#SPNFIC

[taraschof]

Under the hood

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~4000

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex, choking (light/breathplay), degradation (verbal), praise kink, fingering, oral (f receiving and m receiving), unprotected sex, mild possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, aftercare.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: Unable to sleep after a hunt, you find Dean in the garage. One thing leads to another, and the tension between you finally boils over.

The bunker was quieter than usual.

You padded barefoot through the cool stone corridors, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, fingers tucked in your palm like they might warm themselves. It was late — well past midnight — but sleep wasn't coming tonight, not after the hunt. Blood still sang in your veins, your muscles twitching from the echo of adrenaline, and your brain refused to power down.

You'd tried everything: hot shower, whiskey, even lying in bed with your phone screen turned low, scrolling through old texts like nostalgia might lull you to sleep. Nothing worked.

Eventually, you gave up and wandered.

The metallic scent hit you first — oil, steel, and something darker, something so distinctly him. A song drifted down the hall from the garage, low and gravelly: Bob Seger's "Night Moves." You didn't even need to look.

Dean.

You should've turned around. You didn't.

Your feet took you closer without asking permission, your pulse tapping against your ribs. You paused at the threshold. There he was — shirtless, his broad back glistening with sweat under the soft, golden light. He was leaning over the Impala's open hood, one hand buried in the engine, the other wiping at his brow with a grease-streaked rag.

He hadn't noticed you yet.

Or maybe he had, and he was just letting you look.

Your eyes traced the lines of his back — powerful shoulders, the dip of his waist, the sharp V that vanished into worn jeans riding low on his hips. His body was all tension, coiled muscle and quiet control, like a wolf half-asleep in the grass, but ready to pounce.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, voice rougher than gravel, pulling you from the stare you didn't know you'd let linger.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to play it cool. "Neither can you apparently."

Dean glanced over his shoulder, smirking without turning fully. "You know me. Never really learned how to sleep unless I'm half-dead or half-drunk."

You stepped inside the garage, drawn to him like iron to a magnet. "Baby acting up again?"

"She's just being temperamental," he said, patting  the hood fondly. "Needs a patient hand."

You cocked a brow. "Didn't realize you were the patient type."

He straightened and turned toward you fully, rag in hand. The sight hit you square in the chest — sun-kissed skin dusted with freckles and old scars, pecs slick with sweat, a glint of amusement in those green eyes. The towel dragged across his collarbone slow, deliberate, like he knew what he was doing.

"You offering to help?" he asked, the words casual, but there was something loaded beneath.

You took a step closer. "Sure. I'm not bad with my hands."

His grin curled higher on one side. "Yeah? I remember."

That memory wasn't about engines.

You hadn't crossed the line — not fully — but things had danced along it. Too many near-misses. Too many "accidental" touches. Too many nights pressed shoulder to shoulder on motel beds, pretending the tension wasn't thick enough to choke on. But neither of you had been stupid — or brave — enough to take it further.

Until maybe now.

"I could use a second pair of hands," he said, backing away from the hood and tossing the rag to the side. "Come on."

You approached slowly, drawn to the scent of him — leather, sweat, and a trace of whiskey. He handed you a flashlight and gestured toward the engine.

"I'll hold this," you offered, angling the beam. Your arm brushed his as you moved in. He didn't flinch, didn't move away.

His voice dropped low. "You're good at this. Getting in places you shouldn't be."

You angled your head, letting your breath hit his shoulder. "You saying you don't want me here?"

Dean didn't answer right away. He turned slightly, meeting your eyes, and the air between you charged like a live wire. For a long moment, nothing moved except his fingers, idly tightening a bolt that probably didn't need fixing.

Then he said, voice rougher than before, "That's the problem. You're always where I want you."

Your breath hitched.

There it was. The line. Clear as day.

And neither of you were stepping back. Not this time.

He was still so close — close enough that when you exhaled, it ghosted across his lips. Close enough that the heat rolling off his body made your skin ache. His eyes dipped to your mouth, lingered, then dragged back up.

You moved first — or maybe it was him — but suddenly the space between you vanished.

His mouth was on yours, not soft, not sweet. Hungry. Desperate. You kissed him back like you'd been starving too long, and maybe you had. His hands found your waist, pulling you in until you collided chest to chest. The sweat on his skin dampened your hoodie, but you didn't care. Your fingers tangled in the back of his neck, tugging, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

You weren't sure who started moving first, but suddenly your hips were rolling up into his, slow and needy. His jeans were rough against your thighs; your leggings did nothing to mute the heat where you ground against him. Every motion made your clit throb, each pass of friction building pressure that felt criminal to hold back.

Dean growled against your mouth. "You trying to make me lose my mind, sweetheart?"

"I thought that was mutual," you breathed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you — no, pulling you — into each thrust. You rocked together, bodies fully clothed but desperate, lips colliding, teeth catching. You could feel how hard he was through the denim, thick and unrelenting, grinding right against the bundle of nerves that had you gasping with every pass.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasped, pulling back to watch your face. "So goddamn needy... rubbing that pretty little cunt on me like it's all you know how to do."

A sound escaped your throat — something between a whimper and a moan.

He smirked. "That's it. Let me hear it."

You rolled harder into him, chasing the friction like it might save your soul. Dean dipped his head to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, tongue following.

"I could keep you like this all night," he murmured against your skin. "Just grinding on me, soaking through your clothes while I hold you down and tell you what a good girl you are."

Your hips bucked at the praise. "Dean..."

He nipped at your earlobe. "Yeah? That what you need? To be told how fuckin' good you are for me?"

His hand slipped between your bodies and cupped you through the fabric — firm and full-palmed. You gasped, legs tensing.

"Jesus, you're wet. Bet you've been like this all damn night."

"Dean—" It came out like a cry, more plea than name.

Then — just as abruptly — he stepped back a half-pace, his breathing ragged.

For a split second, you thought he was going to stop. Thought maybe sanity had clawed its way back in.

But he reached above your head and slammed the Impala's hood shut with one clean motion. The sound echoed through the garage like a gunshot, final and sharp. His gaze never left yours.

That wasn't a goodbye.

It was a green light.

Before you could speak, he was on you again, one hand fisting in your hoodie to pull you forward, the other bracing behind your thigh as he lifted you effortlessly, guiding your ass back against the warm metal of the car. The Impala's steel groaned softly beneath you, but Dean didn't stop. He kissed you hard, devouring your mouth with his, before pulling back just enough to say, "Take your hoodie off. Let me see you."

You obeyed without hesitation, peeling it off, revealing nothing but bare skin underneath. His eyes darkened.

"No bra?" His voice was low, reverent.

You smiled. "Didn't think I'd need one in the garage."

He made a guttural sound that barely resembled a word. "You're gonna kill me."

He bent and took your breast in his mouth, tongue swirling over a nipple as his hand toyed with the other. You arched under the attention, crying out, thighs clenching around his hips.

"Fucking perfect," he muttered between licks. "You know that?"

Your hands fumbled at his belt, needing more, everything. But Dean caught your wrists.

"Not yet," he said, voice rough. "I'm not done watching you beg."

Then he dropped to his knees.

