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jays-bonnie-on-the-side · 12 days ago

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The one that got away

Summary: Jensens POV.

Jensen is secretly in love with danneels best friend but does everything not to show her. Because he knows Danneel likes him.

Warning: Cheating, light bullying

First I want to start off by saying that this is a work of fiction. In no ways do I mean to harm or disrespect the Ackles family and their friends. I don't know what is happening in their life nor do I know their thoughts. By no means is this story implying I do.

Enjoy!

---

I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I heard we’d be carpooling. Nothing against Y/N—not really. She was sweet, sharp-witted, a bit too honest sometimes—but Danneel insisted.

“Just try it, Jen. She lives like, ten minutes from you. It’s dumb not to.”

I grumbled but said fine. I didn’t want to drive alone every morning anyway, not in Santa Cruz traffic and especially not before sunrise. Plus, I figured it’d be good for Danneel. She adored Y/N. Said they’d been best friends since middle school, when Danneel still wore braces and thought eyeliner was a personality trait.

So yeah. That’s how it started. Me and Y/N. In the car, five days a week.

First week? I was cold. Not because I didn’t like her—but because I liked her too much.

Her voice had that confident, gravelly warmth like she'd smoked a pack of reds but hadn’t. Her laugh was unfiltered. She’d crack open a Diet Coke at 7 AM and argue with me about music, politics, the best way to cook eggs. And I was gone.

But here’s the thing. Danneel liked me. Like, liked me-liked me.

And I’m not a jerk. I’m not the guy who betrays the friend code. Especially not when it’s Danneel. She’s talented, funny, and I cared about her. Not romantically, not like that—but enough to want her happy.

And Y/N…

She was just there. Always around. Always offering me gum or adjusting my collar on set or laughing too loud at some dumb thing I said when I wasn’t even trying to be funny.

I started acting like a jackass, because I didn’t know what else to do.

---

PRESENT DAY – Y/N’s apartment

She invited us over. Said she was hosting a “low-key game night, drinks, maybe cards or some dumb group game.”

“Cool,” I’d muttered. “Who’s coming?”

“Just us. You, me, Danneel... and Liam.”

Liam. That guy.

He was tall, like jared tall, wore that art-school beanie like it was surgically attached to his head. I hated him immediately.

Y/N opened the door wearing a black tank top tucked into high-waisted jeans, hair up in that lazy twist she always said “took no effort.” Bullshit. She looked like she walked out of a Levi’s commercial.

“Hey!” she beamed. “You guys want margaritas or something?”

I shrugged. “Got whiskey?”

She squinted at me. “What is this, a Clint Eastwood movie?”

I smirked. She always got that one wrinkle between her brows when she teased me. I wanted to trace it with my thumb.

Danneel giggled next to me, and I snapped out of it. “Margaritas are fine."

The night passed in flashes.

Liam sat too close. Y/N laughed at his stories, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Still, it made something dark and ugly twist in my chest.

“You always dress like this when you’re trying to impress someone?” I muttered under my breath when we ended up alone in the kitchen.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You just... don’t usually wear lipstick. It’s new.”

“Wow,” she said flatly. “Thanks for noticing, Jensen. Wouldn’t want to accidentally be attractive around you."

I winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you didn’t,” she said, walking away.

Danneel found me sulking ten minutes later. “You good?”

“Peachy,” I said.

---

FLASHBACK – CAMPFIRE, 3 WEEKS AGO

Santa Cruz gets cold at night, even in summer. We were out in Big Basin, camping in this little site Y/N found online. I don’t even like camping. But she asked. Danneel begged. So I went.

I remember the fire crackling, smoke curling up to a velvet sky. Danneel sat beside me, knees curled up, clutching a mug of wine.

Y/N sat across from me. The flames lit her face gold. Her eyes caught the firelight, glowing amber like a secret.

She was talking to Liam —about old horror movies. Something about The Thing being better than Alien. I didn’t hear a damn word.

I just stared.

God, I thought. You don’t even know, do you? You don’t even have a clue what you do to me.

Danneel nudged my arm. “You cold?”

I forced a smile. “Nah.”

She looked at me, soft and hopeful. I didn’t meet her eyes.

Because Y/N shifted then, tucked her hair behind her ear and laughed—loud, free, unashamed. And I was a goner.

I liked her. I really liked her

And she didn’t have a clue.

---

PRESENT DAY – Y/N’s Apartment

After the warm welcome I sat like a statue on the couch, drink in hand, pretending not to watch Liam inch closer to Y/N every five minutes like a dog who thought he had a shot.

Danneel leaned into me more and more, practically in my lap now. She was nervous, I could tell. Her voice was higher than usual, laughing at everything. Her hand rested on my thigh. I didn’t move it. Didn’t encourage it, either. Just… let it sit there like it didn’t make my skin crawl with guilt

Y/N looked across the room at me, her cheeks flushed from the wine. She was relaxed, smiling. Like this was a good night. Like nothing was wrong.

She had no clue what she was doing to me.

“Oh my god, Y/N, do you remember this?” Danneel said, cracking open a photo album from high school. “Look at this one of Y/N with the pink streaks in her hair. You looked like Avril Lavigne’s chaotic twin.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I was fifteen.”

“Fifteen going on ‘arrested for indecent exposure,’” I said, sipping from my drink. “That skirt should’ve come with a parental advisory sticker.”

Liam laughed too loud. Asshole.

“Oh come on, she was expressing herself,” he said, nudging her shoulder. “I think it’s badass.”

“Of course you do,” I muttered. “You probably have a Pinterest board of young women in crop tops holding books they’ve never read.”

Y/N blinked. “Wow. That’s... unnecessarily rude.”

Danneel giggled beside me, nervously. “Jensen’s just cranky because someone’s more interesting than he is tonight.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Sure. That’s what we’re calling guys who talks nothing but sports and movies... interesting.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “What is your problem tonight?”

“I don’t have a problem,” I said, shrugging. “I’m just enjoying the show. You know, watching everyone fall over themselves pretending they’re not trying to sleep with each other.”

Danneel stiffened beside me. Y/N’s smile dropped. Liam, oblivious, raised his glass.

“To honesty, I guess?”

Y/N shook her head. “Okay, I think we’ve had enough of Jensen’s comedy hour.”

“I need another drink,” I said, standing too fast. My glass was still half full, but I needed the distance.

The kitchen lights were too bright. I stared down into the sink like it had answers. My hand gripped the edge of the counter just a little too tightly.

The slap of footsteps behind me was fast. Sharp. I didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“You seriously want to tell me what the hell that was?” Y/N’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

I sighed, not turning around. “Wasn’t in the mood for trip down memory lane hosted by you and Beanie Jesus.”

“You were being an asshole. To everyone. But mostly me. And Danneel, who by the way, did nothing to deserve that!”

I turned to face her. Her arms were crossed tight, chest rising and falling with frustration. She looked furious—and gorgeous.

“You think I don’t notice when you pull that crap?” she snapped. “You were vicious, Jensen. Why? So you can mark territory be the bigger alpha?”

I stepped closer. “Watch it.”

“No. I won’t watch it,” she said. “You embarrassed Danneel in front of Liam, you insulted me like I was some high school slut with no self-awareness, and you made Liam feel like he was intruding just by breathing near me.”

“Maybe he was,” I growled.

She blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?”

I stepped closer, the anger bubbling over, boiling past the edges. “You’re sitting there acting like this is some little tea party when Danneel’s practically in my lap and Liam is drooling all over your arm. And I’m supposed to just what? Smile through it? Pretend I like it?”

“Yes!” she shouted. “Because Danneel likes you, Jensen! And if you had two brain cells to rub together, you’d realize that tonight was for her. She needed this. She wanted to spend time with you. And you’re too busy acting like a goddamn teenager—”

“I’m not the one who’s blind here, Y/N!”

“What?!”

“You think I’m being cruel because I’m an asshole,” I said, voice low and shaking, "Because I hate Danneel and Liam in one room? No Y/N for all I care they jump eachother tonight!"

She froze.

But I didn’t stop.

“I’ve been holding it in every day. Every stupid car ride. Every set lunch. Every time I watched you laugh with someone else and act like I was just background noise.” My voice cracked. “And yeah—I’ve been a dick. Because it’s easier to be angry than admit that I can’t stop thinking about you.”

She opened her mouth—some clever comeback, maybe—but I didn’t let her speak.

I kissed her.

Hard.

Fierce.

Like it was the last thing I’d ever do.

Her mouth was soft, warm—but she didn’t kiss me back. She stood there, still, frozen against me like I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

Reality came crashing in like cold water.

I pulled away fast, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, backing up like I’d touched fire. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

I grabbed my keys off the counter, heart pounding.

“Tell Danneel... whatever you want. That I’m a bastard. That I got sick. I'm sorry.”

I turned on my heel and left the apartment without another word.

---

FLASH FORWARD.

I wasn’t prepared.

Not for the sound of her laugh echoing down the corridor, not for the way her silhouette caught the edge of the studio light, haloed in gold

Y/N.

Just standing there like no time had passed.

My whole body locked up.

“Hey, Jensen,” someone called behind me, but it was like the rest of the room dimmed.

She turned slowly, a coffee cup in hand, scanning the room—and then her eyes landed on mine.

I hadn’t seen her in seven years.

Seven years since Y/N walked away from 10 Inch Hero. 5 since I married Danneel. Since I convinced myself I could erase the part of my heart that used to beat for her.

She froze when she saw me. Her lips parted slightly, shock flooding her expression, but she didn’t look away.

Neither did I.

---

We were both quiet when we finally spoke. Small talk, at first.

She told me she’d moved around a lot. Got into special effects for a while, then makeup again. Told me she was freelancing. That she got out of a … difficult relationship. That word hung in the air like smoke.

I told her I was married to Danneel. She nodded once, like it stung more than she wanted it to.

“You look good, I knew she'd make you happy." she said, finally. But with a bitter smile.

“You look…” My voice caught. I tried to keep it neutral. Failed. “Better than I would have ever deserved.”

She laughed, but it was quieter now. Sadder.

---

It was raining by the time we wrapped for the day. Vancouver skies pouring like they knew exactly how dramatic this shit needed to be.

“You have a ride?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “Ride share bailed. I was gonna call another.”

“I’ll drive you,” I said before I could think twice.

She hesitated. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Of course, for old times sake."

She sat beside me in the passenger seat, hugging her coat tighter. Streetlights flickered across her face, painting her in warm and cold alternately.

We didn’t say much. Music hummed softly from the radio. She was still so her. Soft around the edges but sharp where it counted. Tired now, though. Like she’d been carrying too much for too long.

She sighed and looked out the window. “You know I thought about you a lot. About that night."

My hands tightened on the wheel.

“Sorry I didn’t reach out,” she continued. “Because what would’ve been the point, right? In the end.... You got married. You were happy.”

I didn’t respond. Because I didn’t know if I had been.

“I thought you got over it,” she said quietly.

If she only knew.

The rain had slowed to a mist. I pulled up by her curb. She unbuckled her seatbelt and looked at me. "Thanks for the ride,” she said, voice low.

“Anytime,” I murmured, eyes fixed on her. Her fingers hovered over the handle, then paused. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?” I asked.

“For… everything I didn’t understand back then. For not seeing it sooner. For waiting until now to talk to you.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Don’t.”

She turned toward me fully—and suddenly she looked like that girl by the campfire again, the one I couldn’t stop staring at.

I opened her door, we got out, but for some reason she stayed with her back against the car.

“I still dream about you,” I said out loud like a love sick puppy. But it was the truth.

I didn’t have time to react before she leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t hesitant this time.

It was years of silence and heartbreak colliding in one motion. Her hand came to my jaw. My fingers tangled in her coat before I could stop myself.

When she pulled away, we both stayed there—foreheads almost touching, breath mingling in the quiet.

“You don’t have to come in,” she whispered. "But I have Margaritas." I smiled I rather have a whiskey.

---

The door shut behind me with a soft click.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve said I’m married and meant it like a vow, not a sentence.

But I didn’t.

Because the second I looked at her standing in the soft amber glow of her hallway light, hair damp from the rain, lips parted, eyes on me…

I knew.

I’d never stop wanting her.

It was like time folded in on itself. One step inside her apartment and I wasn’t married, or broken, or scared—I was just a man who’d spent years pretending he didn’t love her.

And she was looking at me like she knew. Like she’d always known.

She stood there silent, nervous. My coat was still clinging to me, rain still drying on my sleeves. And yet, all I could feel was the heat between us.

"You shouldn't be here." She said without remorse.

"Want me to leave?" I said while walking closer.

"No."

---

We barely made it to the bedroom. Clothes were slow to come off—not rushed, not frantic—just reverent. Like every kiss was memorizing, every brush of her fingertips rewriting the years I lost.

My lips found her shoulder, her jaw, her collarbone. I kissed her like I was trying to undo the damage I’d done. And she kissed me like she’d never stopped waiting.

It wasn’t desperate. It was deliberate.

The kind of lovemaking that said I missed you, I needed you, and I’m still yours without ever speaking a word.

We took our time. Again and again.

And when it was done, we didn’t move. My arm stayed around her waist, her fingers resting on my chest, tracing lines like she was trying to sketch my heartbeat into her memory.

---

The sun slipped through the curtains like it was trying not to wake us.

I opened my eyes to find her still tucked beneath my arm, her cheek against my chest. The air was warm with quiet, thick with what came next.

She stretched a little, then looked up at me. "Morning."

After a long peaceful silence she asked.

“What now?” she whispered.

The question landed like a weight on my chest.

I stared at the ceiling, heart racing.

What now?

What now, when I’m still married?

What now, when I’ve wanted you for years and now that I finally have you, I don’t want to let go?

What now, when I don’t know if Danneel deserves to be hurt, but you don’t deserve to be lied to anymore?

I turned to her. My voice was hoarse. “I don’t want to lie to you.”

“I’m not asking you to,” she said gently. “But I need to know… if this was just last night or once or—”

I cut her off. “No. It wasn’t just last night. It’s never been with you.”

She exhaled, a shaky little breath. Her eyes searched mine.

“I want to be with you,” I said. “I know it’s going to be messy, she is... your friend, and I don’t have all the answers. But if you’re okay with it—if you want this too—I’m not walking away again.”

She blinked, stunned. “You’d really… leave her?”

“For you?” I said, brushing her hair back, hand trembling.

“I think I’ve been trying to be yours since the day I met you.”

---

Taglist:

@jackles010378 @libby99hb @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @deans-baby-momma @ancles @tulipsvanilla @thesilmarillionblog @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @kr804573 @kamisobsessed @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @kindollss @muhahaha303 @shadysoulangel @lyarr24 @spxideyver @impala67rollingthroughtown @panickedbitch @deansimpalababy @livya99 @yvonneeeee @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @imsiriuslyreal @panickedbitch @roseblue373 @n-o-p-e-never @ariasong11 @lmpala1967 @sherlockstrangewolf @spnaquakindgdom @writtenbyhollywood @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @healojane @star-yawnznn @deanswifeyy

#jensen ackles #fanfic #x reader #jensen fucking ackles #fluff #soldier boy #dean winchester #spn #the boys #supernatural #jensen ackles fic #jensen ackles one shot #jensen ackles smut #jensen ackles angst #jensen ackles fluff

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jays-bonnie-on-the-side · 12 days ago

Note

hiii lovely, I hope you’re doing well 💙 i’m on the verge of sleep lol, but I have a fun question for youu :) in your opinion which jackles character likes to say “my wife” the most? 😗 (I mean i’m sure they’d all be down bad for their spouse lmao, but who do you think takes the cake? 🤣)

sidenote; I hope everything is going good for you !! If I remember correctly you had a lot goin on lately, I hope everything is settling smoothly <33

Hey, friend!! Sorry it's taken me a while to answer. I just started a new job this week, so my brain is all over the place. 🤪 (Thank you for asking! 💕) But I loooove this question lol. Let's say we're talking about the Big Four - Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy, and Russell Shaw.

