meowjuz

[meowjuz]

"what am i supposed to do, if there's no you?" dean winchester x wife!reader

content: canon typical violence, depictions of blood, death, depictions of grief, angry grief, pre-death grief, angst, denial, mentions of cancer (and treatments), non-descriptive mentions of throwing up, death, dean shows emotions, fluff

word count: 5.5k

note: this one gets pretty heavy, but ultimately there is a happy ending. be careful with yourself if any of the content listed above is harmful to you. also, there is some mary winchester erasure because i didn't feel like writing her (sorry girl). and, jack has been given some special secret powers in order to fit this plot.

m.list

You hadn’t known there was so much blood in the human body.

All of it seemed to be laid out on the ground around you, puddling up in the creases of your elbows.

You had to be dead. There was no way your heart could still beat when you were drowning in a sea of red.

You could remember the pain of the initial slash, claws digging into your side as you ran from the attacker.

But now?

Now you were numb.

The only sensation you had was cold. You shivered in the warm night air, staring up at the tree branches looming over you. You wished you could see the sky, just glimpse the stars one last time.

“Shit,” you heard breathed out from the side of you.

Dean.

Your Dean.

His hands grazed over your wound, making you flinch away out of instinct.

“Honey, please,” Dean begged, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. You didn’t know exactly what he was asking for.

You to not be hurt? You to not die?

It wasn’t as if it was up to you.

Dean, you tried to say, but his name caught in your throat. You couldn’t talk, you could barely move.

“Shh, shh,” he tried to soothe, but you could hear the tremble in his voice. You could always hear the tremble when he was scared. “Don’t move.”

Dean glanced around wildly, his eyes falling on dead leaves and broken branches.

“Sammy!” He yelled, tears streaking through the dirt coating his face.

This was all his fault.

It was supposed to be an easy hunt.

One werewolf ripping hearts from the chests of anyone who stood in its way. Dean was gonna kill the poor bastard and get back in time for dinner.

That was the plan, until you begged to come along with him. He’d been hurt on the last hunt, an injury that left him in your care for weeks afterwards. You were nervous about him getting back out there. You didn’t want it to be the last time you’d see him.

He’d agreed on your tagging along under the condition that you stay locked in the car, safe with a sweater wrapped around you.

The same sweater that was tattered beyond belief.

Blood, your blood, trickled over your ring, turning the diamond a splotchy red.

“No, no, no,” Dean mumbled, brushing his hand over your cheek to get your attention. Your eyes fluttered back open.

“You gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please--,” he choked on a cry that almost escaped, “please just… stay awake.”

Your breath was shallow. Not good. Black dots spotted your vision. Not good. Dean looked scared. Not good.

Footsteps ran up, nearly tripping on the soft grass when their owner saw the scene in front of him. Sam stared down at you, Dean crouched over you.

“Sam, get over here, now.” Dean demanded, heaving out breaths.

“Dean--,” Sam started, but his brother cut him off.

“Get the hell over here!” Dean yelled, chin trembling.

Sam stumbled over, helping Dean hoist you up.

Suddenly, you could feel the pain.

You cried out, head lolling back into Dean’s chest.

“I know, honey, I know,” Dean choked, trying not to utterly lose it while you were in this condition. He’d seen people, good people, die from wounds less intense than this.

Stop.

He couldn’t think about that right now.

You were going to live. There wasn’t any way he could live without you.

“Sammy, faster!” Dean had urged from the backseat, where he cradled your head in his lap.

They needed a hospital now. He would figure out a lie to tell the doctors later, something that would explain how you had gotten so hurt. He couldn’t think right now, not with the blood still flowing out.

“Dean,” you crackled out, your hand falling onto where his help pressure on the injury. His eyes snapped to your face, searching wildly for a clue of what you were gonna say.

“I,” you took in a breath, wincing when the inflation of your lungs pushed more pain through you, “I love you.” You were whispering as loudly as you could muster up.

Dean shook his head, brushing your hair from your forehead.

“You’re fine.” He promised you, but his voice wavered. You weren’t fine. You were dying.

“I love you so much.” You felt tears stream from your eyes. You didn’t know if it was from the thrumming pain or the fact that you were scared to die. Maybe a mix of both.

“You--,” Dean started to say, but the screech of Baby’s tires skidding to a stop in front of the emergency room doors cut him off.

Sam helped pull you from the car, placing you in Dean’s arms to be rushed into the hospital.

That had been almost seven months ago.

You had almost died. Almost.

And so had Dean, not from any monster or slice in his skin. He almost lost you. You, his only reason to live, his lifeline, his everything. In his eyes, the sun rose and set with you.

Now, he sat by your side on the light blue couch you had picked out from a second-hand store. The quilt you had spent weeks sewing together lay over your legs.

“We should get this.” You pointed a finger at the laptop screen in front of you, a book pulled up just under your fingertip. On the cover was a trio of bears, two big, one little. Baby Bear’s Family stood out in thick letters. Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at you.

“Babies can’t read, honey.” He reminded you, eliciting an eye roll from you.

“We read to the baby, Winchester.” You added it to your cart regardless. A pop-up message informing you there would be a wait on the item showed, but you figured it would show up in a timely manner.

“You read to the baby, Winchester.” Dean added that last part with a grab of your hand, your wedding band cold against his skin. You furrowed your brows. “I teach it what real music is.”

“It? You can’t call our baby it.” You laughed, a sound that Dean let sink into his being. He loved your laugh.

“What else do I say?”

“Umm…,” you hummed as you thought, searching around for a name to put to the nonexistent person.

You weren’t pregnant, not yet, at least. You and Dean had begun to care less about using condoms, opting to let fate decide whether or not you two would be parents. It wasn’t until two days ago when you had woken up from a dream in the middle of the night, nudging Dean awake with a I want a baby that you two had really started trying.

He wasn’t complaining.

He hadn’t let himself imagine much of a future before you, but with you as his? He could see it all: white-picket fence, you waking up with him every morning, little feet tittering across floorboards. Now he had it.

Well, the fence was a red color, and there were many times he’d woken up to the smell of bacon, you having gotten up before him. No matter, it was still perfect. You were perfect.

He was ready to have perfect children with you.

“Baby Bear.” You decided, eyes falling back to the book. Dean snorted a laugh.

“I am not saying Baby Bear,” he argued, not catching onto the fact that he just did.

“Why not?” You frowned, memorizing every line of the artwork on the front of your new favorite book.

“It’s girly. I’m a man.”

“Dean, you were wearing my fluffy pink bathrobe yesterday.” You reminded him. If he was going to claim to be a man, whatever his definition of it was, you weren’t going to let him make exceptions.

“It’s warm!” He defended, a smile crossing his face. You two had fought over who would wear the robe all morning, up until the point you had pulled it off of him before pushing him back into bed, continuing on your mission of making a baby.

“Baby Bear.” You said with finality, letting him know you weren’t letting this go.

“Baby Bear.” Dean begrudgingly let out, giving you a soft kiss.

You pushed the laptop to the coffee table in front of you two, letting him guide you onto your back as he deepened the kiss, his hand snaking up your shirt.

That must have been the time it stuck. Or maybe it was from the next day, or that night after.

Either way, you were one-hundred-percent, without a doubt, sure that you were pregnant.

You’d been more tired than usual, getting some morning sickness, and your breasts were sore.

It had to be pregnancy, right?

“Why can’t I go get you one of those sticks to pee on?” Dean asked, watching you flutter around the bedroom in preparation for your doctor’s appointment.

“Those things are wrong all the time, I wanna know for sure.” You muttered, brushing through your hair.

“You really think Baby Bear is makin’ an appearance?” Dean looked to your middle. You weren’t showing, obviously, but he could imagine a little baby taking form in there. You stopped in front of him, giving him a kiss on the nose.

“I know it.” You assured him.

The trip to the doctor’s office was filled with your plans for the nursery, what dress you would wear for the baby shower, what Baby Bear’s first birthday party would look like.

You couldn’t stop chattering on to everyone you interacted with: Dean, the nurses, the older woman waiting next to you in the waiting room.

You talked and talked, a bright smile on your face. You had just moved onto what brand stroller you wanted when the doctor entered the room again, a clipboard in hand.

You looked at him expectantly, but confusion sparked at the second physician that entered. She was about your height, with light purple scrubs. An enamel pin of a pink ribbon was fastened to the pocket on her chest.

Your face dropped as the doctor, the one who was supposed to tell you those words you had waited to hear all your life, explained the test results.

His words blurred in your mind, like you had dunked your head under water. Dean’s grip on your hand tightened.

There was something growing in you, but it wasn’t Baby Bear.

Metastatic stage IV breast cancer.

I don’t know how they didn’t catch it before, the doctor had told you. Apparently, this foreign thing had been growing in you since before your werewolf attack. Maybe it was the reason why the scratch hadn’t turned you, why you hadn’t been given lupine abilities.

You would have preferred that to this.

Chemo, radiation, pills upon pills.

Those were your options.

No surgery could get all of the cancer.

Nothing could. You weren’t going to get better, you would just slow down the dying. You knew it, the doctors knew it, your friends and family knew it. The only one who didn’t seem to get the memo was Dean.

He carted you around to every appointment. He made notes in that illegible scrawl of his. He set alarms for every round of pills you had to take, waking you up and making you swallow each and every one. He held your thinning hair back when you got sick after the chemo, sitting on the bathroom floor with you.

He had work, yes, his mechanic job he had picked up after quitting hunting. His boss, thankfully, was kind. He let Dean miss work, even offering to have his wife bring you to appointments. Dean always declined. He could take care of his girl.

You were sitting on the couch in the same spots you had just a few months ago, only this time you were watching Dean scroll through articles on cancer treatments instead of ones about different baby cries.

You wore the hat that Jody and the girls had gifted you when you had to shave your hair, their initials stitched into the side by Donna. It was your favorite. It reminded you of all the love that was around you, even if the hat only existed because of the poison coursing through your veins.

“Look at this one,” Dean pointed, much like you had to the baby book, the same one that still hadn’t arrived. Not that it mattered now.

“It’s in Toronto.” You told him after reading the first few lines. You and Dean lived in South Dakota, only an hour or so from Sioux Falls.

“We can move.” He said as he scrolled through the different tabs of the article.

“I don’t want to.” You argued, exhaustion lacing your voice. You were always tired lately.

“It won’t be forever, just until you’re better.”

“I’m not going to get better.”

That made Dean pause to look at you. His grief from your words, words he knew were true, was masked by disappointment and irritation. He hated when you talked like this.

“Yes, you are.” He gritted out, determination in his eyes.

“No, Dean, I’m not. I’m dying.” You looked away at the mention of the “D” word. You weren’t supposed say it, no one was supposed to say it. Dean had forbidden it.

“No. Don’t say that. You’re not--,” he cut himself off, unable to say the word himself. He felt the emotion choking at him, a metaphorical hand around his throat restricting air flow.

“Yes, I am.” The constant denial of what was really happening was weighing on you. You didn't want to pretend like everything was okay, that this was just a flu you needed to get over.

“I need you to understand, Dean.” You took in a shaky breath. “I need you to tell me that you know I'm dying.”

“I'm not sayin’ it because it's not happenin’.” Dean stood up, laptop resting on the couch cushion next to you. “You're not dying.” His voice shook on the last word.

You pulled your cardigan tighter around you, goosebumps chilling on your arms. As you lost weight from your treatments, you got colder.

“Dean--,” you began, but he already knew you were going to say a bunch of the same stuff. He shook his head, running a hand down his face.

“No. I'm not gonna listen to you talk like you're already dead. We can fix this. I can fix this.” Dean watched your face contort to anger, but he spoke before you could. “Cas can--,”

“Cas said he can't. You were there.” You cut him off, fumbling with the loose thread on your quilt.

The angel had been Dean's first call when the diagnosis came. It’d taken Castiel less than five seconds of his hand on your shoulder to know he couldn’t do anything. The masses had weaved themselves so deep into your body that even divine intervention couldn’t save it. Couldn’t save you.

“He can try again.” Dean almost growled, pacing in front of you. He was on the verge of a breakdown.

He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t done much of anything other than refuse to accept the situation.

He was teetering on a very thin tightrope that was about to snap from the weight of everything.

“No.”

Dean stumbled to a halt. He turned his head to you, a wild look in his eyes. You matched him, narrowing yours to him.

“I don’t want him to.”

It wasn’t that you wanted to die. You had just become less scared of it, more okay with the idea of a semi-peaceful death.

“You don’t want him to?” Dean seethed. You scoffed and looked away.

You hadn’t fought much before this whole thing, maybe a spat here and there, but never anything that hurt.

This? This was a war, one that had been brewing since the word cancer left the doctor’s mouth.

You’d seen something switch in Dean. He’d gone from that borderline-suicidal man you had met almost ten years ago to… whatever the hell he was now. Uncharacteristically optimistic, you had decided to name it.

But Dean Winchester could only look on the bright side for so long before he reverted back to that disbelief in anything good.

“What do you mean you don’t want him to?” Dean repeated your words again. He was looking at you like you had said something offensive, which, to be fair, it was offensive to him.

“I’m tired, Dean. Exhausted. Nothing is going to make this better. I just want to live the rest of my life peacefully, with love.” You argued back, fists clenching in anger. You were getting a migraine again, the same one that seemed to never go away, only crashing and retreating like the ocean.

Dean opened his mouth to talk, but squeezed his eyes shut and took in a breath instead.

“I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.” Dean tried to keep his voice steady, but as he spoke, the anger rushed in, taking hold and raising the volume of his words.

“I know you love me. And I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.” You rose to your feet, legs feeling slightly weak. You hadn’t eaten much that day, nausea crawling it’s way up your throat everytime you looked at the kitchen.

“And what is it that you think you’re doing?” Dean asked, jutting his head out in question, gesturing to you. “Do you think this is good, that this is healthy? Do you think it’s healthy to talk like you already have a death announcement posted?”

“Yes, Dean, I do. I really, truly do.” You spat at him, nodding your head. “You need to accept it. I’m dying,” Dean flinched at that goddamn “D” word, “and you need to understand that. I can’t be here to coddle you when it happens.”

“Shut up.” Dean was growling now, fire flaring in his green eyes. You winced, looking at him like he was batshit insane. He had never told you to shut up. He’d shushed you a few times, maybe asked you to be quiet, but never to shut up.

It slammed through the last of your strength to hold back. Your frustration, all of the fucking pain of the last few months, hell, even your grief for everything you would be missing out on unleashed into a monster you would be forced to regret later.

“No, Dean, you shut up!” You yelled, pointing a finger at him. “I have to listen to you talk like I have a future every fucking day, like you’re gonna magically fix everything and I’ll grow old and we’ll have a family. You talk like Baby Bear,” you hadn’t said that name since the day of your appointment, “is gonna be real. Well, newsflash: you can’t fix this. A goddamn angel of the Lord can’t heal me. What makes you think you, a human man, can do anything to stop this?” You had swayed a bit on your feet, the intense situation making you even more light headed than usual. You wanted to throw up, you needed to throw up, but instead you stood staring at Dean.

His eye twitched and you saw it, just for a split second, but it was still there. He wanted to fight back, he wanted to scream and yell and insult you. You watched a wall build back up. It was flimsy and you could have easily broken it back down, but he turned away before you could decide if you wanted to.

“I’m goin’ out.” Dean muttered tersely as he stomped to the garage, swiping up his keys from the little bowl you made him keep them in. The keychain you had bought for him after your fifth date swung down, the little rubber duck looking back at you with the same malice you had spotted on Dean’s face.

The door slammed at the same time you made a run for the bathroom, a mix of emotions flying out with the minimal contents of your stomach. You heaved over the porcelain of the toilet, an image you knew too well after so many trips to it.

You slumped against the wall as the water swirled down, carrying away any agitation you had felt.

You just wanted your husband, your Dean, here. He would help you get through your bouts of nausea, then tuck you into your favorite fuzzy throw blanket. He’d even begun to brush your teeth for you, moving the bristles about your mouth to wash away any sour taste while you fluttered your eyes shut.

You were still thinking about his gentle care when he came back home, boots slipping off before tip-toeing to the bedroom. You had to be asleep, he figured. It was late, maybe too late, but that would be a problem for morning-Dean.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the bed empty, sinking when he heard the retching in the room over.

He rushed to the bathroom, flipping on the light to show you, bent over. Tears streamed down your face, giving your pretty eyes a tinge of red that Dean noticed when you looked up at him.

He sank to his knees, pulling you into his arms once your body relaxed. You were wearing the same clothes from earlier, meaning you hadn’t even tried to go to bed. Had you been here the whole time, through all the hours he had spent crashing through the nearby woods like the monsters he used to hunt?

“I’m sorry.” He whispered into your hair, rocking you. You curled into him, body shaking with soft cries.

You cried for the way your body rejected everything. You cried for the words he had said. You cried for the words you had said. You cried for the future you would never have.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I love you.”

Those had also been the last words he’d said to you as you drifted off into a sleep you would never wake from. You were in a hospital bed stationed in your home, surrounded by your favorite flowers.

Dean had walked out of the room after your final breath, placing a shaky kiss on your forehead. His tears had fallen to your face and he brushed those away like he used to brush your hair away.

Everyone was there. Your family and his own, makeshift version of a family. He had swallowed down a sob, not wanting to break in front of a crowd. That resolve had crumbled when Jody had wrapped her arms around him.

He’d soaked her shirt, knees nearly buckling underneath him as he tried to think of what life would be like without you. He couldn’t even imagine it.

There was no life without you.

The next few weeks he hadn’t remembered. He didn’t dare to go back to the house. He stayed with Jody, taking up residence in her last remaining guest room after your funeral. He only left the room to go to the bar, only left the bar to cry in the Impala.

It was torture.

Everything was.

It wasn’t until he had decided enough was enough, he would go back home, that he moved onto the next stage of grief: anger.

He thought he had been familiar with the emotion, but whatever he had felt before was nothing compared to what surged through him when he saw that book.

There had been a package on the front steps, raindrops sliding down the plastic of the envelope. He’d picked it up with curiosity. He didn’t remember ordering anything.

He ripped through the covering to reveal a trio of bears, two big, one little. Baby Bear’s Family stood out in thick letters.

His blood ran cold.

Dean must have blacked out, because the next thing he remembered was the ringing of his phone. All around him was a mess; table flipped over, dishes shattered, splintered wood on the hinges of what was once a cupboard door.

In the middle of it all was him, panting and crying, and the book, untouched by his destruction.

Dean scrambled to the phone, hoping, despite knowing better, that it would be you.

Sammy

The caller ID broke his heart further, but he answered. He couldn’t ignore his little brother forever.

“Dean,” Sam breathed out, like he had been in a fight just moments prior, “we need you.”

If he’d known what exactly they needed help with, he would have hung up and rotted away in a pile of your clothing.

Instead, he now found himself sitting in the bunker, a place you had found homey but in a dungeon kind of way, across from this newborn twenty-something kid that wouldn’t shut the hell up. He found a fascination in everything, from the salt shakers to the water that flowed from the sink.

You would have loved Jack.

The thought made Dean shoot up and stomp to his room, cutting off Jack’s ramble about what kind of lightbulbs he preferred.

The boy frowned, looking down at the glass of whiskey Dean had left behind.

“I don’t know why he hates me.” Jack breathed out, heart aching. He didn’t like this emotion. He just wanted Dean to love him as the others did.

“He doesn’t hate you, he hates himself.” Sam sighed, tapping a finger against the glass of his own glass.

“Sam--,” Castiel started, but Sam shook his head, cutting the angel off.

“He needs to know, Cas. I can’t keep ignoring her.” Sam argued back, but his voice softened. “She was my family, too.”

So, Sam told Jack all about you. He left nothing out. The flour-kisses you had given to Dean during your baking phase. The way you always made sure to adjust Castiel’s tie if it was even slightly off-center. The piles of books you would bring to Sam whenever he would visit you and Dean.

He told Jack about Baby Bear and the way you had tried to get Sam to download dating apps during your frequent phone calls. Your love for flowers and the color blue and the ugly fish everyone always made fun of.

Jack couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he had decided to do it, but an idea had popped into his head during Sam’s sad laughter.

He found himself standing in a white hallway, identical doors lining the walls. On a plaque read your first name followed by Winchester. He was sure this was yours.

Pushing it open, he instantly felt warm.

The smell of cookies, ones he could tell would be the best he’d ever have without even tasting them, filled the air.

A pretty woman stood by a counter, cradling her swollen stomach and humming. Pictures of her and Dean lined the walls of the house your heaven was in.

He knew it without seeing a picture: this woman was you.

Jack called your name, startling you. You scanned his face, a frown on your face. He wasn’t a threat, but you hadn’t been expecting visitors.

“Who are you?” You asked, a hand shielding your stomach as best as possible.

“You’re her. You’re Dean’s honey.” Jack nodded his head while he spoke, making sure to use the pet name Sam had told him Dean would call you. “And that’s Baby Bear.” He pointed to your stomach.

You felt a rush of warmth at your baby’s name. You hadn’t picked a real one yet, but you had time. You had nothing but time.

“How do you know that?”

“I’m Jack.” He waved, giving you that gap-toothed smile everyone but Dean found adorable. You smiled warmly at him, confusion still lacing your expression.

“Do you want a cookie?” You offered, gesturing to the worn table, the same table Dean had destroyed.

Jack filled you in on everything, a flash of painful memories hitting you with every word about your death. He explained that you were in Heaven and that he was here to bring you back.

You had ached to see Dean again. You tried to think back on whether or not he had been here, in your heaven, but something was blocking you from it. It didn’t make sense: if this was Heaven, why weren’t you completely happy?

You weren’t in pain, you didn’t feel sadness, or anger, or anything. You only felt content.

It was Dean.

He wasn’t here. He was your heaven as much as you were his.

You agreed to go back to earth, ignoring the fact that it would mean Baby Bear would be gone, that this perfect life would go away. Scratch that, it wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t be, not without Dean.

You saw a flash of white and suddenly you were standing in a grassy outlook of a town. Not any town. Lebanon, Kansas.

You frowned and turned to Jack, but the nephilim only beamed at you.

Behind you, the Impala -- Dean’s Impala -- was parked. You caught a glimpse of dirty blond hair over the top of the car.

“Dean.” You whispered, not wanting to spook him.

Dean heard it. He always heard every noise you made, even if he was across the house.

He shrugged it off, taking a swig from his flask and letting the whiskey burn away the heartache.

“Dean.” You said again, a little louder.

He couldn’t shrug this off. That was definitely your voice.

Dean’s hunting instincts, the ones that had been engraved into him since he was a kid, forced him to his feet, hand flying to the knife on his side. He spun around, searching for you, or whatever thing was pretending to be you.

