tears that gather in your eyes, or the way your legs take you to him at a run. When he’s at the bottom of the little steps on the porch, and you’re at the top, you throw yourself at him, and you know he’ll catch you. Dean’s always caught you.
True to form, he does this time, too, and his arms are tight around you as you wrap your legs around his waist and hold onto him just as fiercely. Your breathing is shaky, and you feel the way his hands tremble just a little as he puts one under your thigh to help hold you up (not that you need it, you’re doing just fine staying right where you are all on your own), and puts the other on the back of your head, gently stroking your hair and keeping your face buried in his neck.
“Hey, princess,” and his voice sounds a little thick, now that you hear it again, “miss me?”
“A little,” you say, still pressed into his neck, so your words are muffled.
He huffs out a laugh and starts up the stairs. “Where to?”
“Bedroom,” you say after a beat of silence.
He stills, and you feel him turn so his mouth is almost pressed to your ear. “Are, uh, are you sure?”
You nod, wincing a little, because for some reason you were hoping he hadn’t really noticed your lack of intimacy. “Yes, please.”
His grip tightens infinitesimally as he carries you through the house. You begin pressing tiny, frantic kisses on his warm neck, aching for any part of him to be against any part of you without the barrier of clothes.
By the time you get up the stairs and to the bedroom, you’re both panting and holding onto one another hard enough to bruise. Neither of you pays either of those things any mind until Dean has you in the bedroom and has the door kicked shut behind the two of you.
He sets you down, and before either of you can think too much about it, you’re kissing frantically. You’re pulling his jacket off of his shoulders, and he growls a little into your mouth when he has to let go of you to let it fall to the floor, which makes your toes curl in your sneakers and sends a shiver down your spine. His big, warm hands land on your hips again, and he turns the both of you so you’re pushed against the door. He pins you there with his weight, his leg slotting between yours, making you whimper a little and fist your hands in his shirt.
His mouth moves on yours like a sin, and he’s rolling his hips just the right way to make you gasp, and you have no idea how, but luckily a little tendril of sense finds its way to your higher brain functions before they shut down completely, and you press against his chest. Dean immediately lifts his head, although he doesn’t back off, which is good, because you don’t really want him to go anywhere. “Everything okay?”
His husky question makes you a little weak in the knees as heat curls in your belly, but you fight to stay strong. You need to get this out, if only for yourself, before he takes you apart over and over.
“Yeah, yeah, um, I just… Before we do this, I just wanted to tell you, like, I wanted to be honest with you about why we haven’t been… Doing… Uh, this,” you finish lamely, blushing and gesturing between the two of you.
His brow creases, and you want to soothe it away as he speaks. “Okay. Are you all right?”
You nod, and settle your eyes somewhere on the few inches of skin on his neck that’s bared by the henley he’s wearing. Ugh, he’s so fucking hot. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just… I mean, it’s kind of important.”
He nods, and instead of pressing for more details right away, he bends a little and picks you up again. You squeak and hold on, surprised. He backs over slowly until the backs of his knees hit the bed, then sinks down with you firmly held in his lap. You’re glad he does, because it’s probably the position that gets you the most physical contact.
You press your face into his warm neck again, because while you want to tell him this, you don’t know that you could look him in the eye while you do.
“Okay, so, um, about a week before you left, I had a new nightmare.” His grip tightens on you, but he stays silent, and one of his hands starts running soothingly up and down your back. “In it, we were… I mean, we were having sex, but…”
Something is off.
When he touches you, it’s cold and impersonal. There’s nothing of the love or gentleness or sweetness the two of you usually have, it’s just… Sex.
He barely looks at you, and he doesn’t kiss you at all. He’s touching you just enough to get both of you off.
Dean is good at it, and you feel pleasure spreading through you, slow and hot, but there’s none of the warmth. As he sinks into you, you whimper, and you can’t tell if it’s because he feels so good, or because your heart is hurting.
