motherfornicator

[motherfornicator]

Survival Tactics

Summary: You’re on your way home from a wedding when fate decides to fuck with you. Storm raging, phone dead, car broken. You’re soaked, freezing, stranded on a deserted road—until a stranger in a black car pulls up with a smile that feels like trouble.

Pairing: Ari Levinson/Reader

Warnings: Smut. This is basically smut. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 6,479

A/N: This gif inspired something utterly filthy. This was meant more for AO3, but if you're into the kind of shit I am... then this is for you. Enjoy 💜😘

P.S I wrote this on my phone, and the spacing miiight be an issue.

The rain was merciless, slamming down in sheets as if the heavens themselves were trying to drown the night. Pouring like it had a personal vendetta. You were standing by your car, arms crossed tightly around yourself, teeth chattering. The wet satin of your party dress clung to you like second skin, and every passing second felt heavier, colder.

Your car had coughed its last breath. Your heels were useless, your phone was dead, and the storm was only getting worse. You were every fantasy of a damsel — helpless, gorgeous, and desperate.

Headlights appeared through the mist — slow, cautious. A black car rolled to a stop beside you.

The window buzzed down, and there he was — a stranger, leaning one muscular arm over the steering wheel, a lopsided, almost boyish smile on his lips. Raindrops catching on to the dark hair on his head and jawline.

"Hey... you alright?" he asked, voice deep but gentle.

You swallowed, heart racing, mind scrambling. Stranger danger. STRANGER DANGER.

You awkwardly laughed — a short, hiccuping sound — and stammered, "I—I mean, y-yeah! Totally fine! Just, you know... enjoying the weather. Love being a drowned rat. It's... super therapeutic."

He laughed low in his throat, the sound rich and genuine. "You sure? You look like you're about five minutes from punching the sky."

You wrung the hem of your dress in your hands, looking everywhere but at him, cheeks burning hotter than the rain. "Well... my car decided to take a permanent nap. And my phone died, because why not, right? Honestly, if a meteor hits me next, I'm just gonna assume it's personal."

He smiled wider, amused, and maybe a little charmed. "Need a lift? I promise I'm only about seventy percent serial killer. Maybe sixty-five if you’re cute."

You bit your lip, shifting awkwardly on your soaked heels. "Oh god, that's... that's so reassuring," you muttered under your breath. Then, louder, with a crooked little smile: "Do you have, like... references? Yelp reviews? I need at least four stars before I get in a car with a maybe-killer."

He chuckled, reaching over to open the passenger door. "Only five stars, baby. All for customer satisfaction." And then winked, slow and wicked.

You hesitated — still wary — but the rain was merciless, and there was something about his smile... something that felt safe, even if it shouldn’t.

You gave a helpless little sigh, muttering, "If you murder me, I'm gonna haunt the hell out of you. Like, leave-your-TV-on-3 AM-scary-movie-channel levels of haunting."

He laughed again — not mockingly, but almost like he couldn’t help it — and you slid into the seat, shivering as the blast of warm air kissed your skin.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye as he pulled back onto the road. "You talk a lot when you're nervous, don't you?"

You squeaked out a mortified little laugh. "No! I mean—yes. I mean... maybe. Oh god, why don’t people have mute buttons?"

"I don’t know but, I’m glad they don’t." He said, glancing at you with a slow grin that made your heart stumble. "I kinda like the noise."

And just like that...

you were stuck with him for the night.

—

You barely had time to click your seatbelt before he was reaching forward, fiddling with the heater controls. His arm brushed close to you, and for half a second, his hand stilled — because God help him, he saw it.

The soaked, clingy fabric of your dress, the deep neckline, the heavy swell of your breasts practically spilling over — and those stiff, betrayed little nipples straining hard against the thin, soaked material.

A primal bolt of heat shot through him so fast he had to clench the steering wheel harder just to stay civil. But his voice stayed low, rough around the edges as he flipped the heater on.

"So, where were you headed?" he asked, dragging his gaze — reluctantly — back to the road.

You shifted in your seat, tugging the hem of your dress down uselessly as if that could hide the way you looked. "Um... home," you said, voice a little breathless. Then you gave this awkward, shy laugh, waving a hand in a soggy, dramatic flourish. "From a wedding. Not my wedding, obviously, or else this would be, like, the worst honeymoon ever."

He chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, your new husband really dropped the ball if he left you stranded on the side of the road five minutes after 'I do.'"

You laughed — a real one this time — and the sound was music, a bright little spark inside the heavy, rain-thick air of the car. You were starting to relax, shoulders loosening, fingers no longer death-gripping your purse.

You both drove in a comfortable silence for a moment, the heater slowly thawing the frozen edges of your skin. He sneaked another glance at you — the way the warmth was making your cheeks pink, how the tiny shivers in your thighs were fading.

And then—a shudder, a sputter, a jerk that sent both of you jolting forward slightly in your seats.

"What the hell—" he muttered, slapping his palm against the dashboard like a caveman would fix it.

You let out a squeak, bracing yourself on the door, eyes wide. "Um... is it supposed to make that noise? Or is this, like, bonus content for the horror movie I'm apparently starring in tonight?"

Another cough from the engine. Then nothing. The car rolled to a pitiful, gasping stop right there on the side of the deserted road.

The rain still coming down in relentless sheets.

He cursed under his breath and turned the key again — no dice. "Well, looks like fate just can't get enough of you, sweetheart." He threw you a crooked smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes because now you were stuck... with him.

And he?

He was stuck with you — wet dress, hard nipples, sweet nervous laughter and all.

And there was no one coming to save either of you.

—

The cabin loomed ahead, golden light flickering weakly through the curtains, barely visible through the storm. You stood close to him, shivering, your breath fogging in the freezing air.

He rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood door. Three hard knocks.

You both waited, the rain hammering down around you, the only answer the low groan of the wind through the trees.

"Maybe they're asleep," you whispered, hugging yourself tighter.

"Or maybe they bailed and forgot to lock up," he muttered.

Another moment passed, still no sound, no movement inside.

You bit your lip and mumbled, "This is so illegal..."

"Only if we get caught." he threw a wicked little smirk over his shoulder, then turned the handle.

Locked. Of course, but it didn’t take much — a little muscle, a hard shove of his shoulder — and the door creaked open, protesting loudly before swinging wide.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, trying to look scandalized water dripping from your hair onto your flushed cheeks. "We’re not seriously breaking in, are we?" you whispered, breathless and shivering.

He tilted his head, smirking like a man who was absolutely serious. "You want to stay out here and freeze? Or do you want to come inside and warm up?"

You flinched, looking around nervously like someone might leap out and yell "Freeze!"

He just chuckled low and stepped inside, holding the door open for you.

The air inside was warmish, dry, smelling faintly of cedar and clean linens. The place was beautiful — polished floors, expensive furniture, cozy blankets folded neatly over a buttery leather couch. The kitchen gleamed under stainless steel fixtures. It looked like the kind of cabin that belonged to someone very rich — someone who sipped red wine by the fire and called this "roughing it."

"Fancy," he muttered under his breath.

You slipped past him, looking around with wide, curious eyes, trailing your fingers along the marble kitchen counters, peeking into the sitting room, up the grand staircase.

He spotted the fireplace almost immediately — a beautiful stone beast that dominated the far wall.

"Perfect," he said, heading straight for it.

You were wandering upstairs, finding photographs tucked into sleek silver frames along the wall — happy family pictures. Parents with two young kids. A golden retriever with a red bandana. The perfect little life frozen in glossy smiles.

It made your heart ache a little—made you feel a little guilty. (But not guilty enough to go back out into the rain.)

When you finally came back down the wide staircase, calling softly, "Hey, looks like someone actually lives here—" you stopped dead in your tracks.

He was standing in front of the fire, his button-down shirt discarded on the floor beside him, his jeans hung low on his hips. If you looked hard enough, steam rose from his skin where the fire started to warm him.

You stood at the foot of the stairs, your heels clicking softly on the polished wood floor as you walked toward him, slow and unsure, the firelight catching in your eyes. Your dress was still plastered to your body, the thin fabric clinging to every soft curve, your skin kissed golden by the flames.

You paused a few steps away, just... looking at him.

And there he stood—chest bare, thick with muscle and a dusting of dark hair, the fire making his skin glow bronze. His hands were half-raised to the fire, soaking in the warmth.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, looking over his shoulder at you, catching the stunned, slightly breathless way you stared at him. "See something you like, sweetheart?" he drawled, a slow, wicked smile curling at his lips.

You swallowed hard, heart thudding against your ribs. For a second you forgot why you even came down the stairs. Forgot your own name, probably.

You quickly dropped your gaze, like you couldn't quite handle the full weight of his gaze yet.

"I, um... found some pictures along the stairs," you said, voice small, almost breathy. You tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear awkwardly. "Looks like it belongs to a family... two kids, a dog... honestly, it's like the American Dream up there."

He gave a quiet chuckle, low and rough, like gravel rolling in his chest.

"Perfect little life," he said, voice calm, but his eyes didn't leave you. "Bet they don't even know what it's like to be stranded in a storm with a beautiful stranger."

You gave a nervous, awkward laugh and shifted your weight in those ridiculous heels. Your dress tugged higher up your thighs with the movement.

You hugged yourself a little, shivering, arms crossed tight over your soaked chest. The firelight flickered along your skin, making you look almost unreal — like something dreamed up by a starving man, he thought to himself.

You peeked up at him shyly, and said, "So... is taking your shirt off actually helping you warm up faster, or...?"

He chuckled—deep, low, easy—the sound curling around you like smoke.

"Yeah," he said with a half-smile, running a hand through his damp hair again. "Basic survival. Wet clothes pull your body heat away. Get 'em off, you warm up faster."

You gave a tiny, breathless laugh, nodding a little too quickly. "Right. Totally. Basic survival. Got it."

The words hung awkwardly between you — thick with something neither one was naming yet.

He turned, walking toward the kitchen, glancing around the polished counters and fancy appliances.

"Did you see any food around here?" He called casually over his shoulder, trying to act like his whole body wasn't buzzing from being so near you.

When you didn’t answer, he frowned slightly, turning back — and his breath caught.

There you were.

Back to him. Standing near the fire.

Your hands were already sliding your soaked dress down your body, inch by slow, teasing inch, hips swaying just a little without even meaning to. The dress clung stubbornly at first, then gave way — slipping down your thighs.

You bent forward slightly to shimmy it the rest of the way off — still wearing those damned heels — the curve of your ass an obscene masterpiece under the thin lace of your panties.

The firelight painted you in gold and shadow. Your skin glowed, soft and damp and maddeningly touchable.

You stepped out of the puddle of the fabric gracefully, picking the dress up with delicate fingers and placing it on the arm of the leather couch.

Then you turned around—and you swear, you almost heard him groan out loud.

You stood there, arms slightly crossed over your bare stomach, looking shy and uncertain — dressed in a dark lace set that hugged your body like a second skin. The strapless bra was straining desperately to contain the curve of your breasts. The matching panties rode high on your hips, the thin lace barely hiding anything at all.

You looked like every dirty fantasy he'd ever had—and you didn’t even know it.

He was standing frozen at the entrance of the living room, one hand still braced casually against the doorframe. He dragged his eyes slowly — devouringly — up your body, letting you feel every inch of his gaze, every filthy thought that ran through his head.

Your cheeks flushed under the weight of it, and you shifted awkwardly on your heels.

"I, uh... I guess it's basic survival, right?" you said, voice trembling.

He smiled—slow, lazy, predatory.

"Yeah, baby," he said, voice like rough velvet. "Basic survival."

He pushed off the doorframe and started toward you—one slow, deliberate step at a time, like he had all the time in the world.

"You’re doing perfect," he murmured, eyes locked on yours. "But you’re still a little cold, aren’t you?"

He stepped closer, slow and easy, hands loose at his sides, drinking you in like he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

You stood there and nodded dumbly, shifting slightly on those heels, cheeks pink, breath catching — wrapped in nothing but that sinful lace and firelight.

Another step. Close enough now that the heat from his body brushed your skin.

"Well," he said, his voice low and dark, "I have another basic survival tip for that."

Your lips parted slightly, the tiniest sound escaping you — a nervous little half-laugh, half-gasp.

"Oh, please," you said, trying for lightness, for a little sass, even as your voice wobbled, "do share with the class."

He stopped just a breath away from you, and looked down at you through his lashes, slow and lazy, as if undressing you all over again with just his eyes.

"Body heat," he murmured, voice a low purr now. "Best survival trick there is."

A crooked, wicked smile tugged at his lips.

"You just need to get real close..."

He reached out, fingers ghosting the bare skin of your hip, so light it made you shiver. "And stay there."

You stared up at him — eyes wide, mouth parted, trembling just slightly where you stood.

Waiting.

Wanting.

But still so deliciously hesitant.

He hadn't touched you fully yet, just let his fingertips trace the thin lace over your hipbone, the barest brush, not nearly enough.

"Come here, darlin’" he said, voice rough and thick, the command gentle but leaving no room for argument. "Let’s survive the night together."

You bit your lip, heart hammering, and finally you closed the distance. One careful step, until you were pressed up against him, trembling slightly from the heat, the nerves, the want.

He let out a low, satisfied sound deep in his chest — like a wolf finally catching its prey.

Without a word, he leaned down and kissed the top of your head — just a soft brush — and then turned away, stalking toward the stack of folded blankets near the couch.

You watched him — eyes wide, lips parted — as he yanked a couple free, dragging them to the floor in front of the fire. He tossed them down in a lazy, sprawling pile, creating a thick, warm nest right there on the hardwood.

He unfastened the button of his jeans and shoved them down his hips, kicking them off without shame, standing in just a pair of black boxer briefs, the heavy line of his shaft already straining against the fabric.

You made a tiny, broken sound in the back of your throat before turning slightly, and bending to slip off one of your heels, but then you heard it — a growl, sharp and deep.

"Leave them on."

You froze, blinking at him in surprise — then straightened slowly, a tiny mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"O-okay," you said, laughing under your breath, cheeks burning.

You started to move your hands up, reaching for the clasp of your bra — but he was there in two strides, catching your wrists gently in his hands.

"No," he murmured, voice low and firm, "let me."

You whimpered — soft and helpless — and dropped your arms to your sides, letting him take control.

He circled around you, slow, deliberate, trailing his fingers lightly up the curve of your bare spine, making you shiver. He reached the back of your bra, and with a soft flick, the clasp popped open. The lace slipped away, falling to the floor like a whispered secret, leaving you standing there — bare from the waist up, breath hitching, nipples hard and begging for attention in the firelight.

"Perfect," he rasped, voice wrecked with hunger.

But he wasn’t finished.

He dropped to his knees on the blankets in front of you — hands gripping your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above your knees. You whimpered again, unsteady on your heels, as he leaned in, nuzzling the delicate lace of your panties with his nose — breathing you in, letting the scent of you drive him insane.

Without warning, he caught the waistband of your panties between his teeth — and slowly, painfully slowly, he peeled them down your legs.

You stood there — trembling, helpless — in nothing but your high heels and the desperate flush of want.

When your panties finally dropped around your ankles, he leaned back, admiring you — chest heaving, thighs trembling, nipples tight and flushed, your whole body radiating heat and need.

"Jesus Christ, baby," he whispered, voice hoarse. "You’re gonna kill me."

But if I was going down tonight, he thought to himself, I was going down worshipping every inch of you.

He stayed on his knees, looking up at you like you were the only thing left worth worshipping in the world. The fire behind him threw golden light over your bare skin, your body trembling slightly — from the cold, from the heels, from the heat building between you both.

He trailed his hands slowly, reverently, up the backs of your calves, over your thighs — thumbs grazing the sensitive skin there until you whimpered.

Then he leaned in, pressing a line of slow, open-mouthed kisses along your thighs, teasing just beside where you were already aching for him.

You gasped, your hands fluttering helplessly at your sides, unsure whether to clutch his hair or just fall apart.

He kept going — slow, patient, cruel — kissing the tender dip where your hip met your stomach, dragging his mouth across the swell of your skin, feeling you twitch under his mouth.

You moaned — soft, broken — and between little gasps, you managed to mumble: "Is... is this part of basic survival too?"

He froze for half a second — then laughed, low and rough against your skin, the sound making you shudder.

"No, baby," he murmured, lips brushing your hipbone. "This is advanced survival."

Another hot kiss, closer now — your knees buckled slightly, but his strong hands steadied you.

"Quicker warmth," he whispered, dragging his mouth a little lower, just barely skimming the inside of your thigh, "more... hands-on techniques."

You whimpered again, toes curling in your heels, and he couldn’t wait anymore.

Still on his knees, he wrapped his arms around your thighs — lifting you slightly, making you gasp — and pulled you down with him onto the thick pile of blankets in front of the fire.

You tumbled down with a soft cry, landing half-straddling his lap, your bare skin pressing against his chest, your body perfect against him.

He caught you and held you steady, chuckling low and dark against your throat.

"See, sweetheart?" He murmured, nuzzling your jawline, before pulling back to look at you, "Already warmer."

And then he started again — trailing kisses along your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breasts, taking his sweet, sinful time. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you to straddle him properly, the hard length of his cock pressing insistently against the inside of your thigh, even through the thin fabric of his briefs.

You were trembling, hands finding his shoulders, fingers digging in desperately.

So needy. So ready. But he wasn’t done teasing you yet.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against him — skin against skin, your legs straddling his lap, your chest heaving against his. For a second he just held you there — breathing you in, feeling the frantic race of your heart against his chest, the fire crackling behind him like it was cheering him on.

And then — he buried his mouth against your breasts.

He groaned — actually groaned — like a man starved, getting his firstmeal, his hands sliding up your back, pressing you even closer. He kissed along the swell of one breast, slow at first, savoring the soft, sweet feel of you under his mouth. His tongue flicked against your flushed skin, tracing slow circles, tasting the salt of rain still clinging to you.

You gasped, your body arching into him instinctively, offering yourself up.

He opened my mouth wider, sucking gently on the soft underside of one breast, teeth scraping just enough to make you whimper.

"God, baby..." he rasped against your skin, "been dreaming about this all night... you have no fucking idea."

He moved higher, finally closing his lips around one tight, aching nipple — sucking it into his mouth slowly, deeply, his tongue flicking lazily over it until you were squirming in his lap.

Your fingers clawed at his hair, dragging him closer, desperate for more — and he gave it to you, dragging his mouth over to your other breast, giving it the same slow, hungry attention, tongue and teeth and lips working you into a breathless, writhing mess.

One of his hands slid down your back, over the curve of your ass, gripping you hard — grinding you down against the thick, aching length of his cock still trapped beneath his briefs.

"Feel that, baby?" He growled against your nipple, "That’s what you're doing to me."

You whimpered, grinding back, needing the friction, the pressure.

Needing him.

"I'm not gonna stop, sweetheart," he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked and dark, "Not until you're shaking for me... crying my name against this fire."

He pulled back and looked up at you — wild and beautiful, still in those damn heels, your thighs trembling with need.

He leaned in, lips just about to claim yours, when you pulled back slightly, a playful little gleam in your eyes. You placed one delicate finger against his mouth, silencing him before he could even groan.

"Wait," you whispered, breathless but mischievous, "what’s your name?"

For a second, he just stared at you — stunned by how goddamn adorable and completely in control you suddenly were — and then he smiled, slow and dangerous.

He kissed the tip of your finger — a soft, reverent press of his lips — then caught your wrist gently, pulling your hand down to his chest. Right over his pounding heart.

"People call me Ari," he said, voice low and warm, eyes locked on yours. He leaned in, "But you, pretty girl..." he let the words slide out slow, hot against your lips. "You can call me Daddy."

You blinked — then let out a laugh, breathless and shaky. "I think I’m just gonna stick with Ari." you teased, grinning up at him, cheeks flushed.

He grinned right back — something wicked sparking in his eyes. "Sure, sweetheart..." he purred, leaning closer again, "For now."

And then — he took you.

One swift, hungry movement —his hand tangling into your hair, his other arm wrapping tight around your waist — and he crashed his mouth against yours, swallowing your gasp, your soft moan, your everything.

Your lips collided hard — frantic and messy and so desperate, like you were both trying to breathe each other in. You melted against him instantly, clutching at his bare shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your mouth opened for him — welcoming him.

Without breaking the kiss, he shifted his weight, guiding you down onto your back atop the thick blankets, your hair fanning out in wild curls against the soft fabric.

He hovered over you, still kissing you like a man starved, his body braced over yours, caging you in.

