Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

the first time they try to have sex in the car, it doesn’t actually end in much success.

they stumble out of the club around one in the morning, laughing in that breathless, high-off-each-other way that always ends in someone pressed to a wall. winner’s got his hand at the back of dean’s neck, sweat still drying under his collar, mouth half open as he tugs him toward the cars. 

his corvette waits in the far corner, sleek and smug under dim lights, windows tinted just enough to make a scene feel private. he taps the fob with a flick of his wrist, unlocking it with the kind of practiced flourish that says he’s played this out in his head more than once — fast exit from the back door, dark corner, dean pulled into his lap before the door is even shut.

but dean stops short. just halts like someone yanked him by the collar, stares at the passenger side, then cuts his eyes at winner, unimpressed.

“we’re not fucking in that,” he says flatly.

winner blinks. “why not?”

“you have, like, four-kilometer legs,” dean says. “you’ll jam your knees through the windshield trying to bend me over in there.”

he doesn’t even approach the car. just squints at it as if the sharp angles and cramped cabin are a direct insult to his dignity.

“it’s a supercar, winner.”

“it’s comfortable,” winner tries, vaguely defensive.

“it’s a wedge with an engine,” dean fires back. “and i like my ribs uncracked, thanks.”

he doesn’t wait for a rebuttal. just claps a hand to winner’s chest — half fond, half final — and turns back toward the club, muttering something about needing a cigarette.

winner watches him go. then looks at the corvette. then back again. sighs. locks it with a little too much force. 

they do not talk about it afterward. not in any serious way. dean disappears into the crowd, comes back smelling like smoke and chewing the end of a stirring straw, and winner pretends it never happened — the car, the parking lot, the cold rejection parked between them like a traffic cone no one wants to acknowledge. 

—

he doesn’t forget, of course. he never forgets when something doesn’t go his way. because winner might be stubborn, might be dramatic, might even be a little ridiculous on his worst days — but he’s not a fucking quitter. 

it takes him a few days to stop sulking about it. four long calls with rene, two voice messages he almost regrets sending, and one half-serious threat to revoke her spa privileges if she doesn’t come help him fix it. by the time he finally convinces her to come, she’s sighing like he’s asked her to carry a casket, not sit in the back of an obscenely expensive car and tell him whether two people could fuck in it.

she climbs in with flair, bracketing his hips with her knees, elbows slung across the seatbacks like it’s a cursed catalog shoot. her earrings glint in the sunlight as she tips her head, unimpressed.

“you’re so pathetic,” she says, a little too fond. “please never change.”

he rolls his eyes. “this is for science.”

“no, science was when we tested lube samples on your kitchen counter. that had spreadsheets. this is just dumb.”

“i’m just being thorough.”

“you’re being desperate.”

she shifts on his lap, balancing experimentally. tests how much room there really is back here — one knee pressing into the leather seat beside him, the other droping to the floor. her back arches slightly as her shoulders melt into the headrest, long neck tilting just enough to stay dramatic. she’s smaller than dean, lighter too, but it’s not like he has a lot of choices. 

winner watches her moving with open calculation, lips pursed like a coach reviewing footage.

“it’s not bad,” she admits finally. “more space than i thought. could even lift a leg if you’re careful.”

he hums, arms loose around her waist. the car itself is obscene — top of the line, all black leather and brushed steel trim, with a panoramic roof. there’s more than enough headroom for him, seatbacks that go nearly flat, and legroom is almost criminal. cupholders are deep. the stitching is perfect. there’s a control console in the back with actual climate zones. it’s ridiculous.

he’s mentally running through logistics when the saleswoman leans into the open door. she’s older, maybe mid-sixties, with perfect nails and the kind of smile people wear after thirty years of customer service. her eyes flick to rene’s boot pressing into the leather, then to winner’s hand at her waist. winner gives her a cheerful thumbs-up.

she doesn’t return his gesture, but she also doesn’t interrupt. the car costs six figures, and she wants the commission. she leaves them alone.

rene glances after her and grins. “she’s gonna hose this whole thing down the second we leave.”