The shift in power made your breath catch. Dean Winchester — hunter, hero, man who could end gods — was on the ground in front of you, spreading your legs with his big hands, kissing the inside of your thigh through your leggings.

He looked up, voice hoarse. "Can I?"

You nodded, lifting your hips to help him, already unraveling.

He pulled your leggings and panties down in one motion, tossing them somewhere behind him. The cold air on your soaked skin made you shiver — or maybe it was just the heat in his eyes when he saw how wet you were.

"Fuck me," he whispered. "Look at this. Look what I do to you."

Dean didn't dive in.

He took his time.

He kissed the inside of your thighs like he had all night — long, slow licks that barely touched your heat, teasing you until you trembled. His thumbs stroked soft circles along your skin as he spread you wider, his breath ghosting over your center.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm aching,"

Dean looked up at you — pupils blown wide with lust. "Good. I want you strung so tight you'll beg me to let you come."

You let your head fall back, breathless. "Cocky."

"No, baby. Hungry."

Then his mouth finally met your pussy — slow, reverent, and intentional. He started with one long stroke, tongue flat and firm, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. You gasped so sharply your body arched off the Impala.

Dean groaned against you. "Fuck, you taste like heaven."

And then — he devoured you.

He didn't let up, didn't pause, just sucked and licked and fucked you with his tongue like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. His hand gripped your thigh hard, thumb brushing your clit when his mouth needed a second to breathe — not for himself, but to watch you come undone.

He traced every inch of you with his tongue — the soft folds, the slick entrance, the aching bundle of nerves he only touched with maddeningly light flicks. Each time you bucked, he backed off. Each time you moaned, he hummed like he was savoring it.

Two fingers slid inside you, slow at first, letting you feel the stretch. He curled them just right — right there — and your hips jumped, a cry tearing from your throat. His fingers worked you in tandem with his tongue, perfectly in sync, perfectly cruel.

Every flick. Every curl. Every pulse of suction pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

"Already so close," he murmured against you. "You gonna come on my face, sweetheart?"

You nodded frantically, hips canting up into his mouth. "Dean—please—don't stop—"

He didn't. In fact, he doubled down — fingers curling right where you needed them, tongue flicking quick and steady until the pressure snapped.

You cried out his name as your orgasm hit — loud, shuddering, thighs clenched around his head. Dean held you through every wave, drinking you in, not stopping until you twitched with oversensitivity.

He pulled back, jaw slick, eyes half-lidded. "Jesus. You're fuckin' unreal."

Before you could answer, you were sliding off the hood and onto your knees in front of him.

His cock strained hard and thick against the front of his jeans, the fabric darkened where he was leaking. You palmed him through the denim first — slowly, deliberately — pressing your cheek to the bulge just to feel the heat of him, to breathe him in.

Dean groaned low. "Fuck, sweetheart..."

You looked up at him through your lashes as you undid his fly. "Let me, Dean."

He didn't stop you. Couldn't. His jaw was tight, fists clenched at his sides as you pulled him free — flushed and heavy, already twitching in your hand. He was big, thick, the kind of full that made your mouth water.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, gave a slow stroke just to feel the weight of him, and he growled.

"Look at you," he rasped. "Down there like it's where you belong."

You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, teasing, tongue dragging just enough to make him curse under his breath. Then you smiled up at him, lips brushing his crown. "Maybe it is."

Dean hissed, hips bucking instinctively into your mouth. "Fuck. You're gonna be the death of me."

You took him into your mouth, slow at first — tongue swirling, lips tight, hand stroking the rest. He pulsed on your tongue, already so hot, so hard you could feel him fighting the urge to fuck into your mouth. His thighs tensed under your palms. His stomach jumped when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him deep.

"Just like that," he groaned, one hand tangling in your hair, guiding. "You suck cock like you need it."

You moaned around him, letting the vibrations travel straight through him. Spit dripped down your chin, slicking your hand as you twisted it at the base. You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, then pushed deeper again, throat stretching, eyes watering with the effort — and the need.

Dean was panting now, watching you with a look that was half-worship, half-wrecked. "Fuck, baby... You keep this up and I'm not gonna fucking last."

You pulled off with a messy pop, hand still stroking him as you caught your breath. "Then stop me."

And that snapped something in him.

He hauled you to your feet with one hand under your arm, the other fisting in your hair as he kissed you — deep, filthy, open-mouthed. He tasted like sweat and salt and you, and he didn't seem to care, groaning into your mouth like he couldn't get enough.

Then he turned you roughly, spinning you until your stomach hit the Impala's hood. His hand splayed over your back, pressing you down just enough to make you feel it — the weight, the heat, the control he was barely hanging onto.

"Gonna fuck you now," he growled, voice wrecked. "You ready for me?"

You pushed your ass back into his hips, hips with a slow roll, arching just enough to drive him wild. "I've been ready since you opened the hood."

That earned you a slap to your ass — not too hard, just enough to sting and make you gasp.

"Smart mouth," he muttered behind you. "Let's see if I can fuck it shut."

Then he pushed in.

Not all at once — slowly, deliberately, like he wanted to savor every second of your tight heat wrapping around him. You felt every thick inch stretch you open, every ridge drag against your walls until he was seated deep, buried to the hilt. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry as your forehead hit the cool metal of the Impala.

"Jesus, you're tight," he said through gritted teeth. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He gave you a second — one breath, maybe two — before pulling back and slamming forward, the impact rocking you up onto your toes. He set a brutal rhythm, fast and deep, like he was trying to carve his name into your body with every thrust.

"Every time you walked into a room," he grunted, hand gripping your hip tight, "every time you smiled at me, wore those tight little leggings, I thought about this. About bending you over this car and wrecking you."

You moaned, grabbing the edge of the hood. "You're doing a hell of a job at that."

Dean chuckled darkly, thrusting harder. "You like that? Like being used like this? Stuffed full of my cock?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Fuck, yes, I love it. Love how you feel inside me."

His hand came up and wrapped lightly around your throat, guiding your body back against his. His chest was slick with sweat, breath hot against your ear.

"Then take it," he growled. "Take every inch. Be a good girl and take what I give you."

He kept pounding into you — rough, relentless — and you felt yourself climbing fast, too fast, the heat coiling deep in your belly. Every drag of his cock along your walls lit you up. His thumb found your clit, slick from your arousal, and you shattered with a cry — body spasming, thighs shaking, pussy clenching so hard around him that he groaned and nearly lost it right there.

"Shit. I feel that," he hissed. "You're squeezing the hell out of me. You gonna let me come inside this perfect little pussy?"

"Yes," you moaned. "Want it. Want you to come inside me."

His thrusts turned ragged, desperate. He slammed in once, twice, then cursed and came with a roar, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you. He stayed there, breathing hard, chest pressed to your back, arms braced on either side of your body like he needed to hold himself up — or maybe like he couldn't let go.

Slowly, he pulled out, your slick and his dripping between your thighs. He exhaled shakily, forehead pressed to your shoulder, before turning you gently, catching your waist and lifting you onto the Impala's hood, this time facing him.

"I'm not done with you."

You blinked, wrecked. "What?"

His grin was wolfish. "You think I only had one round in me? Sweetheart, I've been waiting months for this."