Your thighs parted slightly — instinctive, needy — and he settled between them, the heavy, aching press of his cock against your core making you whimper into his mouth.

"God, baby," he groaned against your lips, “You have no idea what you’ve done to me tonight."

He kissed you again — slower now, deeper his tongue teasing yours, coaxing you into a sensual rhythm. He wanted to take his time. Wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you sighed his name against his lips.

"Ari..." you breathed.

"That's it, baby girl," he rasped, pressing his forehead against yours, "Say my name. Scream it for me when I finally fuck you like you deserve."

He kissed the corner of your mouth, your jawline, your throat, trailing his lips down, your fingers tangled helplessly in his hair, pulling him closer.

Your whispered "yes, baby" hit him like a match to gasoline.

Without a second’s hesitation, he started the slow, sinful descent down your body. He left slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses that made you whimper and arch your back into him.

He took his time.

Tasting you.

Owning you.

Claiming every soft, trembling inch of your skin.

He pressed his mouth over the delicate curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts — pausing to lick, to suck, to tease each nipple into a tight, desperate peak.

You gasped, writhing beneath him, your fingers tugging at his hair, needing something — anything — to hold onto.

"Fuck, baby," he murmured against your skin, "You taste so fucking sweet."

He kissed lower — across your ribs, down your stomach — leaving a trail of burning, worshipful kisses all the way down.

You squirmed, hips lifting slightly off the blankets, your thighs trembling around him.

Still wearing those heels. Still dressed just the way he wanted you — bare, open, perfect.

He slid his hands under your thighs, spreading you wider, dragging your body closer to his mouth.

And then, hovering just above where you needed him most — he stopped. He kissed the inside of one thigh — slow, deep, sucking a mark there that made you moan out loud.

Then the other.

Teasing.

Tormenting.

Making you feel every second of how badly he wanted you.

Your hips bucked up helplessly, seeking his mouth — and he laughed, a dark, low sound full of filthy promises.

"Patience, pretty girl," he whispered against your skin, "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else tonight."

And then — finally — he dipped his head, licked a long, slow stripe against your core with his tongue, savouring the taste of you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

You sobbed his name — high and breathless — and he groaned deep in his chest, gripping your thighs harder.

"Fuck, you’re perfect," he rasped against your skin, "so sweet, baby... so fucking mine."

He wrapped his arms tighter around your legs, holding you steady — and buried his mouth against you properly.

Tongue, lips, teeth — worshipping you, devouring you — until you were shaking, moaning, panting his name like a prayer into the fire-warmed air.

At first, he went slow. Excruciatingly slow.

He licked and sucked in soft, lazy strokes, teasing you, savoring the way your body trembled under his mouth.

Each flick of his tongue was deliberate — slow drags over your clit, dipping lower, tasting you deeply, then returning to circle and tease with maddening patience.

Your hips writhed against him, desperate for more, but he held you down easily — big hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

He hummed against you — low and filthy — the vibration making you moan brokenly into the warm air.

"So good, baby..." he murmured against your soaked skin, "So sweet... fuck, I could eat you for hours..."

He flicked his tongue again — slow and light — making your thighs quake, your fingers scramble for purchase against the blankets.

You whimpered, "Ari... please..." — the first soft beg slipping out of your swollen lips.

He growled deep in his chest — primal and dark — and tightened his grip on you.

"Hold on, baby," he rasped, voice wrecked and raw, and buried his mouth against you harder now — sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it relentlessly, fast and rough and hungry for every single sound you made.

You screamed his name — your body jolting under the sudden, feral intensity — it made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his briefs.

He devoured you, relentless, desperate — fucking you with his tongue plunging deep, then swirling mercilessly over that aching bundle of nerves, again and again.

You were wrecked, hips bucking wildly, fingers pulling hard at his hair, your thighs trembling around his face.

"Come for me, baby," he growled against you, “Come on my fucking tongue... I want to taste you lose it."

And he didn’t stop — not once, not even when you sobbed, when you tried to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure.

He held you there — made you take it — tongue and mouth driving you higher, harder, until you shattered completely.

You came with a broken, desperate cry — your whole body locking up, then trembling violently in his hands, thighs clamping around his head.

He moaned against you, drinking you down, savoring every sweet, perfect second of your release.

Only when you were gasping, limp, tears of pleasure pricking your lashes — only then did he finally lift his mouth from you.

He licked his lips, staring down at you with fire and possession burning in his eyes, chest heaving from how hard he wanted you.

Wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, he smirked down at you — wild and wrecked — spread out under him like the sweetest prize he’d ever fought for.

Slowly, deliberately, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs — pulling them down over his hips, letting his cock spring free — thick, hard, aching for you.

He kicked them off to the side, not taking his eyes off you for even a second.

You watched him, wide-eyed, lips parted, body trembling slightly from the aftershocks of your orgasm — but he could see it in your face.

You wanted more. You were starving for it.

He grinned and crawled over you, settling between your still-quivering thighs.

He reached down, wrapping one hand around his cock — the head flushed, glistening, desperate. And then, moving slow, so fucking slow, he dragged the head of his thick and heavy length against your soaked folds.

You gasped — hips jerking instinctively — as he slid against you, the slick heat of your core coating him immediately.

He groaned — deep and filthy — the sound vibrating straight through you.

"Fuck, baby..." he rasped, "You’re so fucking wet for me.

He dragged himself over you again — long, slow, maddening strokes against your slit —coating his cock with your arousal, teasing your entrance, brushing against your clit just enough to make you whimper.

Then — with a wicked little smile — he shifted his hips and tapped the swollen head of his cock directly against your clit.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Each tap making you jump, making soft, broken little moans tumble out of your mouth. You looked up at him — pleading, wrecked, so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.

"Ari..." you breathed — just a whisper, just a plea.

He smirked — dark and devastating — and tapped you again, a little firmer this time, making you cry out, hips lifting desperately off the blankets.

"You want it, baby?" He murmured, voice rough and molten, "You want me to fill you up? Stretch you so good you forget your own name?"

He slid the head of his cock down, pressing just barely against your entrance — teasing the first desperate inch — then pulling away again, making you sob in frustration.

"Beg me, sweetheart," he whispered, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, "Beg your Daddy to fuck you."

Your body arched up to him, your lips trembling with need, the air between you burning hotter than the fire next to you.

"Please, Ari," you whispered, your voice breaking sweetly, "Please, I need you... need you inside me... Daddy, please."

He growled low in his throat — a raw, primal sound that vibrated against your skin — and without another second of teasing, he thrust into you in one deep, devastating stroke.

You cried out, your body jolting as he filled you — thick, hard, perfect — stretching you to the edge of pleasure and pain. Ari cursed under his breath, his hands clamping onto your hips, holding you there as he bottomed out, buried so deep you swore you could feel him in your soul.

"Fuck, baby," he rasped against your ear, voice ruined, "so tight for me... so fucking perfect."

He pulled back slow, almost cruel, before slamming back in — setting a rhythm that stole your breath, your thoughts, everything.

You clung to him, nails raking down his back, helpless under the onslaught of his body claiming yours — every thrust a brutal, beautiful promise: Mine. Mine. Mine.

The world narrowed to just this: the fire, the rain hammering outside, the slap of skin on skin, the ragged symphony of your gasps and his groans.

It was savage. It was slow. It was everything.

He shifted, angling his hips until he found that spot inside you — and when he did, your scream split the room.

"That's it, sweetheart," he growled, his hand tangling in your hair, forcing you to look at him, "Look at me when you fall apart."

You tried to hold on, but it was hopeless. His thrusts grew rougher, desperate, like he was unraveling right along with you.

You shattered — a blinding orgasm ripping through you, your whole body bowing against his. Ari cursed, his rhythm faltering as your walls clamped down around him like a vice, milking him.

And with a broken, savage sound — he flipped you onto your stomach, dragging your hips up until you were on your knees, ass in the air, face buried in the blankets.

You barely had time to gasp before he slammed into you from behind, burying himself to the hilt in one ruthless, shattering thrust.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pounding into you without mercy, "You feel so fucking good — so goddamn perfect."

Each thrust was brutal, deep, relentless — his hands gripping your hips, dragging you back onto his cock over and over, making obscene wet sounds fill the room.

"Touch yourself," he growls, voice wrecked and demanding. "Play with that pretty little clit for me. One last time, baby."

You whined, sobbing his name, hips jerking under the force of his thrusts. Your hand slid between your trembling thighs, fingers rubbing tight, desperate circles over your clit.

"Daddy! Fuck — just like that — don't stop, please don't stop — I'm so close!" Your voice breaking into high, needy whines, every inch of your body clenching, spasming around him.

He leaned over you, pressing his chest against your back, his mouth right at your ear.

"Come for me, angel," he growled.

And you did — a scream tearing from your throat as you gushed around him, soaking him, thighs trembling violently as your orgasm crashed through you.

Ari groaned, loud and broken, gripping your hips hard — and with one final, brutal thrust, he spilled inside you, filling you up so deep you swear you could feel him in your throat.

You both collapsed onto the blankets, panting, bodies slick with sweat and pleasure and need.

You lay there, tangled together on the soft blankets, the fire crackling gently beside you, the storm howling outside — but in here, it was only warmth. Only him.

Only you.

Ari pressed a kiss to your temple, his breath still ragged, his hands smoothing over your trembling body like he could imprint you into him.

—

The fire’s nothing but embers now, soft and glowing, casting lazy shadows across the room. The storm outside has quieted to a whisper, like even the heavens decided to give you both a moment of peace.

Ari’s arm draped over your waist, warm and heavy, his fingers idly tracing lazy circles on your hip. You snuggled closer into his chest, skin still humming, heart still fluttering like it forgot how to calm down.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “Mmm. You survived.”

You laughed softly, stretching like a satisfied cat. “Barely. That was dangerously close to a health hazard.”

“I still can’t believe we pulled it off,” you whispered, smiling against his chest.

“What?” he asks, voice low, a little smug.

“The whole... stranded-in-the-rain, mysterious stranger, sexy cabin break-in anniversary role-play thing,” you teased, grinning. “You really committed to the serial killer vibe.”

Ari chuckled, deep and proud. “Told you I was only sixty-five percent killer. That’s practically safe.”

You both fell into a comfortable silence, tangled limbs and shared warmth, until you sighed softly.

“I feel a little bad,” you admit. “The kids really wanted to come to the cabin this weekend…”

He hummed lazily, brushing his knuckles along your spine. “They’ll survive one night without us.”

“They said they had big plans. Something about s’mores and a murder mystery.”

“That’s what they said last time,” he smirked. “And it ended with marshmallows in the DVD player.”

You laughed, burying your face in his chest. “You’re a bad influence on them.”

“And you married me anyway,” he said, voice thick with affection.

You peek up at him, brow raised. “Did I? I don’t remember reciting any vows in that storm.”

He leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth. “You said 'I do' nine years ago, wearing less than you are now, in front of a lake and two very confused ducks. I’ve got witnesses.”

You giggled, heart bursting. “Right. Our romantic duck wedding.”

“Legendary,” he says with mock solemnity. “Now shut that pretty mouth and go to sleep. My parents are dropping the kids off tomorrow morning, and I need at least six more hours of pretending we’re young, wild, and childless.”

You nuzzled deeper into him, whispering, “One more night of survival.”

He smiled against your hair. “Only the strong make it to year ten, baby.”

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 26: The Last Goodbye

Summary: Y/N says goodbye. The moment is quiet, gut-wrenching, and impossibly final. Dean lets her go—but not without carrying a piece of her with him, the kind that even time and distance can’t erase.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1473

A/N: I'm super tingly and emotional with this last chapter. Can't even get myself to read it in one go. I know most of you would've wanted her (or well yourselves) to stay and never go back to your real world or reality honestly cause same. But at some point, you gotta realise that you need to put your big girl pants on and swallow the bitter pill. 🫡💜 it's been an honour writing for you all.

The motel room had never felt smaller, or quieter, than it did right now.

You moved slowly, deliberately folding each piece of clothing you'd accumulated during your time here, gently setting them aside on the bed—small reminders of a life you'd unexpectedly built here. Beside them lay your phone, wallet, keys, and jacket; familiar belongings from the world you'd left behind, quietly waiting to accompany you home.

The way you tucked your sari carefully back into place felt almost ceremonial, each fold symbolic of the farewell you weren't ready to give.

Across the room, Dean sat quietly on the edge of the bed. His posture was tense, hands resting loosely between his knees. He watched you silently, eyes dark with an ache he no longer tried to hide. It hurt to breathe, to watch you move so easily around the room you'd shared for what felt both like a lifetime and a blink of an eye.

You adjusted the sari naturally around yourself, slipping on your bangles one by one. When it came time to fasten your necklace, your fingers fumbled slightly, hesitation slowing your movements.

Dean noticed immediately, standing up without a word. He stepped up behind you, gently taking the delicate clasp from your hands. You inhaled softly, pulse quickening as his fingers brushed lightly over your neck, securing the necklace carefully. Instead of stepping away, Dean leaned in slowly, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear, lips ghosting tenderly against your skin.

You closed your eyes briefly, savoring the sensation, shivering slightly as he breathed softly against your neck, letting himself stay close just a little longer.

When he finally stepped back, your gazes met in the mirror. For a brief second, you looked exactly as you had the first time he'd found you, standing at the side of the road—confused, out of place, and utterly captivating. But then your eyes met again, and he saw the difference.

You weren't that girl anymore.

Now, you carried pieces of them, pieces of him, in every glance, every smile, every breath.

Neither of you spoke. Neither moved. The air was heavy, thick with all the things you couldn't say—things you wouldn’t say, because voicing them aloud made them painfully real. Eventually, Dean cleared his throat, voice quiet, hesitant.

"I guess this is it," he murmured, the words barely audible, cracking slightly under the weight of their meaning.

You swallowed hard, forcing a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah. Guess so."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, running a nervous hand through his hair before letting out a quiet, awkward laugh. "You sure you wanna go?" he asked softly, a hint of embarrassment in his voice for asking yet again.

Your chest tightened painfully, a lump forming in your throat. Your heart screamed the truth: no, you weren’t sure. Not even close. But instead, you smiled gently, turning around and reaching up, fingertips tenderly caressing his face. "You know I do," you whispered quietly, holding his gaze, letting him see your truth.

Dean nodded slowly, eyes darkening with a quiet sadness he couldn't quite hide. "Gonna miss you, sweetheart."

Your chest tightened painfully, heart aching at his words. Impulsively, you pulled him close by the collar of his jacket, lips meeting softly in a kiss filled with longing and finality. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you closer, his warm hands caressing the bare skin of your waist beneath the drape of your sari.

His touch grew more insistent, wandering just a little further, fingers exploring gently. You smiled softly into the kiss, reluctantly pulling away, a quiet laugh escaping your lips as you rested your forehead gently against his.

"Slow down, cowboy," you teased softly, eyes sparkling affectionately. "We don't have time for this. Do you have any idea how long it took me to drape this sari?"

Dean chuckled softly, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips. "Fair enough," he murmured, pressing another gentle, lingering kiss against your lips, this one quieter, sweeter. "Had to try, though."

You laughed quietly, stepping back just enough to take his hand. "Come on. We should go."

Dean nodded slowly, giving your hand a final reassuring squeeze before you both turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind echoes of all the memories you'd built together.

—

When you entered Sam's room, both Sam and Castiel were waiting. Sam stood quickly, eyes soft with understanding, a quiet sadness in his gaze. You smiled warmly, moving forward and wrapping your arms tightly around him.

"Take care of yourself, Sam," you whispered, your voice gentle yet firm. Leaning closer, your voice softened further, audible only to him. "Don't be too hard on yourself for what's about to come. It isn't your fault."

Sam stilled slightly in your arms, a quiet breath catching in his throat. He pulled back slowly, eyes serious but understanding. He nodded gently, silent gratitude and acceptance clear on his face. "I will," he promised softly.

Turning back to Dean, you felt your heart clench again, a sharp ache you’d never be ready for. Without hesitation, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms tightly around him one last time. Dean held you securely, chin resting on your head, soaking in every second of your warmth.

You drew back slightly, meeting his gaze earnestly. "Things will get better soon," you murmured softly. "Just promise you'll take care of yourself the way you take care of everyone else."

Dean's eyes softened, a gentle smile ghosting his lips as he nodded solemnly. "I'll do my best."

"Good," you whispered, touching his cheek gently one last time before stepping back, eyes finally drifting to Castiel. You reached out quietly, grasping Cas's hand firmly, the angel giving you a reassuring squeeze in return.

"Think of home," Castiel instructed softly, his voice steady and comforting.

Taking one final deep breath, you glanced back at Sam and Dean, your eyes glistening with tears you refused to shed.

With a gentle exhale, you closed your eyes, focusing your thoughts on home.

And in an instant, you were gone.

—

The air shifted around you, instantly familiar yet painfully foreign after so long. When you opened your eyes, everything was exactly as you'd left it—the night air thick with the scent of marigolds and lingering incense, streetlights flickering softly above, their glow bouncing gently off the shimmering gold embroidery of your sari.

Your heart thudded in your chest, disoriented and overwhelmed by how seamlessly your old life reappeared in front of you. There, just ahead, was your family—laughing, talking, utterly unaware you'd been gone for more than a year.

You turned slowly, meeting Castiel's calm, steady gaze beside you. Without hesitation, you squeezed his hand once more, voice thick with gratitude and emotion.

"Thank you, Cas," you whispered, tears blurring your vision once again. "For everything."

Castiel gave a gentle nod, eyes kind and patient. "You were always meant to find your way home."

You blinked back tears, nodding slowly, unable to speak anymore as the emotions overtook you. With one final glance of goodbye, Castiel gave you a small, reassuring smile before he disappeared, leaving you alone on the familiar street.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you looked once more toward your family, towards the life you'd left behind. You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to move forward, stepping quickly toward them, smiling brightly as if you'd never been gone.

They greeted you warmly, lovingly, unaware of the story you would never tell them—of the place you'd been, the battles you'd fought, or of the man who had irreversibly changed you.

You slid easily back into their embrace, laughter bubbling naturally from your lips, your smile genuine but bittersweet. You were home, and yet, a piece of you remained forever tethered to a world you'd never see again, to a man who would always hold a piece of your heart.

And somewhere, worlds away, Dean stood silently in the empty motel room, feeling your absence in every corner, every breath, every beat of his aching heart.

He exhaled heavily, eyes closing briefly, a small, resigned smile appearing slowly. He knew one truth—painful yet comforting—that even if worlds and universes separated you, neither of you would ever forget.

Because you weren't just someone who'd passed through his life; you were someone who had changed it entirely. A rare soul who belonged just enough to stay forever, even when you couldn't.

Even now, as he stood alone, he felt it deeply, irrevocably, and whispered quietly into the empty air of the room:

"Goodbye, Y/N."

But deep in his heart, in the quiet spaces no one else would ever see, Dean Winchester knew the truth:

Some goodbyes weren’t endings at all.

And somehow, someday, he was certain you'd meet again—even if it was only in dreams.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 25: Moments Caught, Not Kept

Summary: Y/N breaks over a photo of what her and Dean will never get to keep. He doesn’t try to fix it—just holds her through the silence. Later, under the stars, they pretend forever could be real.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1598

A/N: Unsure about the word count. Will update it soon. In the meantime enjoy 🫡💜 also for the gif just ignore Sam here and imagine yourself. Honestly I had the 5x22 episode in mind where Chuck talks about Sam & Dean stargazing whilst sitting atop the Impala.

One night, long after Dean had drifted off to sleep, breathing slow and steady beside you, you lay awake, phone in hand, the dim glow of the screen casting soft light across your face. You scrolled absently through old photos—snapshots of a life that felt impossibly far away.

And then—

You paused, your breath hitching sharply in your throat as you stared down at the image on your screen.

It was the picture Sam had taken—the morning you'd woken up cuddled against Dean. It was embarrassingly adorable, his arm wrapped securely around you, faces relaxed and content. Your head rested lightly on his chest, his chin tilted slightly against your hair.

You looked happy.

You looked like something that was always meant to be, something real and permanent.

Something you knew deep down you would never truly have.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until a hot tear slid down your cheek, quickly followed by another. Your vision blurred, and the weight of everything suddenly felt too much to carry.

Beside you, Dean stirred. The warmth of his body shifted closer, and his eyes slowly opened, squinting through the dim light.

“Y/N?” he murmured sleepily, his voice thick with exhaustion but laced immediately with concern. “Hey, you okay?”