“it’s not like we’re grinding.”

“yet.”

he groans and drops his face into her shoulder. she smells like perfume and cigarette smoke and every bad decision he’s ever talked himself into.

“i’m telling everyone,” she says lightly, tapping a nail against his forehead. “you made me fake car sex so you could finally buy a car big enough to get railed in.”

“not fake,” he mutters. “research.” 

but he’s grinning now, wide and helpless. because the moment the papers are signed, he’s already planning how to show dean. this time, nothing’s getting in their way.

—

only, it takes longer than he expects. longer than it should.

every time he tries to get dean alone, something gets in the way — they’re out of town again for a race, or someone’s crying into dean’s shoulder all night, clinging to him like it’s the end of the world. there’s always some kind of interruption, some new reason to wait. winner’s going stir-crazy with it. every delay makes him twitchier, until he’s ready to bite down on the next thing that moves wrong.

but eventually, the universe throws him a bone.

they’re home. back at that trashy little diner x-hunter likes too much, the one with sticky tables and music that’s always a little too loud. the place is packed tonight, sweat in the air and noise bouncing off the walls. someone’s djing in the back, lights flashing like it’s a club, even though it’s really just a glorified truck stop.

dean is leaning against x-hunter’s table in the corner, one shoulder tipped forward, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt until it’s gone half translucent. it sticks to him in places, delicate as gauze, dipping low on one side where it’s slipped off his shoulder. his mouth curls when he laughs — sharp and bright, too easy to notice. and he watches winner through it all. not directly — just in passing glances, glancing off the shoulder, little looks that linger too long to be casual.

winner waits. doesn’t chase it. watches instead, quiet in the corner of the room, sipping something tasteless and barely chilled. watches as the music works dean loose, inch by inch. as tension eases from his neck and shoulders, sees the way his hips start to roll to the rhythm, slow and thoughtless. the shirt is rumpled now, and someone has smudged glitter across the side of his jaw. he glows. 

when dean finally peels away from the table, threading through the crowd toward the bar, winner intercepts him. his hand presses low to the small of his back, warm through the fabric. there’s no words. just a look, a tilt of the head toward the door — an invitation. dean sighs like he’s annoyed, but he follows him out.

outside, the air is just as hot as inside. heat clings to their skin, the leftover weight of bodies and sweat still wrapped around them. winner leads him across the lot to his new car, parked under the streetlight. the paint gleams, clean and showy. 

“this isn’t —”

winner can’t help it. he grins. “it’s new.”

dean blinks, still a little dazed. “you bought a whole car.”

“i did.”

“for fucking.”

“for comfort,” winner corrects, opening the back door. “get in.”

the car is already warm from the heat of the day. winner watches as dean climbs in, awkward at first, stretching out across the seat. he looks small there, sunk into unused leather, thighs spread just a little too wide. waiting. casual like he doesn’t know he’s about to be devoured.

winner climbs in after him and closes the door. the click of the lock sounds final.

dean glances around, unimpressed. “don’t think this makes you good at planning.”

“i’ll take ‘good at overcompensating.’”

their mouths crash together messily, hot and breathless. dean melts against him fast — always does — tongue flicking quick into winner’s mouth, hands clutching at his shoulders. winner grabs his ass, tugs him onto his lap, shirt riding up so he can mouth at dean’s chest, drag his tongue along the dip beneath his ribs, suck a bruise above his heart. he nips at a nipple and grins when dean flinches.

the thought slips in — dean riding him. knees tight around his hips, hands gripping the headrest, hips working slow and deep until winner can’t think straight. it flashes behind his eyes like a threat, like a promise. he wants it bad. wants dean to ride him filthy and cocky, to wear him out. 

