#dean winchester imagines

[meiplays]

Dean Winchester x Reader - Fluff ٭

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆  ~ (So unbelievably cute it might break your heart — ultimate puppy Dean cuddles & kisses) ☆~

Dean’s whole body was practically glued to yours, warm and heavy like the softest, fluffiest puppy who decided you were the best thing ever. His cheek was smooshed right against your jawline, and his arms were locked tight around your ribs like a human bear hug you never wanted to escape.

Then suddenly, he popped his head up with the biggest, goofiest grin ever — like he just remembered the best thing in the world.

“Hey—hey! Did you know I’m kinda obsessed with you?” he asked, voice all soft and playful.

Before you could say anything, Dean launched into a full-on attack of kisses — tiny, wet, scruffy kisses all over your face. Your cheeks, nose, forehead, eyelids, even your chin couldn’t escape his mouth.

Each kiss came with a little “Mmmph” or “Yeah, that’s right,” or “Gotcha again!” like you were his absolute favorite toy.

You giggled so hard your stomach hurt, trying to squirm away but failing because he was too good at cuddling.

“Dean! Stop! You’re gonna wear out my face!” you laughed.

He just laughed back, voice low and happy. “Never. Your face is my favorite place in the world.”

Then he snuggled back down, pressing his nose into your neck and sighing like he was exactly where he belonged. His arms tightened one last time, warm and protective, as he whispered, “I’m yours, and you’re mine. Forever.”

You smiled, heart melting, because Dean Winchester was being the absolute cutest puppy in existence — and you were so, so lucky to be his.

♡

[sacr1ficialang3l]

⌖Yeah, my baby acts cool⌖

⌖(but they all know something ain't right)⌖

SUMMARY: Dean is just learning what real love is. He struggles with the urge to hide behind his old armor every day, afraid of what might happen if he gets too relaxed. But when you grab his mask with loving hands and slowly pull it off, he can't help but let you see. 4.5k

WARNINGS: angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. references to parental abuse. dean is struggling but he's loved. hurt/comfort. learning to accept your real self. dean winchester is bad at feelings and incredibly traumatized. a little angst with happy ending. but very fluffy too.

part two of: they all wanna take her out.

Dean Winchester is a damn good actor.

Or at least that's what he’s convinced himself of. He puts on his tough guy facade and walks into any room like he already knows he’s the coolest guy in there. He flashes his sharp grin at people, winks his pretty eyes at the lucky ones, and always has a clever little line stored on the tip of his tongue.

He wears his leather jacket like armor; he holds onto his bottles like swords. He’s a big bad hunter, the boogeyman in every spooky tale monsters tell their children, the man that both angels and demons are scared of.

And still, it only took you one long look to know he’s a fucking nerd.

Movie references, slasher flicks, even anime. Cowboys, comics, even the music he listens to. Dean is the definition of a geek. But that’s one of the innumerable things he stuffs under his mask where no one can see.

But you can. You see right through the anger he holds like a shield, right into the softest, most tender parts of him, even when he doesn’t want you to. Especially when he doesn’t want you to.

Maybe Dean is right about the psychic stuff after all.

You have to admit, it’s gotten steadily better—all the hiding and suppressing and doubting. Dean has finally started to accept that you love him, unconditionally and irrevocably.

He’s started to stash away less stuff from you, slowly letting his true self out of the cage it’s been trapped in for years. He stops hiding his nightmares—clinging onto you in the middle of the night and letting you hold him close until his breath is back to normal. He sometimes tells you about them; other times he just shakes his head and hides further into the crook of your neck. But he lets you in.

He starts to admit when he’s hurt, no longer trying to soldier on through every injury—he lets you patch up even the smallest of cuts, chuckling breathlessly when you press a kiss over the gauze. He lets the pain slip onto his expression, he lets you make it better, he lets you take care of him—and he tries not to feel guilty about it.

He stops wincing every time you say “I love you.” He slowly stops trying to earn you, stops murmuring “I don’t deserve it” or “you don’t know what you’re saying” after. And it’s months and months of you repeating the same words over and over until his stubborn fucking brain finally accepts that you do love him, and that it would take the sun exploding for you to willingly let go of him—and maybe not even then.

Now, when you whisper the words into his ear after a tough hunt or just because you’re feeling especially sappy, he just melts—his eyes soften, his mouth presses into an almost-pout, and he says it back with so much conviction it could move mountains.

“I love you too, sweetheart. So fucking much.”

But there are things that he still buries deep inside of him. Things that his childhood—especially his father, who you have nothing nice to say about—made him repress so harshly that even when you know he would trust you with his life, Dean still is programmed to hide them from you.

Dean is afraid you will leave him. You know that—not because he’s told you, but because you can feel it. The way he desperately holds you when he’s asleep. The way his eyes follow you around when you’re in a crowded space, like you’ll melt into the shadows if he blinks for too long. The way he looks like he might lose his grip on reality when he can’t locate you during a fight.

There’s one night you always think about when insecurity clouds your mind and Dean’s own self-doubt seeps into you—and you wonder, just for a second, if you are good enough for him. If his reluctance is because of his issues, or if he simply doesn’t love you as much.

But the uncertainty only lasts a moment, because then you remember.

During a fight with a pack of werewolves, you had been forced to climb onto the attic of the dilapidated house they were using as a den. The pack alpha—a young girl around your age, her hair in braids and her eyes a little crazed—kept screaming at you about her lover. 

Apparently, the girl you had first stabbed with your silver dagger had been her girlfriend, and now she was determined to make you pay. To make you bleed like you made her lover bleed.

You have to admit, you struggled to kill her more than you should’ve. She was in so much pain, so heartbroken that it made your own heart crack—but she was killing people, and you couldn’t let that happen. You let her scratch you a little, bruise you here and there, because maybe you deserved it, just before you stabbed her through the heart just like you had done with her lover.

“Go to rest, she’s waiting for you,” you whispered into her ear, and the girl finally let go of your shirt and closed her eyes, peacefully falling into the waiting arms of death.

But then there was screaming, and thrashing, and things breaking. A wail so raw it made goosebumps rise through your body, and worry tasted like acid in the back of your throat. You rose to your feet, ready to run and find the brothers to make sure they were okay, when a head popped up through the attic door.

For a moment, you thought you were looking into the pack alpha’s eyes. The same unhinged desperation, the same bloodthirst, the same heart-wrenching anguish.

But these eyes were green instead of golden, and you would recognize that face anywhere.

Dean almost crawled to you in his frenzy, and before words could even make it out of your mouth, he was pulling you into a bone-crushing hug that left you breathless for more than one reason. His lips moved against your temple but not a word came out, mouthing something over and over—like a prayer.

Dean Winchester on his knees, so rattled with sorrow he was praying, just at the thought of losing you. At the prospect of you dying. Of you leaving him.

So he still performs sometimes. You know he can’t help it, that this mask he created—the suave, confident, cool guy—is integrated into his bones, and that he keeps it there because he needs it. He needs to hide all these dorky things he adores but that people—his father—would disdain. Or else you won’t want him anymore. Or else you will leave.

So you make it your mission to prove it to him, one more time, that you won’t.

It starts small, with you sitting with him through every slasher marathon he does. This one is easy to dismiss—horror movies are scary, and blood and gore are for tough guys. But then you listen to him attentively when he accidentally info-dumps about the movies and the actors and—“this scene was improvised,” or “she won an award for this.” You nod along as he ranks all the Halloween movies from “fucking gruesome, it’s awesome” to “I don’t know what they were smoking in the writing room.”

He quickly realizes he’s geeking out and turns his eyes back to the TV, cheeks flushing and arms crossing. But then you pull him closer, his arm around your shoulders and your head on his chest, and he relaxes again.

He doesn’t talk for the whole next movie, but the plan has been set in motion.

During a case days later, you walk past a group of people LARPing. Sam and you share an amused look, but you find Dean’s eyes lingering on them. They’re all dressed up in cloaks and armor, fake swords and spears in hand, apparently in the middle of battle. There’s one girl with elf ears and a pretty black satin dress. Her crown is dark and spiky, and she’s wearing a black wig that almost goes down to the grass.

When the dark fairy walks into the tumult, everyone cowers as she starts to recite some “spell.” If you’re honest with yourself, it looks pretty fun. You turn back to Dean, and you can almost see it—him in one of those burgundy cloaks and a white lace-up linen shirt, with a sword in hand as he helps the king with all the strategic planning and then leads his army into battle.

He’d have the silliest war cry, too.

You nudge his shoulder with yours, and his gaze quickly averts to you. His cheeks flush, and you can see the way his brain desperately racks for an excuse for his staring—just before he takes in the way you’re smiling at him, always so gentle, always so loving. The panic fades.

“Should we go join them?” you grin up at him, nodding your head toward the park. “Think they’ll let me be the evil fairy?”