You quickly tried to wipe away your tears, blinking rapidly as you shook your head softly. “Sorry,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, more awake now, and his eyes softened as they caught sight of the phone still glowing dimly in your hand. He saw the photo clearly, knew immediately why you were crying, and without a word, gently took the phone and set it aside.

Wordlessly, Dean pulled you into his arms, wrapping them firmly around you, holding you tight against him as though you might slip away if he let go. His hand ran soothing circles along your back, his steady heartbeat grounding you as fresh tears spilled silently onto his chest.

“Sorry,” you whispered again, voice breaking slightly, muffled by the warmth of him. “I thought I had this under control.”

Dean shook his head gently, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to your forehead. “You don’t have to be sorry. Not for this. Not with me.”

You exhaled shakily, breathing him in, trying to memorize every detail—the familiar scent of leather, soap, and something unmistakably Dean.

He tightened his hold on you slightly, leaning back enough to brush away your tears with his thumb. His gaze softened further, intense and vulnerable.

“You still have me,” he murmured softly, his voice gentle yet unwavering. “For now, you still have me.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging, but your lips curved into a faint, sad smile.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. “Only for now.”

Dean’s chest rose and fell with a slow, heavy breath, eyes briefly falling shut as he pressed his forehead gently against yours.

“Then we make every damn second count.”

And despite the ache in your heart, you believed him.

For the rest of that night, Dean held you securely, refusing to let go until morning came, and neither of you said another word.

Because, at least for that moment, silence was easier than saying goodbye.

—

On the final night of your week with Dean, he drove you out to the middle of nowhere—just an open field, far from city lights, far from anyone. It was just the two of you, the Impala parked beneath a wide, open sky, and stars brighter than you’d ever seen them. Dean didn’t say much, just tilted his head back and nodded toward the sky like it was the only thing that made sense anymore.

You lay beside him on the hood of the car, the cool metal grounding you, the silence comfortable. The sky stretched endlessly above you, a deep, clear canvas scattered with stars, and for once, it felt like the world had slowed down—just long enough for you to breathe.

A soft melody hummed from the car's radio, mixing gently with the nighttime sounds—crickets in the distance, a rustle of wind through the trees, a moment of peace you rarely allowed yourselves.

Dean was the first to break the comfortable silence, eyes focused upward, arms tucked casually beneath his head.

“You know,” he started slowly, his voice low but clear, “I feel like I’ve been at a disadvantage this whole damn time.”

You turned your head slightly, raising an amused brow at him. “Oh? How's that?”

He tilted his head toward you slightly, lips pulling into a crooked smirk that had become achingly familiar. “You know everything about me—every stupid choice, every dumb mistake. Hell, every single time I forgot to salt the fries at some crappy diner.”

You chuckled softly, eyes shining with amusement. “That is definitely a criminal offense.”

Dean huffed a small laugh, shaking his head gently, before his expression shifted into something more earnest. “Exactly. You know it all. So, seems only fair you tell me about yourself, too.”

His request caught you off guard, quieting you instantly—not from discomfort, but from surprise.

Dean must have sensed your brief hesitation because his voice softened immediately, eyes flickering back to the stars. “You don't gotta share if you don't want to, sweetheart.”

But you found yourself shaking your head gently, voice steady and warm. “No, I—I want to.”

Dean's gaze returned to you, quietly attentive. You took a deep breath, organizing thoughts that felt foreign now, distant, a lifetime away.

You told him about home—about bustling city streets, the perpetual chaos and noise, the way lights never seemed to dim, even late into the night. You described a world so vastly different from this quiet, empty field beneath the stars. Dean listened silently, nodding now and then, never interrupting.

But you didn't stop at the good parts. You spoke honestly about the darker sides too—the suffocating expectations, the unspoken but ever-present restrictions, how simply existing as a woman felt like navigating a maze built from invisible walls.

Dean’s jaw tightened slightly, concern flickering through his eyes, but still he remained silent, allowing you the space to speak openly.

When you reached the part about Supernatural, your voice grew lighter, almost playful. “The first time I watched your show, I was thirteen. It was already well into season six by then.”

Dean's lips curled into an amused smirk. “Season six? Damn, you were late as hell to that party.”

You laughed, nudging him lightly. “Better late than never, right?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Fair enough. And let me guess—you immediately knew I was your favorite?”

You hesitated just enough to be playful, then said sheepishly, “Actually… at first, I kinda had a crush on Sam.”

Dean nearly choked on air, coughing dramatically, eyes widening comically in mock offense. “Sam? Sammy? Really?”

You laughed, burying your face briefly into your hands as embarrassment warmed your cheeks. “I was thirteen! He had that whole brooding, sensitive vibe going on!”

Dean shook his head, pretending to look utterly betrayed. “Wow. I don’t think I can forgive this.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, still giggling, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Cut me some slack.”

He raised an eyebrow, fighting a grin. “Alright, fine—when’d you finally come to your senses?”

You made a thoughtful sound, pausing dramatically. “Mmm, yesterday, maybe?”

Dean turned fully to glare at you, mock indignation all over his face. “You little—”

You broke into laughter, shaking your head. “Relax, Winchester. I figured it out eventually.”

“Damn right you did,” he replied smugly, finally allowing himself a soft chuckle.

For a while after that, your conversation wandered aimlessly, exploring hypothetical scenarios—what life might have looked like if you'd met in a different place, under different circumstances. How unfair it felt that fate had brought you together only to eventually tear you apart.

Eventually, you sighed softly, your voice quiet as you gazed upward again. “You know, the other night, when we danced in the rain—it was actually something on my bucket list.”

Dean's expression softened, watching you closely. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I mean back home, I knew I'd never get to do something like that.”

Dean's brow furrowed, a protective tension creeping into his voice. “Why not?”

You took a deep breath, your tone carefully controlled. “Because women there… they don’t get the luxury of being reckless, Dean. Not without consequences.”

Silence fell between you again, heavier this time, Dean absorbing your words deeply. Without saying anything, he reached out quietly, taking your hand in his own, fingers threading together tightly. He didn’t press further, didn’t ask questions—just held your hand as if he could shield you from the world you'd left behind.

You squeezed his hand gently in return, comforted immensely by the simple, wordless gesture.

“You know,” Dean eventually murmured, eyes trained back on the infinite sky, voice soft and contemplative, “if it were up to me, you'd never have to feel that way again.”

Your chest tightened at the quiet sincerity behind his words, eyes prickling slightly with emotion you weren't ready to fully let out. “I know,” you whispered softly, voice barely audible. “But we don't always get to choose, do we?”

Dean exhaled slowly, quietly resigned. “No, guess we don’t.”

For another long while, you lay side by side in silence, taking comfort in each other's presence, beneath a sky full of stars. Eventually, Dean turned slightly toward you again, voice gentle but edged with quiet vulnerability.

“But tonight? Right now? Let's just pretend we do.”

You smiled softly, shifting closer, your shoulders brushing warmly. “Okay,” you whispered, heart aching quietly. “Let's pretend.”

Dean held your hand a little tighter, his thumb gently tracing soothing patterns over your knuckles.

And for that night, beneath a clear, endless sky—pretending felt just as real as anything you'd ever known.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 24: Shotgun Rules and Backseat Secrets

Summary: Between off-key singing in the rain and stolen moments in the backseat, the Impala became a sanctuary, and a borrowed week became something sacred. They couldn’t outrun the end—but they damn sure slowed it down.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: Light smut.

Word Count: 2491

A/N: Ugh, I had so much fun writing this chapter. Iris is an all-time favorite, but please go ahead and imagine whatever song you guys like....that's the beauty of writing reader insert POVs. 💜 Also, yanno, I had to use this gif 🤙🏼

Dean Winchester never let anyone drive the Impala.

Ever.

Until today.

It had started as a joke, nothing serious—just a playful challenge tossed out casually, a smirk tugging at Dean’s lips as he’d teased, “You wanna take her for a spin?”

He’d expected hesitation, maybe even a little pushback. Instead, you had looked at him with a bright, confident smile and slipped effortlessly behind the wheel, settling into the seat like you'd been there a hundred times.

And now here you were, carefully adjusting the mirrors, slender fingers wrapped around the wheel like it belonged to you.

Dean watched you intently from the passenger seat, his arm draped casually along the back of the bench, trying—and failing—to ignore the way his heart was suddenly racing.

“How’s she feel?” Dean asked softly, voice laced with amusement, but underneath it was something more genuine, more tender.

Your eyes sparkled as you glanced at him. “Honestly?” you murmured, shifting slightly to find the perfect position. “She feels like home.”

Dean’s breath caught in his chest at that. His throat went dry, warmth spreading across his skin as he watched you adjust your grip on the wheel.

You looked good there.

Too good.

There was only one problem: this wasn’t the side you were used to driving from. Your brow furrowed slightly in adorable concentration.

“This is weird,” you muttered lightly, lips pressing together as you focused. “My brain knows what to do, but my hands are confused as hell.”

Dean chuckled, low and deep, leaning a little closer. His palm came to rest lightly on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles against the soft fabric of your dress.

“Just relax,” he murmured gently, his voice rasping slightly with suppressed emotion. “Trust me, Baby'll tell you what she needs.”

His touch was distracting, intimate enough that heat began pooling low in your belly. You forced yourself to focus, ignoring the delicious friction of Dean’s thumb brushing against your thigh as you shifted gears. Soon enough, though, the movements became smooth, second-nature—like you’d been doing it forever.

Dean couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. He was mesmerized, captivated by the way your confidence grew, how your smile widened each time the engine purred smoothly under your control. Desire burned hot and unchecked in his veins, settling low in his gut as he watched you—jaw tight, eyes dark, and thoughts anything but innocent.

—

It was late when the storm rolled in—sudden, fast, and more impatient than intense. Rain slicked across the windshield in rapid sheets, a relentless drizzle that drummed lightly but insistently against the Impala’s roof. The world outside blurred into streaks of motion and watery neon, distorted and restless.

You drove carefully, effortlessly, your lips parted slightly in concentration. Soft rock hummed quietly from the speakers, matching the ache building in Dean’s chest.

He shifted restlessly in his seat, eyes flicking between your profile and your hands gripping the wheel. His fingers drummed impatiently against his knee, his breath hitching softly in his throat every time you smoothly navigated through the darkened streets.

“You’re good at this,” he said finally, voice rough, deep.

You smiled faintly, not taking your eyes from the road. “Told you I would be.”

Dean’s eyes darkened with something that went far beyond admiration. The way you handled his car, handled yourself—it set his pulse racing, blood pounding hot through his veins.

He couldn’t hold back any longer. “Pull over,” he ordered suddenly, voice thick and commanding.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “What?”

Dean leaned closer, voice dropping to a dangerous rasp. “I said, pull over. Now.”

Something in his voice made your breath catch. Your pulse raced as you quickly guided Baby to the shoulder, tires splashing loudly against the wet pavement. The second you pulled the Impala to the side of the road, as if on queue, the heavens opened up.

Not the way it had been earlier—fast, impatient drizzle tapping out a restless rhythm. Now, it was a full-blown downpour, heavy droplets crashing against the roof of the car and sliding down the windshield in chaotic rivers.

“Well, that's just perfect timing,” he murmured dryly.

Dean let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back against the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the blurred darkness outside.

You turned to face him, a playful spark lighting your eyes. Your lips curved into a mischievous smile as you said, “You know what we should do?”

Dean raised an eyebrow cautiously. “What?”

Your grin widened, excitement buzzing in your voice. “Dance.”

Dean stared at you, dumbfounded. Then he laughed—hard, shaking his head. “Dance? In the rain?”

You nodded eagerly, eyes bright. “Why not?”

Dean’s expression softened, voice dropping an octave. “Sweetheart, we both know why we pulled over—and dancing wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

You reached out, grabbing his hand, squeezing gently as you looked at him with pleading eyes. “Come on, Dean. No one’s around to see. Just us. Live a little.”

He sighed dramatically, feigning resistance, but one look at the pure, unguarded joy on your face and Dean knew he never stood a chance. With a reluctant smirk, he surrendered.

“Fine,” he grumbled playfully. “But only 'cause you're so damn adorable when you're excited.”

You let out a triumphant cheer and threw open the door, hopping out eagerly. Dean followed, shaking his head, hiding a smile as the rain instantly soaked through your clothes, clinging damply to skin.

“You’re crazy,” Dean shouted over the downpour, water streaming down his face.

You laughed brightly, tipping your head back, welcoming the storm. “Just a little!”

Dean reached for you, hands sliding naturally to your waist as you pulled him closer. The rain fell steadily around you now, a little softer than before, like the world was holding its breath.

You swayed gently in the middle of the parking lot, feet shifting without rhythm, without need. Just the two of you, soaked and smiling.

“There’s no music,” you said with a grin, breath fogging faintly in the cool air.

Dean smirked, voice low as he began to hum—soft at first, then clearer. “And I’d give up forever to touch you…”

You laughed, your heart swelling as you recognized the song. “Really? Iris?” You grinned, shaking your head. “This is so un-canon of you…”

He raised an eyebrow. “What, too cheesy for you?”

You shook your head, smiling wide. “No, just… this feels like a scene straight out of an all-time favorite movie.”

“What movie?” he asked, curiosity peeking through his grin.

You hesitated for a beat, then shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Instead of answering, you leaned in, kissing him hard and fast, and when you pulled back, you threw your head back and belted out, “And I don’t want the world to see me—”

Dean laughed, immediately joining in with a raspy, off-key, “Cause I don’t think that they’d understand—”

You both dissolved into laughter but kept dancing—no music, no script, just the rain, the hum of the Impala cooling beside you, and two hearts trying to hold onto a moment that felt too good to be real. The rain began pouring relentlessly around you, drenching hair, soaking clothes, but neither of you cared.

Dean spun you gently, pulling you back against him, your foreheads resting together, noses brushing lightly, eyes locked in a gaze that spoke volumes without words.

Then, impulsively, Dean tilted his head down, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss that left you breathless, laughter slipping from your lips as you parted.

“Smooth move, Winchester,” you teased softly, running your fingers gently through his soaked hair.

Dean’s grin was wicked, eyes darkening with barely restrained desire. “Always.”

For a few stolen minutes, there was nothing but you—the rain, and the feel of each other’s warmth amidst the cold downpour. This moment was yours, completely untouched by reality or fate.

—

By the time you stumbled back toward the Impala, breathless, laughing, utterly soaked, every boundary had vanished. The tension between you was thick, palpable—Dean’s hands tracing heated paths along your sides, pulling you against him even before you reached the car.

Your back hit the Impala's door gently, Dean pressing into you instantly, mouth claiming yours with hungry intensity. You gripped the collar of his soaked jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, desperate for more.

“So,” you murmured breathlessly against his lips, voice low and teasing, “about the real reason we pulled over…”

Dean let out a growl deep in his throat, gripping your waist firmly. His eyes flashed dangerously with barely concealed lust. “Get in the car.”

Seconds later, you were tangled together in the backseat of the Impala, lips moving urgently, hands exploring beneath soaked clothing, desperate to feel skin against skin. Rain continued pounding against the roof, setting a relentless rhythm to your actions, heightening every touch, every breathless sigh.

Dean’s mouth trailed hot, demanding kisses along your neck, his fingertips sliding along the edge of your dress, tugging impatiently until fabric gave way to heated skin. You gasped softly, arching into him, nails digging lightly into his back.

“You have no idea,” Dean whispered roughly against your pulse, voice thick with desire, “how long I’ve wanted this—right here, with you.”

You shivered beneath his touch, pulling his face back to yours, eyes locking with intensity as your voice dropped to a seductive whisper, full of invitation and promise.

“Then show me, Winchester.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. His kiss was deep, passionate, claiming you completely. Clothes peeled away in wet, tangled piles, bodies pressing urgently together, losing yourselves in each other amid soft moans and whispered names.

The windows fogged from your breaths, the car filled with heat and desire, sheltered from the storm raging outside.

Every movement, every gasp, was charged with meaning, desire, and tenderness, building steadily toward something raw and overwhelming. And as you finally came undone, wrapped around each other, gasping softly into the heated silence of the car, nothing else mattered—not the rain, not the storm, not the uncertain future ahead.

For now, you had this.

You had each other.

And in that moment, tangled together in the backseat of the Impala, rain drumming gently on the roof, Dean knew he'd never let this memory fade.

Not ever.

—-

The next morning, you woke up sore—deliciously, blissfully sore—and you weren’t complaining. Dean, however, wore a smirk so unbearably smug you almost threw a pillow at him twice before you even left the motel room.

He let you drive again, a silent acknowledgment of just how deeply you’d settled into his world, and maybe into his heart. You slid into the driver’s seat confidently, fingers adjusting mirrors and gripping the wheel like you belonged there. Dean leaned casually against the Impala’s door, watching you with a quiet kind of pride that went deeper than he cared to admit.

When Sam emerged from his room, backpack slung over his shoulder, he stopped dead, eyebrows pulling together as he took in the scene before him. He narrowed his eyes skeptically, shifting his suspicious gaze from Dean to you and back.

“You’re letting her drive?” Sam asked incredulously.

Dean shrugged, arms crossed over his chest, unable to hide the smug satisfaction in his expression. “She's earned it.”

You flashed a victorious grin, starting the engine smoothly and letting Baby rumble to life beneath your fingertips.

Sam huffed skeptically, clearly not convinced, but begrudgingly slid into the backseat, muttering under his breath.

Then he froze.

The seat beneath him was damp. Uncomfortably so. He shifted, glancing down in confusion—then horrified realization struck him.

“Oh my God,” Sam whispered, eyes widening as he stared down at the slightly fogged windows and hastily wiped seats. Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the front, meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror.

You and Dean were already exchanging guilty glances, fighting back laughter.

“Oh God no,” Sam said, expression shifting from disbelief to pure disgust. He pointed accusingly at both of you. “Seriously? In the backseat?”

Dean chuckled darkly, eyes glinting with mischief. “Something wrong back there, Sammy?”

“You guys are gross,” Sam declared, looking utterly betrayed as he hastily scrambled out of the backseat. “Who does that?”

Dean smirked wider, leaning casually against the passenger window. “Apparently, we do.”

You bit down on your lip to suppress your laughter. “Come on, Sam, don’t be dramatic.”

Sam scowled, slipping into the passenger seat instead, deliberately not looking at either of you. “I’m traumatized. I’m never sitting in the back again.”

Dean laughed outright, eyes glittering in triumph. "You’re lucky we didn’t fog up the front seat too.”

Sam groaned, reaching for the radio in defeat. Before his fingers even brushed the dial, you gently slapped his hand away and threw one of Dean’s lines at him:

“House rules, Sammy: driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Dean’s entire face lit up, eyes bright with affection. “Atta girl.”

Sam groaned louder, burying his face in his hands, defeated. “I officially hate you both.”

You and Dean shared a wickedly triumphant grin, completely unrepentant, as the Impala rolled smoothly out onto the road, classic rock filling the space around you.

—

The week blurred by, each day bleeding seamlessly into the next, yet you felt every single moment as if it were etched permanently into your memory. There was an urgency now, an ache, a silent countdown that loomed over every second you spent with Dean.

Some nights, it was like the world was ending, both of you desperate to hold on, fingers digging into skin as if it was the only thing anchoring you to reality. Clothes would disappear in a chaotic mess on the floor, Dean’s mouth hungry against your skin, consuming you like he was afraid you'd vanish if he stopped.

On those nights, you didn't speak. There were no whispered promises, no comforting words—just the raw, unspoken fear of losing each other, made tangible by desperate kisses and bodies pressed tightly together.

Other nights were softer, slower. Dean took his time, as though carefully memorizing every inch of you, fingertips tracing your skin so gently you’d shiver beneath his touch. Those nights, you spoke quietly, sharing hushed laughter and gentle murmurs in the darkness.

“You know,” Dean whispered softly one night, pressing feather-light kisses against the curve of your neck, “if I had a choice, I’d keep you here forever.”

His voice cracked ever so slightly on the last word, giving away the truth he was trying desperately to hide.

Your heart clenched painfully in your chest. Your fingers brushed softly through his hair, soothingly, lovingly, as you whispered back, “You know I would stay if I could.”

You both knew the truth. Neither could change it.

Yet it didn’t stop you from pretending, even if only for a little while.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 23: Drunk Mistakes & Honest Confessions

Summary: Dean lashes out and makes the worst kind of mistake. Y/N breaks. Sam plays mediator. And somewhere between slammed doors and drunk confessions, feelings finally come spilling out—too raw to ignore. But love, as always, comes with a ticking clock.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: Angst?