but not here. not tonight. the backseat reclines all the way into the trunk, obscene and perfect, a rare luxury. most nights they don’t even get a flat surface, let alone enough room to stretch out. and he wants to lay dean out, long and lovely. he lets the image go. there’ll be time for that.

he pulls away to drop the seat, and dean snorts as it clicks down into place. winner eases him back, guides him down until he’s sprawled out, arms above his head, legs falling open with casual confidence. he looks beautiful like this. skin glowing under the low light spilling through the windows, sweat already starting to gather at his collarbone. 

winner kisses down his stomach, pushes his shirt up to bunch under his arms. his hands move lower, undoing dean’s jeans, fingers brushing over him — hard already, flushed and hot through thin cotton.

he takes his time. pulls dean’s underwear down slow. mouths over the head first, lazy and warm, then lets his tongue trace down the shaft, all the way to the base. his thumbs dig in just enough to spread dean’s thighs wider. dean’s breathing goes ragged fast. one hand finds winner’s hair and gripps tight, as if he doesn’t trust himself not to fall apart too quickly.

winner just keeps going — slow, steady, dragging his tongue under the head, letting spit collect at the corners of his mouth, letting it drip. 

dean’s thighs start shaking. his grip tightens.

“don’t —” his breath hitches. “don’t even think about doing this and not fucking me.”

winner hums around him. smirks when he pulls off, thumb rubbing the slick mess across the flushed head. 

when winner slides a slick finger inside, dean jolts with a sharp gasp, back arching, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach, already leaking in steady drips. he’s flushed to the ears, chest rising too fast, pupils blown wide. so fucking ready for it, pliant and eager and wet from the inside out.

winner fucks him open slow, almost lazy about it. one finger, then two, working deeper with each pass, twisting until dean starts panting through his teeth, thighs falling further apart. he’s quiet, mostly, except for the broken little sounds he can’t seem to swallow — low, desperate things that spike every time winner curls his fingers and hits just right.

“condom,” dean mutters. “you are not rawdogging me in a brand new car. i’m not scrubbing your come out of leather.”

winner snorts, half breathless, and stretches for his jacket in the front seat. pulls it over them, one-handed, rummaging until his fingers close around a foil square and a fresh bottle. the condom packet tears easily between his teeth. he rolls it on fast, slicks himself with more lube than strictly necessary, and leans back over dean, hand curling under his thighs, dragging him into position.

the seat’s nearly flat now, deep enough to let dean fold open around him, knees pressed up toward his chest. winner grabs his hips and lines up, cock nudging right against his rim, flushed and slick and aching. he pushes in slowly — steady, unrelenting pressure — until dean’s body gives, stretching around him inch by inch.

“fuck,” dean breathes, head tipping back, jaw tight. “just — fuck —”

he’s tight. hot. perfect. clenching down around winner like he was made to be filled.

winner leans over him, hips rolling deep, setting a rhythm that starts slow and heavy. short thrusts that fill every inch of space between them. dean meets each one with a sharp inhale, heels digging in. the car shifts with them, suspension soft enough to keep it from knocking, just a little give under every movement.

dean’s thighs tremble where they’re wrapped around his waist. every thrust drags a moan out of him, louder each time, spilling into the thick air. he claws at winner’s back, short nails raking down sweaty skin, mouth parted and wet and messy.

“good?” winner murmurs, breath catching.

dean’s head lolls to the side. “shut the fuck up,” he pants. “and fuck me.”

that’s all winner needs. he drives into him harder, deeper, hands braced tight against his hips, pinning him in place. the sound of it is obscene — slick, wet, the slap of skin on skin — mixing with dean’s moans and the harsh, broken curses that spill out of his mouth. 

winner leans in and kisses him hard, teeth catching on his lower lip. dean bites back, sharp and desperate, fingers buried in his hair. sweat sticks their bodies together, heat pressing in from all sides. windows are fully fogged, and whole car stinks of sex and leather and winner’s dripping citrus.

at some point, winner slows down — not to tease, just to watch. dean’s so pretty like this, open and flushed and needy. mouth glossy, eyes glassy, every breath a stutter. every roll of his hips is desperate. he’s shaking but still pulling winner deeper, always deeper, like he’ll never be full enough.

and then he breaks.

dean comes with a strangled gasp, untouched, cock jerking against his stomach. his whole body locks up, legs tightening around winner’s waist as he rides it out, seizing for a second before collapsing under the weight of it.

winner doesn’t stop. he fucks him through it, harder now, chasing his own finish.