That makes him laugh, and his eyes shine a little brighter as he shakes his head and wraps an arm around you, leading you away to follow Sam into the crime scene.

“I don’t think so, baby. You’re too nice to be the evil fairy.”

Dean doesn’t spare the group another look, and maybe you don’t get him to indulge this time.

But one day—mark your words—Dean Winchester will LARP.

The next time you get a chance to act on the plan you’ve now named Helping Dean Winchester Unlearn Shame is about a week later. It’s a tough case, so you and Sam stay late in the library researching. Dean is too hungry to wait, pacing around the bookshelves and complaining about starvation and famine and “This could legally be considered torture, y’know?”

You finally convince him to go eat something, reassuring him that you’ll meet him in the nearby bar & grill just a few minutes later.

“Go, darling. Sam and I can handle ourselves just fine.”

Minutes turn into almost an hour—but at least you and Sam have a vague idea of what kind of creature you’re facing. You’re a little worried that Dean hasn’t even texted you in all that time, but when you finally walk into the bar & grill, you find him absolutely engrossed with an arcade game.

The machine is hidden in a dark corner of the room, and you can barely make out the words Mortal Kombat on its side. It looks old and barely functioning, but Dean’s eyes are glued to the screen, and his hands move swiftly across the control panel. His tongue is sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and he looks so fucking—free.

You absentmindedly tell Sam to go order you some wings before quickly making your way to your boyfriend.

When Dean sees you, he looks like he’s been caught murdering a puppy.

His hands fly away from the machine so fast he almost rips the joystick off the panel, and he stumbles over his words as his eyes fill with mortification.

Your mind flashes back to the day you heard Sam and Dean joking about childhood memories—how they both laughed while recalling the day Dean snuck out during a case to an arcade with a girl when he was fourteen, before John found him.

But the laughter soon died down as they kept remembering, their adult minds now finally noticing that the anger in John—the way he grabbed Dean’s arm and dragged him away, the bitter words that left his mouth like a snake spitting venom, the way he forced both brothers into the backseat of the Impala and drove them away to some cabin where they wouldn’t see him again for a week—none of it was actually funny.

Still, Dean brushed it off with a joke, and they both went back to their beers, forgetting all about it. Or at least trying to.

You don’t forget.

“Dean! You’re gonna lose!” you push him back toward the arcade game, trying to distract him from the voices in his head you know are echoing John’s words.

His competitive instincts win. He rapidly smashes the colorful buttons with his thumb, his hand gripping the joystick again with the same confidence he holds his shotgun.

He wins the round, obviously, and then turns to you when you cheer for him. He still looks confused, a little embarrassed, a little like he’s about to melt. So before he can even open his mouth, you fish into your pocket for a quarter and insert it into the machine.

Dean studies you for a moment, puzzled green eyes burning into yours—until a loud “Fight!” blasts from the machine’s speaker. He quickly turns back to the pixelated screen, and you continue to cheer him on for that whole fight. And the next one. And the next one.

There’s a boyish grin on Dean’s face now, pure excitement and determination, and it encourages you.

So you continue to jump every time he executes a perfect combo, kiss him when he bags a flawless victory, insert a new coin whenever Dean tries to leave. You start commenting on the fights with a silly sportscaster voice, but stop when Dean almost loses from how hard he’s laughing. You bring him a beer to motivate him and “keep him hydrated,” and then you finally ride him for hours that night after he goes back to the motel room undefeated.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, leaving a deep purple bruise on your neck. Neither of you acknowledge your actions, but you know he knows. “Thank you, baby.”

You keep working hard on your mission.

You come back to the motel room after you were assigned dinner duties with three cheeseburgers and a Hatchet Man plushie you found at a gas station store—barely bigger than your hand and a little deformed, but it immediately reminded you of your boyfriend’s little obsession with David Yaeger. Dean rolls his eyes when he sees it, but then immediately snatches it from your hands when you suggest throwing it away.

“Thought you didn’t want it, love.”

“Shut up, you already wasted money on it.”

The plushie ends up hanging from the Impala’s rearview mirror, and you hear Dean threaten Sam with throwing him out of the car and abandoning him in the middle of the interstate if he gets shapeshifter goo on it—while you pretend to be asleep in the backseat.

You see him eyeing a Star Trek shirt when you’re investigating a suspicious death in a retail store, so you come back later that afternoon and buy it for him. You leave it inside his duffel bag without a word, and you can tell the moment he finds it—his eyebrows furrow, his eyes light up, and then he looks around like he’s checking to make sure no one’s watching. He doesn’t mention it.

Still, he wears it to bed that night. Then the next one. Then on a lazy day you spend driving to Bobby’s house just to check in with the old man. You can see the moment Sam wants to ask about it—his eyebrow raises, his mouth curls with amusement—but it only takes one death stare from you for the younger Winchester to keep his words to himself.

Good. You’re not letting anyone get in the way of your plan.

After an especially awful hunt—it’s always ugly when kids are involved, and it takes a toll on Dean especially—you end up getting a separate motel room from Sam. You usually share a room with two queens for safety (when you and Dean aren’t too horny, that is), but today you can see the bags under Dean’s eyes, the way his mouth twists, and the way his hands keep flexing.

He’s in that headspace, where he’s angsty and guilty and sad. Where the voices get too loud and too many ghosts haunt him. Where he can’t keep the mask on for too long.

You know he needs space from everyone. Except maybe you. He doesn’t like being away from you, ever.

So you pull him into your own room, and he immediately drags you into bed and pulls you into his arms. You let him brood with his head on your chest, running your fingers through his hair and humming some distant melody—probably some Zeppelin song that got stuck in your head after hours of listening to Dean’s cassettes.

You turn on the TV, browsing through the channels to find something light and mindless that won’t mess with Dean’s already wired brain.

That’s when you find it. A channel broadcasting Scooby-Doo. Because there’s always at least one.

Dean is too busy placing gentle kisses up your neck to notice your entertainment choice, but when the well-known intro song starts softly echoing through the room, Dean starts singing along in a low voice. You don’t even think he knows he’s doing it—until his head suddenly snaps toward the TV and then toward you, mouth gaping like a fish.

You can’t help but giggle, opening your arms again and starting to rub your hand up and down Dean’s back when he falls back onto your chest. It’s funny, your big bad hunter all curled into you. It’s also incredibly endearing, and you can’t stop yourself from laughing when he starts to hate on Fred and his “dumbass ascot.”

You also notice the way he has the whole episode memorized—every plot twist, every scene, almost every line of dialogue. It melts your heart—to see Dean Winchester, the boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders, so entranced and excited over a cartoon.

“Don’t think I don’t know about your little crush on Daphne, Winchester.”

He laughs, but doesn’t deny it.

“Don’t be jealous, gorgeous. You’re the only one for me.” He turns to face you, a cheeky smile on his face. “Though you’d look hot as a redhead.”

You give him a whack on the head, but you feel your heart skip a beat at the silly grin he gives you. Dean deserves to be this effortlessly happy all the time.

You double down on your efforts after that. You buy him a little Batman mug that he now uses every morning for his shitty motel coffee. You sit through a marathon of the Sharknado movies—yes, the whole franchise. You end up finding a Clint Eastwood VHS collection at an antique store, and you decide to gift it to Dean for Valentine’s Day.

You almost think you see his eyes watering when he opens the box, but then you’re distracted by Sam’s groaning.

“Oh no,” he says your name. “What did you do? You know how many times I’ve had to see those movies already? He’s gonna be insufferable now.”

And he is kind of right. You are then forced to sit through almost twelve hours of nothing but cowboy boots and tumbleweed. Dean quotes some of the dialogue out loud, and it's only the cuteness of it all that helps you power through it.

That is, until you get to the monkey movies. That’s when you give up and fall asleep next to Sam, who has been snoring for the last three hours—leaving Dean, his beer, and his gunslingers to have some private time.

You even end up taking him to a wrestling match for a date. Sam decides to go help Bobby with a case, claiming that you and Dean deserve some time alone.

“I can’t keep watching you make heart eyes at each other in the middle of the highway. One day Dean will crash the fucking car.”

So it’s only the two of you—no monsters, no weapons, no worry.

You’re not a fan of wrestling, but Dean is vibrating with excitement next to you. He sips on his extra-large cola and keeps telling you all about the wrestlers you’re going to see tonight. He keeps doing silly voices when he tells you their catchphrases, and he looks about to explode when one of the men—you cannot remember their names to save your life—walks down the pathway next to you and ends up tapping Dean on the shoulder as he passes by.

It’s in those moments—when his eyes are shiny and his mouth is set wide in a beam, when his hands don’t look like they belong around a rifle and his pretty face doesn’t look like it should be covered in blood—that it dawns on you.

