thememoryofadream

[thememoryofadream]

Passion Play - Whiskey

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC

Summary: Dean meets a fellow hunter on a case and serious sparks fly. Sometimes, want and desire need an outlet....

Word Count: 1248

Tags/Warnings: Rated R for mature audiences only! Gotta have it right now, bar bathroom smut. 🔥

Passion Play Masterlist

Whiskey

Dean and Sophia sit at table near the back of the bar. Each has a glass of whiskey in front of them. It's been a long day and a difficult hunt and both are looking to relax.

Sophia leans back in the chair with a sigh, stretching her legs out in front of her. The denim skirt she's wearing rides up a little to reveal her tanned legs. Her eyes drift over the man seated next to her as she takes another swallow of her drink.

He's wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans. The t-shirt is snug across his shoulders and around his biceps. She watches his arm flex as he raises his glass for another shot. His lips curve around the edge of the glass and the unconscious sensuality of it hits her like a rock through a plate glass window.

The heat pooling in her stomach and lower can no longer be blamed solely on the whiskey she's been drinking.

The exhaustion she's been feeling completely drains away, replaced instead by a lust of equal intensity. She reaches over to slide her hand along his well-muscled thigh.

He looks down at her, one eyebrow raised. When he catches the look in her eye, something flares inside him in answer. He takes her hand and brings it to his mouth, eyes not leaving hers. His lips graze over her palm, down to the inside of her wrist. He feels her shiver when his tongue darts out to trace the skin there and he grins wickedly.

Under the table, she shifts to slide her foot up and down the inside of his calf. She flips her hand in his, then drags it down to her leg. Never breaking eye contact, she sets his palm on the inside of her thigh, rubbing it back and forth against her bare skin.

His eyes darken. Continuing the sensual game, he draws her hand back to his lips. This time, his mouth closes around her index finger and he sucks at it lightly. He sees her breathing quicken. He rakes his teeth over the soft pad of her finger, then follows it with a soothing sweep of his tongue.

Watching him suck her finger is nearly as hot as feeling it. And the look in his eyes. It makes her knees weak and her bones dissolve. When he pops her finger out of his mouth, she nearly melts off the chair.

He leans toward her, mouth hovering over her ear. "Let's get out of here," he murmurs huskily.

Her toes curl at the sound of his voice and the heat that's been building in her boils over. She stands and tugs him up with her. Snaking her hand around his neck, she pulls his head down to hers. "That's gonna take too long," she whispers.

Ignoring the puzzled look on his face, she takes his hand and starts toward the other side of the bar. Halfway across the room, she feels him hesitate when he realizes her destination.

Reaching the bathrooms, she takes a quick look around, swings open the ladies room door and drags him inside, closing and locking it behind them.

"What're you doing?" he hisses, looking around the room as if he expects someone to pop out and catch them.

In reply, she wraps herself around him, reaching up to take his lips in a heated and hungry kiss. She feels his resistance for just a moment before he groans and tangles his hands in her hair, holding her at just the right angle for his mouth to plunder hers.

She leans into him, desperate for more and the shift sends him stumbling back to the wall. She molds her body to his with a sigh, rubbing her leg up his.

One hand releases her hair to drop down to her lower back, then down over her bottom, pressing her closer still. He moans softly when she responds by grinding against him. Ripping his mouth from hers, he mumbles breathlessly, "God, woman, you make me crazy."

"Back atcha," she replies, dragging his mouth to hers as she slides her hands under the t-shirt that's been making her nuts for the last hour. His skin feels almost feverish beneath her cool palms. She purrs softly as her fingers trace over the taut muscles of his stomach, feeling them tighten.

He, in turn, fumbles with the buttons on her shirt. As he slips the small buttons free, he breaks from her mouth to dot feverish kisses down her neck. Finally getting the shirt open, he unhooks the front catch of her bra.

Wrapping a strong arm around her waist, he bends her back over it and nearly attacks her breast with his scorching mouth. His tongue laves her budded nipple as she whimpers and tangles her fingers in his hair.

Several moments are lost to the delicious torture of his talented tongue before she's finally had too much and pushes at his shoulders. Twisting a finger in his belt loop, she pulls him back toward the sink.

Having long since forgotten whatever objections he might have had to this little excursion, Dean reaches for her skirt when he realizes what she's got in mind. He hitches it up to her waist before reaching for her panties. "Jesus, babe, you're soaking wet," he rasps as his fingers find their way to her core.

"Holy…" she gasps as her now bare bottom backs up against the cool porcelain of the sink at the same time as his finger slips inside her.

She squirms away from his seeking fingers, panting with the effort. She reaches for the fastening of his jeans, freeing him in seconds. He hisses a curse when she strokes his length and she smiles. "Payback's a bitch, huh?"

He growls and slides his hands to her hips, lifting her onto the edge of the sink. His mouth claims hers as he thrusts into her strongly, his fingers digging into her bottom.

She gasps against his mouth and immediately wraps her legs around his waist. "Oh, yessssss…" she pants in between hot, wet kisses.

He rocks against her, burying his face in her neck as he struggles to maintain at least a shred of control. The sound of her moans and breathless whimpers in his ear don't help. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back the orgasm that seems to be building from his toes up.

She chants what may or may not have been his name as she holds on to him, riding out the waves of the pleasure threatening to consume her. Her voice pitches higher as she gets closer and closer.

"Come on, baby," he whispers, "come for me now." He shifts her just slightly, allowing him a little different angle. They both groan at the change and he feels her body begin to tighten around him.

"Ahhhhhh," she cries as she arches into him and shatters into a million pieces.

He closes his eyes and tries to hold back just another moment, although the feel of her body clenching around him is almost more than he can bear. Another thrust and he's flying off the edge right after, groaning into her neck.

They don't move for several minutes, breathing hard and holding each other. Their eyes meet at last and they grin.

"That was…" she begins.

Bam! Bam! Bam! "Hey," a slightly tipsy sounding woman's voice whines from outside, "what's taking so long in there?"

Feedback is love! ❤️

Tag List: @aylacavebear

[thememoryofadream]

I know I'm late to this party, but I just started watching The Sandman. It's quite good.

Also

Tom Sturridge is wildly attractive...

[thememoryofadream]

Feet of Clay - Ch. 16/?

Characters: Dean Winchester x OC, Sam Winchester

Summary: On a hunt for something the Winchesters can't identify, Dean meets a woman who steals their case... Will she also steal his heart?

Word Count: 1623

Tags/Warnings: Canon-level violence descriptions. Set post S4-ish but diverges from canon (Dean's been to Hell and back, but no angels).

Series Masterlist

Chapter 16 - Under Pressure

"So, how're you holding up?"

Sophia doesn't turn at Sam's voice, just shrugs slightly. She'd come out here to take a breath while they waited for Bobby to get through the initial translations of the pages from the book she'd found. Or that had found her… She's still not sure how that particular book fell off the shelf, but it definitely wasn't an accident.

Her train of thought is interrupted by Sam dropping onto the bench next to her and handing her a steaming cup of coffee.

"Don't make me pry it out of you, Sophia. You know I can."

She snorts, whacking him softly on the shoulder. "In your dreams, Winchester." She shrugs again. "I don't know, Sam, honestly. Yeah, it was definitely a shock to find this random connection to my parents, but I still don't know what any of it means."

"True. But it's also the first real lead you've had in a long time. And I saw how you looked at that book, you know."

Her gaze darts toward him and then back to the pattern her fingers are tracing on her jean-clad thigh. "Obviously I looked at it, Sam, it might have the information we need."

"Uh huh." Sam takes a sip of his coffee before tipping his head in her direction, trying, and failing, to catch her eye. "You were also looking at it like it was your Precious."

She giggles, a little too wildly to be believable. "Oh, so what, now I'm Golem, chasing after the One Ring?" She swallows hard, reaches for a more casual tone. "If you'll remember, I haven't looked at anything related to my parent's case for more than two years, which doesn't exactly strike me as obsessive."

It's Sam's turn to shrug. "Yeah, well, it's funny what little things can set off in your head." His tone softens a little. "I'll bet you were pretty obsessive at first, though, weren't you."

It's not really a question, and at first, she doesn't respond at all. His warm hand on hers, though, undoes her resolve. "Yes. For a long time, actually. It was everything." Her voice flattens, remembering those first years. "It was the only thing."

He squeezes her fingers. "You know I understand that all too well."

The echo of pain in Sam's voice has her flipping her hand tangle their fingers. "Yeah."

"So if you need anything…" He lets it trail off. He knows she knows, but he puts it out there anyway.

Sophia nods, a small smile all she can manage right now. "I just wish…"

Whatever she was going to say is lost as the motel door opens behind them and Dean waves his phone at them.

~~~SPN~~~

"I don't know that it's gonna help you any, but I finished that translation ya asked for." Bobby's voice sounds a bit far away over the speakerphone.

"Well, what is it, Bobby? What does it say? Does it have anything about the symbol? What's it for?"

Bobby waits for a break in Sophia's rush of questions before continuing. "I was about to tell you, Miss Kane, if you'd give me half a second to get the words out."

Chastised, Sophia flops back in her chair with a soft huff. "Sorry, Bobby. Please continue."

With a grumpy harumph and the shuffling of some papers, Bobby says, "There's nothin' specifically about the symbol per se. From what I can get out of it, the drawing is supposed to represent some kind of fertility rite. Maybe a fertility cult.. But I'll be damned if I can figure out if it's for makin' babies or makin' crops grow."

Sophia stands abruptly, shoving the chair back under the table. "Damn it! I thought this was going to be the lead we needed. Now we're back at square one again."

"We're not back at square one, babe. We've got more to go on. We'll just have to do some research on this fertility cult." Dean tries to take her hand, but isn't surprised when she steps out of his reach, folding her arms around her. He knows this is hard on her, having these brutal memories dredged up again.

Bobby's voice comes back through the speaker. "I'll send you what I've translated so far. It's got some names in it you might be able to dig in on." He pauses and his tone softens a bit. "Sorry this wasn't what you were lookin' for, kid. If you want to send some more pages from that book you found, I can keep translating, see if there's anything else in there you can use."

Sophia doesn't respond, just continues to chew at her thumb as she paces the width of the small room.

"Yeah, thanks, Bobby. Appreciate the help as always. We'll let you know what else we find." Sam disconnects the call before exchanging a look with Dean.

Sophia turns back and snatches her coat off the back of the chair. "We're not going to find anything else sitting around here," she says, voice oddly calm. "I'm going back to the library." At the door, she calls over her shoulder, "Well, come on you two, I know you're not letting me go alone."

The door slams on the concerned faces of the Winchester brothers as they get up to follow her.

~~~SPN~~~

Sam digs through the paperwork they gathered from the local PD. They had pulled some more books from the library, and Sophia had gone to get food and coffee to help them power through more research.

Something has been poking at the back of thoughts all afternoon, but he hasn't been able to grab it. Something about that symbol and something Sophia said. He rubs a hand over his face, huffing out a frustrated breath. "Damn it, what the hell is it?"

He flips pages in yet another folder before tossing it on the bed. It's right there, so close…

Before he can make whatever connection his brain is teasing him with, he hears a crash from the next room. Glass breaking. A rough, angry shout. He moves without conscious thought, drawing his Taurus as he shoves through the connecting door, eyes scanning.

He takes in the scene in a practiced glance, but can't quite make sense of what he's seeing. Dean is standing by the small work table near the window, a small piece of paper crumpled in his hand. The bedside lamp was apparently the source of the sounds Sam heard. It's smashed on the far side of the room, bits of glass glinting from the carpet and the dresser. No one else is in the room.

"Dean?" Sam lowers his weapon slightly, eyes still scanning. "What's going on?"

"She's gone." Dean doesn't move, doesn't even lift his head.

"Sophia? Yeah, she went to get coffee…"

Dean shakes his head, holding out the paper. After Sam takes it, he drops into the nearest chair, his head falling into his hands. "Fuck," he mutters. "What the hell were you thinking, Sophia?"

Confused, Sam unwads the paper, trying to smooth it enough to read.

Dean, I'm sorry. Someone contacted me with information about my parents. I couldn't miss this opportunity, and they said to come alone. I promise I'll be careful. Be back as soon as I can. —Sophia

~~~SPN~~~

The parking lot is empty and the gravel crunching under the car's tires sounds loud in the quiet.

Sophia opens the car door as slowly as she can to minimize the squeak she knows is coming. Her eyes scan for threats, but nothing seems to be moving in this primarily industrial area.

The note was in the back of the book that had "accidentally" fallen in the library. She'd found it while she was taking the pictures for Bobby and stuffed it into her pocket before either of the boys could see it.

She hates keeping things from them, especially when they've been so understanding and so willing to follow this rabbit hole for her. But the note was clear. She was to come to this address alone. And she was not going to miss an opportunity to get information on her family after all these years.

When she reaches the side door, she raises up on her toes to try to see through the dirty window. It's hard to see much through the gloom and the dust, but she can just make out a figure standing just outside the rectangle of moonlight coming through one of the windows.

There's a brief flash of light….a match. Sophia catches a brief glimpse of the man's face in the glow as he lights a cigarette before tossing the match away. He's older, maybe in his fifties with white hair and a well-lined face.

She checks out the rest of the room as much as she can from her current vantage point. There doesn't appear to be anyone else in what looks to be simply a large storage area. No place to hide either.

Taking a deep breath, she opens the door, stepping through without hesitation.

~~~SPN~~~

"Are you sure this is where she was going?"

"Yeah, that's the Winchester's car right there."

"And he's here too?"

"That's what I was told."

"We need to get this done and get outta here. Those boys will be out here after her soon enough."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Since when are you scared of a couple of hunters?"

"Please. I didn't say I was scared. We just don't need them here screwing this up. It's already complicated enough as it is."

"Can't argue with that."

"You got the knife?"

"Of course."

"Then let's get this done and get outta here. If we're lucky, no one finds the bodies until we're long gone."

Feedback is love! ❤️

Tag List: @aylacavebear

[thememoryofadream]

I wish I could be this coherent when sober, let alone while somewhat inebriated...

Fandom is a fascinating thing...made even more so by social media. The para-social relationship created by the combination of the social media and conventions has not been good for a lot people. While certainly #notallfans, there are, as with most things, a vocal section that go too far.

And while it's true that you can decline to participate in those areas of the fandom, it can be hard to avoid. The number of people and tags I've had to block is wild. It also tends to infect the interactions as a whole as OP points out here.

The commentary here about the manipulation and the like is not wrong, but it is painful. The idea that those on the stage view the crowd in the same zoo-like way the crowd tends to eye them... I can understand the pushback because that hurts. So much of this is meant to feel that they're giving to us because they love us, it's easy to forget that's not the case. And before anyone @s me, I'm not suggesting that the actor's every word is insincere, but we are not their friends and we don't really know.

It's possible I'm just overly suspicious, but it's hard not to be. Just as it's hard to suss out what's real and what's monetary in these "relationships". When is something shared because the other person thinks it's important or because they see the continued dollar signs?

And you know, none of this diminishes what YOU personally take from being a fan of a show. Recognizing that fandom as an entity can be toxic is not a personal attack on you, nor does it mean you're not a fan, nor does it mean you're wrong to enjoy the show or have found it to be a comfort during a hard time or whatever else you get from it.

All that to say, thanks for writing this @spnspnspnspnspnspn. I found it very interesting! ❤️

reactive abuse: spn fandom vent

im inebriated and having trouble formatting my thoughts, so if this doesnt make sense. i dont care, this post exists purely to document my emotions at this point in time.YOLO

they are taking advantage of mentally ill fans by feeding into delusions of connectedness to make money.why? the entertainment industry is as much a place to appeal to peoples emotions for money as it is a place to create and share art.

tv shows cater to their demographic through scripts, promotional videos, rehearsed interviews, on closely monitored celebrity social media accounts. pr firms even employ people to create fake fan accounts to drown out negative publicity.

all this to say that it is impossible to know a celebrity’s true nature when being personable and 'down to earth' is an integral part of their job.most personal anecdotes,“embarrassing” stories, or juicy sneak peaks into their private life are discussed beforehand and tailored for maximum audience enjoyment. financially incentivized to treat their personal lives as a spectacle, at the expense of sharing information they otherwise wouldnt.

the supernatural fandom has many sects but it mostly consists of teenaged to middle aged women.why would a macho action filled horror series attract mostly females?

the leads are unusually attractive and every episode showcases it with gratuitous camera angles (kim manners closeup), costumes (the priest outfit), and plot lines that are filled with sexual tension and innuendo. the show was great for the cw, but it’s aesthetics were just as responsible for its success as the writing. this is not to say the writing wouldn’t be compelling without attractive leads, the first couple seasons are thematically complex, well paced and surprisingly sentimental for a cw show.

for a considerable portion of the fandom though, their enjoyment of the show was superseded by an intense need to objectify and sexualise the characters and actors.

the spn fandom came into its own by giving it's biggest platforms to its most popular sects, aka the raunchy ones. from livejournal fanfiction/rpf, hundreds of threads dedicated to worshipping the actors appearance, mundane videos of the cast just existing, slowed down to look erotic and shared en masse on tumblr. photo shopping the actors face onto images of naked male bodies, naturally evolving into erotic paintings and drawings using the actors likeness.

defining itself with an ethos of “you made your bed by using sex appeal to get us hooked, now lie in it.”as the infatuation grew, so did the subconscious need for fans to have access to the actors and their personal lives.

efforts to gain a more intimate understanding of who j2 are behind the scenes quickly turned sour.fans created blogs filled with scraps of media skewed to validate their conspiracies about how the actors lived behind the scenes.

spn_gossip on livejournal had regular threads dedicated to creepy and mostly embellished discourse about the actors personal lives and whereabouts, including addresses of recent sightings that were then cross analysed by other users to track j2, even exposing personal addresses of their families and friends.

bullying the actors girlfrieends became popular sport . easier to rationalise obsessing and romantically pining for a taken man when you convince yourself he regrets his relationship.easier to imagine that even though you don’t, if you DID have a chance with one of them, you’d do a better job. that maybe hes missing something that only you can provide, and oh, isn't poetically tragic that you too are missing something only he provide.

he needs you, he just hasn't realised it........yet.

sex sells, but i don’t think the crew or cast anticipated the show’s sex appeal to be so powerful.fawning over modelesque celebrities as a hobby isn’t unusual, but the extent to which the spn fandom does it, is.just because an actor contractually agreed to perform a character in a show that is sexualised and objectified, doesn’t mean they condone or enjoy fans objectifying and sexualising them.

supernatural conventions are a cornerstone of the community. a significant portion of fandom content and discourse is based on the goings-on at cons.every panel sure to be analysed to death and distorted to fit contradicting narratives.

photo ops, autos, panels, meet and greets. all stages where actors are forced to perform for the court of public opinion. hypervigilant because failing to perform well means risking cyber harassment from a mob of thousands of maladjusted adults, all with the impulse to drag their idols down to their size.

this pressure means when j2 comforts trauma dumping fans, when they agree to overly intimate photo opp poses, when they indulge inappropriate prying questions during panels, they are acting out of duty.they are acting out of self preservation and an inability to say no. they are not reciprocating fans eagerness to become closer to them .

jensen described his attitude towards work as being akin to a soldiers.fulfilling their work commitments feels like going to battle. it’s easy to understand why when you look at their schedules. 9 months of the year are spent mostly isolated from family, regularly working over 12 hour shifts, and having to memorise and interpret new pages of dialogue every week.the cherry on top is a tour where you have to travel (at spn’s peak) to over 10 locations across the globe and at each one spend days interacting with and performing for strangers who all hope to share a special moment with you, and for whom your presence is genuinely the highlight of their year.

it’s hard to imagine anyone would enjoy being stretched so thin, on a public stage that demands they maintain a mask of comfort the whole time.

it’s also hard to understand why people would take their performative joviality so seriously.50 min panels consisting of jensen expressing his annoyance through snark, and jared making lame dad jokes and twisting fan questions into innuendo.disproportionate raucous applause and hollering.the audience's excitability is so extreme it feels like they’re reacting more to being given permission to ogle and sit in the same room as the object of their desires, rather than reacting to anything substantial that’s been said.

this dynamic isn’t lost on j2.they regularly “good naturedly” mock fans overreactions and lust-filled fawning.laughing in the audience’s faces is more jared’s forte.common bits of his include mimicking fangirls and giggling or flailing his body around in reaction to jensen.riling the audience up on purpose with unnecessary sexual innuendos or mock striptease, just to laugh at their exaggerated responses.

jensen’s style of antagonism is more direct.hiding behind a sarcastic tone, he can get away with straight up asking the audience why they’re overreacting with a “really guys? really?”he’ll say when he thinks a question is stupid.he’ll stay stoic when facing a sea of nonsensical hysterical laughter.

his most poignant moment was his reaction to the audience hollering in encouragement when he declined a fan’s request to perform a scene on stage.“dance monkey dance.”and it’s hard to believe he was expressing anything other than genuine discomfort with the audience's behaviour. it’s not that fans don’t have the ability to internalise and reflect on their idol’s antagonism.it’s that they don’t want to.

there’s a purpose to their hysterical behaviour though. through years of pushing boundaries with little to no recourse, fans have built an institution that works around and caters to their perversion.they’ve created fan con expectations that are contingent on the discomfort of the cast.,laughing with the crowd, joining in on the hysteria, is a way to not only normalise unusual behaviour but to set a precedent for what’s acceptable at future cons.

for the right price, you can get real wild with your limerance-fueled delusions and have an army of like-minded people support you. even better, the objects of your delusions are payed to not express discomfort.sparing you the embarrassment of knowing they are uncomfortable in your overbearing presence, protecting you from the full weight of your social inaptitude.play along and your brain won’t know the difference.

so if fans are the instigators, and the actors reluctant but willing participants in it for financial gain, what’s the harm?it’s not illegal for adults to engage in self gratifying but destructive behaviour.why should we be invested in redeeming fans who sought comfort in the wrong places and paid the price?