“Please, Dean, look at me. Just look at me, please.” You reach up to touch his face, and when he flinches a little and turns away, it kills you, even as you roll your hips against his.
Dean’s blood could be ice water for all the heat he feels now. He’s horrified, both by the story she’s telling, and by the low monotone her voice has become. It’s all he can do to keep up the gentle movements of his hand on her warm back.
“And I just, I don’t know, I guess I got the sense that dream you was being that way because I’m so needy, and anxious, and I need so much reassurance, and I’m just so scared that you’ll get tired of it, of me always asking if we’re okay, or whatever, and I don’t-”
Far from monotone now, her voice is spinning higher and higher into hysteria, and Dean turns to press his lips to her cheek. “Shh, princess, hey, it’s all right, come back to me, you’re all right.”
She draws in a shuddering breath and nods again. “Right, um, anyway. So, that’s why I’ve been having trouble with… This.”
He realizes that he’s started a gentle back and forth rocking, and he keeps it up, hoping it soothes her a little like it does him. “I’m glad you said something,” he says softly, unsure of what else to say. He’s not good at this, he doesn’t have what she needs to comfort her.
“I’m all right,” she whispers shakily, her breath finally evening out. “I just… Wanted to let you know, I guess,” she says timidly.
And there it is.
Something in the way her voice becomes small and unsure, maybe. Or the way she folds in on herself just a little bit more. Whatever it is, it takes all of the stupid insecurities and internal roadblocks in his head and tosses them out the window.
This is the brave thing to do, and for her, the brave thing has always been easy for Dean.
“Hey, look at me, princess.” She doesn’t resist when he gently guides her head up so they’re looking into one another’s eyes. He takes a deep breath, then.
“Listen, I know this is exhausting for you, but it’s not for me, okay? I’m here to tell you that we’re okay, or that you’re doing all right, or to tell those voices to shut up, and I’ll always be here for that okay? I… Jesus, Y/N, I’m in love with you. Did you not know?”
“Jesus, Y/N, I’m in love with you. Did you not know?”
You knew that, obviously, he’s been so wonderful and patient and adoring that it would be hard not to know how Dean felt about you. But to hear it like that, to hear him say it…
Your entire existence has just shifted into place in a neat little click of changing perspectives. Nothing is different, not for real, not in the long run, but somehow everything is different. Your world has really just moved about an inch to the left, but everything is better and lighter and better here.
Everything stills for just a beat, and then you’re both moving at the same time, crashing your mouths together, hands frantic to tear clothing off to get to flesh.
“Oh, God, Dean,” you murmur against his lips as soon as you can get back to him after he whips your shirt off, “oh, God, Dean, I love you so much-”
“I love you, too, princess,” he whispers, raw and open and honest, and it sends more heat through you than anything he’s done with his hands so far.
More loving murmurs and sweet nothings are traded as you both scramble to divest the other of clothes. There’s just a smidge of an awkward moment when you have to stand to take your pants off, but then he’s spinning both of you and gently nudging you back onto the bed, rearranging you so he’s standing between your bent legs, your toes brushing the floor.
The tender look in his eyes as he knees has you taking in another shaking breath. He takes your left foot in his hand and, never breaking eye contact, presses a kiss so soft you can barely feel it to to the top of that foot.
“I love you,” he whispers.
He kisses your ankle. “I love you.”
He kisses your shin. “I love you.
He sets that leg down, and starts at the other one. “I love you.”
The courage it’s taking him to do this, to declare his love for you, when you know how absolutely terrifying it must be for your stoic, “I don’t have feelings” boyfriend, makes tears gather in your eyes. He whispers his love between kisses to your knees, your thighs, each of your hips. Your belly, each rip, the top of each breast, each shoulder, and down both of your arms is graced with the same gentle, adoring worship.