HEADCANON: Who says "my wife" the most?

Yeah I feel like if they all got to the point of letting someone in that deep, all of them would be down bad for their girl lol. But I feel like it would go something like this:

Dean Winchester + Soldier Boy (Ben): Protective 👿

Not to say that Beau and Russell aren't protective bois too, but I feel like Dean and Ben are more likely to "say it" in that gut punch situation where they're about to tear someone a new orifice.

"Fuck off, asshole. That's my wife."

"That's my wife. Show her some fucking respect, before I break every limp-dick fucking bone in your body."

Beau Arlen + Russell Shaw: Playful 😘

I think Beau and Russ are more likely to "say it" more often, but in that playful, endearing, flirty teasing way.

"How's my lovely wife doing on this beautiful evening?" He wraps you up in his arms, fully knowing how late he is and trying to lighten up your glare. "Waiting three hours for her husband to get off work so we can actually make it to our anniversary dinner," you snip. "I managed to rechedule the reservation, but we've gotta move quick if we're going to make it in half an hour." He butters you up in any way possible, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek. "That's why I love you. You always think ahead." Rolling your eyes, but still smiling, you grab ahold of his tie. "All right, cowboy. Let's go."

"Ooh, I can't be seen with the likes of you, sweetheart. My wife would kill me." Cue a mischievous smirk. You shake your head in amusement. God. This man. You still let him slip his arms around your waist and pull you in close, so he can trail his lips up your neck, inhaling the alluring scent of your perfume. You giggle breathlessly. This is one of his favorite little games. The gold band on the ring finger of your left hand matching the one on his calls his bluff though. "She doesn't have to know," you purr. Your lips are just shy of a whisper near his ear. "This can be our little secret."

AN: @wvffles I hope this answers your question! 😘💓

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Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

#headcanon: “my wife”#dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #beau arlen x reader #dean x reader #supernatural #soldier boy #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x reader #beau arlen #beau arlen x you #russell shaw #russell shaw x you #russell shaw x reader

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jays-bonnie-on-the-side · 13 days ago

Text

𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝐴𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒

𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡ℎ'𝑠 𝑑𝑢𝑚𝑝

𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑜ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑘 𝑠𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡

❤️ 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑑𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑑

𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑜'𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑢𝑦???

𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑠ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝟸 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠

𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑗𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑝𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑖 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑆𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝐵𝑜𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢

𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛

𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠_𝑠𝑝𝑛 𝑜ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝐺 𝑂 𝐷

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎 ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑒 🫦

❤️ 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟 𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑢 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑂𝑀𝐺 ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑

𝑗𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑝𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑖 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑛!! 💪🏼

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒

𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑛 🍷

𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑝𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑖'𝑚 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛'𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘

𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜

𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑦?

𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑦 𝑜ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝟸 𝑟 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑡!!

𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝟸 𝑖 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠

𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛!!!

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛𝟸𝟹 𝑖 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑡ℎ 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠

𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑠

𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠

𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 !!!!!!

𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑑𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒

𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔!!!!!!!! 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝟸 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚?? 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠_𝑠𝑝𝑛 𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠

𝑗𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑝𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑖 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒

❤️ 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 ❤️

❤️ 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒

𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑖𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑢

𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑑𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑐ℎ

𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝟸 ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑛 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑎𝑛_ ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑝𝑖𝑐 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑦

𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙

❤️ 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑝𝑙𝑒

❤️ 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑝𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑖 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠

❤️ 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟

𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑝𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙!

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 😍

#jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles x you #au #jensen ackles au #jensen ackles smut #jensen ackles fanfic #supernatural #the boys

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jays-bonnie-on-the-side · 13 days ago

Text

my happy ending 🖤

Good men die too, so I’d rather be with you⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: mentions of injuries. fluff. smut (mdni). oral sex (m receiving). cannibalism references (again). everything is very cute. happy ending. 4.7k

You end up getting stuck in the house for three days.

The blizzard hit sometime after you and Dean had fallen asleep. The next morning, you woke up with freezing fingers, a window completely buried in snow, and Dean whining into your pillow to just “fucking get back in bed, sweetheart, it’s cold.”

You spent the whole morning rolling around on the mattress, too lazy and too comfortable to crawl out from under your thick comforter. It’s only around noon that the two of you made your way downstairs, only to find the door blocked by a mountain of snow. You redress the wound on Dean’s shoulder and then throw together a pretty shitty meal from the scarce food in your pantry.

To be fair, you had only expected to feed yourself. And you barely eat.

But Dean eats, a lot—and by the afternoon of the second day, you were left with one box of mac and cheese and a bunch of old green bean cans.

“I’m not eating that shit. I’d rather starve.”

“But if you die, I can’t make you cum.”

Dean ate the green beans.

That night, Sam called. You and Dean were sprawled in front of the fireplace, his head in your lap as he lay across the cushions, telling you more about the hunting life while you ran your fingers through his hair. You listened carefully, trying to dig deeper into the lore and less into how many times Dean almost mentioned the name of a waitress before cutting himself off.

“I don’t know much about that, baby. I see an evil son of a bitch, I shoot. You’d have to ask Sammy about the nerdy details.”

Speak of the devil—because immediately after, Dean’s phone started buzzing. He picked up, and Sam’s worried, static-filled voice echoed through the quiet living room.

“Dad called Bobby, and he said you weren’t with him and that there’d been a blizzard. Where the hell are you, Dean?

Dean calmly explained the situation as you kept scratching his scalp, until a tiny hum of satisfaction slipped from his throat. Sam heard it and immediately launched into a rant, threatening to knock Dean’s teeth out if he dared mess around with some random girl when he had you.

Dean shut him up before he could say anything too incriminating, but the words “don’t wanna see you brooding and pouting about it again,” and “everyone, even Dad, knows you lo—” still echoed in your brain days later. It was also adorable, how defensive Sam had sounded over you. You were going to buy that boy all the sweet-and-salty monstrosities he wanted the next time you saw him.

So Dean explained that he was with you, and Sam’s tone shifted from angry to smug.

“Finally grew the balls, huh?”

“Hi Sam,” you interrupted with a grin so big Dean rolled his eyes.

“Sorry you’re trapped with that dumbass. I wouldn’t blame you if you killed him.”

“Really nice, Sammy. Thank you.”

“Oh, believe me, the urge has been there.” You looked down at Dean, where he was staring up at you from your lap. “But I think I like him a little too much for that.”

Dean grinned and pulled himself up for a kiss, chaste and sweet.

“Ew, I’m hanging up.”

“Bye, Sammy.”

Dean tossed his phone toward the nearby loveseat, then immediately pulled you on top of him.

On the third day, it rained again.

The temperature had shot up suddenly, but it was raining so hard you still couldn’t make your way to the corner store, or even order a freaking pizza.

You offered to make Dean a water pie when he complained about missing his favorite sweet treat, and he chased you around the house trying to tickle you. He caught you, of course, so you ended up crying and begging for mercy near the staircase, until Dean decided you had been punished enough. Your laughter that afternoon was the loudest sound to ever fill the halls of this decaying, haunted house—except for that one time you tried to take away your mother’s vodka, and she screamed at you until the neighbors threatened to call the cops.

You made out on the floor until your hunger was so strong that not even Dean’s soft grunts when you tugged at his hair could distract you.

Today, you wake up writhing in bed, trying to push away the thick blanket that’s suffocating you. All the squirming wakes Dean, who groans and pulls you closer to his bare chest. It doesn’t help with the sweat sticking to your skin, but it does make the discomfort soften into a distant itch.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

You don’t let yourself be distracted by Dean’s deep, gravelly morning voice. Instead, you stare, mouth agape, as sunlight filters through the curtains, snow melted and gone.

You manage to slide out of Dean’s iron-tight grip and make your way to the window, gawking at the ground now covered only in puddles, water dripping from the trees and roofs, sunlight gleaming off sidewalks and cars.

Two big arms wrap around your waist, and Dean’s chin rests on your shoulder as he squints at the glaring sun, still half-asleep and adorable.

“How the fuck did this happen?” he mutters, words slurred. Then he turns his face and presses it against your hair.

Thirteen-year-old you would have an aneurysm if someone told her that one day she would wake up next to a shirtless Dean, and that he would be all clingy and soft like this.

You aren’t sure you’re not having an aneurysm right now.

“Fucking climate change,” you huff before yawning, making Dean chuckle as he slowly presses kisses down your neck.

He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel his semi pressing right between your cheeks.

“Nuh uh,” you quickly push him away, giggling at his sleepy pout. You love moments like this, when Dean isn’t his father’s soldier or the town’s cool boy, but instead he is just gentle and warm and real.

This Dean Winchester—the one that whines for kisses and murmurs soft praises against your neck as he fucks you until you’re cockdrunk and the one who stayed—is real.

Instead of giving in to the beast on your chest, who is howling to get its claws on him, you quickly make your way to your dresser and grab some clothes.

“We have to go buy something to eat,” you murmur as you grab a pair of clean underwear.

“I know something else I can eat.” He attempts to press against you once more, and you almost cave in if it wasn’t for the piercing need to leave this house.

Because this has all felt like a fever dream. The sleeping and waking up together, the running around the house, the movie-binging and sweet-talking and not-leaving. You fear it has all been a cruel hallucination from your loneliness-riddled brain, and that the moment you walk out of the house everything will go back to how it was.

So you jump in the shower, throw on a pair of tights and leg-warmers under your shorts, slip in a puffy jacket, and force Dean to go get some actual food. He only accepts when you promise him some cherry pie, and you lend him an old black leather jacket you suspect belonged to your dad but which your mom never let be taken out of the closet.

You two walk all the way to town, and you get a sense of déjà vu.

Dean spends the whole walk rambling about some wrestling fight he went to recently as you hum and nod, and it feels just like it did when you were sixteen. Only now, Dean holds your hand, and he looks at you with more affection than you had ever been the target of. When the blonde cheerleader from the other day walks out of the hair salon, he wraps his arm around your shoulders and presses you to his side as he throws her a friendly grin.

Instead of letting you walk into the corner store, Dean drags you to a nearby diner.

“We deserve some good old greasy food after being forced to eat fuckin’ vegetables for two days.”

He orders for the both of you because he knows you don’t like talking, and asks for it to be to-go after you whisper to him. He doesn’t let go of your hand as you wait for the food, and you’re finally struck with the fact that this is actually happening.

You drag Dean to the jukebox just so you have something to focus on other than how much you want to jump his bones.

Dean waits until you’re walking down the lonely road home before asking why you wanted the food to-go.

“I was thinking…” Your voice is still barely louder than the wind whipping through the trees, and you fidget with the sleeves of your jacket. Maybe you’re still sixteen after all. “We could eat in the woods, have a little—I don’t know, picnic?”

It sounds so stupid now, and you keep your eyes on the dirt under your boots as your cheeks warm with embarrassment.

But you’re not sixteen anymore, because Dean wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. It’s slow, burning, and perfect. His hand tangles in your hair, and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth before leaning back.

“Picnic it is.”

Turns out the woods are muddy from the rain, and it’s still too cold to hide in the shadows like you usually do. So instead, you end up finding a small meadow that has been under the sunlight long enough to be dry.

You shrug off your jacket and lay it down beside a big patch of lupines, the scent of grape filling your nose as you sit down with your legs curled under you. Dean takes his jacket off too, but he doesn’t place it down to sit, and you don’t know if it’s because he’s not bothered by dirt and insects or because it might be your father’s.

You two dig into your food—burgers, fries, milkshakes, a piece of cherry pie, the whole package. Dean inhales his, clearly starving from your few days of confinement. But you eat slowly, savoring the food as much as you savor the moment.

A few butterflies roam in the distance, and somewhere far away, the roar of a waterfall can be heard. The breeze is still cold, but the sun shining down on you is warm and comforting. It shines down on Dean, and his hair catches just the smallest hints of honey-gold.

It takes you back. To that blonde kid you once stalked like a mourning spirit. To the time when his eyes were brighter, his shoulders less heavy, his smile more innocent. But maybe it had never been. Maybe you had just been blind to the curse that loomed over him, maybe you hadn’t noticed his shifting eyes or the demons that followed him around because you didn’t know they existed.

But now you do. Now you know. Now you can see it all, every part of Dean. Every insane, tragic, fucked-up part of him.

And you still fucking love him.

You haven’t said it again. You know you muttered it that night, when you handed your bleeding heart to him and he ran away with it. But Dean hasn’t mentioned it, hasn’t even tried. So you don’t either, because maybe he doesn’t love you—and that’s okay.

You will love him until the day you die, even if he doesn’t love you back.

So while he talks about the last hunt he was in—not the skinwalkers, the one before that—you stare at the silver scar on his eyebrow and the way his teeth flash when he grins. You watch as a ladybug climbs his arm, slowly making her way around his bicep.

Lucky.

You hear Dean murmur your name, and the edge in his words makes you look up immediately.

“I will have to leave tomorrow.”

The world stops for just a second. For a moment, you can’t breathe, and the butterflies are frozen mid-flight, and the waterfall falls silent, and the ladybug stops walking.

No, no, no.

You can’t go back. Back to those days of loneliness, of nothing but silence and dust, of nightmares and shadows. Of waiting, and longing, and crying. You can’t go back to a life without Dean.

“I can come visit, when Dad doesn’t need me. It will be hard, and he won’t like it, but—”

“Let me come with you.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. Dean stares at you with wide eyes, and you look back with nothing but deep-seated, all-consuming desperation.

Dean whispers your name, his expression darkening. “You can’t—” Tears fill your eyes against your will, and it looks like Dean is breaking at the sight of them. “It’s a hard life. It isn’t pretty. It’s dangerous, and you could get hurt.”

“I don’t care.” Even with tears in your eyes, your voice is firmer than it has ever been. “I can handle it, Dean. You know I can.”

Because you’ve handled worse. Worse monsters than bloodsuckers and moon-howlers. You’ve faced real monsters—the ones with friendly faces, the ones supposed to take care of you.

And Dean knows it, because he seems to hesitate. He stops himself from reaching for you, and you think you can see that same fire in his eyes. The same fire that’s burning inside you—the need, the hunger, the adoration.

“Sweetheart.” He sounds sad. Just so fucking sad. And you would let the world burn if it meant he’d never sound like that again.

Your pretty boy, doomed from birth. He deserved so much better.

“I wish you could come with me,” he whispers, not looking at you. “But I… I’m not the guy you think I am. There’s blood on my hands, baby. I—I can’t put you in danger like that. You can’t just leave—”

“And I should stay here doing what, Dean? Rotting away in that house like my mother did?”

That shuts him up. His eyes meet yours, and you know he’s so close to giving in. Because as much as you need him—as you can’t stand to be away from him, how much it hurts to watch him go every time, how much you fucking crave him like air—he might need you just as much.

“You’ve seen me handling a gun, Dean. I can be better. You can teach me.” The tears are gone, and your voice is just as decisive as before. You are not losing this battle; you’ve already lost too much. “I’m good with my knife, and I can help with research. You know I don’t scare easily.”

Your eyes soften where they lock onto his, his forest green meeting your tornado—still eerie, but toughened. “I’m not scared of you.”

Dean’s eyes close, and you know he’s given up. His mouth curls down, like you just slapped him. But his hands twitch, still aching to reach out for you, and the sigh he lets out is pure defeat and relief.

“You have to think about it.” He shakes his head when he sees you about to complain. “This isn’t a decision you make in one day. You will think about it.”

You take the small victory, dragging your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them silently. Dean still looks conflicted, and for a long moment you two are lost in your own thoughts—lost, but together

You watch carefully—chin propped on your knees, humming a slow song under your breath—as a butterfly flies by. Small, blue, and fragile. She fights against the breeze that tries to push her back and finally settles on a lupine. You can’t help but smile at the sight.