“gonna come,” he pants, voice rough. “you want it?”

dean barely cracks an eye. “in the condom, asshole.”

winner huffs a breathless laugh, then slams in one last time and comes hard, cock pulsing deep inside the condom, muscles locking tight as he spills everything he’s got. he shudders through it, groaning low, forehead pressed to dean’s as the last waves roll through him.

after, they’re both still, breathing ragged, bodies tangled. dean’s thighs are loose around his waist, his belly sticky with cum, hair damp and messy across his forehead. 

winner just watches him for a long moment — how his chest rises and falls, how his lashes flicker, how his hands sprawl, lazy. he’s stunning. always has been. but like this — undone and pliant, blinking up at winner with that dazed contentment — he’s devastating.

winner’s throat goes tight. he presses a hand to dean’s jaw, thumb tracing small, absent circles.

he’s absolutely fucking stealing him. 

Chapter Text

in retrospect, winner should have seen it coming. 

the signs were all there — renders laid out on long tables, fabric samples he’d flipped through absently while waiting for his own fitting, half-heard conversations about tailoring and deadlines. even the fittings themselves, when dean had stood still too long under bright lights while someone smoothed seams against his waist and marked tiny chalk lines along the arch of his spine. winner had seen it all. touched it. been bored by it. 

but now dean is wearing it. really wearing it. and winner doesn’t have the breath to pretend he’s fine. it catches high and sharp in his chest before he even knows why — before he understands that it’s not just the suit. it’s the way it fits him. the way it transforms him.

white curves across his chest in a clean, relentless sweep, stretching smooth over his ribs, tapering down the lean line of his waist. there’s something surgical about it, almost cruel in how precise it is. red slashes down either side, narrow and angular and fast, cutting through the soft glow of white. black is nothing — a faint suggestion down the legs and spine, just enough to mark the edges, but not enough to break the light. just to make white louder. more blinding. more pure. 

a dove, winner thinks, stunned.

his dove. golden skin glowing beneath the high collar, eyes bright and careless. so soft and proud, standing without a hint of fear. too weightless to realize he’s surrounded. too beautiful to see how ugly winner’s gut coils.

his own suit feels too heavy, suddenly. too dark, too much in contrast. a shadow beside something made to shine.

dean comes closer, right up to the car — winner’s car, all matte black and violent red — and rests his palm on the hood, leaning in slightly with that casual insolence that always gives him away.

“well?” he asks, calm and curious. “what’s the verdict?”

winner doesn’t answer. he doesn’t even try.

instead, he closes the distance in one stride and grabs a handful of white right beneath the team crest, mouth crashing into dean’s before either of them can pretend there was ever a choice. the kiss lands hard, messier than it should, spit and heat and teeth dragging over teeth. dean makes a noise deep in his throat, a pleased, startled sound, fingers digging into the front of winner’s suit, pulling back like he needs to be taken apart.

winner’s hands move without hesitation. he spreads them across dean’s chest, thumbs brushing over the heat of his ribs, following the red stripes down as though tracing a line he already knows by heart. the material is tight, already wrinkling under his grip. he touches every part of it he can reach, palms greedy and unkind.

he wants to tear it. he wants to ruin it. he wants to feel the way the fabric pulls when he palms over muscle, over skin, over heat. 

dean pulls back just enough to smirk, smug and breathless. “you gonna make a scene right here?”