You laughed softly, shaky, but there was something warm blooming in your chest.

Then his fingers drifted between your legs — slow, featherlight touches that made you twitch. He dragged two fingers through your folds, coated in both of you, and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a moan.

"Still so sweet," he murmured. "You want more?"

You nodded, hips instinctively tilting forward.

He let his hand drift lower again — stroking over your swollen clit, slow and deliberate, while his other hand gripped your thigh and spread you open. He watched the way your body responded, the way your breath hitched.

"I wanna see you fall apart again first," he said. "Wanna watch you come one more time before I fuck you full again."

His fingers slid into you — two, thick, curling right where you needed them — and you cried out, already so sensitive, so raw. But it built fast, sharper this time, pressure curling like a fist in your gut. Dean kissed your inner thigh, then your hip, then your mouth — kissing through your moans as he coaxed another orgasm from your trembling body.

You came with a cry, hips jerking, his name on your lips like a prayer.

And he was hard again.

You felt it when he pressed against you — his cock stiff, hot, pressing against your entrance. This time, he didn't slam in. He took his time, sliding deep with a low groan, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time.

It wasn't rough now — it was intimate.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, legs tight around his waist, grounding yourself in the heat of his body and the way he filled you so completely.

His pace was slow, deep — hips grinding into you in long strokes that made your breath catch. Between each thrust, he whispered things against your skin. Not just filthy, but honest.

"Always wanted you."

"Didn't know how bad until now."

"Wanna wake up with you."

You held him closer, forehead pressed to his, overwhelmed by the connection crackling between you — all heat and heart, all need and something dangerously close to love.

When it started to build again, it felt different. Sweeter. Softer. Like coming home.

He kissed you through it — your mouth, your jaw, your throat. "Come with me," he whispered. "Let me feel it."

You did — together, bodies trembling, breath tangled, everything melting into a perfect, breathless hush.

Dean was still half on top of you, the curve of your body cradled against his. Your legs had slid from around his waist, but his arms hadn't moved an inch. One was beneath you, palm splayed across your back, the other resting protectively across your stomach, fingers curled just under your ribs like he couldn't quite stop holding on.

His chest was still rising fast against yours, each exhale hot where it hit your collarbone.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Just the ticking of cooling engine metal and the shared space where sweat met skin.

Then Dean let out a breath — low, steady, not quite a sigh. He shifted just enough to nuzzle his nose along your jaw, stubble rasping gently across your skin.

"You good?" he asked, voice quieter than you'd ever heard it.

You nodded, the movement brushing your cheek against his. "Yeah. You?"

He gave a soft hum, chest rumbling where it pressed against you. "Yeah. Just..." He paused. "Still here. With you."

You smiled, and nudged your nose into his hair. It was damp and smelled like sweat and skin and his cologne — sharp and familiar and entirely him.

His hand started moving again — slow, absent circles along the small of your back, grounding you both. You melted into it, the warmth of him, the safety in the quiet.

After a long beat, he spoke again. "Didn't mean for it to go like that."

Your fingers twitched where they were resting near his heart. "Go like what?"

"I dunno." He shifted slightly, adjusting the way he held you, like he wasn't ready to stop touching. "Didn't mean to... lose it."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were soft in the dim garage light, his lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. His vulnerability wasn't loud — but it was there, in the tightness around his mouth, the subtle clench of his jaw.

"You didn't lose it," you said gently. "You found something."

He stared at you, eyes flicking across your face like he was trying to memorize it. Then he huffed — a sound halfway between disbelief and surrender.

"You always talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you see through all my bullshit."

You reached up and brushed damp hair from his forehead. "Only yours."

That pulled a real smile from him — lopsided, boyish, cracking through the weight of everything like sunlight through clouds.

He leaned in and kissed you — not with hunger, but with something deeper. It was slow, deliberate, and full of care. When he pulled back, he lingered, brushing your nose with his.

"Don't move," he murmured. "Be right back."

He slid off the hood and disappeared into the corner of the garage, digging through supplies. You watched him, legs still trembling slightly, the ache between your thighs a tender reminder of everything you'd just shared. He came back with a clean rag and your hoodie, already wetting the cloth with water from a bottle.

His touch between your legs was gentle — reverent. He wiped you clean with careful strokes, and not once did he make a joke or get cocky about it. When he helped you sit up and pulled your hoodie over your head, your throat tightened unexpectedly.

Then, with a quiet kind of affection, he wrapped his own flannel around your shoulders like a blanket — tugging it closed over your chest, adjusting the collar like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

"You're kind of a sap, Winchester."

"Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He took the seat next to you on the Impala's hood, pulling you into his side like you were his. You didn't resist.

You sat like that for a while — bare thighs against cold metal, arms wrapped in worn cotton, Dean's scent everywhere. His hand never stopped moving, stroking your shoulder, your hip, your thigh.

"I don't know what this is," he said eventually.

You looked up at him.

"But I want more of it. More of you."

That was as close to vulnerable as Dean Winchester got. You didn't make him say more.

Instead, you leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, "Good. Because I'm not done with you either."

He kissed the top of your head. "Damn right you're not."

And under the dim garage lights, bare legs swinging off the hood of the Impala, the two of you stayed like that — quiet, wrecked, and completely changed. It was the start of something real.

Dividers by @easytiger-xo

[loxsip]

Sneak peek to my upcoming fic!!

TW: mentions of death, abuse, loss, sex (not delved into simply mentioned), analysis of Dean Winchester’s love life and childhood.

A/N: Please enjoy, and if you have any ideas regarding where to go with this fic— please leave them in my ask box!! I’m planning on turning it into a Destiel fic, but not set on anything yet!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The life of a hunter was simple, was it not? Kill or be killed, face pain or bury it, and save those who needed it. It was pretty cut and dry in the thick-skulled mind of the elder Winchester. Not that he had ever seen the other side of things, not like Sam had. He had never learned the gentle side of love— that there was more to intimacy than sex and that there was more to love than loss. At first, it was John who kept those lessons hidden away from Dean— and then, in taking over the title of head of the Winchester family, he forbade himself from those lessons. To know gentleness was to know vulnerability and, in hunting, to know vulnerability was to know death. He made sure that wall was never quite broken— no matter how crumbled it got under the pressure of those who tried. 

His first lesson in the loss that love is was the day of his mother’s death. “The angels are watching over you,” she had said— the gentle words whispered as a lie she didn’t quite understand. 

The second time was raising Sammy. If anything went wrong, it was Dean who received the burden of his father’s scrutiny. This was a loss and burden Dean learned to carry through his life. The loss of his childhood weighed less on his heart than even the idea of fully losing his little brother. His self worth had been Sammy’s existence, and to lose him would be to lose himself— even if raising him had already taken parts of him. 

Had it not been for the hell hounds, he would have learned true, romantic, love from Jo. Not that it would’ve been gentle love— she was just as fucked as he was. But it would’ve been love nonetheless. That was the third time that he was taught— or rather had it hand-engraved into his brain matter— to acknowledge love as a loss he couldn’t afford. 

Jo was the first and last romantic love Dean Winchester had allowed himself to indulge in. After that, every woman was a night and nothing more. 

