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starksinner · 5 years

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Shall We Play a Game?

Summary: Dean’s a demon — but you just want to bring him home. Will you play his game well enough to convince him to? Loosely based on 10x2.

Pairings: Demon!Dean x Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Demon!Dean, Mentions of Drinking, Angst, Mild Smut

"Hiya, sweetheart,"

Dean acknowledges you without peering away from the silver keys of the grand piano. His jaw is set — tight and sharp — as if he’s swiftly calculating his every movement and contemplating his every option.

You knew he was a different man. The green of his eyes no longer carried the memories of loss, love, and regret that he had shared with you after all of these years. He was a different man, with a different heart. He was no longer your Dean — but you weren’t willing to accept that.

He places the first blade on top of the ebony, his emerald eyes scanning over it's jagged beauty — admiring it, lusting after it.

Lifting his head, he looks at you standing across the bar, your hair disheveled and your eyes bloodshot red.

"Hey, Harv," he spoke to the man cleaning the bar top. "Why don't you go grab a smoke?"

Your gaze was fixed on him, the tension between the two of you seemingly suffocating the surrounding space. You were observing every crevice of his features, almost as though you were forcing yourself to fall for him for the second time. You wanted to see his good, his love, his kindness.

You wanted to see Dean again.

"Who winged you?" He motions lazily to your bandaged hand sneaking out from under your jacket. The door of the bar abruptly slams shut as Harv leaves you and Dean alone.

“Does it matter?” You deadpan, pressing your tongue against the top of your mouth.

He runs his hands over his unshaven jaw, thinking for a moment. "I mean, not really," he laughs, reaching out for his whiskey perched upon the piano. "I told you to let me go. I told you to fuck off and forget about me.”

"You know I can't just do that, Dean." You took several strides towards him, his familiar scent of pine and whiskey threatening to ignite a spark deep inside you. “I hope you know that, your ‘pal’ Crowley sold you out."

"Yup. Sounds like him."

He reaches out for the blade again, it’s beauty captivating his attention more than yours seemingly ever could. He drags the edge of it across the piano’s black surface, grasping it hard and steady between his palm.

With the blade in one hand and his whiskey glass in the other, he stands and made his way towards the open bar, striding right past you.

"Dean," you grit your teeth together, attempting to keep your cool. "You don't gotta' to do this shit. Just come home with me. Fuck, are you even listening?"

He takes another swing of his drink, his eyes watching yours as he leans over the bar condescendingly.

"We know how to cure demons,” you remind him exasperatedly. “You remember that, right? You, me? Sam and Cas?"

"Little bit of Latin, a shit ton of blood," he places his empty glass on the counter, lifting his eyebrows. "It rings a fuckin’ bell."

He reaches for another bottle of whiskey behind the bar, filling his cup right to the rim as you watch his familiar dependency on alcohol deepen. "Did you ever stop to think that if I wanted to be cured, I wouldn't have bailed?"

"That was Crowley."

"It really wasn't."

"It doesn't fucking matter, all right!" Your fist smashes against the counter harder than you want it to, your knuckles suddenly burning in pain. "Whatever the fuck went down, whatever happened, we'll fix it. Just me and you. Just like we always have, Dean."

At this point, you can smell the pride radiating off of him. His lips are wet and shining as he suggestively runs his tongue over the pink skin, his eyes boring into your own. "Do you really think you're right about that, sweetheart?"

“It’s always been me and you, through everything that’s happened, I’ve always been with you and you’ve always been with me. This doesn’t change that.”

For the first time since you’ve walked into the bar, he peers his attention away from the blade and only focuses on you. "It’s funny, sweetheart — cause right now, I'm doing all I can not to come over there and rip your fuckin' throat out," he crushes his glass against the corner of the bar top, glass shattering to the ground with a loud bang, "with my teeth."

You feel the corner of your eye twitch as you finally decide to take a step away from him, which he responds with a step towards you. You feel his disgusting pleasure from the sudden tension in your shoulders and stickiness of your cold, clammy hands.

For the first time since you’ve known Dean Winchester, you’re terrified — and he damn well knows it.

He's getting off from it.

He isn't the Dean you knew, the Dean you love, the Dean you trust.

You’re fucking terrified — maybe this was a bad idea.

"But fuck — knowin' you, you'd probably like that," he drawls, letting his eyes fall from to your chest, to your waist, all the way down to your thighs. "Best damn lay of my life, always been so damn kinky—"

"Shut the fuck up!” Your voice shakes as you press your nails into your palms to steady your emotions. "I came here to take you back, so let me just fucking—” Your back hits against wall, obstructing your path, but evidently amusing Dean as he saunters forward.

"C'mon now, sweetheart," he cooes, sucking his bottom lip right between his teeth. He's inches away from you, the large gap between the two of you closed as you stand toe to toe. "You know I ain't ever comin' back. I like the disease. I like the blood and the death.”

Your gaze is cold and emotionless as you attempt to appear strong and still. He leans his face forward and rakes his eyes over your neck and down the valley of your breasts.

He’s disgusting.

This is disgusting.

This isn’t Dean.

"Is Sammy really that desperate to send my old whore to come fetch me?"

You won’t let his words catch you off guard. You’ve dealt with the worst kind of men your whole life; drunk assholes in bars, egotists, misogynists, abusive brutes. You weren’t going to take Dean’s words to heart.

You can play the same game he is — maybe even better than he is.

“You’re the one that used to fuck me every night,” you stare at him sharply, watching as he studies your lips and smirks lustfully. “Sammy and I both thought that would spark your interest, maybe remind you of what you left behind.”

You grab the edge of his belt buckle and pull him forward, causing a grunt to escape his lips as your bodies push together. “Do you wanna remember what you left behind?” Your fingers brush against the fly of his jeans, feeling his outline of his cock harden. “Do you?”

You weren’t ashamed to admit that you enjoyed playing dirty. Dean was submissive when he wanted to be, you knew that. You didn’t mind using that to your advantage.

This was a game to him — you needed to win it.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean all but moaned against you as you finally gripped him between your fingers. Your lips traced lightly across his neck as he pushed further into you, begging to be rid of the layer between you.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Dean? Will that make you come home with me?” You tangled your free hand between the stands of his gelled hair, licking the side of his neck.

He was suddenly silent as you continued palming his dick, your lips sucking marks into his skin wherever your they could touch.

His hands fell to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin softly — that is — until they suddenly weren’t.

“I don’t think you get how I work anymore, Y/N,” Dean’s fingertips dug into your skin harshly, causing you to groan and let go of his length that continued to harden between your fingertips. “I’m not who I used to be—”

As you looked up into his eyes, one of his hands reached out and gripped your throat, pushing you further against the wall.

Maybe — this was a game you couldn’t beat him at.

“F-Fuck,” you moaned unapologetically as one of his hands gripping your waist fell between your legs, brushing right up against your clit.

He held it there, teasing you, demonstrating his dominance over you.

“I wanna get one thing straight, baby,” Dean pressed his nose against your neck, breathing in your scent as he squeezed harder. “You’re not fucking me, sweetheart — I’m fucking you.”

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