He choked on a breath when his eyes landed on you. You looked heavenly. You didn’t look how you had on your deathbed. In fact, you looked even younger than you had at the appointment where the doctor gave you your diagnosis.

It was as if your aura, the one Dean could never see but knew was warm and lovely, was glowing around you, cascading down the dress you wore. That dress. It was the same one you’d worn when he’d asked you to marry him.

He remembered that day, getting down on one knee in the middle of the garden you loved so much. It had been sunny, as it was now, and Dean swore the sun shone around your head like a halo. He’d suspected it before, but he knew it at that moment: you were his guardian angel.

You were the only thing that could save him.

There you were, standing a few feet from him, here to save him.

Save him from the grief. From the anger. From himself.

His hands flew open, the knife and flask clattering to the ground. He didn’t care that his whiskey, the good whiskey that he’d spent far too much money on, was flowing into the grass. The only thing that mattered was you.

Dean stumbled to you, but you met him halfway, crashing into him. He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your hair. You smelled the same. His favorite scent, the one he would never forget.

A little piece of him was screaming that this wasn’t real, you were a shapeshifter or a revenant or a demon or a million other things.

The part of him that had beaten down his happiness every day fought back. If he was killed by holding you one last time, that was okay with him. Life wasn’t much without you anyway.

Your bodies shook out sobs in sync. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been dead for, the days shifting into one perfect event of cookie baking.

But Dean?

Dean had it down to the minute. One year, three days, and twenty-two minutes -- twenty-three now. Each second had been worse than the last, leading up to this moment.

He didn’t let you go.

He was afraid if he even loosened his grip, you would dissipate into a mist, leaving him with nothing all over again.

“I missed you.” You shook out, brushing your thumb over the nape of his neck just like you had done every night before falling asleep. Dean heaved out a sound, like he couldn’t even speak.

He focused on you to calm him down.

Your hair, your skin, your warmth. It grounded him, and he twisted his fingers into the fabric of your dress.

“How?” He asked, a simple breath of air forming into one word. You knew what he meant. It reminded you of the fact that Jack was still standing behind you.

“Jack.” You mumbled, pulling your Dean in closer.

Dean’s eyes shot open and, through wet eyelashes, he saw the same boy he had resented for so long. Jack smiled at him, that innocent, little kid kind that told Dean all he needed to know.

Jack had done this for him.

He’d somehow found a way to harness all of his power to bring you back, just to make Dean happy.

Just to make him like him.

Dean would talk to him later. He would find the words to explain his gratitude, explain what this was.

Now, he let his ears catch on your heartbeat, focusing on the steady thumping reminding him that you were alive.

“You’re my heaven, Dean.”

everything taglist : @littlesoulshine @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl

jensen ackles taglist : @arcannaa

[meowjuz]

LOVE NOTE : dean winchester, world’s #1 boyfriend

WORD COUNT : 1406

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

truly, dean winchester is a good man. through and through. but he’s an unbelievable boyfriend

he’s the best and the worst. like, truly, deeply, unbelievably insufferable.

this is dean winchester at his most outrageous, most tender, most him. it’s like he was built in a lab to be the best worst boyfriend on earth. because he’s not just good at love — he revels in it. he performs it. he lives and breathes the title of “boyfriend” like it’s been etched into the very fabric of who he is.

he’s the kind of boyfriend who’ll wolf whistle when she walks out of the bathroom in a old band tee and his pajama pants, just to make her roll her eyes — but then he’ll be pressing a kiss to the side of her neck five minutes later, mumbling, “you’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” and mean it.

because on one hand? he loves her. adores her. thinks she hung the damn moon and would fight god himself if it meant keeping her safe. he’s thoughtful in ways she never expects — memorizes the way she takes her coffee, drapes his jacket over her shoulders when she’s too stubborn to admit she’s cold, rubs at the knot in her shoulder without her even asking. he buys her dumb little trinkets just because they remind him of her, lets her steal fries off his plate without complaint, and listens to her ramble about whatever book she’s currently reading with rapt attention.

but on the other hand?

he is unbelievable.

he’ll hoard her hair ties like a dragon guarding treasure, swear he has no clue where they went, all while fidgeting with one looped around his fingers like it’s a rosary. he’ll try to un-peel her socks from her feet with all the dedication of a man on a mission and then laugh when she kicks him in the ribs for it. he’s the kind of idiot who makes her do the hand thing at stoplights just to be a menace, and then kisses the back of her hand like she’s royalty. it’s obnoxious. it’s wildly endearing. it’s dean.

and oh god — the pda. the utter shamelessness. it’s not even about being performative. it’s just that he can’t help himself. she exists in his orbit and he needs to touch her — arm around her waist, chin on her head, fingers hooked in her belt loops. he’s a barnacle, a clingy golden retriever, a smirking devil who uses her body as a jungle gym and has no sense of personal space. he’s proud. so, so proud. like loving her is his full-time job, and god forbid someone forget he’s the one who gets to clock in.

and the way he brags? unbearable. “that’s my girl.” he says it like it’s breaking news, like he didn’t already announce it fifteen times that week alone. he says it like the world should stop and pay tribute. and when she rolls her eyes, shoves his shoulder, threatens to dump him on the side of the road if he doesn’t shut up — he just grins, smug as hell, because she’s still here. still his.

he’s an absolute nightmare in public — whispering filth in her ear while they’re standing in line for coffee, dragging his lips over her neck when she’s trying to focus, pressing kisses to her hand while she’s flipping through old vinyls in some dusty shop like he’s just so overwhelmed by how much he adores her he might combust on the spot.

he’s got no shame. none. zero. he’ll grab her ass in public, whisper absolute filth in her ear just to watch her roll her eyes, and kiss her so slow and deep that someone always ends up telling them to get a room. he lives for getting under her skin, thrives on pushing her buttons, and god help her — she loves him for it.

and it’s clear to everyone with eyes that he just LOVES being a boyfriend — being HER boyfriend

like, he revels in it. soaks it in like it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him — which, let’s be real, it is. he loves every single part of it, the teasing, the touching, the arguing over what song to play next in the car. he loves calling her his girl, loves the way it feels on his tongue, loves the way she just fits against him like she was made to be there.

and god, does he show it.

he’s obnoxious about it in that very dean way — leaning against her in booths like she’s his personal armrest, throwing an arm over her shoulders in bars just so everyone knows she’s with him, resting his chin on the top of her head like some lovesick idiot. he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that she’s smarter than him, tougher than him, meaner than him — but she likes him, so clearly, she’s got shit taste. he smirks mischievously every time someone calls her his girlfriend, like he’s getting away with something, like he can’t quite believe he pulled it off.

but then there’s the quiet stuff. the way he tugs her closer in his sleep, like even unconscious he can’t stand the idea of being too far away. the way he watches her when she’s focused on something, chin in hand, soft smile on his lips, like he’s got all the time in the world. the way he lights up when she laughs, like it’s his favorite damn sound on the planet.

and there’s the softness. the way he curls around her like she’s a lifeline. the way he traces her features when she’s not looking. the way he pulls her into his lap during long nights at bobby’s, murmurs “just wanna hold you, sweetheart” like he’s making an excuse for something he’ll never stop needing.

dean winchester loves hard, loves loud, loves like he’s never known anything better. and being her boyfriend? oh, that’s his favorite thing in the world.

and he’s so proud of it. of her, yes. but mostly the fact that she’s his. like. it’s his greatest accomplishment

he’s insufferable about it. unbearably smug. because this? this is the win of a lifetime. not taking down monsters, not saving the world — this. being able to call her his.

he basks in it. lets it fuel that cocky little smirk of his, the one he wears like a badge of honor. he’ll be mid-conversation, talking about literally anything else, and then she walks by and suddenly he’s the most distracted man alive, eyes trailing after her with a barely-contained grin.

“you see that?” he’ll nudge sam, jerking a thumb in her direction. “that’s my girl.” like sam doesn’t know. like anyone in a five-mile radius could miss the fact.

and the worst part? he doesn’t just say it. he shows it.

when she leans into him, he tilts his head down like he’s soaking up the moment for later. when she calls him “winchester” with that sharp little lilt of hers, his grin only gets wider. when someone so much as glances at her the wrong way, he puffs up like he’s ready to fight a damn war.

“you’re so annoying,” she’ll mutter, rolling her eyes, but she lets him do it. lets him gloat, lets him be ridiculous about it. because for all her teasing, she knows it’s real.

and so does he. which is why, when she threads her fingers through his in a crowded room, when she presses a quick kiss to his jaw just because, he doesn’t even try to play it cool.

he just grins. big, bright, so damn proud.

because, hell — who wouldn’t be?

and she teases him for it — calls him a sap, a disaster, a walking rom-com — but he never denies it. because yeah. she’s his favorite thing in the whole goddamn world. and he’s not gonna pretend otherwise. not when he knows what it’s like to lose everything. not when he gets to have this.

he wears his love for her. bold, brazen, infuriatingly visible. it’s in the way he talks, the way he touches, the way his eyes find hers across a room and soften instantly, like the whole world just went quiet.

dean winchester is a good man. a good boyfriend. an annoying boyfriend. an infuriating one.

and no one — no one — loves like he does.

[meowjuz]

QUIT POUTING, WINCHESTER.

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: dean gets all jealous over something super dumb (he’d never admit it though), and ends up pouting until you kiss him to make him stop being so ridiculous.

♯ warnings: a hint of possessiveness, jealousy with unreasonable doubts, (duh) make out sesh, but other than that — just pure fluff, because this man is soft for you no matter how much he tries to act tough. don’t kiss and drive kids!!

♯ notes: this is my first fic ever!! send some love. thanks so much for reading through my yap sesh. ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

Dean Winchester is pouting.

And, yeah, he’d probably rather die than admit it, but it’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. Arms crossed, jaw tight, barely sparing you a glance as he sulks in the driver’s seat of the Impala. You’d think you just crashed Baby into a brick wall with how pissed he looks.

“De.. what is wrong with you?” you finally ask, leaning against the window to look at him.

“Nothin’,” he mutters, gripping the steering wheel like it personally offended him. Nothing, my ass.

You narrow your eyes. “Dean.”

“Nothin’, i already told you.” he repeats, this time with even less conviction.

You huff, shifting in your seat so you’re fully facing him now. “Oh my God, you are such a bad liar.”

He scoffs. “I’m a great liar, trust me.”

“Not to me.”

And, that shuts him up for a second. His fingers tighten on the wheel, his mouth pressing into that stubborn, self-righteous little frown he gets whenever he knows he’s losing but refuses to admit it.

You smirk, slowly realizing what could be the cause of his state. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”

Dean’s head snaps toward you so fast you think he might give himself whiplash. “What?”

You lean in, grinning now. “You totally are.” you say with a soft chuckle, as if the thought of him being jealous is the most hilarious thing in the whole world.

He rolls his eyes, trying so hard to play it cool, but his ears are so red. “Pfft. Yeah, right.”

“You so are.”

Dean exhales sharply, turning his attention back to the road like the empty highway is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to dig himself out of this one.

“You’re acting all weird,” you point out, watching him squirm. “You’ve been quiet for the last hour. You barely even yelled at that dude who cut you off.”

Dean clenches his jaw. He knows you’ve got him.

“So,” you press, “what’s got your panties in a twist, huh?” As if you already don’t know.

He grumbles something under his breath. Oh, he’s embarrassed. You could tell.

You blink. “What?”

More grumbling.

“Dean.” you repeated, hoping for him to finally speak up.

He exhales roughly, hands flexing on the steering wheel. Then, finally, he mutters, “Nothin’. Just— dude was flirting with you, ‘s all.”

You blink. Then blink again. “Are you talking about the gas station cashier?” Dean says nothing. Which is an answer in itself. Oh, this is too good.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, Dean, he barely said two words to me.”

“Yeah? And he was lookin’ at you like a damn puppy,” Dean grumbles. “Like he had a shot.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “That is so stupid.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, jaw still tight. “‘S stupid to you.”

And okay, yeah, now you kind of feel bad, because he’s being ridiculous, but also kind of… sad about it? Not that he’d ever admit it, but the way he’s gripping the wheel, the way his lips are pressed tight like he’s trying to keep everything in—he actually cares about this. About you.

Which means he deserves to suffer just a little longer.

You scoot closer, pressing your chin to his shoulder. “You know you’re the only one I want, right?”

Dean stays silent, but you feel the way his grip on the wheel loosens. His jaw twitches when you press a slow, lingering kiss to his cheek. You smirk. Oh, he’s melting.

So, you push further, brushing your lips along the sharp edge of his jaw, taking your sweet time. You can feel the tension in him shift— not gone, but different. Like he’s holding his breath, waiting for what you’ll do next.

He clears his throat, but his voice comes out rough. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

You hum, letting your lips trail just a little lower. “Then quit pouting.”

“I ain’t—”

You shut him up with a proper kiss.

And at first, he barely moves—like he wasn’t expecting it, like it takes him a second to catch up. But the second he does, oh, you’ve got him.

Dean exhales through his nose, tilting his head to meet you fully, and then he’s kissing you like he’s making up for lost time. His hand finally lets go of the steering wheel, landing firm and warm against your thigh, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself.

You don’t hesitate to deepen it, shifting in your seat to turn toward him, your hand moving up to cup his jaw. He’s warm, rough with stubble, and you take your time exploring it, feeling the way his breath stutters when you scrape your nails lightly along the edge.

Dean groans— low, quiet, but wrecked— and then he’s pulling you closer, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck. The Impala swerves slightly.

You pull back just enough to whisper, breathless, “Dean, focus.”

“Tryin’,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “You’re makin’ it real hard, sweetheart.”

You grin, fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Ain’t that the point?..”

Dean exhales sharply, like he’s trying so hard to keep his cool, but he’s losing. And you? You’re having the time of your life watching him come undone.

You lean in again, kissing him slow and deep, dragging it out just to make him suffer. He sighs into it, fingers pressing just a little tighter into your skin, like he doesn’t want to let go.

Eventually— reluctantly— you pull back, just enough to look at him. His pupils are almost brown in this lightning, lips pink and kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling a little faster than before.

You smirk. “Told you you were pouting.”

Dean exhales, shaking his head with a grumble—but the way he looks at you? The way his thumb traces absently against your knee, like he’s memorizing the shape of you?

Yeah. You definitely won this one.

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[meowjuz]

Better Late Than Never

Main Masterlist Dark Angel Masterlist

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Pairings; Alec McDowell x Reader

Genre; Romance, angst, drama

Warnings; Emotional hurt, missed plans, feelings of abandonment, mild language, brief tension

Summary: Alec misses an important date with you again due to a mission with Max, leaving you hurt and scared it won’t be the last time. When he finally comes home and finds you dressed up and waiting, he realizes the depth of his mistake and vows to make things right.

822 words

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Alec stepped in, boots leaving wet prints on the hardwood, shoulders still tense from the mission that ran way longer than anyone expected. Max had been all business—ruthless and focused—and Alec was right there beside her, barely stopping to think, let alone check the time. Sector checkpoints, a break-in, a narrow escape.

And then, as he pushed open the door to your apartment, the smell hit him. Perfume.

Your perfume.

His stomach twisted.

The living room lights were off, but the bedroom door stood open, casting a soft golden glow. He saw the heel first—a single, strappy black stiletto, abandoned on the floor like it’d been kicked off carelessly.

Then the second.

And then you.

Standing at the edge of the bed, makeup smudged under your eyes, dress tight enough to have knocked the breath out of him on any normal day, heels discarded, arms wrapped around your waist like you were holding yourself together.

You didn’t look surprised to see him.

That made it worse.

“Shit,” Alec breathed. “Tonight.”

You didn’t move.

“I forgot,” he said, voice softer this time, laced with something dangerously close to regret.

“Yeah,” you said. Not angry. Not yelling. Just… flat. Defeated. “I figured that out about an hour ago.”

His heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to make up for the time his brain had lost. He stepped closer, slow, cautious, as if the air around you was glass and he was afraid of shattering it.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I got dressed,” you interrupted, eyes flicking down to the little black dress you wore—the one he loved. “Put on makeup. Did my hair. Waited.”

You finally looked at him, eyes glassy but dry.

“You didn’t even call.”

Alec winced like you’d physically struck him.

“I couldn’t. Max’s comm went dead, and things got crazy, and I—”

You raised a hand.

“I’m not asking for the play-by-play, Alec. I’m just trying to understand something.”

He nodded slowly.

“How many more times?” you asked quietly. “How many more times am I gonna get ready for you… and end the night alone?”

That question was a bullet, and it hit dead center. Alec opened his mouth. Closed it. For once, his usual charm, his quick wit—none of it would help him here.

He walked forward until he was standing right in front of you. He reached out like he might touch your face, then thought better of it.

You didn’t stop him.

His fingertips brushed your cheek, gentle, reverent. “I remembered… the second I saw you,” he murmured, like it meant something. “You in that dress? Hell, I should’ve been here an hour early.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t flirt your way out of this.”

“I’m not.” He cupped your cheek fully now, thumb brushing a bit of mascara beneath your eye. “I’m trying to make sure you know… I see you. I do.”

“Not when it counts.”

That one hit deep too, and he swallowed hard.

“I’ve been good at surviving my whole life,” Alec said. “Not so great at showing up. Not until I met you.”

You stared at him. You hated that your body still leaned into his touch. Hated that his voice still softened your spine.

He stepped in, his hand now splayed on your waist, holding you close but loose enough for you to push him away.

“I missed our date. That’s on me. But I’m not missing this.”

He bent his head down slowly, giving you every second to stop him. When your lips met, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t the usual desperation he carried from near-death missions and adrenaline-fueled nights.

It was slow.

Sincere.

Apologetic.

You kissed him back with the kind of frustration that only came from loving someone reckless. From being let down and still wanting them anyway.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, breath shallow.

“I can’t promise Max won’t call,” he said quietly. “I can’t promise I won’t get dragged into chaos. But I can promise I won’t forget you again. I won’t make you feel like second choice.”

You blinked. Then finally, you stepped back, arms still crossed, but your voice was softer. “Then show me.”

His brows raised.

You gestured to your dress. “I didn’t get all dressed up for no reason.”

A smirk tugged at his lips.

“No missions. No interruptions. You and me. Right here. Now,” you said. “You think you can manage that, soldier boy?”

Alec chuckled lowly, already peeling off his jacket. “Babe… I can more than manage it.”

You didn’t smile. Not fully. But the corner of your lips twitched.

It was enough.

This time, when he kissed you, there were no excuses waiting behind his teeth. No guilt. Just hands on your waist, his mouth on yours, and the silent vow that maybe—just maybe—this would be the last time he made you feel forgotten.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @star-yawnznn @artemys-ackles

[meowjuz]

Thinking about early days on the road before John started leaving Sam with Dean and was still going around and talking to hunters trying to learn everything he could. Imagine you’re some hunter and you get a call that the new guy in town wants to meet at the roadhouse and talk demons or werewolves or witches or whatever, then he shows up with a 4-year-old and a baby. He’s real serious and writes down everything you say in his journal but he also has to get up halfway through to sing and bounce a cranky baby to sleep on his shoulder while the kid stares at you with a mouth full of French fries. No wonder every hunter in John’s generation seems to remember Dean and Sam whether Dean and Sam know them or not.

[meowjuz]

this middle part with the bangs is one of the best looks he’s ever worn

[meowjuz]

dean winchester gets pussy drunk btw

[meowjuz]

hello I don’t know if you’ve seen the interview where howie mandel asks jensen if he has a girlfriend ? Could u write something inspired by the interview?

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ she’s not public, but she’s mine,

pairing. young!jensen ackles x reader ( f )

wordcount. 494 genre. giggling

warnings. none. this is pure fluff! // set in 1999

notes. i'd never seen this interview and jensen is so f-ing adorable. ugh. thank you for this -🩷

The lights are blinding.

Jensen blinks under them, trying not to squint as he smiles politely, shifting in his seat across from Howie Mandel on some mid-afternoon talk show circuit. It's 1999, he’s barely twenty-one, fresh off his first big soap role, and trying not to look like he just borrowed this button-up from a department store clearance rack.

Howie leans forward with that signature grin, holding his cue card like it’s a secret weapon. “Now Jensen, we’ve seen the photos, the magazine spreads, the dimples... so the big question is—do you have a girlfriend?”

Jensen freezes for a second too long.

The audience titters.

He scratches the back of his neck. His ears go a little red.

And then he smiles—soft, sheepish, a little smug.

“Uh… yeah,” he says, voice warm but careful. “Yeah, I do.”

Howie raises a brow. “Ooooh. So it’s serious.”

Jensen shrugs, trying to keep cool. “She’d probably roll her eyes if she heard me say that. But yeah.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” Jensen lies immediately, and the audience laughs again.

“She in the biz?” Howie presses. “Model? Actress? Future co-star?”

Jensen shakes his head. “No, no. She’s not in the industry.”

“So just a regular girl?”

Jensen huffs a quiet laugh and leans into the mic a little more. “She’s anything but regular.”

The audience awws. Someone whistles.

Howie grins. “And how long’s it been?”

“Little over a year,” Jensen says, the corner of his mouth lifting like he can’t help it. “She knew me before all… this.” He gestures vaguely to the stage, the cameras, the clunky hair gel holding his ‘90s part in place.

“And you’ve kept her secret?” Howie asks, leaning back, impressed. “Smart guy. That’s rare in Hollywood.”

Jensen nods, gaze flicking toward the camera like maybe you’re out there watching. “She’s private. And I like keeping her to myself.”

The crowd laughs again, but it’s quieter this time. Sweeter. Like everyone feels the weight in those words.

Because Jensen looks a little different now—like he’s not here anymore, not entirely. Like his mind’s back home, in some shared apartment or tucked-away dorm room, where your shampoo’s still in the shower and your laugh echoes down the hallway.

He blinks back into the moment, ducking his head, voice quieter. “She keeps me grounded. Reminds me who I am.”

Howie softens. “Sounds like a good one.”

“She is.”

“And if she’s watching right now?”

Jensen smiles at the camera, more confident this time. Dimple flashing, eyes bright.

“Hey, sweetheart. I’ll call you after this. Don’t make fun of my shirt.”

The crowd bursts out laughing again, and the moment moves on—another joke, another segment, another smile.

But later, backstage, when his phone buzzes with your number and your voice comes through the line teasing, “so you’re not blushing, huh?”— He smiles like he’s got the whole world in his pocket.

Because he kind of does.

And she’s his little secret.

Just not for long.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[meowjuz]

Desire, Directed.