Years later, there was Lisa. He loved her, but what he learned from Jo that to love a woman past mere physicality in ways he couldn’t describe was to kill not only the love but also that woman. To be loved was to be killed. So, he let her go. 

EDIT:

Oops!! Forgot to tag the two people I still have as moots after making this acc and we’re on my tag list: @chxrrywines @ryvkkr

Also, lmk if you wanna join the tag list!!

[whiskeyjuniper]

a happy place to dream about (slice of life horror, multi-chaptered)

Dean's rudderless when he limps ashore in West Cibola. 23, with nobody and nothing but a couple bucks and a broken-down old car to his name. It's October. Nothing's been right for a long time.

He turns 24 in a rundown long-stay motel room with an under the table turned actual job at an washed-up dive bar— the only place that'd take him without a real job history or a permanent address. It’s way off the tourist strip and the money’s terrible, but it’s steady.

Two years and some change later, just as the restlessness really starts to seep in, he meets Chuck Shurley for the first time.

That he knows of.

[Read on AO3]

.....................

CHP 7 UP!

Chuck catches up to Dean at the crossroads.

“Your soul for Sam’s life? That’s kinda sweet, actually,” he says to thin air as Dean digs, blunt nails tearing at the rocky, packed dirt. “But I need both of you around for all this to work, so that’s just kicking the same damn can down the road, you know what I mean?”

He shouldn’t be letting Dean distract him like this. But honestly? It’s not like he knows what he’s gonna do differently this time— he’s tried so many things, over so many drafts. None of it’s been quite right.

As Dean works his deal in the background, Chuck settles back against the warm hood of the Impala, half-listening as he thinks. The keys are still in the ignition, engine purring valiantly like some hurt thing, vibrating against the loose gravel.

Chuck’s only pulled away from mentally plucking apart the plot threads by the appearance of the crossroads demon.

But. She’s so… boring.

Her ill-fitting power suit just hangs on her, and she’s talking way too fast, eyes darting nervously like she can’t look Dean head-on — the vessel she’s wearing is hot! Act like it. The demon that bags Dean Winchester’s everlasting soul should be able to go toe to toe with the guy without flinching.

And, she’s way, way too eager to take Dean’s bright shiny soul in exchange for the bog-standard ten whole years, blah, blah, blah. Utterly uncompelling stuff. Where’s the sense of presence? Dean’s selling his soul for his dead baby brother. It should mean something, be jaw-dropping, a real killer moment.

In front of him, Dean pulls the crossroad demon into a kiss, completely taking control. Chuck rubs his jaw slowly— and waves his hand to play out the scene again. Dull. If this were going to play out in his Supernatural, it’d go more like this:

First off, tag this spineless demon out. She’s all wrong.

Chuck doesn’t bother calling in an understudy; he just deletes her, and slips behind that borrowed face himself. Dresses for the occasion. Something glove-tight; velvet black, svelte, dark hair curled over bare shoulders, plunging neckline (what? Chuck digs a plunging neckline. Who doesn’t?) ...But most importantly, totally uncowed.

Better, he thinks as he circles Dean, slow, making sure Dean really feels all that tension between them, poor dead Sam the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Through the wheeling and the dealing, Chuck taunts him, touches him, pushes to see where Dean might back out. To see what Dean’s willing to endure here.

Because ten years? What a joke. That’s practically fair. Where’s the drama? Where’s the ticking clock? One year. That’s got weight, that’ll have you counting the goddamn minutes.

And Chuck watches from the scout seats as Dean barters his life away for scraps.

“Better deal than your dad ever got,” the crossroads demon purrs. “Whaddya say?”

—and Dean takes the bait, dragging Chuck into a kiss, lips laced with salt from all that bedside mourning. A tingle rushes up Chuck’s stolen spine— at the contact, sure, but mostly at a good goddamn scene! He cups Dean’s face to kiss him back, hard, and seals the deal.

And a couple scant miles away, dead as a doornail on a dirty old mattress, Sam surges back to life with a gasp…

[spnangelsanddemons-rb]

Title: The Angel Next Door (and the Zombie Squirrel) Author: FriendofCarlotta (@friendofcarlotta) Artist: jollyrolls (@jollyrolls) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No archive warnings apply Tags: Modern AU, Angel Cas, Fluff and Crack, Romantic Comedy, Dead Squirrel (or is it?) Word count: 9,264 Featured characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Sam Winchester Featured relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Summary: Dean’s life is fine. He might get a little lonely sometimes, but that’s to be expected when you’re a single guy in your forties. But then a new neighbor moves in next door — an extremely hot, blue-eyed neighbor who seems to be some kind of magnet for bizarre and miraculous events. (Listen, that squirrel was dead. Dean’s sure of it.)

Will Dean solve the mystery of the man next door?

Link to fic | Link to art

[burntsecrets]

Dodging Cupid's Arrows

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester

Word Count: 2630

Prompt: Cupid's Got A Shotgun by Carrie Underwoods

Summary: An encounter with Cupid forces you to face your feelings for the Winchester Brothers.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, unresolved romantic tension, fear of emotional vulnerability, self-doubt, internal conflict, unrequited love, intense emotional introspection, defensive behavior, discussion of emotional scars, mentions of past relationship trauma, slow burn, protective behavior, Cupid intervention, romantic frustration.

The bar’s dim, sputtering light casts a weak glow overhead, barely illuminating the worn wooden tables and the scuffed floor beneath your boots. Shadows cling to the walls like old memories, and you sink deeper into your chair, swirling the last of your whiskey in the glass before taking a slow sip. The liquid burns as it slides down your throat, spreading a fleeting warmth through your chest, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging in your head. It never does.

It’s the same pattern every time, isn’t it? Men with honeyed words slip into your life, leaving behind promises as thin as smoke, promises they never intend to fulfill. Before you know it, you're left standing in the wreckage of something that wasn’t even real, just a mirage of what could have been. All those "almosts" stack up like bricks, weighing heavy on your heart, and even though you’ve never had a real relationship, it feels like you've been left shattered more times than you can count.

The scars are there, even if no one else can see them. They linger in every moment a guy brushes you off, in the hollow smile you force when you know it's not real. You feel the sting in every glance that sizes you up like you’re a prize to be won rather than a person to know. So you’ve built your walls, layering them high and thick until nothing, no one, can break through. Not even him.

Or them.

Sam and Dean Winchester—they didn’t just walk into your life. No, they crashed into it, two forces of nature that bulldozed right through your carefully constructed defenses, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in a way you swore you’d never be again. At first, you tried to play it cool, act like they were just hunters, comrades in arms. But the months blurred together, and now you can’t even tell how long it’s been. And that scares you because losing track means losing control and losing control means letting them in.

And letting them in? That’s not an option.

Even now, you can feel their eyes on you, the weight of their presence lingering in the air like a storm cloud ready to break. Sam’s by the pool table, his lean, tall frame moving with practiced ease as he lines up shot after shot. There’s a calm to him, but it’s the kind that keeps you on edge, like he could switch in an instant and suddenly be dangerous. Then there’s Dean, perched at the bar with a half-empty beer in hand, his eyes flicking between the room and you, constantly scanning for threats, always watching. 