When his freckles sparkle across his cheeks, when his nose scrunches with pure excitement, when he turns to you with a little jump and looks like he’s about to start floating—that’s when you can see that he’s still that little kid who never got the normal childhood he yearned for.

That’s when you get a glimpse of the boy John Winchester forced to learn how to shoot when all he wanted was a hug. The boy whose hands got smeared with blood he didn’t spill. The boy who just wanted to be loved, and got trained instead. The boy who never should’ve become a soldier.

It all breaks loose when you buy him a cowboy hat.

Everyone who’s ever met Dean Winchester knows that his all-time obsession is the Wild West.

So when you see the old, expensive-looking hat sitting around a victim’s house, you can’t stop yourself from taking it.

It’s not like they’re going to miss it, right?

You leave it on top of the motel bed Dean and you will be sharing before walking into the bathroom for a necessary shower after a long drive, and when you walk out, Dean is there waiting for you—the cowboy hat on, his right hand resting on top of it as he stands, still wearing his gray henley shirt and dirty bootcut jeans from earlier.

As soon as he sees you, he bites down on his lip and strikes a pose. “So, I pull off the cowboy look real well, huh?”

You giggle, leaving your dirty clothes somewhere abandoned on the floor and walking up to him. As silly as it is, he does look fucking good in the stupid hat. The way he’s biting down on his lip, his pretty smile, his little pose—he looks hot. Really hot.

Your hand immediately finds the curve of his jaw, entranced by the way the hat somehow accentuates the slope of it. Your fingers trace its sharp line, and you shake your head.

“Unfortunately, you pull off any look real well,” you sigh, like it’s painful. It is, sometimes. You tilt the hat teasingly until it covers his face.

That only makes Dean’s grin widen, and he quickly fixes his hat before taking a step closer and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him.

“Now you’re just flatterin’ me, sugar.” His voice takes on a drawl, and you can’t help but laugh at how silly this all is.

You hum, wrapping your arms around his shoulders—being careful not to knock the hat off his head—and you look up at him with an endeared smile.

Dean looks so… happy. You know you’ve been trying to make him feel more comfortable with himself lately, but right now he looks so genuinely happy, in a way you haven’t really seen before. The goofy accent, the confident grin, the way he finally looks comfortable in his own skin—it stirs something in you.

Something hot and sticky and ferocious. It’s not lust, because you know what that feels like. It’s not love, either. It’s stronger, a little painful, all-consuming.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts when Dean's gaze softens, and his face twists into something a little darker and almost shyer. “You—seriously don’t mind this? The cowboy get-up, the annoying obsession, how—dumb it all is?”

Your hands find their way back to his jaw—it’s really chiseled, okay? You can’t help yourself—and you look deep into his green eyes, the golden flecks in them always leaving you breathless.

“I think that even if I’m not a Wild West fanatic like you are, I know how much you like it, and how much this means to you.” You stand on your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And I think happiness looks great on you, darling.”

Dean closes his eyes like he’s just been shot, and then he leans forward until his forehead is pressed against yours, the cowboy hat bumping against the top of your head. “How do you always know what to say?”

“Because I love you,” you press a slow, gentle kiss to his lips, loving the way Dean just slumps right into you. “And I see you. Every part of you.”

He laughs, but it’s a little bitter. “Yeah? Even the uncool ones? The rotten and stupid and embarrassing ones? And you still—like me?”

You sigh, your heart breaking as Dean’s insecurity finally surfaces. It’s even more heartbreaking to hear it in his own words, even more crushing when it’s gotten bad enough that he finally decides to say it.

“Yes, baby. Every single bit of you.” You press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “And everything that makes you happy—I love it all. No matter how dorky or how silly you think it is. Anything that brings that little shine to your eyes and that beautiful little edge to your smile, I will do a million times, just for you. I want you to be happy, Dean. Because I adore you.”

And that’s it. That’s the thing curling inside of you—the warmth that wraps around your lungs and squeezes your heart, the relentless urge to stay there forever, staring up at Dean with dumbstruck, heart-shaped eyes like a lovesick puppy. Pure and unalterable adoration.

And it finally seems to sink into Dean. A genuine, boyish smile spreads across his face, and he pulls you into a deep, spellbinding kiss.

“Damn it, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your lips, and you can only pull him closer, hands sliding from his face to his hair, finally knocking the hat down to the floor. Neither of you care, because this has never been about the hat. Or the movies, or the arcade games, or the graphic shirts. Not really.

“I must be the luckiest man alive.”

That one makes you laugh, head thrown back and all, because both of you know he isn’t. The Winchester curse is famous by now—in both the natural and supernatural world.

But maybe that’s why you’re here.

Maybe, just like the Death card in the tarot deck that everyone’s so scared of when you turn it during a reading, the Winchester curse has been misinterpreted all this time. Maybe all Dean needed was someone who can read between the lines, who can see past the skeletons and the darkness and the ghosts—and can find the true value in what it holds.

“I love you, Dean Winchester. Dork-ness and darkness and all. Do you believe me now?”

“I do.” And by the way Dean pulls you toward the bed, and the way he holds onto you—like you’re precious, his guiding light in the foggy graveyard of his life, but no longer like he’s afraid you’ll leave—you know he’s telling the truth.

Dean Winchester finally knows you love him—you adore him—and you know he adores you just as much.

Even if he’s a fucking nerd.

NOTES: I wasn't really planning to do a part 2 of that fic but I just can't stop thinking about dean and how much John really fucked him up. he's such a fucking dork and the fact that he was forced to hide that part of himself really breaks my heart, so I had to fix it.

i did this mostly for myself because I needed to give this man a little love, but I hope you all can also enjoy it. thank you sm for all the love and I adore you all<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @mimiimmii @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[castielsonlyangel]

𐙚⋆.˚ your camera roll if you traveled with the winchesters..

[castielscaplan]

Too Much Salt (Dean x Ketch)

Summary: Dean and Ketch spend some time together cooking.

Warnings: fluff, established relationship

WC: 424

Pairing: Dean Wincehster x Arthur Ketch

Read on ao3!

A/N: prompt "The recipe said ‘a pinch’ of salt. Not a handful!" came from this prompt list

The bunker was eerily quiet for once—no werewolf attacks, no demon possessions, no ancient tomes threatening to explode if opened without the proper Latin incantation. Just peace. A little too much peace, in Dean Winchester's opinion.

Peace meant boredom. Boredom meant bad ideas.

Bad ideas like letting Arthur bloody Ketch cook dinner.

Dean leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his flannel-covered chest, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the Brit who had somehow convinced him they should "try a traditional roast" instead of ordering greasy burgers from that diner Sam hated.

"You sure you know what you’re doing?" Dean asked, watching Ketch dump ingredients into a mixing bowl like he was conducting an exorcism.

Ketch didn’t even look up. “Dean, I was trained to take down vampire covens using only a toothpick and a silver coin. I think I can manage Yorkshire pudding.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but have you ever survived Sam's face when you ruin dinner?”

Ketch gave a dismissive sniff and reached for the salt. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but it was too late.

A cascade of white crystals rained into the bowl like the end of a saltshaker's life.

Dean’s eyes bulged.

“The recipe said ‘a pinch’ of salt. Not a handful!”

Ketch froze, blinking once, then looked down at the offending bowl like it had betrayed him. “It was a measured—”

“You poured it, man! Like you were salting a demon circle!”

“Seasoning is subjective,” Ketch said defensively, putting the salt down as if that made it less of a crime.

Dean stalked over, snatching the bowl and glaring into it. “This looks like the goddamn Dead Sea. You try to feed this to Sam, he’ll exorcise you on reflex.”

“Perhaps we should start over—”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “We? Oh, no. You’re on cleanup. I’m saving dinner before Sam walks in here and starts quoting sodium chloride studies.”

Ketch huffed, but surprisingly, he moved to the sink without further protest. Dean started cracking eggs with a practiced hand, muttering under his breath about British arrogance and culinary disasters.

“So,” Ketch said after a beat, leaning against the counter next to Dean, “this means we’re officially cohabitating, then? Domestic partnership and all?”

Dean paused mid-whisk, giving him a look.

“We’re not cohabitating.”

“Well, I sleep here. You sleep here. Occasionally… we sleep together.” He smirked. “I’d say that qualifies.”

Dean tried not to smirk. Failed.

“Clean the damn bowl, Ketch.”

“As you wish, darling.”

Dean groaned. “I swear to God, I’m salting you next.”

[deansbeer]

ִ ⋆ ⸜ 🪚𓂃 𓈒ㅤ՞ 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐘 .. !!

eighteen plus …♥︎ minors do not interact.

[ dean winchester && fem!reader ]

synopsis! where you accidentally give dean a hard on during a hunt.

caution! sexual tension + sex innuendos, strong language, implied smut.

notes! he’s been running on my mind all day and i needed to let my thoughts run wild.

up next.. satiated desire !

the hunt had taken an unexpected turn, leaving you and dean pressed up against each other, your back flush against his chest. you shifted slightly, trying to get a better vantage point, when you felt dean’s grip tighten on your hips, holding you in place.