Word Count: 2144

A/N: This and the next couple of chapters are all screaming the same thing: Fuck the plot. Fuck Canon. Fuck them seals. Fuck Sam hanging out with Ruby too much. (Fuck-a Papa Doc, Fuck-a clock, Fuck-a trailer, Fuck everybody. Fuck y'all if you doubt me.....sorry I got carried away 🫠😬🫡)

The cold morning air had hit you like a slap to the face as you stepped outside, your eyes quickly scanning the motel’s parking lot. Your breath caught when you spotted the familiar silhouette of the Impala. Dean sat motionless in the driver's seat, eyes distant, staring ahead at nothing.

You hesitated briefly before approaching, anxiety pooling deep in your chest. The gravel crunched softly beneath your boots. When you reached the car, you gently rested your palm against the cool metal of the door frame, voice soft but firm.

“Dean?”

He didn’t look at you immediately, didn’t acknowledge your presence. His jaw was clenched tightly, knuckles pale from gripping the steering wheel as though it was the only thing holding him together.

“Are you—”

“I'm fine,” he interrupted sharply, voice brittle, edged with hurt.

A painful knot twisted in your chest. “Dean, don’t do this.”

He finally turned his head slightly, looking at you, his eyes weren’t angry—not exactly. They were distant, resigned, and unbearably tired.

“Do what, exactly?” he said bitterly. “Let you go back to where you belong? It’s what you wanted from the start, right?”

His words cut deeper than you anticipated, the accusation in them making your throat tighten painfully. “That’s not fair, Dean. You know that’s not—”

“It’s just a show,” he said suddenly, voice quiet, cold, devoid of emotion. “None of this was ever real for you.”

You flinched visibly, his words hitting harder than any physical blow ever could. Anger rose hot and sharp in your chest, mixing with the hurt until it was impossible to tell them apart.

“How can you say that?” you whispered harshly, fighting the burning tears that threatened to spill. “After everything?”

Dean's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening even more. For a brief moment, it looked like he might say something else—something softer, something that might change this entire conversation. But instead, he shook his head sharply, shoulders tense with frustration.

“I can’t do this right now,” he muttered, turning the key. The Impala roared to life beneath your fingertips. You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could form words, the car jerked away, leaving you standing alone, shivering and shattered.

—

Hours passed painfully slow, each minute dragging like an eternity. You paced restlessly in the small motel room, heart aching, thoughts racing. You’d thought he would come back soon, calm down, and you'd talk. But as the clock ticked on and the darkness grew thicker, you started to lose hope.

Then, finally—long after midnight—the motel door swung open, and Dean stumbled inside. Your breath caught sharply as you spun to face him.

He was drunk, movements heavy and unsteady. And worse, he wasn’t alone. A woman clung to his arm, laughing softly, oblivious to the heavy tension saturating the room.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and his drunken smirk faltered for only an instant, the briefest flicker of guilt flashing across his face before it disappeared beneath a harsh mask.

“Still here?” he drawled lazily, leaning into his bravado. “Thought you’d have booked your ticket home by now.”

The woman, sensing the sudden chill, awkwardly released his arm. “Maybe I should go.”

“Yeah,” you snapped bitterly, never breaking eye contact with Dean. “Maybe you should.”

The woman quickly excused herself, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving only painful silence in her wake.

You shook your head slowly, disbelief and anger choking you. “Real mature, Dean.”

He laughed humorlessly, swaying slightly. “What’s it matter to you? You got your ticket out, remember?”

Your vision blurred with unshed tears. You couldn’t do this—not now. The hurt was too raw, too immediate. Without another word, you turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind you.

—

Sam’s door wasn’t locked, thankfully. You burst inside without knocking, breath ragged and eyes already stinging. Sam immediately sat up, alert and confused.

“Y/N, what—”

“He brought someone back with him,” you snapped bitterly, voice cracking under the weight of your hurt. “Some random girl, Sam. How could he do that?”

Sam stared at you, expression softening as realization settled. “Dean...he’s an idiot when he’s hurting. You know that.”

“It’s bullshit!” you snapped, voice trembling with barely contained tears. “I didn’t even ask to be here, Sam! I didn’t ask for any of this—and I sure as hell didn’t ask to fall in love with Dean fucking Winchester. Ugh!”

Your words echoed sharply in the small room, reverberating painfully in your ears. Sam’s eyes widened slightly at the admission, his expression shifting from surprise to gentle understanding.

Your eyes widened, panic overtaking anger as you realized what you had just said out loud.

“I—” you stammered, your eyes and throat closing. “I didn’t mean to say—”

Sam exhaled gently, approaching you slowly. “Have you told him?”

You let out a broken, humorless laugh, eyes bright with tears you refused to shed. “Tell him? Why would I tell him anything? He obviously doesn’t give a shit anymore.”

Sam sighed quietly, shaking his head gently. “You know that’s not true.”

You scoffed bitterly, looking away. “Really? Because it sure feels true.”

—

Dean sat alone on his bed, head spinning, feeling nauseous—not just from the alcohol, but from the guilt clawing through him. He had messed up. Badly.

When Sam burst through the door moments later, Dean barely looked up, eyes tired and haunted.

“You proud of yourself?” Sam demanded quietly, anger simmering beneath his usually calm voice.

Dean clenched his jaw, unable to meet Sam’s gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

Sam shook his head, exhaling sharply. “She’s in love with you, Dean. She told me.”

Dean’s breath hitched sharply in his chest, heart hammering painfully. He looked up, eyes wide, disbelieving. “She...what?”

“She loves you, you idiot,” Sam repeated firmly, frustration clear in his voice. “She just said it. She loves you.”

Dean didn’t even realize he’d moved until he was sprinting out the door, heart racing, panic and hope tangling painfully in his chest.

—

You sat curled on Sam’s bed, shoulders trembling slightly, your breath hitching softly as tears finally spilled down your cheeks. Castiel stood nearby, deeply uncomfortable, unsure how to offer comfort.

Dean’s sudden entrance startled you both. He was breathless, desperate, eyes wild with remorse.

“Cas, out,” Dean commanded roughly, eyes never leaving you.

Cas hesitated, uncertain, until you whispered softly, “It’s okay, Cas.”

Castiel finally nodded and left quietly, closing the door gently behind him. Silence fell thick between you and Dean, punctuated only by your shaky breathing.

“Y/N,” Dean began softly, stepping forward carefully. “I—I fucked up.”

You laughed bitterly, swiping angrily at your eyes. “Yeah. You really did.”

He swallowed thickly, voice rough with guilt and desperation. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

“How would you feel,” you cut in, voice shaking, “if I disappeared for an entire day and came back drunk… with some random guy hanging off me?”

Dean’s expression shifted instantly, jaw tightening, eyes flashing. “I’d kill him.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “Then how could you?” you whispered, broken and furious. “How could you do that to me?”

“I panicked,” he admitted suddenly, his voice breaking. “The thought of losing you scared the hell out of me. I handled it wrong. I know that. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, eyes blazing with anger and pain. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know,” he whispered, stepping closer, voice softer now, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “But it’s the truth. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to... how to love someone without screwing it up.”

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest. You shook your head slowly, voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “You're not the only one scared of losing someone, Dean. It terrifies me too. But I’d never hurt you like that. Never.”

He nodded slowly, eyes full of regret. “I believe you, and I'm sorry.”

You were still trembling, the aftermath of everything that had just happened leaving you raw and exposed. Dean felt it too—both of you still breathing unevenly, tangled up in the emotional intensity of your confessions. Neither of you spoke for several long moments; the silence between you heavy, thick with unspoken truths.

Yet, for once, Dean didn’t pull away. He didn’t retreat into himself. Instead, he moved slowly toward you, deliberately closing the space, until you both lay facing each other on the motel bed. Your eyes met—searching, questioning, trying to understand.

Dean was the first to speak, voice quiet and raw.

“I love you.”

The words hung in the air, causing your breath to hitch sharply. Your chest tightened almost painfully, the reality of hearing him say it aloud shaking you to your core.

You had imagined this moment so many times—had longed to hear those three words in his voice, had dreamed about how you would feel when he finally spoke them—but reality was infinitely more complicated.

“Dean…” Your voice trembled softly, almost breaking under the weight of everything left unsaid.

His hand twitched hesitantly, uncertain if he was allowed to touch you. “I—” you paused, fighting back tears, taking a shaky breath. Then quietly, painfully honest, “I love you too.”

Dean’s eyes softened, relief and something deeper flooding his expression. But before he could fully embrace it, you continued softly, voice cracking, “But I can’t stay.”

The shift in his expression was immediate and heartbreaking. His jaw tightened sharply, eyes darkening with hurt, a shadow flickering across his face as he tried to conceal his reaction.

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to continue even as every word felt like a betrayal.

“I have a family,” you whispered, heart twisting painfully. “I have a life—a real one. And as much as I wish I could stay here with you…” your voice trailed off softly, painfully honest. “I just can’t.”

Dean didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he stared into your eyes, searching, as though hoping he’d find something there to make this easier. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled slowly.

“Okay.”

Your brows knitted together slightly, confusion clear in your eyes. “Okay?”

He nodded gently, voice steady despite the obvious pain in his eyes. “Give me one week.”

Your confusion deepened, uncertainty flickering across your face. “What?”

Dean shifted closer, gently reaching to brush a stray piece of hair from your cheek. “Stay with me for one more week,” he said quietly, vulnerably. “Just us. No hunting, no running, no worrying about the future. Just… this.”

His eyes were soft now, earnest, unguarded. There was no expectation, no demand. It was simply a request—one that resonated deeply in your chest.

After a moment, your expression softened, eyes watering slightly as you finally nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean’s breath released in relief, a subtle smile finally breaking through his serious expression. You let out a watery chuckle, breaking the tension that had lingered for too long.

“We sound like a tragic romance novel,” you murmured, eyes shining faintly with unshed tears.

Dean smirked slightly, tension easing away. “Let’s try not to make it too tragic, then.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re an idiot.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but his smile widened. “Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear.”

For a moment, you simply smiled at each other—warm, genuine, the weight of everything temporarily forgotten. Dean leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You closed your eyes, leaning into the soft touch, savoring this fleeting peace.

Sleep eventually claimed you both, bodies curled close together, breathing steady for the first time in what felt like years. You didn’t have forever. But for now—for this week—you had each other.

—

Across the hall, Sam was sitting at the small table in his motel room, staring blankly into space, head spinning from the emotional tornado that had ripped through the evening. Castiel was sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed opposite him, brows furrowed deeply in confusion.

Cas finally broke the long silence. “I don’t understand what just happened.”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “You and me both.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, looking genuinely concerned. “Did I do something wrong?”

Sam sighed again, frustration bleeding into his exhaustion. “It’s complicated.”

Castiel frowned slightly, clearly unsatisfied. “I am capable of understanding complicated situations.”

Sam paused, considering this, then reluctantly settled into his chair, resigning himself to the inevitable.

“Okay, Cas,” he muttered tiredly. “Where should I start?”

Castiel straightened attentively. “At the beginning.”

Sam groaned quietly to himself, leaning his head back to stare hopelessly at the ceiling. “Oh, for the love of God.”

It was going to be a very long night.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 22: A Question with No Good Answer

Summary: A casual breakfast takes a tense turn when you ask Castiel if he can send you back to your world. When he says yes, the hope in your voice cuts deeper than you realize—and Dean’s reaction makes it painfully clear just how much he’s been holding on to you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: Light angst? I think this counts as angst.

Word Count: 1088

A/N: We're moving toward the end. Hold on tight, guys. 🙏🏽

You woke slowly, your body comfortably pressed into Dean's side, the early morning sunlight filtering softly through the thin motel curtains. The smell of cheap detergent mixed with the lingering scent of beer felt oddly reassuring. Dean’s arm, warm and secure, lay draped across your waist, grounding you firmly to reality.

For a long moment, you didn’t move, didn’t even open your eyes. You just soaked in the peacefulness of the moment, savoring the feel of Dean’s slow breathing, the quiet hum of the air conditioner, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

Then, slowly, reality began to creep back in—the quiet question from the night before echoing through your thoughts.

Do you think Cas could send me back?

Dean had stiffened instantly at your words, his silence answering more clearly than any words ever could. You hadn’t pressed him. You weren't even sure you wanted an answer, not really. But the possibility was there, like a cloud hanging just out of sight, ready to burst open.

You shifted slightly, testing to see if Dean was awake. He didn't move, didn't flinch—but his breathing was too controlled, too steady. He was awake, just pretending otherwise.

You sighed softly, breaking the quiet tension with a teasing murmur. “Morning, sunshine.”

Dean huffed, his arm tightening around your waist, eyes still closed. “Mm. Enthusiastic today, aren’t we?”

You smiled into his chest, your fingers tracing absent patterns across his bare skin. “I learned from the best. Your cheery disposition rubbed off on me.”

Dean finally opened one eye, glancing down at you with mock offense. “Cheery? Who the hell have you been waking up next to, sweetheart?”

You grinned softly, grateful for the easy shift back into normality. “Must’ve been some other hunter. Can’t remember his name right now.”

Dean smirked lazily, giving your waist a gentle squeeze. “Cute.”

But beneath the teasing, you could feel the unspoken tension still lingering. He was deflecting again, and you didn’t push. Not yet. Not now.

—

By the time Sam and Cas returned, the room had taken on an air of forced normalcy. Dean sat at the table cleaning his guns meticulously, and you were busy flipping through one of the older case files, though your mind was elsewhere.

The door swung open, breaking the quiet atmosphere as Sam strode inside, carrying bags of food, with Cas trailing closely behind. Sam dropped the breakfast bags onto the table, oblivious to the underlying strain.

“Breakfast,” Sam announced casually. "Thought we could all use something solid."

You instantly perked up, grabbing one of the greasy paper-wrapped hash browns and biting into it hungrily. Castiel tilted his head, watching with mild confusion.

“Were you not eating adequately before this?” Cas asked with genuine curiosity.

Dean snorted without looking up. “Sure she was. She was just used to medieval portions. Bread, stale cheese—maybe a stray rabbit.”

You rolled your eyes, pausing mid-chew to glare playfully at him. “Excuse me, I was eating like a seasoned warrior. You try surviving off lembas and stew for months at a time.”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “She has a point, Dean.”

Dean smirked, leaning back slightly. “Yeah, whatever, Aragorn.”

You tossed a piece of toast at him, but beneath the laughter, you could feel the heaviness lingering—the question still unanswered between you.

—

Breakfast continued with a casual ease until the conversation began to drift. You couldn’t help yourself—you had to ask, had to know what options were still on the table. So, trying to sound casual, you finally glanced toward Cas.

“Hey, Cas—if you can pull people from Hell, do you think you could send someone somewhere else? Like another dimension or something?”

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Dean’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Sam’s eyes darted sharply toward him, immediately picking up on the tension.

Castiel considered the question carefully, unperturbed by the sudden quiet. After a moment, he stepped closer, gaze steady and calm. “Perhaps. It would depend on how you arrived here. If you allow me to see it, I might be able to determine something.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Cas offered his hand, eyes gentle but intent. “If I hold your hands, I can see exactly how you got here. That might give me answers.”

Silence thickened the air. You hesitated only a moment before your eyes flicked instinctively to Dean, searching his face for any sign. Dean sat perfectly still, frozen in place, his jaw clenched tightly, eyes darkened and guarded. He didn’t say a word—his silence deafeningly loud.

Slowly, you nodded, extending your hands toward Cas. You closed your eyes as his warm, reassuring grip encircled your fingers. Moments ticked by silently until Cas released your hands gently, his gaze thoughtful yet hopeful.

“There is a chance,” he said, voice calm and even. “The spell that brought you here is intricate but not irreversible. I could attempt to send you back, if that’s truly what you want.”

Your heart skipped, hope flaring sharply inside your chest. Your breath caught, eyes widening as the reality of Cas’s words sank in. “You think you can actually do it?”

Cas nodded slowly. “I believe it’s possible, yes.”

Excitement surged within you, bright and electrifying. Before you could even think, your eyes turned instinctively toward Dean, eager to share the relief and hope of the moment.

But when you saw his face, everything inside you faltered.

Dean was staring at you, eyes dark, expression closed off—but behind it all was a hurt he couldn’t hide. You knew that look. It was the one Dean wore when something cut deeper than he was willing to admit. His jaw tightened briefly, and a bitter, humorless laugh escaped him as he stood abruptly, chair scraping sharply across the floor.

“That's just great,” he muttered harshly, grabbing his jacket roughly from the chair. “Glad you finally got your ticket out.”

“Dean—” you started softly, voice pleading.

He shook his head sharply, already turning toward the door. “Don't. It’s fine. Really. I'm sure your real life’s a hell of a lot better than this one anyway.”

And without another word, he stormed out, door slamming behind him.

The room fell into stunned silence. Cas simply watched, uncertain how to respond. Sam’s shoulders dropped slightly, sympathy clear in his expression as he gave you a regretful look.

You felt hollow, sickened by the hurt you had caused—hurt you hadn’t meant to inflict. Your throat felt tight, eyes burning.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 21: One Day of Peace (Before Reality Catches Up)

Summary: What starts as a lighthearted spa day and a round of drinks turns into something far more intimate. After the laughter fades and the door closes, Dean finally opens up about Hell—and Y/N listens. But peace is fragile, and one question lingers between them: if Castiel could send her back... would she go?

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: Smut.

Word Count: 3844

A/N: Man it is not easy writing and editing documents on the phone. Please enjoy!! 🫡💜

You needed a reset. An entire physical and mental reset.

After several months in Middle-earth—washing in cold rivers, fighting battles, and surviving on minimal resources—you needed to feel human again. Dean, sensing your restlessness but still cautious about leaving you alone, had insisted Cas stay behind when he and Sam left for a quick salt-and-burn job a few towns over.

Castiel was baffled by the concept of a "spa day." He stood awkwardly by the entrance, peering around the pristine, softly lit lobby with narrowed eyes.

“What exactly is the purpose of… this?” Cas asked, bewildered, as you checked yourself in.

You smiled indulgently. “Self-care, my dear angel. I’ve spent almost a year living like a feral forest creature. Time to forcibly eject Middle-earth from my pores.”

Cas tilted his head, confusion etched deeply on his face. “But… why?”

You gently patted his arm, amused by his lack of understanding. “Trust me, Cas. Rivers aren’t exactly moisturizing.”

Castiel blinked slowly. “I see.”

He clearly didn’t, but he dutifully took a seat in the waiting area, resigning himself to his role of bewildered guardian.

—

By the time you emerged, you felt transformed—clean, refreshed, and gloriously human again. Your hair was silky instead of tangled, your skin smooth and hydrated. The battle scars were still there, hidden reminders beneath your clothes, but for now, you felt whole.

With Dean’s (or rather, Angus Young’s) credit card tucked safely in your pocket, you wasted no time treating yourself further. A few new outfits, nothing too flashy—soft dresses, comfortable jeans, shirts that weren't covered in dirt and blood. It felt surreal to buy clothes instead of looting them from fallen enemies.

Castiel observed your bags with suspicion. “You require this much fabric?”

You laughed. “Oh, Cas. Sweet, clueless angel.”

He stared, still baffled, but didn't question you further as you headed back to the motel.

—

The boys returned just as evening fell. You were lounging casually on one of the beds, scrolling through your neglected phone, dressed comfortably in one of your new, soft dresses. Sam walked in first, offering a casual smile as he dumped his bag on the nearest chair. Dean followed—and froze.

He stood in the doorway, eyes locked on you, clearly caught off guard. You looked different—not just physically, with freshly washed hair and clothes that weren't threadbare, but lighter somehow. A weight you’d carried seemed to have lifted.

“How was the hunt?” you asked casually, stretching your arms above your head.

Sam shrugged. “Easy salt-and-burn. No big deal.”

Dean blinked, still somewhat dazed. “You look…”

You smirked playfully, eyebrows raised. “Like less of a hobbit?”

He snorted softly, shaking his head. “Something like that.”

Sam chuckled, unpacking his gear. Castiel, who had been quietly reading a motel brochure, glanced up. “She spent several hours ejecting Middle-earth from her pores.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “She what?”

You laughed, tossing a pillow lightly at Cas, who caught it easily. “He means I took a spa day, Dean.”

Dean huffed in amusement. “Fancy.”

