Dean fluff requested by soulofawinchester! "Could you possibly do an imagine where the reader and Dean work on the Impala together, washing her, and end up getting in a huge water/soap fight that ends with them finally kissing? They’ve been crushing on each other for months, and always snap at each other and make jokes at the other’s expense out of embarrassment or nervousness. The reader has trouble expressing her feelings a lot, but their water fight helps that along. Hope that’s specific! :) Thank you, your writing is wonderous!" Look they’re so nice. Hope you like it!
Your attention was torn from a newspaper article celebrating the life of yet another nameless, faceless woman from the suburbs by the sharped sound of Dean’s knuckles rapping on your open bedroom door, your eyes lifting from the forced smile of an exposure-dappled yearbook picture to the tentative face of the eldest Winchester, his body straightening from his hunched, cautious stance as he strolled over your threshold to greet you. His hands dove into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders raised in minor discomfort, this emotion most likely derived from having disturbed your work, his usual weightless confidence deserting him as he meandered in front of your bed. You propped yourself up on your elbows, your mind racing against every urge to blush a violent crimson (as you were so prone to doing in his presence) or sweat or stare too long into those emerald eyes, ignoring the quickening pulse as it beat tribal drums into your ears. And Lord, was that chieftain goin’ for it. Dean exhaled, smiling down at you from his staggering height, and you had the delight of watching those gemstone eyes focus on your research, brow furrowing in concentration as he read over your notes decorating the margin, intellectual chicken scratch seeming to impress him, his forehead smoothing as he grinned.
"Hey, I was thinking I might rescue you," he mumbled. Out of instinct, you replied with a cutting comment, stating that you were no damsel, that he’d seen you decapitate a nest of vamps, and that you were the last woman in need of rescue, all while he rolled his eyes. A delectable sight, you had to admit. ”Cool it, Little Miss Cutthroat. We can head out and wash Baby. You know, unless you’d rather stay in here and, uh…” he removed a hand from his pocket, sliding his palm over his neck and into his hair, fingers scratching through the strands as he fought for his wording, your heartbeat running rampant. “read about… dead… chicks.” He winced, clearly unimpressed with himself, driving his hand back into a denim cave, his eyes locking with yours. You grinned, pushing yourself into a sitting position, your hands melting into the duvet as you forced yourself away from the comfort of your mattress and the boredom of pointless research over women you’d never find alive anyway, shuffling towards the door, your cheeks blazing against your will as Dean motioned for you to exit first. He followed you outside of the strangely spacious off-the-highway condominiums, his feet padding into the drying autumn grass behind you, the sound of crumbling blades crunching in your wake as you strolled towards the glimmering classic car. You squinted at the obsidian exterior, feeling the skin on your forehead crumple in confusion as you absorbed the grime-less state of the vehicle, Dean passing beside you, his arm catching your shoulder in his stride, a playful bump on his way towards the side of the maintenance building, his form squatting as he twisted a latch and unraveled an impressive length of hose from its mount on the steel siding. He trailed the cord through the yellowing grass, nodding his head in the direction of the trunk. “I’ve got some soap and old sponges in the back there, beneath the crucifix. There should be some rags wrapped around the handles of the, the machetes.” he instructed, his finger digging about through the air as he searched the storage in his brain before speaking the locations of the items in question. He reached into his back pocket, lobbing you his keyring, metal shards tinkling as they fell through the open air, landing in your palm with an audible thud, your legs carrying you to the back of his Baby. Opening the trunk, you found every article as he described them, hauling a bottle of soap in one hand, the frayed rags and withered sponges in your other. The keyring was safely nestled in your own back pocket, Dean holding his hand high for the bottle of soap as soon as the trunk slammed shut.