“dean—” you began to ask, but the words died on your lips as you felt something hard pressing against you from behind. your eyes widened in realization, heat creeping up your face.

“shit, sweetheart, i’m so sorry,” dean murmured, his voice strained. “i didn’t mean for that to happen.”

you whisper to dean in his ear, “we’ll deal with this after the hunt, okay?”

he nodded mutely, your heart racing, already imagining ways to help him with his... situation. a small smile plays on your lips as he replied, “you’re the best,” he murmurs, hearing the mix of relief and anticipation in his voice.

“of course, dean. i got you.”

dean let out a shaky breath, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

with that, the two of you turned your focus back to the hunt, both eagerly awaiting the chance to properly address the growing tension between you.

[stargazedwinchester]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ dean's first motorbike headcanons ๋࣭ ⭑

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

──★˙. He got it on a whim. A guy at a dingy bar put a bet on if he wins, the bike is his. He won. ──★˙. He loves to take you out on rides in the night time. He always has an excuse to use it, like he needs more snacks, or the sky is clear to take you stargazing. You never pass up on the offer. ──★˙. If you think he's in the garage too much with Baby--you've got it wrong. He's in there twice, if not three times as much now that he has his motorbike. ──★˙. He teaches you how to ride it. Since it's different to a car, his hands can touch you in places he can't normally with two hands on the wheel. ──★˙. Dean's reckless when he's riding alone. But with you? He's safe. Secured. Like a grandpa. ──★˙. Dean lets you decorate his helmet. Glittery stickers, foam stickers... you name it. His least favourite is 'World's Okayest Biker'. He refuses the truth. (It's not the truth, you just like to annoy him).

[spitefulsatanfics]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The Sweetest Things He Does ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’m not good with words, but I’m good with you.” — Dean Winchester

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Hunter!Y/N (She/Her) Rating: Teen+ (language, hunting violence) Warnings: Mild violence, fluff, implied slow-burn romance Word Count: Approx. 5,500 words (10 headcanons with medium-length drabbles)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

1. Headcanon:

Dean wakes before dawn just to make your coffee exactly how you like it, fighting his own exhaustion so you can start the day easier.

Drabble: The motel room was swallowed in shadows when you stirred, heavy-lidded and still tangled in blankets. Before you even opened your eyes, the air was thick with the rich, bitter scent of coffee. Dean sat cross-legged on the floor by the tiny kitchenette, rubbing sleep from his eyes but focused on that slow drip, careful to get the cream and sugar just right—because he’d watched you, memorized your habits in a way that surprised even him. When he slid the warm cup across the table, his voice was rough but steady: “Didn’t want you to have to deal with the crappy start.” It wasn’t just coffee—it was a quiet way to say, I’m here. I’m fighting the dark for you.

2. Headcanon:

On long drives, Dean hums your favorite song softly, almost without thinking, as if the melody itself is a lifeline between you.

Drabble: The Impala’s engine droned steady beneath the low hum of a familiar tune. You caught him, fingers tapping rhythmically on the wheel, lips barely moving, eyes locked on the endless ribbon of highway ahead. It was one of those old songs you’d confessed to liking when the world was a little less broken. Dean never claimed to be sentimental, but hearing him hum that tune—off-key, rough, perfectly imperfect—felt like the universe itself was pressing pause, reminding you both there was still softness beneath the scars. You smiled and reached over, sliding your hand to his, feeling that beat in your bones.

3. Headcanon:

When the cold night air gets to you, Dean silently slips his leather jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, his way of shielding you from the world.

Drabble: You hadn’t even said you were cold. Dean just knew. As you stepped out into the biting night, the wind tugging mercilessly at your sleeves, his jacket came off like armor sliding from a warrior. It wrapped around you in a warmth that smelled of leather, motor oil, and the kind of quiet reassurance you didn’t know you needed. “You’re like a damn popsicle out here,” he muttered, eyes flickering away to hide the softness that never made it into words. The weight of that jacket was heavy but comforting—like his promise to be your shield, no matter the fight.

4. Headcanon:

Dean keeps a secret stash of your favorite snacks tucked in the Impala — because even hunters need a little comfort on the road.

Drabble: You were halfway through a frustrating stakeout when hunger hit like a fist to the gut. Groaning, you muttered about breaking the no-junk-food pact you’d both sworn to. Dean just smirked, reached under the passenger seat, and pulled out a crinkled bag of your favorite chips. “Emergency fuel,” he said with a wink. You shook your head but couldn’t hide the grin spreading across your face. For Dean, it wasn’t just about snacks — it was about making sure you were okay, that you had something familiar in a world full of monsters and chaos.

5. Headcanon:

Dean sends you random, often ridiculous texts when he’s out solo — little check-ins that are more about staying connected than anything else.

Drabble: Your phone buzzed in the dead of night, a message blinking from Dean: “You alive?” You smiled, already knowing the answer but grateful for the thought. Another buzz—a meme, stupid and inside-jokey, the kind of thing only you two would get. You typed back quickly, feeling that warm tingle of home reach you through the screen. Dean wasn’t good at saying what he felt, but these little nudges? They were his way of weaving you into his days and nights, no matter how far apart you were.

6. Headcanon:

Dean patches up your wounds with surprising gentleness, focusing all his attention on making sure you’re okay.

Drabble: The sting of blood and dirt clinging to your skin made your vision blur, but Dean’s hands were steady as he peeled back your sleeve. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes focused but soft as he cleaned the cut with slow care, every movement measured like he was afraid to hurt you again. “Hold still,” he said softly, voice low and serious. You caught the subtle tremble in his hands—because no one else saw him like this, vulnerable beneath the tough exterior. It was a quiet declaration: You matter. You’re worth this kind of care.

7. Headcanon:

After tense hunts, Dean instinctively rubs the back of your neck to help ground you — a small gesture loaded with meaning.

Drabble: The adrenaline still pulsed beneath your skin, muscles tight as wire from the hunt’s chaos. Dean’s hand slid to the nape of your neck, thumb tracing slow circles as if he could erase the tension with just touch. You leaned into it, eyes closing, the noise of the world fading into nothing but the steady beat of his heartbeat beneath your palm. No words were needed. This silent touch said what Dean couldn’t voice aloud: I’m here. You’re safe. We’re in this together.

8. Headcanon:

Dean collects small, meaningful tokens from your hunts — a feather, a cracked shell, a scrap of cloth — tucked away in his wallet or jacket.

Drabble: You never noticed him picking them up, but suddenly, one day, you saw the tiny feather folded carefully inside his wallet. “Where’d you get this?” you asked, surprised. Dean shrugged, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Figured you might wanna keep it.” Those scraps weren’t just trinkets — they were pieces of your story, silent markers of every fight, every close call, every moment you survived together. Each one was a quiet promise: I carry you with me.

9. Headcanon:

Dean remembers the little things you mention in passing — the exact way you like your jacket folded, your preferred hunting boots, even how you take your whiskey.

Drabble: You barely noticed it at first—the neat fold of your jacket on the motel chair, the polish on your favorite boots when you woke up after a hunt. Even the way Dean poured your whiskey during rare, quiet nights—always with the perfect ice-to-liquor ratio, just how you liked it. It was subtle, a quiet homage to all the things that made you you. Dean’s love wasn’t loud. It was in these tiny, meticulous details that said, I see you. I know you. I’m paying attention.

10. Headcanon:

Dean saves the last bite of every meal for you, no matter how hungry he is, because he wants you to have something to hold onto.