“Exactly,” you said, sliding off the bed and walking toward the boys. You leaned on the table, eyes sparkling mischievously. “And you know what that calls for?”

Dean groaned, recognizing your tone. “Please don’t.”

You grinned triumphantly. “Shot O’Clock.”

Sam snorted, shaking his head but clearly not opposed. “Honestly, I could use a drink.”

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically. “You two are a terrible influence.”

Castiel blinked at him seriously. “Would you prefer if I supervise?”

Dean just sighed deeply. “We’ll be fine, Cas.”

—

Three shots and a couple of beers later, you felt pleasantly loose, your earlier tension completely gone. Dean, relaxed and smiling in a way you hadn’t seen since your return, leaned close to whisper something teasing in your ear. Warmth pooled low in your stomach as you laughed, leaning into him instinctively.

Sam caught your eye from across the table and raised an eyebrow. You grinned unapologetically back at him. The alcohol was working wonders.

At some point, you grabbed Dean’s wrist, gently tugging him off his stool. Dean stumbled slightly, confused but willing as you pulled him toward the motel bathroom.

Dean blinked down at you. “Woah…where are we—?”

Before he could finish, you pushed him into the bathroom, locking the door swiftly behind you. Dean’s surprised expression shifted quickly to amusement, eyes darkening with realization.

“You serious?” he murmured, voice low, already stepping closer.

“So serious,” you whispered, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

Your first kiss after returning wasn’t slow or hesitant. It was desperate, needy, all tension and longing crashing together at once. Dean’s hands slid firmly along your waist, gripping your hips tightly as he pressed you back against the bathroom sink. You gasped softly as his lips moved from your mouth down your neck, his touch leaving trails of heat in its wake.

Every second felt electric. Your movements were quick, frantic, hands pulling at clothes, nails digging into skin. It wasn’t gentle, but it didn’t need to be—not this time. You needed this, needed him, needed proof that this was real and happening again.

Dean groaned softly against your mouth as you arched into him, wrapping your legs around his waist, bringing him impossibly closer. Your breaths grew heavier, gasps muffled between kisses, the world outside this tiny room fading entirely.

When it ended, you were both breathless, panting quietly, foreheads pressed together, your fingers tangled in Dean’s hair.

Dean smiled against your lips. “Definitely need to do that again.”

You laughed breathily, nodding. “Soon. Give me five minutes.”

He chuckled, pressing one more lingering kiss to your mouth. “Deal.”

—

When you and Dean emerged from the bathroom, you both attempted casual nonchalance. Dean stretched exaggeratedly, and you smoothed down your dress, both pretending nothing had happened. Sam, sitting at the table with his beer, looked up slowly, unimpressed.

“Really?” Sam drawled flatly. “The bathroom?”

Dean shrugged innocently, sitting down and reaching for another beer. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Sammy.”

You bit your lip, fighting laughter, as Sam sighed deeply, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

Dean smirked, glancing sideways at you, and you were now openly grinning. Before Sam could complain further, Castiel appeared by your table, glancing curiously between you all.

Cas tilted his head slightly. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Dean said smoothly, sipping his beer. “Sam’s just being dramatic.”

Sam gestured helplessly at the both of you. “Cas, help me out here.”

Castiel looked between the three of you, utterly confused. “With what?”

You finally broke, laughing openly, nearly knocking your drink over. “Oh my God, Cas.”

Dean grinned triumphantly. Sam looked ready to flee the scene. Castiel continued to stare blankly at all of you, trying—and failing—to understand the joke.

You settled comfortably back in your chair, smiling brightly, feeling truly human again for the first time since you’d returned. Dean’s hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently. You smiled softly, leaning against him.

—

The motel door had barely clicked shut behind you before you found yourself pulled gently into Dean’s arms again, his mouth softly pressing against yours in a way that left you breathless. This time, it wasn’t hurried or frenzied like before—it was slow, deliberate, and achingly tender. Every kiss lingered, filled with emotions neither of you were brave enough yet to put into words.

Dean's touch was careful, gentle—his fingertips brushing lightly along your waist as he guided you toward the bed. Your heart fluttered, not from nerves, but from something deeper, something that settled in your bones, warm and right.

You sighed against Dean’s lips, fingers tracing along his jaw, memorizing every line and curve. He eased you back onto the mattress, settling over you carefully, your bodies fitting together effortlessly. Every movement, every touch was soft and slow, filled with quiet reverence.

Dean’s mouth moved from your lips down along your jaw, your throat, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch softly. He took his time undressing you, eyes locked onto yours, darkened with something far deeper than lust. Every inch of exposed skin was met with slow kisses, his lips brushing along your collarbone, down your chest, trailing warmth as he went.

You tangled your fingers into his hair, holding him close, guiding him to your mouth again. The air felt charged yet delicate, heavy with unspoken words. You took your time, savoring each touch, each whispered gasp, letting your bodies speak the truths your voices weren’t ready for.

When he finally pressed into you, it wasn’t hurried—it was careful, steady, slow. Dean’s forehead rested gently against yours, your breaths mingling as he moved within you, quiet groans muffled by your kisses. It felt different, impossibly deeper, more meaningful. You held him tightly, your legs wrapped securely around him, pulling him closer, never wanting to let go.

Afterward, neither of you moved away. Dean’s heartbeat echoed quietly beneath your ear as you curled against his side, listening to the steady rhythm. His fingers trailed lazily up and down your spine, soothing you into a peaceful lull you hadn't felt since returning.

For once, the silence felt comforting—until Dean’s chest rose and fell with a deeper sigh, his fingertips pausing briefly against your skin.

“I'm ready to talk about it…” he murmured, voice rough but quiet.

Your heart stuttered slightly. You knew exactly what he meant. You’d expected this conversation, dreaded it even, but knew it needed to happen eventually. Slowly, you propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him.

Dean stared up at the cracked motel ceiling, his jaw tense, shadows flickering across his face in the dim light. You could feel the heaviness he carried, knew the weight without needing him to speak. But you waited patiently, letting him gather his thoughts, offering silent reassurance with a gentle caress along his chest.

Eventually, Dean spoke. His voice was low, hesitant, strained.

“I… I don’t really know how to talk about it,” he began, swallowing thickly, “Hell was…”

He didn’t finish, but you didn’t push him either. You simply rested your palm against his chest, feeling his heart pound heavily beneath your fingertips.

“I know,” you whispered gently. “I already know.”

Dean’s eyes flickered down to yours, pained but also relieved. “I know you know. But…” He swallowed hard, clearly struggling, “Talking about it—actually saying it out loud… It’s different.”

You nodded slowly, fingers tracing calming circles against his chest. “Then say it,” you whispered softly. “I’ll listen. Even if I already know, Dean, I’ll always listen.”

Dean’s jaw tightened briefly, but after a heavy silence, he started talking. Slowly, cautiously, the words came out. He spoke about the endless darkness, about the rack, about pain and torment and fear. He talked about holding out as long as he could, resisting every torturous offer, every twisted bargain, and then—finally breaking.

He never said explicitly what he did once he picked up the blade, but he didn’t have to. You knew. The agony, the guilt, the self-loathing in his voice said enough.

“I don’t know how to come back from something like that,” he whispered brokenly. “Sometimes… I feel like I’m still there.”

His voice shook slightly at the confession, and he turned his face away from you, as if ashamed. You moved swiftly, gently tilting his chin back so he had to look at you.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said quietly, fiercely. “Not anymore.”

Dean stared at you, breath hitching softly, eyes swimming with unspoken emotion. For the first time since he’d returned from Hell, he believed that was true. Slowly, his expression softened, and he pulled you closer, burying his face against your hair, arms tightening protectively around you.

You stayed quiet for a long while, each holding onto the other, until finally, you broke the silence.

“Dean?” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think… Cas could send me back?” Your voice was cautious, hesitant, afraid of how it would sound to him.

Dean immediately stiffened, his fingers halting in their lazy caress. He didn’t speak for several seconds, but the quiet spoke volumes. Finally, in a careful tone, he turned slightly to look at you, eyes searching yours.

“Do you… want to go back?” he asked quietly, vulnerability clear in every word.

You hesitated, chest aching at the uncertainty in his voice. Your thumb brushed gently along his cheek, heart twisting.

“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted softly. “Sometimes… I think about home. But then…”

You trailed off, eyes flickering down briefly before meeting his gaze again.

Dean nodded slowly, understanding passing silently between you. He didn’t push for more, didn’t demand an answer. He simply tightened his grip, pulling you into his chest once again.

“Whatever you decide…” Dean murmured softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right here.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words settle deep within you. For now, it was enough. For now, this was exactly where you needed to be.

—

Later, as your breathing slowed beside him, Dean stayed awake, staring into the darkness, silently processing everything he’d just shared. The words had come out like splinters pulled from a festering wound—painful, but necessary. And now, for the first time in what felt like forever, his chest didn’t feel like it was caving in.

He felt lighter. Not whole—he wasn’t sure he ever would be—but lighter.

You were curled into his side, warm and steady, grounding him in a way nothing else ever had. And Dean clung to that, to you, like a lifeline. His arm tightened instinctively around your waist, thumb brushing slow circles along your back.

But beneath the peace, the weightlessness of finally letting go, another feeling curled at the edges of his mind: dread.

Your question—“Do you think Cas could send me back?”—echoed quietly in the back of his thoughts. You hadn’t said you were going. You hadn’t even said you wanted to. But the possibility alone had sunk a cold edge into the softness of the moment.

He didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

Maybe it was selfish, but Dean wanted to stay here—right here—with you in his arms, where everything felt quiet, bearable. The future could wait. That bridge… they'd cross it when they got to it. And maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to cross it alone.

He exhaled slowly, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

You were still here. That was what mattered.

And as he finally let himself drift toward sleep, the weight of your body against his and the echo of your voice in his memory, Dean felt something he hadn’t dared to hope for in a long, long time.

Safe.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 20: Pancakes and Pressure Points

Summary: Back in the safety of the motel, you settle into laughter, comfort food, and cautious peace. But beneath the warmth, you and Dean both carry wounds too fresh to voice. Between awkward reunions, sword jokes, and sugary breakfasts, you're reminded: healing doesn't happen all at once—but maybe you're getting there.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1497

A/N: Again, please do let me know of any plotholes 🙏🏽🫡💜 my dumbass overthinks wayyy too much before posting 😬

The motel table was loaded with comfort food—the kind you had spent months fantasizing about while surviving on lembas bread and whatever else Middle-earth had to offer. Yet, despite the mouthwatering smell and the way your stomach growled, you barely touched your burger.

Conversation flowed freely around you. Cas asked blunt but curious questions about your time away, while Sam listened intently, his eyes bright with genuine fascination. You kept your answers casual, humorous, sticking to anecdotes that made it sound like one extended camping trip rather than the grueling war it had really been.

Dean sat beside you, chewing slowly, eyes flickering your way every now and then, quietly assessing. Sam recognized the look on your face immediately—it was the same one Dean wore when he himself was trying desperately to appear okay.

You all talked and laughed easily, at first. But it was inevitable that eventually you'd stumble into sensitive territory. Sam’s questions gradually shifted—not into pointed interrogations, but into something worse. He started talking. About all the hunts you’d missed. About how weird it felt not having you around. About the seals breaking. About the angels. About Ruby.

Dean tensed slightly beside you, clearly picking up on the mood shift but not fully understanding it. His eyes flicked between the two of you, and with a lazy wave of his fork, he muttered, “C’mon, Sammy. She’s seen the show—she knows what’s going on.”

Sam gave you a look over the rim of his coffee cup. Something unreadable. Testing.

You met his gaze and held it for a moment before letting your expression shift—just slightly.

Then, casually, almost too casually, you asked, “How’s Ruby doing, by the way?”

The question hung in the air like a dropped match.

Sam froze for half a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Then he cleared his throat and looked down at his plate, all traces of conversation evaporating.

Dean, completely unaware, was busy trying to decide between pancakes or another donut. “God, I missed maple syrup,” he mumbled.

You kept your face neutral and took a sip of your drink, heart pounding just a little harder in your chest.

Across the table, Sam was still avoiding your eyes—but the message was clear.

You knew. And he knew you knew.

You all kept conversation firmly in that lighter, easier territory afterward, letting laughter wash away heavier topics. Sam recognized the tactic, noticed the way Dean carefully maneuvered around sensitive subjects, gently guiding the conversation elsewhere when things got too close for comfort. You were doing the same, your wit and humor a well-practiced shield.

Soon, Cas made his awkward exit to "handle angelic business," followed shortly by Sam, who offered you both a knowing smile before leaving.

Once you were alone, you slumped back into your chair, eyes drifting shut. “I forgot how tiring people are,” you murmured.

Dean chuckled softly, extending a hand to help you up. “Welcome back to humanity.”

You took his hand gratefully, letting him lead you to bed.

—

Later, when silence filled the motel room and shadows danced along the ceiling, you lay quietly curled into Dean’s side. Your thoughts wouldn't slow down, the memories of battle still vivid in your mind.

“You awake?” Dean asked quietly, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

You hummed softly in response, shifting slightly to look up at him. “Unfortunately. My brain refuses to shut up.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmured quietly, staring at the ceiling. “I get that.”

You hesitated for a moment before your voice dropped to a whisper. “Is this how it's been for you since coming back?”

Dean tensed ever so slightly, but quickly covered it with a nonchalant shrug. “Pretty much.”

Silence stretched again, and you traced gentle circles on his chest. “I’m sorry I wasn't here when it happened,” you finally whispered.

Dean pulled you closer, letting out a soft breath. “It wasn't your fault.”

“Do you…” You paused cautiously. “Want to talk about it?”

He remained quiet for a beat, considering. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Not tonight.”

You understood immediately, not pressing him further. Instead, you nudged him gently, trying to lighten the mood again. “Fine. But someday you'll admit Aragorn’s better than Han Solo.”

Dean snorted softly, tension easing from his shoulders. “Not a chance.”

You chuckled, relaxing against him again. You lay in comfortable silence for several long minutes, both of you quietly processing everything without needing to say more.

Dean held you close, listening to your breathing even out. The quiet felt different this time—lighter, somehow. In the safety of that dark motel room, he allowed himself to hold you tighter, pressing a soft kiss against your temple, silently grateful that you'd come back—that neither of you had to face the nightmares alone anymore.

—

You woke slowly, the morning sunlight gently tugging you from sleep—you felt rested, lighter somehow. You shifted, eyes fluttering open lazily, only to find Dean already awake beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching you quietly.

His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but thoughtful, contemplative even, as if he’d been trying to memorize every detail of your face. You swallowed, the intimacy of the moment suddenly making your chest tighten.

“You sleep at all?” you asked softly, voice still thick with sleep.

Dean smiled faintly, eyes crinkling slightly, but the amusement didn’t quite reach them. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

You immediately gave him a look. “Dean.”

He sighed, clearly prepared to deflect, but something about your expression softened him. “Couple hours, give or take. It’s fine.”

You recognized the subtle brush-off instantly—the same one you often used yourself. You paused, tempted to push further, but reconsidered. Today, you’d let him have this. Neither of you was ready to unpack everything yet.

Instead, you rolled your eyes dramatically, stretching out slowly. “Well, you look like shit.”

Dean snorted, grateful for the change in tone. “You’re one to talk, sweetheart.”

You cracked a sleepy grin, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “Touché.”

—

Dean insisted you eat breakfast, making it clear that for once you wouldn’t be rushing through a diner or grabbing food on the go. It was strange to see him like this—taking the time to actually savor something normal.

At the table, Dean seemed determined to introduce you to every form of sugary breakfast food possible—waffles drowned in syrup, donuts, pancakes piled high with whipped cream.

You eyed the feast skeptically, already feeling slightly sick at the sight. “Seriously, Dean? Do you always eat this much sugar in the morning?”

Dean shrugged, his mouth already full of pancakes. “Keeps me going,” he mumbled around a mouthful.

You raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Pretty sure that’s not how human bodies work.”

Dean swallowed dramatically, grinning widely. “Well, my body’s built different.”

Sam walked into the motel room just in time to catch Dean’s smug comment, placing his coffee on the table and shooting his brother a dry look. “That’s one way to put it.”

You snorted into your coffee, trying not to choke.

Dean glared halfheartedly at Sam before turning back to you. “Ignore him. Sammy’s just bitter 'cause he only eats rabbit food.”

Sam shook his head, smirking slightly as he settled across from you. “Or maybe I just like not feeling sick by ten a.m.”

You laughed softly, watching the easy exchange between the brothers. In that moment, you could almost pretend that you hadn’t left—that you hadn't missed months of their lives, that Dean hadn’t endured something horrific in your absence.

But even as you relaxed into the banter, a nagging feeling tugged at your gut. Because seeing Dean like this—up close, in real time—was nothing like watching him through a screen. The cracks in his armor weren’t just plot points anymore; they were subtle, lived-in details. The tightness around his eyes, the way his smile faltered just a second too soon—none of it was dramatized or stylized. It was real. Heavy. And it hit different when you were close enough to feel it.

Dean caught you staring and tilted his head slightly. “What?”

You blinked, realizing you’d drifted. You shook your head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just good to see you smiling again.”

Dean’s smirk softened into something more sincere. “Yeah. it’s good to have something to smile about.”

Your chest squeezed tightly at that, but you hid it behind a small, teasing smile. “Careful, Winchester. Keep that up, and someone might think you’re going soft.”

Sam snorted again, not even bothering to hide his amusement. Dean shot him a glare, muttering, “You two deserve each other.”

You grinned, feeling warmth settle in your chest. Maybe things weren’t completely normal yet—but this was good. It was a start.

You knew sooner or later you’d have to face whatever had happened while you were gone. But for now, you’d enjoy this moment, because you knew better than anyone that in your lives, peace never lasted long.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 19: Back Where She Belongs

Summary: After months lost in Middle-earth, you finally return—battle-worn, exhausted, and changed. Dean and Sam are waiting, and the reunion is full of relief (and chaos, courtesy of Castiel's impeccable timing). You're home now, but settling back into old rhythms won’t be as simple as slipping through a door.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1994

A/N: It's sometimes very hard for me to get my tenses right. Please bear with me. 🥺

The air was cold—biting, familiar, grounding you back into reality.

You took a long, deep breath, gazing around at the dense trees and the darkening sky. This time, you didn’t panic. You weren’t lost, not anymore. Middle-earth taught you more than just how to swing a sword—it taught you how to survive, how to trust yourself. How to keep going.

You shifted the worn cloak around your shoulders, feeling the rough fabric brush against your skin, a stark reminder of how far you've traveled, how much you’ve changed. Your body ached, sore from endless battles and sleepless nights, but determination kept you moving.

After what felt like hours, the crunch of gravel finally breaks through the forest floor beneath your feet. You emerge onto a deserted road, heart racing as you scan the horizon. Hope surges in your chest when, in the distance, headlights pierce through the gloom. Without hesitating, you step to the side of the road, sticking your thumb out.

The lights grow closer, slowing, illuminating a familiar, sleek black silhouette—one you know like the back of your hand. Your breath catches in your throat, heart suddenly hammering as realization hits you.

It was the Impala.

—

Dean stared numbly at the road ahead, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. It had been months—long, grueling, and lonely ones. He'd lost track of how many times he'd caught himself glancing at doors, hoping you'd come back through. Eventually, he'd forced himself to stop hoping altogether.

Sam, sitting shotgun, tapped absently on the dashboard, a distant look in his eyes. Both brothers were lost in thought until Sam broke the silence, sitting forward suddenly. "Hey, you seeing this?"

Dean's gaze shifted reluctantly, spotting the figure up ahead—thin, cloaked, leaning against a walking stick. Something in his chest clenched painfully. Because, for a split second, his heart skipped at the sight, hoping beyond reason it could be you.

He immediately shook off the thought, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "No."

Sam glanced at him, sensing the tension. "You don’t know that."

Dean clenched his jaw, bitterness lacing his voice. "Sam, it’s been too long."

Sam's voice softened, cautious but insistent. "Dean... We should check. Just in case."

Dean wanted to argue, wanted to drive past and ignore that fleeting hope. But he couldn't. Gritting his teeth, he exhaled sharply and reluctantly pulled over.

—

You stood frozen as the Impala rolled to a stop, heart racing in your chest. The familiar rumble of the engine vibrated through your bones, comforting you in ways you couldn't describe.

The passenger window rolled down slowly, revealing Sam's wide-eyed face staring back at you, shock and relief mixing into one incredulous smile. "Oh my God," he whispered, stunned.