..... an industry machine that purposefully poses as a family adjacent community for the outcast and traumatised, with the clear intent to hijack and manipulate female and queer vulnerability for profit, deserves critique.

how are we supposed to fight dehumanisation under capitalism when we seek our own humanity in its designs?

the answers to your insecurities and loneliness can’t be found behind a paywall.

a man does not love you if he requires compensation for his affection.

[thememoryofadream]

Ha! This was too much fun! I could see this in an episode of SPN or a Kevin Smith movie ... 🤣

SPN fanfic: "The unfazed shop worker"

Well... here I go again. I saw a meme, and I got an idea.

Summary: Cara works in an antique store with Greg, a weird old guy with a vivid imagination. He claims a red cloud owes him money and that vampires are real... At least this isn't Walmart.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC (Cara) and OMC (Greg), a few monsters. Word count: 4863 words Warnings: This is just my silly brain making stuff up. Might contain a cursewords, I dunno? Descriptions of violence.

Dividers by: @easytiger-xo's blogpost.

First, the meme that inspired me:

And now, the story:

The unfazed shop worker

“WOAH! What the hell!?”

There’s a commotion and a customer storms out, without buying anything. Again.

Cara looks up from her cash register and notices black smoke drifting along the roof like it’s looking for a way out. Smoke shouldn’t normally behave like anything; it should just drift and follow whatever the easiest path to the top is. This smoke, however, drifts like it has a purpose: Like it’s searching for something, or someone. And right now, it’s drifting towards Cara – almost as if it has spotted her. But smoke doesn’t have eyes – right?

“Greg!” Cara shouts over her shoulder. “The smoke is back!” She keeps an eye on it as it swirls towards her faster and faster.

“Again? What colour is it?”

“Black.” The sentient cloud is right in front of Cara now, but somehow doesn’t reach her behind the counter. She can feel the cloud’s annoyance at not getting its way. How on earth a cloud could have intentions at all, is something she stopped questioning ages ago. Life as a cashier is weird.

“Fine, I’ll bring the holy water. The red one owes me money, by the way.”

Greg finally arrives with a spray bottle and immediately start spritzing the cloud, treating it like a naughty cat. “Down! Away with you!” He also says something in Latin, sounding like Satan’s potatoes at some point.

The cloud actually hisses as the minute water droplets hit it and backs up before disappearing out of a vent above the door. Greg sighs. “I’ll get the salt, seems like there’s another leak.”

Cara nods, blows a bubble with her chewing gum to acknowledge him, and goes back to spellchecking the inventory list. Greg is a notoriously bad speller, and when he finally agreed to have a digital cash register, he had misspelled almost every item in some obscure way – making the receipts look ridiculous. Cara had taken it upon herself to correct them one by one. With only the touch screen to help her type. Greg didn’t want to spend money on a proper keyboard.

A few minutes later, the old storeowner has pushed an old wooden stool in front of the door and is pouring rock salt inside the vent, mumbling something about the wind moving it. Just as he climbs down with a groan, the door opens revealing a tall man in jeans and a tattered t-shirt.

“Welcome to Greg’s antiques,” the old shopkeeper announces and smiles at the stranger. The man nods politely with a stiff smile, enters and starts looking around the dusty shop. He easily towers over Greg, but the latter has seen his share of rowdy youngsters and is not easily intimidated.

“Do you have any… old knives?” the stranger asks. “Maybe some ornate ones?”

“Why yes: we do, young man. It’s over in the kitchen section over there.” Greg points at the third row of shelves.

The stranger grunts a thank you, muttering something about tired of being called young while heading towards the indicated direction. Greg huffs and carries his stool back behind the desk with the cash register.

“Keep an eye on that one,” he whispers to Cara. “He’s going to pay in cash, so only give him the change in the tray. Don’t touch him.”

“Sure, whatever.” She pries her eyes away from the screen to make a note of the customer’s position. He’s looking at the ornate meat knives, it seems. Great: another collector of old knives. Everyone who buys one of those keep trying to impress her with it. Wonder what his moves will be?

Sure enough, the guy walks up already rotating the knife in his hands like he’s been doing it all his life and then some. “Do you know how old this blade is?” he asks in a drawl, holding it up in front of her.

“Given the ornate carvings and how the handle is worn, I’d say made around seventy years? Give or take?” Cara answers in her bored customer voice. “Will that be all today, Sir?”

The customer shakes his head confidently and twirls the knife one more time. “Try adding a decade or five. See, this particular knife was given to one of the passengers on…”

“Sir? I just work here,” she interrupts, frowning at the register after finally finding ‘ornite dagr, 12 inhc, steel’. “That will be 68 dollars, please.”

Taken aback at the interruption, the stranger blinks and actually almost sneers at her. “68? For this? Listen, young lady, this blade was made by Sir Stephen …”

“Again, Sir: 68 dollars. Please put all cash in the tray.” She finally makes eye contact with him, lazily raising her own eyebrow at him, already over whatever he was trying to say to haggle.

He sighs dramatically, dropping four 20-dollar bills in the small silver tray. She grabs it immediately and opens the register. As she puts in his bills and finds the twelve-dollar change, he holds out his hand for it, just as Greg predicted. Cara rolls her eyes, then lazily taps the sign on the counter:

[USE TRAY FOR CASH]

The man frowns and scrunches his lip like he’s deeply offended when she drops the money in the tray instead. He reaches for it, then immediately retreats his fingers as if the silver tray burned him in some way. Grabbing the knife, he almost sprints out the store after muttering “Keep the change, stupid mortal.”

Greg huffs. “Either vampire or ghoul, that one, they can’t stand the cash tray. Had a bad smell to him too.” Then he returns to his office to do… something. Cara doesn’t know what he does in there, but he sometimes brings weird little bags or starts scribbling stuff on the walls after being in there a while.

The old man has always called customers strange things like that. Apparently, he’s seen way too many horror movies, and keeps referring to witches, vampires, ghouls and other strange things whenever a weird one enters. Cara has long since given up trying to understand why, she’s just here for the pay. And when customers leave a twelve-dollar tip, like sneery-face did, she is not complaining.

A few days later, a black and noisy car parks outside the store. Two guys step out and the tallest one points to one of Greg’s scribbles on the window before they both head inside. They talk animatedly amongst themselves, do a game of rock, paper, scissors (which the tallest one wins) and split up: The shorter of the two makes his way towards Cara, while the lanky one heads straight for some of the old leather-bound books in the back.

“Hey there, darlin’,” the shortest man starts, leaning on the counter like he owns it. “You’re new here, right?”

Cara, now chewing on a cherry flavoured gum, lets her eyes roam from the man’s face to his short hair, broad shoulders and tattered jeans. Ugh… Not another one of those God’s-Gift-To-Women dudes. She barely hides an eyeroll and dons her best customer-friendly face.

“Started eight months ago, Sir. You looking for anything in particular?”

“I was going to see if old Greg is here, but maybe you can help me out instead?” he smirks, clearly used to having ladies swoon at his feet. Behind him, you spot the taller man glancing over, exasperated at his friend’s behaviour.

Cara sighs before nodding to the office door behind her. “He’s back there.” She clears her throat and yells over her shoulder: “Greg! Someone’s here to see you!”

“Who is it?” The old man yells back behind the barely closed door.

“It’s me, Dean. I’m here with Sam,” the stranger replies, clearly disappointed his plan for charming her didn’t work.

The door opens and Greg storms out, a small trail of smoke following him, filling the store with one of his weird smells again. If Cara didn’t know any better, she would have assumed he was smoking something illegal but it sure doesn’t smell like anything she encountered during her college days.

“Dean! How are you, son? Haven’t heard from you in almost a year!” The old man grabs Dean’s hand in both of his and ushers him into his office immediately. The other man is still looking at the old books, but he looked up and waved when Greg spotted him. The door closes and the smell from the office trails away. Cara finds the mop and figures she might as well start doing the floors, since it’s almost closing time anyway. If this Dean and Sam guys are friends of Greg’s, they will probably stay way past business hours anyway.

She mops the floors, making sure to stay away from the salt lines Greg has put all over the place, and not to disturb any of those weird scribbles he made on the floor by the entrance yesterday. It’s a round symbol of sorts, with squiggly forms around it and inside it. Weird, but also kinda cool to look at. She started copying them in her notebook when she was bored and found it a bit relaxing tracing them some months ago.

“Hi, I’m Sam.” The taller of the strangers greets her as she reaches him with her mop.

“Cara,” she answers, sighing as she accidentally smudges one of the symbols on the floor. She quickly fishes out a sharpie from her pocket and fixes it.

“Wow, you know how to do angel sigils?” Sam asks, impressed.

Cara frowns at him, replacing the top on the sharpie and putting it back in her pocket. “Angel what?”

“Uh... Angel sigils. To ward off angels?” He looks confused as if it should be obvious what he’s talking about.

“Oh no, are you and Greg in the same club or something? He just likes these doodles to be perfect, kinda weird about it, honestly: So I fix them whenever they smudge,” she shrugs.

“You... You don’t know what these are?” he asks incredulously, pointing to the other drawings on the wall and ceiling.

“They’re just Greg’s weird art that he scribbles all over the place. He keeps muttering things about demons and stuff, but he’s a crazy old man. Seen too many movies and had too much to drink, you know?” Cara rolls her eyes at Sam (more like Sasquatch with his height) before continuing her round with the mop.

Sam, however, is lost for words. Does she seriously work here with Greg, one of the hunters who trained Bobby in his days, and NOT know about sigils? How the hell is she still alive, the clientele here alone should freak her out? He decides to find out sooner rather than later, and puts down the old witch’s tome he was reading to go ask Greg.

In the backroom, Dean and Greg are pouring over some news clippings. “I’m telling you,” Dean sighs, exasperated. “You gotta keep these things from getting in the papers! More monsters will realize you sell these kinds of stuff and sooner or later you’re gonna have a problem with them!”

Greg waves his hand at him, dismissing the whole idea. “I ain’t had a problem I can’t handle in decades, Dean. All of my customers know I ain’t dealing with them unless they behave. And they can’t afford losing their shopping privileges: I’m the only one selling their supplies within a hundred miles!”

“You had a demon in here, possessing some guy!” Dean counters.

“Meh, I had it handled.” Greg pats a spray bottle marked Holy Water. “They can’t cross over the counter anyway. And I have anti-possession symbols on the store uniform so Cara won’t be affected either.”

“Speaking of Cara.” Sam decides this is a good time to butt in as Dean looks like he’s about to throw a fit. “She just perfectly fixed an angel sigil like it was nothing, and didn’t even know what it was.”

“Oh, she did?” Greg looks impressed. “I should give her a raise for memorizing them.”

“Did you not hear me? She had no idea what the sigil was for: She called it your weird art, for crying out loud! Said you had been watching too many old movies. Have you not told her about our world, about the monsters coming here to shop?!”

Greg finally has the decency to look mildly ashamed. “Well... I ... I just didn’t want her to worry, that’s all.”

“Didn’t want her to...” Dean almost implodes at the implication that he has an employee here unaware of the dangers she’s in. “Sam: Talk to him. I gotta go get some air before I punch something,” he says, slamming the door after him as he comes back into the store.

“Greg doesn’t like it when people slam the doors,” Cara says matter-of-factly, while putting on her jacket and purse as Dean jolts to a stop in front of her. “It rattles the something-or-other.” She points lazily to what Dean immediately sees are old rune bones on a shelf at the door, next to a glass orb with some ominous shadow swirling inside.

“Did... did you hear what we were talking about?”

“Something about monsters? I dunno. I stopped listening to Greg’s weird theories ages ago. It’s nice that you’re humouring him, though.” Cara gives him a rare smile and starts heading for the door. “I’m going home, tell Greg I’ve mopped the floors and settled the cash register.”

Dean nods in confirmation, then watches her touch up a sigil even he doesn’t know what is before she leaves him alone in the shop.

Sam and Dean decided to stick around for a few days, clearing up a vamp nest outside of town. Greg grumbled about losing customers, but when the boys pointed out they were also killing off innocent people, he changed the subject to spell ingredients and magical objects. Cara, however, dutifully showed up every day and started appreciating having someone to talk to in the store, apart from Greg – who was on one of his supply-runs somewhere today.

Sam, torn between keeping her from knowing all the things that go bump in the night and wanting to protect her, started asking questions about the different items in the shop just to see how much she actually knew.

“Yeah, don’t touch those rabbit feet,” Cara sighs as Sam points at yet another shelf. “Greg says they’re cursed, so I just leave them be. He’ll flip out if they’re moved.”

“Did he say which curse?”

She screws up her nose, trying to remember it. “Uhm... Something about it will only help the second born of the Chosen, devil’s favourite boy with demon blood, I think. He’s always so dramatic with his stories... Sometimes, I seriously think of writing them down to make books. I’d make a fortune,” she laughs. She doesn’t notice how Sam’s face pales or how he swallows down a hundred questions while eyeing the rabbit remains.

“And, uh... What about the old books? Like this one?” He holds up the witch’s tome he looked at the other day. She takes it from him, leafing through the pages and studies its covers for a moment before returning it to him.

“It looks like a very well-made movie prop or Halloween gag to me. The symbol on the back here,” she points to a small imprint Sam hadn’t noticed. “This is supposed to represent an old Gaelic family called MacCloud or something, according to Greg, and he said it was very important none of the demons get their hands on it. I just tell customers it’s covered in an ancient demon-killing curse to anyone who touches it.”

“Demons?”

“Yeah, he has this obsession about them: saying they live in black clouds or something silly and don’t even have little red tails. He swears one of them owes him money too.” She rolls her eyes and laughs at the implication. “And that that one lives in a red cloud instead of a black one.”

Sam laughs with her, hardly believing his ears: This woman knows so much, but has no idea it’s real. Just as he’s about to ask her more about demons, a customer enters the shop and she excuses herself to help him.

The stranger asks about amethysts (fourth aisle, next to the pewter cauldrons), sage and cumin (small jars on the shelves next to the register), and a book for translating Nordic runes (back of the store, third shelf from the bottom, far left). Sam notices how the man carefully avoids walking down some of the floors with specific sigils, and immediately fishes out his own silver knife from his belt as he watches him approach Cara.

“Is this the old Futhark alphabet or one of the new ones?” He asks her, tapping on the book with a dirt-covered hand. Cara, to Sam’s amazement, looks at the book for a second and confirms it’s the old one.

“There’s loads of online resources you could use instead, you know,” she says, while typing into the register. “The book, six amethysts and two jars of dried herbs. That’ll be 87 dollars, please.”

“I don’t trust modern technology,” the man replies as he pulls out two $50 bills from his pocket and tries to hand them to her. She merely taps the sign with a bored expression and he drops the bills into the cash tray instead. Just as Cara goes to put the change into it, the man lunges forward to grab her and starts muttering what could only be a curse.

Sam immediately takes action and goes to wrangle the man away, but Cara has already punched the man in the face, stopping his chanting abruptly. He falls back, covering his mouth and Sam forces him out of the store. Outside, the man starts vomiting on the sidewalk and runs off cursing.

“Are you ok?” He rushes up to Cara to check on her. Her arm has a red mark after being grabbed, but that’s about it.

“Yeah, I’m good. I keep the bezoars nearby for guys like him.” Sam’s eyes widen as she pulls up a basket of oddly shaped rocks from behind the counter. “I just stuff one in their mouth and they shut right up,” she smiles.

“Bezoars? You actually stuffed a bezoar into him?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Greg said to do that when customers start muttering mumbo-jumbo nonsense, and they’ll back right off. Works every time.”

Sam glances back to where the man threw up and sure enough: there’s a similar rock on the sidewalk, steam coming off it. “That’s actually brilliant,” he says, amazed. “It stops almost all poisons, I just didn’t know it works when uttering a curse too.”

“Haha, you know your Harry Potter!” Cara laughs, then continues as she spots Sam’s confused look. “In book six, Ron is poisoned and Harry shoves one down his throat to save him? In Slughorn’s office?”

“Oh, right.”

“Anyway,” she goes on. “They taste awful as hell and I think it’s hilarious to stuff indigestible rocks from animal stomachs into assholes like him. I could never get away with these things at Walmart. Greg’s kinda cool like that: he lets me defend myself and even taught me to use his shotgun too. He only keeps rock salt in it, but it feels good to have it within reach.”

“Have you ever had to use the shotgun?” Dean had arrived from the back room after he heard the commotion and is finding the whole concept of her not knowing about their world, but still knowing how to handle stuff, very interesting.

“Just that time one of those weird holograms started and Greg wasn’t here to do his thing,” she shrugs, not seeing how Sam and Dean glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.

“And, uh...” Sam starts, not really sure how to continue his thoughts. “And you, uh... See these holograms often?”

She screws up her face, mentally counting for a second. “Oh, about every few weeks or so. Especially when we get new shipment in from God-knows-where. There are usually one or two different ones. Some are kinda cool and just hang out, but the others give me the creeps. Greg said I could shoot at them with rock salt to make me feel better about it or something. I don’t know how he manages to program that stuff, the man can barely use the register properly.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Holograms...”

“Listen:” Dean starts. “Those holograms, they’re actually ghosts.”

Cara laughs out loud at that, and taps Dean’s shoulder as if he just said the most hilarious joke ever. “Haha, yeah: I bet!” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye after laughing some more. “You know you don’t have to indulge Greg when he isn’t around, right? It’s just the three of us here.”

The two brothers look at each other, silently arguing “You tell her!” “No, you!” with gestures as she walks away from them to start mopping the floors again, still chuckling. They do a round of rock, paper, scissors, ending with Dean sighing and Sam failing to hide a smirk.

Two hours later, Cara isn’t sure whether she wants to punch Dean or throw up. He is adamant that everything Greg has been saying is true: ghosts, demons, vampires... Even worse: Sam keeps nodding in agreement and adding stories to back it up, stories that are remarkably like the ones Greg tells when he’s drunk.

“So… that creepy dude today, the one I stuffed a bezoar in? Was he…?”

“A witch.” Sam nods.

“So: men are witches too, not wizards?”

“This isn’t Harry Potter,” Dean sighs, combing his fingers through his hair. “This is real life.”

Cara sends him a death glare at that and walks over to him. “Oh, real life, huh? I should just know that werewolves, ghosts, witches and vampires are real – but wizards are just imaginary?” Her voice grows louder as Dean actually sinks back into the wall. “What about fairies and dragons? Or unicorns? Are they real too?!” Her finger is stabbing Dean in his chest at every monster. “A damn chupacabra!?”

“Hey, hey, hey…” Sam intervenes, gently grabbing her shoulders to guide her away from his brother. “We know it’s a lot to take in right now, and Dean can be a bit of an ass. He didn’t mean to say it like that. Right, Dean?” He adds, staring purposefully at him.

Dean raises his palms in a defensive way. “Yeah! I didn’t mean anything by it at all…”

Cara closes her eyes and calms down. “I just,” she sighs. “It’s a lot, you know?”

“We know,” Sam agrees.

“And just so you know: fairies are little flying assholes and dragons look like people now, but unicorns are fictional,” Dean adds.

“Great.” She tears herself away from Sam, moving towards her purse and jacket. “I need a break. Tell Greg I’m out for lunch.”

Dean checks his watch: “It’s 7:45 pm.”

“Don’t care. I need to get out.”

And she is, indeed, out of the store before Sam can rush after her, catching up before she reaches the end of the block. Dean sighs, running his hands through his hair again and walks behind the counter. “Guess I’m doing this, then.”

Dean’s watch finally shows 8:30 pm and he moves to flip the sign on the glass door to say “Closed”. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any customers since Cara and Sam ran off. He wouldn’t know what to do if there were, but he had been entertaining himself by looking closer at all the trinkets and items around the shop.

Just as he’s about to lock up, he spots Cara and Sam walking towards the storefront – both grinning like idiots and Sam looking like he got beat up. Dean throws open the door. “What the hell happened to you two!?”