“I’ve thought about it, you know?” You feel Dean’s head turn toward you, but you keep your eyes on the butterfly. Delicate, frail, but determined. “About you, about leaving. About following you to wherever you disappeared every time.”

More silence.

Come on, this is the moment. It’s now or never.

“I’ve known you since I was a child, and I used to feel sick every time I looked at you,” you murmur with a smile, fingers reaching out to fidget with one of the wildflowers. “It was just this—thing curling inside of me, simmering beneath the surface, turning in my stomach.”

There’s a long moment of silence, where Dean tries to decipher if it’s an insult or not, and you’re completely lost in memories that feel like ages ago and just yesterday at the same time. The butterfly’s wings flutter, like she might fly away again.

“It was love, I guess.”

Dean looks like all the air has been punched out of his lungs, and at this pace, you’ll end up making him pass out. He stares at you, dumbfounded, for a long moment.

“What did you say?”

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” you repeat, finally turning to hold his eyes with a certainty you never thought you’d have. All fear is gone, because it doesn’t matter if he loves you back or not. Your heart is his, and he deserves to know.

“So let me go with you, and I’ll follow wherever you go.”

“You know,” his voice is strained, choked out, “that’s emotional manipulation.”

That makes you laugh—a full-on belly laugh. Dean smiles at you, but then chews on the inside of his cheek, his eyes shadowing down.

“I’ve been talking to Dad about hunting on my own, and Baby is basically mine already.” You can almost see the gears turning in his mind, and you’re sure he’ll draw blood soon if he doesn’t stop abusing his teeth.

“We would hunt together, and we can take Sammy with us sometimes. Dad won’t like it, but—I don’t want you to hunt with him. But maybe…”

If you don’t stop him right now, you might just cry again.

Oh, John Winchester, one day I will catch you.

You leap forward, eliciting a small yelp from Dean as you tackle him to the grass. You swallow down any complaints as your lips press against his and your tongue slides into his mouth. He lets you in, opening up and wrapping his arms around you. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear, like he’s terrified this isn’t real. But now, you’re sure it is.

Because perched in Dean’s lap, with the grass tickling under your palms and the sweet grape scent of the flowers, you’ve never felt more alive.

“It’ll be me and you against the world,” Dean mumbles against your lips, and you’ve never heard more glorious words.

“You and me,” you whisper back, cupping his face. In the distance, you catch the blue butterfly flying away. “Forever.”

Maybe saying goodbye to Marigold will be sad—you’ll probably end up taking at least one part of her with you—and you’ll have to ask Bobby if he can hold onto your book collection so they don’t rot along with the rest of the house. You will miss your roof and its warm clay tiles, and maybe you’ll even miss this awful town.

But you won’t have to live in a cobweb-filled home that was never really a home. You won’t have to hide under the covers from the ghosts of your past, and you won’t have to stare at the hole in the couch your mom left every day.

You won’t have to miss Dean anymore, because there’s not a place on this earth you won’t follow him to.

To hell and heaven and everything in between—you will follow.

“I love you.”

For a moment, you think it’s your inner voice—just your heart reminding you of your love for Dean. But the voice is too deep, too rough, and it vibrates beneath you. So you break the kiss, and this time you're the one gaping down at him, feeling like you might pass out.

“What?” The question comes out tiny, breathless.

“I love you,” he says your name devotedly, like it’s holy.

And finally, the beast breaks out of your chest. It tears through your ribs and crawls up your throat. It rips all your insides to shreds and forces its way out. You kiss Dean again, starved in a way none of you were expecting. He moans when your teeth crash, but the pain doesn’t bother you. You’re possessed—wild and feral.

You break the kiss only to yank his shirt off, ignoring his small sound of surprise. Dean tries to speak, but you shut him up with another kiss, just as violent. Tongues tangle and noses bump. His hands roam over your body, and he tries to pull off your shirt too.

But you’re all beast—insatiable and hungry. So you kiss the corner of his mouth, bite the soft flesh of his cheek. Nip at his jaw, lick your way up to his ear. You bite and suck down his neck, leaving red and purple bruises all around. Your hands trail down his biceps, leaving angry red lines across the firm muscle, savoring the feel of skin under your nails. You sink your teeth into the curve of his neck and shoulder, hard, leaving a deep bite mark. The indent of your teeth looks neat and perfect on his body.

Dean pants your name, hushed and trembling. “What the hell are you—” He’s cut off when you bite again, this time on his bicep. A sick satisfaction washes over you at the sight of the marks. They’re animalistic, filthy, almost grotesque. But the sight has you grinding down on Dean’s stomach.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

Dean loves you. That’s what’s gotten into you. Dean loves you, and he’s yours and you’re his. You will leave with him, and you’ll never have to miss him again.

“‘M gonna eat you,” you drawl against his chest, kissing down his torso.

So you get as close as you can to devouring him without crossing the line into actual cannibalism, while Dean groans and jerks beneath you. You trap his flesh gently between your teeth. You lick and kiss every scar that mars his body. You leave little bruises across his ribcage, another bite mark right over his heart. You pepper kisses down the trail of thin hairs leading south. Finally, you tug at his jeans, leaning back from his skin to admire your masterpiece.

Dean lies on the grass, hair tousled by your hands, lips bitten blood-red. He’s slick with your spit, shivering each time the cold breeze brushes over him. Marked all over, utterly yours, and you have to fight the urge to rip his boxers off right then and there.

Because you’re starving. Your tongue feels heavy, your mouth waters, and you’re just so, so hungry.

Dean hisses when you pull his cock out, long and red and—in a very sick, insane way—pretty. There are drops of precum on the tip, and it’s hard and warm in your hand. You lick your lips, feeling a little unhinged.

“You look kinda scary,” Dean breathes out, mouth parted as he looks at you. He throws his head back and groans when you suck the head of his dick into your mouth. “It’s hot.”

You’re unrelenting. Slurping and whining around him until you take him all the way down, until your nose brushes his hips and his cockhead hits the back of your throat, making you moan through a mouthful of cock. The vibrations make Dean jerk his hips up, grunting so loud that if you were a little less clouded with the intensity of your desire you would be worried about people finding you two. “Do that again, fuck.”

Your thumbs rub over his hip bones, tongue circling around the tip to collect precum before swallowing it down. The taste makes you moan again, and Dean’s hand finds its home in your hair, tugging and pulling in the way he has learned you love.

You relax your jaw and start bopping your head up and down, holding Dean’s hips down and savoring every moment of having him in your mouth. Spit dribbles down your chin as Dean keeps hitting the back of your throat repeatedly—you thank every deity that you don’t have a sensitive gag reflex. Because you love having Dean like this, deep inside your mouth, writhing and whimpering under you.

“You’re so fucking warm, I love you.” This time the whine around his cock is so loud that Dean’s cock twitches, finally making you gag slightly. “I love you, fuck. I love you so much,” he rasps out your name.

It makes you double down, head moving faster and throat tightening around him.

“I—I’m gonna come, sweetheart.” He talks through his teeth, pulling on your hair almost to pull you away. You don’t let him, nails digging into his hips and a hand moving to squeeze his balls until his hips buck up and he throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth parted in a silent moan.

Your teeth graze the underside of his cock. Just the smallest hint of them, for just a moment, but it’s enough to make Dean come. He makes a small, broken noise and empties himself in your mouth.

It coats your tongue in white, dribbling down the edges of your lips as you pull away. You use your thumb to collect it before it falls off, licking it clean right after. Somewhere in the distance, Dean groans and covers his eyes with an arm, breath ragged and softening cock twitching.

You just love the taste, love swallowing down every bit of cum Dean offers like it’s nectar. It’s the closest you’ll get to consume him in the way you want—to eat him down to the bone and taste his essence on your teeth. So you hum contentedly and make sure not a drop goes to waste.

“You’re a fucking demon,” Dean chokes out, still trying to catch his breath. You drop on top of him with a grin after tucking him back in his underwear, trying to protect him from the breeze that slowly gets colder as the sun starts to lay low.

“So you’re gonna kill me?” you ask lowly against his ear, pressing a peck on top of the hickey right under it.

“Might have to.” He pulls his arm off his face and looks at you with glassy, glowy green eyes. “Or you are gonna kill me.”

You giggle against his stubble, light and airy, because you finally have no reason to be sad.

No, you had a lot of reasons to be sad. But you can deal with all of them if Dean is by your side.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “I would choose to die by your hands. It’s kind of hot.”

“You little freak. I can’t believe I fell in love with a psychopath.”

That night, after you pack your most important stuff and leave the rest with Bobby, Dean steals a car for you to drive to Montana, where Sam and the Impala are waiting. And maybe he uses a knife, and you have to drive away fast because the owner walks out of the bar and starts screaming at you. Maybe he keeps a gun in the center console. And you know the talk with John won’t be easy, and the horrors that hide in the dark might turn out to be scarier than you anticipate.

Because maybe Dean is not a white knight, some kind of moralistic hero. Maybe he’s not even the good guy sometimes. But you don’t care, because his grip on your thigh is firm but tender, and his eyes glance at you with warmth in the red lights, and he stops and buys you coffee every few hours without you even asking because he knows you love it.

You don’t care, because you love him. Because he loves you.

And you would choose him—with his baggage and his blood-stained hands and his shadows—over any “good man” any day.

And you will follow him through every adventure and misadventure until the day your heart gives out. And even then, you hope they bury you right next to him, so you two can rot together for the rest of eternity.

PREVIOUS PART |

NOTES: i'm not crying, you are. guys, we've finally reached the end of this adventure and i could not be more grateful and enamored with it. it has been such an amazing experience to write these two characters, to be able to write a character I love so much like this reader, she will forever live in my heart. the support and love y'all have given to this series is so fucking heartwarming and I'm trying not to be all sappy but I love you all so much. all your sweet words really motivate me to keep pursuing my passion, so thank you.

i will miss these two lovebirds so much, but im sure that wherever they are, they are fine because they have each other. btw, in my head, reader tries to make a demon deal to bring back dean after he goes to hell but no demon will accept, and she ends up returning to her house in sioux falls and only survives because bobby forces her to. then dean returns and it all goes up in flames.

Anyway! I will stop yapping now. But before, an important announcement. A lot of you sweethearts asked to be tagged in this series (again, thank you with tears in my eyes) but since I don't know how many of you want to keep being tagged in other works, I will delete everyone who was added for this series.

If you still wanna be tagged in the future, pls send me an inbox or comment below. love you all, and goodbye for now!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max @southernimpala @ohmykwonsoonyoung @mimiimmii @thanosisadilf @iamaslytherin0 @youroldfashioned @luvrgirls @faeriexxmoon @iluvchr1s @beelzebzb @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @rxouxcesss @yup-its-dez @n0t-vzin1s @tendertulip @halleybagel @melancholysanatomy @dollyfetti @5oftkitty @cupidzbunny @arcanehastakenovermysoul @kermits-bitch @zenoxl @hollywoodxrose @bitchykittenconnoisseur @sherlockstrangewolf @urfav-tz @risefallrise @darling-loki-01 @dina-winchester @zyra-7 @l0v33-rey<3

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

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jays-bonnie-on-the-side · 14 days ago

Text

𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑

PAIRING : dean winchester x original female character

STORY SUMMARY : in series masterlist

CHAPTER WARNINGS : age-gap. pining. angst. language. jealous!ofc. virgin!ofc. asshole!dean. just a little, much needed, assult. slut shaming.

A/N : lemme know what y'all think of this one 😄 ps all typos are mine, for some reason my last file got goofed up and i tried sifting through all of it, so sorry if i missed any.

Maricela’s POV

The ride back to MacCarthy’s Scottish Motel was silent and I couldn’t have been more grateful. The last thing I wanted was to talk about my stupid feelings for his stupid brother. No, instead, he kept quiet, allowing me to wallow in envy. He parks Baby beside Jody’s pickup before pulling the keys from the ignition. My hand reaches for the door handle but his gruff voice stops me.

“Look, I know there’s nothing I can say to make you feel better—”

“Then don’t,” He chuckles, and my eyebrows draw. I glance at the smirked Winchester with curiosity, “What?”

“You're just like him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well for starters you’re both stubborn as hell. You hate talking about your feelings but will wallow in your own self-pity.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You’re just a lot more alike than you think, that’s all.”

“Can we just solve this case and get out of here? ‘Kinda used to us doing all the heavy lifting anyway.” Without waiting for his response, I push the door open and walk toward the motel.

Sam follows behind and uses the key to unlock the door, greeting Jody as it opens, “Hey.”

“How was church?” She finishes typing her last thought on her laptop before turning and giving her undivided attention.

The question earns a laugh from the man as we shed our jackets and walk toward the Sheriff. “Well, it turned into confessional. Apparently, two of our vics, Honor and Pastor Fred, did the dirty.”

So disgusting. He’s not even cute, I think to myself.

Jody’s eyes widen, shocked by the news, too. “Oh, well. They're not the only ones. Barb Blanton, our missing bride-to-be—”

“Yeah?”

She picks up the file and reads, “Her mom said she heard Barb and her fiancé in Barb's bedroom.”

“Going at it?” Sam asks with amusement.

“Well, she said she heard sex noises, then Barb crying, then Neil telling Barb it didn't count because it was under 30 seconds.”

“Tragic,” I comment.

We chuckle before the hunter/sheriff continues. “And then, two hours later, she heard a smash and saw a flash of light under the door.”

“Blue light?” asks Sam.

Jody nods. “You know, I’m thinking whatever this thing is, it’s not going after virgins, even born-again virgins.”

“It’s taking virgins who break their chastity vow,” I conclude.

“So dragons are off the list.” The Winchester utters.

“I’m sor—Dragons? Those are a thing?” She asks with skepticism.

“Yeah. Too many things are things.” Sam walks away, leaving Jody to her thoughts.

The hunters migrate to the table beside the window to continue researching on their laptops, while I continue on the bed nearby. Sam calls Dean to update him on what we know, and unsurprisingly, his brother doesn’t answer. I try not to dwell on what might be keeping him from picking up Sammy's calls, but I can’t help myself. My thoughts keep drifting to what he might be doing but deep down, I already know: Her. If she’s a sane, straight woman, there’s no way she can resist his charm.

“Dean. Come on, call me.” The Winchester ends the voicemail in defeat.

“You know, for being born again today, you sure look like crap,” Jody observes.

“Wait a second. Did you...get—?”

The Sheriff’s eyes widen, her body language just as surprised. “Born again?” He confirms and it draws a small chuckle. “Oh, Sam. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“Preach, sister,” I mutter, eyes glued to my laptop.

“It’s just...I enjoy church. I mean, after...after Bobby, Crowley...I needed something that made sense to me—you know, comfort, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess we’re all looking for that.” He agrees.

“Except those that got it,” Sam and I look at Jody in wonderment. “Come on. You and Dean? That’s something special, don’t you think?”

It certainly was special. He’s quiet, digesting her words. The hunter sighs and scratches his stubble but doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans over the table, eyes flickering between his computer and Jody, before focusing on his research.

When silence falls over us, I go back to my wretched thoughts. Vivid visions flicker across my eyes of his hands on her. The way they wrap around her waist before moving down, telling her to jump without having to use words. And she does. She straddles his waist and runs her fingers through his short hair. Their lips move in sync, each kiss getting needier than the last. My blood begins to boil as time passes.

Sam rips me from my thoughts when Dean finally picks up. “Hey. Dean? Dean. Hey, you there? Hello? Dean? Dean!”

I sit on the edge of the mattress, my attention unwavering. “What's going on?”

The Winchester repeats his question then after Dean’s response, Sam replies, “Yeah. So did we. So, get this—it’s not a dragon...Dean.”

Sighing, he pulls the phone away from his ear. “What’d he say?”

“Not much. Just that he found something big. He seemed distracted, in a rush.”