Drabble: Every time you shared a meal—whether greasy diner food or a quick burger between hunts—Dean’s plate would look the same: half gone, with one last bite carefully left behind. “You want this?” he’d ask, voice gruff but hopeful. You always said no at first, but eventually, you took it, savoring the unexpected sweetness wrapped in his stubborn generosity. That last bite wasn’t just food—it was a symbol, a silent way Dean said, I want to share everything with you, even the little things.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Written by Little Devil ♥ — July 2025 ™

[dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy]

ANUTHUH ONE since you guys like the tiktok inspired ones (female user sorry if anyone wanted a male one i could do it its just it was a girl in the video and its kinda hard to make this one gn)

you and dean just got married an hour ago

y/n: no no we need to practice it

dean, wholeheartedly agreeing: of course- Right…uh… *in character* Excuse me, have you seen… my wife?

y/n: *also in character* umm, i was looking for my husband, has he been around here?

dean: yeah i gotta talk it over with the wife.

y/n: Oh yeah, my husband and i were just there last week!

dean: i have a pick up order, my wife sent it in…should be under… Y/n Winchester.

y/n: 😮

dean: 😮

y/n: …y/n winchester…

dean: you’re y/n winchester…

y/n: Mrs. Winchester…

dean: 😮

y/n: 😮

dean: holy fuck thats you

[jaredwnch]

(ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁) ─ NSFW ALPHABET  ── DEAN WINCHESTER ⋆˚꩜｡ .ᐟ

⋆˚✿˖° dean winchester x fem!reader .ᐟ

╰┈➤ summary ₊⊹ ─ From A to Z, explore Dean Winchester’s sinful side — from his filthy mouth and possessive streak to his tender aftercare and relentless stamina. Every kink, every touch, every moan — all laid bare. ᝰ.ᐟ

╰┈➤ warnings ₊⊹ ─ Explicit Sexual Content (18+) Language/Kink (Spanking, Dom/Sub, Dirty Talk, Light Choking) Praise Kink, Body Worship Car Sex, Wall Sex, Rough Sex Exhibitionism, Oral Fixation Mild Hair Pulling, Light Bondage Jealous/Possessive Behavior Reader is a Black Woman (mentions of skin, hair, body representation). ᝰ.ᐟ

╰┈➤ notes ₊⊹ ─ Hey, loves! This alphabet is as smutty as it gets, and I wanted to make sure it’s tailored for a Black reader — so expect some love for melanated skin, textured hair, and curvy bodies. Dean’s still our favorite cocky, dirty-talking hunter, but there’s a lot of tenderness too. Let me know what you think, and feel free to drop any specific kinks or scenarios you’d like to see next. ᝰ.ᐟ

╰┈➤ word count ₊⊹ ─ 1.7k ᝰ.ᐟ

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A - Aftercare: .ᐟ

Dean’s hands are still shaking from how hard he just fucked you, but he’s already pulling you close, brushing damp curls from your forehead. “You okay, baby?” he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along your temple. He slips one of his old, worn flannels over your shoulders, tucking you against his chest as he rubs soothing circles into your back. “You did so good for me.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ B - Body Worship: .ᐟ

Dean’s lips trace every curve, every stretch mark, every freckle. His tongue drags over your nipples, his hands squeezing your hips as he groans, “So goddamn beautiful,” his breath hot against your skin. He kneels between your thighs, mouth hovering over your dripping center. “Let me taste every inch of you.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ C - Cum: .ᐟ

Dean loves to finish inside you, his thick cock buried deep as he fills you up, groaning your name through gritted teeth. He watches the creamy mess drip from you, swiping it up with two fingers and pushing it back inside. “Look at that, baby,” he rasps. “All mine.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ D - Dirty Talk: .ᐟ

Dean’s filthy mouth never stops. “You like that, huh? My cock stretching you out, making you scream for me,” he growls, hand wrapped around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw. “Gonna fuck you so good you forget your own name.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ E - Exhibitionism: .ᐟ

He pulls you into the Impala, shoving your skirt up as he settles between your thighs. “Keep quiet, sweetheart,” he whispers, fingers slipping beneath your panties. “Or do you want everyone to hear how good I’m making you feel?” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ F - Favorite Position: .ᐟ

Dean loves it rough and personal — your legs wrapped around his waist, your back against the wall, his hips snapping against yours. He pins your wrists above your head, teeth grazing your neck as he growls, “You take me so damn well.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ G - Groaning: .ᐟ

Dean’s a loud lover. Each thrust pulls a deep, guttural moan from his throat, his voice gravelly and raw as he mutters, “Fuck, you’re so tight. Gonna make me come so hard.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ H - Hair Pulling: .ᐟ

His fingers tangle in your hair, yanking just enough to make your back arch and your lips part in a gasp. “You like that, don’t you?” he grins, eyes dark. “You love it when I pull your hair while I’m fucking you.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ I - Intensity: .ᐟ

Dean can go slow and sweet, his hips rolling against yours as he whispers how beautiful you are, how much he loves the feel of you wrapped around him. But when he’s desperate, he’s relentless — hard, deep strokes that make the bed shake and your nails dig into his back. ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ J - Jealousy: .ᐟ

When he’s feeling possessive, he drags you into the nearest room, lips crashing against yours as he hikes your leg over his hip. “Gotta remind you who you belong to,” he mutters, thrusting hard. “No one else gets to see you like this.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ K - Kinks: .ᐟ

Dean’s a dominant lover, but he worships you like a goddess. Praise kink, light choking, spanking — he’ll give it all to you, but only after making sure you’re okay with it. “You’re so perfect,” he groans, slapping your ass and watching it jiggle. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ L - Location: .ᐟ

The Impala. The hood. The backseat. The trunk. “Spread those legs for me, baby,” he orders, shoving your skirt up as he licks his lips. “Gonna fuck you right here where anyone could see.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ M - Moaning: .ᐟ

Dean’s moans are rough, deep, and desperate. When he’s close, his voice drops to a wrecked growl, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, baby — you feel so good. So tight. Gonna come so deep inside you.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ N - Nudes: .ᐟ

He’s not much for taking them himself, but if you send him a pic of you spread out on his bed, wearing nothing but his favorite flannel? He’ll burst through the door five minutes later, cock already hard, and toss you onto the mattress. “Couldn’t wait another second.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ O - Oral Fixation: .ᐟ

Dean’s mouth is a sinful thing. He’ll spend hours between your thighs, tongue flicking over your clit as he watches you squirm. “You taste so good,” he murmurs, sucking gently, fingers pumping inside you. “Could eat you all night.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ P - Pace: .ᐟ

When he’s desperate, it’s fast, rough, and needy — hips slamming into yours, his breath hot against your neck as he fucks you so hard you see stars. But when he wants to savor you, he takes his time, drawing out every moan, every whimper, every shuddering gasp. ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Q - Quickies: .ᐟ

Dean’s the king of quickies. He’ll yank you into a closet, hand clamped over your mouth as he thrusts into you, your panties still dangling from one ankle. “Shh,” he whispers, grinning as you bite back a scream. “Don’t want everyone to know how good I’m fucking you, do you?” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ R - Risk: .ᐟ

Dean loves a bit of danger — pressing you up against the wall in the back of a bar, his hand sliding under your skirt as he bites down on your neck. “You gonna keep quiet for me, or do I need to gag you?” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ S - Stamina: .ᐟ

Dean can go for hours, dragging you through orgasm after orgasm until you’re a quivering, sobbing mess beneath him. “One more, baby,” he groans, fingers circling your clit. “Give me one more.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ T - Teasing: .ᐟ

Dean loves to tease. He’ll brush his thumb over your clit, smirk when you squirm, and pull his hand away just when you’re about to beg. “Oh, you want it?” he coos, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “Better ask nicely.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ U - Unrestrained: .ᐟ

When Dean finally lets go, he’s an animal — pinning your hips to the mattress, pounding into you so hard the bed slams against the wall. “Take it,” he grunts, sweat dripping down his face. “Take every fucking inch.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ V - Voyeurism: .ᐟ

Dean loves to watch himself buried inside you — loves the sight of his cock sliding in and out of your slick heat, the way your body arches beneath him, the filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Taking me so good.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ W - Words: .ᐟ

Dean’s a dirty talker to his core. “You like being my little slut, don’t you?” he growls, fingers gripping your jaw. “Love when I fuck you like this — hard, deep, rough.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ X - X-Ray: .ᐟ

Dean’s cock is 8 inches thick, veiny, and he knows how to use it. He loves the way you stretch around him, how your walls squeeze tight, the way you gasp when he hits that spot that makes you scream. ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Y - Yearning: .ᐟ

When Dean’s been on a long hunt, he’s starving for you. The second he walks through the door, he’s tossing you over his shoulder, slamming you onto the bed, and burying himself inside you, groaning, “Missed this tight little pussy so much.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Z - Zzz: .ᐟ

After he’s completely spent, Dean pulls you against his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles along your skin. “You okay, baby?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Need anything? ‘Cause I sure as hell need you.” ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆Thank you for reading𓂃 !

If this made your heart soft or your soul ache (in the best way), let me know in the tags or send an ask. Your feedback means the world—and yes, Dean knows he’s pretty. You don’t have to tell him again… but you totally can.

˖ ⸝⸝ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! 𖦁ׅ ࣪ ׂ library

making a taglist soon ♡ .ᐟ

[supernaturalfreewill]

"If getting my shit absolutely rocked by a monster is what it takes to get you in my bed, it was definitely worth it," Dean murmured, his bleary green eyes fixed on your face. You lifted the cloth you were using to dab at the wound near his hairline.

"I'm not sure sitting on the edge of the bed counts," you said with a small smile.

"Hey—I'll fucking take what I can get," he said softly, his eyes closing.

You drank in the sight of him and sighed. "You really scared us. That was stupid," you scolded him, but there was no bite in your voice.

His eyes opened again and searched your face, took in the soft pout on your lips. "You have no idea how stupid I can be," he quipped.