The two look at each other, then burst into laughter as Dean lets them in, making him more annoyed than concerned about Sam’s busted lip and bloody nose.

“We found the witch who tried to curse Cara,” Sam finally explains as he’s offered a clean rag to stop his bleeding. “He was waiting to ambush her at the end of the road, we think.”

Cara nods, grabbing a water bottle and downing it impressively fast. “He uh…” She wipes her mouth on her sleeve and waves a hand dismissively. “He was still a bit upset about the whole bezoar thing.” She points to the basket of them, still on the counter, to emphasize her point.

Dean blinks. Is this the same Cara who freaked out earlier? Who thought ghosts were fancy holograms programmed by an old shopkeeper? “And…?” he starts, impatient. “That still doesn’t explain why Sam looks like he had a wrestling match and you guys are laughing your asses off.”

“I did, technically, have a wrestling match with the witch, though.” It’s Sam’s turn to explain. “He jumped us at the end of the street and threw a hexbag at us, so we had to follow him like damn lapdogs into a nearby building. Couldn’t talk, couldn’t do anything but follow.”

“Shit.” Dean jumps up to sit on the counter, already invested in the story.

“Yeah,” Cara agrees. “That’s what I thought too. He had this whole speech going about how he had needed those amethysts and herbs to do some magic spell with runes, and how he couldn’t stop throwing up for an hour after I fed him the stone, making him miss some kind of time window or something.” She smiles at that, almost proud of herself. “He was so mad…”

“And Cara over there… You’d think she would panic, right?” Sam adds, still with a rag against his nose. “Instead, just starts laughing at the guy, making him even more upset.”

“Silent laughing, mind you. Still couldn’t talk.”

Sam nods and continues. “She annoys him so much that he removes her hex and starts demanding to know why she’s laughing so much. And she just… I don’t know what she said, but it sounded like a counterspell or something and suddenly I could move again.”

“Greg taught me a rhyme in Latin ages ago, said I’d know when to use it. No idea what it means, but as soon as I said it, the dude started going all red in the face,” she shrugs as if she’s talking about a football game. “So: I kept on saying it over and over again until Sam could knock him out.”

“She was amazing: Perfect pronunciation and grammar,” Sam holds up the rag, now blotched with red marks. The bleeding has stopped.

Cara laughs: “Then I stuffed another bezoar down his throat until he choked on it.”

“…and I could change the bullets into witch killing ones and that was it.”

“End of witch.”

Dean looks from his brother to the totally unfazed shop worker and back again. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Sam confirms, grinning.

Dean is about to ask about something else, but is interrupted by Greg appearing in the door shouting “What the hell are you sitting on my counter for? Get your ass off there, kid!” He jumps down immediately, to Cara and Sam’s amusement.

Greg, carrying a cardboard box, looks from the eldest brother to Sam’s bloody nose and finally at Cara. He frowns, putting two and two together faster than most: “So now you know.” It wasn’t a question, but she nods anyway. Greg sighs and pushes his box into Dean’s arms. “Make yourself useful and put this in the back.” Dean gapes at him, starting to protest but decides not to with the way Greg stares at him and slumps away.

Greg turns to Sam: “Right, what happened?”

“A witch tried to curse Cara. She stuffed a bezoar down his throat.”

“Just like you told me to.”

“Good girl,” the old man concedes. “Is that why there’s dried vomit outside and a fire truck and police car down the road?”

“Yeah. We dealt with him,” Sam answers as if asked if he swatted a fly.

“Right. You:” he points at Sam. “You bring out the bucket and start flushing the vomit away. It’s bad for business.” Sam’s shoulders sink, but he nods and says “Yes, Sir” anyway.

“And you.” It’s Cara’s turn now and she braces herself. “You get a raise for knowing the sigils and for using the bezoars correctly.” She can hardly believe her luck. “Don’t get used to it, though,” he adds grumpily, but he offers her a warm smile anyway.

“And don’t go stealing my employee for too long in the future, you hear me?” He slaps Sam on his shoulder before walking into the backroom to make sure Dean doesn’t accidentally summon a genie with one of those lamps he has in the box.

Sam turns to Cara and grins. “That’ll be up to you. If you’re up for it, of course.”

Cara picks up a bezoar, tosses it up in the air, catches it and puts it in her pocket. “We’ll see if Greg lets me have a day off.”

Thank you again to Easytiger-xo for making awesome dividers for free ❤

Want to read more of my work? Check out my Masterlist.

[thememoryofadream]

People who say "Women only like Bucky because he's played by Sebastian Stan and good-looking" are inexplicable to me. Have they actually spoken to any women? Ever?

Women like Bucky because he's female-coded. Women like Bucky because he's does't fit into traditional gender norms. He's not always in charge, in control, doesn't throw his weight around and doesn't use violence as a first resort.

Women like Bucky because his loss of autonomy and agency resonates with us in some way, but also his wish to regain that agency is aspirational.

Women like Bucky because a male character who speaks to the female experience is so rare.

(Also he's always polite and respectful to women and never objectifies them).

[thememoryofadream]

Colder Weather

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC

Summary: When Dean falls for a fellow hunter, it scares the hell out of him, and he runs. Then the lyrics of an unexpected song push him to sort out his feelings and hope it's not too late to get her back.

Word Count: 2565

Tags/Warnings: Rated R for mature audiences only! Feelings and then reunion smut. 🔥

Inspired by the Zac Brown Band song of the same name.

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Colder Weather

Dean stares out the window into the darkness ahead of him. Snow drifts lazily down from the sky, whirling on the road. While it's pretty now, it promises to turn harsh in the near future.

He shivers slightly and turns up the heat. Not that it'll help. He hasn't been warm since…

He pinches his eyes shut for a moment and tries to control the emotions swirling within him, echoing the dance of the snow outside.

He casts a glance around him, looking for a distraction. The radio is useless. There's nothing like civilization for a hundred miles at least. Just the snow, the cold and the dark.

Sam had been after him about connecting his phone to the Impala. Something about more variety in his musical tastes or some kind of bullshit like that. Sam had said he'd even put some songs on it for him. Well, desperate times called for desperate measures.

With some fiddling, he gets it up and running. Picks the first song that comes up. Piano followed by a man's Southern tinged voice. Country. Better than some of the emo crap Sam usually likes.

His gaze drifts back out the windshield. The snow is falling harder now and the wind has picked up. Yeah, this is gonna get worse before it gets better.

The song catches his attention. What he hears pierces his heart and constricts his chest. The hollow place inside him throbs while the cold pricks at him more insistently.

At a truck stop diner just outside of Lincoln, The night is black as the coffee he was drinkin', And in the waitress' eyes he sees the same 'ol light shinin', He thinks of Colorado And the girl he left behind him He said I wanna see you again But I'm stuck in colder weather Maybe tomorrow will be better Can I call you then She said you're a ramblin' man You ain't ever gonna change You got a gypsy soul to blame And you were born for leavin'

Son of bitch. Of all the damn songs on this stupid thing…

He'd stayed with her for weeks. Sharing her bed at night, her company during the day. They hunted, they made love. They fought, they made up.

He was in too deep before he knew it. He'd fallen for her hard. And it scared the hell out of him. So he'd made up some story and left her. In Colorado.

Sam had been furious. He adored Sophia and was horrified that Dean walked out on her. Sam couldn't understand why he would walk away from someone who loved him the way she did.

And now, a week later, Dean's wondering the same thing.

Work and whiskey filled the days, but nothing could touch the nights. Could warm the raw and frozen corners of his heart. Could blunt the sharp edges of the pain he tries so hard to outrun.

The storm outside intensifies, a strange mirror to the storm raging inside his heart. The simple lyrics of the song continue to speak to him.

Well it's a winding road When you're in the lost and found You're a lover, I'm a runner And we go 'round 'n 'round And I love you but I leave you I don't want you but I need you You know it's you who calls me back here, baby

She's been calling him back to her ever since the moment he walked away. He remembers the look on her face. Resigned. As if she'd known he was a runner and she'd just been waiting for him to do it.

With a hard swallow he calls himself all kinds of fool. A coward. He had a chance to love and be loved. And he'd let it go. Let go of the best thing to ever happen to him.

The last notes of the song fade away. All he can hear is the howl of the wind and the slush of the tires through the snow. Stuck in colder weather.

With a rough curse, he pulls the car off on the shoulder. Dropping his forehead to the steering wheel, he sits for a moment in a futile attempt to wrestle his feelings back under control. With a sigh, he reaches for his phone and pulls up her number, connecting the call before he can change his mind.

It rings twice, then he hears her voice and his breath catches in his throat.

"Dean?"

It's all he can do to speak her name. "Sophia…"

A long pause. The wind continues to whistle around the car. The chill begins to seep in, but he doesn't notice. All he knows is her.

"Is everything ok?" she says finally. "Is Sam…?"

"Yeah, yeah," he says quickly, "Sam's fine. Everything's fine."

Another long pause. He can hear her question in the silence.

"Actually, everything's not fine. I'm not fine."

She inhales sharply. "Dean…" A note of pleading.

"I need to see you, Sophia."

"I don't think that's a good…"

"Please. I need to…talk to you. To tell you…"

"Dean…"

"Just let me see you. And if you want me to go after that, I'll go."

A sigh. "I'm right where you left me." The silence of the end of the connection.

He exhales slowly, staring down at the phone. She was waiting for him. Relief and warmth suffuse him in equal measure.

He pulls the car back out on the road, back in the direction he came. The storm seems to have blown itself out, leaving the snow falling gently to the pavement. The wind only teases the flakes now, making them float like feathers to the ground.

Picking the music player up, he clicks to play the song again, humming the tune softly.

~~~SPN~~~

It takes him the better part of a day to get back to the small town in Colorado where Sophia's staying. The weather clears ahead of him. It's cold, but fair when he reaches her.

He pauses outside the door. He almost can't believe she's on the other side. So close. He knocks gently, then stuffs his hands in his pockets.

A long moment later, the door swings open. He nearly stops breathing. Beautiful. He swallows, eyes tracking over her. Notices how tired she looks. The dark smudges under her eyes. The paleness of her face. Her thinness.

His hands itch to touch her. His arms ache to hold her. To never let her go again. But her stiff posture and carefully blank face stop him.

Without a word, she steps back and gestures him in, closing out the winter air but leaving a whole different kind of frost between them.

Stalling, he takes his jacket off and tosses it over the back of a chair. She simply watches him, arms folded across her chest.

Dean doesn't look at her. He can't. All the things he thought about saying don't seem to be enough. He takes a breath, his tongue snaking across his lower lip. With a bitter laugh he says, "Looks like you're getting as much sleep as I am. You miss me?"

Sophia doesn't answer. Her eyes flicker angrily and she grits her teeth.

Dean gulps, feeling his face go red. He knows that look. Knows he needs to tread lightly or he'll find himself on the wrong side of the door. "Look, I'm no good at talking about my feelings. You know that."

"Try, Dean," she says, her suddenly damp eyes mitigating the fierceness of her tone.

He reaches for her, surprised when she doesn't avoid his touch. Her skin is soft beneath his fingers. Heat spreads through his body. It warms his arms. It fills his chest. He feels…whole. Like a part he's been missing has snapped back into place. "I miss you. I'm just…cold…without you," he says slowly, his eyes fixing on hers. "This…this thing between us? I need it. I need you."

She doesn't reply, just stares at him, eyes wide and still wet with unshed tears.

It's not enough. He tries for something more. "Sophia, I…"

She holds up a hand. "Dean, stop. Just stop," she murmurs, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

He freezes. Tries to swallow past the lump suddenly forming in his throat. Tries to hold back the ice creeping into his veins, keep it from pushing back the warmth he felt only moments ago. He's lost her. He's too late. He doesn't know how to say the right thing. He's failed her. Again. He's…

She shifts toward him, interrupting his internal self-flagellation. She waits until his stare focuses on her. "I was yours from the moment you knocked on that door."

Before he can even begin to think of a reply, she pulls his mouth down to hers, hot and demanding. Thought flies out the window as his tongue slips into her mouth. She tastes even better than he remembers. Sweeter. Hotter.

Her hands slide around his neck, then down over his shoulders. They find the edges of his worn flannel button down and push it off, forcing him to release her to drop it to the floor.

The cool air between them is just enough to bring him back to his senses. He drags his mouth from hers, the soft mew she makes hitting him straight in the gut.

"Wait, baby," he mumbles as she tries to get back to his mouth. "I don't understand. I thought you'd hate me for walking out on you." He rakes a hand through his hair, eyes on anything but her. "God knows I wouldn't blame you."

Sophia steps back into his arms, pressing against him. "I wanted to hate you," she whispers, gaze searching for his. "But I couldn't. I was pissed, yeah. And hurt. But…"

"But?"

Now her eyes shift to the floor. "Sam convinced me you'd come back. He said you…cared about me. And you'd figure it out." She shrugs. "I wanted to believe him, to believe in you, so I stayed."

"My brother told you I'd come back?"

She nods, biting her lip. "He does know you pretty well, Dean."

He shakes his head with a rueful laugh. "Yeah, I guess he does."

Sliding her hands under his t-shirt, she rises on tiptoe to press soft kisses against his neck. "He just didn't tell me you'd keep me waiting quite so long," she sighs.

"I'm sorry, baby," he says softly. Also looking for skin, his hands move under her loose sweater. They trace over her ribs, along the curve of her waist, down to her hips. He feels her tremble slightly. Feels her soft, warm flesh under his hands.

She kisses her way along his jaw back to nibble at his lower lip. "I don't want to talk anymore," she whispers, "I want you to make love to me. I've been cold, too."

His answering growl is one of surrender as his mouth crashes over hers. The heat that's been simmering between them since he walked in the door flashes over into a conflagration. The chill he's been fighting since he walked out the door more than a week ago completely vaporizes.

He reaches for the hem on her sweater and drags it up and off before finding her lips again. His hands are everywhere. He feels everything. Every inch of skin he can reach. She's on fire and he's burning to the ground with her.

She leans into him, pushing him back toward the bed as she wrenches his t-shirt off. Their bare skin meets and fuses, leaving them both gasping. Her mouth traces over his chest as they tumble back onto the mattress, her hands exploring everywhere else.

Rolling her under him, he makes a scorching path down to her breasts, sucking and teasing. Nipping and soothing. He groans as she arches against him, breath heavy and quick.

Desire makes his fingers slightly clumsy, but he makes quick work of the fastening of her jeans. He pulls them down her legs, panties following behind. He strips off the rest of his own clothes before kissing his way back up her leg. Settling between her thighs, he kisses her hip, the inside of her thigh. He wants to taste her. To please her. To show her how much he's missed her.

She nearly comes off the bed when his tongue touches her. But his firm grip on her hips keeps her where he wants her. She pants and writhes beneath him as he torments her. She chants his name, her voice hoarse with pleasure.

Swirling and dancing, he explores every bit of her molten core. The noises she makes push him to drive her ever closer to the edge. His fingers join the torment and he feels her body begin to pulse. She's like a star about to supernova and he's more than willing to be consumed in the explosion.

With a harsh cry, her body arches one last time, shuddering as she reaches her climax. He kisses his way up her body, his touch soothing, his voice gentle as he helps her come down from her high.

When he reaches her face, her eyes flutter open, focusing slowly on him. "Holy…"

He chuckles, kissing the tip of her nose gently. "God, I missed you."

She stretches against him, her fingers fluttering down his back, her thigh rubbing against his hard length. "Mmmm," she purrs, "I can tell. Lucky for you I haven't had nearly enough of you yet."

He groans as her hand slips between them, stroking him teasingly. "Ahhh, baby," he chokes, rocking into her hand, "you don't want this to end that way, do you?"

She laughs softly and he groans again, this time in disappointment, when her fingers stop their torture. "Oh, no," she murmurs, raising her hips to his invitation, "you're not getting away that easy."

Unable to resist any longer, he joins them easily, gasping at the sweet agony as her tight heat surrounds him. Reaching for control, he moves slowly at first. Shallow and deep. Shallow and deep.

Finding her palm, he tangles their fingers, pressing her hand back into the pillow beside her head. Their eyes meet and hold, communicating everything words can't hope to touch.

Arching her body, Sophia meets him thrust for thrust. Her free hand digs into his shoulder, pulling him closer. She shifts beneath him restlessly. "More. More."

He hitches her thigh further up over his hip, plunging deeper. Burying his face in her neck, fingers still tightly woven with hers, he answers her request, increasing his pace. A wave of pleasure, starting at his toes, rolls over him and he calls her name as he spills over the edge, feeling her body contract around him in response.

He collapses onto her, breathing hard. The softness of her body beneath him is comforting, even more so when she release his hand to wrap her arms and legs around him. He rolls to his side, keeping her close, sighing as her head tucks into his shoulder.

Her voice is sleepy, but contented when she finally speaks. "Later you're gonna tell me where you've been for the last week and why."

He reaches to pull the blankets up over them, snuggling them in. "I will," he replies softly. "And then you're gonna tell me what the hell my brother said to you."

He hears her chuckle. "Fair."

Stroking her hair back behind her ear, he whispers, "Are you warm enough?"

She nods. "Finally."

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[thememoryofadream]

Feet of Clay - Ch. 15/?

Characters: Dean Winchester x OC, Sam Winchester

Summary: On a hunt for something the Winchesters can't identify, Dean meets a woman who steals their case... Will she also steal his heart?

Word Count: 2239

Tags/Warnings: Canon-level violence descriptions. Set post S4-ish, but diverges from canon (Dean's been to Hell and back, but no angels).

Series Masterlist

Chapter 15 - Bad Moon Rising

Sam pulls over one of the chairs, sitting opposite Sophia. Reaching out, he brushes her leg. "Are you okay?"

She gives him a weak smile and a nod. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just caught off guard, I guess. I...try not to think about that time of my life, you know?"

Sam and Dean both nod and Dean pulls up the second chair, close to Sophia. He takes her hand, tangling their fingers. "You want to tell us what happened?"

With a sigh, she closes her eyes a moment and says, "I was around 20, in my junior year of college. I went to school just a few hours from where I grew up. It had been a couple of months since I'd been home last, so my parents were thrilled when I said I was coming home for the weekend." She swallows hard, squeezing Dean's fingers. "I...uh...I opened the front door and dropped my stuff inside. I called out for Mom and Dad, but didn't hear anything. It was quiet. So quiet. Something felt...off, but I walked down to the living room anyway. That's where I found Dad."

Dean flinches at the pain in her voice. He doesn't want to hear the details, doesn't want to make her tell them, but he knows they need to know. "What did you see?"

"He was...on the floor… there was blood...everywhere." Her voice cracks, but she keeps going, wanting to get it all out at once. She tries to make it more like a story she's telling about someone else, rather than a memory of something she experienced. Her tone smooths and she leans away from Dean, needing the distance. "He'd been dead for some time, I think. When I knelt down next to him, I tried to find a pulse, but he was cold. There were marks on his head, where he'd been beaten. I don't know with what. The police said later it was blunt force trauma, but nothing more specific. And the killer had cut him open...that's where all the blood came from."

Dean reaches for her, but Sam stops him. Sam shakes his head briefly, knowing she's retreated far away from them now. Retreated somewhere they can't follow and shouldn't disturb.

She keeps talking, her voice a monotone now, eyes glazing over as she watches the past play out like a movie in her mind. "When I realized he was...gone...I ran into the kitchen to see if I could find Mom. If she wasn't with Dad, she'd be there. I hoped maybe she was safe, maybe she hadn't been home, or she'd found some place to hide. But she was on the kitchen floor, same position as Dad, same wounds. That's when I saw the symbols. They stood out against the white tile floor. So red. So...clear. That's when I knew what had caused all this. At least partly."

She comes back to herself a little, still distant, but more present than before. Her gaze sharpens again. "I knew about my parents being hunters. They'd explained it all to me when I was younger. They hunted full time before I was born, but eventually got out of it to do more research. Sort of like what Bobby does for you now. I never really got into it, but I certainly knew arcane symbols when I saw them. So I was pretty sure it had something to do with demons."

Sam nods, encouraging her to continue. He won't ask any questions until she's finished.

Her voice gets choked again as she tells them how she took care of their bodies after the police had finished their investigation. "They said it was maybe some kind of cult or gang, but I knew the truth. And I knew I had to salt and burn the bodies, just like Mom and Dad had always told me. As soon as the police released them, I took them home and…. And that was it."

"So that's when you started hunting," Dean says. It's not a question. He already knows the answer.

"Yeah. I investigated their deaths for a long time, but I never really got any good answers. Just a lot of dead ends. Eventually I just tried to put it away, forget about it, and started saving people who were still around to be saved instead of worrying about two people who weren't."

There's a lot of bitterness in those words. Dean and Sam share a look. They can certainly identify.

"Anyway," Sophia says, "the marking on that box and the coin was one of the symbols I saw that day. It looked like they had been drawn and then the...bodies...placed in the center. I thought maybe it was for some kind of ritual, but I was never able to find a match for it in anything."

The mood is heavy for a long moment as each is lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Sam stands, putting the chair back at the table. "Well, maybe we'll be able to get some answers for you when we find this box and whoever killed the doctor." He doesn't want to get her hopes up. Hell, the box could have been through a million hands by now and just because it shares a symbol, doesn't mean it's connected to her parents, but maybe they'll get lucky. Maybe they can help her.

"Right," Sophia says briskly. She stands too, clapping her hands together. "So let's get back to this and figure out what our next step is."

Dean is slower to move and he watches her carefully. They haven't been together long, but he sure as hell knows a front when he sees one. He also knows, from personal experience, pushing her now will only make it worse. She'll crack at some point and he'll need to be there for her when she does.

"Okay, then. Sam, you want to get your laptop down here and we'll start comparing notes?"

Sam nods, heading for the door. He knows those fronts too; his brother is the master of them. Another glance exchanged with Dean says he sees it too and he's going to be keeping an eye on her.

It's going to be a long night.