MINORS DNI! blue divider by @cyberbeat

pairing: actor!dean winchester x actress!fem!reader summary: She's pure chaos wrapped in heels and sunshine, he's a brooding mess with a clenched jaw and a bad reputation. Dean Winchester did not ask for this. Their fake relationship was supposed to fix both their careers. Staged desire before the World Premiere of their last movie. Except she makes him laugh for real and he kisses her like he means it. Looks like they forgot the first rule of pretending: don't believe your own lies.

disclaimer: english is not my first language! warnings: too many to even list them. age gap (dean is 41, reader is 25), mentions of divorce, scandal, fluff, angst, SMUTTY SMUT (also dom!dean, oral - f! receiving, unprotected sex, fingering, spitting, car shenanigans, semi-public sex, castiel!voyeur but i swear it's funny), "enemies" to friends to lovers, grump/sunshine trope, costars, FAKE RELATIONSHIP AU!, slow burn but flirty!reader , third person, no use of y/n, no explicit physical description except she's the same height as dean with heels (self-indulgent) and it's implied she has long hair, there are some visuals, but they have been chosen for the aesthetic of it (all from pinterest), not for body type/skin color/hair type, you can imagine whoever you want!, hollywood vibes, pining if you squint, mentions of cheating (not between main characters), panic attack, leaked sex tape (non-con), castiel novak is a menace to society, sam winchester is finally a lawyer, jess is alive. word count: 20k+, proofread to the best of my abilities

chye's corner: i'm on holiday, inspired and i love aus and cliches, so there's that. this is a monster of a one-shot, i know, i'm sorry, i couldn't stop. i have five other scenes written, cutting them was the worst pain ever. pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:

chye's grimoire (masterlist) requests are open!

THE PITCH

The sun had started its descent behind the Hollywood hills, turning the glass-walled office into a fishbowl of fading goold and too much silence. Outside, the world was Los Angeles perfect, with bougainvillea climbing fences, palm trees whispering like waves, lazy, constant, impossible to ignore. Inside, the room smelled like eucalyptus and tension, Dean Winchester standing like he was about to bolt.

He didn't sit. Never did in these kinds of meetings. His body wasn't made for soft chair and softer conversations. He leaned against the corner window, arms crossed, cap shadowing his face. His shirt clung to the line of his shoulder, damp from the late July heat. One boot tapped the hardwood floor slowly. Not out of impatience, but annoyance. These days, Dean Winchester was always annoyed. His jaw was set so tight it could've cracked his molars.

Across the room, Castiel Novak was halfway through a lukewarm espresso, and already at the end of his patience. "I need you to stop glowering," he said flatly, glancing at him over the rim of the tiny cup. "You look like you just found out Santa isn't real and he slept with your ex-wife."

Dean didn't smile. Cass sighed and stood, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down with a flair that was too practiced to be careless. He paced in front of his desk, tapping his fingers against his phone like it was a metronome. "You know, I don't do this for just anyone," he said. "I don't beg. I suggest. I redirect. I subtly manipulate with grace and well-timed press leaks.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You’re doing all three right now.”

Cass ignored that. “But with you? I’m begging. Because this thing, this disaster spiral you’re riding down like a flaming motorcycle stunt, ends one of two ways. With a public breakdown. Or with me saving your ass.”

Dean looked away, lips pursed. The texts had been harmless, not even flirty, not really. Just late-night nostalgia with a woman he used to love. A woman who’d moved on. A woman who was married now. And it didn’t matter what he knew. The internet had already decided he was the villain. “I don’t need saving,” he muttered.

“Tell that to your haters.” Cass crossed his arms. “You’re not in your thirties anymore. You don’t get to be the brooding heartthrob with a ‘rough patch.’ Now, you’re the guy who never moved on. Who couldn’t let go. Who made a move on someone else’s wife.”

Dean scowled. “That’s not what happened.”

“I know that,” Cass said gently. “But this town doesn’t care about facts. It cares about image. And right now? Yours is bleeding out.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. The room felt too warm. Or maybe that was just shame settling into his chest like secondhand smoke.

Cass stepped closer, lowering his voice. Softer now. Friendlier. Like the guy Dean used to get drunk with after long shoots in Vancouver. Before everything got complicated. “There’s a way out of this. A clean one. But you have to agree.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Cass tapped his fingers against the desk once. Then added, casually. “She’s already in.” Dean looked up.

Cass smiled, just a little. “Knew that’d get your attention.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “You’re serious?”

“She doesn’t need to do this,” Cass said. “She wants to. Or, okay, she wants the headlines. She wants the narrative reset. And you’re part of that.”

Dean ran a hand over his jaw. “So what, we parade around town pretending to be a couple? That’s your master plan?”

Cass turned to the window, facing the city like he could bend it to his will. “You walk through Venice Beach holding an iced coffee. She smiles up at you like she’s never heard of bad press. You laugh, maybe for the first time in public this year. Boom. Next thing you know, the internet’s in love with you two. Everyone forgets the texts. You’re trending for the right reasons again.”

Dean stared at the wall. He hated this. The performative bullshit. The way it always came back to playing a role, even when the cameras weren’t rolling.

And then the door opened. He didn’t see her at first, just heard the creak of sandals, the whisper of fabric, the soft metallic jingle of stacked bracelets. Then she stepped into view.

Dean straightened before he meant to.

She looked... like summer distilled. Loose waves in her hair, golden from the sun. A plain white tank top that clung just enough, a slouchy brown leather bag over her shoulder. The soft dip of her collarbone catching the light. Her skirt was deep red, rich and full, cinched at the waist, swaying gently with each step like it had somewhere better to be. She looked like she belonged barefoot in a villa, or stepping out of a vintage convertible with a peach in one hand and a secret in the other. Not here. Not in a PR negotiation.

She gave him a once-over. Not rushed. Not shy. Just amused. "Hi boys," she said, a small smile crossing her lips. “Did he agree yet?” she asked Cass. “Or is he still brooding like a tortured novelist?”

Dean stared. Then blinked. “You serious with that outfit?”

“Why?” she smiled. “Worried I’m gonna outshine your baseball cap?”

“I’m worried I’m gonna look like your damn babysitter.”

“Oh please,” she said, tossing her bag onto the chair and lowering herself into it like a cat. “You wish you looked this relaxed.”

Dean opened his mouth, ready to bite back, but Castiel beat him to it, his voice always sounded like he was halfway through a sermon. Publicist to the stars, fire extinguisher to the famous. And today, babysitter to two people who wanted to kill each other. Or fuck. It was a fine line, really. “Children,” Cass said, raising a hand like he was casting a spell to ward off drama. “Dean, your brooding is giving very ‘divorced lumberjack with a podcast about knives.’ And you, darling,” he turned to her, eyebrow arched. “you look like a Pinterest board for women who journal about their exes in vineyards.”

She grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn't one,” Cass muttered, but without heat. “Now. Back to why we’re here.” He was already typing something into his iPad, giddy like a kid unveiling a school project made entirely of glitter and power moves.

Dean stayed where he was, arms folded tight. His body had settled into the posture he used in meetings with directors he didn’t trust: immovable, unimpressed, vaguely threatening. On the other side of the room, her elbows were resting lightly on the armrests, red skirt spilling around her like rose petals left behind after a party. Her back straight, chin lifted. Not a trace of apology anywhere on her, not in her posture, not in her outfit, definitely not in the way she glanced at Dean like he was an inconvenient errand.

“So,” Cass began, without even pretending to build tension, “I’ve walked Dean through the strategy. The public’s already halfway convinced you two are falling in love, we’re just going to let them believe it. You’ll be photographed together. Twice a week, minimum. Venice Beach, Silver Lake, maybe a hotel lobby with dramatic lighting...”

She interrupted without looking up. “Can we skip the farmer’s market aesthetic? I’m not carrying kale for this man.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You think I want to be seen buying kale?”

She grinned, and it was lethal. “You look like you haven’t eaten a vegetable since 2004.”

“Okay,” Cass said, raising both hands. “This is the chemistry I’m talking about.”

Dean looked at her, jaw tight. “You’re really on board with this?”

“I am.” She adjusted her bracelets. “Why wouldn’t I be? I get a golden-boy redemption arc without having to cry on national television, and you get to look like someone can stand you for more than ten minutes.”

Dean let out a sharp exhale, not quite a laugh. “You’re good.”

“I’m great,” she said brightly. “Also, I get to wear cute outfits and fake-date a man who broods for a living. It’s basically my charity work for the year.”

He shifted his weight, arms still crossed. “You sure you’re ready for the ‘controversially young girlfriend’ headlines?”

"I've been called worse for less," she snorted. "All I have to do is try not to look bored while you pretend not to stare at me. Feels like a win.” Her tongue was sharp, but Dean's life was made of sharper things.

“I won’t be staring.”

“You already are.”

Dean blinked. Once. Slowly. “You’re not that special.”

She shrugged, all lazy confidence. “You don’t have to think I am. Just act like it.”

Cass, standing between them, was trying not to smile. Failing. “This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between their bodies like he was conducting an orchestra of rage and unresolved sexual tension, “is exactly why people love you two. The chemistry is rabid. Online audiences are feral for it. You touch her elbow and they start planning wedding menus.”

Dean let out a sharp exhale. “I’m too old for this.”

She smiled sweetly. “You’re not that old. Just... older than Twitter thinks is okay.” Dean’s jaw ticked.

Cass cut in again. “Look, you’ll each get your own version of the narrative. Dean, rugged actor turns romantic again, regains public sympathy after ‘heartbreak’ and ‘humble misstep.’ You, a former scandal starlet chooses stability, matures publicly, audience re-learns how to root for her.”

She turned to Dean, head tilted. “I like how I get character development and you get a redemption arc. Very on brand.” One hand flicked a piece of hair out of her eyes. "So. What’s the play? Share an oat milk latte under a tree? Pap shots of us laughing while I pretend Dean’s funny?”

Dean gave her a look. “I am funny.”

“You’re funny in a way that makes people cry in bathrooms.”

“She’s not wrong,” Cas added, flipping his iPad toward them. “You’re trending lower than crypto, Dean. And you,” he pointed at her, “are still ‘the girl from that tape’ to half the industry. But you two together? You’re golden. Magnetic. Preposterously hot.”

“I am not magnetic,” Dean muttered.

“Tell that to the internet,” Cass replied. “They’ve built a religion around your thumb grazing her jaw in that trailer. We fake a relationship, ride the chemistry, clean up your public images, and then have a tasteful, tearless breakup by awards season.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” Dean said.

Castiel winked at him. “This fake relationship controls the narrative. You get sympathy. She gets rebranded. You both get more than survival. You get power again.”

“You know I’m in,” she said, breezily. “But I get Instagram caption veto power, no interviews about ‘his healing journey,’ and he’s not allowed to wear flannel in public.”

Dean scoffed. “What the hell’s wrong with flannel?”

“You want to look emotionally available, not like you coach Little League and won’t shut up about your divorce.”

Dean turned to Cass. “I hate her.”

"You'll live."

THE FIRST DATE

The sun hit Venice like it was trying to cook it. It reflected off storefronts, glared down from between the slats of tangled palm trees, and turned the sidewalks into mirrors. The ocean wind couldn't decide if it wanted to cool or stir shit up, so it did both, shoving hair into people's faces, flipping napkins off café tables, tugging the hem of Dean's shirt as if it had something to say. He could smell the sunscreen, fried food, weed, salt hair. He hated it already.

There were too many people. Too many sunglasses disguising not-so-subtle glances. Too many phones held at chest level, recording just in case. And the worst part was, Dean couldn't tell which cameras were real and which ones just wanted content. He knew Cass had tipped off paparazzi the day before, but he did not really take into account how many people would actually recognize the two of them. He had no doubt Novak knew and planned accordingly.

One thing was certain, even after thirty years in the industry, Dean didn’t belong here. He stood near the railing overlooking the beach, wearing boots that were already too warm, jeans that stuck to his legs, and a black t-shirt that soaked up sunlight like punishment. Sunglasses on. Arms crossed. Mood foul. It didn't help that she had told Cass, who had told him not to wear his baseball cap. It apparently made him look too much of a redneck for her liking. So, he was stuck trying to not let his hair completely go over his eyes, having gotten longer this past year.

And then she appeared like a hallucination. She was walking toward him in a ridiculous outfit (was it really ridiculous?), head held high, legs long, her butter-yellow skirt barely reaching mid-thigh, swaying with every step. The halter-style top hugged her like it was custom-cut. A matching bag hung off her wrist like it weighed nothing. Gold earrings caught the sun. A soft white headband framed her face like a crown. She didn’t just stand out. She detonated.

Dean let his gaze caress her figure. “Oh, for fuck’s sake." She smiled.

“Missed me?”

“You look like an off-duty Bond girl.”

“Good.” She stopped next to him, posing for nobody and everybody. “That’s the vibe.”

Dean didn’t answer. Just stared at her like she was an optical illusion he was too tired to decode.

Everything about her was blinding. The pale yellow of her outfit glowed against her skin, catching every drop of sun like it had been stitched out of light. She looked like she belonged in a vintage convertible in the south of France, not beside his sunburnt misery on a too-crowded boardwalk.

“How the hell are you not melting in that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to all of her.

She turned slightly so the breeze caught her skirt and her hair, perfectly timed, like a perfume commercial in slow motion. “It’s called fashion, Winchester. Try it sometime.”

Dean scowled. “We’re on a beach. You look like you’re going to the Met Gala.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.” She smiled sweetly. “But what does? Oh right, just your IMDb credits and the collective thirst of sad women on Twitter.”

Dean bit back a sigh. He could already feel the edges of a migraine forming, right behind his eyes. He blamed the sun. And her voice. Mostly her voice.

They started walking down the boardwalk, her sandals clicking softly on the concrete, his boots thudding like punctuation marks behind her. She walked a half step ahead, as if daring him to keep up, every inch of her curated to look effortless. He hated how good she was at this. Palm trees lined the path, rustling overhead with that slow, lazy rhythm that always sounded like waves crashing in the distance. A tourist couple paused to look. Then someone else. And someone else. Phones came out like reflex, again.

Dean didn’t flinch, but he could feel his shoulders coil tighter.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you’re going to your execution.”

“Maybe I am.”

She laughed. “Relax. Pretend you like me. Or at least that you don’t want to push me into traffic.”

Dean’s eyes cut to her. “I don’t want to push you into traffic.”

“Progress,” she beamed. “We’re halfway to married.”

They reached the café Cass had scouted. White umbrellas, sun-faded menus, a table that just happened to be open at the perfect angle for a long lens. Dean scanned the crowd instinctively, and yeah, there they were. Two paps, three phones recording, a woman pretending to feed her dog while pointing her camera right at them.

They sat. She crossed her legs delicately, smoothing the edge of her skirt so it revealed just enough thigh to make Dean curse under his breath. “You’re doing that thing,” she said, not looking at him, reaching for a napkin “Where you look like you just got told your favorite character died.”

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“No, no. That’s too honest.” She tapped her brow, wiping off some sweat, smiling politely at nothing. “The vibe we’re going for is more brooding-but-soft, you know? Like a widowed sea captain slowly learning to love again.”

Dean glared at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re pouting.”

“I’m not...” He caught himself. Sat back. Frowned deeper.

She leaned in slightly, eyes glittering, just shy from laughing out loud. “Look, you don’t have to like me. I don’t like you either.”

“Great.”

“But,” she said, her voice dipping into something low and smooth, “you do have to pretend you want to bend me over this table. At least for the next twenty minutes.” Dean choked on absolutely nothing. Her smile turned wicked while she thanked the waiter for bringing her a latte. “Cass' words, not mine. Though I didn’t disagree.” Dean didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His mouth was too dry. She tilted her head. “What’s wrong, old man? Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” he muttered. “Just trying to find the will to live.”

“Aww,” she cooed. “Well, until you do, maybe lean in. Touch my hand. Smile like I’m the best thing that’s happened to you since high-def.”

Dean glanced toward the street. A camera clicked. Then another.

She reached across the table and brushed her fingers against his wrist, featherlight, cool from the glass she was holding. He was an actor, for fuck's sake, he could do this. He was born to do this.

He let out a slow breath, low and steady, and when he opened them again, something in his face had changed. The irritation was still there, sure. But now it simmered underneath something smoother. Something practiced. Controlled. A tension he knew how to sell, and how to weaponize. His green eyes stared into her soul.

He leaned in. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough to close the space between them, elbows on the table, forearms bracketing her untouched latte.

Her hand was still on his wrist.

His voice dropped an octave. Smooth. Steady. “You know what I’m thinking about?” he said, his mouth tugging into something between a smirk and a sneer. She blinked. Just once. Her fingers curled slightly, but didn’t pull away.

“What?” she asked, trying to sound amused. And almost succeeding.

Dean tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on hers. “How easy it’d be to sell this. All I’d have to do is touch your knee under the table. Let my eyes fall a little too low. Say your name like I mean it.”

Her posture stayed perfect, but her throat bobbed once. “Go on,” she said lightly, lips twitching. “You’re on a roll.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” he murmured. “Because then you’d laugh. The cameras would catch it. That little moment where you look at me like I’ve just said something filthy you’d never admit you liked.”

She sucked in a breath. Soft. Almost soundless.

He smiled, not kindly. “And people'd love it. Because it’d be the first time someone didn’t treat you like a headline. Not like that shitty director you used to date. What was his name? Gordon, or something like that. I’d be the man who wants you, for real. Right here. Right now.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her hand stayed exactly where it was. Dean leaned in a half inch closer, voice quieter now. For her. Just her. “But we both know better,” he said. “I don’t want you. And you don’t want me.” She blinked again, and this time the smile didn’t return right away. He sat back.

The space between them snapped taut, air heavy and warm with what had just passed through it. She reached for her drink, too fast. Dean watched her carefully, not smug, not quite, but with a flicker of satisfaction at the flush that crept into her cheeks.

“You’re good at this,” she said, after a beat. Her voice was light, but less steady than before. “Acting. Forgot this is why people want us together in the first place. Almost believed you.”

He reached for his own coffee, casual. “That’s why they pay me more than you.”

She scoffed. “Barely.”

He smirked. “Still counts.”

A shutter clicked again. The sound barely registered. The entire world had blurred down to the look in her eyes, a mixture of irritation, curiosity, and something else she didn’t want to admit.

She straightened. Smoothed her skirt like it hadn’t risen halfway up her thigh. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “Wait until week three when I’m ‘accidentally’ wearing your shirt,” she said breezily, as if she hadn’t just gone breathless three minutes ago. "This performance of yours will be long forgotten by then."

She was already sipping her drink like she hadn’t just short-circuited half his neurons. He looked up at the sky. Prayed for a solar flare to end this performance and possibly the earth.

She looked over at him with a playful glance. “You’re gonna hate this.”

He turned his head just slightly. “I already do.”

When the photos hit thirty minutes later, him leaning toward her, her hand on his arm, their eyes locked like the tension between them was too much to hide, the comments said exactly what Cas wanted to hear:

They’re so in love it hurts. The age gap?? The chemistry??? I’m unwell. If this is fake, why am I crying?

THE FIRST PICTURE

The hallway to the upscale restaurant batroom looked like something out of a dream, or a fever. Walls of gleaming dark wood, soft gold lighting from sculptural fixtures, and black mirrored tile that made every movement ripple like water. The kind of place that tried hard to make you feel expensive. Everything gleamed. Everything whispered money. Dean wasn't really sure how he ended ip there, holding a woman over his shoulder like a bad of contraband.

Actually, he knew exactly how. Her. She'd been smirking from the moment they walked out the dining room. The second she saw the velvet-lined mirror panel at the end of the corridor, her eyes had flicked over to him, an idea harboring in her mind. And now Dean was paying for it, in heat, in proximity, in the way his heart hadn't quite gone back to normal.

"You’re stiff," she said from behind his ear, voice slightly breathless. "Loosen up. You’re carrying a woman, not a sack of flour."

"You threw yourself at me."

"I climbed gracefully."

“You launched yourself like a cannonball.”

“Same thing,” she said sweetly, adjusting her arm around his shoulder. He could feel the edge of her bracelet press against the back of his neck, cool metal, soft skin, chaos incarnate. Her dress had been a problem since the moment she stepped out of the car.

It was black. Not just black, but the kind of black that absorbed every spotlight and gave it back as something sinful. Satin, probably, or some other expensive material he couldn’t name but felt with every shift of her body against his. It clung in places that made conversation difficult. Thin straps, barely-there neckline, the kind of thing that had probably been taped into place with magic and a prayer. When she walked, it moved like smoke, hugging the backs of her thighs, catching the light in glints that weren’t fair. There was a slit up the side, he hadn’t dared look directly at it, but it flashed like a threat every time she climbed stairs or turned too quickly. She had worn heels that night, sharp, scrappy. With them on, she stood eye to eye with him. Maybe half an inch taller, depending on posture. And of course she had posture. She carried herself like she was starring in her own perfume ad, all lifted chin and killer elegance, like she knew she’d just crossed the threshold of being unforgettable.

He hated that dress. Hated how it demanded attention. Hated how it looked like she’d worn it specifically to ruin his evening. Worst of all, he hated how good she knew she looked in it, like the whole city was her runway and he was just the unwilling cameraman.

And now she was wrapped around him like a red carpet come to life.

He had tried to resist this, to put his foot down. He was not a damn teenager, these things were not for him anymore.

"I'm not doing this," he had said.

She had given him a slow look. “You think I can’t make you?”

Dean had crossed his arms in defiance. “I’m not one of your little Instagram husbands.”

“No,” she had said, voice dropping slightly. “You’re worse. You’re a grump with a god-tier jawline who makes women online forget how to breathe. If we’re gonna sell this, we need to lean in.”

He had opened his mouth to argue, but she was already moving.

She was everywhere, perfume in his nose, skin against his shoulder, laughter pressed against his spine.

“This is not happening,” he growled.

“It is,” she whispered against his neck, and somehow that was worse.

The mirror in front of them caught the whole thing: her body curved over his shoulder, head hanging upside-down, lips parted in a breathless grin. His jaw was clenched. His grip was firm. The tension in his arms was unmistakable, like he could hold her forever or drop her just to make a point.

Dean looked at the reflection. At them. And something in his chest shifted, sharp, reluctant, a little unsteady. She looked like chaos. He looked like control. Together, they looked like trouble.

Dean’s grip tightened around the backs of her thighs, careful but firm. Her dress draped over his shoulder in a way that definitely wouldn’t pass Instagram guidelines if she shifted the wrong way. Her legs swung slightly against his chest, bare skin brushing cotton. She smelled like heat and lipstick and something floral that didn’t belong in this hallway.

"You're going to throw my back out," he muttered.

"You’re strong enough," she replied lightly, though her breath hitched. “God, this is going to break the internet.” It sounded like foreplay.

And Dean hated how much it worked.

She caught his eye in the reflection and winked. “You gonna take the damn picture, or just stand there looking tragic?”

Dean grunted and pulled his phone out one-handed, angling it toward the mirror. He took the first picture.

The room around them gleamed, dim but golden, like everything had been filtered through luxury and late-night sin. Her hair caught the light in soft waves as she tilted her head back, a flash of teeth in her smile as she pointed toward the mirror again. She was relentless. “Good for a first try. Now, look like you sort of like me.”