Always watching you.

They’re protective. It should comfort you, but it drives you insane. Because the truth is, no matter how many monsters they face, no matter how many battles they fight, they can’t protect you from what matters most. They can’t protect you from yourself.

You think back to the last hunt, to the ridiculousness of it all—a damn Cupid, of all things. The little winged freak zeroed in on you from the moment you stepped into that abandoned church, those bright, beady eyes tracking you with unnerving precision. He wasn’t cute, not like the Valentine's Day cards would have you believe. No, this thing was more like a demented cherub, armed with arrows dipped in cosmic mischief, and he had you in his crosshairs. You could feel it in the air—the tug, the weight, as though Cupid himself was hell-bent on forcing you to confront feelings you’d buried so deep even you were beginning to forget they existed. Each arrow he loosed sent your heart racing, as if you could sense the emotional mess he was trying to weave. But you dodged them all, every last one, determined not to let some glorified matchmaker unravel everything you’d worked so hard to lock away.

You're not stupid. You know precisely what the little bastard was aiming for. It’s not like you’ve been blind to the way Sam’s gaze lingers on you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, soft and curious, like he’s trying to piece you together. Or the way Dean’s jaw tightens, a flicker of possessiveness in his green eyes, whenever some random guy at a bar edges too close, his whole demeanor shifting to silent warning. You’ve been dodging these unspoken glances for months now, sidestepping their care, their questions, like someone dancing around a minefield. Because you know that once you stop moving, it’ll all explode in your face.

And you’ve had enough explosions in your life.

But there’s only so much running you can do before the inevitable catches up.

“Hey.”

Dean’s gravelly voice slices through the whirlwind of your thoughts, rough but steady, anchoring you as he slides into the seat beside you. His presence is a weight that presses into the air, solid, almost suffocating in its certainty. The chair creaks beneath him, but all you hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat, thundering in your chest.

“Are you alright?” He’s asking, but it’s more than that. It’s the question beneath the question, the one you’ve been dodging for longer than you can remember.

Your heart skips a beat—a betraying thud that echoes in the hollowness you’ve tried to keep locked down. You’d never admit it, not even to yourself, but he makes it impossible to pretend. You glance at him, careful to keep your face neutral, masking the fluttering in your chest with a look you’ve perfected over years of pretending. It’s almost second nature by now—the practiced nonchalance. But with Dean, it’s always been different.

There’s something in the way his green eyes bore into yours, piercing through the walls you’ve built brick by brick, layer by layer. It’s as though he sees right past your armor, straight into that small, fragile part of you that still aches for something real. Something more. But you can’t let him see that. You won’t. So you shove it down, hard, pushing that flicker of vulnerability back into the shadows as you lean casually into your chair. Your body language distant, closed off.

“Yeah,” you shrug, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breathing. “Just tired. Long day.”

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just watches you with that familiar intensity, and you know—you know—he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. He’s seen you fight, seen you bleed, seen you crawl out of the wreckage of hunts that should’ve killed you. He’s seen you at your worst, and somehow, he still sticks around. He and Sam both do, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? They’ve gotten too close, wedged themselves into your life in ways that make it impossible for you to keep pretending.

Pretending that you don’t care.

Pretending that the way Dean looks at you doesn’t unravel something deep inside.

From across the room, you feel Sam’s eyes on you. His quiet gaze tracks the shift in the atmosphere as he casually leans his pool cue against the table and makes his way over, long strides slow but purposeful. His expression is calm and unreadable, but you see the concern in the tightness of his jaw and the subtle way his brow furrows as he joins Dean at your side.

“You’ve been quiet,” Sam says softly, folding his arms across his broad chest. There’s no judgment in his tone, just that frustrating gentleness, the kind that makes you feel seen when you’d rather stay hidden. “Is it… about earlier? With Cupid?”

The mention of Cupid sends a sharp twist through your stomach. You swallow, forcing down the surge of emotions that threatens to rise, burying it beneath layers of practiced indifference. You won’t let some stupid angel with a bow and arrow undo everything you’ve worked so hard to keep locked away. You won’t.

“I’m fine,” you snap, the words slipping out too fast, too harsh. The crack in your voice betrays you. “That was nothing. Just another hunt.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, and you can feel the weight of Sam’s stare, too, both of them pinning you with that all-too-familiar look. The one that says they’re not buying your crap, the one that makes your pulse quicken, and your chest tighten. You hate that look because it leaves you nowhere to hide.

“Bullshit.” Dean’s voice is low, steady, cutting through the silence with calm certainty. He takes a long sip from his beer, but his eyes never leave yours, and it feels like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve carefully put up to protect yourself. “You’ve been dodging that thing like it was the plague, and don’t think we didn’t notice.”

You clench your hands into fists in your lap, frustration bubbling up like a rising tide. “Look,” you say, your voice sharp, defensive. “I don’t need some magical arrow telling me how I’m supposed to feel. I’m fine the way I am.”

Sam shifts beside Dean, his arms still crossed, but you see the way the muscle in his jaw tenses, the way his hazel eyes soften as they search yours. “It’s not about what you’re supposed to feel,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s about what you do feel.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, it’s all too much. The weight of their concern, the intensity of their gaze, the truth that they’re trying to force you to admit—it presses down on you until you can’t breathe. You stand up abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping loudly against the floor as you push it back. The sound is harsh, jarring in the quiet of the bar, but you barely notice.

“I don’t feel anything, okay?” you snap, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Not for you, not for him, not for anyone. And I won’t let some winged freak tell me otherwise.”

The tension in the air thickens, suffocating, hanging between the three of you like a storm cloud ready to break. Dean stands up slowly, his movements deliberate, his face carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes—something raw, something that cuts deeper than you want to admit. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. You can’t think about it. You won’t.

“Y’know,” Dean says quietly, taking a step toward you, his voice low and steady, “you keep saying that, but you don’t believe it. Not really.” He’s close now, too close, the heat of his body radiating off him in waves, and it makes your pulse spike. “You’re just scared.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat. Fear coils tightly around your chest, but not the fear of them. No, it’s the fear of what they’re asking you to do. To let them in. To trust them. To stop running.

And running is all you know how to do.

“I’m not scared,” you whisper, but the words feel weak and empty, even to you.

Dean’s lips twitch into a small, humorless smile, his eyes softening just a fraction as he watches you. “Yeah, you are,” he says, his voice gentler now but no less intense. “And that’s okay. But maybe it’s time you stopped running from it.”

Sam steps closer, his presence steady and calm, grounding you in a way that you don’t want to admit you need. His voice is soft, full of quiet understanding, but there’s an unshakable strength beneath it. “You don’t have to do this alone, y’know,” he says. “We’re here. We always have been.”

The words sink into you, settling deep into the cracks of your carefully guarded heart, and something inside you shifts. Just a little. It’s terrifying, the idea of trusting them, of letting yourself hope, but there’s also something achingly beautiful about it. About the possibility that maybe, for once, you don’t have to be the one to leave first. That maybe, you don’t have to protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak.

But still, the fear—the bone-deep, soul-crushing fear of opening up, of letting someone in only to be left behind again—is overwhelming and paralyzing.