~~~SPN~~~

"Jesus, if these texts were any more dry and boring, they'd crumble into dust." Dean tosses another volume on the table, coughing slightly in the cloud that rises from it.

Sam snorts. "Looks like they already have, so be careful."

Dean rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "We've been through every book in the damn library looking for those symbols, Sam. And we've come up with precisely nothing. I'm sure your nerdy side is eating all this up, but I'm over it."

"Not exactly every book in the library, so stop exaggerating." Sam sits back, tilting his neck to get the kinks out. "But you're right, we still don't have much to go on."

Dean paces the small amount of carpet left clear of all the books, files and papers they've been sifting through for what seems like years. "They've got to be somewhere. There's got to be a diary or lore or a damn comic book that has something to do with these symbols." He growls in frustration, then looks over at his brother. "Are we sure these things are Greek or Roman? I know that's what we've been focused on, but are we sure that's right?"

At first, Sam starts to say, of course he's sure, but then snaps his mouth shut. That was just a guess really, and since they'd never gotten a chance to talk to Dr. Anders, who knows if they were actually correct. "Well, it certainly looked like it from the pictures."

"But we don't know for sure?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, not really. None of us are exactly experts in the field, Dean."

Glad to have something to do besides page through moldy books, Dean tosses a coat at Sam before picking up his own and shrugging it on. "Then let's see if we can find Sophia at the college and start tracking down some experts."

~~~SPN~~~

The coin is warm under her fingers. Almost as if it were alive somehow. Alive and leading her somewhere. Maybe to somewhere with answers about her family. About who killed them.

Sophia sighs, setting the coin back on the table. No, it's not alive. It's warm because she's been holding it all day. Holding it as if it might somehow share its secrets with her if she could only understand. But again, no. There are no answers. Not any being transferred magically from the coin anyway.

Sighing, she snaps up the coin and tucks it back in her pocket. Grabbing her notebook, she heads down yet another seemingly interminable library stack to find the next book on her list.

She gets near the end, checking the numbers against her notes, before finally stopping and kneeling to get to the bottom row. Her fingers flick along the spines, stirring up the dust in this clearly not well used section of the room.

"Finally," she mumbles. The book is so fat, and tucked in so tightly, she needs both hands to pull it from its spot. Just as she's about to wiggle it free, an equally fat book whacks her on the shoulder.

Squealing, she falls back on her butt, rubbing her shoulder and looking up at the shelves accusingly. "What the hell?" Rising, she gives the offending fallen book a sharp kick before getting on tiptoe to peer into the empty spot it clearly came from. "These things are so packed in here, it's not like you could have jumped."

Frowning, she's about to reach for the book to put it back when she sees a shadow hurrying along the other row. There hadn't been anyone else in this part of the library all day. And now, right after a book almost gives her a concussion, there's someone else in the next aisle? Yeah, so not a coincidence.

She runs down her aisle as quickly as she can, sneakers quiet on the tile floor. Hand on the gun at her back, she reaches the end of the row and quickly ducks her head out to glance both ways. Seeing no one, she slides along the end of the case before again ducking her head out to look down the next row.

No one.

No shadow, no person, nothing.

"Damn it," she whispers, stepping down the row, taking another look. As if someone might somehow be hiding between the books on the shelves. "What'd you do, just vaporize?"

"No, we walked in, like normal people do."

Sophia jumps a foot, then spins, her heart in her throat and her hand on her gun.

"Whoa, whoa, easy, sweetheart, it's just us."

Dean stands in front of her, hands up in a surrender pose, Sam looking on behind him with a bemused smirk.

"God damn it, Dean, don't you know better than to sneak up on me like that? I could have shot you!"

Grinning, he moves closer, kissing her on the cheek as he pulls her hand away from the gun. "Well, you could try, babe, doesn't mean you'd succeed."

She snorts, pulling away from him and marching back down the row, knowing the Winchesters would follow. "Next time maybe we'll find out." She grabs both books from the floor, the one she'd been looking for and the one that had apparently chosen to come with her. "What are you two doing here anyway? I thought you were up to your eyeballs in the books I already pulled."

Dean shrugs, taking the smaller book from her and flipping through it. "We didn't find anything, so I wondered if maybe we had the wrong country."

"The wrong country?"

"Dean pointed out that we'd never actually verified the markings were Greco-Roman. So we thought we might show that coin around in the Antiquities department and see if anyone recognized it." Sam waves a hand at the stacks. "Did you have any luck here?"

She shakes her head, gently opening the second book. It was heavier than the one she'd come for and much older. Older than anything else they'd seen so far. She hears Sam's voice, asking her something else, but she doesn't tune in. Something about the book seems...familiar. The last time she'd had this feeling, she'd recognized the symbol on the coin.

Flipping through the first few pages, she realizes it's not in English, and almost slams it shut in frustration. But before she does, her eyes are drawn to a set of small drawings three quarters of the way down the page.

"Oh, yeah," she says, raising wide eyes to the brothers staring at her, "yeah, I think I just had some really good luck."

~~~SPN~~~

Slipping away into the darkest corners of the library, the old man combs trembling fingers through his hair. It was a risk coming here. Getting so close to her. Especially when there are so many others interested. But he needs her to be on the right path and there's only so much time.

He can only hope this will be enough. He won't be able to help her again. And he certainly can't protect her from what's coming.

A/N: So now we know about Sophia's parents and that it ties into this case they're working. I do like a good shadowy cabal with hidden figures and unknown motives...

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Tag List: @aylacavebear

[thememoryofadream]

Passion Play - Front Seat

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC

Summary: Dean meets a fellow hunter on a case and serious sparks fly. Sometimes, want and desire need an outlet....

Word Count: 1655

Tags/Warnings: Rated R for mature audiences only! Impala smut. 🔥

Passion Play Masterlist

Front Seat

"I swear to God, if I have to spend one more freakin' minute in this freakin' room, I'm gonna lose my mind!"

Sophia stomps across the hideous army green carpet and throws the file she's reviewing on the equally hideous lime green bed.

Dean and Sam share a look before turning their attention to the woman scowling in the middle of the room.

"Um, you ok, babe?" Dean asks cautiously.

"No, Dean, I'm not ok. We've been stuck in this place for days, we don't have any decent leads and I've been staring at these stupid police reports so long my eyes are crossed." As she speaks, she moves closer and closer, until she's practically on top of him. Her face is flushed and her eyes flash dangerously.

Dean exchanges another look with Sam. Sam shrugs and nods.

Dean stands and digs out his car keys. Handing them to Sophia, he says, "Ok, let's go for a drive then."

A frown creases her face for just a moment as she considers his offer. She then snatches the keys from him and turns for the door without another word.

Dean follows her, a wicked smirk crossing his face. He's pretty sure he knows what's bothering her and it'll be his pleasure to help her resolve it.

~~~SPN~~~

He barely gets the car door shut before she's reversing out of the parking space and screaming across the parking lot. He reaches for the dash as she turns out onto the main street, tires squealing.

They drive in silence for some time before Dean reaches over to gently touch her leg, flinching when she nearly comes off the seat.

"Whoa, easy there, babe," he murmurs, stroking her thigh slowly.

The glare she casts him would've sent a lesser man screaming for the hills.

The scenery grows considerably more rural and other traffic much thinner as she takes them out of town. As the car slows down slightly from rocket speed and the tension on her face eases somewhat, Dean speaks again.

"So are you gonna tell me what this is all about or should I tell you?"

Another withering glare. "I told you before. I was tired of being stuck in that room."

"Uh huh," he replies, a slight undertone of sarcasm lacing his voice.

She frowns. "Uh huh? What the hell does that mean?" she says.

He grins at her. "That's not the whole story."

"Oh, and you think you know what the rest of the story is, do you?" she says mockingly. Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel and he can tell she's holding her breath.

His grin widens. "I do" is all he says.

She stews on that for a few minutes before finally taking the bait. "So? What is it you think you know?" she huffs.

He makes her wait for it, watching her from behind his sunglasses. "Well," he says finally, "we haven't had sex in three days and I think it's making you cranky."

He watches her tense as she takes that in. It was true. They'd been so involved with this case, they hadn't had time for anything, let alone sex. They'd been sleeping in shifts, reading, tracking down leads, and consulting with Bobby nearly non-stop.

She turns her gaze back out the front window. "I'm not cranky," she says, "and it's not like I haven't gone for more than three days without sex before."

"Not since you met me, you haven't," he replies with a smirk. He slips his hand down over her inner thigh. "Just admit it, you can't get enough of me and it's making you cranky."

"Oh, fuck you," she hisses, swatting his hand away.

He snickers and gestures broadly at the scenery around them. "Isn't that what you brought me all the way out here in the middle of nowhere for?"

She growls and nearly sends him spilling from the seat when she slams on the brakes and turns down an apparently deserted country road. Before he can fully right himself, she's brought them to a stop behind a stand of trees.

Putting the car in park and turning off the engine, she sits and stares at the steering wheel. Her breath is coming much faster than she'd like as she struggles to shrug off the truth of his words.

Now worrying he's pushed her too far with his teasing, Dean gentles his voice. "It's okay, babe," he murmurs softly. "I've missed it too. I hate going so long without you." He reaches out to stroke the hair off her face.

Taking a deep breath, she tries to relax. After a moment, she uncurls her fingers from their death grip on the steering wheel. Turning, she slides across the seat and into Dean's lap.

Her breathing speeds up again as she feels his hands on her, his arms wrapping around her. He's right, it has been far too long.

He tips her face up to his. He raises a questioning eyebrow and she replies with a slow smile. A low growl escapes him as his mouth fuses with hers.

He kisses her hungrily and she responds with equal passion. Tongues dance and slide together as hands search for soft skin.

Dean coaxes her t-shirt up and off, tossing it into the backseat. His fingers slide over her back, looking for her bra clasp only to groan softly when he realizes the clasp is in front. He frees her breasts to his waiting hands and they both sigh.

Squirming against him, she finds his mouth again, sucking his lower lip between hers. Her hands slip under the hem of his henley, smoothing over his skin. She tugs at the shirt with a little whimper, wanting to feel his skin on hers.

Reaching one hand behind his head, he drags the shirt off and it joins hers in the backseat. His hands on her hips urge her astride him and she responds eagerly, rolling against his hardness with a soft moan.

Hands sliding over the warm skin of her back, he arches her toward him as he places wet, open-mouth kisses down her neck and across her collarbone. His mouth closes over her breast, tongue flicking the tight nipple. He sucks hotly at each breast in turn, wringing breathless whimpers from her.

Dragging his mouth away from her soft skin, he looks up at her. And the sight almost shatters his already tenuous self-control.

Her head is thrown back, lips parted, eyes closed. Her skin is flushed pink and she's breathing heavily. Her lips are red and slightly swollen from his kisses. She looks completely lost in pleasure.

The loss of his mouth on her skin makes her shiver slightly and she opens her eyes. Looking down at him, she almost loses herself in the dark heat of his gaze.

Without breaking eye contact, his hands move to the snap on her cutoff shorts. It takes some wiggling and a little breathless laughter, but they finally get her shorts and panties off. They join the rest of her clothes in the back.

As she settles back in his lap, they both reach for the button on his jeans. She bites her lip and shoos his hands away. Gently, she undoes the button and slides down the zipper. Her fingers brushing over his length has his fingers tightening on her hips.

She gives him a naughty smile and continues to take her time as she frees him from the denim.

He hisses and grabs her wrists as she strokes him. "Oh, no, you don't," he growls, forcing her hands up and kissing the insides of her wrists. "This is not gonna end like that."

Her naughty smile gives way to a gasp of pleasure as he moves to pull her onto him. Her fingers dig into his shoulders as she settles down over him slowly, taking him in.

His eyes slam shut as he feels her close around him. So hot. So tight. "So good," he moans, as one hand slides over her thigh to her bottom, drawing her closer. His other hand tangles in her hair as he pulls her mouth down to his, devouring it eagerly.

Unable to sit still, she rocks languidly against him, rolling her hips as she does. The small movement is all the cramped quarters will allow, but it's absolutely torturous.

"Ahhh yes," she purrs as he shifts lower in the seat, allowing her to take him more deeply.

He hums her name, pulling her closer, urging to move faster. His mouth is everywhere. Her neck, beneath her ear, down over her collarbone. He whispers in her ear, murmuring about how beautiful she is, how much he needs her, how much he loves her.

All she can do is mumble his name in return as the heat builds within her. Rocking against him one last time, she shudders, her harsh cry echoing in the confines of the car.

He groans as her body tightens around him, lifting his hips as he finds his release. He falls back against the seat, cradling her limp body in his arms, his breathing labored.

Pressing soft kisses in her hair, he rubs soothing circles on her back as she snuggles against him. "Feel better now?" he murmurs, grinning when he feels her poke him in the ribs.

Raising her face to his, she leans in for a slow, warm kiss. "I hate it when you're right," she mumbles against his lips.

His eyes widen comically as he pushes away from her slightly. "I'm sorry," he says, "can you repeat that for me? I didn't quite hear you."

She rolls her eyes and ducks her head. "You heard me just fine," she grumbles. "And I'll likely never hear the end of it."

He laughs and pulls her closer, tucking her head in his shoulder. "I'll just remind you the next time you get cranky…"

A/N: Sometimes tropes are tropes for good reason, sex in the Impala is one of the best. It's also fun to switch them up a bit, so we moved into the front seat this time.

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Tag List: @aylacavebear

[thememoryofadream]

Feet of Clay - Ch. 14/?

Characters: Dean Winchester x OC, Sam Winchester

Summary: On a hunt for something the Winchesters can't identify, Dean meets a woman who steals their case... Will she also steal his heart?

Word Count: 1796

Tags/Warnings: Canon-level violence descriptions. Set post S4-ish, but diverges from canon (Dean's been to Hell and back, but no angels).

Series Masterlist

Chapter 14: Here I Go Again

Dean climbs slowly from the car, limbs stiff from the long drive. He stretches with a groan as he watches his brother lope down the sidewalk with the room keys. Knocking on the window, he waves at Sophia and points to the room at the end of the walk.

"Son of a bitch," Sophia mutters as she slams the car door behind her. "Why the hell can't we do this in the summertime?"

Sam slings his duffle over his shoulder, patting her on the shoulder as he passes. "Bundle up, buttercup," he says, grinning.

She sticks her tongue out at him before marching to the back of the Impala, blowing on her fingers. "What did you do with my mittens?"

Dean rolls his eyes, grabbing the weapons bag and his duffle. "I can barely keep up with my own crap, sweetheart, don't expect me to keep track of yours too."

There's a good deal more grumbling as she gathers her things and follows him to their door. "This had better be a case and not some wild goose chase."

"And you had better not spend the whole damn time complaining about the cold or you're gonna end up working it alone." Dean gets the key worked in the door at last, shoving it open before reaching around to drag Sophia inside.

She growls, almost tripping in the thick shag carpet. She opens her mouth to rag him, only to find her tirade stopped by his kiss. Too surprised to do anything more than kiss him back, she feels him smile against her lips.

Lifting his head, he keeps one arm around her, the other taking her bag and tossing it on the bed. "Well, at least I know there's still one way to quiet that pretty mouth of yours." He laughs and grabs the hand about to smack him on the shoulder.

She finally gives him the slight hint of a grin he was looking for and leans into him. "I don't like the cold," she mumbles.

"Yeah, I got that part. Loud and clear." He stares down at her for a second, catching the shadow flitting across her face. "C'mon, babe, what's the deal? The closer we got to this place, the crankier you've gotten and I know it ain't just the cold."

Dropping her forehead against his chest, she wraps her arms around his waist. "I'm not sure really. Something's been nagging at me ever since I saw that picture in the newspaper Sam showed us."

"The article Bobby sent about the case?"

"Yeah." She pulls away to pace in front of the small round dinette table near the window. "Something in that picture...it's triggering some kind of memory, but I can't quite get hold of it." Her eyes are dark and serious when she raises them to his. "But it's not good, Dean. It's not good at all."

~~~SPN~~~

"Enjoying the scenery, Winchester?"

Dean drags his eyes away from the oh so lovely coeds to glance at the woman next to him. "Hey, I'm just looking, babe. No harm in that. I'm not dead, you know."

Sophia snorts, rolling her eyes as he grins at a pretty blonde wearing far too few clothes for the weather. Dean gets a dazzling smile from the girl, but Sophia gets a dirty look when she takes Dean's arm in a clearly possessive gesture. Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at the girl, she pulls him toward the Classical Arts building.

They're at SUNY-Binghamton to talk to one of the classical humanities professors about the box mentioned in the newspaper clipping that brought them here. It had some markings on it of potentially ancient Greek or Roman origin. Since they're in a college town, Sam thought they might as well take advantage of the local resources. Dean and Sophia volunteered to talk to the professor and Sam took the local police department.

"No, you're not dead...not yet anyway," she says sweetly, dropping his arm to trot up the steps ahead of him, knowing the heels and the climb will add a bit of extra sway to her bottom.

Snickering, he follows, definitely enjoying this scenery too. He skips a couple of steps and gets to the top before her, swinging the door open and gesturing her inside. He leans toward her as she slips by and whispers, "You can punish me later, sweetheart."

She pauses, giving him a naughty grin. "You wish." Turning on her heel, she strides down the hall, glancing to both sides in an attempt to find the right office. About halfway down, she spots the sign for Dr. Gregory Anders. Tapping a few times, she swings the door open, feeling Dean come up behind her.

Dean nearly trips over her when she stops short in the doorway. "Whoa, what're you…" His voice trails off as he peers over her shoulder. "Damn… Guess we're not getting anything from the professor."

The body of grey haired man is flopped back in the desk chair, throat slit. Blood is still dripping off his fingertips, splashing into the puddle beneath him. Papers hang out of various desk drawers and file cabinets. Bookshelves are emptied onto the floor. Paintings slashed and small marble sculptures smashed.

With a little push, Dean gets Sophia all the way into the office, shutting the door gently behind him. "No one in the hallway," he mumbles, skirting the mess on the carpet, "so we should have a few minutes to look around."

Sophia looks around the room from where she stands. "Well, someone was obviously looking for something, but this is a little overdone, don't you think?" She toes away some of the papers to get closer to the desk. "I mean, the killing wasn't personal. Almost surgical."

Nodding, he peeks into some of the desk drawers, trying not to touch anything. "Yeah, pretty precise stuff. Trying to hide what they were looking for maybe?"

"I suppose it's too much of a coincidence to think this is unrelated to the case we're working, isn't it?"

He snorts. "Definitely too much coincidence. Didn't Sam say this guy is biggest expert on ancient Greek and Roman symbols on the entire East Coast?"

"Yep, 'fraid so." She sighs. "Well, we can call this in anonymously, right? Then circle up with PD to see if they figure out what might be missing. Otherwise, I have no idea what to look for in here."

Voices and footsteps in the hall make the decision for them. Again, careful not to touch anything, Dean nudges open the door, peeking out, then drawing back. He holds up a hand, but keeps watch for just a moment, then nods and pushes the door the rest of the way open.

"Wait," she hisses, kneeling in front of the small settee near the door.

More voices sound from the far end of the hall. "We gotta go, babe. Now." He sees her fish something out from under the furniture and stuff it in her jacket pocket before joining him at the door.

They make a quick exit out the back of the building before circling around to the Impala. Safely back on the road to the motel, Dean says, "So, what'd ya find?"

She pulls the small object out and stares at it, a faraway look in her eyes. Rolling it through her fingers, she stares out the window. Trying to remember…

"Babe?"

Dean's voice jolts her from her memories. "I...uhhh...I don't know." She shakes her head, and stares back down at the tiny disk playing between her fingers. "There's still something…"

"Well," he says, deliberately keeping his tone light, "maybe Sam can help you…" Her gasp interrupts his thought and he looks at her sharply. All the color drains from her face as wide eyes turn to him.