You offered a weary but genuine smirk, fighting back tears. "Hello, boys."

Sam immediately grinned in disbelief, relief flooding his face. "Y/N. Holy shit—you're alive."

You chuckled, voice thick with emotion as you leaned against the Impala, exhaustion catching up to you. You ducked slightly, glancing past Sam toward the driver's seat, locking eyes with Dean, who sat staring at you, knuckles white against the wheel, frozen in shock.

"You guys gonna let me in," you teased gently, voice trembling slightly, "or do I need to pass out here and wait for you to carry me in again?"

Dean finally snapped out of it, his entire body tense with emotion as he practically tore open the driver’s door and climbed out. For a long, charged moment, he just stood there, breathing heavy, eyes scanning you carefully—as though trying to decide if you were real or just some cruel trick his mind was playing on him.

Your heart ached at the sight of him—he looked exhausted, worn down, and yet so painfully familiar. Before you could even say anything else, Dean closed the distance between you in three quick strides, pulling you into his arms so abruptly you nearly stumbled.

His grip was tight, desperate, almost painful, but you didn't care. You melted into him immediately, wrapping your arms around him with equal intensity, pressing your face into his shoulder. The scent of leather and gunpowder surrounded you, a comforting, grounding reminder that you were finally home.

"You're back," he muttered roughly, voice thick with emotion against your hair. "You're actually fucking back."

"I'm here," you whispered back, eyes closed tightly as you clung to him. "I’m sorry it took me so long."

Sam stepped out of the car slowly, giving you a quiet moment before clearing his throat lightly, offering you a gentle, reassuring smile. "Good to have you back."

You pulled back slightly from Dean, just enough to meet Sam’s eyes, warmth spreading through your chest at his familiar, comforting presence. "Good to be back, Sammy."

Dean's hand lingered at your waist, unwilling to let go completely, his gaze scanning you from head to toe once again—this time noticing the dirt, the scars, the subtle changes in your expression that spoke volumes about everything you'd endured.

He cracked a small, teasing smile, his voice softening. "Damn, you look like shit."

You laughed softly, exhaustion and relief finally hitting you fully. "Yeah? Well, you don't look like a prize yourself, Winchester."

Dean huffed a breathy laugh, his thumb brushing softly against your waist. "Guess we're even."

Sam shook his head with a relieved chuckle, motioning toward the car. "How about we continue this reunion inside the Impala before someone mistakes us for hitchhiking ghosts?"

You smiled wearily, nodding in agreement. Dean reluctantly loosened his hold but kept a guiding hand at the small of your back as you climbed into the backseat. Once inside, warmth and familiarity settled around you, easing the tension from your shoulders as you sank back into the worn leather seats you'd missed so dearly.

Dean returned to the driver's seat, eyes glancing up at the rearview mirror every few seconds, as if he was afraid you'd disappear again. Sam twisted slightly to face you, his smile still bright but eyes softer now, worry mingling with relief.

"You okay?" Sam asked gently.

You nodded, exhaustion and emotion finally catching up with you, your voice shaky but sincere. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m finally home."

And as the Impala pulled away, headlights cutting through the darkness ahead, you allowed yourself to relax, heart finally settling. Because after everything you'd been through, after all the battles, and the utter shitshow that was Middle-earth, you'd finally made it back.

—

The motel bathroom felt surreal after so long spent washing up in icy rivers and enduring questionable medieval hygiene practices. You gripped the porcelain sink, staring at your reflection in the foggy mirror. The person looking back felt unfamiliar. Thinner, sharper edges, eyes that had seen battles—eyes that had watched people you cared about bleed, fight, and survive.

You sighed deeply, forcing yourself to stay focused. Your job right now was simple enough: just stay present. Don't think of anything else—no elves, no hobbits, no swords. Just Dean, Sam, and the questionable comfort of dingy motels and cheeseburgers.

You pushed the bathroom door open slowly, emerging into the familiar scent of stale coffee and old carpet. Dean was sitting at the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, elbows on his knees. Next to him lay your sari and jacket, neatly folded, your phone resting gently atop them.

You paused, suddenly aware of how long it had really been. You'd almost forgotten you owned a phone, much less normal clothes.

Dean glanced up as you approached, his expression hard to read in the dim motel lighting. He studied you for a long moment, like he was cataloging every change, every scar.

"I almost forgot phones were a thing," you joked softly, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere as you sank down onto the mattress beside him. "Think I've forgotten how to text."

Dean’s lips twitched into a faint smile, eyes softening slightly. "Yeah. Made sure Sam took care of it while I was, uh...you know."

You did know—but you weren't ready to open that wound yet. Not tonight.

Instead, you gently reached out, your fingertips brushing against his jaw, drawing his gaze fully to yours. Dean’s muscles tensed briefly beneath your touch, then slowly relaxed.

"How’ve you been?" you asked gently, your thumb tracing along his cheekbone.

Dean exhaled a breath he’d clearly been holding for too long. "Fine," he answered automatically.

You raised an eyebrow at him, challenging him silently to be honest.

He sighed, voice dropping lower, becoming rawer. "Better now."

A heavy silence lingered between you. Your chest tightened, suddenly afraid to ask—but you had to know. "How long... have you been back?"

Dean swallowed, looking away briefly. "About two months."

Your stomach dropped. You'd missed it—missed his return, missed everything he'd faced afterward. The guilt must’ve shown plainly on your face, because Dean quickly changed the subject, nudging your knee lightly.

"What about you?" he asked softly. "You okay?"

You paused for a moment, considering how to explain the chaos in your head. But instead, humor kicked in—your ever-faithful coping mechanism. "I'm starving," you said earnestly. "Turns out lembas bread isn’t exactly filling in the long run."

Dean huffed a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "Of course."

Almost on cue, the motel door swung open, and Sam entered, balancing two bags of fast food and wearing an easy smile. And just behind him—Castiel stepped quietly into the room, eyes scanning the surroundings with his usual intense curiosity.

The second your eyes landed on Castiel, you sat straight up, wide-eyed and utterly delighted. "Oh my God," you whispered, staring at him like he'd walked straight off a TV screen—which, in your defense, he had.

Castiel blinked back, mildly confused by your excitement. "...Hello."

You grinned widely, practically bouncing in place. "This is amazing. You're actually here."

Cas tilted his head slightly, still processing your reaction. "I suppose so."

Dean coughed, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. "Uh, Cas—meet Y/N."

Castiel glanced briefly at Dean, then back at you. "Yes. I know."

"You do?" you asked, eyebrows shooting upward, clearly entertained by this revelation.

Cas nodded solemnly. "Dean never shuts up about you."

The silence was instantaneous. Heavy. Deafening.

Dean’s entire body went rigid, eyes wide with pure horror. Sam, on the other hand, practically choked on his laughter, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"...Excuse me?" you said slowly, mouth curling into a wicked smirk.

Cas continued, oblivious to Dean’s growing embarrassment. "Dean speaks about you quite frequently."

"Cas," Dean ground out, voice dangerously low.

Castiel simply frowned, puzzled by Dean’s tone, and turned back to you. "He was extremely distressed when you vanished."

"Cas," Dean warned again, louder this time, desperation coloring his voice.

Castiel opened his mouth to continue, "And he often—"

"CAS," Dean shouted abruptly, panic flaring in his eyes.

Cas tilted his head again, innocently perplexed. "Yes?"

You turned to Dean slowly, enjoying every second of his flushed, mortified expression. "So," you drawled slowly, smug satisfaction in every syllable, "you never shut up about me, huh?"

Dean glared first at Castiel, then at Sam—who was grinning like a Cheshire cat—and finally at you, whose amusement was becoming borderline evil.

Finally, Dean gave up, snatching one of the burgers from Sam’s bag roughly and muttering under his breath, "I hate all of you."

Your laughter rang out loud and bright, matching Sam’s equally gleeful chuckles as you settled around the small motel table. Castiel merely stood there, still mildly confused but clearly pleased to have participated successfully in social interaction.

Dean grumbled again, taking an aggressive bite of his burger, but the tension in his shoulders had noticeably eased. He shot you a sideways glance, mouth quirking up despite himself.

You returned his look with a playful wink, relief and exhaustion mingling together. Despite the teasing, despite everything you'd endured—you were home.

And honestly, it felt good to be back.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 18: Worlds Apart

Summary: While Dean spirals and Sam tries to hold him together, Y/N is miles—and worlds—away. Stranded in Middle-earth, she trades panic for purpose, becoming a soldier in a war she once only read about. But every battle won leaves a question burning behind her ribs: will she get back to Dean before it’s too late?

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 994

You land in the wilderness alone, disoriented but not clueless—you know this world too well. The silence of the forest, the distant sound of rushing water, the scent of pine and earth—this is Middle-earth, and you know exactly what part. The moment you remember what you'd been talking about before walking through the motel bathroom door, everything clicks into place.

You're somewhere near Fangorn. Not far from where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are hunting orcs.

It takes hours of trekking through uneven terrain, scrambling up slopes and sliding down others, before you hear familiar voices in the distance. You step through a clearing, breathless and aching, and come face to face with three figures—tall, armed, and very familiar. They pause, stunned.

Aragorn’s surprise is quiet but sharp, Gimli mutters something about you being a walking mystery, and Legolas just smiles knowingly, like he half-expected you to reappear. When they ask where you'd disappeared to, you give them the truth—or most of it.

You have time to explain while walking—hours and hours of it. You tell them enough to make sense of your absence and reappearance, but you keep their secret safe: you don’t tell them they’re fictional, only that you travel across worlds, always searching for a way home.

They don’t fully understand, but they accept it.

—

Eventually, after weeks of relentless searching for a door, you had no choice but to accept it. You were stuck here, and you had no control over when—or if—you’d ever make it back.

Slowly, despair shifted into a stubborn determination to survive. If you couldn't find a door, then you would adapt. You began training with the trio, mastering their weapons, their techniques, learning their ways. You became not just an observer, not just someone passing through a story—but someone who belonged within it.

The first time you run into orcs, it’s chaos.

Blades clash, arrows fly. You act on instinct—back-to-back with Legolas, watching Aragorn cut through the enemy like a storm. You kill your first orc. Then a second. Your body moves like it’s remembering something from a dream. You get knocked down once, but Gimli is there to pull you up before the blade can land.

—

Weeks turned into months as you trained tirelessly, fought bravely, and earned the respect of warriors who had once been legends to you. Aragorn sparred with you until your arms ached, never going easy, always pushing you to be better. Gimli taught you how to hold your ground, how to meet brute force with equal fire. Legolas showed you speed, balance, how to move like the wind and strike like lightning. Others joined in—Rohan riders, Gondorian swordsmen—each one sharpening your skill, your resolve.

The sharp, unfamiliar clang of swords soon became second nature, the weight of armor comforting rather than cumbersome. You rode into battle beside them, bloodied your hands fighting off bands of orcs in the dead of night, learned what it meant to trust someone with your life and have them trust you back. You bled and sweat with the Fellowship and their kin—no longer an outsider watching a story unfold, but part of it.

By the time you reached Rohan, the truth finally caught up with you. As deeply as you’d come to love these people, these lands, these bonds you’d forged…you couldn’t stay forever. Middle-earth, with all its breathtaking beauty and hard-won victories, wasn’t your home—and it never would be.

It broke your heart, but you knew you had to leave.

So, with a heavy soul and a heart aching with farewells, you found the strength to step through a door once again, desperately hoping it would finally take you home.

—

Back in the Supernatural universe, the moment Y/N vanished, the Winchesters felt her absence like a physical blow.

At first, Sam and Dean forced themselves to wait it out, convincing each other that she would return. They checked every door compulsively, hoping she'd appear just as suddenly as she'd vanished. Dean insisted that she would be back; after all, the last time she'd gotten stuck, she'd returned after two weeks. They had to trust she'd do it again.

But two weeks passed without a sign, and Dean’s anxiety spiraled into frustration, anger, and then pure desperation.

“It took her two damn weeks last time,” Dean muttered furiously, pacing restlessly in their motel room. He ran a hand roughly through his hair, eyes wild with barely contained panic. “What if it takes longer this time, huh? I don’t exactly have all the time in the world.”

Sam watched him quietly, heart heavy with worry. He shared Dean’s anxiety but tried to mask it with logic and a calm facade. “She'll come back, Dean,” he reassured softly. “We just have to wait it out.”

Dean glared, his frustration spilling over. “Wait it out? Sam, we don't have that kind of luxury! What if I'm already gone by the time she gets back?”

Days dragged on, each more tense and strained than the last. Dean’s mood deteriorated rapidly. He lashed out at everyone around him: other hunters, waitresses, motel clerks, and even Sam. The smallest inconvenience set him off. Walls were punched, doors slammed, arguments erupted constantly, and every lead that went nowhere pushed Dean closer to the edge.

Sam did everything he could to hold things together. He dove into research, buried himself in hunting, called contacts, anything to distract Dean and keep them moving forward. But no matter what Sam did, the tension remained, thick and oppressive.

He knew, deep down, that Dean wouldn’t say it outright, but Sam could read his brother clearly enough. Dean wasn’t just angry that Y/N wasn’t there. He was terrified—terrified he wouldn’t see her again before his contract came due, terrified that when his time ran out, she'd return only to find him gone.

And Sam feared, if that happened, it would break Dean entirely.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 17: From Bed to Bag End

Summary: Y/N and Dean finally cross the line—just in time for Sam to walk in with coffee and judgment. One breakfast and a few salt-filled hula hoop ideas later, she ends up in Middle-earth. Again.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: Light smut/light angst

Word Count: 2178

A/N: I honestly can't write smut for shit but I tried. Enjoy!! 💜🫰🏽

The motel room was quiet—too quiet. Sam had headed out an hour ago, conveniently muttering something vague about research at the library, but you knew better. Dean had practically shoved him out the door, leaving you alone, and now the tension in the room was thick enough to choke on.

Dean sat at the edge of the bed, running a frustrated hand down his face, the muscles in his jaw tight as he struggled to find the right words. You sat across from him, legs crossed beneath you, fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of your shirt. You had anticipated this conversation all day, dreaded it even, but here you were, finally alone, with nowhere left to run.

“So,” Dean started quietly, breaking the heavy silence, his green eyes locking onto yours with piercing intensity. “We gonna talk about what happened last night, or pretend like it didn't happen?”

You exhaled slowly, heart hammering painfully in your chest. You didn't dare look away, despite the overwhelming urge to avoid his gaze. "Dean, I... I don't know what to say."

Dean tilted his head slightly, his eyes darkening with something between hurt and determination. "Try," he said, voice low and gravelly, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to speak past the lump forming in your throat. “This... isn't real for me, Dean. As much as I want it to be—as much as I've tried to ignore it—eventually, I'm going to have to go back. And when I do…” You paused, your voice breaking. “When I do, I’m scared for you.”

Dean's jaw tightened visibly, frustration flickering across his face. “I don’t need you to be scared for me,” he said roughly, though his tone softened slightly. “I can handle myself.”

You laughed bitterly, blinking back tears. "Dean, I've watched it all unfold. I've seen every sacrifice, every wound. I know what's coming, and I can't..." Your voice cracked again. "I can't stop thinking about it."

Dean ran his hand through his hair, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he looked away for a moment. Then, finally turning back to you, his eyes softened, searching your face for answers neither of you had.

“So what do we do?” he murmured, moving closer until his knees touched yours. His hand reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing gently beneath your chin, tilting your gaze back up to meet his. "Can we just—just be here, now? Forget the rest, just for tonight?"

Your breath caught sharply, pulse quickening at his touch. Your eyes fluttered shut, and when you finally opened them again, you whispered softly, "Yeah. Just tonight."

Dean’s lips met yours softly, hesitantly at first, but quickly deepening into something urgent and almost desperate. You felt yourself melt into him, surrendering completely to the warmth of his touch, the intoxicating heat of his mouth on yours. The kiss quickly turned hungry, breathless—weeks of tension finally snapping between you, igniting into raw, unbridled need.

Dean's hands slid beneath your shirt, rough fingertips brushing over the sensitive skin of your waist, pulling you close until your chest pressed flush against his. You shivered as his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, your neck, each kiss setting fire to your nerves until you were gripping him tightly, desperate for more.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, breathing heavily as he silently asked the question he was too cautious to speak aloud. You nodded immediately, tugging him back down, capturing his lips again with an intensity that surprised even yourself.

Clothes soon became a frustrating barrier, quickly shed in a flurry of impatient hands and whispered curses. Dean laid you back gently against the mattress, his eyes dark with desire as they roamed over every inch of your exposed skin, drinking in the sight like he'd been starved of it. Your breath quickened, heat pooling low in your stomach under his lingering gaze.

"You're beautiful," he breathed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your collarbone, trailing lower slowly, deliberately. Your hands tangled into his hair, urging him onward, needing to feel him everywhere at once.

Dean’s movements became increasingly heated, every touch filled with an aching tenderness that took your breath away. When he finally pressed into you, you gasped sharply, nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, deeper. His breath was hot against your neck, lips brushing your ear as he murmured your name like a prayer, over and over again.

Every slow, deliberate thrust sent electric pulses through your veins, building heat and tension until you were trembling beneath him, your cries muffled against his skin. Dean’s lips found yours again, silencing them both as you moved together, wrapped up in a moment that felt beautifully, painfully real.

When you finally came undone, Dean held you tightly against his chest, his breathing ragged, heartbeat thundering beneath your cheek. You closed your eyes, breathing him in, clinging desperately to this fragile moment of peace.

Just tonight, you reminded yourself, feeling the sting of reality begin to creep back in.

But tonight, you thought fiercely, tightening your grip around him, was enough.

—

The room had settled into a comfortable silence after, the only sound now the gentle hum of the old AC unit and your quiet, shared breathing. Dean lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding you securely against his side. Your head rested on his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his collarbone, occasionally brushing the base of his throat, sending tiny sparks dancing along his skin.

You were still tangled beneath the sheets, skin warm against each other, bodies relaxed. Occasionally, you tilted your head up, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s jaw or neck, a gesture he always returned with a slow, lingering kiss of his own, deepening just enough to make your heart race before pulling back with a teasing smirk.

Dean chuckled softly after one of your kisses broke apart, fingertips tracing lightly down your spine. “We should’ve done this a lot sooner.”

You laughed quietly, burying your smile against his neck. “Would’ve saved us a lot of tension.”

Dean gave a low hum, brushing his lips along your temple. “Tension wasn’t all bad, though.”

You smiled against his skin, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze, eyes sparkling playfully. “True. It was kind of fun watching you sulk.”

He scoffed in mock offense, thumb grazing your jaw affectionately. “I do not sulk.”

You raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a grin. “Oh, you definitely sulk, Winchester.”

He rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

You both fell silent again, simply enjoying the quiet closeness. Your fingers returned to lazily tracing patterns over his chest, contentment settling warmly in your chest.

“You know,” you murmured softly after a while, your voice barely above a whisper, “I’m glad I landed here. Despite all the chaos and monsters, I wouldn’t trade it.”

Dean smiled faintly, thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek. “Yeah. Me too.”

You tilted your head up again, and Dean met you halfway, lips brushing gently at first, slow and tender, quickly deepening into something warmer, hungrier. Dean shifted slightly, pulling you fully onto his chest, hands moving to cup your face as the kiss became more intense.

Which was precisely the moment the motel door swung open abruptly, causing both of you to jerk apart in startled panic.

Sam froze in the doorway, bags of takeout and coffee in hand, eyes widening dramatically at the sight before him.

“Oh, come on—seriously, guys?” he groaned, immediately averting his gaze to the ceiling. “I’ve been gone two hours.”

You yanked the sheet up around yourself, face burning with embarrassment. Dean exhaled loudly, dropping his head back onto the pillow with an annoyed huff.

“Jesus, Sammy, knock once in your life,” Dean complained, shooting his brother a glare as he looked around for a shirt.

Sam turned around pointedly, sighing deeply in exasperation. “Knock? Dean, it’s my room too!”

Dean muttered something under his breath about terrible timing, earning a muffled laugh from you as you buried your face into his shoulder.

Sam shook his head, still not looking your way. “Just—please put clothes on. I’ll wait in the car.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and you groaned softly, mortified. Dean chuckled, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead.

“Well,” he smirked playfully, “that’s one way to break the news.”

You punched him lightly on the shoulder, hiding your smile in the curve of his neck.

“Shut up, Winchester.”