You couldn't help a low laugh. "Yeah, I do. And I'm still here. So, shut up and rest."

"You're staying here tonight?" he asked hopefully.

You nodded. "Yeah. Sam made up the couch for me."

"The couch? That's so far," he objected. "Why sleep on the couch when I have a perfectly available and delightfully comfortable spot right here next to me?"

You smiled and relented. "Fine. But keep your hands to yourself, and don't hog the blankets," you said.

"I'll do my best. But I'm not responsible for what happens when I'm concussed and/or asleep..."

Prompt: "You have no idea how stupid I can be." / "Yeah, I do. And I'm still here."

[meiplays]

Sight for Sore Eyes

Dean Winchester x Reader | SFW spicy fluff | Hellhound Glasses Era

“Dean. What are those?” you ask, jaw practically on the floor as he strolls into the motel room, casually pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

“The hellhound glasses,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

But it is a big deal.

Because holy hell—he looks stupid hot. Leather jacket, cocky strut, and those tinted glasses perched on his face like sin itself.

You’re on him before he can close the door.

“Whoa, sweetheart—” he chuckles as you climb into his lap, straddling him on the squeaky old chair by the window, “What’s gotten into you?”

You don’t even answer. Your hands are in his hair, mouth crashing to his like you’ve been dying of thirst and he’s the last glass of whiskey on Earth.

His hands instinctively grip your waist, steadying you as you grind against him. “All this for the glasses?” he smirks into the kiss.

You tug them down just a bit to peek into his eyes. “You have no idea what these do to me,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, slow and hot.

Dean leans back, letting you have your way. “Remind me to wear 'em more often.”

You smile wickedly. “You’re never taking them off.”

[sacr1ficialang3l]

older!dean headcanons˚୨୧⋆｡

OLDER!DEAN WINCHESTER X YOUNGER!READER (read here)

WARNINGS: mentions of/implied smut (MDNI). age gap.

NOTES: He is back! My psych final is tomorrow and i am going insane, so this is shorter than usual. You have all been so sweet and supportive, and I just wanted to give you a little something as a thank you while I study. I love you all, thanks for the kind words. As always, English is not my first language. Enjoy<3

˚୨୧⋆｡ After months of resisting you and denying his feelings, he is the sweetest man ever when you two get together. He adores you, and he makes sure to show you. He spoils you rotten, lets you get away with almost anything, and he always needs to have a hand on you.

˚୨୧⋆｡ He is protective!!! Like, very protective. He always keeps an eye on you during hunts, and makes sure to kill any evil motherfucker before they can even think of putting their hands on you. And when you do get hurt, you think it pains him more than it does you. He patches you up with gentle touches he didn’t think his blood-stained hands were capable of. He looks at you with sad, deep eyes as he kisses over the wound, and then he doesn’t even let you get up from bed, even if the injury is as tiny as a paper cut. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ After every case, he loves, or more like needs to cradle you against his chest and hold you close. He wraps his huge arms around you and presses you to his side, or on top of him, and he just buries his face on your hair and breathes in. He tells you it is to calm you down after hunts, to make you feel safe. But you think it is more about him. Like he needs to remind himself that you’re okay. That you’re there next to him, and that you’re not going anywhere. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ You love to annoy him, it is your favorite hobby. Play with his hair while he and Sam research in the library, brushing it right in front of his eyes while he tries to read. You love to sit in a barstool in the garage while he works on Baby and talk his ear off when he has no way to escape (not that he would). You force him to watch rom-coms and chick-flicks that he pretends to hate, but you catch him smiling to himself a few times. You poke him, and bite him, and jump on him all the time, and he wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

˚୨୧⋆｡ You have a habit of sinking your teeth into his biceps any chance you get. There are always teeth marks on his flesh that he wears with pride. (There are always hickies on your thighs and collarbones to match, of course.)

˚୨୧⋆｡ He claims not to be the jealous type. “I'm too old for things like that, sweetheart.” But you knew he was. He didn’t mind when people stared at you when you walked into a bar or around a small town, always that his arm was around your shoulders or your hand was on his. He is proud that such a pretty girl chose him. But the moment some frat boy tries to approach you at a bar when you are alone, he feels his blood boil. He watches from far away for a few seconds, trying to keep his cool, but he loses it when the guy decides to brush your hair behind your ear. He quickly walks across the bar until he is right behind you, pulling you against his chest and glaring at the dude over the top of your head. The boy is gone in less than a second.

˚୨୧⋆｡ You try to show your love for him in every way you can. Dean was confident and strong, but it sometimes felt like he doubted your feelings for him, like his brain was trying to convince him that you deserved better and that you would get tired of being with some old guy eventually. So, you shower him in love. You learn how to bake pies just for him, making him a new one every week. You wash his hair in the shower, massaging his scalp to help him relax. You get him naked in bed and go on a journey of kissing every scar you can find. You press your lips over the small ones, run your tongue over the long and raised ones. And of course you make sure to tell him how much you love him. You murmur soft i love you’s against his lips. You remind him every day of how beautiful he is, how good he is. You whisper in his ear about how hot he is, how he makes you lose your mind and how no one could ever compare to him.

˚୨୧⋆｡ Dean liked being rough with you in bed. He loved manhandling you, leaving purple fingertips marks on your hips, pulling your hair. He was careful at first, too scared to hurt you. But you wanted him to, you begged him to make it hurt. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ Because you loved it when it hurt a little. When he sank his teeth into the flesh of your thighs, when your knees ended up bruised from kneeling on the floor for too long, when you could still feel him days after. You love the marks that he leaves, a living reminder of his touch on your body. It made you feel complete, it made you feel his.

˚୨୧⋆｡ Dean tried to go slow with you at first, thinking that you might be too inexperienced for everything he wanted to do to you. But he didn’t know that you were just as much or even freakier than him. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ Your favorite thing to do was, when Dean and you were alone in the Impala for a long drive, to rest your head in his lap. You lay across the front seat casually, looking up at him with innocent eyes when he sends you a warning look. You start by “accidentally” rubbing your cheek against his crotch, loving the way the scratchy fabric of his jeans felt against your skin. You would tease him until he was hard and his breath was ragged, and then you would take him in your mouth. You order him to keep driving as you suck him off slowly. You drag it out, edge him until he is desperate and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. And when he finally comes, you swallow it all like a good girl, moaning in satisfaction, enjoying the way his cum coats your tongue. It makes him groan every time, nostrils flared with the need to fuck you. Sometimes you keep going, keep suckling on him until he is whining in oversensitivity and has to pull you away by your hair.

˚୨୧⋆｡ In return, Dean gives you pleasure every time he can. He can eat your pussy for hours on end, in the kitchen counter, or the Impala, or in a lonely classroom when you have to infiltrate a school for a case. He will fuck you on his bed, or the floor, or against the wall. He just loves to make his girl feel good, see you shaking with pleasure, begging him to stop and to keep going at the same time. He loves when you tell him that he’s the best you have ever had, and the best you will have. He loves when you scream his name and your thighs close around his head because of the overwhelming sensations. He loves to make you cry with pleasure. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ But after, he is the sweetest guy ever. He takes aftercare very seriously, murmuring reassuring words against your skin and softly kissing every bruise and bite mark. He reminds you of how much he loves you, of how much you matter to him. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you, baby. You keep me sane.”

“You’re such a good girl, my beautiful princess.”

“I will take care of you forever. Nothing will ever hurt you while I'm here.”

“I love you.”

NOTES: wish me luck on my final! I will be back after I'm finally free.

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[imyourbratzdoll]

ello there, how are u doin? i hope ure doing great!! i just saw that your requests are open so maybe would you be up writing for dark!dean winchester x reader since its kindaa hard find a good dark fic about him, maybe like the reader is too innocent or naive and dean couldn't help but to take advantage of her or anythings fine really! i hope u have a great day thats all thank youu!

hi baby, I’m doing okay, how are you doing? I hope you have a great day too💗

summary - dean finally snaps and takes what he wants.

warning - smut, dark content, swearing, corruption, creampie, voyuerism?

18+ only please, the gif I use isn’t mine, divider by @newlips.

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were Sam’s friend from college and recently the two of you had started talking again. You had invited the two of them over to yours to enjoy the hot summer day by the pool. What Sam hadn’t told him was that you were quite… Naive, almost innocent. When you opened the front door wearing the tiniest little dress that barely covered anything, Dean instantly hardened, his jaw clenched as he held himself back.

But it was almost like you were teasing him. When they both stepped foot inside your house and followed you into the kitchen, Dean watched as your arse bounced when you walked, the way your hips swayed so naturally made him grind his teeth together. He wondered if you were doing this on purpose or if you really were clueless about how slutty you looked. 

It wasn’t until you all headed outside towards the pool that Dean nearly snapped completely. His grip tightened around the beer bottle as he watched you strip from your dress, leaving you in the tiniest bikini known to man. His gaze moved over to his brother, noticing he wasn’t even fazed with your lack of clothes. Dean almost felt jealous. 