"Oh God, Dean, I remember. I know where I've seen this before."

~~~SPN~~~

Sam flops down on the lumpy motel bed, spreading out the files in front of him. The cops at the police station were more than happy to let him go through the files on the most recent death tied to the strange box, but it didn't amount to much. He made copies of most of it and came back to the motel, hoping Dean and Sophia were having better luck with the professor.

HIs phone buzzes with a text from his brother. "Our room. Now." Frowning, Sam quickly swipes the police file into a pile and hurries down the sidewalk to Dean and Sophia's room. He doesn't even have to knock; the door is flung open just as he's reaching to tap on it.

"What's going on? What happened?" His voice is clearly worried and he scans Dean and Sophia quickly, checking to see if they're okay. No apparent injuries, which is good, but the serious look on Dean's face and the pale, stunned one on Sophia's don't bode well.

Dean waves a hand at Sophia and she swallows hard, keeping her eyes on the floor. "I told Dean before there was something in the picture Bobby sent that I recognized somehow, but I couldn't remember why." Fiddling with a tiny object in her hand, she tries to continue, but looks up at Dean instead.

"We went to that professor's office today," he says, backtracking slightly. "He was dead when we got there and the place had been ransacked. Someone obviously looking for something. As we were on our way out, Sophia found a small, metal disk on the floor and brought it with us. It's got a mark on it that matches one of the marks on the box in the photo. On the way back here, she remembered where she'd seen it before."

Sam's gaze flicks back and forth between them. "And? Where was it?"

Taking a deep breath, Sophia replies. "On the floor under my parents bodies."

~~~SPN~~~

"Did you get it?"

"No, it wasn't there. Maybe his house?"

"I doubt it. He would have wanted to show someone. You know how those academic types are.

"Yeah, well, he won't be showing anyone anything in the future."

"The office was left clean, I trust."

"We wore gloves. Give me a break, this isn't exactly the first time we've done this."

"Fine. My apologies for insulting your criminal skillset."

"Whatever. What do you want us to do now?"

"Start checking into his movements over the last few weeks. See who he's been with, who he's been talking to. But quietly. Asking after a dead man draws questions we don't want to answer."

"What about the Winchesters?"

"Pay them no mind. They think they're just investigating a cursed object. They have no idea what it means."

"And the girl?"

"Leave her to me."

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[thememoryofadream]

Feet of Clay - Ch. 13?

Characters: Dean Winchester x OC, Sam Winchester

Summary: On a hunt for something the Winchesters can't identify, Dean meets a woman who steals their case... Will she also steal his heart?

Word Count: 3734

Tags/Warnings: Canon-level violence descriptions. Set post S4-ish, but diverges from canon (Dean's been to Hell and back, but no angels).

Also includes a T-rated love scene. 🔥

Series Masterlist

Chapter 13 - Please Forgive Me

Sophia tosses a few Advil in her mouth and swallows them dry. Leaning her head back against the window, she eyes the bandage and ice bucket on the table in front her. She needs to ice her wrist and then wrap it before the swelling gets worse, but she just can't find the energy.

Sighing, she lets her mind replay the argument with Dean. Sometimes her mouth gets ahead of her brain and she says things she shouldn't. He'd hurt her with his comments about the plan being stupid and she'd lashed back without thinking. He doesn't treat her like a five year old. More like a woman he cares about and doesn't want to lose. Fine, he goes overboard on the protective thing, but...as for the other, well, yeah, now she's sitting here, alone. Got what she said she wanted. Way to go.

Sam had told her Dean would cool off and they could talk about it, but she's afraid he's just too angry. He wouldn't even speak to her out at the farm, barely even looked at her. And then he'd sent them away. If he came back to the motel tonight, who's room would he choose? Would he just stay with Sam? She glances over at the bed and feels her eyes turn gritty with suppressed tears. How is she supposed to sleep alone now?

She hears a noise and it takes her a second to process that it's a key in the lock. She blinks slowly, watching as the door slides open and Dean steps through. Not moving, she stares at him, beyond surprised to see him.

Dean slips his jacket off and tosses it across the chair. His gaze is automatically drawn to Sophia and he frowns when he sees the bandage and ice. He flicks a look at her face and the frown deepens. The blank expression, the red eyes. He curses under his breath and pulls the chair over to sit in front of her.

He notices she's holding left wrist close to her body and he reaches for her. She doesn't flinch or try to move away when he touches her, for which he's grateful. He was a world class jackass and he's lucky she doesn't toss him out the door.

Gently, he takes her hand, supporting her wrist as carefully as he can, holding his breath as she winces slightly. Her wrist is splotched red and beginning to swell. "Have you iced this yet?" he asks quietly. When she shakes her head, he sets her hand back down on her lap and gets up. After digging through their medicine kit, he finds the zippered baggie they use for icing and settles back in the chair. He fills up the bag, wraps it in a towel and again carefully takes her hand in his. He sets the towel-covered bag over her wrist, being as gentle as possible.

They sit in silence for a moment. Dean's thumb traces little circles on the back of her hand, while the other hand holds the bag of ice in place. Not looking up at her, he murmurs, "I don't think you're stupid, you know."

Sophia releases the breath she'd been holding. She knows he doesn't think that. Knows he didn't mean it when he said it. Knows it was a lot of something else driving those words. "I know."

More silence. His thumb continues to stroke soothing circles on the back of her hand. It's her turn to break the silence this time. "I didn't mean it when I said you treat me like a five year old."

His thumb doesn't stop, but his breath stutters. "Yeah, you did. Because I do." She starts to shake her head, but he interrupts. "Okay, fine, maybe not like a five year old, but not like you're a grown woman fully capable of taking care of herself."

She doesn't have a reply to that. "Yeah, okay, maybe." She looks at him, but his attention is focused on her hand. "I just want you to trust me is all."

Her quiet words cut him. He would trust her with his life. He trusts her more than anyone he knows besides Sam. But she's right. He's basically been telling her he doesn't trust her with her own life.

Removing the ice, he examines her wrist as he searches for the words to explain. The swelling has subsided some, so he reaches for the bandage and begins binding the wrist.

"It's not that I don't trust you, sweetheart," he says, voice rough. "I just... It scares the hell out of me to think of losing you." The words spill out in a rush. He still doesn't meet her gaze, but he feels it on him.

Sophia reaches out and covers his hand with her own, stopping his winding of the bandage around her wrist. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean."

He sighs. "Not by choice, maybe, but haven't you seen what happens to people who get close to us?" Gently shaking off her hand, he finishes the wrap, tucking in the ends to secure it.

She grazes her finger down the side of his face and when he finally raises his gaze to hers, she flinches at what she sees. So full of pain and loss. She hates what's happened to them. The things they've seen and how much they've lost.

"I can't guarantee nothing will ever happen to me, baby," she whispers. "But I can promise you I'll always be careful." A lopsided smile. "I've got too much to live for, you know. Someone's got to keep you and that brother of yours in line."

He rolls his eyes, but a brief smile flickers across his face. "Don't know why you'd sign up for that job."

She grins back, leaning into him, her knees slipping between his. "I'm a glutton for punishment I guess." Turning serious again, she murmurs, "So can you trust that I'm not gonna do anything crazy? That just because I'm not with you doesn't mean something's gonna kill me?"

Dipping down, he touches his forehead to hers and tangles their fingers together. "Sophia..." She's not asking anything out of the ordinary. Only the freedom to be who she is. To be the woman he was attracted to in the first place. The strong, independent woman he's quickly falling head over heels for.

Sophia turns her head, kissing her way along his cheek. She knows what she's asking of him. Knows this is part of who he is. "Just...please try. Will you do that?"

He raises their joined hands and kisses each finger in turn. "Yeah, babe, I'll try. I'm sorry..."

She stops him with a finger across his lips, her lips grazing his jaw. "It's okay. I'm the one who should be apologizing to you." Her voice drops, tightening with emotion. "When I said you should leave me alone...I didn't mean..." She shakes her head, looking for the words. "I want to be with you. You..."

"Shhhhh," he whispers, turning his head just enough to find her mouth with his own. He brushes a kiss across her lips, barely touching, testing. He feels her breathe a soft sigh and kisses her again, still tentative, but asking a little more.

The feel of his lips sliding over hers warms her straight through to her core. Sliding her free hand around his neck, she gently pulls him closer. She parts her lips, inviting him further.

When her lips open beneath his, it's Dean's turn to sigh. Relief and tenderness flow through him. He tightens his fingers around the hand he's still holding and leans into the kiss. The sweet heat of her mouth consumes him and he lets go of a little of the tension clenching his stomach.

After a long moment, he pulls away, watching as her dark eyes slowly flutter open. She gives him a slow smile and he almost can't catch his breath. What this woman does to him. Then she yawns and he shakes his head with a short chuckle. Clearing his throat, he mutters, "You're exhausted and hurt. We should get you to bed."

A brief look of panic flashes across her face. "You're not...I mean...we're good, right? You're staying...?"

He gives her a quick, hard kiss. "I'm not sleeping anywhere but next to you."

"Oh, okay. I just thought..." Her voice trails off and she shrugs, an embarrassed flush creeping across her cheeks.

Dean stands, giving her a crooked grin as he pulls her up with him, careful of her wrist. "Quit thinkin', babe. It's bad for your health."

She snorts. "Shut up, Winchester or I'm not going to be the only injured one around here."

Chuckling quietly, he tugs her toward the bathroom. "Alright, tough girl, save it for the monsters, huh?"

~~~SPN~~~

Sophia's eyes flutter open. Only a few fingers of light are filtering through the closed curtains, so she knows it's early. She tries to shift a little, but finds herself pinned by Dean's warm, heavy arm across her waist. Turning her head, a small smile curves her lips as she watches him sleep. He's laying on his side, touching her all the way down, his foot crossed over hers. His head is tucked down just a little and she can feel his breath on her shoulder.

Moving her free arm, she flexes her wrist experimentally. It's only a little tender still and not nearly as swollen. Breathing a sigh of relief, she rests her hand on his arm, fingers trailing over it, teasing the light dusting of hair. He shifts, but doesn't wake, so she teases further up over his bicep and back down.

Dean's eyes blink open and he shifts his head to look at her. God, she's beautiful in the morning. Messy hair, soft eyes and that sweet smile. Easy and quiet before life kicks the door in. He never much liked mornings before. Now it's his favorite time of day. He leans down and kisses her bare shoulder. "Morning, sweetheart," he murmurs.

"Morning." That sleep roughened voice of his curls her toes every time and sends a bolt of heat through her stomach. Turning onto her side to face him, she slides a hand over his chest, watching the muscles shiver beneath her touch.

Snagging her wandering fingers, he raises them to his lips. "How's the wrist?" he asks, kissing her knuckles, skimming over the top of the bandage.

"Just a little sore. You did a nice job with the wrap." Her voice is a little breathless, probably caused by the way his dark green eyes keep flicking to her lips.

"Least I could do, considering," he mumbles. He's tired of just looking at her full lips, so he releases her hand and tangles his fingers in her hair, tilting her face to his. Brushing his lips over hers, he swallows a groan as she sighs, her mouth opening to his. After last night's disaster, he's hungry for her. Wanting to reconnect with her. Make it up to her somehow. So he devours her, hand cupping her head at just the right angle to explore every bit of her mouth.

Sophia arches closer, pressing fully against him as her hands stroke over his shoulders. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she surrenders fully to his kiss, her tongue dancing against his. This is what they need. To dance this dance. To center and connect.

Releasing her mouth, he pulls her tank top over her head as he rolls her onto her back, settling against her. His hands trace over her body, skimming her waist, grazing the sides of her breasts. He sucks at the skin of her neck then trails down her collarbone. Her silky skin tastes slightly salty and he hums against it as he shifts over her.

Her hands are just as busy, tracing their own path over his shoulders and back. She arches toward him with a sharp gasp as his warm mouth closes over her breast. He doesn't linger there, though and she mews her disappointment as he moves on.

Dean ignores her soft complaint. He's going to worship every inch of her. From the tips of her toes to the top of her pretty, dark head. Moving over her, he strips her down, then starts working his way around her body. Her quiet moans and breathless panting push him. Every sound makes him want to hear more. Every touch makes him want to feel more.

Shifting restlessly beneath him, Sophia can't stop the soft sounds escaping her. He's making her crazy with want. Her hands roam over as much of him as she can reach, but he keeps shifting. Growling, she tries to push him over onto his back. She wants to explore him and make him just as out of control as she is.

Dean chuckles softly, but finally allows her to roll him over. The feel of her warm, sweat damp skin draping over him makes him close his eyes. Her mouth on the skin of his throat makes him groan. He digs his fingers into the sheets as she slides down over him, the sultry heat of her mouth tormenting him as she goes.

The way he gasps her name. The way he arches his neck. The way his body squirms beneath her. It makes her want him more. Makes her not want to wait any longer. She moves back up over him, her mouth finding his in an almost desperate kiss. "I need you," she whispers against his lips. "I need to feel you."

His hands slide to her hips, rolling them over him, gritting his teeth at the wave of pleasure as he does so. "What're you waiting for?"

She sits up, catching his gaze with her own as she settles over him. Biting her lip as she takes him in, she pauses for a moment, sucking in a breath. The sense of completion is almost overwhelming. Her eyes flicker closed, but she pushes them to open so she can see his face as she starts to move, slow and steady. Wanting to feel every movement. Feel everything.

Dean's eyes start to close, but he forces them open. Watching her move adds a whole other level to the pleasure. Their gazes catch again and he feels her fingers curl on his chest, her lips parting as she struggles to breathe. He tries to gentle his grip on her thighs, but for a giddy moment wonders if that's the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

Their tempo increases, Sophia's movements becoming less coordinated, breath ever heavier. As they rock closer and closer to the edge, Dean sits up, swallowing a moan as the shift in position nearly pushes him over. Their mouths collide, tongues dancing and clashing. Hands stroke and squeeze. So close...so close.

The orgasm hits her first, sweeping her under like an ocean riptide. She moans his name, her fingers digging into his shoulders before she collapses into him. He's right behind her, holding her tight to him as he shudders his release and does his own collapsing back onto the bed.

She lays sprawled over him, too boneless to move, her face tucked into his neck. She feels his hands smoothing over her, soothing and warm. Going back to sleep, wrapped safely in his arms sounds incredibly tempting, but she knows Sam will be knocking at the door before too much longer.

Dean kisses the top of her head, then shifts them both onto their sides. He'd never been much of a snuggler after sex before, but a lot of things were different with Sophia. Slipping his leg between hers, he kisses along her temple and over her forehead, fingers drifting up and down her back.

"We should probably get into the shower," Sophia mumbles, kissing his throat. She curls up closer to him, however, not making any move to get out of bed.

"Mmmmm," he hums in reply, not remotely ready to let her go. To let life intrude again.

Another few moments pass, and finally she raises her head slightly to look up at him. Her fingers trace over his jaw, across the freckles on his cheeks. When his eyes flutter open to meet hers and a satisfied grin tilts his lips, she sighs, running her thumb along his lower lip. Suppressing a little moan when his tongue flicks out over the tip, she yawns and says, "If you're a good boy, I'll let you shower with me."

He chuckles and gives her a quick kiss before sliding out of bed, pulling her with him. "Oh, I'm the best, baby. The very best."

Sophia snorts a laugh, followed by a shriek as he smacks her bare bottom. They're both laughing by the time the bathroom door closes behind them.

~~~SPN~~~

Sophia is just pulling her hoodie over her head when she hears a knock at the door. Peeking out, she sees Sam, loaded down with coffee and what she hopes is food. Quickly swinging the door open, she gives him a smile and reaches for a couple of the bags.

"Morning, Sam," she says as she turns to dump everything on the small table by the window. "What'd ya bring me?"

Sam hands her a Starbucks cup. "Your usual and some breakfast." He glances around as he puts Dean's coffee and the rest of the food on table. Taking a sip from his own cup, he watches her carefully as he says, "Soooo, is everything okay?"

She nods, wrapping her fingers gratefully around the cup. "Yeah, we're good," she murmurs, with a little smile. Then her forehead creases into a frown. "I'm sorry you had to be a part of all that. I know you didn't sign up to be on some drama filled soap opera when you agreed to let me tag along."

Shrugging, Sam settles into one of the straight backed chairs surrounding the table and grabs one of the bags. "No biggie. It's gonna happen. Not like Dean and I never fight."

"Yeah, well, it's a lot different when it's your brother and his..." Sophia pauses, not entirely sure what to call herself. "Whatever. I'll try to keep you out of it." She takes a few steps closer to the bathroom door and calls out to Dean. "Babe, Sam's here with breakfast. Put a wiggle in it."

Sam snorts as he unwraps a ham and egg biscuit. "I think the word you're looking for is 'girlfriend'."

She flushes slightly and ignores him, taking her own seat at the table. She's saved from any further comment as Dean slams open the bathroom door and comes into the room. She looks up to tell him to take it easy on the walls, but the words die in her throat as she drinks in the sight of him.

He's shirtless, jeans slung low on his waist. His abs flex slightly as he ruffles his damp hair with his fingers. As if that wasn't enough to set Sophia's heart racing, a drop of water falls from his hair and traces it's way down over his chest. An image of her tongue tracing that same path just this morning fills her head and she has to force herself to take a breath.

Dean hears the sound and glances over at her. Her thoughts are clearly written on her face and he gives her that panty dropping grin and a wink before snagging at t-shirt off the end of the bed. Pulling it on, he moves over to the table, leaning down to kiss her neck and murmur, "You can have more of me later, sweetheart."

Snickering at her choked laugh, he drops into a chair and grabs a bag. "Nice job, Sammy. I might keep you around after all if you keep fetching food and coffee like this."

Sam rolls his eyes and tosses his wadded up wrapper at his brother. "Don't get used to it. I only did it because I knew Sophia hurt her wrist last night."

"Speaking of," Dean mumbles around a mouthful of biscuit. He scrabbles around on the table, looking for the bandage Sophia had removed before taking her shower. Finding it under an empty paper bag, he holds his hand out to her. "Gimme your arm, babe, and I'll re-wrap that for you."

"I'm fine," she says, slipping her arm under the table.

"Oh yeah? Then let's see you move it around."

"Dean..."

He just looks at her.

With a sigh, she moves her arm back into view and tries to bend it, but can't do it without wincing. At Dean's look of triumph, she huffs a short "fine" and turns so he can bind it up for her. "Bossy," she mumbles under her breath.

Sam laughs and Sophia sticks her tongue out at him, kicking him lightly under the table. "Alright, alright. It's just nice to see him boss someone else for a change." Still grinning, he drains the rest of his coffee and leans back in the chair. "Anyway, I'm not just here for breakfast."

"Yeah?" Dean says, finishing with Sophia's wrist and stuffing another bite of biscuit in his mouth. "You got something else for us already?"

Sam nods and pulls a notebook from his jacket pocket. "Bobby called before I went out for the food. Something that might be a cursed object or maybe a witch in New York."

"There some reason why we have to go to cold places in the dead of winter?" Sophia mutters. Standing, she starts gathering up their trash and sweeping up crumbs.

"I'll keep you warm, baby," Dean replies with a leer. He reaches out as if to smack Sophia's bottom, but gets his hand swatted away.

Sam makes a gagging sound. "So yeah, I think that's my cue to go pack."