—

After the thoroughly mortifying interruption from Sam and your awkward attempt to act casual, the three of you eventually settled around the small motel table, picking quietly at the takeout Sam had brought in. You were avoiding Sam's amused gaze, focusing instead on aggressively stirring sugar into your coffee. Dean was trying—and failing—not to look smug, his lips twitching whenever you shifted beside him.

Eventually, the awkward silence faded into easy conversation when Sam cleared his throat, turning curiously toward you.

“So,” Sam began cautiously, clearly trying to ease into safer territory, “since you've watched our lives like some kind of weird TV show—do you have any ideas for us? You know, stuff we haven’t tried?”

You perked up immediately, grinning with excitement as you leaned forward. “Oh, I thought you’d never ask. First of all, you guys seriously underutilize holy water. You need super-soakers.”

Dean paused mid-sip of coffee, eyebrows raised. “You want us hunting demons with toy water guns?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. Think about it—long-range attacks, less risk of getting possessed, and honestly, it would just look badass.”

Sam chuckled, glancing at Dean, who seemed thoughtful despite his skepticism. “Actually, that’s...not a bad idea.”

You pointed at Sam, triumphant. “See? Sammy gets it.”

Dean rolled his eyes but a small smirk betrayed him. “Okay, genius, what else you got?”

“Salt-filled hula hoops,” you continued confidently.

Both brothers stared at you blankly.

“Hula hoops,” Dean repeated slowly. “Filled with salt.”

You shrugged, unbothered by his skepticism. “It’s basically a portable salt-circle. Ghost problems? Just drop it down, instant protection.”

Dean exchanged an impressed look with Sam, clearly fighting a smile. “Alright, I’ll admit—that’s actually kind of smart.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “You know, we could even record exorcisms—have them on a loop or triggered remotely. Might save us the trouble of chanting mid-chaos.”

You snapped your fingers, pointing excitedly at Sam. “Yes! Exactly. And iron—why not iron brass knuckles? Punch ghosts right in the face.” You mimed an enthusiastic punch into thin air, complete with exaggerated sound effects. "Bam! Problem solved."

Dean finally broke into a grin, eyes gleaming. “Now that I like.”

You laughed warmly, leaning back in your chair. “See? I’m not just here for my charming personality.”

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically, giving your shoulder a playful shove. “Don’t push your luck.”

—

After cleaning up the table, Dean caught your arm gently, pulling you closer with a smirk. He leaned in, clearly intent on picking up where you'd left off earlier, when Sam groaned loudly from across the room.

"Great," Sam muttered, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Now I’ve gotta deal with this."

Dean shot him a glare, but Sam just looked pointedly at you, shaking his head in feigned disappointment. "Honestly, Y/N, I thought you had better taste."

Dean scoffed, tightening his grip around your waist, smug as ever. "Oh, trust me, Sammy. She does. Turns out dark and broody is exactly her type—just like that elf dude from your favorite nerd movies."

You laughed, pulling back slightly, shaking your head at Dean with playful annoyance. "Aragorn is not an 'elf dude,' Dean. He's literally a human."

Dean waved a dismissive hand, smirking mischievously as he teased you further. "Elf, human, whatever. Dude's still got the whole brooding hero thing going."

You rolled your eyes affectionately, beginning to step back towards the bathroom to wash your hands. "Aragorn’s a ranger, and he’s—" you paused, correcting yourself passionately, "—okay, he's a little broody, but he's definitely not an elf."

You walked away, still clarifying Aragorn’s lineage under your breath, shaking your head as you opened the bathroom door and stepped through it.

The very second your foot crossed the threshold, reality twisted sharply around you, the familiar motel suddenly vanishing like smoke on the wind. The rough carpet was gone, replaced by soft, lush grass beneath your feet, the stale motel air swept away by crisp, clean breezes scented faintly of trees and distant woodsmoke.

You froze immediately, heart plunging down to your stomach.

“Oh, son of a—” you whispered to no one, panic already rising sharply in your chest.

Slowly, you took in your surroundings—rolling green hills, distant forests, and mountains stretching endlessly into the horizon. You were standing in the middle of nowhere, back in Middle-earth, without a single door in sight.

Again.

You closed your eyes, inhaling sharply through gritted teeth. “Shit.”

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 16: Of Makeouts, Mystery Spot, and a Deadline We Don’t Talk About

Summary: After a late-night makeout session is cut short by Sam’s very inconvenient presence, Y/N and Dean wake up tangled together—just in time for Sam to catch the moment (and immortalize it with photos). But the playful chaos of the morning doesn’t last. A poorly timed joke at breakfast brings everything crashing down with one harsh truth: Dean’s deal is almost up, and Hell is just around the corner.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2156

A/N: This was super fun to write. Enjoy! 🫰🏽💜

You had shared a bed with Dean before. It wasn't a big deal—at least, not until now. Tonight felt different, the air heavy with something neither of you was willing to address. The almost-kiss lingered silently between you, unspoken but screamingly loud. When you got back to the motel, the realization that there was only one bed available hit you hard.

You cleared your throat, eyes flickering toward the worn-out La-Z-Boy in the corner of the room. "I'll just crash on the chair."

Dean, already halfway out of his boots, immediately shook his head. "Not happening."

You crossed your arms defensively, trying to appear casual even though your heart was hammering wildly in your chest. "It’s not a big deal, Dean. Seriously, I'll take the chair."

Dean paused, fixing you with a look that was equal parts amused and stubborn. "Look, if it’s suddenly so weird, I'll take the chair."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Nope. That's not fair to you."

He raised an eyebrow challengingly. "Since when do you care about fairness?"

You huffed, eyes narrowing into a playful glare. "Since always. Stop arguing and just get into bed."

He hesitated only briefly, muttering something under his breath as he climbed under the covers, deliberately staying close to the edge. You slipped in beside him, painfully aware of every movement, every tiny shift of the mattress beneath you. You lay side by side, both staring at the ceiling as silence filled the room. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

This was definitely going to be a long night.

Somehow, despite the awkwardness, exhaustion took hold and you drifted off to sleep. But rest didn’t come easily.

You were dragged into another vivid nightmare. The chanting surrounded you, louder and clearer than before. Dark figures circled you, their faces obscured by shadow, symbols you barely recognized flickering ominously in the dim candlelight. You felt it—the pull, the dread, the panic rising sharply in your chest as invisible hands reached out, grasping, pulling you down into darkness.

You tried to scream but no sound came out. Panic flooded your senses, overwhelming you completely. Just as you thought you were losing yourself entirely to the darkness, something firm and grounding wrapped around your arm.

"Y/N," came a voice—familiar, rough with sleep yet gentle.

Your eyes snapped open, gasping sharply as Dean's face appeared just inches from yours, eyes wide with worry, his hand gripping your arm protectively. Your heart thundered painfully in your chest, breath still coming in short, ragged bursts.

"Hey, you’re okay," Dean murmured, voice calm but urgent. "You're safe. I'm right here."

You blinked rapidly, struggling to anchor yourself to reality, to the feel of Dean's warm, reassuring touch. His thumb gently brushed against your wrist, a slow, comforting gesture that grounded you in the present.

Gradually, your breathing steadied, and you whispered shakily, "Dean?"

His eyes softened. "I'm here. You're with me, okay?"

You nodded, swallowing past the lump in your throat. "Another nightmare."

He didn't ask further, didn't prod for details. Instead, he simply held you, keeping you close until the trembling subsided and the pounding of your heart slowed to a manageable rhythm.

But as the immediate fear passed, a new tension filled the space between you. Dean still held your arm, thumb tracing small, absent patterns on your skin. Your breathing gradually synchronized, silence stretching between you, becoming charged, expectant.

Slowly, you let your gaze drift upwards, meeting Dean's intense eyes. In the dim motel room, lit only by moonlight filtering through cheap curtains, the rest of the world faded away. Your eyes dropped involuntarily to his lips, and you saw Dean’s breath hitch, felt the subtle shift in his posture as he leaned in slightly.

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was simultaneous—but suddenly your lips met, tentative at first, cautious and gentle. But the hesitance quickly dissolved, replaced by an urgency that surprised you both. Dean deepened the kiss, his hand sliding from your arm to cup your cheek gently, pulling you closer. Your fingers tangled instinctively into the fabric of his shirt, holding him against you as the kiss grew heated.

Dean’s hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing your waist, eliciting a quiet sound of approval that had him groaning softly against your mouth. Your body pressed into his, desperate for more, the nightmare and awkwardness forgotten entirely in this moment.

But then, with sudden, jarring clarity, you remembered:

Sam.

He was literally just across the room.

Your eyes snapped open, and you abruptly broke the kiss, pulling back breathlessly, panic flashing across your face. "We can’t—"

Dean blinked, looking dazed and confused for a brief second until realization hit him. He shot a cautious glance toward Sam’s bed, tense and still. You both waited, breath held in anticipation, but Sam didn’t stir—still asleep, or at least pretending convincingly.

Dean exhaled quietly, a soft, amused laugh escaping his lips. "Right," he muttered, voice rough yet filled with quiet humor. "Forgot we weren't exactly alone."

You bit your lip to stifle a nervous laugh of your own. But as you stared at each other in the dim light, the absurdity of the situation—the awkwardness, the impulsive recklessness—finally bubbled over, breaking the tension.

You were the first to crack, a giggle escaping you as you pressed your palm over your mouth. Dean snorted softly, a genuine smile spreading across his face. Soon, quiet laughter filled the small motel room, punctuated only by your attempts to suppress the noise and not wake Sam.

When the laughter faded, Dean's smile remained, eyes soft and relaxed. "So," he whispered playfully, "still PG enough to cuddle, or did I just lose my privileges?"

You rolled your eyes, cheeks still flushed, but you smiled warmly. "I think cuddling’s allowed."

Dean shifted, pulling you gently against him. You curled into his side naturally, sighing softly at the comforting warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, content to simply breathe and exist together.

And as sleep overtook you once more, you knew you'd crossed a line you couldn't easily step back from. But right then, wrapped safely in Dean's arms, you couldn’t find it within yourself to regret it.

—

The first thing Sam registered that morning was Dean’s stupidly alert face. For someone who usually required three cups of coffee just to achieve basic motor skills, Dean looked suspiciously wide-awake. It took another second for Sam to realize why, and when he did, a smug grin immediately spread across his face.

You were curled comfortably against Dean’s chest, fast asleep, your breathing steady and peaceful. Dean, however, was lying stiffly on his back, clearly very aware of the situation and determined not to move an inch. Sam bit back a laugh, raising an eyebrow in amused disbelief. Dean, catching his gaze, instantly narrowed his eyes in a silent threat.

Sam's grin widened. "Really?" he mouthed silently, thoroughly entertained by his brother’s predicament.

Dean scowled fiercely, mouthing back, "Shut. Up."

That was a mistake, because it only fueled Sam’s amusement. Shifting quietly in his bed, Sam’s eyes drifted mischievously toward the nightstand, spotting your phone lying there innocently, almost begging to be used.

Dean’s expression shifted immediately, suspicion and alarm taking over as he followed Sam’s gaze. His eyes widened dramatically, and he whispered sharply, “Don’t you dare.”

Ignoring him entirely, Sam reached carefully across the gap between their beds, picking up the phone. Dean tried to gesture at him frantically without moving enough to wake you.

“Dude,” Dean hissed in a panic, voice barely audible, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sam merely lifted the phone, effortlessly swiping up to open the camera. “Hold still,” he whispered back, positioning the phone carefully for the perfect shot.

Dean’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Are you seriously taking a picture right now?”

Sam just shrugged, smirking. “You two look cozy.”

Dean’s glare intensified, but before he could do anything else, Sam clicked the picture. Dean’s irritation vanished instantly, replaced by cautious vanity.

“…Wait,” Dean whispered, eyes flickering between Sam and the phone, suddenly serious. “Do I look good?”

Sam almost laughed out loud, managing instead to let out a quiet snort of disbelief. “Seriously, Dean?”

Dean nodded earnestly, dead serious. “Show me.”

Unable to resist, Sam turned the screen toward his brother. Dean leaned forward slightly, studying the photo with surprising intensity. He paused, then cleared his throat awkwardly.

“…Take another one.”

Sam nearly lost his composure completely. Covering his mouth to keep quiet, he waited as Dean subtly adjusted his position—eyes narrowed, head angled slightly—obviously determined to look as photogenic as possible.

Just as Sam snapped the second photo, you stirred. Dean froze instantly, eyes wide, as your eyelashes fluttered briefly before opening. You squinted blearily, trying to process what was happening.

Sam reacted swiftly, flipping the phone screen-down onto the bedside table, adopting a neutral expression that fooled no one. Dean’s body tensed as you slowly glanced around, eyes landing directly on Sam, who was sitting upright with a faint, suspiciously innocent smile.

“Sam’s awake,” you whispered softly, realization flooding your expression as your voice betrayed panic.

Dean, feigning casual ignorance, muttered dryly, “Yeah, noticed.”

Your gaze dropped abruptly to where you were resting—right against Dean’s chest, your bodies far too close for friendly distance. Your face went scarlet immediately. In a sudden flurry of embarrassment, you scrambled to move away.

Except, in your hurry, you miscalculated entirely.

A loud thud echoed through the room as you gracelessly toppled off the edge of the bed, landing with an unceremonious crash onto the motel’s unforgiving floor. Sam immediately bit his lip hard, shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter.

Dean peered over the bed’s edge, grinning smugly. “That go how you planned?”

From your sprawled position on the carpet, you groaned miserably, covering your face. “More or less.”

Chuckling softly, Dean extended his hand. “Come on, klutz.”

You reluctantly took his offered hand, allowing him to pull you up. You carefully avoided Sam’s eyes, cheeks still burning from embarrassment.

Sam, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with the urge to check the second photo. Dean shot him a warning glance, eyes narrowed. “I swear to God, Sam—”

Sam just smirked wider, thoroughly satisfied. This was officially the best morning ever.

—

Breakfast at the diner was awkwardly silent.

You stirred your coffee absently, still trying desperately to erase the memory of your mortifying wake-up call. Dean, seemingly unbothered, was chewing his breakfast with exaggerated enthusiasm, entirely too loudly. Sam flipped through his notes, looking more awake than either of you had a right to be after such an eventful morning.

Dean finally broke the silence, grinning around his mouthful of bacon. “So… last night was eventful, huh?”

Without thinking, you muttered dryly, “Yeah, it was definitely the heat of the moment, as Asia would put it.”

Sam immediately froze mid-page-turn, his entire body going rigid. Dean paused, brows furrowing in confusion, but Sam groaned audibly, pressing his fingertips to his temples.

“Y/N,” Sam pleaded softly, looking utterly pained. “Please, please don’t.”

You blinked, suddenly confused. “Don’t what?”

“Not that song,” Sam groaned again, shaking his head like he was trying to physically remove the memory from his mind.

You frowned deeply, not understanding at first, until it suddenly clicked. Your eyes widened dramatically in horror. “Oh—Oh my god. Mystery Spot. I’m so sorry, Sam, I completely forgot—”

Dean, finally catching on, burst into laughter, nearly choking on his coffee. “Damn, Sammy. She got you good.”

Sam merely glared at his brother, clearly unamused. “Yeah, laugh it up.”

Your amusement faded as realization began to sink in fully. Mystery Spot. The diner. The song. Your stomach dropped suddenly, dread pooling rapidly as a new thought occurred to you.

If they had already gone through Mystery Spot, and had just finished the Ghostfacers incident…

You turned abruptly, panic rising sharply in your chest. “Wait—Dean,” you whispered urgently, heart racing. “How long until your contract’s up?”

The atmosphere immediately shifted. Dean’s smile vanished instantly, replaced by a tense expression. His grip tightened around the coffee mug. Sam set his notes down slowly, gaze flickering anxiously between you and Dean.

Dean hesitated for a long moment before finally responding, voice tight and guarded. “Why?”

You swallowed hard, unable to hide your worry. The timeline had just become terrifyingly clear. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, your voice shaking slightly.

“Because if we’re past Mystery Spot and we just finished dealing with the Ghostfacers… it’s not long now, Dean.”

Sam’s jaw clenched visibly, shoulders tense. Dean stared at you, expression darkening with grim realization.

The cheerful atmosphere from moments ago had vanished entirely, replaced by a tense, heavy silence as the harsh reality of your situation settled in around you.

[motherfornicator]

If I was desperate for kudos I would not be out here posting villain ships, minor character rarepairs, and other deeply unpopular ships.

I know how to write popular fic. I know how to farm kudos. That's not what I'm here for.

"Readers need to remember that authors don't know a reader liked their fic unless the reader tells them by leaving a kudos or a comment" does not mean "waahhh waahhh I need attention!"

It means "even if writers write purely for themselves, if you don't bother to interact with writers when you do enjoy their work, they might stop posting and just keep their work to themselves."

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is not aimed at the people who aren't reading the fanfiction in question.

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is not aimed at the people who did not enjoy the fanfiction in question.

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is aimed at people who read a fanfiction, enjoyed it, and then didn't bother to even do the bare minimum to share their excitement about it with the work's creator, even though that excitement is literally the only thing they get in return for posting their work.

Fanfiction authors write because they enjoy writing. They post because they want to form a connection with the people who enjoyed their work.

This is not an attempt to scold anyone, I literally don't care if I get kudos or not. It's simply an attempt to remind people that fanfiction is a community, and fan authors can't read your mind.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 15: Almost (And Sam Winchester, Professional Menace)

Summary: Dean and Y/N are dangerously close to crossing the line between teasing and something more—until Sam, with perfectly terrible timing, crashes the moment.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 784

A/N: Another quick little chapter before things start to shift for better (or worse)... who knows?

The following days passed quickly, but tension between you and Dean steadily grew. Small, seemingly insignificant moments became charged—a brush of hands while reaching for coffee, lingering glances in the rearview mirror, playful bickering that lasted a beat too long. Yet each time something more meaningful threatened to surface, Sam unknowingly interrupted, completely oblivious to the building tension.

—

It was supposed to be a quiet evening.

Just researching another routine haunting. After dropping Sam off at the library to let him drown himself in dusty archives, you and Dean grabbed dinner. Just a perfectly normal, uneventful day.

And for a while, it had been exactly that.

Dean had pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the library, and you sat comfortably in the car, the scent of burgers and fries filling the air. Your boots were propped up on the dashboard, lazily dipping fries into a chocolate shake while Dean polished off his burger.

The conversation had drifted effortlessly from music to movies, debates over best soundtracks to most memorable lines. Until, that is, you made one grave mistake.

“You know,” you said casually, popping another fry into your mouth, “Back to the Future isn’t even that great.”

Dean froze mid-bite, eyes narrowing immediately. He slowly turned his head toward you, disbelief etched into every feature. “I'm sorry—did you just say what I think you said?”

You suppressed a smile, shrugging lightly. “It’s fine, sure, but it’s not exactly cinematic gold.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Oh, sweetheart, now you’ve done it. Those are fighting words.”

You smirked, licking salt from your fingertips. “Please. You couldn’t take me if you tried.”

Dean leaned in a bit, setting his burger aside, a playful glint sparking in his eyes. “Careful, Y/N. You’re talking to someone who's practically memorized that trilogy.”

You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow challengingly. “And I’m still waiting to be impressed.”

Dean scoffed, inching even closer until the air between you seemed charged, your teasing suddenly edged with something warmer, heavier. He lowered his voice to a deep, playful murmur. “Just admit you’re wrong and I’ll go easy on you.”

“Never.” Your voice matched his tone, softer now. You were intensely aware of how close his lips were, how quickly your heart was racing.

The banter had faded into silence, and Dean’s eyes flickered down, lingering briefly on your mouth. You felt warmth pool in your chest, a rush of anticipation that made you lean in just a little closer.

Dean’s fingers brushed against your knee gently, hesitantly, like testing the waters. Your eyes met, breath mingling in the space between you.

The silence stretched, your lips hovering dangerously close, and just as Dean tilted his head to finally close the tiny gap—

A loud, obnoxiously deliberate knock on the window shattered the moment, making you both jolt back sharply.

Dean spun around with a look of murder, while your heart jumped straight into your throat.

And there he was: Sam Winchester.

Smirking. Knowing. Absolutely delighted with himself.

Dean glared daggers at his brother through the glass. You felt your face burn as you scrambled awkwardly upright, quickly dropping your feet from the dash.

Sam knocked again, his smug expression unwavering.

With a frustrated sigh, you reached over and unlocked the door, letting Sam slide easily into the backseat. His smirk only widened as he settled in, casually glancing between you.