A few hours passed with Dean struggling with the dark thoughts in his mind, he spent his time near you in the pool, watching the drops of water roll down your body. He lets out a grunt as he tips his head back, beer bottle to his lips only to find that he’s finished it. 

“Is everything okay?” Your soft voice fills the air, hand coming to rest on his lower back as you look up at him. Dean’s jaw clenches, feeling his cock harden even more. Sam sits on one of the lounge chairs, head too busy in a book to even notice the struggle that his older brother is going through.

“Just out of beer.” His voice comes out rough, grip still tight on the bottle as he peers down at you. 

“Oh.” You blink up at him, licking your lips. “I’ll go and get you another one!” You smile softly before pushing yourself up onto the edge, giving Dean the perfect view of your arse. His hand jerks, itching to slap it. Your hips sway, arse jiggling as you head back into the house, leaving the hunter watching you with a dark look as he studies everything about you. His tongue flicks out as he watches water roll down your body, wanting to catch the drops of water with his tongue.

You riffle around in the fridge, pouting when you find that you’re out of beer. You walk out with the pout still on your lips, looking at Dean. “I’m sorry. It appears I’m out of beer… I swear I had a whole bunch.” You scratch your head, confused.

Dean grunts, gaze locked onto how your breasts bounce with each word. “It’s fine. Sammy will go and get some more.” 

Sam’s brows furrow, looking up from the book. “I will?” Dean stares at him, raising a brow. “Right, okay. I will.” He stands, stretching.

“I’ll give you some money!” You’re about to turn around when Dean’s voice stops you.

“It’s fine, sweetheart. We’ll pay.” Your mouth opens about to say something but you close it when Dean gives you a look. 

Before Sam leaves, he gives Dean a look that basically says not to try anything with you. 

“Come here, sweetheart.” Dean beckons you over when he hears Sam leave. You obediently listen, walking over to him. “Sit.” He gestures to the edge of the pool, licking his lips again.

You sit, mouth agape as you listen to him. You slide your legs into the water as you sit down, kicking them around softly. A small squeal escapes you when Dean grabs your thighs and pulls you closer. His hands grip you tight as he leans in. 

“Do you know how much of a fucking tease you are, sweetheart?” You squirm slightly, feeling a throbbing between your legs. You don’t respond, you don’t know how to. Were you being a tease? Dean’s hands move to your arse, grabbing handfuls and squeezing with a groan. “Oh fuck. Have you ever been touched, sweetheart? Hmm? Have someone rub your cute little pussy?” 

Your mouth falls open as a whine slips out. You barely have time to respond before Dean’s hand is already between your legs, rubbing his fingers against your clothed pussy. Little sounds fall from your lips as your hips slowly rock against his fingers. A squeal escapes you when Dean suddenly pulls you back into the pool and spins you around. He pins you against the edge, pressing his bulge against your arse. 

“Are you going to be a good girl and let me fuck you, sweetheart? I promise I’ll be gentle.” He groans, rocking his bulge into your arse. You push back against him, accidentally rubbing against his hardened cock. “Fuck.” Dean grunts, sliding his hands down, he quickly pulls out his cock and pulls your tiny bikini bottoms aside. 

Dean groans when he thrusts inside of you, his eyes rolling back with how well you squeeze his cock. “Holy fuck. You’re so tight.” He buries his face into your neck, hands gripping your hips as he begins to thrust in and out of you. You whine and moan, your head falling back. You’ve never felt pleasure this intense before. 

You gasp when Dean lifts your leg, letting him fuck you at a better angle. His thrusts pick up, pounding into you. The sounds slipping from your mouth are so loud that your neighbours can probably hear you. 

Dean grips onto you harder, pushing you into the edge of the pool as he fucks you harder. Grunts and groans falling from his lips, he leans closer and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Feel so fucking good, sweetheart.” 

“Dean! Seriously?!” Sam yells from the backdoor, his eyes wide and beers nearly falling from his grip.

You moan, dazedly looking at your friend while his brother continues to split you open. You don’t even think you’re in your own body anymore with how much pleasure is coursing through you.

“What, Sammy? I’m just getting to know your friend.” He doesn’t stop fucking into you, only going faster and harder. His hand slides down and begins to rub your clit causing you to jerk and whine, your eyes rolling back and body falling limp in his hold.

Sam scoffs, turning around, he storms back into your house. 

Dean chuckles, grunting into your ear. “I think he’s a little mad, sweetheart.” You whine, your pussy clenching around him. “Are you going to cum for me?” He thrusts deeper, hitting your g-spot with perfect strokes. “Go on, cum for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

As he pinches your clit and thrusts deeper, you moan loudly, feeling your body tense up. You suddenly cum, squeezing Dean’s cock. 

Dean moans, the sound causing you to clench around him again. He continues pounding into you until he grunts, burying deep inside and cumming hard, pumping you full of his thick cum. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re in for a long fucking night,” He grabs your chin and turns your head to face him. “I’m going to fuck and fill you so much that you will be dripping of my cum for a month.”

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[hanaridulsetcheese]

dancing with dean

You walk out into the main room of the bunker after taking a steaming hot shower, hair was slightly damp and you were in a tank top and shorts, the usual get up.

You were on your way to the kitchen to get something to drink when you pass Dean in the main room.

"Hey, you're up late. " Dean follows you and sits at the kitchen table as you opened up the fridge to get water.

"Just took an everything shower, I need some hydration. "

Dean watches, his eyes roaming over your body in your tank top and shorts. He can't help but let his gaze linger on your curves before quickly looking away, clearing his throat as he tries to maintain a casual demeanor.

"Water, huh? Not exactly the typical drink around here. " he teased lightly, his lips curving into a small smirk. You chuckle at take a seat opposite him.

"So an 'everything shower'? Sounds like you scrubbed yourself from head to toe," he teased, his eyes still lingering on you for a moment before he looked away.

"That's basically what it is. I'm as fresh as a daisy now. " you nod.

"Fresh as a daisy, huh?" he repeated, a small smile playing on his lips. "But what exactly makes that different from a regular shower. "

"You don't know what an everything shower is? " you fake offence. "It's something every girl does at least once every two weeks. Extensive hair care, body washes, personally this is the time I get to use my expensive washes, a little luxury I get to have after all the hunting. "

He raised an eyebrow, a look of mock surprise on his face. "Sounds like a pain in the ass if you ask me. " he teased, taking a swig of his beer. "Seems like a hell of a lot of work just to get clean," he continued, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "But hey, I get it. You girls need your little luxuries.

"I'm so clean, I smell like a cupcake, smell. " you lean across the table to let Dean smell you.

He lets out a hearty laugh, his green eyes glinting in the dim light from the moon. The scent of your freshly washed skin filling his lungs as you leaned across the table. His eyes met yours, lingering for a moment, "You really do smell good," he admitted, a genuine smile on his face. "Like a damn cupcake."

"Vanilla body wash and perfume. " you give him a proud nod. He laughs at your antics and opens up your water bottle without having to ask. It's a common thing amongst you two for him to do things like this unconsciously.

It was instinct for him, opening the bottle for you. He didn't even realize he did it half the time, it had become so second nature. But he liked doing it, making things just a little bit easier for you.

"I like it," he replied with a smile, watching as you take a sip of water.

"So, aside from smelling like a damn cupcake, what else does this 'everything shower' involve?" he teased, taking a swig of his beer.

"Depends on the person to be honest. It's just a way to relax and wash away the bad stuff from the week or whatever. It's therapeutic. "

He nods in understanding, a thoughtful look on his face. "Sounds like something Sammy would do, not me," he commented with a small chuckle but secretly he thought it sounded kind of nice. Being able to wash away the stress and tension of hunting sounded heavenly. But he'd never admit that, of course.

"Maybe I should give it a try sometime," he teased. "But don't expect me to smell like a cupcake afterwards. I've got my own unique scent. "

"Oh definitely. You would smell more like a pie. "

He chuckled at your response, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'd smell damn delicious. "

You chuckled and rolled your eyes at his teasing before you both fall into a comfortable silence. The hum of the refrigerator make you slowly hum along. Before you knew it you were humming 'Can't help falling in love' by Elvis Presley and Dean immediately a recognises it.

His heart skipped a beat as he looked up, his gaze immediately locking onto yours. He tried to keep his cool, but he couldn't help the way his heart thundered in his chest. "Elvis, huh?" he said casually, trying to keep his voice steady. "You know I love this song."

"I didn't even realise I was humming it. " you say shyly before getting an idea. "Stand up. "

His eyebrows raised in surprise at your sudden command. "Stand up? " he asked with a hint of amusement, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips but he obediently stood up, curious to see what you had in mind.