Sophia giggles and nudges him with her hip as she walks past him to the trashcan. "Good idea. We'll meet you outside in twenty."

~~~SPN~~~

In Binghamton, New York, a wizened old man tosses a newspaper down next to an empty cup of coffee. The story is dry and bland, typical journalistic nonsense. But the picture. The picture tells the real story. He stares at it thoughtfully before tossing some coins on the table for a tip and standing slowly.

Yes, if this doesn't get her here, nothing will.

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[thememoryofadream]

✨Rookie - 2/8✨

Summary: You didn’t plan on starting over in the middle of nowhere — Montana was never the dream. But when LA chewed you up and spit you out, a run-down house and a stranger with a slow smile felt like the closest thing to hope you’d had in a long time.

Pairing: Beau x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 5329

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.

Saturday arrived faster than you expected.

Montana decided to show off that morning. Blue sky, not a single cloud in sight, and a sun that felt a little too ambitious for early summer. By noon, it was already sweltering, the kind of dry heat that settled on your skin like a second layer.

You were outside early, mostly to make it look like you had any idea what you were doing before Beau showed up. You’d picked up a few supplies from the local hardware store. Some soil, a bag of mulch you could barely lift, and a handful of flowers that looked way too delicate for the mess of a yard you had.

You’d decided flowers were doable. Gentle. Pretty. Symbolic, even.

Meanwhile, the rest of the yard looked like a crime scene from a gardening documentary. And that’s when you heard the low rumble of a truck engine rolling into your driveway. Beau. He hopped out of the driver’s side, already dressed for war. Boots, jeans, a dark gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and back like it regretted agreeing to the job. He had gloves tucked into his back pocket and sunglasses on, but even from across the yard, you could tell he was already fighting the heat.

You shaded your eyes and waved as he walked around the truck. “Right on time”, you called. “You want a medal or a cold drink?”.

“I’ll take the drink”, he said, flashing a grin. “But I’ll settle for some mild appreciation and the promise you’re not gonna let me mow over a snake”.

You snorted. “No promises. This yard probably has its own wildlife registry”.

He took a long look around, hands on his hips, surveying the battlefield. “We’re gonna need more than a weekend”.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere”.

His gaze cut back to you, brief but lingering. “That so?”.

You pretended not to hear the weight in his voice and pointed dramatically at the patch of dirt near the porch. “I’m planting flowers. That’s my contribution. The rest is all yours, cowboy”.

“Cowboy?”, he asked, amused, heading to the back of the truck for his gear.

You turned toward your flower patch, kneeling in the dirt with exaggerated grace. “I figured I might as well call it like it is. The hat’s just missing”.

Beau grunted a laugh and got to work. Within minutes, he had the mower humming through the yard, a storm of grass flying in his wake. You kept glancing over your shoulder while you dug shallow holes for your flowers, watching him move, efficient, strong, calm. The kind of guy who didn’t complain even when the sun was merciless and sweat had already started to darken his shirt across his back.

And that’s when it happened.

Halfway through mowing the back section, he paused, shut off the engine, and peeled the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. He tossed it casually over the fence post, like it was nothing. But it was definitely not nothing.

You sat frozen in place, a little trowel in one hand, half a daisy in the other, your mouth suddenly dry.

Beau Arlen was ripped. Not showy, gym-tan ripped, just solid, real muscle that came from years of work, broad chest dusted with sun-kissed hair, a few scars here and there that only made him more… well, real.

He didn���t notice you watching or maybe he did and was pretending not to. Either way, you tried very hard not to stare like some Victorian maiden witnessing a scandal.

You cleared your throat and looked back at your flowers, aggressively shoving one into the dirt.

“Careful”, Beau called from behind you, voice too casual. “That poor flower didn’t do anything to deserve violence”.

You didn’t turn around. “It’s too hot to be funny”.

“You’re the one who picked the middle of a heatwave to start a garden”.

You muttered something under your breath, then louder: “You know, if you didn’t want me to pass out from heatstroke, maybe keep the shirt on next time”.

He chuckled, low, easy. “Wouldn’t want you passin’ out. But to be fair, I warned you about the weather”.

You finally glanced over your shoulder. He was taking a drink from a water bottle, sweat glistening on his chest and arms, his smile all effortless charm.

“I don’t remember you mentioning nudity being part of yard work”, you shot back.

“Hey, it’s Montana”, he shrugged. “We’ve got different rules”.

You turned back to your flowers before your brain could suggest anything your mouth might actually say out loud. The air between you hummed with something you weren’t ready to name. Not tension, not heat… just possibility.

-

By late afternoon, the yard had transformed from full-blown chaos to mildly less chaotic. The lawn was mowed, the edges trimmed, and a few stubborn weeds surrendered their reign. Your flowers were planted, slightly crooked, a little messy, but bright and cheerful like they were proud of surviving your questionable gardening skills.

Beau had dragged two lawn chairs into the shade beneath an old tree near the back fence. You handed him a cold bottle of lemonade you’d swiped from a convenience store mini-fridge the day before, and he nodded in approval as he twisted the cap off.

You sank into the chair beside him with a long exhale, brushing dirt off your knees. Your tank top was streaked with sweat and soil, your hair pulled into a lazy bun that had lost the will to hold shape hours ago.

He looked just as worn out, shirt still hanging on the fence, jeans streaked with grass stains, and a satisfied, sunburnt look on his face like a man who had earned his break.

You took a long sip of your lemonade before finally saying, “Alright. Real talk”.

He raised a brow, amused. “Uh-oh. What’d I do now?”.

“You didn’t”, you said. “I mean—not yet”.

Beau chuckled and leaned back, one ankle resting on his knee. “Okay. Shoot”.

You glanced at him, squinting past the sun filtering through the leaves. “How old are you, really?”.

He gave a small laugh, slow and knowing, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “That’s where we’re starting?”.

“Full transparency”, you said with a shrug. “We’ve already crossed shirtless boundaries. I feel like age is fair game”.

Beau smirked into his bottle, then nodded. “Alright. I’m thirty-nine. Pushing forty next January”.

You blinked. “Seriously?”.

“Yep”.

“You do not look thirty-nine”, you said before you could stop yourself, and immediately winced. “I mean—uh—not that it’s old, I just… you know. Thought maybe mid-thirties. Max”.

He chuckled, clearly entertained. “You’re digging, (Y/N). Want a shovel?”.

You groaned and covered your face with one hand. “Please let the grass grow back and swallow me whole”.

“No chance”, he said with a lazy smile. “You’re stuck here now. Your flowers already took root”.

You dropped your hand, smirking. “Fine. You got me. I was just trying to make sure I’m not weird for thinking you’re—uh—bearable to look at”.

Beau gave you a slow, teasing look. “Bearable, huh? That’s high praise”.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head”.

He leaned a little closer, still playful. “Your turn”.

You paused, hesitating just a beat too long.

Beau caught it. “Don’t tell me you’re older than me. That would really mess with my ego”.

You let out a laugh, short and sharp. “Not quite. I’m twenty-five”.

The moment stretched just slightly. Beau blinked. “Wait. Twenty-five?”.

You nodded, biting your bottom lip. “Still want to make jokes about stray puppies?”.

He leaned back slowly, blowing out a breath as he processed. “Damn. You’re a baby”.

“I’m not that young”, you protested. “I’ve seen things. I’ve paid taxes. I own a plunger”.

He laughed again, a real one this time, head tilting back as it rolled out of him like thunder. “Alright, alright. I’ll give you that”.

You watched him, trying to read the shift in his eyes. The teasing hadn’t disappeared, but there was something a little softer there now. A flicker of thought behind the smile.

“You good?”, you asked.

Beau looked at you, nodded. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect it, is all. You carry yourself older”.

You tilted your head. “That a compliment?”.

“It’s whatever you want it to be”, he said, taking another slow drink of his lemonade.

You smiled, a little sheepish, a little unsure. “Age gap weird you out?”.

“Not unless it weirds you out”, he said easily. “We’re just talkin’. Workin’. Sittin’ in the dirt, drinkin’ lemonade”.

“And sharing deep secrets like our IRS histories”, you added dryly.

“Exactly”. He grinned. “Real intimacy”.

You both sat in companionable silence for a few more minutes, the last of the lemonade disappearing as the shadows stretched across the yard. The air was finally starting to cool, a gentle breeze stirring the grass and tugging at the sweaty ends of your hair.

You leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out, head tilted toward the breeze. “God. I forgot what it’s like to actually earn being tired. Not, like, soul-deep ‘I hate my life’ tired. Just… yard work, dirt-under-your-nails, sunburned kind of tired”.

Beau glanced at you over the top of his bottle. “You sound like someone who’s done their fair share of soul-deep tired”.

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. I, uh… worked for the LAPD. Not for long, though. Long enough”.

Beau froze, bottle halfway to his mouth. Then he turned to look at you fully. “Wait. You’re a cop?”.

You blinked. “Was. Technically still certified. But… yeah”.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just loaded.

Then he let out a low whistle. “Well, hell. I was not expecting that”.

You shrugged, self-conscious suddenly. “Yeah, most people don’t. I get a lot of ‘you’re too small’ and ‘you look too nice to arrest anyone’”.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something between amusement and respect. “You do look nice. But I’ve seen the way you stab at weeds. You’ve got rage potential”.

You smirked. “Only when provoked. Or lied to. Or cheated on by my superior officer”.

Beau’s face shifted. The teasing dropped out instantly. “Ah”.

“Yeah”, you said, kicking a pebble under your foot. “It’s a whole mess. He tanked my rep after everything. Couldn’t get hired again. Not in LA, anyway”.

Beau looked at you for a long moment, thoughtful. Then he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You know I’m Sheriff, right?”.

Your head snapped toward him. “You’re Sheriff?”.

He gave you that lazy grin, but this time it was laced with something more real. “Lewis and Clark County. Stepped in a while back. Was supposed to be temporary, but… well. Life’s funny like that”.

You just stared at him, your brain short-circuiting a little. “So when you said ‘I’ve got tools’ and ‘weekends free’… you meant ‘I run the local department and moonlight as a lawn savior’”.

“Pretty much”.

You laughed, because what else could you do? “God. I just called you a cowboy and accused you of undressing in my yard and then told you my tragic career backstory”.

He raised a brow. “To be fair, you weren’t wrong about the undressing”.

You groaned. “Stop talking”.

Beau was still watching you, the teasing edge softening as something more serious settled in behind his eyes. You could see the gears turning, not judgmental, not calculating, just thinking. Like he was trying to piece you together with what he knew about the job. About the people. About himself.

Then he leaned forward again, elbows resting on his knees, voice low and steady. “You want a job?”.

You blinked. “What?”.

His expression didn’t waver. “I’m serious. You said you’re still certified. You’re experienced. And more importantly, you’re not a dumbass”.

You let out a short, startled laugh. “Is that the standard hiring criteria now?”.

“It’s a high bar around here”, he deadpanned. “I meant what I said earlier, (Y/N). You’d be a damn good fit. We’ve got a spot opening up in a few weeks, but hell, if you’re interested, I’ll make room sooner”.

You stared at him, unsure if he was messing with you or not. But Beau Arlen didn’t strike you as the type who offered things he didn’t mean. His gaze was too steady. Too real.

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Why would you take a chance on someone like me?”.

He shrugged, slow and honest. “Because I’ve made worse bets on people who looked a hell of a lot better on paper”. He held your gaze for a second longer, then added, a little quieter, “And I can tell you’ve got more fight in you than you think”.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You’d been turned down so many times, dragged through enough crap that you stopped even letting yourself hope when opportunities showed up. But this one felt different. Not because he was offering you a job, but because he saw something in you, and didn’t flinch from it.

Your throat tightened. You looked down at your scraped-up hands, still dusty from the yard. “I haven’t worn a badge in over a year”.

“So?”, he said. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still fit”.

That made something in your chest pull tight and warm all at once. You looked up at him again. “You’re not worried about hiring the girl who got run out of LA?”.

Beau shook his head. “I’m more interested in the girl who had the guts to start over”.

The breeze picked up again, rustling the trees above, and for the first time in a long time, you felt seen. Not for your past. Not for your mistakes. But for what you could be.

You nodded slowly, the weight of it all settling in your chest, heavy, but in the good way. The real way. “I’ll think about it”, you said, quietly.

Beau smiled. “Good. Think fast, though. You’ll be swearing in before you know it”.

You laughed, shaking your head. “No pressure or anything”.

“I mean, I could make you work your way up from mowing lawns”, he said, smirking. “But I think you’ve earned the fast track”.

You glanced over at him, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. “Is that your way of flirting, or do you just recruit every woman with flowerbed rage and unresolved trauma?”.

He stood up slowly, brushing off his hands and giving you a crooked grin. “Just the ones who make me laugh”, he said, and with a wink, started toward the gate.

-

It didn’t even take a week before you found yourself pulling into the dusty little lot in front of the Lewis and Clark County Sheriff’s Department.

You told yourself it was just to check things out. No promises. No decisions. Just looking.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. Not after the way Beau had looked at you, like you still had value, like you weren’t some burned-out rookie from the city with a black mark on your file. That kind of belief was rare. And addictive.

You stepped out of your car, nerves bubbling just under your skin. The building wasn’t big. Maybe five or six offices, a bullpen, probably a break room with weak coffee and a fridge full of someone’s half-eaten casserole. It was a far cry from the sterile high-rise precincts in LA, but that wasn’t a bad thing.

It already felt warmer. More human.

You pushed through the front doors and were immediately greeted by cool air, the hum of conversation, and a familiar sound: fingers tapping on keyboards, low voices on the phone, the occasional shuffle of boots on linoleum.

A woman sitting behind the front desk looked up, mid-thirties, sharp eyes, coffee in hand, badge clipped to her belt. “You must be (Y/N)”, she said, smiling like she’d been expecting you. “Beau said you might show up”.

Your brows lifted. “That obvious, huh?”.

She stood, offering her hand. “Deputy Jenny Hoyt. Around here, we don’t wait long to gossip. You want coffee, or you want the tour?”.

You chuckled, shaking her hand. “Tour first. Coffee after. Otherwise, I’ll forget why I’m here”.

Jenny led you through the station with. She introduced you to a few of the other deputies — polite nods, a couple curious glances, but nothing too intense. Everyone seemed… nice. Relaxed. Like they didn’t need to prove anything. It was weird. In a good way.

By the time you looped back to the front, you felt more grounded than you had in months. Maybe longer.

Jenny poured you a cup of truly terrible coffee and handed it over with a knowing grin. “Beau said you were LAPD?”.

You nodded. “Briefly”.

“He also said you had a killer right hook and a knack for sarcasm”.

You raised a brow. “He talk about all his potential hires like that?”.

Jenny shrugged, taking a sip from her own mug. “Only the ones he doesn’t want to scare off”.

You blinked. “Wait. He’s scared I’ll run?”.

Jenny tilted her head. “Girl, the man tried not to look smug for two straight days after you said you'd think about coming in. That’s as close as he gets to full emotional transparency”.

You felt your cheeks warm, and tried to bury your smile in the rim of your cup. Before you could say anything, you heard boots on tile.

Beau.

He rounded the corner, clipboard in one hand, sunglasses still pushed up into his messy hair. His eyes found yours immediately.

“Look who decided to drop by”, he said, that signature half-grin tugging at his mouth.

You lifted your cup. “They bribed me with coffee and compliments. Very professional”.

“Guess I owe Jenny lunch, then”.

Jenny smirked. “Told you she wouldn’t flake”.

Beau gave you a longer look, his voice softening just slightly. “What do you think?”.

You glanced around, heart thudding in your chest. “I think… this place might actually feel like something”.

His smile deepened. Not smug, not cocky, just sure. “Told you”.

You narrowed your eyes, teasing. “Don’t get too confident. I still haven’t signed anything”.

Beau stepped a little closer, lowering his voice just enough so only you could hear. “Well, take your time, officer. But just so you know…”. His eyes flicked down and back up, lingering for just a second too long to be innocent. “That uniform would look damn good on you”.

Your jaw dropped. He turned on his heel, already walking away with that maddening calm.

Jenny let out a low whistle beside you. “Yeah… good luck with that”.

You stared after him, the smirk still ghosting across his face as he disappeared down the hall. Oh, you were so in trouble.

-

A few weeks later, you were wedged into the passenger seat of Beau’s cruiser, deeply regretting every decision that led to your current outfit.

The ride-along had started out fine. You’d had two weeks to settle in, shadowing the team, getting to know the locals, sitting through endless briefings and even more endless small talk with volunteers who brought in donuts “just because”. You liked it more than you expected to.

But nothing, nothing, had prepared you for the absolute tragedy that was the spare uniform.

You tugged self-consciously at the too-long sleeves, glaring down at your chest like it was personally responsible for your suffering. The shirt was tight across your boobs, pulling at the buttons with every breath, and the tactical pants sagged low on your hips but somehow clung way too tightly to your ass.

You looked like someone tried to dress a bombshell Barbie in standard-issue Kevlar.

And of course he looked perfect.

Beau sat behind the wheel, comfortably relaxed in his civilian-duty attire. Dark jeans, a black T-shirt that fit just right, badge clipped to his belt like a damn action figure. Hair doing that perfect wind-swept thing. No uniform. No discomfort. No wardrobe malfunction in sight.

You side-eyed him dramatically. “How come you get to dress like a rogue Texas ranger and I look like I’m on my way to fight crime at a Halloween party?”.

Beau didn’t even glance at you, just kept his eyes on the road, a slow grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Because I’m the boss”.

“That’s abuse of power”, you muttered, shifting in your seat and pulling at the waistband for the hundredth time. “I feel like I’m one squat away from splitting these pants straight down the middle”.

“Please don’t”, he said, deadpan. “I’m trying to maintain a professional work environment”.

You threw him a look. “You’ve been smirking at me since I got in the car”.

He finally looked over. “Can’t help it. I mean, you’re out here fightin’ for your life in that shirt. I’m just tryin’ to be supportive”.

“You’re gonna be supportive all the way to an HR complaint”.

Beau chuckled, and it did that stupid thing to your stomach again, the low, easy laugh that made the air feel warmer than it should.

“Relax”, he said, voice gentling just a bit. “You’ll have your own uniform by next week. We put the rush on the order”.

“Good. Because if this button gives out, it’s taking somebody’s eye with it”.

He glanced over again, slower this time. “Yeah, well… could be worth the risk”.

You stared at him, mouth open. “Sheriff”.

He just grinned, completely unbothered, and turned back to the road. You crossed your arms over your chest, which only made things worse, and slumped into the seat with a groan. “This is harassment”.

“No”, he said, lips twitching. “This is Montana. You should’ve read the fine print”.

You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth was already tugging up.

Truth was, you didn’t really mind. The banter. The tension. The way his hand always hovered just a little too close to yours on the gear shift. It was dangerous territory, sure, but after everything you’d been through, a little danger felt a hell of a lot like being alive again.

And besides, the view wasn’t bad either. Even if the pants were.

-

It had been a few, or rather many, days since your first official ride-along, and now the diner had become part of the unspoken routine. Same booth near the window. Same tired waitress who always gave Beau an extra slice of pie without asking. Same off-brand coffee that somehow tasted better when you were sitting across from him, legs brushing just barely beneath the table.

Today, though, you had one big difference: your own uniform.

It fit, mostly. The shirt hugged you in a way that felt less like a disaster and more like you, and the pants didn’t try to strangle your thighs anymore. You actually looked like a deputy instead of a Halloween costume reject.

Beau noticed the second you stepped out of your place that morning, you caught the flicker in his eyes before he quickly masked it with that classic, unreadable expression. But his smirk had lingered a little longer than usual. And he’d been just a bit quieter during your patrol drive.

Now, you were sitting across from him, dipping fries into a tiny pool of ketchup on your plate, watching the way he stirred his coffee like he had all the time in the world.

“So”, you said, popping a fry in your mouth, “how long are you planning to keep babysitting me on patrol before you admit I can handle a solo shift?”.

Beau didn’t look up right away. Just gave a quiet snort and reached for his burger. “Not ‘til I’m sure you won’t charm the wrong person and end up in a ditch”.

You blinked. “A ditch? Dramatic”.

“I’ve seen it happen”, he said, deadpan. “Not pretty”.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table. “I worked LAPD, remember? You know, gangs, high-speed pursuits, actual gunfire”.

Beau arched a brow. “Yeah, and now you’re here, where the biggest threat is raccoons messing with Mrs. Lantry’s garden gnomes”.

“Exactly”, you grinned. “So let me drive alone. I can handle raccoons”.

He finally gave you a real look, eyes glinting with amusement. “You sure? Because last week you tried to talk down a drunk guy by offering him a Capri Sun”.

“That was strategic”, you said defensively. “It distracted him long enough for you to cuff him, didn’t it?”.

“Because he thought you were his kindergarten teacher”, Beau muttered, shaking his head.

You smirked. “That’s just good community policing”.

He gave you a look, then leaned back in the booth, arms folding across his broad chest. “You really want me to say it, don’t you?”.

You tilted your head. “Say what?”.

“That you’re good”, he said, quietly now. “That I trust you”.

The words landed heavier than they should’ve. Not because you needed praise, but because they came from him. And Beau didn’t hand out compliments lightly. Your smile softened. “I don’t need you to say it, Beau. I just need you to move over and let me drive once in a while”.

He looked at you for a beat, then exhaled, a long, theatrical sigh like you’d just asked him to give you his firstborn. “One solo shift”, he said, pointing a fry at you. “One. I’m picking the district. And you text me if anyone even breathes funny”.

You raised your hand like you were swearing in. “Cross my heart”.

He narrowed his eyes. “And if you get lured into a ditch by raccoons—”.

“I’ll bring backup snacks”, you said, flashing a grin. “I’m not a rookie, Sheriff”.

He muttered something under his breath, but his smile gave him away.

The waitress dropped the check on the table, and Beau reached for it without a second thought, like always. You tried to protest, like always, and he just gave you that look. The one that said don’t bother, darlin’, I’ve already decided. You liked that look way more than you should.

As you both stood and headed for the door, his hand brushed your lower back, light, unintentional maybe, but enough to spark that familiar buzz along your skin.

Outside, the cruiser waited, gleaming in the summer sun. He turned to you, tossing the keys once in his hand before handing them over.

You stared down at them. Then up at him. “Seriously?”.

“One shift”, he said again. “No hero crap”.

You grinned, snatching the keys from his hand. “Scout’s honor”.

He watched you circle the cruiser, and you could feel his eyes on you the whole way.

Yeah. You were definitely growing on him. And you weren’t sure what terrified you more, the job finally fitting… or how damn easy it felt being beside him.

-

You pushed the station door open, the quiet buzz of the fluorescent lights greeting you like a sleepy dog. The building felt even smaller at night, empty halls, muted echoes of your boots on the tile, the faint hum of the vending machine in the corner.

You rolled your shoulders, stretching the stiffness from hours behind the wheel. Your first solo patrol had been… uneventful, to say the least. No speeding, no calls, not even a weird noise complaint. Just you, your thoughts, and three and a half hours of the local country station.

Honestly? You kind of missed the chaos. Or maybe just the company.

You passed the bullpen, dim and silent, then paused in front of the only door still lit from the inside. Sheriff. His name — Beau Arlen — sat on the plaque in bold white letters, straight and solid, like everything else about him.

You hesitated a beat, then lifted your hand and knocked.

“Yeah”, came his voice from the other side, low, even, familiar.

You pushed the door open.

Beau sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, collar slightly rumpled, reading over a report with the kind of tired concentration only paperwork could inspire. A lamp glowed behind him, casting soft shadows across the room. His badge glinted faintly on the desk.

He looked up as you stepped inside, and something in his face eased. Not a full smile, just that shift, like tension releasing from a rubber band. “You survive?”, he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Barely”, you deadpanned, closing the door behind you and leaning against it. “I don’t know how you do it. All that thrilling action”.

Beau huffed a quiet laugh. “Let me guess. You spent four hours driving past cows and waving at the same jogger three times?”.

“Twice”, you corrected. “She didn’t wave back the third time. I think she thought I was stalking her”.

“You kind of were”.

You shrugged, walking toward his desk. “Nothing happened. Not even a pothole report”.

“That’s Montana”, he said, eyes following you. “Everyone likes to pretend it’s a crime wave waiting to happen, but most days it’s just… quiet”.

You sank into the chair across from him, resting your arms on your knees. “Not gonna lie, it’s a little unnerving. I spent most of my shift waiting for the other shoe to drop”.

“You like the noise”, he said, watching you closely.

You gave a small smile. “I guess I got used to it. The city always felt like it was vibrating. You know?”.

Beau nodded slowly, fingers tapping once on his desk. “And now it’s not”.

“Nope. Now it’s cows and joggers and a radio that only plays songs about heartbreak and beer”.

He grinned. “You're adjusting. That’s good”.

You studied him for a second. The way he looked at you, steady, patient, like he wasn’t trying to fix you or figure you out. Just be there. That rare kind of presence.

You leaned back slightly in the chair. “Am I boring you yet?”.

Beau’s brow lifted. “Not even close”.

Your heart gave a little kick at that. You glanced away, tongue poking your cheek.