winner is absolutely going to make a scene right here. he doesn’t care. last he heard, someone said they were going to grab coffee. even jay’s disappeared, which was suspicious enough to signal that everybody knew how this was going to end. 

so he just lowers his mouth — to the corner of dean’s jaw, to the base of his throat — and pushes the zipper down in one fast, clean drag. it splits from the collar down the center, peeling open to reveal the thin white undershirt beneath, already damp with sweat. 

his hands don’t stop. they push the outer layer down to dean’s hips, sliding over firm heat until they land on the full curve of his ass. he squeezes hard, greedy, dizzy with it. dean shifts into the touch, breath catching as he tips forward slightly, pressing against him.

it won’t work like this — not properly. not with the bulk of the suit still in the way.

so winner flips him. moves without thinking. just acts on instinct, pure and blunt, catching dean by the hips and bending him over the hood of the car in one practiced, unflinching motion. there’s no resistance. dean goes easily, almost eagerly, letting himself be manhandled like he’s done it a hundred times before. his weight drops forward with a muted thump, chest pressed to the warm metal, palms braced wide, legs spread. the car shifts under him with a soft groan, heat rising off the surface in waves, enough to make the air shimmer.

winner steps back for a breath — not far, just enough to see it properly. to let it land. dean, draped over the matte-black curve of his car, that white pulled tight across his back, twenty-one bleeding beneath him in red, sharp against everything like a wound still wet. 

it’s too much to take. too sharp, too exact. he wants to tear dean apart, to fuck him so deep into the car he forgets the shape of his own name.

“don’t move,” he warns.

dean breathes a laugh, eyes half-lidded. “wasn’t planning on it.” 

and this obedience, this wickedness — the way dean gives in without losing that edge — it makes winner ache. 

he drops to his knees.

it’s reverent, but there’s nothing holy in the way he grabs dean and spreads him wider, shoving his hands under his thighs and prying him open. he leans in, breath caught sharp in his throat, and sees it — dean already slick, already open. glistening in the low light. stretched just enough that it’s obvious he’s been ready, waiting. it hits him in the gut.

“you fucking planned this,” he says, voice cracked and low.

dean lifts one shoulder, lazy. “not my fault you’ve got no self-control.”

and that’s it. that’s the last thread of patience torn clean. 

winner spits on him, lets it drip down over the slicked rim, then leans in and licks it up with a filthy sound. he’s not holding back. sucks him open like he’s starving for it, eats him out messy, loud, tongue working fast and deep, nose pressed close, hands gripping tight enough to bruise.

dean moans against the hood, face turned to one side, teeth sunk into his own arm to muffle the sounds. he pushes back into it shamelessly, chasing the pressure, hips rocking with every hungry stroke of winner’s tongue. spit and lube drip down his thighs, messing the suit, but winner doesn’t care. they probably did a hundred more spares. jay is a smart woman.

winner spreads dean wider, presses his thumbs into the meat of his thighs, and then bites — low on the inside of one, hard enough to leave a mark. the skin gives with a faint tremor. he follows it with a kiss, wet and slow, tongue curling lazy over the bruise, mouth soft where the teeth had been cruel. a comfort and a threat in the same breath.

then he’s back at it. tongue slick and relentless, mouth buried deep, working dean open until his jaw aches. he’s greedy with it. chasing that heat, chasing that tight little give. the slick sounds fill the space, obscene and loud, and they make something in him go tight. hunger knotting behind his ribs, boiling hot and primal.

he pulls back without warning, mouth red and wet, panting. rises up in one breathless drag of motion, up over dean’s back until they’re pressed close again. his breath catches against the back of dean’s neck, hot and shallow. his hands tremble on dean’s hips.

dean fumbles back blindly, fingers brushing over winner’s thigh, pressing something small and cool into his hand. lube. condom. winner huffs a laugh, eyes fluttering shut, a quiet, reverent kind of ache curling in his chest. dean really knows him too well.