If he found something, he couldn’t be doing what I feared, right? I thought. My paranoia gets the best of me, refusing my mind any peace. While they return to work, I pretend to help as my jealousy engulfs me, and for the next hour, my thoughts run wild. He alone with her...for so long...doing God knows what. But that was the problem. It wasn’t just God who knew. Sam gets up from the table and grabs his jacket, walking toward Jody as he pulls it on. Without question, I close my laptop and push it to the side before grabbing my own.

The Sheriff glances toward us, eyes darting back and forth. “What’s up?”

“This thing is taking people that break their vows, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean and Suzy—” He holds up his phone, “Been over an hour.”

“Right.” She pushes herself off the table, hurrying to grab her jacket.

Sam, Jody, and I race to the counselor’s apartment. When we arrive, the door to ‘23’ is wide open. There's a huge mess of glass plates, wood, and their remnants left on the dark floor. Sam and I enter as Jody leaves to talk to the neighbors. We search the apartment, looking for clues to determine if the missing hunter made it inside. Eventually, Jody returns.

“Neighbors see anything?” I ask.

“Flash of blue,” We meet in the middle, and Sam huffs, staring at a DVD cover. “You sure Dean was here?”

“Oh, yeah. And I think he crossed someone off his bucket list.” He holds up the case insinuating to whom. And lo and behold, it was none other than the naked she-slut herself: Suzy.

My stomach drops when I hear the words come from his mouth but the cover of the pornstar hurts more. The sharp pain of envy and betrayal swiftly turns to rage. I feel my body go hot and I'm ready to make the apartment messier. The longer I stand here the feeling of utter disgust grows. Sam and Jody observe me closely, waiting for me to say or do something. Instead, I walk out without another word.

Back in the motel they were eerily quiet around me and didn’t dare say anything as I paced the room. I tried helping but my anger clouded my vision and if I continued to deal with the slow-ass WiFi, I would’ve needed a new laptop after having hurled my current one. It was no secret how I felt about the situation and it wasn’t because he was missing. That he deserves. Hell, I want to find him just to tear him in two. My wrath prevented me from worrying, especially since I knew he could handle himself.

Jody didn’t bother asking why I felt so strongly about this. I wouldn’t be surprised if she figured it out herself or if Sam told her about my feelings for his older brother. Why couldn’t I have fallen for someone else? Why’d I have to fall in the first place? And so damn hard? The thoughts nearly bring me to tears as I desperately ponder how I could let a boy control my emotions this much.

“Hey,” She says, halting my step. “Virgins, fire—sound familiar?”

Sam and I look over her shoulder and he reads, “Vesta, Roman Goddess of the Hearth.”

“In Ancient Rome, six virgins were dedicated to this chick every year. Their main duty was to tend Vesta’s hearth.”

“Wait, so fire is connected to virginity?”

“Yeah, the girls had to be pure because fire is the symbol of purity,” I answer.

“Huh. Okay, as long as Vesta’s fire was kept lit, Rome received a good harvest.”

“The virgins had to stay celibate for 30 years. If they broke their vows, they were buried alive. Vesta was often enveloped in a blue halo of light, which she could control at will to disorient, to maim—ohh—or to kill.”

Sam sits back down before I ask, “Okay, what about some way to kill her? A-a weapon or—or something.”

His phone rings, capturing our attention. He briefly glances at the Caller ID before answering. “Dean? Dean.” He plugs his ear, trying his hardest to interpret the call. “Dean, wh—Say it again. I can't hear you...Dean!”

Sam pulls the phone away, admitting he lost his brother. “What?” Jody and I inquire in unison.

“Listen, is there some kind of train station around here or something? I-I could have sworn I heard a whistle.”

The Sheriff types away and I whip out my phone. My thumbs move quickly, searching for trains nearby. I scroll until I find what I’m looking for. “Here we go. 8 p.m. train out of Sioux Falls. 79 miles an hour. What’s five miles east of Hartford—anything?”

“Uh...” Her fingers click the keys with haste. “Pasture mostly. No—The old Wimmer Fam.”

We scramble to put on jackets, once again, when Sam remembers, “Wait, anything on a weapon?”

With a few taps, she replies, “Oak stained in virgin blood. Where are we gonna get a virgin?”

“I'm a virgin!” He replies with his arms stretched wide.

“I think we need the real McCoy here, Sam.”

“Fuck,” I blurt. Their gazes snap toward me, changing from uncertainty to clarity.

“Mari...you’re not serious...are you?” Jody hesitates.

Sam appears just as shocked but remains silent.

“I swear to God, if either of you ever tell Dean about this, it’ll be the last thing you do.” I threaten.

“Honey, if I were your age and had your looks, I’d be—”

“Okay, can we not? Let’s go save these impatient sex fiends.” I walk past them, refusing to look them in the eye.

Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse...

We pull up to the abandoned farm and quietly enter the barn. Sam gestures for us to split off and cover more ground. I wave my flashlight, illuminating the dark space, trying to find any indication of where the “victims” were being kept. The silence ends when Sam calls for us girls. I turn and follow in the direction of his voice.

Suddenly, a large crash echoes within the old barn. I sprint towards the noise only to see Sam knocked through a wooden fence and Jody lifted and pinned against a pillar. Vesta holds the sheriff captive, her left pointer finger raised with a blue light radiating from its tip. Jody sees me and distracts the monster.

“Really? This is how a goddess acts?”

“What?” Vesta puts her finger away, shocked by the hunter’s question.

“I’m sort of new to this, but, you know, a Roman deity burying people alive in a barn? Sort of pathetic, don't you think?”

She strikes Jody across the face. “It only got pathetic when I started having to do it myself.” She does it again but to the opposite side, making her nose bleed.

Vesta lets go of her and she falls to the ground. I raise my blood-soaked stake over my head and just as I swing it toward the goddess, she steps to the side, clutches my coat, and tosses me away. The weapon flies out of my hand before I crash on the hard, hay-covered ground. I nearly black out but Jody’s calls keep me conscious. Struggling to get up, Vesta, or rather Bonnie, kneels in front of me.

“Well, if it isn’t the virgin herself.”

With heavy pants, I remark, “In the flesh.”

“I was going to go after you next. How lucky am I that you served yourself on a silver platter?”

“Leave her alone!” shouts the sheriff.

Vesta walks over and punches her once again, this time putting her to sleep. She turns on her heel and stalks toward me. “My, my, aren’t you hard to come by these days.” Her hands curl around my collar and pull me off the ground. “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten a virgin. And I’m going to savor every second.”

I thrash in her grasp, desperately trying to break free. She delivers a headbutt to my face, sending my head spinning in a painful whirl. Her strength allows her to bring me to a table and with one hand, she yanks off the sheet, exposing the blood-stained surface. And with ease, she lifts me onto the torture table. I fight with all I have but with one little zap, I’m weak again. My body’s useless as I try and fail to move a muscle.

She straps my head down then follows with my right limbs. With little strength, I muster, “You're going to die.”

The goddess’s laugh rings throughout the barn. “Sweetheart, you should really worry about yourself. After all, you’re the one who's going to be supper.”

“My friends...they’re going to kill you.”

“Well, if I’m going then I’m taking you with me.”

“I don’t think so!” Jody exclaims behind her.

She charges the stake at her but Vesta’s too fast. The goddess grabs her arm, bending it, and with force, impales the oak into her shoulder. She bellows in pain and the evil being pushes her down. Sam joins and swings at Vesta but she shoves him backward. He stumbles and she grasps his shirt, lifting him in the air before body slamming him into the hard ground. I try as quickly as possible to undo my restraints but it isn’t fast enough. Vesta presses her glowing finger to his abdomen before revealing what Dean and I have tried to keep hidden.

Sam grunts in pain, and then she stops her torture to ask, “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?” He asks in confusion.

“Your liver. It’s—it’s no good. Dear boy, you’re all duct tape and safety pins inside.” No. No, no, no, no. No! “How are you alive?”

Just as I finish the last strap, Jody jams the weapon into Vesta’s back. A bright, blue light emanates from the goddess’s face before she slumps to the floor. Jody tosses the stake and it clatters next to her. I hop down and on shaky legs and I move toward Sam. Seeing my disoriented state, he wraps his arm around my torso, pulling me into his body. I lean against him as we hear the banging from the underside of the bunker door. We saunter to the old steel hatch and after the third attempt, Dean pushes it open.

He looks up, seemingly out of breath as he asks, “What did I miss?”

We don’t answer his question, right away at least. Dean climbs out first then helps the others. I regain my strength and quickly shed my jacket to access my overshirt. I apply pressure to Jody’s wound and she hisses in pain. After my apology, I suggest we take her to the nearest hospital. The Sheriff calls for backup as Dean gives the captives ‘the talk,’ making sure they say Bonnie was the one who kidnapped and killed them, leaving us out of it. Jody insists she stays behind and though I hesitate to leave her alone, we agree to meet her at the local emergency department.

Once we knew Jody had been admitted, we rushed to the hospital. I wait outside Jody’s room, giving the doctor space and her some privacy. Sam and Dean left to grab some coffee and I sit here, alone with my thoughts. A migraine set in and I close my eyes, rubbing small circles on my temple.

“Are you okay?” I lift my head to his husky voice.

The eldest Winchester stands before me, concern written across his face. My eyes scan the area but I don’t see Sam. “I'm fine.”

“What happened to your arm?”

My brows scrunch at the random question. “What?”

“Back at the barn, I saw the gauze. What happened?”

“Nothing,” I curse to myself, hoping he didn’t piece the puzzle together, that the weapon required virgin blood: My blood. “Just cut myself, no big deal.”

“Sammy told me Vesta almost made you her dinner,” That better be all he said. He chuckles and shakes his head. “You would’ve been one helluva meal.”

“‘The hell's that supposed to mean?” I cross my arms.

He sees my vexation and his eyes widen. “Nothing, it was just a joke.”

I rise to my feet while uncrossing my limbs, and despite the noticeable height difference between us, I don’t let it intimidate me. “You think this is funny?”

“What? No, I—”

“Jody has a damn hole in her shoulder. I almost got eaten by a fucking virgin freak and Sammy,” I bite my tongue, holding in the anger that encouraged me to shout in the nearly empty ho. barn. “Vesta told him about his internal injuries. You should’ve seen his face. It’s only a matter of time before he starts asking questions again. And all because no one can keep it in their fucking pants!”

“Hey, I’m sorry that all of that happened. I’ll deal with Sam later, but I’m not going to apologize for my actions. If I hadn’t—”

“What? Gotten your dick wet?”

“That’s—If I hadn’t broken my vow, we’d still be looking for them and more people would’ve been dead.”

“Do you actually think you saved them? That you took one for the team by screwing that slut?”

“Hey! Watch it.” He gets closer, rage flashing across his countenance.

“Or what? What’re you gonna do?” I laugh bitterly but my eyes darken. “Did I miss something while you skipped out on us to study her used body? As if you didn’t already know it like the back of your hand from watching her disgraceful movies. You’re both disgusting. And there’s nothing you can say that’ll convince me you helped. All of this is on you.”

My heart pounds against my ribcage. His jaw flexes as we stare each other down. Our noses practically touch as our chests brush against each other. My body was hot and I knew my tan complexion was bright red with anger, something I could never hide when I got this mad. I wanted to slap him, punch him, even kick him—give him what he deserves. It wasn’t just the events from today but the hurt I felt, knowing he could jump into bed with a complete stranger when there was someone who loved him right before his very eyes, knowing he couldn’t see me as anything more than an estranged sister was too hard to bear. It stung every day but on days like these, when he’d ditch Sam and me for his next temporary fix...it was a different kind of torture, one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Sam rushes over and pushes us apart. He stands in the middle, concern etched on his tired face. “What's going on.”

I utter a quick ‘nothing’ yet he answers, “She’s just jealous she couldn’t find anyone to break her vow with.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Well, let me tell you something, sweetheart. With a smart mouth like that, you’ll never get a guy to touch you. It’s a shame too ‘cause as far as I can tell, the only way to get rid of that attitude is if it’s screwed out of you.”

“That’s it!” My body lunges at Dean but Sam catches me before I can touch his brother. Seeing red, my hand snatches Sam’s coffee and without thinking twice, I chuck it at the discourteous Winchester. The hot beverage stains the front of his clothes and he yelps from the burns. “Fuck you!”

Sam shouts my name, trying to get my attention but my wrath drowns him out. A few security officers rush over, saying things I can’t bother to hear. My breathing was uneven as I stared at Dean with a look that could kill. I don’t blink or take my eyes off of the soaked hunter, not until he’s out of sight as Sam carries me outside. As soon as he puts me down, I walk away.

“Fuck!” I scream in frustration and the anger I kept bottled up.

“What the hell was that?!”

I slowly turn around feeling horrible that I put Sam in the middle. My eyes fill with tears and my breathing becomes shallow as I fight a sob. His face quickly softens and instead of scolding, he steps forward and pulls me into his arms. My emotions get the best of me and the dam comes crashing down. Every feeling I’ve been holding in flows out of me and onto Sam’s shirt. My body shakes as I let everything out, and I’m grateful when he holds me closer.

“Shh, shh.” His hand reaches up and brushes my bangs away from my drenched face. He kisses the top of my head as he pets my hair. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He holds me until my tears fade and my breathing evens from soft hiccups. “I'm sorry, Sam. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“Hey,” He lifts my chin with his finger, staring into my glossy eyes. “I would never think that and you better not think it about yourself. You hear me?”

I nod, feeling somewhat relieved. When he’s convinced, he lets me go. We step back, and I groan, looking at the mess I made on his shirt. The area where I poured my tears was visible and embarrassing. I begin to apologize profusely, but he dismisses it.

“It's fine, I promise. Besides, I’d rather have your tears on my shirt than hot coffee.” He jokes.

His infectious smirk brings one of my own. However, it doesn’t last long as Dean replies from behind us. “That makes two of us.”

Sam turns around and grimaces. “Yeah, well, I can’t say you didn’t deserve it.”

“In what way did I deserve getting searing hot coffee thrown on me?”

“If you can’t figure it out for yourself, there’s nothing more I can say.”

“You should’ve heard how she was talking to me before you showed up!” Dean defends.

“I didn’t have to hear what she said. You shouldn’t have talked to her like that. I don’t want to hear it again. You got it?” Dean gives me a dirty look and then walks away. I sigh, not expecting but quite relieved that Sam had my back. “Don’t worry about him. Everything will blow over. Just try not to hold too much of a grudge.”

“Fine, but only because I love you.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Remind me not to get on your bad side, alright?”

It was the morning after and none of us had gotten much sleep. Dean and I hardly exchanged any words which was fine ‘cause the hurt still lingered. Luckily Sam and Jody were our buffers. We were changed and ready to hit the road. Jody grabs her briefcase and pulls it over her non-slinged shoulder.

“Heading out?” Sam inquires.

“Yeah,” She answers. “I’d tell you kids to stay out of trouble, but what’s the point?”

He pulls her into a hug, and she expresses her pain in one word: Ow.

“Thanks for bailing me out," Dean mentions before pulling her into his embrace.

“Oh, what can I say? I’m getting the hang of this.”

I pull the beloved hunter in for a hug. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Drive safe,” says Sam.

I grab the weekend bag from him as she thanks him. We walk outside, leaving the men alone. I open the truck door for her before walking around and setting the luggage in the passenger seat chair. She hops in the driver’s seat and I close the door after her. We exchange smiles, glad to have crossed paths again.

“Listen, I know it isn’t my place but if he can’t see how special you are then it’s his loss.” As much as I want to, I don’t bother pretending not to know what she’s talking about. “I love the man but he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Thank God he’s hot, though. Am I right?”

I chuckle. “Yeah, but his face makes it harder to hate him.”

“‘Can’t argue that,” She gives me a soft smile, before giving another piece of advice. “Don’t let him control your feelings. You’re so much more than just a girl with a crush. You’re a damn hero. Remember that.”