Outside the office window, the sky had gone full indigo. Stars were starting to pierce through, and the parking lot was cast in the low gold of the building’s porch lights. It was late. Too late for paperwork and pretending this was just a normal night. But you weren’t ready to leave yet.

You looked back at him. “You always stay this late?”.

Beau gave a small shrug. “Depends”.

“On what?”.

His eyes met yours, unwavering, unreadable, but not cold. Never cold.

“On whether there’s something worth staying for”.

And just like that, the air in the room shifted. Warmed. Quieted. Not tense. Just full.

Then, gently, he asked, “You wanna get out of here? Just for a bit? I’m not tired yet”.

“Thought you’d never ask”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

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[thememoryofadream]

Passion Play - Fight

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC

Summary: Dean meets a fellow hunter on a case and serious sparks fly. Sometimes, want and desire need an outlet....

Word Count: 1146

Tags/Warnings: Rated R for mature audiences only! Anger covering for softer emotions smut. 🔥

Passion Play Masterlist

Fight

"You're being completely fucking unreasonable and I'm not talking about this anymore," she shouts. She turns away and stalks down the hall toward the kitchen.

"Don't walk away from me, Sophia," Dean growls, following her. Grabbing her arm, he spins her to back to face him.

Sophia tries to wrench away from him, but he holds fast. "Let me go," she hisses, stepping toe to toe with him, her dark eyes flashing.

"Then stop running," he retorts. He pulls her even closer, the heat between them flaring wildly. He looks down at her, challenge clear on his face.

She gapes at him. "That's not my gig, babe, it's yours," she sniffs, voice dripping with sarcasm.. Damn it, how did they get so close? And why couldn't she keep her eyes off his mouth?

He flinches, but doesn't release his hold on her. "You learned from the best then," he snarls. "Doesn't change anything though." What the hell happened to whatever they were fighting about? He can't remember. All he can think of now is kissing that saucy mouth of hers.

She snorts derisively, yet somehow finds herself up on tiptoe, pressed against him. "Fuck you," she purrs haughtily.

"Thanks for the invitation," he snaps, crashing his lips onto hers as his free hand tangles in her hair to hold her in place. His tongue meets little resistance as it slips past her lips only to find she isn't giving up that easily.

Their tongues clash heatedly as each battles for dominance. He releases his grip on her arm to wrap his own around her and pull her roughly against him, swallowing the hungry sound she makes in response.

She slides her hands up over his chest and around his neck. Her leg slips around his, straining to get closer, as her hips roll against his.

He drags his mouth from hers with a groan, nipping across her jaw and down her neck. The movement takes her off balance and sends her stumbling backward into the wall. Dean takes full advantage. Trapping her with the weight of his body, he reaches to pull her tank top up, humming in satisfaction when her breasts are bared to his avid gaze. He'd forgotten she was still wearing her pajamas.

He pulls her arms from around his neck and pushes them against the wall above her head. Holding her in place, he slides down over her body and closes his mouth over her breast, sucking hotly. She arches toward him with a breathy moan as his tongue flicks teasingly over her budded nipple.

After a thorough exploration of both breasts that has her writhing beneath his mouth, he kisses his way back up her neck to her ear. He presses his leg between her thighs, parting them easily. "Still ready to run?" he murmurs roughly as his tongue traces the shell of her ear.

Her traitorous body betrays her completely as she rubs against his leg in a vain attempt to ease the ache between her thighs. "Damn you," she whispers, nipping his earlobe, smirking a little at the hiss he makes in response. She trails her tongue down the warm skin of his neck. "You know I can't…"

Releasing her wrists, he slips his hands under the elastic of her sleep shorts to cup her bottom, grinding her against him. "But do you want to?" he growls against her mouth, tongue teasing over her lips.

Her fingers rake over his shoulders and down his back. The soft feel of the cotton under them and rubbing against her bare breasts is a maddening distraction. But while she may be nearly delirious with desire and anger, she's not giving him his answer. Not yet.

"Shut up and take me, Winchester," she says sharply as she sucks his lower lip into her mouth.

He responds with a half growl, half moan before pulling his mouth from hers and kissing her neck. "This isn't over," he mumbles against her skin as he moves to kneel in front of her.

"God I hope not," she breathes, her eyes fluttering half closed as she looks down at him.

He shakes his head and reaches for her sleep shorts. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pulls them and her panties down over her legs. He holds her steady as she kicks them away and then kisses his way back up over her. His tongue draws teasing circles on her thighs, her hip, her belly. The sounds she makes as he teases her are intoxicating and wind him ever tighter.

When he's facing her again, she moves to undo his jeans. As she frees him to her eager hands, she hears his harsh groan. She strokes him with light fingers and the sound he makes ratchets up the heat pooling between her thighs to an almost unbearable level.

Roughly shoving his jeans out of the way, he hitches her legs around his waist and buries himself in her. "Oh God," he whispers hoarsely. She's tight and wet around him and it's all he can do to keep his knees from buckling.

Her head falls back against the wall as her hands tighten on his shoulders, the cotton of his t-shirt crinkling under her grasp.. "Dean…" she moans.

He starts to move, setting a brutal pace. He's completely lost in her. Lost in the feel of her around him. The last tatters of his control burn away in the inferno blasting between them. Her mews and gasps urge him on as he buries his face in her neck.

It's not long before she begins to tighten around him and she starts to chant "yes, yes, yes" as he rocks into her. Her climax washes over her in one overwhelming wave. She moans his name, arching against him.

Unable to resist her body pulsing around his, he thrusts one more time as his own orgasm consumes him and he gasps at its intensity. His knees do give out this time, and he sinks to the floor, holding her in his lap.

The only sound for several moments is their harsh breathing.

Leaning back, Sophia takes his face in her hands and kisses him softly. "You know I don't want to be anywhere but here with you," she whispers, her gaze locking with his.

"I don't like it when you walk away," he confesses and the naked vulnerability on his face makes her heart clench.

She strokes his cheekbone with her thumb. "I won't ever go far," she promises. "You're not gonna get rid of me that easily."

A smile ghosts across his lips, lightening the serious mood.

"What do you say we go back to bed and start this day over again?" she asks, a slight gleam in her eye.

He snickers and stands, pulling her with him. "What do you say we go back to bed and stay there?"

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[thememoryofadream]

Phone Call

Characters: Dean Winchester x OC

Summary: A devastating phone call rips Sophia from between the sheets and out of Dean's arms. Fiercely protective, he refuses to let her drive off alone. How does he convince her to let him in?

Word Count: 2932

Tags/Warnings: Rated E for Everyone.

A bit angsty, very emotional, full of baggage, but a happy ending all around. This is a bit later in this established relationship, but they still have things they need to deal with together. Dean being the insightful one (which is a warning, in and of itself...).

See the beginning of Dean and Sophia's relationship in Feet of Clay.

Phone Call

"Dean," she whines, "I'm sleeping."

All she gets in response to her protest is a soft chuckle and more persuasive kisses on the back of her neck. He knows that drives her crazy, damn him.

She sighs heavily and rolls onto her back. She tries to look stern, or at least martyred, but fails completely in the face of the adorable smile he gives her.

"You're insatiable," she murmurs, a soft moan escaping her as his rough hand caresses her breast.

"You're hot," he replies, leaning down to capture her mouth with his.

At that moment, her cell phone starts to trill.

He growls as she tries shifting away to reach it.

"It could be important, Dean," she scolds, scooting out from under him.

He flops onto his back with a heavy sigh. "I can't think of anything more important than sex," he mumbles petulantly.

She snickers as she picks up the phone and presses the button to answer. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end is garbled at first and she's not sure who it is. As she's trying to decipher the caller's words, she feels Dean roll towards her and start kissing her back. Rolling her eyes, she reaches around and gives him a shove. She hears him sprawl melodramatically across the bed with an injured grunt.

"Wait," she says, "I can't hear you. Can you say that again?"

Suddenly the connection resolves itself and she can hear everything. She can feel the blood drain from her face as she makes sense of the words.

She turns slightly on the bed, reaching for Dean.

He immediately senses the change in mood and grabs her hand. Sitting up, he leans close, eyes searching her face.

"Yes, yes," she murmurs. "Yes, I understand."

She closes her eyes and leans against Dean, feeling his warm arms surround her. She savors the comfort knowing she's going to have to give it up in just moments.

"OK. That would be fine." She glances at the bedside clock. "Yes, we…I…can be there this afternoon. I appreciate your call. Thank you. Goodbye."

Disconnecting the call, she stares off into the distance for a few seconds, then tries to shrug off Dean's embrace. "I have to go," she says as she struggles to get out of bed, her voice thick with emotion.

"Go where, babe? What's going on? What happened?" His voice is gentle, as is his touch, as he tries to hold her. So gentle it nearly breaks through the tight grip she's holding on her emotions.

Clinging desperately to her control, she pushes him away at last and scrambles to her feet. "I have to go," she repeats.

She scrabbles through the clothes on the floor, looking for whatever she had on yesterday. Control is tested again as she remembers how her clothes ended up scattered across the floor.

He'd been so tender last night. He'd carried her upstairs to their room and undressed her slowly. His mouth and hands had explored every inch of her skin. She'd felt adored. Desired. Loved. And now…

She's struggling into her jeans when he appears in front of her, fully dressed. She glances at him, forehead creasing in a frown, as she reaches for her shirt and pulls it roughly over her head.

He remains quiet as she pulls on her shoes and heads for the door. She wonders briefly if he's really going to let her go this easily.

Her question is answered moments later as he follows her out of the house and opens the passenger side door of the Mustang.

"What are you doing?" she says sharply.

"I'm going with you." His tone is calm, but clearly says there will be no argument.

She ignores the implied command. "No." She shakes her head. "No."

She needs to get away. She's not going to be able to hold onto her emotions indefinitely. Just his presence, the look he gives her over the roof of the car, causes more cracks in the already fragile wall.

His jaw clenches and she knows she's not going to win this one. He can be just as stubborn as she is.

He slides into the passenger seat, then fishes his sunglasses out of the glove box, and settles back.

She swallows hard. Throws some more mortar on the wall around her emotions. Smacking her hand on the top of the car, she gives up and gets in, slamming the door behind her.

Her hands are trembling so badly, she drops the keys as she tries to put them in the ignition. With a curse, she snatches them off the floor and shoves the key in place.

Anger and frustration fueling her, she slams the car into gear and sends it screaming down the driveway, fishtailing in the gravel. Anger is good. Anger is easy. Anger will help keep away the other feelings threatening to choke her.

Out on the highway, she floors the gas, rocketing down the asphalt. She's always liked to drive fast, but today the turmoil inside her pushes her. Makes her reckless. She's not sure what she's running from, or maybe running toward. Either way, speed means freedom. Nothing can touch her while she's moving.

She can focus on the road. On the growl of the Mustang's engine. The whoosh of the asphalt. The rush of the wind. On keeping the tires on the road. Everything else melts away.

So lost is she in her speed induced bubble, the feel of Dean's hand on her thigh makes her flinch. She sucks in a deep breath, tightening her fingers on the wheel.

"Don't," she says shortly, never taking her eyes off the road.

He gives her leg a squeeze before withdrawing his hand.

It's quiet for another hour as they fly down the luckily deserted highway. She feels his eyes on her, but she can ignore that. She's beginning to think she might get through this intact after all.

Until he speaks. Somehow he knows the one thing that will blast through her walls like a wrecking ball into an aging building. The one thing she can't resist. The one thing she can't push away.

"I love you."

She gasps as her chest squeezes tight. Her eyes fill with tears and blur her vision, forcing her to slow. She sees a dirt road cutoff and turns down it. Struggling to get a breath, she brings the car to stop.

She opens the door, half falling out the door. But she doesn't make it to the ground before he's there to catch her.

They're on their knees in the dirt. His arms are tight around her. His voice, sounding nearly as choked as hers did earlier, echoes in her ear.

"It's okay, let it go. I've got you, baby. We'll get through this. I'm here."

And she does. With a gasping breath, she lets the last of the wall crumble down. Her fingers curl in the front of his shirt as she holds on for dear life. Sobs wrack her body, raw and ugly. Years of pent up anguish come shrieking to the surface and tumble out all at once.

Dean sits down on the dry mud, pulling her into his lap, rocking her. His hands rub circles on her back. He presses kisses in her hair, on her temple. His rough voice in her ear keeps her grounded. Keeps the pain from consuming her completely. Keeps her here.

She cries until there aren't any more tears. Until she's thoroughly empty. Until she's exhausted.

She slowly comes back to herself. As she does, she's more than a little horrified. She's completely come undone right there in his arms. She's not supposed to do that. Not supposed to fall apart in front of him, of all people. She's supposed to be strong. She's supposed to be able to handle anything.

She scrubs at her face roughly, clearing away the tears. Tries to decide how to get out of this.

But Dean's several steps ahead of her. One arm tightens around her waist as the other reaches for her chin. He turns her to face him, rolling over her resistance gently, but forcefully.

His gaze finds hers and she's shocked to see tears drying on his cheeks.

"Don't push me away again, Sophia," he whispers fiercely. "Just don't even try. I'm not going to let you shut me out."

She scrambles to her feet, but he's right with her, holding her wrist.

"I'm fine now, Dean," she mumbles, rapidly withdrawing, putting the shields back up. "I'm sorry I lost it like that."

"Oh, please. Give me a fucking break. You just spent the last 10 minutes sobbing in my arms, but you're fine now?"

He steps closer, invading her space. "Why won't you talk to me?" The hurt and sadness in his voice stabs at her.

This is not how it's supposed to go.

"I can't," she finally manages. "I can't. This…it's fine. But you weren't supposed to see me like this. You shouldn't."

She hears him suck in a breath.

"Why not?" he asks softly.

If she hadn't been so raw, she would never have answered him honestly. But the words just pour out.

"Because you can't. Because I have to be strong. Strong for you and Sam. Because if I'm weak, I can't protect you and you can't trust me to keep you safe. Because I have to save you."

Her hand flies to her mouth, but it's too late. The words are out there, hanging between them in the suddenly deafening silence.

After a what seems like an eternity, she dares to look up at him.

He's staring at her with a look of stunned frustration on his face.

He swallows hard and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, so many things flash through them, she can't identify any one emotion properly.

For her part, she can only stand and watch him. Her fingers flex and her feet itch to run away. To escape.

But she stays. It's as if she's rooted to the spot. Pinned under the weight of his gaze. It's far, far too late to get away from him now, even if she wanted to.

When he finally reacts, it's not what she expects.

He pulls her into his arms as his mouth descends on hers. His kiss is heated, desperate and wild, but still somehow gentle and tender. It fills the places left empty by her tears. It warms her from head to toe.

She's breathless and dizzy when he releases her mouth, only to find herself being shaken slightly.

"You're gonna be the death of me, woman," he murmurs. "I don't know even know how to start to respond to that. You…"

He shakes his head, then moves his hands up to cup her face, tilting it up to his. "Listen. You're the strongest person I've ever met. You don't need to prove that to me. I see it every day. And outside of Sam, there's no one else I'd trust to have my back on any day in any situation than you."

He pauses, his thumbs sliding over her cheekbones. When he speaks again, his voice is tight with emotion. "You've already saved me. You save me every day. Your smile, your laugh, your smartass mouth, your love. All of it."

"But none of that means you can't take something back in return. It doesn't mean you can't lean on me. It doesn't mean you can't break down every once in awhile," he continues, smiling a little wistfully. "Do you have any idea how much I want to take care of you? How much I want to give you?"

Her eyes widen slightly. "Take care of me?" she asks tentatively.

He chuckles softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Yeah, babe, take care of you. Rub your feet, get you a drink, help you research a case, make sure you eat..." His tone is lighthearted at first but gets more serious as he continues. "Dry your tears. Make you laugh. Listen to your fears, your frustrations. Hear about your past, your present, what you want for the future."

Finally breaking free of his gaze, she looks down. Watches her foot scratch restlessly at the dried mud. "You do all those things," she mumbles.

He sighs. "Yeah, sure, when you let me. Even this morning, you reached out for me when you got that call. Let me hold you for a minute. And then you turned me away."

Another thick silence stretches between them.

"I'm sorry," she says finally. Raising her eyes back to his, she continues, "You and Sam have been through so much. I didn't want to add to that. I want to add something good to your lives, not turn myself into another liability, another responsibility. If I can take care of myself, it's less you have to worry about. One less burden on your shoulders."

Anger flashes in his eyes. "Do you seriously think I see you that way? As a burden? A liability?"

She shakes her head instantly. Her hand finds his chest, slides over his heart. "No, not now. But if I'm leaning on you all the time, you will in the end. And I can't let that happen." Her fingers flex, digging into his shirt. "I need you too much already."

As a reply, he steps forward, backing her up against the car. The full length of his body drapes over her, her arms pinned between them. His hands come to rest on the roof on either side of her head.

She stares up at him, biting her lip.

He leans so close, she can feel his warm breath on her face. His eyes as green as she's ever seen them. She feels her defeat looming. Probably why she's always avoided this confrontation. She finds it nearly impossible to resist him. Resist the almost gravitational pull between them.

"Do you trust me?" he murmurs.

She nods.

"Do you trust that I love you?"

Another nod.

"Then act like it."

She gasps, recoiling as if she's been slapped.

"If we're gonna be together, we have to be together. A team. Equally," he says, stroking her hair. "Sometimes you'll hold me up, sometimes I'll hold you up. You don't have to protect me from you. We'll protect each other from the world."

Her eyes go wide and she sucks in a surprised breath as something clicks into place inside her. She wriggles her arms free and wraps them around him, burying her face in his chest. Her fingers tangle in the back of his shirt as she pulls him even closer.

He leans them away from the car so he can wrap his arms around her in turn. His hold is so tight she can barely breathe, but it doesn't matter.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she mumbles.

"Shhhh," he whispers in ear. "No apologies."

Taking a deep breath, she leans back so she can see his face. The love blazing in his eyes distracts her for a moment, but she focuses determinedly on what she wants to say.

"The phone call was from the family lawyer," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. "My mother's only sister, my aunt. She's…she's in the hospital in Cherryville. They don't think she's got more than a few days." She swallows past the lump in her throat. "She wants to see me."

"Ahh, babe, I'm sorry," he says, eyes now filled with sympathy.

"I don't really know her all that well, actually. She and my mother didn't really get along," she says. "But she's… She's all that's…"

He squeezes her gently. "She's the last of your family?"

She nods. "Yeah. Last one I know of anyway." She shrugs. "It shouldn't matter all that much. Like I said, I hardly know her."

"Family is important," he says softly. "And you've lost a lot family. When we lost Mom and then Dad, Sammy and I didn't have anyone but each other. It's hard. It makes you feel…alone."

He tips her face back up to his. "But you're not alone. We may not be blood family, but Sam loves you like a sister. Hell, even Bobby loves you, and he doesn't like anybody," he says with a laugh.

She smiles in return. "I know," she murmurs, "I know I'm not alone. It just reminded me of a lot of…things. Things I try not to think about."

"I understand," he says quietly. "There may be a thing or two I've hidden away and not dealt with."

This earns him a rueful laugh. "I can't argue with that," she replies, finally finding some of her spark.

"There's my girl," he says, rolling his eyes.

Any smart reply she might have made is lost as he moves to kiss her again. She melts into him, into the kiss. Lets it speak for her. Hears it speak to her. Feels it continue to heal her.

"We should probably go," he says as he reluctantly releases her mouth.

Nodding, she reaches up and brushes another kiss across his lips. "Thank you," she says seriously.

"Back atcha, babe," he replies with a smile. "But I'm driving now."

Rolling her eyes, she starts for the passenger side. "And why is that, big man?" she grumbles.

"Because you scare me" is his reply as he slams the door, the sound just barely covering her shout of laughter.

A/N: I wanted this one to show growth in Dean over the course of their relationship. I also wanted Sophia to mirror some of Dean's baggage here - for me, it's one of the connection points between them in their relationship. At the end of the day, they understand each other, even if they forget sometimes.

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[thememoryofadream]

Feet of Clay - Ch. 12/?

Characters: Dean Winchester x OC, Sam Winchester

Summary: On a hunt for something the Winchesters can't identify, Dean meets a woman who steals their case... Will she also steal his heart?

Word Count: 2669

Tags/Warnings: Canon-level violence descriptions. Set post S4-ish, but diverges from canon (Dean's been to Hell and back, but no angels).

Series Masterlist

Chapter 12 - Go Your Own Way

"Okay, so I'll run over to this place and see what's what," Sophia says, standing and grabbing her jacket off the chair behind her. They've been looking for this vampire nest for more than two days and this supposedly abandoned farm outside of town is the best lead they've had.

"Just looking, right?" Sam asks, expression serious.

"Yes, Mother, just looking." She grins at him, then frowns across the table as Dean pipes up.

"I'll go with her."

"Good Lord, Dean, I'll be fine, it's just recon." She rolls her eyes as she shrugs into her jacket and starts for the door, ignoring the hurt look on his face. She needs to get away for a little bit. Be by herself.

"Be careful."

His tone stops her at the door. She sighs softly and walks back across the room to him. Leaning down, she presses a soft kiss to his lips. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she whispers, grazing his cheek with her fingers.

He nods and she can see him trying to clear the worry from his face before giving a careless shrug. "No hurry, babe."

In the car, she heads out of town and into the country. Sam had texted the coordinates to her phone, so she just follows the directions on her GPS. As she drives, she thinks about the scene at the motel and cringes a little. She'd been a little harsh with Dean and she should know by now how protective he is.

She snorts. "Protective" doesn't even come close. They've been living in each other's back pockets for a month now and he doesn't want her to do anything that might be even remotely dangerous alone. She's snuck away to the library a few times, but beyond that, he's with her every minute.

It's not that she doesn't like being with him, of course. In fact, being with him has made her the happiest she's been since she doesn't remember when. Having someone at her back she can count on. Someone to come home to, so to speak. She's been without so much for so long, it's been heaven to have, but it's also been an adjustment.

Sighing, she changes the station on the radio and looks for the turn up ahead. Based on the map, it should give her a nice view of the house without allowing her to be seen. Pulling in, she makes sure the car is camouflaged by the trees in front of her and gets out her binoculars. She doesn't see any activity, so she leans back to wait.

Her mind drifts again, back to Dean. They jumped from first meeting to sleeping together to basically living together pretty quickly. And while she doesn't regret it, it's been…interesting. Besides that insanely protective streak, they've been amazingly compatible. Yes, he does leave the cap off the toothpaste all the time and she gets a little tired of tripping over his boots. And then there's the lid on the toilet…

She grins to herself, scanning the area as a car pulls in at the house and discharges several men.

Dean makes up for a lot of things with what he gives her, though. He's an amazing lover, not only talented but incredibly sweet and tender. They can go from tearing each others clothes off and having sex against the door one night to slow and poignant and unbelievably emotional the next.

And it's not just the sex. While he seemed completely confused to find her sobbing after watching "Marley and Me" on TV late one night, it didn't stop him from holding her and drying her tears. And then making her laugh by telling her about a night he found Sam bawling over a rerun of Old Yeller a few years back. One morning, she'd awoken to find he'd gone to Starbucks for her favorite coffee then to a mall (of all places) for her favorite Cinnabon. Just because. He'd shrugged off her effusive thanks, but she could tell he was pleased with himself. Another night, he'd come back to the motel with daisies because he saw them and had heard her tell Sam they're her favorite.

But the protective thing is what she keeps coming back to. It's the one thing that gets to her. While she appreciates the gesture, she also needs to be able to keep her independence. She snickers to herself a little. Her independent streak is just as wide as Dean's protective one. She tries to remind him she did this job for quite awhile without any help, and she's still here to tell the tale, so there's no reason she can't continue to work on her own. They've had more than one fight about it. Nothing serious yet, but she can feel it coming. It's not going to be pretty when it happens. They're both incredibly stubborn and she's afraid to think what might happen when irresistable force finally meets immovable object.

Her thoughts are interrupted again as yet another car drives up to the house and a second group of men emerge. She frowns. They're going to have to have a strategy beyond hack and slash with this bunch as they're now seriously outnumbered.

Her phone chimes. It's a text from Sam.

What do you see so far?

Rolling her eyes, she quickly types back. Tell Dean I'm fine.

She can almost hear the laughter behind his reply. I told him you'd know…

Obvs. But we're gonna have to rethink this fun and games. We're way out numbered. I'm on my way back.

Got it. Bring pictures.

She giggles when she reads the last message.

And pie.