By the time he makes it to pepper your face with kisses, you’re crying pretty openly, albeit silently. He kisses away the tears from your temples, each of your eyelids gently, and finally ends at your mouth, taking your lips with his and firmly banishing any more insecurities you have. Not permanently, you both know that the way you feel, the confidence and assurance, is only for tonight, that tomorrow you’ll probably be back to worrying and doubting.
But for now, for tonight, it is enough.
His hand moves down to gently tweak a nipple, making you gasp for an entirely different reason. You arch your back and whimper into his mouth, which has turned up into a smile. He does the same to your other nipple, making you squirm, before his hand skims down your belly, still soft and reverent, and settles between your legs.
You’re soaking wet, because apparently emotional intimacy does it for you, too. He easily sinks two fingers into you, making you cry out and toss your head back. “Dean!”
He leans down to whisper in your ear. “That’s it, baby, God, I want you so much, you’re so fucking reactive, look at how wet you are for me-”
So he trades those sweet nothings for gentle, loving dirty talk, which makes you wild. One of your hands comes up to bury itself in his hair while the other rakes your nails down his back as you buck into his hand. “Dean!”
He starts to thumb your clit, sending sparks up and down your spine, making your mouth drop open as you moan loudly. He’s grinning now, kissing your ear and keeping up his steady whispers. “You’re so sexy like this, princess, fuck, I want you so fucking bad-”
“Dean, please,” you beg shamelessly, moving the hand not in his hair down between you to wrap around his length, bringing out a deep moan from him as he shudders at your touch. “Dean, I need you inside me, please, please.”
He finally takes his fingers from you, and makes eye contact again just so you can watch the way his pupils dilate even further as he slowly licks them off, making you whimper, “please,” one more time.
He smiles wickedly down at you, then moves away for just a moment to grab a condom. He rolls it on, then settles himself over you slowly, pressing you into the mattress. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist.
He presses his forehead to yours, and you watch as his eyes slip closed. “Fuck,” he whispers fervently as he lines himself up. You whimper and tilt your hips, giving him better access, whining low in your throat.
He sinks in slowly, drawing it out, making both of your breathing stutter at the stretch. “Oh, fuck,” you murmur, letting your own eyes close so you can really appreciate the way he opens and fills you up, so you feel contentment and heat and restlessness all at the same time, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
When he bottoms out, you both moan, and he wastes no time pulling back out and establishing a rhythm that rocks the bed slowly with you. You roll your hips against his, gasping and moaning as the pleasure tightens around you, making you feel like you don’t fit into your skin, like nothing will ever make you feel this way again, though Dean has made you feel like this before, and he will several times over in the future.
It doesn’t take long for the pace to pick up, until your fingers are digging into his biceps and you’re crying out as he tilts you just so so he’s hitting that spot that makes your insides shudder and your legs spasm. “Dean!”
“Come on, baby,” he whispers, “Come for me, Y/N, come on, sweetheart-”
Your world narrows down to just the point where you’re connected, and your orgasm washes over you hard, making you buck and moan and shudder and moan out his name over and over, hanging on desperately as the pleasure storms through you.
Three hard thrusts later, each sending sparks to light up along your nerves, he stiffens above you and comes with a long, low groan. He collapses gracelessly on top of you, making you laugh weakly and loop your arms around his neck again. You press a long, firm kiss to his sweaty temple, smiling against him. “I love you,” you whisper.
“Love you, too,” he mutters into your neck, where his face is currently buried.
Tomorrow, you both have to go back to work. He might have to go get more rogue angels, you’ll have to keep planning the invasion to heaven. There might be more attacks from Michael. Though he said it today, you now Dean inside and out, and he’s nothing if not emotionally repressed. He might not tell you that he loves you for years after this. You’re both sweaty and gross and it smells like sex and you’re not even under the covers.
For now, though, he’s told you over and over and over that he loves you, and he’s here, in your arms, so everything else fades into the background as the two of you fall sleep together.