he rips the foil with his teeth, rolls it on with shaking fingers. slicks himself in one messy stroke, grabs dean by the waist, pulling him back into place, and thrusts in. one smooth, brutal push, thick and full to the base. hips locked against the backs of dean’s thighs. the stretch rips a sound out of him, sharp and wet — spine arched, hole clenching hard, breath stuttering. winner holds him there, trembling.

he gives dean a moment. just one. just enough to watch him tremble through it. keeps him close, palm sliding slow over the sweat-slicked undershirt stretched along his back, thumb dragging up the line of his spine like it’s a claim. dean’s still clenching around him, still twitching, breath skipping in half-broken bursts. his body won’t stop pulling at him. sucking him in. like it wants to keep him there, thick and buried and permanent.

winner exhales into the heat between them, barely holding on. he’s not sure if it’s the suit, or the sound dean made, or the way the light catches on the sweat running down his back, but either way, he’s not stopping now.

he pulls out slow, dragging each soaked inch through the slick, twitching heat, then drives back in with a groan like it splits him open, too. dean jolts against the hood, arms slipping wide, and lets out a cracked noise, half-spent and overstimulated. but he’s still open for it. still giving. still letting him in.

winner grits his teeth and does it again. and again. faster now. obscene. the kind of rhythm that’s meant to ruin. every push deliberate, rolling, heavy. it’s too much. it’s not enough. the wet slap of their hips, the sound dean makes every time it bottoms out — open and raw — it shreds him. it makes him mean.

they’re soaked. sweat and spit and lube running down their thighs, suits shoved to their knees, skin slick with sweat. the smell of sex, heat and citrus hangs thick around them, and winner can’t help to bare his teeth. the whole world narrowed down to this: the push and pull, the wet heat, the sharp breath that catches in dean’s throat when winner shifts angle and grinds deep.

a growl builds low in his throat. he grabs dean harder, one hand closing around his neck, firm and hot, thumb pressed under his jaw. not enough to choke, not yet, but enough to feel the pulse beat wild under his fingers. his other hand drags dean back against him, over and over, hips snapping.

the windshield in front of them fogs over, streaked with handprints and shallow breaths, but winner can still make out pieces of them. the wreck of their faces. the twist of his own mouth, savage and desperate as he ruts into dean like it’ll never be enough.

he feels something in his chest go tight and awful at it, like a string pulled too far. it punches through him all at once — hunger, possession, the mean kind of want that doesn’t leave room for anything soft. it crawls under his skin, burns at the edges. he’s not himself anymore.

not a man. not a lover.

a crow, starved and sharp, tearing its dove open.

he presses closer, heavy over dean’s spine, panting hard against the side of his face. their cheeks brush, sweat slick between them. and then he bites. just under the bone, high on his cheek — deep and cruel and perfect. dean gasps, sharp and breathless, body jerking. winner doesn’t let up. his teeth hold there, locked against skin, tongue flicking over the sting like he wants to taste the hurt.

he bites again, lower, closer to the hinge of his jaw. then down his neck. across his back. teeth dragging, mouth hot, bruises smeared through sweat and fabric. he growls against the damp curve of his shoulder, gnaws at him like he’s lost his mind. dean hisses, tries to twist, but not to get away. not really. he always lets winner be like this. always gives him the leash.

and oh, it makes him even hungrier.

his hand slides from dean’s throat into his hair, grips tight and yanks. it pulls his head back hard, forces his mouth open. dean’s lips are wet and flushed, bitten red. winner stares at them like he’s never seen anything prettier.

he pushes two fingers into the dip of dean's mouth and he takes them, no hesitation.