Dean stared at the reflection. Her legs wrapped around him, heels kicked up like a goddamn movie poster. His plain white tee pulling across his chest. His hands holding her steady. Every muscle in his body was tense, but the worst part was... it didn’t look like that.

In the mirror, it looked effortless. Hot, even.

He sighed. Another click.

“Again,” she said.

“I’m not your tripod.”

“No,” she said with a sly smile. “You’re my man candy. For now.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he took another. This one, her legs shifted, slightly, and his palm slid higher to adjust. Her skin was warm. His ears burned.

Click.

She adjusted reached over the angle, ever the perfectionist, hair falling over her shoulder, lips parted in a mock gasp like she wasn’t the one orchestrating the whole thing. “Okay, now look a little less ‘hostage’ and a little more ‘can’t believe I get to do this'. Maybe smile?"

“I really can’t.”

“Dean.”

He gave the camera a smirk. Lazy. Slight. The kind that made fans lose their minds when it showed up mid-interview.

She blinked. “Holy shit. Do that again.”

“Absolutely not.”

He lowered the phone. Glared at it like the photo had personally insulted him.

“Let me down,” she whispered after a beat, and though it was teasing, there was something else in her voice too, something breathless. Quiet. Almost real.

He bent slightly, letting her legs slide down his chest as she lowered herself. Her fingers stayed on his shoulders a second longer than necessary. When her feet hit the polished black tile, the air between them snapped taut, hot and close and thrumming.

They didn’t move.

He could feel her watching him.

Could feel the tension ricocheting off the mirrored walls like static.

She looked down at the screen. Her expression changed, just for a moment, from playful to something more reverent.

“This one,” she murmured.

He looked over her shoulder. In the photo, his arm wrapped securely around her thighs, her smile devilish, his mouth tilted just slightly, not quite a smile, but softer than a scowl. Like he’d stopped fighting it, even if just for the shutter.

It looked real. Too real.

She started typing a caption. Something snarky, probably. Something to make the comments froth. But her fingers paused. Hovered. Like maybe she didn’t know what to say.

“Post it,” Dean said roughly.

She glanced up. “You sure?”

He nodded once. She hit share.

Then she looked at him, and for the first time that night, the banter was gone. Just for a breath.

“You’re dangerous when you let yourself be charming,” she said.

He looked down at her. “And you’re dangerous, period.”

Her smile returned, slow and sharp. “Good thing we’re pretending.”

THE FIRST REAL TALK

The car smelled like leather, perfume, and pressure.

Dean sat back against the seat, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he didn’t trust them to stay still. He shifted in his seat, tugging slightly at the collar of his open-button shirt. The fabric felt too stiff against his neck, the jacket tailored within an inch of breathing. He could hear the low purr of the tires over pavement. The quiet exhale of the AC. The soft sound of her thumb scrolling on her screen. The city slid past in flashes of gold and brake lights, headlights catching on the curve of her shoulder as she scrolled on her phone like they weren’t about to be photographed within an inch of their lives.

She looked... unfair. That was the only word that came to mind.

Her dress was some delicate, strappy thing in slate blue, soft and shimmery, elegant but a little too bare for his sanity. One leg crossed over the other, just enough thigh showing to be a statement. Hair pinned back with strategic precision, earrings like glints of trouble when she turned her head. Her heels rested on the floor mat next to his boots. She'd taken them off five minutes into the drive, sighed dramatically, and leaned her head back like she'd been through war.

He hadn’t said much since. Neither had she.

They’d been silent for most of the ride, save for the occasional honk or the quiet jazz bleeding from the driver’s speakers, some Spotify playlist probably titled red carpet chill. Dean watched her screen light up her face in the dark. Her dress shimmered every time the car passed under another sign, silver-blue, like moonlight in fabric. When she moved, it rippled. When she laughed, which she hadn’t done yet tonight, he imagined it would glow. She smelled expensive, soft perfume layered with something warm and human. A little sunscreen. A little sweat. Real things. 

Dean couldn’t decide if the silence was awkward or earned.

“You ready for this?” he asked finally, voice rough from disuse.

She didn’t look up. Just tilted her head toward him, lashes flicking upward. “You asking if I’m emotionally prepared for that many people with veneers, or if I’m about to fake-laugh through forty red carpet interviews about my ‘process’ even if this isn't my movie?”

He gave a low snort. “You rehearsed that one?”

“I live that one.”

A beat passed.

“Are you?” she asked.

Dean let his head fall back against the seat.

Outside, some guy in a hoodie was selling fake roses to couples at the stoplight. The kind of moment that usually made Dean roll his eyes. Tonight, it just made him tired.

“They’re gonna ask about it,” he said. “The Lisa thing.”

She glanced at him, more alert now. “You want to run through the story?”

Dean gave a quiet snort. “No point. Whatever I say, they’ll believe what they want. The narrative’s already written.”

She waited. Didn’t interrupt. Which surprised him.

He shifted slightly, cracking his knuckles. “It wasn’t flirting,” he said. “Not really. Not the way they’re making it look. I messaged her first, we were both drunk, and yeah, it got... fuzzy. But there wasn’t anything sexual. No crossing lines. I think we both just missed what it felt like, having someone who knew the old versions of us.”

The window beside him showed his reflection, half-dissolved in the streetlights. He looked like someone explaining away a ghost. “She’s married now. To someone I introduced her to, to someone she cheated on me with. They’ve got a daughter. I didn’t mean for it to get messy. But I didn’t shut it down soon enough either.”

Silence. And then her voice, low. “Do you still love her?”

Dean blinked. The question wasn’t cruel, or curious. No one had just asked that. Not Castiel, not his brother Sam. “No,” he said, too fast. Then again, quieter. “No.” And it was true. There was a time where Lisa's black hair and full smile had been the highlight of his life, sure, but after he found out about her affairs throughout their years together, he couldn't bear to look in her eyes and see the truth he chose to ignore for so long.

She cleared her throat. "You're a good man, Dean. I need you to know that," her hand slowly went to his bicep, he looked at it. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He let out a breath. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m forty-one, divorced, and moody. People don’t root for that. They see a man texting his ex and call it pathetic.”

She titled her head toward him. "I see a man who gave a shit when it would've been easier not to, if you ask me." Her voice was soft, but certain. She wasn't offering comfort, not really, she was telling the truth. "You're not pathetic, Winchester," she added, quieter. "Maybe deeply allergic to look like you're happy, but very far from pathetic."

Dean huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt a little. “That’s generous.”

“I’m not known for my generosity,” she said, settling back into her seat. “But even I can admit when a grumpy divorcé in a suit deserves a little grace.”

“You ever regret something that didn’t feel like a mistake until someone else watched it happen?” he asked.

She smiled. Not the PR smile. Not the one that got her out of interviews or into luxury partnerships. Just the ghost of one. Dry. Bitter. True. “Don't you know? I built a career on it.”

Dean looked at her, really looked, and for once, she didn’t deflect. Didn’t pose. Just breathed.

“I was nineteen,” she said, voice steady. “New producer. Big audition. I thought I was lucky, that someone powerful wanted me. He was older. Smarter. Knew what to say to make it all feel... earned.” Dean didn’t speak. Her gaze dropped to her lap. “It wasn’t just the tape. It was the headlines. The phone calls. The way everyone looked at me like I’d handed it out myself. Like I’d wanted it. I lost two jobs. Almost three. You know what saved me?” He shook his head once. She looked up. “I laughed about it. Turned it into a brand. Became the girl from the tape, but who also wasn't shy about it. You know how exhausting it is to pretend something didn’t break you?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

A long, low silence settled between them. Not awkward. Not anymore. Just real. “I never watched it,” she said suddenly. “The tape. Never saw it. Didn't even know it existed in the first place.”

Dean looked over at her. She met his gaze. “Good, don't” he said, voice rough. "That tape doesn't matter. It never did."

She let out a little laugh. "Yeah, tell that to my dad."

"Fuck, I bet that was awkward," his hand crossed over his face.

She smiled, again, barely there. “Don’t cry for me, brooding sea captain. I’m still here.”

“I’m not crying,” he muttered.

“You’re thinking about it.”

“No. I’m thinking about how to not punch someone in a tux if they bring it up on the carpet.”

She smirked. “Now that’s the romance I signed up for.”

The car rolled to a stop. The door clicked as the lock disengaged.

Outside, the lights were brighter. The shouting louder. A wall of flashbulbs and PR handlers and scripted charm waited just beyond the door. She slipped her heels back on without flinching. Adjusted the strap on her dress. Lifted her chin. Dean watched her become someone else, not fake, exactly. Just armored.

Then she turned to him and did something unexpected. She reached over and fixed his collar. Lightly. Fingers brushing his jaw. Brief. Human. “You look good,” she said.

He studied her. “So do you.”

They stared for a breath too long. Then the door opened, and they stepped out, into the lie they were learning how to live together.

THE FIRST INTERVIEW

The sidewalk shimmered under the weight of L.A. heat, and the press line looked like an overcaffeinated runway, flashes, boom mics, plastic smiles. A cluster of reporters stood behind a velvet rope, fanning themselves with folded call sheets and half-empty coffee cups. Neon-orange cones kept back the crowd, and a black Escalade had just rolled up like something important was about to happen. Which, of course, it was.

Dean Winchester stepped out first. Grumpy. Broad-shouldered. A walking PSA for men who hadn't had a full night’s sleep since 2012. No entourage. No warning. Just that familiar shuffle of boots replaced with clean sneakers and quiet dread. His black crew-neck tee hugged his chest like it had been made for him, the sleeves barely containing the curve of muscle. Crisp white pants, immaculately unbothered, like he gave a damn but not too much. Aviators obscured his eyes. Jaw clenched just enough to let everyone know he wasn’t thrilled to be here. Classic watch glinting at his wrist. He looked like someone who was about to refuse to give a quote, and somehow still go viral.

Then she stepped out. And the temperature shifted.

Her navy pinstripe jumpsuit hugged and draped in all the right places, sharp lapels, a cinched waist with a silver chain slung low, the neckline a deep, dramatic V that made headlines on its own. She wore pointed heels and walked like the sidewalk was hers. Silver-rimmed sunglasses, thick chain necklace, and earrings big enough to reflect the sunset. The reporters surged like sharks catching blood.

A male reporter adjusted her mic. “You look amazing,” he gushed.

"I try," she said brightly, adjusting her sunglasses.

Dean muttered under his breath, “She’s modest, too.”

She smiled wide and fanned him with one hand. “Ignore him, he’s just upset I’m taller than him today.”

“She’s not,” Dean said flatly.

“I am.”

“You’re wearing stilts.”

“They’re Tom Ford.”

Dean didn’t blink, “I don't think it matters.” She was enjoying this, he knew that. His discomfort, the attention, the way the reporters were already leaning closer, not to her, but toward the gravity of them. Together.

The reporter laughed nervously, sensing he might need to play moderator. “So! The film. ‘Without Warning.’ Action, romance, international espionage. How’d you two prepare for the roles?”

Dean pushed his glasses up. "It's a project I've had my eyes on for a while, and Charlie, the director, she's amazing," He smiled without showing teeth. "Had fun watching me getting punched in the ribs by three different stuntmen."

She jumped in, chipper. "I learned a fake Italian accent and drive stick in five-inch heels."

Dean glanced sideways. "You never used the accent."

"I was ready, Winchester. That's what matters," she quoted his words from before, a small grin on her perfect face.

"And you stalled the car," Dean added, gaining a few laughs from reporters. Huh, that's new.

She rolled her eyes. "On purpose. It was character work."

Another journalist, next to the one who had asked the first question, giggled. "I have to ask, the entire Internet deserves to know..." she paused, a michievious glint in her eyes. And there it was, the question Cass had briefed them on before hand. The question they had spent an hour and a half preparing in his office. They were told to answer a simple yes to the question of the year, but it seemed too dry and out of character for her. Surprisingly, she had agreed to Cass' version of mystery. "Was it love at first sight, or did you grow on each other?"

Dean blinked slowly, deadpan. "Like mold?"

She bit back a laugh beside him. “You’ll have to forgive him,” she said to the host, all warmth and faux-concern. “He’s only been media trained in sarcasm and long sighs.”

“I’m very talented,” Dean added. Dry as a desert.

The interviewer smiled too big, sensing blood in the water. “So... not love at first sight?”

Dean turned slightly toward her. “All about timing. You tell it,” he said, gesturing, giving her the possibility to go off script.

She thanked him with a squeeze on his bicep. “Well, we met on set. I thought he was terrifying and allergic to small talk. He thought I was loud, sparkly, and definitely the reason he had a headache.”

“You were the reason I had a headache,” Dean muttered.

She ignored that. “But then,” she continued brightly, “He scowled at me so much I mistook it for affection. And now we’re here.”

The interviewer laughed. “Seriously though, the chemistry is unreal. Like... people are invested. Especially after that photo on Instagram...”

Dean let out a breath. “Yeah. That one.”

“Any truth to the rumors?” another reported leaned forward, faux-casual. “Is it method acting? Or something more... ongoing?”

There was a pause. One of those electric, camera-eats-it silences. She adjusted her sunglasses and said with a coy little tilt of her head: “We’re very good at what we do.”

Dean looked over at her, eyebrow raised. “That supposed to be mysterious?”

“A little mystery sells tickets.”

He looked at the interviewer, deadpan again. “We're friends.”

She shrugged. “Not technically.”

Dean let out a low grunt of disbelief, and more journalists leaned in, thrilled. “Wait, what does that mean?”

She smiled at Dean like she was daring him. “Means we hang out. Laugh. Spend quality time together."

“Sounds like dating,” the same reported from before teased.

“I don’t cry in public, so clearly not,” she quipped.

Dean finally cracked a smile, small, crooked. Real. “She’s allergic to vulnerability.”

She grinned, tossing it back. “And he’s allergic to joy.” A fan yelled her name. She turned just slightly and waved. The chain around her waist shimmered like sunlight on water.

The laughter hadn’t even fully died down before a different journalist stepped forward, this one with a sharper look and a mic already lifted like a blade. Her smile was practiced, her blazer wrinkle-free. She wasn’t here for flirt-banter. “You mentioned timing earlier,” she said, glancing at Dean over her tortoiseshell glasses. “There’s been a lot of discourse about yours, Dean. Specifically the messages to Lisa Braeden and how quickly this new... friendship entered the spotlight. Just two weeks after, if I recall. Some critics have called it ‘convenient.’” A beat. “What would you say to those people?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. His sunglasses did nothing to hide the way he inhaled, once, deep, and nearly spoke. He had practiced an answer, a simple no comment. Maybe that would have raised some eyebrows, but it would have saved him from publicly addressing his private life. One of the things he dreaded the most about the spotlight.

She beat him to it. And this time, her smile was nowhere in sight. “I’m going to stop you right there,” she said, turning toward the reporter fully. Her voice was calm. Unflinching. “If the question you’re asking is whether Dean is using our relationship to distract from some kind of scandal, then the answer is no.” The air felt heavier. “And to those people who like to speculate, I’d say they’re forgetting he’s human.”

The journalist blinked.

She didn’t stop. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He reached out to someone he used to care about. That’s not a scandal, it’s a Tuesday. And if people are more interested in spinning headlines than showing grace, that’s not on him. That’s on you.” Dean looked over at her, actually looked. Something unreadable passed between them. Something heavier than cameras and banter. She wasn't done. "We started hanging out because we had a connection. Because we spent time together and realized it wasn’t just on screen.” She looked at Dean then, direct, with a soft kind of heat. “And if our... time together has made things a little easier in the middle of all this noise? Then good. He deserves that.” She was a professional at it. But somehow, behind the little white lie, Dean knew she wasn't pretending, not fully, not like he had expected her to.

There was a pause. One of those beautiful, press-silencing pauses where even the cameras hesitated. Dean cleared his throat. "I don’t regret reaching out to someone I cared about,” he gained confidence. “And I sure as hell don’t regret being here with her.” He gestured, a small tilt of his head in her direction, subtle, but enough. “You can call it convenient or whatever you want. I know what it is.”

She didn't turn to him, but her lips parted slightly, just enough to catch her breath. The question had surprised both of them, Cass hadn't said anything about it. Sure, Dean thought this would happen, he had avoided it for too long now, but, still, he hadn't expected her to step in like that. Not with fire, not with conviction.

She’d defended him like she meant it.

She smiled again to the sea of reporters, her shoulder still tense beneath the practiced curve of her charm. "Thank you for being out here!" she called out brightly, one last burst of sunshine for the flashing cameras. She waved, blew a kiss toward the fans behind the barricades, perfectly framed for the final shot, and then pivoted on her heel.

Dean followed, a beat behind, jaw still tight, mind still chewing on the thing they weren’t supposed to say out loud. He too waved at the crowd behind them, earning a few squeaks and scream from his fans. But then, just as they cleared the velvet rope, just as the shouting dimmed into background noise and the hotel lights loomed ahead like lifeboats, she reached for his hand.

No warning. No theater. Just her fingers slipping between his, warm and certain and real. He squeezed it. Thank you.

THE FAMILY DINNER

The restaurant was one of those candlelit, whisper-toned places tucked into the Hollywood Hills, where reservations took two weeks and the maître d’ greeted you by name if your IMDb profile had enough views. It was too nice for Dean's taste, hell, he had to dress up for it. Still, Jess had made the reservation, and Sam had insisted. Something about "You owe me for that one time in Tahoe." Dean didn’t ask. The table was private, near a fake fireplace with a low crackle and a polished bronze mirror hanging above, throwing back all that soft, amber light.

Private was a generous word. Once Cass had got wind that Dean was going to have a family dinner, he had pushed for her to be there too. The perfect opportunity, he had called it. So, they were sat in a back corner, low velvet banquette, candles flickering in small glass cups. The lighting was warm enough to be forgiving and golden enough for a few spontaneous photos. Which, of course, was the point. There were three strategically spaced “pap opportunities” on the walk in. He was sure Cass had sent them a map.

Dean looked like he’d been poured into his black suit, the cut sharp across his shoulders, the tie just loose enough to feel like defiance. His white dress shirt was crisp, sleeves pushed up his forearms the way he always did once the food arrived, watch glinting just under the cuff. He sat back with a practiced ease that bordered on boredom, one hand cradling a glass of something red and overpriced. His other arm was draped low around her waist, not quite possessive, more like gravity had decided for him.

Across the table, Jess grinned over the rim of her wine glass. “You know, for a fake couple, you two sit awfully close.”

His jaw ticked. “This place doesn’t believe in chairs that aren’t bolted together.”

“You could scoot over,” Sam said mildly, buttering a roll. “Unless you’re enjoying the view.”

She didn’t even blink. “He really is.”

She looked like trouble in gold. Her dress shimmered under every flicker of candlelight, clinging in a way that was half slink, half statement. The neckline dipped dangerously low, catching the eye like a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear. Thin straps curved over bare shoulders, and the silk pooled around her hips like melted sunlight. She wore oversized earrings that glinted every time she turned her head, and her long hair was sleek behind one shoulder, the other left bare and glowing. Her smile was radiant and a little unbothered, she belonged in every room he hated.

Sam was nursing a scotch and trying not to smirk, his own blazer undone and his hair pushed back like the lawyer he'd been born to be. "This is wildly entertaining," he looked at the woman beside his brother. "I see why Cass pitched this."

“Cass pitched it because we’re a publicist’s dream,” she said, tone light, but laced with something razor-sharp beneath the charm, all reserved for him. “Dean broods, I sparkle. We’ve got the whole Beauty and the Existential Crisis package.”

Sam barked a laugh. Jess nearly choked on her drink.

Dean, to his credit, didn’t even blink. He just muttered, “This was a mistake,” and drank some wine, everything to get out of that conversation.

Sam sipped his drink and looked at Dean. “I like her,” he said mildly.

Dean didn’t look up. “Yeah, that’s your problem.”

“You always hated when I liked your girlfriends,” Sam went on, just to needle.

“She’s not my...” Dean started, then stopped. There was no good way out of that sentence, and paparazzi were looking, better not test his luck. His date raised a brow, lips twitching into a private smile.

Jess, never one to miss an opening, leaned in with a grin. “Dean, sweetheart,” she said, feigning shock, “are you finally learning the art of shutting up?”

He sighed, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling like it owed him an apology. “I’m learning survival.”

She tilted her head toward Jess, as if sharing a delicious secret. “This is him being charming, by the way. Don’t be fooled by the grimace. That’s just how his face rests.”

Jess giggled into her wine. “Oh, I know. I married one with the same setting.”

Sam raised a hand. “Hey, my face has never grimaced like his.”

Dean shot his brother a look. “You’re literally a public defence attorney.”

“And yet somehow I’m less terrifying at dinner,” Sam replied, then gestured to her. “Meanwhile, you brought someone who has half the room reconsidering their marriage vows.”

She beamed. “Thank you.”

Dean groaned. “Can we eat now?”

Jess was already holding up her phone. “Not until I get a picture. The lighting’s great, and you two are actually within a foot of each other without one of you fake-coughing a slur.”

“No,” Dean said immediately, voice flat.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring him completely. “Lean in.”

She didn’t wait for permission, just shifted effortlessly, silk whispering across silk as she turned on the velvet banquette and rested her back on his chest, settling into him like it was second nature. The dress shimmered in the candlelight, all golden sheen and defiance, dipping low enough at the back to leave a trail of skin beneath his hand. Her arm curled around his shoulder, warm and confident, her manicured fingers brushing the base of his neck with casual intimacy. She smelled like vanilla and something sharper underneath, the kind of perfume that lingered in a car long after she was gone.

Dean froze, jaw locked, wine glass hovering mid-air like even it couldn’t believe this was happening. His free hand automatically found her hip again, fingers flexing once, betraying the reflex before he could stop it. His suit jacket pulled tight across his chest. The table had never felt smaller. Or hotter.

“Jess,” he ground out, barely moving his mouth. “I’m going to kill you.”

Jess just grinned, framing the shot. “You'll have to deal with your brother on stand.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said sweetly, adjusting her earrings as if she weren’t almost perched on the lap of Hollywood’s most reluctant heartthrob. “We’re giving the people what they want.”

Sam sipped his drink and didn’t even try to hide the smile curling his lips. “Oh yeah,” he said dryly. “This’ll definitely boost the opening weekend numbers.”

She tilted her head toward Dean, just enough for the curve of her cheek to brush his temple. “Smile, darling,” she murmured, all teeth and triumph.

Dean didn’t smile. But he did lean in, eyes on the camera, his arm tightening ever so slightly around her waist. When the shutter clicked, the photo looked effortless. Natural. Intimate in a way that made it feel like the whole world had been watching something they shouldn’t. Click.