~~~SPN~~~

They work on their plan that evening. Over pie, of course. This is one thing Dean notices that's different since Sophia joined them. They do a lot more planning and a lot less seat of the pants. It's one more way she's upped their game from the hunting perspective.

He watches thoughtfully as she and Sam pour over the specs for the farm, trying to tie things together with the pictures she took earlier. Hunting isn't the only place she's had an impact. His world is ridiculously better now that she's a part of it. And even though she's stubborn and independent as hell and won't stop fussing at him about the stupid toilet seat, he can't imagine life without her anymore.

Smiling a little to himself, he looks back down at the locations he's supposed to be memorizing. Having her there, every night, is better than he'd anticipated. She feels like home. He doesn't know how to tell her, but he tries to show her. He can't pass a storefront with flowers without checking to see if they have daisies. Those are her favorite. And while sometimes lust burns hot and out of control between them, he also likes to take it slow. To worship her body. To show her how much he needs her.

"Dean? Dean!"

He starts, looking over at Sam and Sophia with a vacant expression. "What?"

Sam snorts a laugh and Sophia gives him a raised eyebrow. "You wanna join us here on planet Earth?" Sam asks dryly.

"I'm here," he grumps, scrabbling at the papers in front of him, trying to look busy. "What do you want?"

"There better not be another copy of Busty Asian Beauties under there, Winchester," Sophia says, stifling a giggle.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever. What'd I miss?"

He catches the glance exchanged by Sam and Sophia and knows he's not going to like what's coming next. "Crap," he mumbles, rubbing a hand over his jaw, "tell me."

"Well," Sophia begins, "we've got an idea we think will even up the odds a little bit."

"And?"

Sam turns the laptop around to show him a display of the area. "So, you can see here on the map, there's a second barn behind the house. We're thinking someone could create some kind of diversion out there so they'll send some guys out to investigate. When they do, we can go in the main house, take out whoever's left."

Narrowing his eyes, Dean looks back and forth between his brother and Sophia. Neither of them are looking at him. "Okay," he says, drawing out the word slightly. "Let me guess, Sophia is going to be the one creating the ruckus in the barn."

They both nod, gazes turned anywhere but on Dean. "Right," Sophia says. Sam follows up. "They likely would only send a few out to investigate, so Sophia should be able to handle them. And you and I could take the larger group in the main house."

Dean stands abruptly, the chair tipping dangerously behind him. He focuses on Sophia. "So you're gonna be bait?" he growls, swallowing hard against the pit forming in his stomach. Is she insane? "You're gonna be bait for a bunch of fucking vampires? On the hope they maybe only send a few after you instead of the whole damn coven?" His voice rises with each question until he's practically shouting.

Sophia rises to face him, her face tight with anger. "It's a good plan, Dean. While you were over there lost in lala land, we worked through the whole thing. So stop shouting at me about how stupid I am and we'll go through it again."

Fear and anger override his common sense. Fear for her safety. Fear of losing her. Anger at the two of them for doing this without him. Anger at himself for caring so damn much already. "Stupid? This is beyond stupid, Sophia. It's suicidal. What the hell are you going to do if the whole damn lot of them comes out for you? Beg 'em to kill you quick?"

She pales behind the flush of anger reddening her cheeks, her hands clenching into fists. "I am not stupid, Dean, nor am I suicidal. I've been doing this for years without you there to tell me what to do or how to do it or when to do it." She draws a quick breath, gritting her teeth. "And if you could stop treating me like a five year old for two minutes and leave me the fuck alone, you might know that."

It's as if the all the air is suddenly sucked out of the room. Dean stills, unable to breathe, feeling as though he's been punched in the gut. Seconds that seems like hours tick by before he can uproot himself from where he stands. He turns and strides for the door, snatching up his leather jacket as he goes. "You want to be left alone? I can certainly arrange that."

Sam, quiet through their shouting match, now stands, resting his fingers on the table. "Where are you going, Dean? We need to take down this nest tonight before they move on." His tone is an attempt to be soothing, but it merely throws more gasoline on the fire of Dean's anger.

"I'm doing what she wants," he growls, not turning as he reaches for the door knob. "Text me the coordinates where you want me and what the signal is. You two got this all figured out, so that's what we'll do."

He hears Sophia whisper his name, but doesn't stop, slamming the door behind him.

~~~SPN~~~

The silence inside the Mustang is heavy as Sophia and Sam make their way out to the vamp's farm. Sam tries not to stare, but he can't stop glancing over at her. Her jaw is clenched so tight he's afraid she might break a tooth.

She wouldn't talk to him after Dean left. Just stood there, biting her lip, clearly fighting back tears. He tried to tell her Dean would come around, but she shrugged him off and went back to finishing the plan for the raid. He cringed inside every time she came to Dean's part in the attack and her voice cracked just slightly when she said his name.

When he can't take it anymore, he finally breaks the silence. "Look, I know you don't want to talk about what happened with Dean. I get it. But I just want to say something."

She doesn't look away from the road ahead, but she doesn't tell him to shut the hell up either, so he continues.

"I know it seems bad right now and I know you both said stuff you didn't mean. Dean'll calm down eventually and you guys can work it out." He sighs, his voice softening. "I can see how much you two care about each other. I haven't seen Dean this happy in years. Literally. And I know you feel the same thing. I know the whole protective thing gets old. Been there." He grins ruefully. "Just don't let something like this get in the way of that, okay?"

Sophia still doesn't look at him, but he does see her eyes redden as she nods once before turning off the main road and into the darkness.

They park and get into position for the raid. Sam sent the information to Dean before they left the motel and once Sophia's in position, he sends the signal.

The plan goes off without a hitch. Sophia's distraction lures several of the vamps away from the main house, and Sam and Dean handle the holdbacks. When they're done, they make their way to the barn and find Sophia taking down the last vamp.

"You okay?" Sam asks, barely noticing the body parts scattered around the building. He notices a few streaks of blood on her cheek and she seems to be holding her wrist gingerly to her side, but she appears otherwise unscathed.

Sophia nods, waving her blade dismissively, but her eyes are on Dean, clearly checking him over. He glances over and notices his brother doing the same check of her, but not meeting her eyes.

Suppressing a sigh, Sam starts gathering up parts to destroy them, but Dean waves him off. "You two go ahead back to the motel. I'll light both buildings up and make sure everything burns."

Looking back and forth between his brother and Sophia, tension so thick he probably cut it with his machete, he doesn't bother to hold back the sigh this time. "You sure?"

Dean nods and walks back out into the night without another word.

Sam catches a small movement out of the corner of his eye. Sophia reaches out toward where Dean had been standing, hurt written all over her face. After a second, she lets her hand drop back to her side and her eyes fall closed. He sees her jaw work as she fights back tears. A couple long steps has him in front of her and then he's pulling her into his arms.

She resists him at first, but he doesn't let go. Finally, she relaxes against him slightly, her fingers clutching at the edges of his jacket. He feels tears wetting his shirt and hugs her tighter. Sometimes this life, this job…damn it all. What it's done to his brother. What it's done to him. To Sophia. He drops a kiss on the top of her head and then flashes a look at the door.

Dean is standing there, gasoline can in one hand, watching them. The expression on his face makes Sam nearly curse out loud this time. It's vulnerable and pained and apologetic. And it only lasts a few seconds before he drops his head and moves away.

Sophia sniffs and pulls away, wiping at her face impatiently. "Sorry, Sammy," she mumbles, smoothing her hair back self-consciously. "Let's get outta here before he comes back."

He squeezes her shoulder but doesn't say anything, just gathers their remaining equipment and heads out into the yard. He notices she gives a hopeful glance around before falling in beside him as they make their way back to her car.

As they get in to drive away, they see the first bright flames of fire lick the night sky.

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Tag List: @aylacavebear

[thememoryofadream]

Passion Play - Just Thinking

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC

Summary: Dean meets a fellow hunter on a case and serious sparks fly. Sometimes, want and desire need an outlet....

Word Count: 1487

Tags/Warnings: Rated R for mature audiences only! The things one thinks about when thinking about Dean Winchester smut. 🔥

Passion Play Masterlist

Just Thinking

Dean looks up from his breakfast, feeling Sophia's gaze on him. The look in her eye sends a shimmer of heat right through him: she's looking at him like she's about to take the spoon she's eating her cereal with and devour him instead. He raises an eyebrow at her. "What?"

A sultry smile curves her lips and that shimmer of heat he's feeling kicks up another notch. "Nothing," she says, "just thinking."

He smirks. "Just thinking, huh? Thinking about what?"

She licks the remaining milk from her spoon, a strange glint in her eyes. He suppresses the urge to shiver.

Her voice takes on a husky tone that shoots straight to the base of his spine. "You."

He carefully sets down his fork and turns to watch her. "Thinking about me," he says thoughtfully. "Anything in particular?" He swallows hard as he watches her eyes darken.

The spoon clatters to the table and she stands. His gaze drifts down over her body, the tank top and shorts that looked demure when she went to bed last night now taking on a whole new character as she stretches, pulling the top tight across her breasts, causing his mouth to dry.

Sophia settles herself on his lap, straddling him and the chair. "Mmmmm, yeah," she purrs, "I'm thinking about your amazing mouth." Her thumb traces over his bottom lip, eyes on his. "I'm thinking of all the things you can do with it…things that give me soooo much pleasure."

Dean finds himself unable to make a coherent response to that as all the blood in his brain rushes south.

She shifts against him, moving her attention to his hands, hanging slack at his sides. She pulls them up, placing one at the top of her thigh, under the edge of her sleep shorts. The other she takes between her own and kisses the tip of each finger. "And I'm thinking about your hands. The way they touch me, how strong they are, how much they make me feel…" She kisses his palm, her tongue flicking out to draw tiny circles on his skin. He shivers and his other hand tightens on her thigh.

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head. All he really wants to do is snatch her up and drag her to bed, but this side of her is so unexpected and such a turn on, he wants to let her run with it. "I see," he manages. "Anything else?"

Carefully placing his hand on her hip, Sophia leans forward to brush her lips against his as she slides her hands under his shirt. "Oh yeah," she whispers on his lips, "I'm also thinking about your chest, and those incredible abs of yours." As she speaks, her hands are roving over the same areas, leaving scorching trails on his skin and quickening his breathing.

Sliding her arms around his waist, her hands move up his back. The change presses her closer to him, her breasts tight against him, her hips rocking forward over his. He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to think about baseball. That idea is blown all to hell when her lips brush his ear as she continues her torment.

"And now I'm thinking about your back and those shoulders." She hums, her tongue tracing the line of his earlobe. "They're so broad, and well muscled." She rakes her fingernails down his spine and Dean nearly comes off the chair. Her husky laugh in his ear only compounds the sensation. "I'm thinking about how your back looked in the mirror over the bed in that cheesy motel. How the muscles rippled every time you moved inside me, how my fingers slid over your spine."

He feels her shiver. At least he's not the only one turned on so much he can't see straight. He slips his hands all the way under her shorts and over her bottom, nearly passing out when he realizes she's not wearing any panties under them. "Jesus, Sophia," he mumbles, his hands kneading her bare skin. He buries his face in her neck, breathing in her warm scent, something citrus. His lips find the pulse on her throat, feels it beating wildly, circles his tongue over it. Her soft moan in his ear makes him shudder.

Sophia straightens, sliding her arms out from under his shirt and Dean nearly whimpers at the loss. That feeling is vaporized a heartbeat later when she pulls her tank top over her head and her breasts are exposed to him. He leans forward and swirls his tongue around her nipple. She sucks in a harsh breath and tangles her fingers in his hair, arching into his hot mouth.

After thoroughly exploring one breast, he moves to the other, giving it equal attention. His hands slide over the bare skin of her back, enjoying it's softness. He drags his mouth away from her breast, his breathing heavy. "What are you thinking about now?" he asks, meeting her eyes with a wicked grin.

"Deannnnnn," she whines, squirming against him. Her hands are still tangled in his hair, so she tilts his head so she can find his lips for a scorching kiss. "I'm thinking about all the things we still haven't done yet." She rocks forward, her hips rolling against his arousal, forcing a harsh groan from him. "I'm thinking about…" She can't quite complete the thought when his fingers slide under the waistband of her shorts to tease her.

"You were saying," he says against lips as he leans in for another kiss, his teasing hands still at work. She moans softly.

She meets his gaze, her eyes nearly black with desire. She leans into him and whispers, "I'm thinking about how good it's going to feel when I slide down over you, right here in this chair."

He stops breathing for just a second. Before he can catch his breath, she's dragging his t-shirt up over his head and planting hot, wet kisses all over his chest. He drops his head back, closing his eyes, burning up as she kisses her way back to his mouth. He tangles his fingers in her hair and captures that hot mouth with his own.

"Sophia," he says, placing little kisses on her face, "I want you, now…"

"Are you sure?" she asks, voice slow. "You don't want to play anymore?" She grinds her hips into his again, wicked smile on her lips.

"Very sure," he groans, stilling her hips. "And you're gonna miss out on the best part if you don't stop that."

She snickers and slides off his lap. He finds it difficult to keep himself upright in the chair, the heat they've been generating making him feel nearly boneless.

Her thumbs hook in the waistband of the shorts and she eyes him teasingly. "Still sure?" she asks with a wink.

He growls and makes a grab for her, which she dodges easily. She turns, slowly sliding the shorts down, bending over to step out of them and toss them out of the way, giving him a nice view in the process.

She moves back over him, reaching for the fastening on his jeans. He's about to lose his mind, looking at her standing in front of him, completely naked, skin flushed pink, lips red and swollen, hair tangled around her face. He grits his teeth as she frees him from his jeans, pushing them out of the way.

Their eyes meet and catch as she settles over him, both of them sighing softly. One of his hands finds the back of her head, bringing her in for a series of burning kisses. The other finds the soft skin of her thigh, urging her to move.

Sophia sets a slow, languid pace to start, rocking against him. Hands stroke heated skin, mouthes fuse, tongues tease, breathing becomes labored.

Dean's strong hands set a faster pace. Sophia's head drops back, her eyes close. Dean can hear the breathy pants that mean she's getting close and he struggles to hold back. He presses kisses along her collarbone as he murmurs her name. As his teeth nip along her throat, he feels her shudder, her body clenching around him. He moans against her skin, holding her tightly as he succumbs to her heat.

Sophia collapses onto his chest, burying her face in his neck as her breathing returns to normal. Dean strokes up and down her back, soothing and warm, as he places random kisses on the top of her head.

After a moment, she sits up, taking his face in her hands and kissing him softly. "Amazing," she says with a little sigh.

He grins, turning to kiss her palm. His eyes glint and his smile turns mischievous. "So, was that pretty close to what you were thinking?"

She laughs. Kissing him again, she whispers, "That was exactly what I was thinking…"

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Tag List: @aylacavebear

[thememoryofadream]

When youve been a writer for long enough, commas become more of a spiritual practice than a grammatical one.

Could I explain the actual rules of how they’re used? Absolutely not.

Do I rely on sensing a tremor in the force to tell me where to use them? Yes and this has never failed me even once.