“I’m sorry,” he began innocently, feigning ignorance, “Was I interrupting something?”

Still flustered and heart racing, you blurted immediately, “Nope! Definitely not.”

Dean's jaw clenched tight, his grip on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white. He glowered at Sam through the rearview mirror. "Your timing really sucks, you know that, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged casually, clearly enjoying every second of Dean's irritation. "Oh, I don't know. Seems like my timing was perfect."

You bit down on your lip to stop yourself from laughing, trying desperately to cool the heat from your cheeks. You cleared your throat awkwardly, turning back to Sam.

“You want shotgun?” you offered hurriedly, desperate for a distraction.

Dean whipped around to stare at you, eyes wide with betrayed outrage. Sam shook his head, barely hiding his amusement. “Nah, I think I'm good back here. View’s better.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath, starting the Impala with an aggressive growl, clearly fighting the urge to kick his younger brother to the curb.

For the rest of the ride, Dean’s eyes occasionally flicked sharply to the rearview mirror, murderous intent clear in each glance. Sam merely leaned back in satisfaction, grinning victoriously.

You sank lower in your seat, torn between embarrassment and laughter, fully convinced this was going to be the longest car ride of your life.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 14: The Things We Don’t Say

Summary: After a sleepless night, Y/N slips out for a smoke—only for Dean to find her perched on the Impala. A quiet moment turns tender as they talk futures, Middle-earth, and broody types. Between the teasing and soft silences, some things still go unsaid.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1007

A/N: I wouldn't exactly call this and the last couple of chapters "Filler chapters" except that they kind of are. 😬

It was late. The kind of late where the air outside the motel window felt chilled, and silence blanketed the world so heavily, it seemed like even ghosts might be sleeping. Sam was already out cold, breathing deeply from his spot on the couch, with Dean sprawled across the bed. You, however, couldn’t drift off.

With a soft sigh, you quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Dean as you grabbed your jacket and stepped outside into the chilly night air.

The parking lot was deserted, bathed in the glow of a flickering streetlamp. Sliding onto the hood of the Impala, you pulled a cigarette from your pocket, lighting it carefully and inhaling slowly as your thoughts wandered.

Inside, Dean stirred awake, senses immediately sharpening as he realized your spot beside him was empty. He frowned into the darkness, a tightness gripping his chest as he sat up quickly, instantly wary. Groggy, heart racing, he scanned the room for you and came up short. For a split second, he wondered if you'd decided on another late-night trip—perhaps off to see a certain clawed mutant again—and his jaw tightened involuntarily.

Annoyed with himself for the thought, he got up, heading toward the sink for some water. But as he reached for the sink, his eyes caught movement outside the window. When he pulled back the curtain, his heart unclenched immediately at the sight of you sitting quietly on the hood of his beloved car, a faint wisp of smoke curling around your face.

He watched you for a second, sitting on the hood of the car like you belonged there—like you'd always belonged there. He released a long, relieved breath, shaking his head slightly at his own paranoia. Deciding sleep could wait, he grabbed his jacket and quietly stepped outside, gravel crunching softly under his boots.

You heard the creak of boots on gravel before you saw him.

"You know," Dean said as he approached, hands shoved deep in his pockets, "if you wanted alone time with Baby, all you had to do was ask."

You smiled faintly, eyes flicking over to him. "Didn’t mean to wake anyone. Just needed a smoke."

Dean gave a small shrug and leaned beside you on the hood. "Didn’t wake me. Just noticed you weren’t around. Thought maybe you… I don’t know. Took off again."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "You mean to Middle-earth or mutant-land?"

He smirked. "Something like that."

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment, your cigarette burning low between your fingers. Dean glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

“So... this future of ours—Sam’s and mine,” he started slowly, voice careful, “without getting too spoilery—does it get better for us?”

You hesitated, swallowing hard. Your mind raced, suddenly remembering vividly everything you knew—the ending Dean would eventually face, the quiet life Sam would get afterward. You quickly forced a smile, though it trembled slightly.

“Define ‘better’,” you murmured softly, trying to mask your emotion with a teasing tone.

Dean chuckled lowly, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, you know what I mean. Do we get our ‘happily ever after,’ or is it guns blazing to the very end?”

Your heart twisted painfully at the question, because you knew exactly how it went. But the way Dean looked at you—hopeful, cautious—made you force yourself to nod gently, your eyes shimmering slightly as you gave him the gentlest smile you could muster.

“Yeah,” you whispered softly. “You both get your happy endings.”

Dean stared at you for a moment, noticing the glassy shine in your eyes. His expression immediately softened, concern flickering into his eyes. “Hey, you alright?”

You nodded quickly, forcing another smile—this one brighter, more convincing. “Just... sentimental, I guess.”

Dean searched your eyes for a long moment, clearly sensing you were holding something back, but finally let it go, nodding gently. “Alright. If you say so.”

He shifted closer to you, your shoulders pressing lightly against each other. Silence lingered again, only now the quiet felt heavier, the moment charged. Dean cleared his throat, clearly searching for a lighter topic to ease the tension.

“So,” he said, a playful smirk returning, “Middle-earth had a bunch of those elf-dudes, right?”

You laughed softly, relaxing almost instantly at the shift in conversation. “Yes, Dean. Lots of ‘elf-dudes’.”

Dean nudged you teasingly again. “C’mon, you telling me you spent two weeks surrounded by all those pretty blonde elves and didn’t even try to bone one?”

You laughed brightly, the tension from earlier quickly dissolving into warmth. “Not exactly my type.”

Dean raised his brows dramatically, pretending shock. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me Orlando Bloom wasn’t tempting?”

“Oh, Legolas is gorgeous, don’t get me wrong,” you chuckled. “But I’ve always preferred the dark, broody ones.”

Dean grinned wickedly, elbowing you playfully. “Ah, so you’re into the whole Aragorn vibe, huh?”

You rolled your eyes fondly, smiling. “I mean—yeah, kinda had a huge crush on Aragorn growing up.”

“Did you make your move?” Dean asked mischievously, his eyes glinting.

You laughed, shaking your head quickly. “No! Of course not. He’s basically married.”

“Aw, come on,” Dean teased, smirking broadly now. “Live a little. You should’ve at least flirted a bit—guy looks like he could use some excitement.”

You nudged him harder this time, giggling. “Dean, Arwen would literally murder me. It’s a love story for the ages.”

Dean huffed, amused. “Sounds complicated.”

“Yeah, well,” you sighed dramatically, leaning into him a little more comfortably, “apparently complicated and broody is my thing.”

Dean chuckled lowly, a teasing but oddly tender look passing over his features. “Well, sweetheart, you definitely found yourself in the right place then.”

You looked at him in surprise, heart skipping slightly, but Dean just winked, smoothly leaning back against the windshield, gazing up at the stars casually as if he hadn’t just said something so gently loaded.

Smiling warmly, you shifted carefully, leaning back beside him, your arms brushing gently.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 13: Dean Winchester’s Not-So-Subtle Guide to Getting Noticed

Summary: Dean Winchester is definitely not jealous. (Okay, maybe a little.) With coffee, Die Hard, and some not-so-subtle flirting, he tries to step up—until Sam ruins his almost-moment with perfect timing.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1037

A/N: Let's go!! 2 chapters back to back.

Dean Winchester wasn’t petty.

(Lies.)

Dean Winchester didn’t feel threatened by fictional characters or little brother bonding moments.

(More lies.)

But after watching you come back from your late-night rendezvous with Wolverine, glowing like you'd just won the lottery—and then spending the next day practically glued to Sam’s side, geeking out over hobbits, elves, and all things Middle-earth—Dean decided enough was enough.

It was time to step up his game. Subtly, of course.

(He was nothing if not subtle, after all.)

Step One: Coffee and Casual Touches

In the 3 days since you’d returned from Middle-earth, you’d developed a serious caffeine addiction, often stumbling around half-asleep until you'd had your first cup of coffee. Dean, observant as ever (especially where you were concerned), decided this was the perfect opportunity to score some points.

So, that morning at the diner, just as you reached groggily for the coffee pot, Dean smoothly intercepted it, pouring you a fresh cup without missing a beat. You blinked up at him, clearly surprised but undeniably pleased. A warm smile broke across your face, eyes brightening a bit.

“Oh. Thanks, Winchester,” you said softly.

Dean felt a little surge of victory—that is, until you reached out casually and patted his shoulder in gratitude. It was quick, innocent, and entirely friendly. But that brief touch nearly short-circuited his brain. He froze for a moment, fingers tightening involuntarily around his own coffee mug as he tried (and failed) to keep his composure intact.

Across the table, Sam was watching this unfold with barely-contained amusement, doing a terrible job of hiding his laughter behind his cup. Dean gritted his teeth and glared into his coffee, pointedly refusing to acknowledge his brother’s obnoxious smirk.

(Absolutely worth it, Dean thought stubbornly, despite the embarrassment.)

Step Two: Chivalry Isn’t Dead (It’s Just Dean Winchester)

Later that day, Dean practically sprinted ahead to the Impala, determined to beat Sam to the punch. You were trailing behind, chatting animatedly about how Middle-earth seriously needed better infrastructure, oblivious to Dean’s internal competition.

Without even thinking, Dean opened the passenger-side door for you, stepping aside smoothly and flashing you his best "nonchalant" look.

You stopped short, eyebrows lifting in amused surprise. “Wow. Who knew Dean Winchester was secretly a gentleman?”

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically, but couldn’t quite hide the small, pleased smile forming on his lips. “Just get in the damn car already.”

Laughing softly, you slipped into the seat, completely unaware of the mental victory dance Dean was currently performing. He stood there for an extra moment, internally congratulating himself on how flawlessly that had gone—right until Sam brushed past him, lowering his voice so only Dean could hear.

“Try-hard,” Sam muttered, smirking as he got into the backseat.

Dean narrowed his eyes sharply, imagining all the ways he could conveniently forget Sam at their next rest stop.

Step Three: Die Hard and Other Love Languages

That evening, back at the motel, you’d somehow convinced them both to unwind with a movie night. Naturally, Dean insisted on a classic—Die Hard. Sam merely rolled his eyes in resignation while you enthusiastically agreed.

Throughout the movie, Dean found himself far more engrossed in your reactions than the actual film. Every time you laughed, quoted lines under your breath, or playfully insulted the dumb side characters, Dean felt his chest tighten. It was absurd, really, how easy it was for you to make him feel completely understood.

Sam, meanwhile, sat on the opposite bed, paying very little attention to Bruce Willis and instead watching Dean’s increasingly obvious glances your way with barely-concealed amusement.

Eventually, Dean couldn’t ignore it any longer. He snapped his gaze toward his brother with a pointed glare. “The hell are you staring at, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged innocently, lips twitching. “Nothing at all.”

Without even looking away from the screen, you tossed a handful of popcorn at Sam. “Shhhh…This is the best part.”

Dean’s heart skipped embarrassingly in his chest, but he stubbornly pretended otherwise.

Step Four: Shoot Your Shot (And Hope Your Brother Isn’t Watching)

By the end of the movie, Dean’s patience had completely worn out. Clearly, subtle gestures weren’t getting through. If he wanted you to notice him as more than just your irritating hunting partner, it was time to take matters into his own hands—quite literally.

As you helped clean up stray popcorn kernels and soda cans, Dean deliberately moved closer, positioning himself so your shoulders brushed lightly.

You looked up, startled, and met his eyes. He gave you a casual, easy smirk.

“You know,” Dean began, his voice low, just loud enough for you alone to hear, “I’m starting to think you missed me more than you’re letting on.”

You arched an eyebrow playfully, matching his smirk. “Oh, really? And why’s that?”

Dean shrugged, gaze teasing. “I mean, you practically tackled Sammy into a hug. Called him a lifesaver. But me?” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice even further. “Not even a handshake.”

Your confident expression faltered, eyes widening just a fraction, betraying surprise at the sudden change in tone. “Wait, is this you asking for a hug, Dean?”

He tilted his head slightly, smiling warmly. “Nah, sweetheart. I had something else in mind.”

He began leaning in, pulse quickening as he noticed your breath hitch and eyes flicker to his lips. Just as the distance between you closed—

“Oh, would you look at that!”

Sam’s loud, overly cheerful voice sliced through the moment like a knife, causing Dean to jerk backward so quickly it hurt.

You blinked in confusion, pulling back and turning to look at Sam, who stood by the door wearing the smuggest grin Dean had ever seen.

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused, oblivious to the disaster that had just unfolded.

Sam merely shook his head innocently. “Nothing. Just… appreciating the timing, that’s all.”

Dean clenched his jaw, silently plotting several painful and humiliating revenge scenarios involving his brother.

You rolled your eyes fondly, clearly deciding to dismiss both of their antics as standard Winchester weirdness. “You two are ridiculous.”

As you turned away to finish tidying up, Dean rubbed a frustrated hand down his face, accepting that this was, without a doubt, his personal hell.

[motherfornicator]

Chapter 12: Claws and Consequences

Summary: One moment she's talking movies. The next, she's stepping into a bar beside a brooding mutant.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1324

A/N: I apologise for not posting anything yesterday. I had to rewrite a couple of chapters. This hasn't exactly been proofread, so apologies in advance. Do comment or drop me a message to let me know of any plotholes 🫰🏽💜

The motel room glowed softly, lit by the old lamp flickering beside Sam’s bed. Papers were scattered on the table as he organized research for a possible haunting case. Dean was sprawled comfortably, eyes half-shut as he listened to you enthusiastically talk about upcoming films—something he found oddly comforting, even if he pretended to tune you out.

“So, there’s a whole Wolverine movie coming out soon, huh?” Dean remarked casually, finally opening his eyes.

“Yep,” you confirmed excitedly, scrolling through your phone absently. “It’s an origin story. Logan’s whole backstory—wars, his claws, all the good stuff.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking up from his notes. “Hugh Jackman’s playing Wolverine again, right?”

“Yup,” you confirmed, grinning broadly. “And let’s just say, he’s very convincing.”

Dean raised an eyebrow skeptically. “He's decent enough in the X-Men movies, but a whole film about him? You think he can carry a whole movie on his own?”

“Oh, trust me.” Your smile grew mischievous. “He can carry anything he wants, and then some.”

Sam laughed softly, shaking his head, amused. “Obsessed much?”

“Absolutely,” you agreed without hesitation. “And proud of it. He’s basically the perfect package.”

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically, shifting restlessly on the bed. “Come on. He’s just another Hollywood actor with a good PR team.”

You smirked lightly. “You’ve clearly never paid attention to Hugh Jackman if you think that.”

Dean didn’t respond this time, simply letting out a gruff sigh and leaning further back into his pillow, arms folded over his chest.

Sam caught Dean’s irritated expression, his lips twitching into a knowing smile. Without saying a word, Sam looked back down at his notes, carefully biting back the amused remark he desperately wanted to make.

—

As the conversation faded and the night deepened, the boys eventually drifted off to sleep. You, however, lay awake—your mind lingering on the idea of actually meeting Logan. Sure, it was reckless, but since you’d discovered how your dimension hopping worked, the temptation was almost impossible to resist.

You waited until Dean’s breathing had slowed into a steady rhythm, signaling he was asleep. Carefully, silently, you slipped out of bed, casting one final glance back at the brothers before quietly stepping into the motel bathroom.

Eyes closed, you pictured Logan—just somewhere quieter. Somewhere he wasn’t clawing through chaos or running from explosions. You didn’t care where exactly, just that it was calm enough for a conversation… and maybe a drink.

You grasped the handle, heart pounding as you stepped through—

—

You found yourself immediately immersed in the quiet hum of a small-town bar. Soft rock played gently from a jukebox, mingling with the muffled laughter and clink of glasses. The atmosphere was calm, almost comforting.

Your eyes scanned the room carefully—and you froze, heart skipping a beat when you spotted him.

Logan sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a beer, eyes distant. His expression was softer, less angry than you’d expected. Still ruggedly handsome, though less guarded, he seemed almost approachable.

Taking a deep breath, you moved toward him casually, heart racing. You slid onto the stool beside him, offering a casual smile when he glanced your way.

“Seat taken?” you asked lightly.

Logan studied you briefly, cautious but intrigued. Eventually, he shook his head slightly, returning your smile with a faint smirk. “Nope.”

You signaled the bartender, ordering a beer to blend in, then turned back toward Logan, leaning slightly against the counter. “You look like you’ve had a long day.”

He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that warmed you. “You could say that. You from around here?”

You shook your head, playful glint in your eyes. “Nah, I’m just…passing through.”

Logan nodded, eyes thoughtful as he sipped his beer. “Good. Place like this isn’t exactly exciting.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you said lightly, voice teasing. “I’m finding it pretty interesting.”

He glanced at you again, eyes curious, assessing. “Yeah? What’s interesting about it?”

You met his gaze, holding it confidently. “Present company.”

Logan laughed softly, genuine amusement lighting up his face for the first time. “You’re bold, aren’t you?”

You grinned, unashamed. “Life’s too short to play it safe.”

Logan regarded you for a long moment, curiosity clear in his expression. Then, quietly, almost shyly, he murmured, “Logan.”

“Y/N,” you responded warmly, offering your hand. He hesitated briefly before clasping it, his grip strong, comforting.

You talked for hours—conversation flowing naturally, laughter easy, tension forgotten. For the first time in weeks, Logan seemed genuinely relaxed. Comfortable. When last call echoed through the bar, he turned toward you, his expression earnest.

“You got somewhere to stay tonight?”

You hesitated only briefly, heart racing. “Not yet.”

Logan gave you a warm, inviting smile. “Come on. I’ve got space.”

You smiled softly, nodding. “Lead the way.”

—

His place was modest—small cabin tucked away at the edge of town, surrounded by woods. It was quiet, comfortable. Perfect for him.

The moment you stepped inside, Logan’s gaze softened, cautious but hopeful as he stepped closer, carefully brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His touch sent warmth flooding through you, making your pulse quicken.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured quietly, eyes searching yours. “But I’d like you to.”

You smiled softly, heart aching a little at the genuine vulnerability in his eyes. “I want to.”

He leaned in carefully, waiting for you to close the gap, letting you set the pace. You met his kiss softly at first, then deeper, hands sliding up his chest. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. For a moment, nothing existed but you and him.

The kiss grew heated, passionate, hands exploring and lips brushing, breaths mingling. Logan's touch was firm yet gentle, cautious yet hungry. Eventually, you pulled back slightly, breathing heavily.

“I want to stay,” you whispered breathlessly, “but I can’t tonight.”

Logan, visibly disappointed yet respectful, nodded slowly, gently pressing his forehead against yours. “Then come back sometime.”

You smiled warmly, heart racing. “I promise I’ll try.”

One last lingering kiss, and you forced yourself to step back. You slipped out the cabin door quietly, heart still pounding, and made your way quickly to the nearest door you could find.

—

Upon returning to the motel, you found both brothers wide awake, sitting anxiously on their respective beds.

“You’re back!” Sam exhaled, relief evident on his face.

Dean sat up sharply, tension clear in his frame, though he kept his tone casual. “Where’d you disappear to this time?”

You grinned, practically glowing with excitement as you flopped dramatically onto the bed. “I just made out with Wolverine.”

Dean’s posture stiffened, eyes widening sharply before narrowing again. “You… what?”

You squealed lightly, grinning mischievously. “Oh yeah. And let me tell you, Hugh Jackman lives up to every bit of hype.”

Sam raised an amused eyebrow, glancing carefully toward Dean. “You didn’t...you know...?”

“No,” you teased, shaking your head. “Had to leave him wanting more. Honestly, though, if I’d stayed any longer... I’m not sure I would’ve come back.”

Dean’s eyes darkened slightly, jaw tightening as he looked away, irritation creeping into his voice. “Yeah, great. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

You laughed again, stretching out comfortably, oblivious to the subtle tension rolling off Dean. “Hey, just appreciate that I came back, okay?”

Sam watched Dean carefully, clearly enjoying his brother’s discomfort. “She’s got a point, Dean. You could at least say you're glad she’s here.”

Dean shot Sam a pointed glare, quickly masking his irritation as he leaned back against his pillow. “Yeah, whatever. Just warn us next time you plan on chasing down your Hollywood crushes.”

You snorted, kicking off your shoes and stretching out across the bed like nothing happened. “Relax, Dean. You’re still my favorite grump.”

Dean muttered something quietly to himself, sinking lower against the pillows with a sulky sigh, stubbornly refusing to admit how much better that simple reassurance made him feel.