Sam whistled. “You two fake it so well, I think I’m catching feelings.”

"Dean, dare I say you look... affectionate?" Jess teased, squinting at the screen with a pleased grin. After fiften years being in a relationship with his brother, she was getting awfully comfortable with him. Dean really loved her. Not that he would say it out loud.

Dean let out a quiet, disbelieving snort. “That’s just my face when I’m being held hostage.”

Her smile sharpened. “He looks like that because he’s grumpy, not emotionally unavailable. It’s a fine line, but I’ve trained him.” Dean looked at her, disbelief written all over his face, his hand still resting on her waist like a promise. "Oh, don't give me that look. You know you're enjoying yourself, Winchester."

He muttered half-insult under his breath, something about "training" being for dogs (and he was not a dog!), detangling himself from her. He used the kind of exaggerated care that only made it more obvious he didn't want to move. His hand lingered for a second too long at her waist before sliding away, like his muscles hadn't caught up with his mood yet. Sam caught it. Of course he did. And he fucking winked at him, the bitch.

Jess winked too, they really spent all their time together, and went back to her risotto, clearly satisfied with the shot she had taken. She leaned in as the brothers veered into a surprisingly passionate argument about their father’s old storage unit in Kansas, something about a vintage rifle, a sealed box labeled “DON’T OPEN,” and a cursed-looking doll wrapped in flannel. “You know they’re both going to drive out there next weekend and pretend it’s not just an excuse to avoid talking about how they miss each other,” Jess murmured, her voice low and full of practiced fondness.

Her companion smirked, sipping her wine. “Dean’s already packed for it in his head.”

“Mmhm.” Jess didn’t look up. “And he’ll claim it’s because he doesn’t trust Sam not to break anything, but really he just doesn’t want to be alone.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, watching Dean gesture with his fork like it was a weapon. “He hates silence.”

Jess paused. “He used to. Now he’s gotten good at pretending it doesn’t bother him. You’re the first person I’ve seen throw off that balance after his divorce.”

She blinked. “Is that good?”

Jess gave her a look, dry and knowing. “It’s not bad. You get under his skin.”

"He is a good friend," she narrowed her eyes. "But don't tell him that, I'm not even sure he knows we're friends."

Jess set her fork down. "Oh, believe me. He knows. He's a good actor, don't get me wrong, but Dean doesn't fake well."

"I beg to disagree... on the good actor part"

The blonde woman let out a laugh. "He doesn't know how to fake like he's doing right now. He can put on a smile, go through the press junket motions, but this?” She nudged gently with her elbow. “The way he listens when you talk. The way he doesn’t snap at you the same way he does with everyone else. That’s not fake.”

She glanced away. “We’re just good at this.”

“Yeah, but you’re better than good at pretending. And he’s never been that good at lying.”

There was a moment of stillness between them, not heavy, but deliberate. The kind of silence Jess was an expert at creating. safe, not awkward. She gave people room to step into truth if they wanted.

So she did. Just a little. “I didn’t think he’d even like me.”

Jess smiled. “That’s because you think too much about who you used to be and not enough about who you are now.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked over at Dean again, who was now gesturing wildly about how cursed the storage unit probably was, Sam trying and failing to rein him in.

“They’re really talking about driving twelve hours to open a haunted box?” she asked, a small smile on her face harboring just by looking at him. Yeah, she liked being his friend.

Jess didn’t even blink. “Welcome to the family.”

And for the first time, this didn’t feel like play pretend.

THE PARTY

The rooftop was the kind of place meant to distract you. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Sculptural ice. People in suits that cost as much as mortgages, holding flutes of champagne and pretending they weren’t constantly scanning for someone more important. It was all curated elegance, low lighting, soft jazz, the quiet hum of too much money. And at the center of it all, Without Warning’s cast and crew were celebrating like they hadn’t just clawed their way through PR hell for the last two months.

Dean lingered near the edge of it, back to the New York skyline, glass in hand, tie loosened just enough to say I showed up, don’t push it. The jacket clung across his shoulders; he hadn’t taken it off. It was black. Classic. Like him. He hated this kind of thing, the schmoozing, the performance, the bright-toothed executives who called you “buddy” after leaking your salary to the trades.

She, instead, was thriving. She played her part effortlessy, smiling at the cameras when needed, clinging glass with the most obnoxious upcoming actors, and promoting the movie before its release. He had to admit she fit into this life almost too well.

She wore red that night, danger red. Secret in silk.

High neck, no sleeves, the bodice hugging every inch like it had been painted on. The fabric shimmered with a constellation of tiny sequins, catching light with every shift of her hips. Her hair was slicked back in a low bun, elegant and severe, like she knew she was going to war and planned to win with one look. Dean had nearly choked on his drink when she first appeared next to him.

She found him near the edge, right where she figured he’d be, back turned to the crowd, face half-lit by city lights, like he was auditioning for the role of brooding rooftop gargoyle. The drink in his hand had barely been touched. His tie was loose, but everything else about him was pulled tight: his shoulders, his jaw, that vein in his neck that only appeared when he was ten seconds from telling someone to fuck off.

She stopped beside him, letting the hem of her dress brush his shoes like a challenge. “You know you’re supposed to at least fake enjoying yourself,” she said, swirling the last of her champagne. “It’s a party, not a sentencing.”

Dean gave her a look, slow and unimpressed. “You sure? Because it feels like community service.”

She grinned, tilting her head just enough for a drop of earring to catch the skyline glow. “Maybe if you smiled more, people would stop asking if I’m your caretaker.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Maybe if you dressed less like a warning label, I wouldn’t have to scowl so much. Scare people.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, feigning sweetness, “I dress like this so you scowl. It's the only time you show emotion.”

He glanced down at her then, really looked, the sequins, the curve of her shoulder, the kind of self-assurance you didn’t learn, you bled for. She was a goddamn inferno wrapped in couture.

“Pretty cocky,” he muttered, sipping his drink, “you're gonna make me think your outfit’s about me.”

“You’re the one choking on your whiskey every time I walk past.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted back out to the skyline, the light glancing off the glass of his tumbler. Then he said, dry as ever, “It is not my fault you cause a scene just by standing still."

She blinked. It wasn’t quite a compliment. But it wasn’t not one “You’re flirting,” she said, suspicious. “You never flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean said flatly.

“You just accused me of being distracting.”

“That wasn’t flirting. That was an observation.”

“You're confusing.”

Dean shrugged, barely lifting one shoulder. “It’s a good dress.”

She blinked again. Slower this time. “Okay, who the hell are you and what did you do with Dean Winchester?”

He finally looked at her, sideways. That quiet, unreadable smirk he reserved for the moments when he let something slip on purpose. “You wore that thing to be seen,” he said. “I’m just seeing it.”

That one landed. Her stomach twisted, low and sharp. “Careful,” she murmured, voice dipping. “If you keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me.”

He took another sip of his drink, eyes on hers. “Worse things have happened.”

She stared at him for a second too long. Then raised her glass and bumped it lightly against his. “To worse things,” she said.

Their glasses clicked, soft, almost private in the swell of rooftop noise, and for a brief moment, the world around them blurred. She looked over the rim of her glass, and Dean couldn’t tell if she was daring him or warning him. Maybe both.

He was about to say something else, nothing good, probably, when he noticed her expression shift. Not dramatically. Just the barest hardening at the edges. Her spine straightened. Her smile didn’t drop, but it hollowed out just enough to feel practiced.

"I thought Cass said this wouldn't happen, that this was safe." Dean followed her gaze. The man was already halfway toward them.

Polished. Crisp. Probably born in a country club. His smile was the kind that wanted to be mistaken for charm but rang too cold, too smooth. His suit was navy silk, his shirt open just enough to say he had something to prove, and his eyes didn’t leave her face for a second. Dean didn’t know who he was. But he knew that look.

“Well,” the man said, with a voice like expensive bourbon and something oily underneath. “I was told the cast was glowing tonight, but no one mentioned how radiant you looked.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. But Dean could feel the shift in her body beside him, like a current tightening. Subtle. Tense. “Dick,” she said, her voice smooth as ever, but just a shade cooler than before. “They still let you into these things?”

Dean blinked. Dick?

The guy just smiled wider. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble. Though I did have to come see it for myself. The new image.” His eyes flicked to Dean for half a second. “The shiny new... co-star.”

“Dean Winchester,” she said before Dick could say anything else. “You’d know him if you watched movies not made for creeps.”

Dick let out a short laugh. “Ah. Yes. The brooding one. You’ve got a type, don’t you?” Dean’s brow ticked, but he stayed silent. Still measuring. Watching. Trying to figure out what exactly was happening here.

She stepped half a breath forward. “We’re not doing this, Dick. Back off and go drink your shitty bourbon.”

“Oh, relax,” he drawled. “I’m just saying hello. You don’t have to get defensive.” Then, a little lower, a little closer. “It’s cute,” he just for her. “How hard you try to convince them you’ve moved on. But people don’t forget. Not really. I know I don’t.” He bit his lower lip and smiled wildly. Almost like a... crocodile. "And how can they forget? I could've posted the entire thing, given them more to look at, changed your life for good. I still have it somewhere, I think. If you ever need it for a role, you can count on me."

Her face didn’t change. Not really. But Dean saw it. The tightness in her jaw. The flicker of something like nausea. The flicker of something like fear. She didn’t blink, didn’t move, but she’d gone still in that quiet, coiled way people do when something inside them buckles.

Dean took one step forward. "Walk away," he said. Flat. Measured.

Dick barely spared him a glance. "This doesn't not concern you."

"It does now."

The air around them shifted. Dick’s eyes flicked over Dean’s frame, calculating. “Relax, friend. I’m just having a conversation with an old... colleague.”

Dean tilted his head slightly. “I thought she told you to back off, didn't she?”

“She doesn’t have to. I’ve known her longer than you’ve been relevant.”

Dean stepped closer. His voice was low, dangerous, steady as a trigger pull. “You don’t know her. You know who you could push around when she was nineteen and desperate and you had the power. But that’s not who she is anymore. And I’m not someone who lets shit like that slide.”

Dick huffed a laugh, a little too forced. “This your guard dog phase?”

“No,” Dean said. “This is the part where I explain what’ll happen if you ever breathe near her again.” Now Dick was watching him. Really watching. Dean kept going. “You like reputation, right? That lingering buzz? The legacy thing?” He leaned in slightly, voice colder. “Try me, and yours ends here. No scandal. No exposé. Just silence. Just doors that stop opening. Calls that go unanswered. Nobody remembers you. That’s what I’m good at, friend.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, mock-wounded, but behind his facade, Dean saw it. The panic. “Oh? Is this where the gruff hero punches the villain in the jaw for dramatic effect?”

“You’ve had your hello,” he said, calm, his voice flat and dangerously quiet. “Now fuck off.”

Dick lingered a second too long, then smiled again, all teeth and rot. “Well. Enjoy the afterglow.” He walked away into the noise and light and glitter like nothing had happened.

But she was still frozen.

Her jaw was tight, shoulders rigid. She hadn’t breathed. Not really. Not fully. Her chest rose once, sharp and shallow, then again, her hands trembling now, one hovering over her stomach like she could hold something in. Her face was still composed, but her body betrayed her. Like she couldn’t quite climb back inside herself.

Dean stepped closer. “Hey,” he said, not a whisper, not a command, something gentler than both. His voice, stripped of sarcasm, of press performance, was a balm. “You’re okay. I got you. You hear me?”

She nodded, but she couldn’t speak. Her eyes stayed fixed on some invisible point just past him, like if she blinked she’d unravel.

He reached out slowly and touched her hand, the one gripping her glass too tightly. Her fingers twitched, but didn’t let go. “You’re okay,” he said. “He’s gone.”

She swallowed. Just once. And blinked, too slowly for his liking. She wasn't there with him anymore, not yet. Dean moved in another step, crowding her gently, carefully, like getting too close to a live wire. The glass in her hand trembled against her rings, and he could see her knuckles gone white from pressure.

“He,” he said again, quieter now, “can't do anything.”

Her lips parted, no sound. Just a breath that didn’t go anywhere. Her lashes fluttered, but she still wasn’t blinking right. Her whole body was locked like it had been flash-frozen, and the part that killed him was how used to it she clearly was. Like this was a state she knew too well, like she’d learned to survive this kind of silence by living in it.

Dean reached up. Slowly. Fingers brushing along her jaw, just enough pressure to make contact. Not enough to startle. Just enough to call her back. His palm curved around her cheek, thumb ghosting along the line of her cheekbone. Her skin was ice-cold.

He leaned in slightly, tilting his head, trying to meet her eyes, really meet them. “Look at me,” he said, low and soft.

Her gaze slid to his face, barely. It wasn’t enough. Not when she still wasn’t breathing right.

So he did the only thing that felt real. The only thing that didn’t feel like a performance. He kissed her. Not for anyone else. Not for cameras or stories or Cass’s PR daydreams. He kissed her because she needed to feel something that wasn’t him. And because he needed her to come back.

His hand stayed on her cheek, holding her like she might drift off if he didn’t. The other landed at her waist, grounding her. He didn’t press too hard, didn’t demand anything. Just leaned in, lips warm and sure, slow and steady, breathing her in like a promise.

And she kissed him back.

At first it was barely movement, the slack pull of someone unraveling, then it was more. A sudden inhale, like surfacing after drowning, her fingers fisting the lapel of his jacket like she wa grabbing on. Her lips moved with his, not rushed, not frantic, just real. Open. Raw. Full of something that felt almost too big to fit between them.

When he pulled back, just an inch, he kept his forehead against hers. His hand never left her face. Her eyes opened, slowly, finally. And there she was. With him. “Well,” she said, voice low and a little wrecked, “if that was your idea of CPR, I think I’m going to need a second opinion.”

Dean huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, half relief, half disbelief.

She tilted her head, that old, dangerous smile finally tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You always kiss like that, Winchester?”

He looked at her, eyes darker now. “Only when it counts.”

Her smile lingered, quieter now. Grateful. Still sharp, but with an edge that curved inward. She touched his chest once, briefly. Thank you. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I think I might need that again.”

THE CAR RIDE

The SUV's leather seats creaked softly under his movements, the city sliding past the tinted windows in streaks of gold and neon. Traffic hummed outside like white noise. Dean sat back on the passenger side, elbow resting on the edge of the window, one knee drawn up slightly. His tie was loose again, shirt collar unbuttoned. His jacket had been tossed somewhere between the rooftop and the curb. He didn’t ask for it back.

She sat beside him, legs crossed, arms folded over her lap. Her red dress shimmered faintly in the low light. Her heels were off, tucked beside her like a white flag. She’d pulled her hair loose from the severe bun at the nape of her neck, and now it fell in lazy waves around her shoulders, like she was letting herself breathe again for the first time all night. He looked at her once, briefly. Then turned back toward the window.

She was the one who broke the silence. “You kissed me.”

Dean didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either. “You needed grounding.”

A beat. Then she glanced sideways at him, chin tilted slightly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He gave a low, amused exhale. “Would you prefer ‘emotionally strategic mouth rescue’?”

She snorted, soft and sudden. “You’re the worst.”

His mouth curved, not quite into a grin, but it was close. “You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true.”

He glanced at her again. This time, he didn’t look away. “You okay?” The question was simple. But it hit in a way she hadn’t expected.

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. I think so.” Her voice dipped. “Thanks to you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied her, quiet and unreadable. Then: “You shouldn’t have had to see him.”

“I didn’t expect it.” Her nails tapped lightly on the edge of her clutch, fingers restless. “I thought I was... past all that.”

“You are,” Dean said. Steady. Firm. “He’s just a reminder. Doesn’t mean he still gets to own the moment.”

She looked at him, really looked. “You got that from one of your therapy podcasts, didn’t you?”

He deadpanned, “No, that one was from Sam.”

She smiled, warm and a little weary. “I liked your version better.”

They sat with it for a while, letting the road take them. Downtown lights blurred by. She leaned back into the seat, shoulder brushing his, head tilting slightly in his direction, not quite on his shoulder, but close. Close enough to matter.

“Hey,” she said after a long pause, voice quiet, almost teasing. “So if that kiss was just ‘grounding,’ does that mean I don’t get another one?”

Dean looked at her then, turning fully, one arm resting along the back of the seat. His voice was low. “You want another one?”

She pretended to think. “For research purposes, sure.”

The car turned down a quieter street, buildings giving way to palm trees silhouetted against the sky. The hum of the tires softened. The interior glowed dimly, lit only by the occasional sweep of headlights from the street outside. A perfect little cocoon of leather and heat and unsaid things.

Dean had one arm stretched behind her, his fingers resting against the curve of her neck. His thumb brushed the spot just below her jaw, slow, thoughtless, like muscle memory, like he had done this countless times.

She hadn’t moved away. If anything, she’d leaned into it. Her eyes stayed on him, steady. And Dean, for all his gruffness, didn’t look away. “You sure?” he asked, low, rough.

“About which part?” she whispered, breath catching a little.

He tilted his head, just slightly. “You said research.”

“I said maybe I want another kiss.”

“Maybe,” he echoed, voice all gravel and restraint.

She nodded. “For science.”

The words barely cleared her lips before he kissed her again. Slower this time. No urgency, no crowd, no noise. Just the heavy, deliberate press of his mouth against hers. His hand slid down, fingertips brushing her collarbone, then lower, tracing the seam of her dress.

She arched just enough to meet him. Her fingers gripped the lapel of his jacket, pulling, grounding, something. It was the kind of kiss that pulled oxygen out of the air. The kind that made it easy to forget they were supposed to be faking this.

She gasped when his hand moved to her waist, thumb brushing over the place her dress cinched in. He kissed her deeper, firmer now, and she responded like she’d been holding back for weeks. Maybe she had. Maybe they both had.

His teeth grazed her bottom lip, not rough, but enough to make her tremble. She tugged him closer, and he let her, shifting toward her until his body was angled against hers, all heat and intention. Her dress glittered in the low light, rising and falling with every sharp breath. He touched her like he was memorizing the way it moved.

“Dean,” she breathed, more sound than word. His name sounded different in her mouth now. Not teasing. Not coy. Just real.

He rested his forehead against hers, their breath tangling in the air between them. “We should stop.”

“Should we?”

He let out a breathless laugh. “Probably.”

Neither of them moved.

The car was still. The world around them moved on, quiet and unaware, but inside the SUV, the air had shifted.

His hand didn’t move right away. Just stayed resting against her waist, thumb brushing soft, distracted circles into the side of her dress like his body was already thinking ahead of him. She felt it, not just the heat of his palm, but the focus in it. The restraint. Like he was holding himself back by a thread.

She pulled in a shallow breath. “Dean,” she said again, quieter this time. That alone did it.

He kissed her one more time, slower, softer, and then his mouth slid to her jaw, her neck, barely grazing. His fingers moved downward, gliding over her thigh, slow and deliberate. He didn’t rush. Didn’t ask.

His touch ghosted over the hem of her dress. She opened her legs, just a little, and that was all the answer he needed.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, warm against her bare skin. Her breath hitched, chest rising fast. When his fingers brushed over the heat between her legs, his breath caught too. No words. Just a low sound from the back of his throat, part reverence, part disbelief.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured. She nodded, lips parted, eyes fixed on his. “Is that for me?” he asked, quieter now. Rougher.

She didn’t answer with words. Just leaned in and kissed him again, teeth catching his lip, hands curling into his chest.

Dean exhaled hard and moved her panties aside, sliding his fingers through her heat, slow, deliberate, parting her carefully. He circled her with just the edge of his fingertip, teasing, savoring every shift of her breath, every twitch of her thighs.

She buried her face against his neck, breath catching on a whimper. Her hand clutched his arm, not to stop him, to ground herself.

“Easy,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I always got you” an echo from earlier.

One finger slipped inside her, then another, slow and impossibly deep. Her back arched against the seat. He moved with precision, with care, fingers stroking, consuming her, curling just right, while his thumb circled her clit with maddening patience. The wet sounds of her arousal filled the car between their ragged breaths. She whimpered again, face flushed.

His fingers were inside her, slow and sure, but it wasn’t about the movement. It was about her. The way her body opened for him like she remembered him, every shape of him, every rhythm, every hesitation. Like she trusted him to wreck her. He felt like he was burning from the inside out. Every time she gasped, his control slipped. Every time her hips rolled into his hand, he felt something in him break apart.

Dean watched her like he couldn’t look away, like seeing her come apart under his hand was the only thing that made sense anymore.“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that,” he kissed her brow. "Gimme your eyes."

His words were lethal. She turned to him, a pout on her mouth, eyes glassy with need. Her nails dug into his arm as she clenched around his fingers, hips jerking slightly as the tension broke. She came quietly but sharp, breath stuttering, body curling inward around the wave. Dean didn’t stop right away, just eased her through it, slow and careful, his lips brushing her temple.

When she finally relaxed, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded slowly, still trying to breathe.

He pulled his hand back, gently, and smoothed her dress down without a word. Then he laced his fingers with hers, his dick straining pulsing, hurting in his pants from how badly he wanted her.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then she smiled, slow, shaky, wrecked in the best way. “For science,” she whispered.

Dean grinned. “Best damn experiment I’ve ever run.”

THE PREMIERE

Dean was already three photos deep into what felt like a public execution by flash photography. The carpet beneath his shoes was blood-red, the lights above him surgical, and the press screamed his name like they wanted to eat him alive. He looked good, he knew that. The suit was custom, the black silk lapels catching just enough light to tell people someone had paid a disturbing amount of money to make him look effortless. But his shoulders were locked, and his jaw had been clenched so long it might never unlock.

She wasn’t beside him. Hadn’t been for three days.

Not since the kiss. Not since the car ride, not since he had seen a side of her he didn't ask for, but was now obsessed with. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the way her hands had trembled when he touched her jaw. The way her breath had caught right before she kissed him back. The way something in him had stilled, gone quiet and sharp and scared.

And yeah, they’d smiled through interviews, posted photos with cute captions, let the press speculate. But she hadn’t answered his texts. Hadn’t returned the call he hadn’t even meant to leave. Just disappeared behind curated silence and Cass’ carefully rerouted talking points. He knew it had meant something. That kiss. Maybe not everything. But something. And she’d treated it like a wardrobe malfunction, one that could be tucked away with enough lipstick and good lighting.

The reporter in front of him shouted, “Dean, over the left shoulder!” and he did it. He moved, robot-smooth, face blank. Pretend you’re grateful, he thought. Pretend you want to be here.

Then a laugh. Sharp. Familiar.

He didn’t have time to brace for impact. She came barreling toward him like a high-speed disaster in copper silk. The leg slit cut high up her thigh, the fabric clinging and then floating, her hair pulled back in a way that looked lazy but wasn’t, not with that kind of precision. She was radiant, worse, she knew it, and she flung herself at him with a grin that burned too hot to be harmless.

