kinda-stupib

[kinda-stupib]

Little red wine - Tyler Braden (Dean winchester x reader)

For all of my country girlie's again! Hope you like reading this as much as I loved writing it!

Warnings: Ooc Dean (I wish I could write for him better. I'll practice, i swear), alcohol consumption, pet names (just Dean calling you sweetheart), fluff, fluffy kiss, dancing, just Dean being cute as heck

You’d had it with today. Scratch that—you’d had it with this entire week. By the time you slammed your car door shut and trudged up the stairs to your small apartment, your head was pounding, and your hands were shaking with frustration.

Your boss had been on your case since Monday, piling on tasks with impossible deadlines. It wasn’t just the job, though. The bills were stacking up, and you could feel the weight of everything pressing down on you.

As you kicked off your shoes and dropped your bag onto the couch, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Dean.

You smiled despite yourself, already feeling a little lighter. The guy had a way of doing that—showing up when you needed him most. You answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep the exhaustion out of your voice.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked immediately, his voice warm but concerned.

You sighed, sinking into the couch. “Rough day. Rough week, actually.”

“Well, I’ve got just the thing,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “Be ready in fifteen.”

“Dean—”

“Fifteen, sweetheart. Trust me.”

The call ended before you could argue, and for a moment, you considered calling him back to decline. But you knew better. Dean wasn’t the type to take no for an answer, especially when he had his mind set on cheering you up.

Fifteen minutes later, you were waiting outside in a hoodie and jeans when the familiar roar of the Impala echoed down the street. The black Chevy pulled up, and Dean leaned across the bench seat to push open the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said with a crooked smile.

“Where are we going?” you asked, sliding into the seat.

“Not far,” he said cryptically, cranking up the radio.

The two of you drove in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the faint sound of classic rock filling the space between you. When Dean finally turned off the main road and onto a dirt path lined with towering pine trees, you gave him a curious look.

“Dean?”

“Relax,” he said, glancing at you with that boyish grin that always made your heart skip. “Trust me.”

The car rolled to a stop in a small clearing, the headlights illuminating a picnic blanket spread out on the grass. A small cooler sat off to the side, and a pair of folding chairs were set up near a fire pit.

“Dean, what is this?” you asked, stepping out of the car.

“Just figured you could use a little break,” he said, grabbing the cooler and popping it open. He pulled out a bottle of red wine and a mason jar filled with clear liquid. “Thought we’d start with this and see where the night takes us.”

You laughed, shaking your head as he poured you a glass. “Red wine and moonshine? Bold choice.”

“Only the best for you,” he said with a wink.

The two of you sat by the fire, the glow of the flames dancing across Dean’s face as he poured himself a drink. The tension in your shoulders began to ease as the wine warmed your insides and the conversation flowed.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” you said after a while, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the stars.

“Well, I couldn’t have you sitting at home, stewing over your boss,” Dean said, tipping his glass toward you. “Figured a little fresh air and some good company might help."

“It does,” you admitted, your voice soft. “Thank you, Dean.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, something unspoken passing between you. Then he stood and held out his hand.

“C’mon,” he said.

“What?”

“Dance with me.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “There’s no music.”

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his playlist until he found the song he was looking for. A soft melody filled the air, and he held his hand out again.

“Now there’s music.”

You rolled your eyes but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. The two of you swayed to the music, your head resting against his chest as the warmth of the fire wrapped around you.

“You’re pretty good at this cheering-up thing,” you murmured.

Dean chuckled, his voice rumbling against your ear. “Well, I’ve had a lot of practice.”

As the song faded and the fire crackled softly in the background, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. His green eyes were softer than you’d ever seen, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear.

“Dean…”

Before you could say anything else, he leaned down and kissed you, his hand cupping the back of your head as he pulled you closer. The kiss was slow and sweet, tasting of red wine and promises you weren’t sure either of you could keep.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Feeling better?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you said, your heart racing. “A lot better.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other as the fire burned low and the stars twinkled above.

Dean Winchester might not have had all the answers, but tonight, he’d given you exactly what you needed—a little red wine, a little moonshine, and a whole lot of him.

[kinda-stupib]

Not Good At Not - Morgan Wallen (Dean winchester x reader)

For all of my country girlies who are also in love with Dean!

Warnings: This is my first post on here, so I'm sorry it's low quality! kinda ooc Dean (I'm not very good at writing about him, but I love him anyway), fluff, brief kissing. If there's anything I missed, feel free to tell me!

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The Impala’s familiar rumble was a steady comfort as you sat in the passenger seat, the open road stretching endlessly ahead. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, a subtle rhythm matching the country song humming from the speakers. It was your pick—Morgan Wallen's “Not Good at Not”—and Dean rolled his eyes the first time you turned it up. But now, he was humming along under his breath.

You glanced over, catching the way his jaw clenched when you tugged at the strap of your tank top, letting it fall just slightly off your shoulder in the heat. His eyes darted from the road to you, a flicker of something unspoken burning there. You smirked.

“Eyes on the road, Winchester,” you teased, crossing your legs in a way you knew would grab his attention.

He let out a low chuckle, but it came out strained. “You’re gonna kill me one day, sweetheart.”

The evening sky shifted to twilight, a soft glow of moonlight casting silver outlines over his profile. You reached over to change the station, but Dean caught your wrist, his calloused fingers gentle yet firm.

“Leave it. It’s… growing on me,” he admitted, the gruffness in his voice betraying the way you made him weak.

The lyrics fit too perfectly—Maybe it’s the quarter moon, maybe it’s the quart of wine—though it wasn’t wine tonight, just the way your smile made him feel drunk. He parked the Impala by a secluded stretch of woods, the stars above bright enough to dim the rest of the world.

You slid out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your skin, but Dean didn’t follow immediately. He leaned back against the driver’s door, his gaze heavy on you as if memorizing every detail.

“You know you’re trouble, right?” he said finally, his voice low, a mix of frustration and longing.

“Trouble?” you repeated, walking toward him with a slow, deliberate sway. “That’s a bold claim for someone who can’t even pretend to keep his hands to himself.”

Dean groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to be good here. But damn it, you make it impossible.”

You stopped just inches from him, feeling the heat radiating off his body. “Maybe you’re just not good at not,” you said softly, echoing the lyrics.

His lips twitched into that signature smirk, the one that made your heart skip. “Not good at not… what?”

“Kissing me again.”

Dean didn’t need any more convincing. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips crashed into yours. It was a kiss that stole your breath, filled with all the restraint he’d been battling and finally surrendered to.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his green eyes blazing in the moonlight.

“You’re the worst distraction,” he muttered, his fingers playing with the strap of your tank top.

“And yet, here you are,” you teased, brushing your lips against his jawline.

He let out a soft laugh, one hand tangling in your hair. “Yeah, here I am. Falling hard for trouble.”

As the night stretched on, the song played in the back of your mind, its lyrics weaving into the stolen glances, the quiet laughs, and the way Dean’s hands seemed made to hold you. He wasn’t good at resisting, wasn’t good at hiding how much he wanted you.

And maybe, you thought, that was okay—because you weren’t good at not falling for him either.