“I can’t,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper now, trembling under the weight of the truth you’re too afraid to admit. “I can’t risk it.”

Dean’s hand reaches out slowly, cautiously, like he knows one wrong move could send you running. But he doesn’t stop. His fingers, calloused from years of hunting, gently find yours, and instead of just holding your wrist, he entwines his fingers with yours, locking them together with a quiet but unspoken promise. The touch is soft yet firm, his thumb grazing the back of your hand in slow, soothing strokes, as if he’s trying to reassure you with every heartbeat. The warmth of his skin against yours sends a shiver up your spine, igniting something deep inside you, something you’ve kept buried for so long you almost forgot it was there.

You feel the weight of his presence settle over you like a blanket, heavy with meaning, but there’s nothing suffocating about it. It’s grounding, steady—safe. And yet, that safety terrifies you because it’s the kind you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve. But Dean, he isn’t giving you a choice. Not this time.

His other hand comes up slowly, his movements deliberate and gentle, as if he’s afraid you might bolt at any second. His palm cups your cheek, warm and rough, but his touch is tender, almost reverent. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. The simple motion cracks something inside you, and for a moment, it feels like the walls you’ve built so carefully over the years are crumbling under the weight of his touch.

"Maybe you’re not the only one taking a risk here," Dean murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, barely above a whisper. His words hang between you, heavy and raw, filled with all the things he’s never said but has always felt. His eyes search yours, and in them, you see it—the longing, the fear, the desperate hope that you’ll stay, that you’ll finally let them in. That you’ll choose them.

You feel your breath catch in your throat as his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, anchoring you to the moment. His thumb continues its slow, tender sweep across your cheek, and the tenderness in his gaze is enough to break your heart. This man, this infuriating, stubborn, protective man, who has fought demons and monsters and everything in between, is standing here with his heart wide open, asking you to stop running. Asking you to be with him and his brother in a way that terrifies you more than any hunt ever could.

For the first time, you feel the weight of what’s at stake—not just for you, but for him, for Sam. This isn’t just about you being afraid of getting hurt. It’s about them too, about the risk they’re taking by loving you, by wanting you to be a part of their lives. And it hits you with such force that you almost can’t breathe. They aren’t asking for your walls to come down—they’re asking to stand beside them. To hold you through the fear, through the pain, through whatever comes next.

You stare up at Dean, his hand still cradling your face like you’re something precious, and for the first time, you allow yourself to wonder—really wonder—if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one with something to lose.

Because you can feel it now—the risk they’re taking, the way they’re holding their breath, waiting for your answer, waiting for you to finally say yes. And in that moment, you realize that they’ve already decided. They’ve already chosen you.

It’s your turn to choose them.

taglist // @spnfanficpond @spnfans

[idreamofhazeleyes]

Written in Blood Ch 5

@mrswhozeewhatsis @impala-dreamer @idreamofplaid @squirrelnotsam @winchestergirl-13 @spnfanficpond

Chapter 5 

She stood before me with her arms crossed. There was a look on her face that reminded me of the one that Mom used when I snuck back into the house. The look dropped when Emily took another moment to look me over.  

“What happened?” Concern in her voice. 

“A rabid animal attacked and ...” 

Emily started moving and turned me around to face the door.  

I resisted her attempts and turned back around. “What the hell?” 

“Rabid animal means you need to get tested. Come on, we’re going to the hospital.” 

“I’m fine, seriously, Em. I don’t need the hospital. The animal didn’t bite me.” 

“That injury...” 

“It’s not that bad.” I winced as I moved my left arm in the attempt to lift it up. “See?” I got it up level with the floor before stopping due to the pain. 

“Not that bad, huh? Come on, let me see it.” 

I didn’t fight when Emily stepped up to look at the wounds. A hiss escaped when she pressed on the intact skin.  

“What the fuck happened? And don’t pull an animal attack.” 

“You wouldn’t believe me.” I side stepped around her into our room. I wanted to shed the torn shirt and change into comfortable clothing for the night. “You remember those so called animal attacks? It was a werewolf.” 

Emily huffed. “You’re right. I don’t believe you.” She crossed her arms. “But say I believe you for the moment. The werewolf did that to you? How?” 

I flopped on my bed and struggled through the pain to free my pants. After a couple minutes, the pain won out and I fell back. I didn’t fight Emily when she lifted up a leg to help.  

“I fought it,” I answered. “Don’t ask me why I trusted these guys. They were here hunting the werewolf.” I lifted my head. “The thing that’s tripping me up is that the werewolf was a person. He was in one of my classes today. He looked horrible, like whatever he was going through was driving him into the ground.” 

My legs fell with dead weight once free of the pants. 

“And these two guys let you fight a werewolf on your own? Chivalry is dead.” 

“The werewolf had my scent. I may have...” I pushed myself up to sit. “Stumbled upon him the other night when he was feeding. There was no way the Hunters were going to get close to the monster.” 

Emily gestured for me to lift my arms. “And it fell to you to kill the monster? Convenient.” She lifted the tee shirt up and off before tossing it into the trash. “You know people are gonna talk.” 

A sigh escaped as I eased my lounge pants on. “Yeah. They can talk. No one is going to believe the real thing anyway. You don’t.” I sat there for a few moments as my mind replayed the events.  

The nerves that twisted my stomach as I stared at Jordan. The meager conversation we had before he caught my scent and gave chase. Barely getting the machete and getting backhanded. My life flashing before my eyes as the claws came down.  

“Aeryn. Hey, Aeryn.” Emily’s voice cut into the spiral my mind was going. “You’re not okay. Maybe take the day tomorrow and relax. Tell your professors and work that you saw the monster kill and need the day.” 

“I can’t afford either of those. I’m not a trust fund student here on mommy and daddy’s dime.” 

I had gotten lucky with getting scholarships and worked hard to ensure that I got accepted and stayed on top of everything. Small town girl attempting to do better in her life and all that.  

The nightmares kept me on the edge of falling completely asleep, yet I woke to the sun just creeping into the windows. My shoulder stiffened during the night. Which made changing for the day harder, yet I managed to dress and headed out for the day.  

I dared to walk past the area where I took down the werewolf. For as much as John and Dean helped with taking the creature down, they didn’t do much in helping me get back into normal life. Maybe there was no getting back to normal life. There was no forgetting that the things went bump in the night were real.  

Emily was right that people were going to talk. I hadn’t realized that there had been a couple students that had managed to take pictures of the fight between me and the werewolf. “Hey, Morgan,” a male voice spoke just as the owner sat down. “You hear about this fight last night?” 

I shook my head, playing dumb. “What fight, Ryan?” 

“Someone got brave and faced off against the monster.” He pulled out his cell and showed me pictures someone had sent him. The pictures were grainy and didn’t show me or the werewolf in great detail. Which worked in my favor since I did not want attention for facing the monster.  

I adjusted my text book and notebook in an attempt to play off my nerves. “It’s gotta be staged.” 

“From what I heard, the person in the pictures screamed when the monster swiped at them. One claimed that the person managed to behead the thing. There’s no way that happened.” 

“Well, there’s pictures,” I offered up. “Isn’t that enough proof?” 