“Dean!” she said like she hadn’t vanished for seventy-two hours. “Miss me?”

He caught her. Of course he did. One leg around his waist, one arm around his neck, like she had every right to wrap herself around the man she’d been purposefully ignoring.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice low in her ear, almost swallowed by the crowd.

“You love it.”

“I didn’t know if you were even showing up tonight.”

She leaned back enough to look at him, still grinning for the cameras. She adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Please. I wouldn’t miss watching you suffer in formalwear.”

His hands gripped her tighter than necessary. “You disappeared.”

“And yet, here I am. Let’s not make it weird in front of the paparazzi, Winchester.”

Reporters were already shouting. “Together! Dean! Look here!”

“Give us a kiss!”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m adorable,” she said, adjusting her leg higher on his hip. “Now smile before your scowl melts the carpet.”

He gritted his teeth, smile nowhere in sight. “Three days, and this is what I get?”

She tilted her head. “Don’t pout. It’s bad for the brand.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think we’re in public. So unless you want to have a very candid conversation in front of every entertainment blog in the country...”

“Smile, Dean!” a reporter barked.

Dean turned to the cameras. Held her tighter. Smiled. The kind of smile that said everything was fine. The kind of smile that made him want to punch something.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, dramatic, posed, clearly for the cameras. “Still mad at me?” she whispered against his jaw.

“Ask me again when we’re off the carpet.”

More shouting. “Give us one on the lips!”

She turned his face slowly, her eyes catching his like a challenge.

Dean’s breath hitched. “Are you seriously....” He wasn't kidding before, she really was unbelievable. His pulse stuttered. Not just because of the press shouting his name or the heat of the spotlights cooking his jacket to his back. No, this was her. Always her.

There was too much in his chest. That lingering, sour burn from the silence she’d given him these past three days. The kiss they weren’t talking about still echoing behind his ribs like something unfinished. The way her fingers curled just behind his ear now, coaxing his face toward hers like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t still wrecked from the way she’d kissed him last time.

His jaw flexed, stubborn habit. He didn’t want to be angry, not really, but he was. Not because she’d left him hanging in that damn hotel room, heart pounding and hands shaking like some teenager. But because now here she was, back like nothing happened, smiling for the cameras like she hadn’t vanished right after he’d given her something real.

“Just let me, Dean” she said sweetly, and then she kissed him.

It was quick, professional, a blink of heat, but her hand stayed on his chest a beat too long, her nails brushing fabric like a question she wasn’t ready to ask. He didn’t know if this was another game. Another PR move. Another way she kept her distance while pulling him in. But her hand on his jaw was warm. Her voice had been soft. And the way she was looking at him now? It felt too personal to be fake. And that pissed him off even more.

Because if she was faking it,he was in trouble.

And if she wasn’t? He was in deeper.

When they pulled apart, the press lost their minds. Dean leaned in close, voice low, she removed her leg from his waist, looking forward. “You don’t get to kiss me and pretend we’re fine.”

Her smile didn’t waver. But her voice, when it came, was quieter. “You don’t get to make it feel like that and expect me not to panic.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

“You kissed me like you meant it,” he said quietly. “And then vanished.”

She blinked, but the flashbulbs distracted her. She turned her face just enough to give the press a wide, flirtatious grin. “Smile,” she hissed through her teeth. “You’re giving them tension when they paid for romance.”

Dean leaned in, jaw tight, lips close to her ear. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“And yet you’re still holding me like this.”

Reporters shouted. “Kiss her again! One for the fans!”

Dean barely looked at them. Instead, he looked at her, really looked, and something unspoken cracked under his ribs. She was hiding. From him. From whatever was spinning out between them. “You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

She hesitated. For once, no ready smile. Just a flicker of something close to guilt. Or fear. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers grazing skin. “Talk to me.”

She opened her mouth, but one of the reporters called again, closer now: “Just one kiss, c’mon! You two are killing us!”

Dean didn’t look away from her. His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers sliding into the loosened bun she’d twisted like an afterthought. “Smile pretty for the cameras,” he said. “Then we’re gonna talk. You and me.”

She swallowed, but nodded. The crowd leaned in. Dean kissed her this time. Gentle. Clean. But not empty.

And just before they broke apart, low enough only she could hear, he added, “You hear me, baby?”

The world stilled for a long second. “Copy that,” she whispered back.

The moment they stepped off the carpet, the roar of the press dimmed to a dull throb behind the heavy velvet ropes and gold-rimmed doors of the theater lobby. Inside, it was cooler, barely, but enough that Dean could breathe again. He loosened the top button of his shirt, his pulse still caught in the cage of his ribs.

People milled around in tuxedos and gowns, glasses of champagne already being passed on silver trays, the soft murmur of producers and critics and overpaid influencers humming like bees in a gilded hive, waiting for the screening to start, to be awed or disappointed.

She walked three steps ahead of him, like none of it touched her. Not the kiss. Not the past three days. Not him. Dean caught up to her in three long strides and pulled her in a corner, shelded from prying eyes. They stood near the marble wall just before the main corridor into the auditorium, a sliver of quiet tucked between chatter and flash. Her hand hovered near the small gold clutch at her side, fingers flexing like they didn’t know what to do now that they weren’t curled into his collar. “Hey,” he said, sharp, his fingers brushing her elbow.

She turned slightly, all cool poise and movie-star light. Her profile looked carved, her dress catching every gold-tinted reflection like it was part of the set. The slit swayed just enough when she stopped to remind him how close she’d been only minutes ago, wrapped around him like she had a right to be there. “Now?” she asked, breathy, practiced. “You wanna fight now?”

“I wanna talk,” he growled. “And every time I try, you disappear.”

She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t smile either. “This is not the time...”

“There hasn’t been a time,” Dean cut in. His voice was low, steady, but threaded with frustration he couldn’t hide anymore. “Not since the rooftop. Not since that kiss. You just disappeared."

"I didn't have anything to say"

He pointed a finger at her face. "Don't give me that bullshit." Her mouth opened, but he didn’t give her the chance. Not yet. “I stayed up that night,” he went on. “I was... Christ, I was ready to pretend it didn’t mean anything if that’s what you needed. I would’ve. But you didn’t even give me that. Just silence.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I just didn’t know how to come back from that night.” She scoffed. "How am I to blame for that?"

Dean’s jaw flexed again, tired of how often it did. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me,” she corrected, eyes flaring. “Don’t rewrite that just because I ran.”

“I kissed you because I didn’t know how else to get you to breathe again.”

“And then what?” she asked. “You wanted a debrief? A full emotional rundown? I panicked, Dean. It wasn’t about you.”

He paused. Then stepped a little closer. “But it was.”

She blinked.

“I felt- feel it,” he said. “Don’t lie to me. Not about that.”

She drew in a breath, the neckline of her dress rising and falling too fast. “I needed time.”

“You don’t get to need time after doing that. After looking at me like...” He cut himself off. Jaw tight. “You don’t get to vanish and then climb me on a red carpet like it’s your goddamn stage.”

“Don’t yell at me,” she snapped, stepping closer. “Don’t act like I haven’t been spinning out too. I didn’t know what it meant, Dean. I still don’t.”

He laughed, bitter, biting. “You didn’t know? You kissed me like you wanted to undo my whole life.”

Silence. Sharp and dense and seething. She opened her mouth. Closed it. “I’m scared.”

Dean’s mouth parted, just slightly. His chest rose, shallow. “Of what?”

“Of you,” she said, soft but brutal. “Of how you look at me like you already know how this ends. Like you’ll love me too hard or hate me too fast and I can’t afford either.” His face changed. Not softened, he was too wound for that, but something in his shoulders gave. She went on. “I panicked. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just... needed to not be seen. Not by you.”

He stepped in. Close enough that her perfume, warm, spicy, something expensive and devastating, hit him full in the chest. His voice dropped low, sharp. “Too late, baby. I already see you.”

Her lips parted. She blinked like she was trying to memorize the ceiling.

Dean lifted a hand to her face, slow, deliberate, and let his thumb trace the line of her cheek. It wasn’t gentle, but it was careful. Like he was learning her expression by touch. “Next time you run, don’t come back smiling for the cameras and pretending I’m just another prop in your fairy tale.”

Her breath hitched. “Dean...”

“Baby,” he said, and it wasn’t soft. It was a warning. A plea. A promise. The word hung between them, thick with all the things they weren’t saying.

She nodded once. Tight. Uncertain. “I won’t run next time.”

“Good,” he said, mouth barely moving. “Because if you do, I won’t follow.”

The theater was velvet-dark and full of the kind of silence that only happens when a hundred people are trying not to breathe too loudly. The movie had just started, the sleek white-on-black title card of Without Warning stretching across the screen like a promise, but Dean wasn’t watching the film.

Not really. He was watching her.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the low light from the screen, she looked carved out of firelight. Copper silk pooling around her crossed legs, one ankle arched delicately in those ridiculous heels. Her profile was pure composure, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows. Her expression didn’t give anything away, not to the room, not to him. But he could see the tension in her shoulders, the set of her jaw. She wasn’t just watching the movie either.

They were tucked into the very back row. A calculated move, Cass’ doing, probably “discreet, elegant, no press up here” but now, it felt like too much space and too much silence. The kiss on the carpet still lingered between them like heat in a room long after the fire’s gone out. Their fight still playing in their minds.

Dean’s hands were braced on his thighs, fists curled, eyes flicking toward the screen and then right back to her. And then, like a goddamn act of war, she placed her hand on his leg. Not high. Not anything scandalous. Just her palm, flat and warm, resting on the inside of his thigh, just above the knee.

Dean didn’t move. His breath caught, not loud, but enough that his chest shifted, and the screen in front of him blurred for a second. He turned his head toward her slowly, eyebrows drawn. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything. Her hand just stayed there, steady. Barely even pressing. But it was worse than anything she could’ve said.

He swallowed hard. His voice was low, close, not even a whisper. “What are you doing?”

Still, she didn’t look. “You looked like you needed grounding.”

“Is that what this is?” His tone was dark. But not cold.

Her thumb moved. Just a soft, small brush against the fabric of his suit pants. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for him. “I don’t know what this is,” she murmured finally. “I just didn’t want to sit here pretending I didn’t want to touch you.”

Dean clenched his jaw. Looked straight ahead. On screen, their characters were yelling in some fake hotel room in Prague. His voice echoed from the speakers, rough, angry, different, but the real version of him sat frozen in his seat.

And all he could feel was her hand on his thigh, burning through every layer of his defenses.

Dean turned his head toward her again, slower this time. The light from the screen flickered across her face, painting her in flashes of blue, gold, shadow. She still hadn’t looked at him, but her hand hadn’t moved either. If anything, her fingers flexed slightly, like she was nervous, or bracing herself.

Her fingers tapped once, twice, lazy and slow, like she was drumming a secret rhythm only he could feel. Dean’s jaw flexed again, muscle ticking just beneath the surface. He shifted slightly in his seat, as if that would help. It didn’t.

She leaned in, breath brushing his neck. “Relax,” she whispered, voice light, teasing, a smile hiding beneath every syllable. “You’re wound so tight I can hear it from here.”

“You think this is funny?” he muttered, still not looking at her.

She hummed. “A little.”

Then her thumb traced a slow, deliberate line over the seam of his pants. Casual. Dangerous. Dean’s entire body stilled. His grip on the armrest turned white-knuckled.

“I could move my hand,” she whispered again, lips dangerously close to his ear, “but you haven’t asked me to.”

Dean’s throat worked. His eyes flicked toward her, just once, catching the glint of copper at her shoulder, the spark of mischief in her lashes. “You really wanna play this game here?”

“I didn’t start anything.” Her voice was sugar and sin. “Just helping you focus.”

“On what? Not dragging you into my lap?”

Her teeth grazed the edge of a grin. “That’s up to you.”

He didn’t speak. He shifted. Not away. Toward. His hand came down on top of hers, large and warm and too steady for how fast his pulse was hammering in his chest. He didn’t grip. Didn’t trap. Just covered it. Like an anchor. Like a promise.

Then he leaned in, mouth near her ear, voice low and thick enough to drag her under. “Baby,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “if you keep touching me like that, we’re not gonna make it to the credits.”

She didn’t say anything, but he felt her tremble.

No teasing comeback, no smug little smile. Just silence. Her hand lingered for a second longer beneath his, then slowly slipped away. Dean fully turned toward her, confusion beginning to twist his brow, until she stood. Graceful. Composed. Dangerous.

She smoothed the hem of her dress, eyes still fixed on the screen like nothing had changed, and then, without a word, stepped past him and down the aisle, disappearing through the soft gold glow of the exit sign.

Dean didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She was walking away. And it wasn’t a retreat. It was summoning.

The movie still played around him, loud, distant, fake. But she was real. That whisper of perfume trailing after her, the warmth of her hand still ghosting against his thigh, that was real. And suddenly, everything else felt cheap by comparison.

His pulse was in his throat.

She hadn’t looked back. Because she didn’t have to.

Dean stood. He didn’t think. Just pushed up from the seat like gravity had shifted in her direction. His chest was tight, jaw tense, nerves wound so tight they could’ve snapped. But beneath all that anger still simmering from the red carpet, beneath the confusion and frustration and three days of silence, was something worse.

Need.

Need, coiled low in his spine, crackling down to his fingertips.

The second the theater door shut behind him, the rest of the world dropped away. He caught the tail end of her disappearing through the private bathroom door, the shimmer of her dress like a dare written in firelight.

He hesitated, barely. Not because he doubted her. But because this, this, was the moment everything would change. Then he moved.

Pushed open the door. Closed it behind him. Locked it. And there she was. Back to the wall, arms loose at her sides now, as if even pretending to play it cool had been too much effort. The light overhead caught the edge of her cheekbone, kissed the slope of her shoulder. She wasn’t smiling. Not yet.

But she was waiting.

"You ran, again," he titled his head.

"I thought you said you wouldn't follow me this time."

Dean stepped forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between them one breath at a time. “I meant it.” She swallowed. “But then you touched me,” he said, voice low, thick with something between anger and reverence. “Sat there in the dark like your hand on my leg was an apology.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Dean stopped just inches from her. His hand lifted, not to her face. Not to kiss her. But to curl around her waist, drawing her forward. His touch was possessive. Steady. No heat behind it yet, just weight. “I should kiss you,” he said. “I want to. God, I want to so bad, baby.”

Her breath caught, and her lashes lowered just slightly, anticipation, apology, maybe both. "You should, Winchester."

“But I’m not gonna,” he said.

Her gaze snapped back to his.

Dean’s eyes were dark, hungry, but hard. “You don’t get that yet.”

Her lips parted, to argue, to question, to beg, maybe, but he was already lowering himself to his knees. Her back hit the wall behind her with a faint thud. “Dean...”

“You ran,” he said again, fingers dragging slowly, deliberately up the slit of her dress. “You left me wondering if I imagined that kiss. If it meant anything. If I was just another tool in your PR kit.”

“I wasn’t...”

“You were scared,” he cut her off, voice rough now. “I get it. But don’t think I’m gonna let you walk back in and pretend we’re fine without making you feel every goddamn second of what you did to me.”

Her hand found the edge of the counter behind her, anchoring herself. “Then why...”

He glanced up at her, gaze unwavering. “Because I want you to remember who you ran from.” Her breath hitched, sharp and quiet.

His hands slid up her thighs, fingers slow and steady, parting the soft shimmer of copper silk until she was bared to him. No rush. No teasing. Just reverence in every touch.

“Dean,” she whispered, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a confession.

He didn’t answer. Just pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh. One slow kiss. Then another. Then a third, higher. His stubble scraped soft skin, and she flinched, not from pain, from need. “You don’t get my kiss,” he murmured, breath warm against her skin. “But you still get my devotion.”

And then he touched his mouth to her pussy, gentle, steady, deliberate, and made sure she remembered exactly what it meant to be wanted by a man who hadn’t stopped waiting, even when she left. She moaned, loud, sharp, echoing off the tile.

Dean didn’t flinch. He wanted her loud. He wanted her wrecked. He wanted the whole damn building to know she belonged to him right now, not with a headline or a label or some paparazzi-friendly kiss, but with his mouth buried between her thighs, and her legs already starting to tremble.

“Yeah,” he rasped against her skin, voice thick with heat. “That’s it, baby. Don’t hold back now.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair, desperate, trembling, not to guide, to hold on. Dean dragged his tongue through her slowly, deliberately, savoring every flick, every shift of her hips, every breathless curse she spilled when he found the spot that made her knees buckle.

“Oh my God,” she choked out, loud and wrecked, one heel slipping off her foot.

He looked up at her, smirk curling against soaked skin. “Say my name again,” he growled. “Louder.”

She moaned, his name this time, drawn out, high and messy, her head tipping back to hit the wall. Her thighs clenched around his head, but he didn’t slow down. He groaned into her, hands sliding up to grip her hips, dragging her forward to keep her exactly where he wanted her. “That’s right,” he muttered, breath hot and ragged between strokes. “You were running, and now you’re right here, falling apart on my tongue.”

Her breath stuttered.

Dean flattened his tongue and pressed deeper, curling it slow, curling it on purpose, the way he knew drove her to the edge. “You like that?” he asked, voice low, mouth slick with her. “You like me eating your pussy in a goddamn bathroom like it’s the only place I can touch you?”

She whimpered something that wasn’t a word, hips rocking down into his face. That was answer enough. He smiled against her, wicked and warm. “You’re soaked, baby. You were soaked when you touched me in the theater, weren’t you?”

A broken sound clawed from her throat, a choked, desperate moan that sounded like guilt and need collided. Her thighs shook. Dean kissed the inside of one, just briefly, then went back in, harder now, rougher, two fingers sliding inside her without warning as his mouth moved against her clit, unrelenting.

Her body bowed. Her cry echoed off the tile. Dean didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. She was clenching around his fingers now, her hand slipping off the counter, the other clawing at his shoulder, and all he could think was God, she’s mine when she falls apart like this.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice a rasp. “Come for me. I want it. I want every sound.”

And she did. Loud. Sharp. Raw. He bit her inner thigh.

Dean rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on her like he’d just survived drowning. His lips were slick, his jaw tight, but his expression, his whole damn face, looked carved out of something that had waited too long to burn. She was still against the wall, breath hitching, knees barely holding. Her hand gripped the edge of the counter like she wasn’t sure what was coming next.

"Open your mouth, baby," he cradled her face, gently squeezing her cheeks. She obeyed, breath rough, eyes glassy, still trembling. Dean sneered at the eagerness and spat into her mouth. He wanted her to feel what he felt, to have a taste of the honey he just devoured. "Swallow... yeah, just like that," he leaned even closer, her eyes fluttering, hoping that his lips would finally crash against hers. “Turn around.”

She blinked. Shaky. But didn't protest.

“No questions now?” he murmured, dragging one hand down the curve of her hip, bunching her dress up again until it was around her waist. “Not gonna argue with me this time?”

She braced herself against the counter, chest rising. “Not when you sound like that.”

His laugh was quiet, dangerous. “Sound like what?”

“Like you’re gonna ruin me.”

Dean pressed his chest against her back, his breath hot on her neck. “Baby,” he rasped, one hand moving to undo his belt, the other teasing between her thighs again, over her clit, just to feel how wet she still was, “I already did.”

She let out a breathless moan, hips pushing back into him. He groaned at the contact, his cock pressed hard and hot against her. “Feel that?” he muttered. “That’s what you do to me. You disappear, you wreck me, and then you show up looking like sin wrapped in silk.”

She pushed back again. “Then do something about it.”

His hand slammed down on the counter beside hers. “You think I won’t?”

“Think you need to.”

That broke him. Dean shoved his pants down just enough, lined himself up, and pushed into her in one smooth, deep thrust. Her mouth fell open, a strangled cry escaping her.

Dean’s grip on her hips tightened, bruising, grounding, like he didn’t trust her not to disappear again. His thrusts were slow, but hard, dragging every inch of him through her like he meant to make her feel it for days. And when she moaned again, low, helpless, ruined, he nearly lost it.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice thick and ragged. “Let me hear you.”

She gasped, her fingers curling over the counter, knuckles white. “Dean... Holy shit, Jesus, fuck...”

He slammed into her harder, one hand sliding up her back, pinning her down with just the pressure of his palm between her shoulder blades. “Not Jesus, baby,” he muttered near her ear. “Just me.”

She moaned again, louder this time, and he felt it, in his chest, in his spine, in every clenched, wound-up part of him that hadn’t breathed right since she left. “You disappear for three days,” he bit out, thrusting again. “You come back looking like a fantasy, and you think I’m just gonna take it easy on you?”

“No,” she whimpered, wrecked.

“Damn right you don’t.” He reached around to grip her jaw, turning her face just enough that he could see her mouth fall open again when he drove deeper. “Say my name.”

“Dean”

“Again. Louder.”

“Dean.”

He grinned, teeth bared, sweat at his temples, control unraveling. “You like when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, oh shit, fuck, yes”

“When I use you. Make you loud.”

She gasped through a half-sob of pleasure, head nodding, eyes fluttering closed. “Yes, Dean, please...”

“Please what?” he growled. “You want more? Want me to ruin that perfect little voice for the afterparty?”

She gave a broken laugh, full of heat. “You want them to hear me?”

Dean’s next thrust made her cry out, sharp and sudden. “I want to hear you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I want your voice in my head when I try to sleep tonight. I want the whole damn room to know what you sound like when you give in.”

He reached around her again, hand sliding down between her legs, his fingers finding her slick, throbbing, desperate for more. “Come on, baby,” he whispered against her neck. “Be good. Fall apart for me.”

Her moans were ragged now, uneven, rising in pitch, her body struggling to keep pace with the way he moved inside her. Dean didn’t let up. His grip never wavered, and his voice stayed right at her ear, wrecking her with every word. “You feel that?” he growled. “Every time you clench around me like that- that’s yours, baby. You did that to me.” She tried to answer, but it came out as a gasp, her legs shaking. He smirked against her shoulder. “Can’t even talk now, huh?”

She shook her head, breathless.

Dean reached up and fisted her hair, not to hurt, just to make her look. Her cheek turned toward the mirror above the sink, and he tilted his head low so their eyes met in the reflection. “Then don’t talk,” he said. “Just watch.”

And she did. Watched him take her. Watched the way his jaw was clenched, the way his hand on her hip dug in like he couldn’t bear to let go. Watched the wild, desperate look in his eyes, and realized it wasn’t just lust. It was fear. It was anger. It was hers. Dean’s rhythm changed, hips slamming harder now, deeper. He leaned over her again, mouth just behind her ear. “You better come for me again,” he whispered, low and furious. “You don’t get to run from this. You don’t get to walk out of here pretending this doesn’t own you.”

Her voice cracked. “I’m trying...”