He had half the contents of the bottle emptied all over the roof of his car, the other half residing in a rusted pail he scavenged from the condo staff’s janitor closet, the soap dribbling from the sides of the automobile, amber droplets harvesting sunlight, recycling the rays to produce the citrus-scented sparkle you’d known to love in almost all generic cleaning products. You handed him a shriveled sponge, his fingers ghosting over yours as you exchanged products, his eyes flickering to yours briefly before plunging the material into the suds and water, the hose creating a puddle of lukewarm liquid about your feet, Dean stepping out of the way as you followed suit, your hold on the sponge expanding as it absorbed the water, the wet sound of Dean slapping his own cleaning device onto the windshield accompanied by a spray of fluffy soap onto the back of your thighs. As you turned, Dean shook his sponge, attempting to rid it of excess soap, a glob of foamy froth adhering itself to your shin. Dean turned at your gasp, his eyes dropping to the damage he had unintentionally done. Your jaw, unhinged, slammed shut, your face resuming the lobster hue Dean was far too comfortable with as you reached to swipe the suds from your legs. As soon as your hand made contact with your skin, his sponge painted a strip of foam down your arm, ending at your wrist.
"You’ve got a bit…" he chuckled, biting him lower lip to keep from chuckling, his shoulder shaking with his silent laughter. You pursed your lips, clenching your fist around your sponge as your arm swung through the air, sending a stream of bubbles onto Dean’s chest, the hunter scoffing in surprise, his hands diving for your wrists, face scrunched up in giddy aggression, your left hand ducking out of his hold as he squeezed his sponge over your head, your hand scrambling for the hose. The soap suds leaked over your brow as you aimed the hose at Dean’s face, the hunter spluttering while you laughed, the acidic taste of chemical cleaner dancing over your tastebuds while the two of you grappled for power, Dean’s hold slipping on you, dragging the both of you to the ground as he toppled, his hand snagging the bucket on his way down. You found yourself in a puddle of suds and mud, the carnage of your battle coating your legs and splattering your arms up to your elbows, your abdomen knotted as your body coiled around another bout of giggles, Dean wiping at his eye with the purest portion of his soapy finger. Your arm was pinned between the bend of his elbow and his torso, his face dangerously close to yours. You settled your laughter, your breathing hiking as his own chortles dimmed to silence. He inched closer to you, the hand unoccupied with holding his body off of the ground (as well as locking your own supporting arm in place) reached for your cheek, smoothing a stripe of fizzing foam along your cheekbone, the wind battling too cool your skin where the water had touched it, fighting against the heat now rising in your cheeks. Dean’s hand slid behind your neck, pulling your face to his, his eyelashes fluttering once before sealing his eyelids shut, his lips ducking to yours the last sight you captured before your own eyes flickered shut, lips awaiting the touch of his. His mouth moved gently against yours, his lips tugging on yours, securing you to his body, his hand tangling into your hair. The tribal drums had transformed into the deafening tolls of wartime gongs, your pulse sporadic and excitable as Dean’s lips moved against yours, his head tilting into the crook of your neck, his lips ducking to the sliver of skin beneath your jaw, your hands moving to his chest. He moved away from your skin, his eyes glimmering like faceted jewels, his lips reddening from the contact, pulling into a smile regardless. "Glad to see you’re game," he chuckled, your eyes rolling in their sockets at his cheapening remark, your cheeks dragging the corners of your mouth upwards on their own accord as you stood from your position on the ground, your head reeling. Dean joined you, his hands wrapping around your waist before your could outrun his reach, spinning you into his chest before backing you into the hood of the Impala, his cheeks rosy, a chilling dampness seeping through the back of your shirt.
"You never asked if I was game," you countered, "Don’t act so surprised. I’ve been nothing but sheep eyes at you for months." He nodded his head to the side, making a sound of agreement, your hand slapping against his chest. He laughed, leaning over you, your spine flush against the hood of his precious Baby, Dean’s lips covering yours with the same tenderness, though this time his kiss was piked with passion, his tongue meeting yours. With each separation, he spoke.
"So," he breathed, latching onto the hollow between your collarbones, "I guess," he whispered, moving skyward along the center of your neck, "this means," his lips found the corner of yours, your hands tangling in his hair, wrenching his mouth to meet yours, "we’re a thing." he concluded, mumbling against your lips before deepening his intensity, your mind fogging as you laughed against him, suds dripping down your legs to freefall to the dampened earth below.