“Not well enough. If this person did manage to behead the monster, they had good luck.” 

I wondered how long it would hold out for me. The students settled in for the lesson as the teacher started talking. The thought of looking into news articles that seemed to be out of place passed through my mind.  

After facing off with the werewolf, I should have stayed well away from hunting. I didn’t. School and work came first. There were a few cases that I was able to work in the area. Emily helped with getting a driver’s license. She didn’t fully believe me about what happened that night. She believed me that I fought something dangerous and that I was going to find more like it. Having a license would help with that. It was up to me in getting a car.  

Between food, schooling not covered by my scholarships, and other items, a car was the last thing on my list. Yet I squirreled away what I could. In a couple years I managed to save up enough for a car that was reliable enough for local travel. It got me around well enough in the city and to the few cases I managed to work between classes and work.  

Two years had passed since the night I took down the werewolf. Despite an investigation by the police and university, no one was able to find his body. Guilt tore at me while I kept quiet. His family would never get closure for what happened to him. Yet it was better knowing that he had to lose his life than another being killed for his hunger.  

That guilt did not help with the early morning traffic I was battling. I was pushing late to my commencement ceremony. It was a stupid decision to take on the case so close to the ceremony. I had to drive through the night from the Lansing area to make it. The case took a turn when the spirit refused to move on. I still had grave dirt on me. There was no time to shower.  

I got lucky in finding a parking spot near the stadium and darted inside with my clothes, cap, and gown. Finding a restroom, I washed off the dirt at a sink before speed changing in a stall. I hopped out of the stall and restroom in the attempt to get the second dress shoe. I found the area where I was to walk with my graduating class gathered before the walk just in time. I managed to slip into an spot between a couple people close to my height just before stepping into a tent. 

Each of the students were having their pictures taken before we stepped out. My stomach twisted from anxiety and hope that I did not look as bad as I thought I did from the hunt. With the picture taken, I stepped out onto the football field and the collective cheers of families and friends. I had called my own family about the ceremony back in January. Mother had answered and congratulated me on graduating. She said that she, Father, and Taylor would be at the ceremony.  

The relationship between our parents had been strange for a number of years. Neither of them fully explained what brought them to that point. Sure, they love each other. Yet there was something under the surface. I have vague memories of their relationship changing after Taylor was born. Our parents had shown both of us love despite whatever was between them.  

There was little chance I would be able to pick out three people in a crowd of a hundred thousand people. All there to support their own graduates. It was nice to know my parents and brother were there. Eventually we all got to our seats and I half slumped in mine from exhaustion. My brain was on the edge of unconsciousness throughout the five or six speeches, just aware enough to come around when it came time for receiving our diplomas. My eyes blinked a little as I fully woke up and stood.  

“Aeryn Malone,” one of the academic staff members spoke; their voice echoing slightly in the sound system thanks to the microphone.  

I willed myself to not trip up the stairs as I climbed to the stage. I paused long enough to shake the hand of another staff member while accepting the diploma cover for a picture. Finishing crossing the stage and down the other side and stairs, I returned to the row my chair was in. Another half hour past before the rest of the students sitting behind me. I used that time to snooze, my mind aware enough of my surroundings.  

Eventually the last student sat down and the dean stood and made his last remarks. At some cue, we the student body stood and began our walk from the field. One of the students next to me nudged me awake. Half jumping to my feet, I closed the gap and followed the person in front of me. The walk off the field seemed to take longer, yet we made it inside the stadium. 

It took me longer than expected to make my way through the crowds to where me and my family agreed to meet up after the ceremony. 

“Aeryn!” Tyler’s voice called over the noise of the other families and students.  

I turned at his voice as my lips pulled into a smile. He wore a nice polo styled shirt, denim jeans, and tennis shoes. Our parents were a few steps behind him as they worked through the crowd. My lips pulled into a smile as I stepped into the hug Tyler offered as we closed the gap between us. We pulled apart a minute later before I hugged my parents one by one.  

“We’re so proud of you,” Mom said as she pulled away.  

“Do you know where you want to start looking for jobs?” Dad asked. There was something in his voice that told me that he was expecting to be paid all the money he spent on my four year college career.  

“I just graduated, dad,” I countered. “Allow me time to start searching.” 

“You had weeks before now. What have you been doing?” 

“Gary, enough,” Mom chimed in. “Today’s about celebrating Aeryn’s success.” 

“Success at bleeding me...” 

“Knock it off, Dad,” Tyler cut in. “You didn’t have to be here.” 

Dad turned to Tyler. “You don’t belong...” 

Anger rose up as I stepped between them. The past couple years of hunting and the scars on my shoulder gave me the courage to face down dad. “Stop it. This day is meant to be a celebration. I’m not going to stand here and let you put the both of us down. Now, you can leave or be quiet and go to lunch with us.” 

Dad went silent even as he glared at me. I matched his gaze and dared him to do something. Eventually he broke our silent battle and walked away. Tyler and Mom stood there in silence for a moment or two.  

“Well,” Mom started. “Let’s go have lunch.” She turned and started for an exit. 

“He’s gotten worse,” Tyler said low enough for me to hear as we followed. “I honestly don’t get it. There’s something between our parents that’s changed. More than before.” 

Lunch was tense. Tyler attempted to keep the conversation going despite Dad still being quiet from earlier. Mom chimed in when she had a question or a comment, though generally kept quiet. Lunch was over within an hour and we headed back to my apartment. I had been smart in packing all my things save a change of clothes and a few other things before going on the hunt. 

I had gone back up to double check nothing was being left when Emily walked in. She stopped when she noticed me.  

“So, this is it,” she said.  

“I guess so,” I agreed. “Thank you for helping me the past couple years. I doubt I’d make it to this point if it wasn’t for you.” 

“I hope when I call for help facing off a ghost, you’ll come.” Emily gave a nervous chuckle. 

I smiled. “I will do my best.” I moved toward her as I raised my arms in the attempt of a hug.  

She stepped in and returned the hug. Something told me that my life has changed again.

<<Chapter Four>> <<Chapter Six>>

[canonsensical]

It's pride month of obviously I'm considering rereading The Dean Winchester Beat Sheet, as is tradition.

[supernatural-sophia]

chapter one! Hope you all like this fic! 

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

*sighing* *sobbing* *head in hands* Time to finally write that fanfic

[purgaytorysupremacy]

if anyone wants to know how this might play out with Demon!Dean, @rupertgayes has a little something to say on the subject..........

forgotten fruit - Rated E - 6.3K words

Emmanuel is rescued - and named - by Daphne Allen when she finds him wandering alone in the woods. Years later they share a comfortable existence, her leading a small revival and him in the center of it as a faith healer. He doesn’t know if he’s happy, but it’s all he has.

And then a stranger comes to town.

x

[justmytype95]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Arthur Ketch/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Ketch/Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Dean Winchester, Arthur Ketch, Sam Winchester, Mary Winchester Additional Tags: Love Triangle, Spies & Secret Agents, Slow Burn Summary:

Morgan moved cities for a fresh start- and because she needed the bump in pay to help her make payments on her mounting credit card debt. after surviving a vampire attack which turns out to be more than it seems, morgan is pulled to the world of supernatural, monster hunting, and the men of letters. But the men of letters don't like loose ends, and offer Morgan a job with them to keep her closer. At first the bump in pay seems like exactly what she needs to wipe her slate clean, but slowly Intrigue and tension form and she finds herself torn between the affections of two men.