“Thanks, Jods. Get home safe.”

“You too. And try not to kill each other!”

“No promises.”

I step away and watch her leave the parking lot. Sam exits the motel room, upset. I frown, knowing something has gone on. Dean comes out with our luggage. Without a word, he hands me mine before returning the keys to the main office. I glance at Sam and give him a small smile, silently asking if he’s okay. And to my surprise, he returns it. Everything’s going to be okay...

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jays-bonnie-on-the-side · 17 days ago

Text

pls, i need my happily ever after!

I knew it was love, when I rode home crying⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: angst. canon-typical violence. mentions of injuries and bleeding. references to physical abuse. john winchester's A+ parenting. blink-and-you-miss-it mention of cunnilingus. fluff (I promise). dean winchester is bad at feelings but he is trying his best, okay? 4.9k

You usually love rainy days.

Yes, they can be hellish in the summer because of the humidity. But it’s early November, and the rain is cold and the sky is gloomy—and you’ve never felt more understood by nature.

With your heart as heavy as the charged clouds and your brain as foggy as the woods, you walk into the usual corner store to buy supplies for the night. It rained all night, and even if you’ve been granted a break for now, a storm is expected that evening, and there’s talk of a blizzard. You have enough to survive for a few days, but better safe than sorry.

You have no idea how much time has passed since you last saw Dean. You know you ended up skipping graduation, and the summer went by. Your birthday passed, and the leaves have started to change color. But has it been weeks? No, it has to be months. Still, you’re pretty sure it’s been less than a year, right?

When you spend every day locked in your room or the bookstore, time warps. Even at your job, sorting and shelving books in the library, you still feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare that just won’t end.

You try your best, you really do—getting out of bed in the mornings, forcing yourself to swallow food, attempting conversation with the librarian or Bobby when you run into him—but an imminent sense of doom clings to your bones like a child clings to their mother’s arms.

At least, you assume. You’d never felt your mother’s touch unless it was to drag her away before she drowned in a pool of her own vomit.

You look down at your basket—three packs of cigarettes, a single tangerine, two packs of instant hot chocolate, and a lonely box of mac 'n' cheese.

What a sad fucking sight.

You decide to at least add a carton of eggs and some milk, just so the cashier won’t stare at you like you’re headed for the stake. So you turn around, the same old headphones placed firmly on your head—and then you stumble into someone’s chest.

You startle, blinking slowly at the purple shirt staring back at you. You tilt your head up and catch sight of a dog stamp on the shirt. You tilt your head further and still only meet the guy’s Adam’s apple.

Finally, you tilt your head almost all the way up, headphones falling down to your neck, and find a familiar pair of hazel puppy eyes blinking down at you with the exact same stupor.

Dean hadn’t lied about the freaky growth spurt, then.

Sam Winchester—the boy on whose head you could once rest your elbow—now towers over you. He’s grown out of his childhood round cheeks and lanky arms, but then he smiles—dimples showing and bangs still falling over his eyes—and he turns back into that kid you once bought marshmallow nachos for.

He murmurs your name so sweetly you could cry. “It’s been so long!”

Yeah, it has.

“Sam,” you whisper, voice rough with nostalgia. For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile parts your lips. You can’t help the way you immediately take a step forward, your body acting without your permission. You wrap your arms around Sam’s middle, hugging him close.

For all his hugeness, he seems to shrink in your hold. He stays still for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do, but then he clumsily wraps his arms around your shoulders and seems to deflate.

That same instinct that flared inside you that first night at the drive-in—that same softness that breaks through your rotten flesh and spills out at the sight of this way-too-gentle, way-too-like-you boy—runs you over like a truck. “It’s so nice to see you, Sam.”

It isn’t until after you pay for your things—eggs and milk forgotten as Sam talks about school and how he has been thinking of college—that you realize that if Sam is here, his brother must not be too far away. Still, Sam is very careful not to mention him, which only makes the sudden uneasiness spreading through you worse.

You had thought about seeing Dean again. Daydreamed about him calling, offering an explanation. You dreamed of him coming back, of him having a good enough excuse. You also knew it was unrealistic, and that if Dean ever showed back up, it would be just like last time. No apology, no reason, just him expecting you to take him back.

You weren’t sure you’d be able to say no.

But now, faced with the imminent probability of crossing paths with him one more time, you can’t feel anything. You feel numb, cold, like you’re under freezing water.

Sam and you walk out of the store, and you look up at him just in time to catch the slight hint of panic that crosses his face as he looks behind you.

“Uhm—” His voice is high-pitched, strange even for a teenage boy. “You want me to walk you home?” He nervously points behind himself, away from whatever he is trying to hide from you.

Dread washes all over you, thick and heavy, but you still turn around.

Dean looks just like he did the last time you saw him, including the teasing smirk on his lips. He is leaning back on the Impala, cigarette between his teeth, eyes sparkling with mischief. But this time, he is not looking at you.

There’s a girl in front of him, you think you recognize her from the cheer team—she graduated a year before you, just like Dean. She is giggling, hand on his arm, blonde hair in the same ponytail she wore back then, only missing the bow in the school’s colors. They look like they know each other, and she is probably asking about his sudden disappearance from school all those moons ago.

Sam says something, but it’s as if you're suddenly being pulled out of the icy lake you had been submerged in. Static in your ears, desperate attempts to breathe through the water in your lungs, panic cursing through you.

Not panic, you realize. It is pure fucking rage.

Dean looks away from the girl, but before his eyes meet yours, you’re turning around and walking away.

Always flight, never fight.

Sam says something else, but you ignore him. You can’t do this, not right now.

The cold air hits your face, and the rain puddles splash with the heavy stomps of your boots. Somewhere in the sky, a storm brews. Thunder roars, but you barely hear it over the roaring of your blood burning.

A hand wraps around your arm, familiar and warm, but this time you smack it away.

Dean looks like a kicked puppy when you turn around to face him, but you don’t let the sight soften you up. He makes another attempt at stepping closer, and you recoil so hard that he flinches like he has just been shot.

He whispers your name, and your breath hitches. You don’t know if it’s anger or desire or longing or hatred, but you ignore it as you clench your jaw and stay silent. Clear drops slide down his face, and for a moment you think he’s crying. But then you look up and find that it has started raining again.

“Look—I know, okay? I know.” His voice is broken, lacking the confidence it always carries. He looks pathetic, almost. Hair stuck to his forehead from the water that slowly drenches the two of you, his shoulder hunched, his smirk gone. “I—I can explain.”

But he doesn’t sound very convinced, and his eyes hold a darkness you hadn’t seen in him yet.

Your hands tremble, and you know that your copy of The Metamorphosis must be getting soaked where it rests in the back pocket of your jeans, but you stay.

“Then do, Dean.” You fight to keep the begging out of your tone because you won’t beg for an explanation. Still, you will welcome it if it comes. “And you better do it right.”

Dean’s lips part, and he looks like he could drop to his knees and thank every god out there. Slowly, you start to soften up. Because it’s Dean, and you had never considered yourself tough, not for him.

But then his phone rings, and as soon as his eyes meet the contact name, all emotion drains from his face. Once again, you witness Dean Winchester go from the boy you grew up admiring to the well-trained soldier you had only seen a few times.

He picks up the call, and bitterness flows through your veins like venom.

“Dad.” He doesn’t look at you, eyes focused on his own biker boots. “Right now? But—yes, sir. Okay, I will. B—” His father hangs up before Dean can even say goodbye.

You wait for a few seconds, bangs sticking to the sides of your face and mascara about to start running from the increasing rain. Dean doesn’t meet your eyes, and you still wait for that explanation, even if deep inside of you, you know it won’t come.

“I gotta go.”

Your laugh cuts through the air like the thunder in the sky. Even Dean looks surprised by it, the sound poisonous and griefful.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” It’s a kind of anger you have never exteriorized, the kind that you always swallow down and suppress, the kind that you carefully keep out of your words and actions, the one that only comes out when you are alone in your room.

You turn around, ready to leave again. Because you’re tired, and hurt, and furious. Because you can’t look at Dean for one more second without breaking down. Because right now, you can’t find it in yourself to be empathetic, to be understanding, to mutter a small “I get it” and keep waiting.

Right now, all you know is that this boy stole your soul and body, buried himself so deep inside of you that you won’t ever be able to erase his mark, and you still are not worth prioritizing.

The story of your life.

So you start walking home, trying to hold yourself together for just a little longer. Dean yells your name, but you don’t stop. There are quick steps behind you, and his hand wraps around your arm once again.

Your fist hits his face with a dull thud, his teeth scraping the skin. You’re pretty sure it hurts you more than it does him—your knuckles throbbing and bloody, while Dean barely twists his face.

It is the first time you throw a punch.

Another first taken by him.

You don’t stop to watch Dean’s reaction, you don’t give him a second glance, you simply run home and crawl into your bed.

Once again, you are left bleeding, crying, and heartbroken.

You are cleaning Marigold of any new cobwebs when you hear knocking at your door.

It is late at night, and you’re listening to music on your mom’s old radio. Your Walkman—already old and barely functional before today—had been completely ruined by the pouring rain. You cry over it, but you know it’s not about the cassette player at all.

You had always been aware of the fact that Dean had been with other girls, but you had never witnessed it. Now, the image of him giving that blonde the same smile he gave you that night is engraved in your brain.

Knock knock.

You pause, trying to figure out if you heard right. And there it is, once again.

You quickly move to grab your pistol from your bedside table, thinking about grabbing the silver dagger too.

“It’s just in case you need to defend yourself.”

Out of pure spite, you leave it under your bed where you pretend it’s discarded instead of carefully placed. You keep your steps light and quiet as you make your way to the front door, just like you do when you forage through the woods.

The click of the safety being switched off echoes through the hallway, and you carefully lean in to look through the peephole as you place your finger over the trigger of the pistol. Outside, a shadow stands tall and too dark to make out. You’re about to retreat and hide in your room when a voice filters through the wooden door.

“Sweetheart, I know you’re mad—but please open the door.”

It’s only the edge of pain in his voice that makes you follow his request.

You had seen Dean bleeding before—that day he came back to Bobby’s hurt, and occasionally when he got in a fight in school—but never like this.

His eyebrow is dripping with an unstoppable crimson river, forcing him to close his right eye. His leather jacket is gone, even though it’s still raining outside and the temperature is dropping steadily, and there’s a slowly expanding stain of blood spreading across his shirt. There’s a long gash running down his arm, his lip is busted, and he holds his side like something’s broken.

“Look, I know you don’t wanna see me right now—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because you drop the pistol to the floor and grab his uninjured arm, pulling him inside the house. His teeth are chattering, and you’re sure he’s one minute away from pneumonia.

Without saying a word, you drag him to the living room and make him sit on one of the couches, careful not to let him touch the one your mother died in. You wrap a blanket around his shoulders firmly, not caring if it gets stained with blood.

“What happened?” you ask urgently as Dean sets down a duffel bag you hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Dean, what the fuck happened?”

Your voice resonates around the silent house, and it’s the first time in your life you demand something. The first order you’ve ever given, the first time your voice doesn’t hesitate. Because Dean is hurt, and your anger would never surpass how much you—care about him.

“A hunt went wrong.” It’s the only explanation you get, mumbled and low. But his shirt is slowly soaking through with blood, and you don’t have time for this.

“A hunt? You went hunting?” In all the time you’ve known Dean, he had never spoken about hunting. Maybe he knew better than to admit he enjoyed killing deer and bunnies in front of you, since you always made a point about the difference between foraging for the bones of already deceased animals and killing them.

Dean’s teeth stop chattering, so you pull the blanket away and yank his shirt off, trying to assess the damage. He winces when you move his slashed arm, but you’re too busy staring at the hole on his shoulder to notice.

“I got shot.” Dean’s voice feels distant, almost like it’s coming from another realm. You pull yourself back to reality when you see more blood gushing from the wound.

“You got—” Your eyes scan his body frantically: the scratch on his arm, the wounds on his face, the purple bruise blooming over his ribs. He didn’t just get shot. “What the fuck.”

You’ve patched up torn knuckles and scraped knees before, a few accidental cuts from your knife while practicing—some not so accidental—but never scratches the size of your forearm or bullet wounds.

More blood dribbles down, and you spring into action. You run to the bathroom where you always keep a first aid kit, recalling everything you know about bullet wounds from books and movies.

Back by Dean’s side in seconds, you kneel on the rug next to the couch and set the kit beside you. His face is growing paler. A sharp, sudden pain grips you—like a heart attack. But it’s just fear, you realize.

Don’t leave me.

“I—It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, though your hands tremble. Blood doesn’t scare you, you’re all too familiar with it. It’s the thought of Dean bleeding out that makes you nauseous. “I—I’m gonna clean the wound. You’ll be okay.”

You grab the sterile saline solution from the kit, tearing the cap off with your teeth. Straightening up, you take a deep breath and study the wound. It’s stopped bleeding, and you force your hands to steady—one wrapping around his bicep, the other holding the neck of the bottle close to torn skin.

“This’ll sting,” you warn.

Dean laughs.

It throws you off, and for a moment, the panic inside you twists into confusion.

“I’ve been through worse, sweetheart.” You look up at him, dumbfounded. “I’ve been here before. You don’t have to be gentle. Just get it over with.”

Yeah, salesman’s kid, your ass.

But it’s not time to argue, so your eyes return to his shoulder and you tilt the bottle forward. Dean hisses as the cold liquid floods the open wound, and a sick part of you feels a little satisfaction. Yeah, he deserves a little pain after everything.

You repeat the process on the exit wound, carefully washing away any debris. When Dean notices you’re hesitating, he instructs you to clean around the wound with some wipes, his voice strained but steady. You follow his orders carefully.

You’re gentle as you apply antiseptic to the edges of the skin, slowly growing more confident. Dean stays conscious, the bleeding stops, and you start to accept that he’s not going to die.

Your voice trembles when you reluctantly ask if he needs you to suture the wound, but he just laughs again and shakes his head, almost calling you adorable before biting back the words. Something else inside you aches then, but it’s different—burning, almost—like your whole body is on fire.

You follow his instructions for bandaging the wound, and it’s only when your palms press firmly against his chest that you actually realize he’s shirtless. You’ve seen Dean shirtless before, but always in the dim light and tight space of a car. Now, under the bright glow of the ceiling lamp, you can actually see.

Scars cover him—on his sides, along his collarbone, in the small of his back, over his heart. Big ones, tiny ones. Some pale and faded, others thick and angry-red. One definitely looks like a bite, another like—wolf claws?

What the fuck, actually.

It isn’t until you’re done bandaging the scratch on his arm and moving to his face that you speak again. It’s been complete silence until now—Dean’s eyes glued to the fireplace, yours fixed on his ragged skin.

“Dean, what—” You look down at him as you clean the cut on his eyebrow, and at least this is familiar territory. Your other hand cups his jaw, your brain so scrambled you can’t even figure out what to ask first.

“I’ll explain,” he interrupts, finally looking up at you. He looks bare, raw, vulnerable. You swallow the urge to reassure him, to comfort him, because your heart is still too broken. “But you have to listen to me, okay? You have to trust me.”

The words stab at your heart because you had trusted him. You trusted Dean with everything you had—you’d served your heart and body on a silver platter for him, given him every bit of you that mattered, trusted him to take care of it.

“I trusted you more than I trust anyone in this world, Dean,” you whisper, looking down as you finish cleaning the wounds on his face. “Even if you’ve proven I shouldn’t have.” You clench your jaw, trying to keep your voice steady. “You haven’t even fucking apologized, so how can you ask me to trust you?”

Now it’s him who looks stabbed. His fists clench, his eyes flick back to the flames as you retreat to grab some bandages. There’s a long silence, the kind only found at funerals, and you’re scared this might become one.