“No,” he growled. “Don’t try. Give in.”

His hand slipped between her thighs again, his fingers relentless, and she shattered, again, right there against the counter, her body wracked with the kind of moan that didn’t sound polite or pretty or posed. It sounded like surrender.

Dean didn’t stop moving. Not right away. He buried himself inside her one last time, deep and aching, claiming her with his breath stuttering as he held there, unmoving, pressed to her back like maybe he could crawl under her skin and live there forever.

She was shaking beneath him, breathless and open, her forehead against the mirror, eyes shut tight like if she didn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t undo her.

Dean moved slowly, his breath ghosting across the back of her neck. Then, carefully, he pulled out, shifting her body in his hands. One arm came around her middle, the other rose to her jaw, gentle now, fingertips brushing her cheek like she might break if he touched her too fast. He pushed in again, fucking back his cum inside of her. She gasped. “Give me your eyes,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes, wrecked, glassy, still dazed, and he turned her face toward him, steadying her hips, keeping her close, keeping himself inside her. She gasped from the sensitivity, a whimper curling at the back of her throat, and he caught it, not with dominance this time, but with his mouth.

Dean kissed her.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting to. Like he’d meant to do it three days ago and had never stopped thinking about it since. His hand cradled her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone as his lips moved over hers, slow, deep, nothing performative.

And he was still inside her. She moaned into his mouth, soft and ruined, like the kiss was the thing that finally broke her open, not the force, not the fight, but this, the part he’d held back.

Dean didn’t rush it. He didn’t let go.

When they finally parted, his forehead rested against hers. His breath was ragged, his voice quieter now, but not soft. “I don’t care if you’re scared,” he whispered. “Just don’t lie to me about this.”

She blinked, still breathless, still trying to remember what language was, her lips swollen from the kiss, her mind nothing but static and him. Her fingers curled into his shoulders for balance, not that he was letting her go anywhere. He was still inside her. Still holding her like she was his.

She was floating. He was glaring.

Her eyes flicked up, a lazy grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Define ‘this.’”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You really wanna get cute right now?”

She tilted her head, breath still shaky. “It’s either that or cry, so...”

He cut her off with another kiss. Quick. Sharp. Punishing in the way it said, don’t you dare deflect. When he pulled back, her smile was softer. But she was still her. “I’m not lying,” she whispered, brushing a lock of his hair back with shaky fingers. “I told you, I just… panicked. You kissed me like a man with intentions.”

His brow lifted. “And you ran like a woman who thought I was gonna propose.”

She snorted, head tipping back with a quiet laugh. “You do have that ‘let’s settle down and get a dog’ energy sometimes.”

Dean gave her a flat look. “You’re literally still wrapped around me.”

“And yet you’re the one who keeps talking about feelings,” she shot back, but her voice didn’t have teeth anymore. Just tension easing, cracking open.

He leaned forward again, nuzzling the side of her jaw. “I meant it." She went still. “All of it,” he said. “That kiss. This. You.”

For a second, she didn’t speak. Just let her forehead touch his again. Her hand found the back of his neck. “Okay,” she said softly.

“Okay, like you believe me?” he asked.

“Okay like…” Her smile returned, smaller this time. Real. “...you’re gonna have to remind me again later. For research.”

Dean groaned into her skin. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She grinned against his cheek. “I’m adorable. You said so on Good Morning America.”

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

She kissed his jaw. “And you’re still inside me, so what does that make you?”

“Exhausted,” Dean grumbled, but his arms tightened around her. “And probably in trouble.”

THE AFTERMATH (bonus scene)

Dean reached for the door handle with all the focus of a man preparing for battle. His hair was a mess, his shirt still slightly untucked despite his best effort, and his face had that flushed, post-sin glow he wasn’t quite ready to explain to anyone.

“The movie’s almost done,” he muttered.

From behind him, her hands slid around his waist, fingers curling at his stomach, and he could feel her smile before she even said anything. “One more,” she whispered, lips brushing the back of his neck.

“Baby, you said that five kisses ago.”

“This one’s for luck.”

He exhaled. Let her turn him around. Let her kiss him again, slow and wicked, like she was trying to short-circuit his motor functions.

“You’re evil,” he said against her mouth.

“I’m charming.”

Dean pulled back, breathless. “We’re going to get caught.”

“Mm, no. We’re going to look very composed and extremely fashionable.” She tugged him back by the lapel. “After one more.”

Dean melted into it for a second, just a second, before groaning into her mouth and spinning back toward the door. “Okay. That was it. That was the last one.”

She leaned against his back, cheek to his shoulder. “Unless you want to...” She held his hand, pulling on it, trying to lure him back.

Dean reached for the handle, still half-distracted by the feel of her hand slipping into his, warm and casual. He opened the door... and immediately froze.

Just outside, two figures were locked in a kiss of their own, very much not staged, very much not subtle. Castiel Novak, ever the stoic publicist, had his hand braced against the wall, mouth tangled with Meg Masters, their infamously brash co-star and his long-term girlfriend.

Dean blinked. She blinked harder.

Cass and Meg broke apart like they’d been hit with a bucket of cold water. Cass took a step back, adjusting his blazer with military precision, face already smoothing into faux-calm professionalism. Meg looked entirely unrepentant, wiping at her lipstick with the back of her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Dean, hi, buddy"

He held one hand up. "Don’t… just- just shut up."

His woman laughed. "Hi Meg."

Meg grinned, utterly unfazed. “Hey, sweetheart. Sounded like you had a religious experience in there.”

Dean groaned. “Nope. Nope. We are not doing this.”

Cass cleared his throat, clearly trying to pretend he hadn’t just been caught with his tongue down Meg’s throat outside a private bathroom where one of his longest friends had had the experience of a lifetime. “We were... uh...just making sure everything was… secure.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, biting her bottom lip to suppress another laugh, then leaned into Dean’s side, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket like she was helping. She wasn’t. She was just trying to make him squirm. “Very thorough security check, Cass.”

Dean gave her a sideways look. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, glancing between the two very guilty parties. “You think they heard the part where you called me baby, or just the part where I begged you not to stop?”

Meg looked over at Dean’s girl with a grin. “I’ve been trying to get him to talk dirty for three years, and you guys get that in fifteen minutes of wall-thumping.”

Cass, looking like he wanted to be killed on the spot, cleared his throat and adjusted his hair. “I wasn’t... That wasn’t...”

“Oh, come on,” Meg said to her, eyes gleaming, still ranting about her boyfriend. “He doesn’t talk like that. He talks like a legal deposition.”

“Maybe he can learn something from this guy," she winked. "He did a pretty solid job in there." Dean groaned out of embarassment.

Cass turned visibly pink. “We were simply....”

“Oh, we saw what you were simply doing,” she cut in.

“Most of the hallway heard what you were doing.”

She burst out laughing, leaning into Dean’s side like her knees might give out. Dean rolled is eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate all of this,” he muttered.

Meg shrugged, still wiping at her lipstick. “Hey, you started it. Next time, maybe keep the spiritual awakenings to a whisper.”

Dean’s girl lifted her hand like she was swearing into court. “No promises.”

[meowjuz]

⋆˚ 💥 ༘ ౨ৎ˚｡⋆ clark kent ( x reader ) smau .ᐟ

pt 1 : moving boxes

prev | next

authors note: uhhh... hey guys!! it's been a bit but i'm back. i promise peter will be back sometime in the fall or when i get a new idea for it but i need my clark kent summer. i watched the superman movie last night and i realized how much i missed him and chloe and lana. obvs this is a different universe than the peter smau dw he will me back eventually!

tags: (lmk if you want to be added to this smau specifically!)

youruser

📍smallville

youruser bye bye metropolis ...

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loisinyourlane i'm gonna miss you so much i can't believe you're gone already 😭 ╰ youruser I KNOW youruser my day one forever jimmyolsen i'll miss you i GUESS ╰ youruser i'll miss you too my sweet james bartholomew 🥲 jimmyolsen never mind.

clark_kent

♬ save me - remy zero

tagged peteross

clark_kent summer's passing fast

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chloesleuths dumb and dumber ╰ peteross at least we don't have an obsession with green rocks clark_kent i'm dumb chloesleuths thank you for finally admitting it!! clark_kent no like pete's dumber right peteross damn i was trying to defend you clark but i guess not

lanasofia

♬ she won't go away - faye webster

tagged chloesleuths

lanasofia too many cups of lavender tea to count

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chloesleuths oooooo very witchy!! ╰ lanasofia don't add me to the wall of weird 🙈🙈 chloesleuths 🙄🙄🙄 whitneyford my girl

chloesleuths

tagged lanasofia

chloesleuths best reporters out here

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lanasofia so when's the keanu dvdathon you promised me? ╰ chloesleuths next week PLEASE lanasofia yay!

youruser

♬ meet me in the pale moonlight - lana del rey

tagged clark_kent, peteross, chloesleuths, and lanasofia

youruser small town summer

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loisinyourlane made so many friends already!! growing up so quick... ╰ youruser you say this as if you're not a month younger than me chloesleuths so excited to spend junior year with you

lanasofia

tagged clark_kent, peteross, chloesleuths, and lanasofia

lanasofia lake days

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youruser lots of uno and bike rides ╰ lanasofia except when you sprained your ankle and clark had to carry you back to the truck youruser i thought we weren't gonna talk about that…

[meowjuz]

Public Indecency

summary: when clark starts acting strange in class, he drags you somewhere secluded to help him feel better (red k!clark kent) warnings: pure smut, pwp, fem!reader, dirty talk (like a lot), slight dubious consent, overstimulation, belly bulge, sex in a semi public place, pet names, cursing, bickering, bondage, red!clark kent (1.5k words) a/n: this is literally pure smut. I saw my first red kryptonite clark kent episode, and now I'm freaked, so here we go.

You were going to kill Clark Kent. Well, not really – but it's the sentiment that counts, and as far as you were concerned, he was dead meat. This is the fourth time that he had knocked over the beaker, and you were reaching your limit. “Kent, if you don’t back away, then I will splash this sulfuric acid in your face.” you mutter, glaring over at him as he lies back in his chair, looking completely and utterly unbothered. 

“C’mon,” he laughs, chewing gum between his perfect, pearly white teeth, “Don’t tell me this is actually fun for you. Why don’t we get out of here?” he smirks as he stands up and waltzes over to you, causing you to shield the beaker on instinct

You huff out an irritated laugh and glare up at him, “Are you out of your mind, Clark? Do you know how long we’ve been working on this-” “Have you ever considered that maybe you’re too uptight?” he mocks, a small smirk making its way across his face as he gets closer. 

You can feel your cheeks heat up as you place your hands againts his chest in an attempt to stop him from getting any closer, “Clark there is something seriously wrong with you,” you mutter, looking up at him and his dazed expression curiously “are you…feeling okay?” you ask, reaching up to feel at his forehead for some sort of fever, causing him bite back a laugh.

“Y’know maybe you’re right.” he hums, turning to look at your chemistry teacher, “Mrs. Simmons, I really think I oughta go to the nurse – y'know, all the chemicals are making me kinda sick. Mind if my lab partner here takes me?” he asks in fake pain, clutching his head like it’s a lifeline.

You try your best to contain an eye roll as she gives you both permission to leave – that poor gullible old woman, bless her soul. The next thing you know, you feel Clark lead you out of the classroom, but not in the direction of the nurse's office.

Instead, he pushes you into an empty closet, knocking down an old broom in the process, causing you to yelp. “Aw come on, don’t tell me you’re scared of a little noise” he teases cockily, his head leaning down to allow his lips to brush against the top of your head, making you shiver. “Clark, you really don't seem okay.” you mutter, backing up slowly before your back hits the cold concrete wall.

“What? Because I’m not the same boring guy you think you know, you assume somethings wrong?” he mocks, looking you up and down, as his hands make their way across your waist, gripping your hips. “sweetheart, you have no idea what I’m capable of.” he chuckles, shaking his head with feigned laughter. 

“Clark, I don't understand what we’re even doing in here-” you huff, but your words die in your throat as you feel Clark's hand fiddle with the strap of your tank top, pulling it down slowly to reveal your pink lacey bra strap, a smile breaking out across his face. “Oh, I like this,” he grins, toying with it delicately as you feel your body tremble. “You pick this out just for me?” he teases, voice low, and you can't deny how wet it makes you.

“Believe it or not, I don't think of you when I’m changing, Clark” you mutter, trying your hardest to stand your ground but failing miserably when his hand gravitates lower, his fingers rubbing at the top of the lacey cups of your bra – you can practically feel the wind get knocked out of you in response. 

And like a sixth sense, a cocky smirk makes its way onto Clark's face like he can sense the lie you’re feeding him. His hand trails down until it reaches the waistband of your low-rise jeans, delicately rubbing where your skin meets the denim. “I know you take pride in being a real smart girl, but you’re a terrible liar,” he muses, eyes glued to your cleavage, which peeks out from your skewed tank top. 

“Clark, I don't know what game you’re playing-” you hiss, “but this has to qualify as some sort of public indecency” you growl, and his eyes roll back in playful annoyance. “I was right, you are uptight.” he laughs, “I just wonder what else is tight,” he mutters, his head coming closer to yours as his lips brush by your ear, and as much as you don't want to, you can feel yourself melt into him.

what were you doing, Clark was your friend – and sure, maybe you had a small crush on him, but you were sure his heart only beat for Lana Lang. Unfortunately, you’ve never considered your self-control to be your biggest strong suit, and you don't object when Clark's hand dips below your waistband.

“Pretty pair of jeans,” he murmurs softly, “I think I’d like 'em better off, though,” he adds, unzipping your jeans slowly and shoving them down your legs, his eyes focused on your pair of pink lace panties that now have a growing wet spot on them – a smirk snaking its way across his face.

“If I’d known this is how you felt, then I would've done this sooner, baby,” he chuckles, “all you had to do was say the word.” You feel his hands reach the waistband of your panties, snapping them against your waist playfully as his fingers inch further down, spreading the growing wetness across them, causing the fabric to turn nearly transparent. 

You feel your knees begin to buckle and your eyes rolling back as his arm shoots out to grab your waist, single-handedly holding you up. He looks around for a brief second before his eyes zero in on an old desk in the corner, carrying you over to it without hesitation and setting you on it gently. He then grasps your left leg to spread it outwards, giving him the perfect view of your panty-clad pussy. He was going to enjoy this.

He fills in the empty space between your legs with his body, unzipping his jeans and pulling out his rock hard cock. giving it a few pumps, he pulls your panties to the side, spreading his tip across your clit, and making you mewl out loudy. “clark- clark, I-” you cry out, as he pushes his tip against it teasingly “shh, i know baby, i know” he murmurs with faux sympathy, his spare hand holding your face as he talks you down.

After a few more seconds, he decides to spare you the torment and pushes his full length into you, your forehead falling against his muscular chest in pure pleasure. He was huge. And when you look down, you can see where he’s splitting you open, a bulge in your lower abdomen prominent as he makes you cry out. He’s drilling into you at an unreal pace when you try to shift away, the pleasure becoming too much for you to handle.

When he notices, he grabs your wrists, binding them together in front of you. “nuh uh, baby, don't try to run from me now” he muses, keeping his pace consistent as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“Clark ‘s too much,” you whine, trying your hardest to shift away, but you’re no match for his strength – though he sure is having a great time watching you try. “Baby, don’t be dramatic” he mocks, looking down at you in feigned pity “I can feel you squeezing me. she just loves me, doesn’t she, sweetheart?” he teases smugly, his hand coming down to press on your lower stomach, making you mewl out at the pressure.

Clark just croons in response, and he can tell you're close by the way you squeeze around him. “all it takes is a little bit of cock and you can’t even put together a coherent sentence? What happened to the smart girl from chem class, huh?” he muses, and he can feel you clench around him at the nickname.

“Oh you like that, dont you, baby?” he hums, his hand coming up to lift your chin, your dazed eyes meeting his, a cocky smirk plastered on his face. “Never thought you’d be the type to enjoy that kinda thing. Don't get me wrong, i’m glad you are. You’re just full of surprises,” he laughs conceitedly, still pounding into you as you whine out incoherently.

It only takes a few more seconds before he feels you getting close, your body tensing up around him, making his eyes roll back at how hot and wet you feel. What really sends him over the edge is the look on your face when he presses all the way into you. He could get used to that.

Before you know it, you feel blinded by white hot pleasure and your body goes limp, the only thing holding it up being Clark's arm around you as you come down from your high. You’re a mess of twitches and whines as he finishes, pressing his forehead against yours as he stays sheathed inside of you.

“Y’know, baby, this was better than the nurse,” he smirks cockily against your mouth, “but then again I never doubted you” he murmurs, leaving you blissed out and wondering what just happened, and why you wanted more.

[meowjuz]

Lights, Camera, Action!

okay, yes, you have a stupid crush on Dean Winchester. But you'll get over it, right? It just sucks now, especially when you have to go on a hunt just the two of you, but when the hunt turns into an unwilling trip to a parallel universe where you're actors starring in a rom-com, your feelings become harder to hide...

!!! 18+ MDNI. Dean Winchester x fem!reader, mutual pining, love confession, fluff, smut (fingering, unprotected sex [WRAP IT!!], praise, slight edging, teasing, p in v), explicit language. ~7.3k words

“Let’s just get this over with,” you mutter as you pack your bag.

You knew you weren’t really being fair.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault that Sam had broken his arm and had to pull out of the hunt. It’s not like it was even a big deal, of course you wanted Sam to be able to rest and heal. Sam had gone to stay at Bobby’s to do just that. Heal, and help him out with research in the meantime.

Unfortunately, that left you and Dean to take on the vamps alone. The hunt was routine. It wasn’t a big nest. It was perfectly fine for two people to tackle by themselves.

You just wish it wasn’t you two.

It’s not that you don’t like Dean. You do. Too much. That’s the problem.

You want to be around him so much it leaves you feeling like there’s a hole in your chest when he’s not in your vicinity. Your organs are on fire whenever he speaks about another girl at the bars. When he goes home with someone else, you might as well be in the grave already.

At least with Sam around, who you’d opened up to about your pathetic longing on one night that involved Dean leaving with a girl at the bar and too many tequila shots, he redirected the conversation whenever Dean talked about someone else.

Sam could shut Dean up with ease. He could just chalk it up to not wanting to hear about his brother’s escapades. All you could do was smile and nod, because if you said anything, you would come across as jealous or controlling or just weird, and Dean would surely be able to piece together the longing.

It's stupid you even get the sick feeling when Dean talks about other girls, because Dean isn’t yours to be jealous of. Dean is a grown man who can go home with anyone he wants. 

That was that.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself when your bed was too empty and cold. When you let yourself indulge in fantasies of Dean pulling you into his side and kissing you goodnight. Or holding your hand as you walk down main street of the little town closest to the bunker. Or when you thought about how it would feel to have the words my girl leave Dean’s mouth in reference to you. Or how Dean would feel inside you-

But Dean isn’t yours and that was that.

Very annoyingly, though, the feelings would not leave you alone, and the consequences of your crush were beginning to show themselves.

Sam warned you that you weren’t being subtle about it. You should have listened. Sam said you got a bit too quiet when Dean spoke of going home with someone else. That you didn’t really speak to him the morning after.

Dean must’ve noticed, because it’s been a month since he’d taken anyone home. And you hate that the cessation of his one night stands watered the stupid little garden of hope within you that Dean could be yours.

You were trying to remain logical. Chances are, Dean is taking pity on you for now, until you move on. And once you do, he’ll go back to taking a girl home after nearly every hunt.

One day, you hope you find a way to be okay with that.

But it’s not today. And going on a hunt with just the two of you is like rubbing salt in the wound.

“Woah!” Dean laughs at your desire to finish the hunt already. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You sigh, reining in the side of you that wanted to snap at him and make sure he knew that your problem was him. Chew him out for being so fucking charming and handsome and considerate, for stopping the one nights stands and giving you hope-

“I hate vamps.” You settle on with a tired tone.

That’s actually true, you do hate vamps. Not the reason you were so eager for the hunt to be over, but at least it wasn’t a total lie.

Dean shrugs as he slings his bag over the shoulder and begins ascending the bunker stairs. “I don’t know, there’s worse things to hunt.”

You’re close behind him once you stuff the last of your gear into your duffle. “I guess. Sucking someone’s blood grosses me out, though.”

“Well,” Dean begins as he pushes open the bunker door. He pauses right before he crosses the threshold. “We can go out for celebratory drinks after, how about that? Get all that grossness out of your pretty head”

He flashes you a grin. God, if that’s not the most unfair thing he’s ever done. Your shoes suddenly seem very interesting when the moment grows too intense.

“Yeah, uh, sure,” you try to say casually, although it most likely comes across as anything but.

Dean hums, but gracefully averts his unfairly perfect face from your direction and steps out of the bunker.

You look back up just in time to catch a bright flash. You take a step backwards at the assault on your eyes. You have to a blink a few times to readjust yourself to absence of the white light before you’re able to see what had happened.

Dean is gone.

Nothing else looks altered, except Dean is gone.

“Dean!” You call as you take a quick look over the bunker to ensure no one- or nothing- was inside. Satisfied with the emptiness, you quickly pull a gun out of your bag before you bound out the bunker as well.

There’s another flash. When you open you eyes again, you crash head first into Dean.

That’s… not right.

Dean had been gone. He wasn’t outside the bunker. How did you crash into him after taking one step outside when you couldn’t see him from inside?

You look around, taking in your surroundings. You were outside, but it wasn’t the exterior of the bunker. It wasn’t an empty field with no one in sight for miles, no, there were people in sight. A lot, actually. All bustling around. Some rushing around as if someone was going to scream at them if they didn’t get where they were supposed to be at lightning speed. Some walking with their noses up as if they were the most important people in the world. A bunch of trailers lined the big parking lot you’ve found yourselves in. You look over your shoulder to see you and Dean were apparently exiting from one of the trailers, instead of the exit of the bunker and all your gear was gone. Even the gun you were holding just seconds ago.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean exclaims, interrupting your survey of the location.

“Dean… what-”

“I’m not sure why, but I think we’re in the dumbest parallel universe ever. Again.” He groans, scrubbing his face.

“Parallel universe?” You blink at him. “Wait- wait, again? The fuck you mean again?”

Dean spins around, looking up at you from where he was on the lower step of the trailer. “This happened to Sam and I a couple years back. Not too long before you joined us, actually. It was a whole thing with the angels.” Dean waves a dismissive hand. “Anyway, uh, this is a parallel universe where our lives are a TV show. Some stupid thing called Supernatural.”