On the one hand, Dean is fun loving and compassionate, and the two share a mutual attraction, but Morgan doubts he's ready for a relationship, with all the commitment and baggage that goes along with it.

Arthur is harder to win over. Morgan isn't sure if his interest in her is superficial, but they form a bond working alongside each other that makes her wonder where the relationship could go.

[samjesswinchester]

Thanks for sticking around and reading. I love hearing from you in any way possible and I am thankful for each of you!

Chapters: 13/? Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Jessica Moore, Sam Winchester & Everyone, Jessica Moore & Everyone Characters: Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Cas - Character, Bobby Singer, John Winchester, Mary Winchester, Original Supernatural (TV) Character(s), Real Tyson Brady, Demon Possessing Tyson Brady, Luis (Supernatural: Pilot), Missouri Moseley Additional Tags: Love at First Sight, season one, Supernatural - Freeform, Stanford Era, Jessica Moore Lives, Hurt/Comfort, emotional af, sappy af, soulmate, Angst and Fluff and Smut Series: Part 2 of What Never Was But Should Have Been Summary:

It's early in the morning on November 2nd and, with Sam Winchester's *slightly* enhanced psychic abilities, he knows he and his brother need to get back to Stanford before his nightmare comes true. Even with getting there in time, learning to navigate the newly exposed family secret and its inevitable trauma will test Sam and Jess more than ever before.

[idreamofhazeleyes]

Written in Blood Ch 7

@mrswhozeewhatsis @impala-dreamer @idreamofplaid @squirrelnotsam @winchestergirl-13 @spnfanficpond

Chapter 7 

“I’m home,” I called out as I stepped into the house.  

“Welcome home,” Mom replied, her voice carried from somewhere in the house. “I’m in the kitchen.” 

I toed off my shoes and headed into the house. The smell of something sweet drifted over the air. “Smells good, Mom.” A pie sat on the stove. 

“Leave it. It’s for after dinner. You know where the snacks are.” 

A sigh escaped before I moved to the table and sat.  

“How were classes today?” Mom asked as she turned from the counter.  

“Exhausting. Three projects for two different classes. And I have work tonight.” 

“Can you swap shifts or ask for an extension for your projects?” 

“We’re already short staffed and not unless I have too.”  

The sound of the front door opening then closing drifted into the kitchen. “I’m home,” Dad’s voice called out. He walked into the kitchen and over to Mom, planting a kiss on her cheek.  

My eyes narrowed at the action. In all the times I’ve seen them together, Dad never shown any sort of intimate action like that to Mom. It was odd.  

“Aeryn?” Dad’s voice crept into my thoughts. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” 

My mind snapped back, and a smile pulled at my lips. “Yeah. I must have spaced for a moment.” I pushed myself to my feet. “I should go wash up before work tonight.” 

“Thought you were off today,” Dad said.  

I stopped and turned to the white board calendar on the wall. It showed several different events, including my work schedule. There was no shift for me that night.  

Something was not right. There hadn’t been much love between my parents and peace was just out of reach. It had been like that for years for reasons unknown to me. To see the love all of a sudden threw me for a loop. It didn’t sit right with me.  

I pushed it out of my mind while getting ready for the evening’s dinner. Dressed in a nice skirt and top with matching shoes, light makeup, and bracelet, an odd sense of feeling uncomfortable settled over me. The drive to the restaurant was filled with Dad and Tyler talking about working on their project car  

That feeling stuck with me the next few days. I stole some time between work and school to dive into a vague memory. The memory itself seemed almost not real; more like the last little snippet of a dream before fully waking. There was something about someone having blue tattoos on their face.  

My research took me into the folklore section of the library with books spread out on the table. Stories of countless mythological creatures from multiple cultures blended together after hours of reading. I leaned back in the chair as I rubbed my sore eyes.  

“Aeryn,” a familiar voice called.  

My body straightened while panic flooded my brain. I looked around in search of the person that called me. Of the few people I saw, none of them looked in my direction. I went back to the books, pulling one containing Arabic folklore toward me. Flipping through pages, something caught my attention. On a page was a rendition of a person with blue tattoos on their skin.  

The Djinn are a supernatural race within Arabic culture, the next page read. They usually dwell in caves and have the power to bring powerful hallucinations in the minds of their targets. They feed on human blood while the human is in a coma like trance caused by a poison. It’s believed they can grant a person’s wish. That wish is the hallucinations that the human lives in caused by the poison. There is one way to possibly kill a Djinn; a silver blade dipped in lamb’s blood. 

Silver blade dipped in lamb’s blood. There had to be a way to get both. Pawn stores or some sort of store that sold weapons. Maybe stores that dealt with hunting and sporting items. The lamb’s blood would be more difficult. Closing all the books before putting them on the carts to be reshelved. Thoughts of a plan started to float through my mind to gain the silver blade.  

<<Chapter Six>> <<Chapter Eight>>

[supernatural-sophia]

Chapters: 7/7 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Castiel & Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Castiel, Jack Kline, Eileen Leahy, Mary Winchester, God | Chuck Shurley Additional Tags: Post-Season 15, Fix It, Post canon fix-it, PTSD, Resurrected John Winchester, Castiel saved from the Empty, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair (Supernatural), Bad Parent John Winchester, Creature Castiel, Angel Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Caring Dean Winchester, Original Character - Freeform, Mary is still alive, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Jack Kline is God But Also Still a Child, Drunk Dean Winchester Summary:

After Castiel is saved from the empty, he is not himself and more like a scared, wild animal. Chuck, getting bored with the ending HE chose, decides to resurrect a dead family member to create chaos in the Winchester family.

The title and chapter titles are all either Names of songs or lyrics of songs.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2xjCmgucl4rzrsVOX7RLpE?si=9b1cead2f53c4df7 (Playlist that has the songs on them)

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

Working on new (to the spnverse, not new AT ALL in general) anti-possession tattoo. These would be different for each person who gets them.

...if anyone knows how the name formats on Ogham stones work I'd love some advice on this!

[teddyniffler]

Supernatural fanfics

Me and Michael

To retaliate against Michael for revealing his only vulnerability to the Winchesters, Chuck rips Michael from Adam. Suffering from the traumatic removal of the Archangel, Chuck guarantees Adam's imprisonment in a high-security mental health hospital by intensifying his torment.

How can you convince others you are sane when your own words betray you? When the only explanation you can offer to those who have the power to free you is that you're not sick, you cohabited your body with an archangel, and your mental breakdown was brought on by God.

Chapters 1 - 10

Divinity No More

After the final episode, Chuck Shurley, stripped of his powers by Jack and abandoned by the Winchesters, faces the daunting task of adapting to human life—if he survives finding his way from the lake in the middle of nowhere. As an ex-God and creator of everything, will he seek redemption in his newfound mortality, or will he reject everything about being human to hunt down and hurt the Winchesters and his cursed Grandson.

Chapter 1 - 7