Taking the beer from his hand and setting it on the table you grab both his hands in yours. "We're going to dance. " you say, grinning up at him. You place one of his hands on your waist and intertwine your other hands.

"Dance? Me?" he teased, his voice filled with disbelief but as your slender fingers intertwined with his own, and he felt the warmth of your waist beneath his palm he agreed. "You know I can't dance," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "I'll probably step on your feet."

"Then you'll just have to trust that I'm a enough good dancer for the both of us or that I'm way worse than you. " you giggle taking a step back and Dean follows.

The movements were slow at first so they both of you get the hang of it. Dean lets out a quiet chuckle but concentrates on not stepping on your feat. Soon you get comfortable and dance around the kitchen slowly to non-existant music.

Dean followed your lead, his movements still a little clumsy at first but slowly, as you swayed together, his steps became more confident.

He could feel your body moving in sync with his, the warmth of your skin sending a thrill through him. He tried to keep his focus on not stepping on your feet, but the feel of you in his arms made it difficult to concentrate.

"You're a good enough dancer for the both of us, it seems," he murmured, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

"I supposed so. " you allow your head to rest on his shoulder, Dean places a gentle kiss atop your head before resting his own head on yours.

He held you tighter as you continued to sway together. It almost felt natural, dancing with you like this. A sense of peace washed over him, something he hadn't felt in a long while.

"Wise men say, only fools rush in... " you begin to sing and Dean follows along in his own unique and husky voice.

"But I can't help falling in love with you," he continued, his tone low and gravelly.

He pulled you even closer, his calloused hands now gently tracing small circles on your lower back. The sound of your voices intertwined in song filled the air, the lyrics echoing around the quiet kitchen.

That night, you and Dean spent dancing around the kitchen. The chaos of the world silenced for a moment leaving just the two of you alone. The moonlight streamed in like a spotlight for you, the refrigerator hummed giving you music. Your voice and his became one just as your hearts had done.

Every now and then, he would place a soft kiss on the top of your head, as if to remind himself that this moment was real.

[deansbeer]

ִ ⋆ ⸜ 🪚𓂃 𓈒ㅤ՞ 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 .. !!

eighteen plus …♥︎ minors do not interact.

[ dean winchester && fem!reader ]

synopsis! demon!dean decides to keep your soaked lace panties, because it drives his heightened senses wild for you. and the guy is not one bit shameful about it.

caution! smut + oral sex [f!receiving], possessiveness, overstimulation, power dynamics, dom!dean, praising, lace panties kink, strong explicit language, bit of manhandling.

notes! god, he’s such a freak and i love it saurrr bad. i thought of this idea with @titsout4nicholas & @jasvtsc earlier in the day because i fear demon!dean’s corrupted my mind for good.

sex with dean has always been intense, but now that he’s a demon, it's on a whole other level—like everything about him, his hunger for you has amplified tenfold. every time he touches you, it’s like he’s trying to ruin you, to mark you in a way that will never fully fade. and when it’s over, he’s always got that cocky, unbothered smirk that drives you insane. and tonight’s no different.

you’re sprawled out on the bed, still catching your breath, your body a trembling mess from what he just put you through. he’s leaning against the wall now, shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips. his hair is a mess, his lips still swollen from kissing every inch of you, and yet he looks like the devil himself—because, well, technically he is.

you roll onto your side, groaning softly as you reach out for your panties, the pretty black lace pair you’d been wearing before he tore them off of you like they’d offended him.

except… they’re not there.

“dean,” you say, your voice sharp despite how wrecked you feel. “where the fuck are my panties?”

he raises an eyebrow, looking at you like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “what panties?”

“don’t play dumb, winchester,” you huff, sitting up on the bed and glaring at him. “the black lace ones. the ones you just ripped off me.”

a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and your stomach sinks. “oh, those,” he says, pushing off the wall and heading for the door. “yeah, those are mine now.”

your jaw drops. “what the fuck do you mean ‘yours’?”

he shrugs, completely unfazed. “means ‘m keepin’ ‘em. they’re soaked, sweetheart. absolutely drenched. you think i’m just gonna let you throw those in the laundry like they’re not a fuckin’ work of art?”

you grab a pillow and chuck it at him, but he dodges it easily, laughing as he disappears out the door. “un-fucking-believable,” you mutter, shaking your head. luckily, you’re home—so you grab another clean pair of panties from your dresser and slip them on, grumbling to yourself about how ridiculous he is.

you think that’s the end of it. you really do. but then, over the next few days, you start to notice something… weird. for one, the black lace panties are nowhere to be found in your dirty laundry, even though you were sure he’d just been messing with you. and two, dean’s been acting a little… off. not in a bad way! but in a way that makes your face flush whenever he looks at you. like he knows something you don’t.

it’s not until one night that you catch him red-handed. you’re heading down the hallway, on your way to grab some water, when you spot him leaning against the wall, his back to you. at first, you don’t think much of it—until you see what he’s holding in his hand.

your fucking panties.

you stop dead in your tracks, your mouth falling open as you watch him lift them to his nose and take a deep, slow inhale, his eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring the scent.

“are you kidding me?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

he doesn’t even flinch. instead, he turns to you, completely unabashedly, holding the panties up like a trophy. “nah,” he says, smirking. “not kiddin’.”

“dean,” you groan, your voice low but stern as you stalk toward him. “you’ve kept those this whole time? what is wrong with you?”

“what’s wrong with me?” he repeats, his grin widening as he tucks the panties into his back pocket like they belong there. “what’s wrong with you? you’re the one who smells like that.”

you gape at him, heat flushing down the back of your neck. “i don’t even—what does that even mean?”

he steps closer, crowding into your space, and you can feel the heat rolling off him, thick and heavy. “it means, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, “that every time i get a whiff of these”—he pats his pocket—“i wanna fuck you all over again. so, yeah, i kept ‘em. you got a problem with that?”

you’re rendered speechless, torn between being upset and… turned on. because of course you’re turned on. he’s dean winchester, and he’s looking at you like he’s seconds away from devouring you.

“you’re fucking insane,” you manage, shaking your head.

“yeah?” he drawls, his hand curling around your waist. “well, you’re about to be.”

before you can respond, he’s grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. you yelp, your palms against his back to steady yourself, but he doesn’t even slow down, carrying you straight to the bedroom.

“put me down!” you protest, but he just chuckles, slapping your ass hard enough to make you gasp.

“not a chance, baby,” he says, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll.

you barely have time to sit up before he’s on you, yanking at your jeans with a single-minded determination that has your heart racing. “dean—”

“shut up,” he growls, his voice dark and commanding as he strips you down, practically ripping your panties off in the process. “you’ve been walkin’ around all day with this fuckin’ scent, drivin’ me crazy. you think ‘m just gonna let that shit slide?”

before you can answer, his mouth is on you, his tongue dragging through your folds like he’s starved. he grips your thighs, holding you open as he devours you, his light stubble scratching against your sensitive skin.

“holy fuck,” he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you, his lips glistening. “you taste good, doll. could do this for hours.”

your head falls back against the bed, a moan slipping from your lips as he plunges back in, licking and sucking like he’s on a mission. his grip tightens when you try to squirm away, his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you in place.

“—mmm, fuck, shit—” you whimper, your hands tugging at his hair.

“you can do it,” he growls against you, the vibrations making you shudder. “and you fuckin’ will.”

he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, and soon you’re trembling beneath him, the pressure building low in your belly until it snaps, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave.

he still doesn’t pull away, even as you try to push at his shoulders, too sensitive to handle the way his tongue keeps teasing your clit. “oh, fuck! dean—s’too much—”

“nah, it ain’t,” he mutters, his voice muffled against you. “not done yet.”

and he means it. by the time he’s finished with you, you’re a damn wreck—sweaty, breathless, and completely at his mercy. he finally pulls back, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“told you,” he says, leaning down to kiss you, slow and filthy. “you’re fuckin’ addictive, sweetheart.”

you’re too exhausted to respond, but the look in his eyes tells you this isn’t the last time he’s pulling a stunt like this. and honestly? you don’t really mind.

[stargazedwinchester]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ head over heels!dean headcanons ๋࣭ ⭑

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

──★˙. Dean loves to come up with the weirdest, stupidest pet names for you. It's like it's a game for him.

──★˙. Once, he took off his jacket in slow motion just to see your reaction. You rated him a 6.5/10 and he had tears welling in his eyes.

──★˙. You always catch him staring at you during hunts. Dean always says he's "just admirin' the view."

──★˙. He almost crashed the Impala once because you winked at him. He says it's your fault for looking so damn hot.

──★˙. Dean always finds a way to brag about you to anyone. He'll change the topic just to talk about you. "My girl can gank a wendigo with one hand and still look hot doin' it."

──★˙. Dean gets really flustered when you flirt back. He always mumbles something about needing holy water and a cold shower.