“Maybe you’re right.”

You force yourself not to cry as you dig through the first aid kit. Maybe you’re right, yeah. Maybe it is time to bury this along with all your other “could’ve been’s.”

“I’m out of butterfly bandages.” Your voice shakes, and you can almost hear Marigold scolding you.

“Why are you still patching him up?! Throw him out the door, girl.”

“I have some in my bag.” You nod and quietly kneel next to Dean’s duffel. You unzip it, and the first thing you see is blue.

The forget-me-nots fill the air with a sweet scent, contrasting with the smell of tragedy and decay that usually occupies it. It’s a bouquet, way bigger than the one you left on the Impala, and definitely store-bought. The flowers are a little wilted and bruised, a few petals falling to the floor, but they still make you melt.

Beneath the blossoms, there’s something else. A white box, also a little battered, with big, thick letters on top: Discman.

“Oh.” Comes from behind you, but your eyes stay fixed on the objects in your hands. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, but I meant to give you those earlier.”

You’re frozen in place, barely hearing the defeated words over the arguing voices in your head. Part of you—the beast in your chest, the one awakened by that first gunshot when you were ten, the one insatiably hungry ever since—feels boneless because of the gifts, and wants to crawl back to Dean and offer itself as a sacrifice to the gods of his pain.

The other part—the one that had to accept that your mother didn’t love you, the one that fought every day to stay alive, the one that had to glue you back together twice because of Dean—wants to throw the flowers in the fire and throw him out into the freezing rain.

“I know your Walkman’s been slowly dying forever, and I thought you’d like to modernize a little. They were supposed to—” His pain-soaked laughter rumbles through the room. “They were supposed to be apology gifts, I guess.”

The flowers and cardboard box hit the rug with a quiet thump, and you’re up and walking before you can even think about what you’re doing. Dean looks ready to take another punch, and his gasp is loud and desperate when, instead, your lips smash against his.

Like a lamb naively approaching a butcher, you climb onto his lap.

You cup his jaw, licking over his lips and tasting the blood still on them. Dean hisses at the contact, but you relish the metallic taste. It awakens something in you—a hunger so primal and instinctual it goes beyond the physical.

It’s spiritual, carnal, all at once. Religious.

You lean back, and Dean chases your lips. You tug harshly on his hair, and he whines.

“You will explain everything.” Your voice is just as low as always—spectral, ethereal—but now there’s a power behind it that hadn’t been there before. It has Dean looking up at you with hazy eyes, nodding dumbly. “No more lying. I want the truth.”

You lean in again, trapping his chapped lips in a slow kiss, biting the soft flesh almost hard enough to break.

“And then,” you whisper, “I’m gonna eat you.”

“I’m scared you mean that literally,” he says, but his voice is breathless, and his hands have already found their place at your waist.

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

“My dad’s a monster hunter.”

Out of everything you had expected—drug dealer, exotic animal trafficker, maybe even some kind of paramilitary nut—that is the last thing you could’ve imagined.

Dean goes on to explain the gist of it: living on the road, working cases, the research, the fighting, the aftermath.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

There’s a long stretch of stillness after he finishes, only the crackling of the fire and the ticking clock breaking the silence. Dean looks ready to bolt, like he’s expecting you to call him insane and throw him out.

Instead, your gaze drifts to the living room window, where snow has started piling on the outer sill. You sit with it—let your thoughts spiral and try to piece it all together.

The brothers’ training. The sudden disappearances. The markings in Dean’s bed. The silver dagger. Bobby’s obsession with the mythology section at the library. Dean refusing to touch a Ouija board that one time you begged him to. The night you heard something strange when you were alone at Bobby’s, and Dean reached for the salt, not a knife.

“So… ghosts?” you ask, looking up at him—and catch the way his face lights up when he’s met not with anger or disbelief, but curiosity.

“Spirits. Werewolves. Demons. Shapeshifters. Witches.” He shrugs. “Most things you can imagine? There’s probably a hunter that’s killed one.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then again.

And again, there’s that battle in your head. Believe or not believe. You’ve never been one to fear the supernatural—fear the living, not the dead kind of thing—but Dean wouldn’t lie about something like this.

Sure, maybe he’s broken your heart more than once.

But he’s also the boy who saw you when no one else did. The boy who listened to you ramble about your favorite books, even when it bored him out of his mind. The boy who broke a guy’s nose for grabbing you in the hallway. The boy who listened, really listened, when you talked about your deepest fears—And offered small, aching pieces of himself in return.

“What happened today?”

Dean sighs, shoulders hunching where he sits in the same spot on the couch—now in dry, clean clothes from his bag, sipping the hot chocolate you bought earlier that day. You curl up next to him, trying to process everything without getting distracted by the firelight making his eyes shine like gemstones.

“Skinwalker.”

Right, of course. Skinwalker.

“Dad was handling it alone, but the pack was bigger than expected, so he called,” he continues, oblivious to the slow crashing of your brain. “One of the mutts scratched me, I got thrown around a bit.” The casual tone in his voice might be more confusing than the words themselves.

“There was one left. I should’ve seen it.” His voice is bitter, angry. “But I didn’t, and the son of a bitch jumped me—almost bit me. Dad shot it, but he accidentally got me too.”

Your eyes widen. That last part is somehow worse than the idea of monsters roaming the world. For a second, you think maybe Dean’s finally had enough, that he’s angry at his dad. But then you see the way his nails dig into his palm, how he won’t meet your gaze.

He’s angry at himself.

“I should’ve seen it,” he repeats, and your throat tightens like it’s swallowing broken glass. “Dad was mad, of course. He…” Dean pauses, debating what to say. “Dropped me off at Bobby’s and left, but he wasn’t home.”

But the way his hand unconsciously travels to his lip, fingers just grazing the busted skin, tells you what he didn’t say. That injury didn’t come from the skinwalker—and suddenly, you start to wonder how many of Dean’s bruises came from monsters, and how many came from his dad.

“So you came here.”

It’s the first thing you’ve said since Dean started explaining the whole mess, and he finally turns to face you.

“I fucked up, I know I fucked up,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “But—” he whispers your name like a prayer, “—you have to know that leaving you that night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Dad had gone off on a solo hunt, Sam was alone in some cabin, and he was freaking out because Dad wasn’t answering his phone and I’m not supposed to tell people about hunting and—”

You stop his rambling with a kiss. It’s gentle, tender, soft in ways you didn’t know you were capable of. And Dean melts. He leans into your warmth like he’s been freezing for years—like a soldier finally returning to a home he thought he’d never see again.

God. The Winchester boys might be even more deprived of gentleness than you.

Slowly, the two of you rise from the couch.

Dean glances out the window, at the moonlight glinting blue across the snow, then back to you—standing beneath the orange glow of the fireplace, bouquet of delicate forget-me-nots in hand—and he makes a decision.

The two of you crawl into your bed, hand in hand, bodies intertwining like two pieces of the same thing that had finally found each other. You tell him about your mother’s death; he tells you about his. He talks about taking care of Sam while their dad was off on hunts, about stealing food from corner stores, about the first time he fired a gun. You tell him about scrubbing vomit out of the carpet, about climbing onto the roof to escape the reek of stale vodka, about how you used to shoplift books.

It’s easier than you expected, to open up to Dean. You think it’s because you are the same in so many ways. Because the pain in him recognizes the pain in you. Because he’s just as rotten as you are. Because the rough touch of his calloused skin feels like heaven when it presses down on your tender flesh.

Because now, when he opens you up slowly, it doesn’t hurt. Because when he buries his face between your thighs and eats like a man starving, you scream for him and wish he’d crawl inside you and stay there. Because when you finally collapse—limp, slick, wrecked—he wraps himself around you and holds you through the snowy night.

Because when you wake up the next morning, Dean is still there.

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

NOTES: i'm backkkk, this time with the second-to-last part of this lovely series. i know not everyone believes that john ever physically hurt the boys, but i was watching spn the other day, and when a sheriff mentioned that a missing kid was known to be beaten by his father, dean flinched so hard that i felt sick—so i had to include it.

I seriously cannot stop marveling at all the love you have given me and my art. it fills my soul with so much warmth. It breaks my heart to think that the next part is the last one, but i'm also so excited for my angels to be happy! (or will they?) anyways,I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

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

#teenager!dean winchester #teenage au #weird girl!reader #teen dean winchester #dean winchester x oc #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #dean winchester au #dean winchester angst

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jays-bonnie-on-the-side · 17 days ago

Text

how am i just now reading this? so good 😭

I wanna uh him in the back of his dad’s Impala 67⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: mentions of parental death. smut (mdni). fingering. protected piv. loss of virginity. reader used to be religious and has complicated feelings about it. mentions of blood. cannibalism references (again, barely). angst. dean is bad at feelings. john winchester's A+ parenting. 8.3k

More than a year has gone by.

You kick rocks on your way home from your last day of school—the path quiet and lonely. No more joking. No more rambling about cars. No more pleading to rewatch Tombstone for the millionth time. No more Dean.

It was weird at first. You’d turn your head in philosophy class, only to find the seat next to you empty. You’d search for the taller, broader shadow walking alongside yours, only to be met with nothing more than dust floating in the breeze. You’d be reading on your roof, and your head would shoot up at the sound of tires screeching against pavement—only to find just another modern car passing by.

It hasn’t gotten much better, if you’re being honest.

How fascinating it is to be haunted by someone who’s still alive.

Or you hope he is. Maybe you hope he isn’t. Maybe if he’s dead, his sudden disappearance would hurt less. Maybe it would hurt more. Maybe you hope he’s alive, just so you can give him the black eye you owe him. Maybe you hope he’s dead, just so you’ll know he didn’t abandon you.

Either way, Dean Winchester is gone, and you have to learn how to live with it.

You keep going to school, now in your senior year and ready to run away from that place. You keep reading more books, you go through a grunge rock phase, you get your own pistol. You sleep with the silver dagger under your pillow—you tell yourself it’s for safety, nothing else. You find and articulate a whole deer skeleton you keep in the corner of your room. You name her Marigold, because you found her near a patch of the golden flowers, and she becomes your only friend.

You kiss a guy or two—older, too old. Handsy, white-trash dicks. You let one of them finger you against his motorcycle, his thumb brushing everything but your clit, and you punch him in the face and walk away when he gets mad that you don’t wanna go further. You stay a virgin, and you don’t let yourself think about why you’re so hesitant to just get over it.

What you’re waiting for. Who.

You turn eighteen. It’s quiet, lonely. Just you and Marigold sharing the cupcake the librarian gifted you as you left the bookstore that evening. No birthday wishes, no gifts, no Dean Winchester smoking in bed.

There is whiskey, though.

You bury your mother. Just you and a priest standing over the freshly covered grave—no one else came, no one else cared. You don’t cry, don’t even flinch when you find her slowly rotting body thrown across the couch, as still as the sun-bleached flies in the windowsill. Bile rises in your throat as the priest talks about heaven, and angels, and God’s will. Still, you mutter an “amen” and walk home in complete silence.

You learn how to live without Dean, but it doesn’t feel like living at all.

It is lonesome, empty, famished.

Your eyes are glued to the dirt road beneath your boots, wrapped up in whatever song is playing from your Walkman. From the corner of your eye, you catch the shape of a dark-colored car, parked right at the intersection that divides the salvage yard from the neighborhood.

Your heart skips a beat, but you’ve been here before. Every black car looked like the one the boys were dropped off in. Every deep laugh in the school hallways sounded like his. Every guy in a camo jacket looked like him. So you don’t even bother turning your head.

But then the song ends, and there’s a brief moment of silence before the next one plays. And then you hear it—muffled, but there:

“You’re not even gonna look at me, sweetheart?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your head turns just as quickly as it did that first day he walked into the classroom.

Right there—alive and in the flesh—is the boy who’s been eating away at your brain like a parasite.

Dean looks different, and it makes something sick curl deep in your gut.

His hair is way darker now, brown locks no longer glowing like honey under the sun. He’s bigger, his shoulders broader, and there’s a new scar across his right eyebrow. He looks so much older—way older than twenty. The camo jacket is gone, replaced by oversized brown leather. It suits him, but it’s also a vivid reminder of how much he’s changed while you stayed here, waiting like a mourning spirit.

He’s leaning against his dad’s car—a Chevy Impala, if you remember correctly.

(Of course you do. Every word that came out of his mouth is engraved into your soul.)

His arms are crossed in front of his chest. His green eyes have that same spark, but they also hold a lot more shadows than before.

There’s a smirk on his face—playful and careless, a cigarette held between his teeth—like he didn’t touch you like you were something holy, only to disappear that same night. He throws the cig to the ground and steps on it, licking his lips like he’s about to say something else.

Everything in you begs to run toward him. The beast in your chest snarls, claws at your ribcage, and tries to leap into his arms. You want to punch him. You want to cry. You want to kiss him until your lips bleed.

Instead, you turn around and start walking away.

You hear footsteps behind you, so you pick up the pace. The headphones still in your ears rumble with the haunting noise of what sounds like a rotating fan and the increasingly loud beat of drums—none of which helps the rapid pounding of your heart.

A hand wraps around your arm, and the girl in the song screams.

You turn around, yanking your headphones down around your neck, your fist clenched in rage. You’re ready to tear your knuckles velvet on Dean’s teeth, but then you meet his eyes.

It’s the first hint of affection you’ve felt in over a year. His eyes aren’t angry, or pitiful, or indifferent. Dean looks at you with warmth. With something shadowed but strong, tortured but tender.

“You left.”

It’s the only thing you can mutter through the noose slowly tightening around your throat. Dean’s eyes darken with something like sorrow, and he looks away. You can’t handle it. You can’t handle him being sad—not because of you.

Just like that, all your resolve melts away.

“I know,” he rasps, jaw clenched, eyes cast down. “But I’m back.”

That’s it. No apology. No explanation. Nothing.

But then—

“I missed you,” he whispers.

And you know you’ve lost the battle.

The beast inside you mewls and lies down, tummy up. It exposes its neck in offering, waiting for sharp teeth to sink in.

They come in the shape of a hand sliding down to your wrist and pulling you closer. You let yourself be dragged forward, like Icarus flying too close to the sun for just a moment of warmth. Your other hand hits his chest with something akin to anger, but it’s too desperate for it to mean anything.

It burns when your lips meet. It’s like acid washing down your throat and corroding all your insides, leaving you defenseless and weak. You bite his lower lip in retaliation, but it only seems to fuel Dean further.

His hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you firmly, making you his—to do with whatever he wants. His tongue dives into your mouth in the middle of the empty road, his other arm wrapping around your waist, and finally, you feel whole again.

The cold void in your chest fills up, and your limbs no longer feel like they’ll fall apart at any second. Dean tastes like Marlboro Reds and destruction. He tastes like pain and tears and home.

“Let me make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your lips, and you find yourself nodding before you can find the strength to tell him to go to hell.

He smirks—victorious and pleased—and takes hold of your hand again, pulling you toward the car you’ve heard about so many times but only seen from the distance of your window.

There’s a voice inside you—one that almost sounds like the voice you had assigned to Marigold—that warns you this is not a good idea. That you should be angrier, that you should demand answers, that you can’t let Dean get away with this.

But the touch of his hand in yours is gentle, and you’ve been deprived of gentleness for so long. It’s been a year of nothing but deep-settled desolation in your bones, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight against the solace of his presence.

Dean opens the passenger door for you, pulling you in for a chaste kiss before letting you slide into the car. Dean had said multiple times that “Baby” is a classic, and you never quite understood what that meant. But now, for the first time in your life, you consider a car pretty. The leather of the bench seat is neatly cleaned, there’s not a speck of dust on the dashboard or a mysterious stain on the rugs. It’s a startling change from Bobby’s beaten-up pickup truck.