“so fucking pretty,” winner growls, lips ghosting over the skin. “open wider.”

dean does. mouth parting like it’s a reflex. wet, eager, obedient. eyes half-lidded, lashes clumped together.

winner spits into it. thick and hot, the kind of spit that hangs. it slides over his tongue, drools messily between them. dean chokes once, then swallows. opens again. better. even better. winner kisses him like that — messy, crooked, bent backward, his tongue shoving deep like he could fuck him through it too, keep him like this forever, sweet and open and gasping.

he can feel dean getting close. he always can — the way he tightens, the way his moans start to crack and break apart, hips pushing back harder. he’s right there, teetering on the edge.

and winner wants to be the one to push him over.

his hand slides back around dean’s throat. a clean grip, thumb firm, knuckles braced against his chest. the pressure is steady, just enough to hold him still.  winner knows how far to go. how long to hold. how to let dean feel the edge without slipping off it completely.

the reaction is instant. dean gasps. a short, shocked sound. his body goes tense, then shudders, thighs trembling. the orgasm rips through him, sudden and brutal. he moans loud against the hood, shudders through every second of it, back flexing, hole squeezing tight. winner holds him through it, one arm anchoring him close, hips grinding up as he groans, deep and wrecked. he stays buried inside while dean slumps forward, barely upright, chest heaving beneath the cling of his sweat-soaked undershirt.

winner fucks him through the aftershocks, slow and careful, pace dragging just enough to make dean shiver all over again, overstimulated and too wrecked to protest. there’s something a little mean about it, the way he grinds in deep and lets it sit, then does it again, and again, like he’s trying to make it last, to carve it into both of them. 

his hips stutter once, then again, and then he’s gone — spilling into the condom with a sharp, ragged groan that tears straight out of his chest. his fingers spasm against dean’s stomach. he buries his face in the nape of his neck and just breathes.

dean’s scent is wild this close, feral and ripe from sex, all heat and sweat, with that careful earthy thread winner never knows how to describe but knows better than anything now. it’s dizzying. he presses in closer, lets it fill his mouth and chest like air.

he feels high on it. like he’s not in his own body anymore.

and something ancient in him stirs — snarls low in his gut. the urge to bite is instant and overwhelming. to sink his teeth in right into the nape, where betas are marked. to do it deep and permanent and true. his lips part, breath shaky, fangs scraping bare skin already damp with sweat. he can feel the echo of it — the relief, the lock, the way dean would smell after — like his.

he doesn’t do it.

he wants to. god, he wants to. enough to tremble with it. enough to taste the phantom sweetness already on his tongue. but he won’t.

because dean deserves better than a bite given half-naked, bent over the hood in the middle of the garage with his underwear around his knees and his knuckles smeared on dirty glass. deserves more than a claim made in a haze of come and afterglow and instinct.

after a moment, he eases back. condom comes off quick and clean, and he leans away only to help dean up, tugging everything back over his hips, zipping it halfway up so he’s not left bare and open. dean doesn’t say anything while he does it, just leans back into him, boneless and hot, letting him fuss.

winner tips his chin, looks over the bite he left earlier — high on dean’s cheekbone, just under the eye. darkening fast. he brushes a thumb over it, then leans in and licks it slow. tongue warm, careful, working in circles to pull the pain out of it, just like instinct tells him.

dean snorts, voice hoarse. “i’m taking that as a yes on the suit.”

“what?”

“that was a very enthusiastic feedback, you know,” dean turns his face just enough to glance back at him, still breathless but grinning like a bastard. 

“shut up,” winner mutters, already pulling dean’s undershirt straighter, already smoothing a hand down his spine.

“no, you shut up. i looked good. and you lost your mind. like a dog.”

he still looks good. flushed and cocky, hair a mess, throat marked and lips still wet. every inch of him says smug and satisfied and a little feral around the edges. when he glances back, it’s with a grin that cuts sideways — all teeth and spark, like he knows exactly what he does to winner and has every intention of doing it again. like he’d let himself be stripped down and fucked open and still have the audacity to grin back after, shameless. covered in spit and come and sweat and teeth, and still so fucking pretty it hurts.

winner stares at him. all of him. how easy he wears it. how proud he is of being wrecked.

and god help him, he almost drops to his knees all over again.