Dean sits behind the wheel with a grin, and just like that, he looks young again. That weight on his shoulders that seems to crush him at all times vanishes—just a bit, but enough for you to notice. He starts the engine, and his grin widens at the growl of it.

“See? That’s my Baby.” For the first time since that night when Dean took a piece of you and didn’t look back, you laugh. Low, barely there, but you laugh.

Dean seems to relish it, sending you one last sparkling look before taking off.

You drop your backpack on the car’s floorboard, carefully placing your walkman inside. Dean presses a button, and About A Girl starts playing on the radio. You quickly turn to him, eyebrow raised and a smile growing on your face.

“Sammy’s music,” he huffs, rolling his eyes and trying to change the cassette. You stop him, hand on his wrist.

“Leave it,” you murmur, your fingertips tingling to touch more of his skin. “It’s good.”

Dean scoffs, but he drops his hand. Your fingers stay wrapped around his wrist.

“Of course you would be into it,” he says with a teasing glance before his eyes return to the road. “I can’t believe I’m surrounded by a bunch of grungy kids.”

“Yeah, well…” You shrug, unable to stop yourself from turning to stare out the window. “You at least owe me this.”

There’s a long, thick silence after that. No one talks, no one breathes. You chew on your lower lip, torn between the urge to apologize for ruining the moment and the urge to scream at Dean for an explanation.

And like a dog that nuzzles into your side after being scolded for biting, his hand finds your bare thigh and grips the soft flesh, thumb rubbing slow circles over it.

“I guess I do,” he whispers, and once again, it is not an apology. But you’ll take it as one. “Have you eaten lunch?”

Dean is way too aware of your habit of skipping meals.

“You can’t live off of cigarettes and a dream, sweetheart,” he used to tell you when you once again threw away the school lunch.

Knowing better than to try and lie to him, you shake your head. Dean clicks his tongue but doesn’t say anything else as he drives into town.

His fingers tap your skin along with the beat of the song, and you want to tease him for it.

Instead, bracing yourself to make conversation for the first time in months, you ask:

“Your dad lets you drive the car now?”

Dean’s face lights up—a boyish smile takes over, his eyes glistening with pride as he turns to you once he stops at the red light.

Just like that, all the anger evaporates from you.

He’s so cute, you lament. Too bad he can be such a bitch.

“He’s thinking about giving her to me, long-term.” His chest puffs out, and it’s equally adorable and heartbreaking to see how such a small sign of validation from his dad can make him so happy. “He’s letting me take her to work on small cases, and then maybe I’ll get her next year.”

He pats the dashboard lovingly with his free hand, but your mind is somewhere else.

“To work on small cases.”

It’s another startling change, hearing Dean talk about a full-time job when the last time you saw him, he hadn’t even graduated yet. Also...

“Work... cases?” You turn to him, head tilting in confusion. You still had no idea what Dean’s dad does for work, but cases sounded more complicated than anything you had imagined.

A hint of panic passes through Dean’s eyes, and he stalls as he starts driving again.

“My dad’s in sales,” he says, voice too controlled to be natural. “Sometimes he sends me to work cases for him. Y’know, talk with clients and stuff.”

You narrow your eyes, studying Dean slowly. You’re not convinced he’s telling you the truth. What kind of salesman teaches his kids how to bow-hunt and knife-throw?

Your mouth parts, about to ask more questions, when Dean suddenly turns the wheel to the right, his grip on your thigh tightening as you almost fall against the car door. He drives into a McDonald’s parking lot, getting in line for the drive-thru.

“Still nuggets and fries?” he asks, turning to you with a tight smile. You nod quietly, impressed he still remembers your order.

You brush your hair back into place, thinking over the recent interaction. Dean is always a little tense when the topic of his father comes up—reluctant to talk about him, and quick to shush Sam whenever he complains. Maybe he doesn’t like working for his dad, but he refuses to bad-mouth his sergeant.

So instead of asking about his job, you ask about Sam. Dean’s face relaxes again as he updates you on the life of his “annoying nerd” of a brother, who apparently is now “tall as fuck” and has entered an emo phase, obsessing over Green Day and true-crime books.

“I mean,” you start after Dean finishes ordering for both of you, “John Wayne-Gacy never did kill while wearing the clown costume, so maybe it helps with Sam’s phobia.”

He throws his head back with a groan, and you can’t help the giggle bubbling out of your mouth.

“Don’t tell me you also like that creepy shit,” he complains, and you just shrug. “I swear, if I have to hear the words ‘modis-operandi’ one more time...”

“Modus, baby.” You correct cheekily, but still with that eerie quietness that always hangs from your words. The nickname rolls off your tongue like it was always meant to be there, and Dean’s breath seems to catch for a moment before he grunts.

“Whatever.”

Dean pays for your food, with a credit card now. At least he’s getting paid for the job, you guess.

He hands you the food—nuggets, fries, and a Coke for you; the biggest meal on the menu for him—and starts driving again.

“Where are we going?” you finally ask, munching on a fry. Dean winks at you but says nothing else. You trust him to take you wherever he wants.

He asks about you as he steers onto a sideroad, where you’re surrounded by trees and a few birds flitting by. You talk about school, how today was your last day, and graduation’s in a few weeks. You don’t mention that no one will be waiting for you in the crowd, no one will cheer louder when your name is called, or take pictures of you with your diploma.

You don’t ask Dean to come, because you know better.

You don’t mention your mother either, figuring you’ll tell him tomorrow. Because you assume there will be a tomorrow.

You’re just telling him about Marigold—your voice rising from a whisper as you recount finding the bones—when Dean stops the car. You look out to find yourself near the edge of a river cliff.

Your jaw drops as you take in the lookout point—the lush greenery surrounding it, the gentle murmur of the river filling your ears as Dean turns off the engine, the crisp breeze drifting through the open window.

“Come on.” Dean undoes his seatbelt and opens his door, then takes the food bag from your hands. “You must be starving.”

You both sit side by side on the hood of the Impala. He devours his burger while you nibble on your nuggets, though you’re barely hungry. Dean shoots you a warning glance, so you eat the whole box anyway.

You close your eyes, savoring the quiet of the wilderness. It’s a different kind of silence than the one in your house—it doesn’t suffocate you or poison your lungs, it isn’t lonely. Instead, this silence is comforting, like an old friend folding you into their arms. Dean’s shoulder brushes yours every now and then as he talks about everything and nothing, and you hum along, nodding just like old times.

The sun sets, just a glow of orange on the horizon as the sky is slowly painted in shades of pink and blue. Your eyes glance down to the grass, and right next to the Impala’s front tire, there’s a small patch of blue.

You gasp softly, and it makes Dean turn to you immediately.

“What is it?” You don’t notice the way his shoulders tense or how he reaches for his jacket’s inside pocket, because you are quickly sliding off the hood and kneeling on the ground. “Don’t tell me it’s another animal corpse.”

It isn’t. It’s a cluster of flowers, sky-blue and tiny.

“Forget-me-nots,” you whisper with a smile as you pluck a handful of them.

“What now?” Dean’s confused voice makes you giggle as you stand, moving to stand in front of him. He stays on the hood, knees on either side of you.

“Forget-me-nots,” you repeat, louder, showing him the flowers with a sweet little grin.

Dean stares at you for a long moment before dropping his head forward, a chuckle slipping from his lips.

“You’re so fuckin’ adorable, goddamn it.”

You freeze, cheeks warming in the slowly cooling evening breeze.

He says it like it’s a con, like it’s inconvenient somehow. But then he looks back up at you, and his eyes are so warm, almost adoring, that you can’t bring yourself to question it. His hands wrap around your waist, right over the silver skin showing between your tank top and denim shorts, pulling you close until your chest flushes against his.

With a shy smile, your hand holding the flowers moves to the side of his hair, tucking the small bundle behind his ear. You giggle at the sight—Dean, with all his scars, leather jacket, and weaponry, wearing delicate blossoms on his face.

He huffs at your actions but doesn’t take them off. Instead, he leans forward gently and traps your lips with a quick peck that sends your heart racing.

Then he leans away, pulling out his box of Reds. You sit back down next to him, taking one when he offers it.

He lights it for you, his big hand hovering around his Zippo, shielding the flame from the evening breeze. You take a long, slow drag of your cigarette once he moves to light his own, admiring how the fire’s glow bathes his features, making him look even prettier.

Soon, only the moonlight and the cherry-red tips of your cigarettes illuminate the night. Dean’s hand finds its way back to your thigh, and you keep staring at him, almost wishing you had a camera—or your old sketchbook—to immortalize this moment.

Dean leans back on one hand, relaxed, blowing smoke toward the sky without a care. His expression is blissful, like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. The slope of his jaw looks sharper in the dim light, his fingers holding the cigarette look long, and that small grin he wears is stupidly attractive. The fragile flowers still nestle behind his ear, soft in a sea of rough edges.

Damn it, he is so fucking hot.

You put out your cigarette and lean forward, engulfing his lips with yours. Dean lets out a surprised little noise, but quickly wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer.

It starts soft, way slower than the angry kiss you shared on the dirt path that afternoon. Your lips move against each other in a soothing dance, his hands squeezing your waist while yours cup his cheeks.

You don’t feel so lost this time, not so wild or inexperienced. Now you know when to tilt your head, when to part your lips, when to suck his lip into your mouth. You’re nowhere near as confident as Dean, who clearly has more experience, but you try not to think about it as his tongue brushes against yours.

You want more. You want Dean’s hands on you, want him to crawl inside you, make a home in your insides and never leave. You need him—however he’ll have you.

The air turns colder as your movements grow a little more desperate. Goosebumps travel across your skin as the cold wind brushes your hair and Dean’s hand slips under your tank top.

“You’re freezing,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “Why don’t we take this to the backseat, hm?”

You have half a mind to panic, because you know what that means—because you’ve been avoiding this same thing for so long. But you can’t say no to Dean. You don’t want to.

So you nod, swallowing down every trace of fear as you slide off the hood with his help.

First, Dean opens the driver’s door. You watch as he grabs something from the glove box before carefully picking the bouquet of forget-me-nots from his ear and placing it gently on the dashboard. He does it with such devotion, like the flowers mean more than just a silly gift, and something inside you shifts, wrapping around your heart and squeezing.

You still don’t have a name for it, but it’s there.

Then Dean turns to you, eyes dark, smirk a little sharper, and pulls your hand, guiding you to the backseat. You slide onto the leather, yanking off your black boots as Dean shrugs off his jacket, still standing outside.

He looks down at you as you lie back on his dad’s car, tank top riled up, frayed shorts giving way to your smooth thighs—now missing the marks of his fingertips.

You’re just starting to feel a little too vulnerable when he throws his jacket onto the floorboard and lays down on top of you. The door closes behind him, and once again, Dean Winchester pins you against a carseat.

He starts kissing down your neck—just the whisper of his lips against your skin—as his hands slip back under your tank top. His thumbs trace slow circles over your ribcage before hooking at the edge of your bra.

A part of you wants to keep your virginity a secret, scared that Dean won’t want you then, scared that he’ll think it’s too much responsibility, too much work. But a bigger part of you is still a little terrified of losing it, still remembering the multiple Sunday sermons you sat through as a child, even if you now know it’s all bullshit.

“I’m a virgin,” you blurt out, because Dean would find out one way or another.

He pauses, looks up at you with wide eyes, and then his hands threaten to move away.

You grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. Your legs part, giving him space to settle in between them, trapping him, not letting him get away.

“Sweetheart—” he starts, but you cut him off with a kiss. “We don’t have to—”

“I know.” You bite his lip, looking up at him with shining eyes. “But I want to. I want you.”

It can only be you. It’s always been you.

Dean still looks conflicted, his chest rising and falling, eyes carefully searching your face.

He says your name, low and serious. “Are you sure? I—”

You don’t let him finish, tired of waiting. Yes, you’re sure. You’ve been sure for a while. It doesn’t matter if it hurts, if it’s in the back of a car, if it doesn’t mean the same to him as it does to you. It’s always supposed to be Dean.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him down, kissing him again—your tongue tracing behind his teeth before you whisper, “Come on, Dean.” You scratch his scalp gently. “Fuck me.”

That’s all it takes. Dean captures your mouth in a searing kiss, teeth biting your lower lip. His hands grab the hem of your top, and he breaks the kiss to pull it over your head.

You’re left in only your white lacy bra. You can feel his eyes on you, drinking in the sight. Part of you wants to hide, but another part blooms at the thought that he wants you.

Dean leans down, pressing kisses to the soft skin of your stomach, making the heat pooling lower simmer into something almost unbearable. His hands travel up your sides, sliding around to your back. As you arch off the seat slightly, he unclasps your bra in one swift motion.

His kisses trail upward, all the way until he’s sucking gently on a small bruise beneath your left breast. Your breath catches, nipples hard and sensitive from the cool air. Your hand tightens in his hair, and you close your eyes to steady your nerves.

Then Dean wraps his lips around your nipple, and you gasp.

“D-dean—” You can’t help but lean into his touch as his tongue expertly swirls around the areola. You feel him smirk against your skin before he gives your nipple one last tender bite and moves on, giving the same attention to the other.

His hands slide down to the edge of your shorts. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands hovering over your thighs, so close to where you ache. He tugs on the denim, and you lift your hips, letting him slide them off.

You fight the urge to hide again, feeling exposed in just your panties while he’s fully dressed. Your thighs twitch, but Dean quickly wraps his hands around them, holding you still.

He leans down in the tight space of the backseat, placing a gentle kiss on your inner thigh. It’s soft, delicate—almost like he’s trying to comfort you. He keeps peppering kisses all the way up your leg, edging closer to the elastic of your underwear.

You know he can smell your arousal, see in the dim light how much you’re affected, how badly you want him. His warm breath brushes the thin cotton fabric, and you bite back a whimper.

Desperate to reclaim some control, you grab him by the hair and pull him up, stripping him of his shirt. Dean lets you, lifting his arms to help. You’re hit by the sight of lean, smooth muscle. Even in the faint moonlight, his skin glistens like honey. Your mouth waters with the sudden urge to bite, to taste him, to devour him until nothing’s left.

Dean’s lips find your neck, planting kisses everywhere as his body presses into yours—warm skin against your cooler one. Your hands roam over that sun-kissed muscle now exposed. They slide over his shoulders and down his back, feeling every subtle shift, every inch of that golden skin stretching far beyond what you can see.

You feel Dean’s fingers working to unbutton his jeans, but before panic can rise again, you cup his face. You search his eyes—those green, beautiful eyes that have haunted you for years. A sudden wave of emotion crashes over you, and you bite back any words that might shatter the moment.

Instead, you lean forward and place a gentle kiss on the scar on his eyebrow, your lips barely brushing over the raised skin. It isn’t sensual, but it’s intimate. Dean freezes for a moment, and you meet his eyes again.

He looks down at you like you’ve just broken something inside him. His eyes hold a fire that you can’t tell if it’s anger or hunger. His mouth parts, like he’s about to say something, but then his jaw clenches and he looks away.

Dean quickly leans back, pulling down his jeans until they pool around his knees. He drops whatever he took from the glove box next to you—a small silver package. You know what it is, and your throat goes dry at the sight.

Dean seems to notice. Whatever made him pull away so fast melts away as his eyes soften again, his hands landing on your waist, rubbing gentle, soothing circles over your skin.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks again, and you don’t know whether to be thankful or annoyed.

Either way, you nod, and your eyes drop to the hard bulge in Dean’s boxers.

Fuck, you might be inexperienced—but it looks big.

Dean’s hands slide down your body until they reach the edge of your underwear. One of his fingers traces down your slit over the fabric, just like he did back at the drive-in, and your back arches.

“Still so fuckin’ sensitive,” he murmurs, almost fascinated. You flush, but you can’t help the small noise that slips out when he repeats the motion.

No matter how scared you are, you need Dean. You want him to break you, to be the first to ever be inside you. You want him to take you like putty in his hands and mold you however he wants.

“Please,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. It’s shorter now, no longer falling into his eyes. “Fuck me.”

Dean nods, tries to say something, but all that comes out is a guttural, “Yeah.”

He pulls your panties off, his eyes narrowing at where you’re bare and open for him. This time, your legs try to squeeze together, but Dean’s body between them stops you. Before you can try and hide again, his thumb brushes over your lips, sliding in between them before pulling away.

A single string of slick keeps him connected to your cunt. He laughs—rough and strained.

“You get wet so easily.” Your cheeks burn, almost choking on your own embarrassment. But he keeps looking at you. “You’re so responsive, so… soft.” His jaw clenches as his thumb rubs over your clit, making you gasp. “I wanna devour you.”

You shiver at his words, more slick flowing out of you. Your hips buckle against nothing, eyes glossy as you look at Dean.

“Do it.” You pull his hips closer with your knees. “I want you.”

Dean’s pointer finger circles your entrance, and at least this part isn’t unfamiliar. But this feels a million times different than when that other guy did it—this feels sacred. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for the stretch.

Slowly, the digit slips inside. Your shoulders tense, and you let out a shaky breath once it’s fully in. You can feel Dean’s eyes on you, so you hold back any sign of discomfort. Carefully, he starts moving. His finger slides in and out, stretching you open for him.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Dean mutters, looking down where his finger is breaking you in. “You’re opening up for me so nicely.”

He pulls his finger out, noticing it’s completely drenched in your slick. He then presses his index and middle finger together, coating them well before slowly pushing them inside you.

Your whole body tenses up at the slight ache, but you don’t complain. Your hands grip Dean’s shoulders, nails digging in as his fingers slide in all the way to the knuckles. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, trying to power through the first few uncomfortable moments.

Dean stays still for a second, watching your face as his fingers wiggle inside, pressing against your walls. It’s weird, a little painful—and then he presses his thumb against your swollen clit again. Electricity shoots up your spine, just like the last time he touched you.

More wetness coats his fingers, and your pussy clenches around him, but you feel yourself giving in, making room.

Dean leans down, mouth close to your ear, voice a low whisper: “That’s it, baby, let me in.”

You whimper, turning your face and pressing it against his cheek. “Put another one in,” you beg against his skin, your hips bucking as your body slowly adjusts to the stretch.

Another finger prods at your entrance, and when it pushes in, you wince—but Dean’s eyes are fixed on you, wide with something you’ve never seen in them before. He looks at you like he’s witnessing a miracle. Like he almost can’t believe he gets this. Gets you.

He keeps pumping his fingers, pulling and pressing, stretching you wider, preparing you for his cock.

You can’t talk. You can barely breathe. It’s too much and not enough all at once, so you focus instead on the warmth of his chest under your palms, the press of his thumb on your clit, and the soft, needy sounds leaving your lips.

“You sound so—” he cuts himself off, pace picking up, and then he brushes against something deep inside you. A spongy, blindingly sensitive spot that makes you cry out, the sound echoing in the tight space of the car.

“There it is,” he whispers, voice hoarse, a proud smirk tugging at his lips.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just hold onto his shoulders, reeling, marveling at the sensation of being touched everywhere all at once.

The heat low in your belly turns molten, rushing through you with a force that makes your legs shake. Desperate not to come yet, you wrap your hand around Dean’s wrist and pull him away. His eyes go wide, searching your face like he’s afraid he hurt you.

But you don’t say anything. You shift forward instead, kiss along the curve of his neck, down to where his skin dips into muscle—and bite. Not hard, but enough to mark him. If Dean’s going to leave something permanent on you tonight, you want to leave something on him too, even if it fades by morning.

“I’m ready,” you whisper, lips pressed to the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I need you.”

Dean nods, and he leans in to grab the condom that had fallen down between the seats.

He looks like he knows what he’s doing, and once again, you’re hit with the bitter reminder that he’s done this many times before. You feel inexperienced in comparison, but you force yourself to ignore the ache that rises in your chest.

Instead, you watch closely as Dean pulls his boxers down.

He’s long—longer than you expected. The tip is flushed an almost angry red from how hard he is, and for a moment, you wonder if it’ll even fit.

“You can touch, y’know,” Dean murmurs, one hand sliding up your thigh in a way that’s tender—reassuring.

You slowly wrap your hand around him, noticing how thick and warm he is. Your mouth waters as your thumb brushes over the head, smearing the pre-cum across your skin before you begin to stroke him.

Dean grunts softly, and his cock twitches when you pass over the slit again.

A rush of satisfaction floods through you—you are the one making him feel this way. You are the one making him sound like that.

You squeeze the base gently, licking your lips. “I need you inside.”

Without another word, Dean tears open the condom packet and gently pulls your hand away. You watch in the dim light as he rolls the rubber down over himself, his chest rising and falling as he shifts between your legs, one hand gripping your hip to steady you.

You feel him wrap his hand around himself, and then the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance.

“Can I go in, sweetheart?” His voice is shaky, and it comforts you to know he’s just as affected as you are.

“Yeah.” Your thighs tighten around his waist, and you brace yourself, drawing in a breath.

“Just relax for me, hm?” Dean cups your face, his thumb stroking soft circles along your jaw—and then he pushes in.

There’s some resistance at first, but he keeps easing forward until the tip finally slips inside. It’s only slightly wider than his fingers, but it still knocks the air out of your lungs. Your nails sink into his shoulders, your breath stuttering.

Yes, it hurts—but you want more. You push your hips down, biting back a whimper, urging him in deeper.

“Just a bit more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You’re doing so good.”

Slowly, inch by inch, he sinks in until he’s fully buried inside your throbbing cunt. It feels like he’s splitting you open, stretching you beyond what you thought you could take—rearranging something fundamental inside you.

You hiss, both from the ache and the sharp realization: Dean is your first. Forever, he will be the first man to ever fuck you. Your body is now marked, shaped by him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean growls, running a hand through your hair. “You feel so perfect around me.”

And it hurts like hell. The stretch burns, and there’s blood between your thighs—thick, warm. But it’s okay. Because it’s Dean. Because you’d lie here and bleed out if it meant he would keep holding you like this, would keep looking at you with that shine in his eyes.

If it meant he wouldn’t leave.

Dean doesn’t move at first, giving you time to adjust. But you want him to feel good. So you part your legs even further, as if that might help make room for his cock, and you pull him in for a kiss.

“You can move,” you whisper against his lips. “You can fuck me.”

But Dean stays still, burying his face in your neck and biting the skin. So you try to move, rocking your hips and clenching around him. It makes him hiss, his hands tightening on your waist with enough force to bruise.

“Wait, wait,” he chokes out—and for a terrifying second, you think you’ve done something wrong. That maybe he doesn’t want you anymore.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, goddamn it.” His voice is strained, and his cock twitches so hard inside of you it sends another jolt of electricity up your spine.

He’s trying not to come.

“I need—I just need a second.”

So you stay still. The only sound is your ragged breaths and the soft hum of fireflies buzzing outside.

Slowly, the pain dulls. Your body adjusts, molding itself around Dean, making space for him. And you know—you’re ruined for anyone else. No one else will ever fit like this. No one else ever could.

Then Dean starts to move, slow and careful thrusts of his hips. He pulls back until only the head remains, then pushes in again. It still hurts, but the pain tangles with something else—something primal, something possessive.

You almost want to tell him to take the condom off. To feel him bare, to mark him with your slick and your blood. To be claimed completely.

But you don’t, because you know better.

Dean braces himself above you and starts to move faster. His hips piston into you, each thrust a little more desperate than the last. The stretch is still a lot. Your insides feel raw, sore. But then his mouth finds one of your nipples, and his cock twitches inside you, and your body arches on instinct, a moan torn from your throat.

“You feel so good, fuck,” he groans into your skin, glancing up at you with an almost dazed look in his eyes. “You have no idea.”

You open your mouth to respond, to say anything, but then Dean hits that same spongy spot deep inside, and your head falls back, eyes squeezed shut, a sharp cry breaking from your chest.

“There you go. That’s it,” he murmurs, hips rolling into that sweet little spot again and again. It makes you wetter, makes everything smoother, and for the first time, you get it—why people are so obsessed with this. Why they crave it.

You clench around him, nails dragging down his back as your eyes roll back in pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck,” you whimper, mind already slipping. The pleasure comes on too strong, too fast, almost overwhelming after all the pain. You’re not sure you can hold on much longer.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he breathes, and you nod helplessly, a full-body shiver racking through you when he leans down and bites just behind your ear. “You’re so warm. Fuck, you were made for me.”

Yeah. You are. Only for him.

Dean’s hand moves, and you yelp when his fingers find your clit again.

You try to stop him, clumsily pushing at his wrist. “N-no, no. I’ll come—”

“I want you to come, baby,” he laughs, breathless, pressing harder against you. “I want you to feel good, pretty girl. Just let go.”

Tears prickle at the back of your eyes, but they’re not from pain anymore. Something bigger—greater than pleasure—wraps around you and squeezes so tightly you can’t breathe. You choke on it, let it pour down your throat like light, let it settle somewhere deep inside. You know it’s permanent. A soul mark. A branding.

Dean is impossibly deep inside you, the head of his cock hitting places you didn’t know existed. It’s all so new, so overwhelming, and you find yourself teetering on the edge.

“I—I’m close,” you whimper, your hips twitching helplessly. Dean keeps thrusting with careful precision, pressing into that sweet spot again and again, while his thumb doubles down on your clit.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he pants, voice husky and wrecked. “Let me see you come, sweetheart.”

And it’s like your body obeys him without question. Everything tightens at once, your back arching, your breath catching, and then you’re gone. A desperate, broken whimper tears from your throat as your cunt clenches around him, and you come hard—shaking, crying, unraveling all over his cock.

Your mind blanks for a moment, nothing but static in your ears. But when you come back to yourself, Dean is still moving inside you—desperate now. There’s no rhythm anymore, just frantic, needy thrusts as he chases his release.

Then he stills.

You clench around him instinctively, and it makes him curse under his breath. He falls forward with a broken noise, burying his face in your neck. He comes like that—arms shaking, cock twitching inside of you. You wish you could feel him without the barrier, wish he’d fill you up, mark you from the inside. But you hold onto the moment anyway, let the warmth of it bloom as your fingers thread gently through his hair.

For a while, neither of you move. Dean softens inside you, but he doesn’t pull out. He just kisses your face—your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth—until your blissed-out expression cracks into a small giggle and your hands stop trembling.

Only then does he ease away. He slides out of you, and it feels like being split in half all over again. You brace for the distance—swallow down the needy ache that sparks behind your ribs.

There’s blood smeared across your inner thighs, and Dean grabs tissues from the glove box, cleaning you up with a strange kind of reverence. His face twists a little when he sees the blood, like it hurts him.

You don’t tell him that you fantasize about him making you bleed.

You both get dressed in silence. It follows you to the front seat, heavy and familiar. Dean turns the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles to life, and he pulls away from the lookout and down the highway.

Neither of you says a word.

You get a sense of déjà vu when Dean stops the car in front of your house.

There’s still crimson staining your underwear, and you’ve just left a piece of yourself in the backseat. Your heart feels like it’s being torn out at the thought of getting out of this car and watching Dean drive away with it.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the door handle, already thinking about lying alone in your cold bed, nothing but darkness curling around your bruised body. But then Dean grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“Would your mom care if I… spent the night?”

You close your eyes for a moment, thanking a God you no longer believe in. A choked laugh slips from your lips, and you turn to look at Dean, eyes glassy with something fragile.

“Don’t worry about her,” you whisper, careful not to shatter the moment. “She’s not home.”

Dean nods, and he almost looks as relieved as you. He brings your hand to his face, kissing the knuckles you’d spent a year fantasizing about smashing against his jaw—and then he’s pulling the Impala into your driveway.

You enter the house quietly, somehow still feeling like you’re sneaking around, even though no one ever really cared what you did. It’s the first time Dean’s been inside your home, and you don’t let him look around too much, afraid he’ll notice that every trace of your mother has been erased—and start asking questions.

So you grab his hand and pull him upstairs, dragging him into your room. You both laugh, and in the soft glow of your lamp, you both look like normal kids instead of the baggage-heavy adults you had been forced to be for years.

You make Dean say hello to Marigold, but you can feel her hollow eyes judging you.

Let me have this, you beg. Just for once, let me be happy.

You let Dean look over your bookshelf as you slip into the bathroom to change into clean pajamas. You’d tried offering him an oversized shirt and maybe some sweatpants, but he refused.

“I’m used to sleeping in jeans, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

His words spark even more questions in your mind. Why would a salesman’s kid be used to sleeping in his outside clothes?

You brush your teeth, forcing yourself to enjoy the night and push those questions aside for now. You clean yourself as best you can before stepping back into the room, grateful you won’t have to spend the night alone.

You find Dean sitting on your bed, something glinting in his hands, catching the bathroom light.

The silver dagger.

Your throat tightens as you approach until you’re standing right in front of him. His fingers lightly brush the right horn of the goat’s skull on the hilt, and when he looks up, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes you hadn’t seen even when he was inside you.

“You keep this under your pillow.” It is not a question, but you nod.

“I promised I’d stay safe,” you whisper, your voice soft and raw—something that seems to wound Dean more than you expect.

He closes his eyes for a long moment before leaving the dagger on the bedside table and sliding to the side of the bed against the wall, his boots already beneath it. “C’mere, it’s getting cold.”

It’s been cold for a long while, but you slip under the covers without a word, letting Dean pull you close. Your head rests on his chest as you curl into his side.

There’s a pistol in your drawer, a knife in your jacket pocket, and a dagger on your bedside table—but somehow, being in Dean’s arms is the safest you’ve ever felt.

You watch him pull the blanket over both of you, and you bury your face in his shirt, relishing the idea of his scent mingling with yours. His fingers carefully tangle in the soft locks of your hair, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

Your ear rests right over his heart, the steady beat lulling you to sleep. Because you’re not empty anymore—because today you bled for Dean, and now he’s holding you close, keeping you whole in his arms. Because for the first time since you were a child, you feel loved.

“I love you.”

It’s just a whisper in the night, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You don’t know if Dean’s awake to hear them, you don’t know how he reacts—because you let your eyes fall shut, and you drift off to the sound of your old rotating fan and Dean’s heartbeat.

The next morning, the spot next to you is empty.

It surprises you less than it should, but it hurts more than you imagined. Marigold watches you from the corner of the room, as if saying “I told you so.”

Tears roll down your face as you stare out the window, wrapping your arms around yourself. You think about the small bundle of flowers left on the Impala’s dashboard, wondering if they’re still there as Dean drives wherever he’s escaping to.

Forget me not, Dean Winchester.

Somewhere far up west, Dean admits to himself that he fucked up. He panicked, and now he doesn’t know if he can fix it this time. He thinks about driving back, about calling Bobby and asking for your number, about telling you the whole truth.

But he doesn’t, because he knows better.

A week later, John climbs into the driver’s seat of Baby and finds the dried-up flowers sitting on the console. He roughly grabs them and tosses them out the window.

“I won’t let you take the car again if you keep leaving trash behind, Dean.”

Dean quietly watches from the passenger seat, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. Still, he buckles up and lets his dad drive him to the next hunt.

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NOTES: knock knock, anyone still here? oh my god guys, I am so sorry, please lower your pitchforks. I tried to post faster, but finals left my brain turned into mush and I just now got my inspiration back. but I came back with a LONG one, hope you're up for it. the love this series has been getting is overwhelming, and I promise I will try and post at least once a week now that I'm free from academics. anyway, i'll stop yapping. I love you all, hope you like it!!!

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

#teenager!dean winchester #teenage au #weird girl!reader #teen dean winchester #dean winchester x oc #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester au #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut

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