You take a deep breath. That didn’t make a lick of sense. “Dean, what the fuck are you talking about? Our lives are a TV show? Who would be watching us?”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs, seeming far too calm with this situation involving parallel universes and your lives being broadcast on television. “I just know it’s happened before.” Dean suddenly takes in the nervous expression on your face, and he softens. “Listen, sweetheart. We’re actors, okay? For now, if anyone asks, pretend to be an actor. I don’t know who fake-you is-” you quirk up an eyebrow at him. “The actress who plays you in this universe,” he clarifies. “The people on set will be calling you by her name.”

“Right.” You chew on your lip. “Fake me. Right. Just another day in our lives, right? God, I miss hunting before angels got involved,” you murmur.

Dean snorts, nodding his head. “I second that, sweetheart." He pauses, as if considering something. "Alright, we’ve got to find a way out of here, and we will. In the meantime, try not to be too suspicious.”

You nod slowly, trying to work out how not to be suspicious when you don’t even know your own name anymore.

“Just… act like you belong, okay? Act like an LA prick,” he offers as a small joke.

You chuckle. “That’ll come naturally to you,” you tease.

“Oh, shut-”

“Mr. Ackles?” A stressed looking woman holding a clipboard stands at the bottom of the trailer steps.

You wrinkle your nose. Ackles?

Dean’s head whips around. “Yes?”

Dean answered. That must be fake-him.

Mr. Ackles, huh.

“You were supposed to be in wardrobe 15 minutes ago.” She leans out to the side slightly to meet your eyes. “You too, for the record.”

Dean gives you a quick glance.

“Uh, wardrobe? Aren’t these,” he gestures to his clothes, “fine? I mean, Dean wears jeans and flannels-”

The woman gives him an odd look, stress being overtaken by confusion. “Dean?” She pauses. “Mr. Ackles, this is not the Supernatual set.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. The production assistant quickly moves to fill the silence.

“I know you work long days on both that set and this one, so it’s an honest mistake, but this is the set of Love and Other Things Not Worth Pursuing.”

Dean looks back at you again, except his reassuring demeanour has been knocked out, instead he looks worried. He clears his throat before looking back at the PA.

“Sorry, yeah, those long days.” He laughs hesitantly. “Love and Other Things Not Worth Pursuing, right. Which is, uh…. what kind of project?”

The PA tilts her head. “Your rom-com debut, Mr. Ackles.”

“Of course. My… rom-com debut,” Dean repeats. “And… she,” he jerks his head back in your direction, “is my co-star?”

The PA sighs and mutters your name. “Yes, she is your co-star.”

You barely catch the utterance of your fake name, your mind caught on rom com. Of course, that's just your luck. Someone is fucking with you, you're sure of it.

You lean on the railing of the steps to be in view of the PA, putting on your sweetest smile. Under no circumstances could you be allowed to act in a rom-com opposite Dean Winchester, even if just for a little bit.

“Uh, I’m actually not feeling well. Mr. Ackles-”

“Jensen,” Dean mumbles under his breath.

You suppress a smile when he glances back, Jensen? You were totally teasing him about that later.

“Jensen,” you correct yourself, “was actually just, uh, checking up on me in the trailer.” You gesture behind you as if she was going to ask for proof such a trailer existed. “Is… is there any chance of a sick day, or something?”

The PA shakes her head. “No. Unless you’re bed ridden, we have a reshoot to do today and then there’s only one scene left. We’re nearing the end of shooting. Everyone is trying to make the deadline.” She feigns a sympathetic look, though you can tell she’s annoyed you even asked. “I’ll ask your assistant to being your some medicine, though. If that’s all, we really need to get the two of you into wardrobe,” she says urgently.

You nod, not wanting to cause any more trouble for the evidently exasperated PA.

This was fine, actually. Hopefully, she would take Dean to wardrobe, and before they sent someone to take you to wardrobe, you could sneak off and try to find something. You didn’t even know what you would be looking for, but surely you could find something-

Dean must’ve nodded or uttered some agreement while you were engaged in your flurried plan making, because he descends onto the lot and starts following the PA. They only make it a few steps before she turns around again, as if having sensed you weren’t following.

She calls your name again. “I’ll take you to your wardrobe trailer as well.”

Dean subtly ticks his head for you to follow. You fall in step beside him, just far enough to be out of earshot of the PA if you whisper.

“So, what kind of things should we be looking for?”

Dean sighs. “Honestly, an angel pulled us out last time, so I don’t even know. But-” He cuts himself off as another person passes, giving them a tight-lipped smile. “There was something about a gate? There should be one near. I’ll try to call Cas.”

“I will too. And, I guess, just keep an eye out for anything strange?” You question.

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “And while we wait…” He smiles. “We’re going to be co-stars.”

“In a rom-com,” you say flatly. If it wasn’t for your huge crush, you’d think this was funny. You’d make a dozen jokes about the cheesy script or the tired clichés. You could think of a handful just off the title of the project alone, but the twisting in your stomach takes away any attempt of making light of the situation. “I’d almost prefer the monster hunting show.”

Dean bumps you shoulder with his. “C’mon. Just try to have fun. Keep an eye out, but we’re stuck with this until Cas comes, most likely.”

“You seem so calm about this for someone who despises rom-coms.” You give him a pointed look. It was very odd he hadn’t mumbled one word of complaint since your arrival.

Dean clears his throat at the comment, looking off to the side with an expression you can’t read. When he looks back, he's wearing his signature grin once again. “Hey, just think of it like this: this is the closest either of us will ever come to being rich. Like ever.”

You laugh, and you find yourself leaning into the bump of Dean’s shoulder subconsciously before you stop yourself. “That’s true… I suppose. I just hope Cas gets here before we have to do any real acting.”

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “They made it known to me last time that I sucked at it.”

You hum. “Well, that destroys your dreams back home, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know it. I’ve always wanted to-”

The PA stops so abruptly you nearly run into her. She points towards a trailer to your right, as she throws you a look over her shoulder. “Your wardrobe. Medicine is on the way. You’ll be on set in 30 minutes. Mr. Ackles, continue to follow me, please.”

Dean pats your arm, mouthing a good luck before continuing to follow the PA. You approach the trailer like it was a supernatural being in its own right. Your nervous system sure couldn’t tell the difference. You call for Cas rapidly, praying he'll show up, before gingerly knocking at the door.

The hinges squeak in protest from being swung open so quickly. Before you can even blink, someone has your hand, leading you into the trailer piled with different outfits that were probably worth more than your beat-up car.

“Darling, where have you been? You were supposed to be here 20 minutes ago. Tom is already on my ass for taking too long. Now, I’m losing some of my precious time dressing you! But, I told him, Tom, you cannot rush art! These people just don’t understand-” The woman who had your hand whips around as she deposits you in the middle of the trailer. You finally get a good look at her. She had blue hair and kind eyes. She looked a few years older than you, and her name tag read Renée. “Oh, honey, what are you wearing? I know I can’t dress you off set, but are you just that helpless?” Despite the words, Renée smiles genuinely at you before turning to fuss through different racks.

You look down at your clothes. It was your normal hunting attire. Jeans, a t-shirt, and a bomber jacket. It was even complete with muddy work boots.

You suppose that it wasn’t acceptable attire for an actress, though.

“Sorry, I wasn’t feeling well,” you offer simply. You figure the less you talk, the better. You had no clue what the personality of fake-you was like.

“Hmm, the PA told me, yeah. Sorry, you’re not feeling well.”

“I’ll live.”

You give her a small smile when she turns back around with a dress. It was stunning, the kind of thing you only saw the one time you crashed a charity gala for a case. Your eyes widen when she holds it out to you.

“Uh, this dress?”

Renée nods. “We’re reshooting the meeting scene today, remember? You’re at a formal dinner where your ex has just dumped you, leaving you abandoned. Then Jensen’s character crashes it for free alcohol. You two hit it off, and, well, fall madly in love. But that part is filmed. They just need the reshoot of the meeting scene.”

You nod along. Luckily the plot of the movie seemed cliché enough to be quite simple to decipher.

She stares at you for a few seconds. “Alright, honey, strip for me, please.”

You pause, but begin to pull your shirt over your head after a few awkward seconds where you’re sure you resembled a deer in headlights.

Once your clothes are off, she wastes no time helping you step into the dress. The silky red fabric was pooled at you feet before she slides it up legs. She helps you get your arms in. You’re just fully covered when the door swings open again.

The man who enters places some medicine a table before turning around.

This must be your PA.

“Sorry, miss, I thought you were dressed.”

“It’s alright.” You nod at the medicine even though he can’t see you. “Thanks.”

“Is it alright if we go over your schedule for today?” He asks, still facing away from you. You appreciated the gesture.

“Yes, please.”

“So, first we’re reshooting the meeting scene. I brought the script. You can look it over again in hair and makeup. Which, by the way, we should be at in 5 minutes.” Renée huffs, but the PA ignores her. “Then we’re shooting, expected to take about an hour. Then, it’s break for lunch. More wardrobe, and hair and makeup for the final scene. The honeymoon scene. And then you’re home free for the day. Tomorrow you’ll be in to tie up any loose ends.”

“The honeymoon scene?” You bite your lip, you feel heat rising to your face as you consider the implications of a honeymoon scene. “That isn’t like a… uh-”

“Sex scene?” The PA says easily. “Have you read the pages?”

“I’m having trouble recalling-”

“Stop giving her a hard time. She’s not feeling good,” Renée says gently to the PA. “No, honey, it’s not a sex scene.”

You breath a sigh of relief. “Good, I was getting a bit nervous-”

“You’ll just be on the bed in lingerie and then the screen fades to black.”

“What was that?” you ask quickly, your mouth suddenly feeling Sahara desert-levels of dry.

She laughs. “Honey, don’t worry. The filming will be quick and you can wear a robe until they’re ready for you.”

You don’t say anything for a second, because that wasn’t the issue. You would gladly parade around in lingerie all over this set if it meant Dean wouldn’t have to see you in it. You pray to Cas again before you manage to choke out a small agreement at the stylist’s reassurance.

She pats your shoulder. “Honey, you’re going to look fabulous. Hell, you already do. That’s my magic done.”

“Wonderful.” The PA finally turns to you. He holds out a hand for the heels the stylist is offering him, and then slides some slippers your way.

You slip on the plush footwear before following the PA back outside. The stylist instructs you to hitch up your dress to not get any dirt on the bottom from your trudge across the crowded lot. As you arrive on set, the PA hands a script to you and then points you towards the hair and makeup chairs.

Dean is already sat in one of the chairs when you approach. He’s squinting at the bright lights in the mirror and scowling at the poor artist trying to put foundation on. You stifle a giggle as you make your way over to your chair.

There’s two pairs of hands on your face and in your hair as you try to read your pages. You had fifteen minutes to memorize a little 5 minute scene. The dialogue was bland and choppy. The plot was nothing revolutionary. You don’t find yourself particularly invested in the characters, but when the makeup artist gushes over the depth of the story, you agree with a smile.

Not worth causing a fuss over something you won’t ever have to see the final product of.

The hair stylist and makeup artist did well with the short time they had. Your hair had been curled and pinned up in a fancy updo. A few stray curls frame your face in a way that looks almost accidental, but perfectly placed to not block any of your facial features. The makeup was exaggerated, as you’ve told it must be for the camera, but the highlights were a bright red lipstick and soft smoky eye. The wardrobe, makeup, and hairdo were all things you knew you’d never be able to replicate at home. You find yourself enjoying having an opportunity to dress up for once.

You’re finally reunited with Dean as you rise from the makeup chair. As you approach the actual set, Dean meets you there. He gapes at you for a few moments before clearing his throat. You don’t miss the way he shifts on his feet.

They had turned Dean into a completely different man. Wardrobe putting him into something he would never wear voluntarily, chino pants and a smart-looking sweater. Not as formal as you, because his character wasn’t meant to be at the dinner, but he still looked amazing.

“Sweetheart, you look- wow.”

“You look pretty wow, yourself.” You smile at him, trying to distract yourself from the flutter in your stomach at the compliment. “How hard did they have to fight you to get your flannels away?”

“Tooth and nail.” Dean winks at you.

The PA interrupts to bring over the heels. You slide off your slippers and hold onto Dean’s shoulder as you slip the far more uncomfortable footwear on.

“So, did you find anything?” You ask lowly.

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head. “Been calling Cas, though. You?”

“I honestly didn’t even have time to look,” you mumble. “Apparently coming from a different timeline puts you pretty far behind schedule.”

Dean chuckles. “You know the Hollywood types.”

You hum. “I’m nervous about these pages,” you say quietly, finally straightening back up. “I’m not sure how well I can remember them.”

“When in doubt, just say something witty or cheesy.” Dean shrugs. “Who’s going to stop us from improv-ing?”

“Probably the director.”

“Well, the director can shove it,” Dean whispers. “The scene is short, anyway.”

“God, I hope Cas shows up soon.”

Dean just hums. “I don’t know, I kind of-”

“Ackles!” Someone shouts, followed by your last name. “Marks!”

You furrow your brow at Dean. “Director?”

“Probably.”

He holds out an arm to you. You tilt your head at him.

“You heels are pretty high, sweetheart, don’t want you to take a tumble.”

“What a gentleman,” you tease, but you gratefully accept. You can walk in heels, but it’s been a while.

“Guilty,” Dean drawls. He leads you over to the director. A man who looks way too proud to be sitting in a folding chair barking orders at people like they were made to serve him.

“Finally!” The director grumbles as you both approach. “You.” He points at you. “Your mark is by the bar. You’re sad, your boyfriend just dumped you. You’re ready to give up on love.” The director takes a deep breath. “You.” He turns to Dean. “You come in on the signal. Enter from the left. You’re trying to get in on the open bar. You sit next to her, and boom! Magic happens. Now, on the old reshoot, it was too stiff. And there was the lens problem- anyway, be loose. Have fun!”

You both exchange glances where Dean almost begins laughing, but you quickly avert you gaze before he can do so and nod.

“Good. Last thing,” the director continues, “we’ve gotta get this, fast. Deadlines and you were both already late. I swear to God,” he raises his voice, “if anyone screws up” He looks across everyone standing in the room, “I will have your ass on a plate!”

Dean has to look down and put a hand over his mouth to hide his laugh this time. You gently elbow his side.

“Alright!” The director claps. “Marks!”

The PA from the wardrobe trailer takes your arm, guiding you onto the set. The lights were blinding and hot, the set was cramped and a giant camera was angled onto the right side of your face. You were uncomfortable with the whole set up of it. But the director is already screaming action, so you bury your head in your hands, trying to act distraught that your boyfriend had dumped you.

You draw from experience, taking all those nights home alone while Dean was out with some girl.

You hear Dean slide in next to you, and as scripted, your head slowly pops up. You stir your fake alcoholic prop martini, that was really just water.

“Hey, you okay?” Dean- or his character, you suppose- asks. His head is tilted down to catch your eyes.

You look over at him. His eyes are soft, his expression caring. You smile.

“I’m alright, thanks.” A sip of your drink.

“Now, come on,” he presses. “That’s not true.”

You shrug. “Bit of a heavy conversation topic for a stranger.”

Dean smirks as you look back towards him. “Is it a secret?”

You hum. “Something like that.”

And that’s about the extent of the lines you remember. It doesn’t help that Dean is looking at you like he’s already fallen. Like he cares.

Maybe you were a good actress after all, because all you wanted to do right now was melt into his arms. Tell him how happy you would both be together.

“I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me yours.” Dean quirks a brow at you. “Deal?”

“This feels a trap.” Another sip of your drink. It was improv now, but the director hadn’t called cut, so you keep going. “Is your secret worth my while?”

“I think so.” He leans closer. Dean smells like sandalwood and whiskey. It’s a scent you could get lost it.

“Well, prove it,” you challenge. “You first.”

“How about this? I’m crashing this party.”

“Not that impressive, I could’ve guessed that.”

Dean feigns offence. “How?”

You grin. “You’re the only one not up on the dress code.”

“Touché. Do I still get a secret?”

“If you want to know, I guess." You sigh. "My boyfriend just dumped me.” You look back at your drink as you talk.

“He dumped you, while you’re looking like that? Sweetheart, he’s the dumbest son of a bitch on earth.” Dean tilts your head back up towards him.

You know that touch wasn’t scripted.

You blink at him, but quickly compose yourself. You didn’t want to have to do this scene again. “You really think so?”

“I know so. God, if I had you…” Dean looks over your face, eyes lingering on your lips. “Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be dumping you at a formal dinner.”

“Well, thank you, charming stranger,” you tease.

“Sweetheart.” He tips your chin up. “I won’t be a stranger after tonight, trust me.”

You’re about 80% sure neither of you are on script anymore. And you’re so close, and the scene is almost over. You tentatively tilt your head in a silent question to Dean.

He doesn’t hesitate, he closes the distance with a soft kiss.

You close your eyes and drink in the closeness. Possibly the only time you’d ever be able to feel his lips on yours, and it’s everything you had imagined. His hands even cradle your face like you thought they would. Your heart beats erratically. Your brain racing at all the implications of this. A small little logical portion of your brain is screaming about how awkward it would be to return back to the bunker after this, with a kiss hanging over the two of you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. This was probably the only time this would ever happen, you were going to enjoy every second of it.

When he pulls away, his mouth is rested in a small smile. Dean looks at you with such fondness and love, you can’t believe anyone had ever told him he was a bad actor. The lovesick longing that rested right by your heart in your chest was fully buying into this performance. You could melt right here, satisfied and not having to face what would come next.

“CUT!”

A bell rings. The director runs onto set.

“Holy shit! You guys weren’t on script at all!” You wince, expecting to get chewed out, but to your surprise, he doesn’t look mad. “That chemistry! Jesus, where was that for the rest of the movie? And that improvised kiss, my god! Wow! Just, amazing! And we’re ahead of schedule now, this is so fantastic. Back to wardrobe, we’re doing the honeymoon scene, now! Oh, we could get off early-” The director keeps talking even as he turns to walk away.

You open your mouth to speak to Dean, although you’re not sure what you’re planning to say, but the PAs are quicker, dragging the two of you back to wardrobe.

You separate as you get pulled back into your trailer. Renée is sitting at a desk with a magazine, feet on the table.

The PA leaves you back where you had been before awkwardly shuffling out again with a request to knock when you’re ready.

“That was quick.” Renée puts down her magazine. “Done with the reshoot already?”

“I guess so.” You shrug. “Director said he really liked the chemistry.”

“Well, congrats. You know I’d be thrilled if we could finally get off early for once. I’ve got a hot date tonight.” Renée rounds to your back, beginning to untie your dress. “The honeymoon scene will be so quick to film, too. God bless you, honey.”

The fabric of the dress pools at your feet once again as the straps on your shoulders are removed. You step out and Renée hangs up the dress. You say a solemn farewell in your head to the nicest thing you will ever wear in your life.

You shiver as you stand mostly naked in the trailer. You can feel a draft coming in through one of the windows.

“Now, I’ll turn around while you get these on.” Renée holds out a bra and pantie set to you. Dark red and lacy, covering as little as possible. You furrow your brow.

“Oh wow, they sure know how to pick these things, huh?” You murmur.

Renée turns around. “You talked them out of a full sex scene, so this was the compromise.” She shrugs.

“I talked them out of a sex scene?” You ask as you slide of your undergarments and begin to put on the ones she had given you.

“You and your agent did. And good on you.”

“Wow.” You nod. Maybe fake-you was pretty kickass.

You finish setting the panties on your hips and give Renée the okay to turn around. You felt really comfortable with her. Her presence was warm and she seemed non-judgemental.

“Honey! Wow, you are gorgeous!”

You give her a wide smile. “Thank you.”

“Now, we just need…” she grabs a sheer coverup, again the colour of a dark red wine, and approaches you. “And then you’ll be all set!”

As the coverup goes on over the lingerie set, you catch yourself in the mirror. You wonder how Dean would react if he saw you in this. If he’ll avert his eyes and refuse to look at you. Or if his gaze will linger and his tongue will dart out to wet his lips...

You bite your own lip in the reflection. You try one last time to pray to Cas as Renée slides a robe over your shoulders.

There’s a flap from behind you, much to your surprise. Renée jumps backwards and you spin around.

“Cas! Took you long enough, thank god!”

“Yes, well-” Cas pauses walking towards you, quickly looking toward the floor. “Your… robe.”

Your eyes snap down to the open robe. You blush.

“Sorry, sorry.” You fumble with the belt to tie it in the front. “You can look now.”

“We’re going back to the bunker. I already retrieved Dean,” Cas says simply once he begins walking back towards you again.

“Thanks, Cas. Zap me home!” You exclaim eagerly. It’s been made clear the movie star life just wasn’t for you.

Cas’ hand is on your shoulder in an instant. In a blink, you’re back in the war room. Dean was standing in the middle of the room, wearing only boxers and an open robe.

It seemed the wardrobe department had been able to do a number on him, too.

Dean is in front of you in an instant. “You okay, sweetheart?” He reaches out, but retracts his hand just as quick. You took that for an omen for what you knew was coming. An awkward conversation where he would describe that the kiss was just acting.

“I’m fine, Dean.” You nod. “You good?”

Dean lets out a short exhale through his nose, gesturing to his lack of clothes. “Only my pride is injured.”

Cas clears his throat. “So, the angels-”

“Actually, Cas, could you give us a sec? Before we talk shop, if it’s not urgent?” Dean presses, raising his eyebrows at the angel.

“I suppose it can wait for a little while. May I return this evening?”

Dean chuckles. “This evening, Cas. Sounds good.”

Cas nods, and with that, he’s gone.

Uncomfortable silence falls over the two of you as you both refuse to remove your eyes from where Cas had been standing. You break first, not looking directly at Dean, but at least angling your body towards him again.

“Listen, Dean, I get it. We were acting, there’s no reason for any discussion or for anything to be awkward.” You shrug, hoping he’ll drop it so you didn’t end up saying something stupid. So you didn’t end you describing how the kiss made your heart soar. So you didn’t end up having to get your heart broken after it had just been so full.

He shakes his head. “Sweetheart, I just- let me speak, yeah?”

You nod, prepared for the acknowledgment that Dean knew your feelings and was going to try to let you down easy. You wanted to say death would be kinder than the rejection he was about to feed you, but you instead you say nothing.

“I… sweetheart, remember how I said I was a terrible actor?”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You mean when you lied, cause that performance was pretty convincing-”

“No, that’s the thing-” He rubs the back of his neck. “I am. You can ask Sam, it was- woo, it was bad last time. But, uh, I guess… it’s easy when- when you draw from your feelings.”

“What-” You tilt your head, giving him a confused look. “What are you talking about?”

Dean sighs. “Alright, I’m going to come clean. Sam told me about you… liking me, as more than friends.”

“Fucking Sam-”

Dean waves a hand. “Wait- no, don’t be mad at him. I sort of... asked him, because I was wondering if you felt the same that I did.”

“That… you did? As in…” You can almost hear the whirring of your brain like an overheated computer as you process the information. “Like… more than friends?”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, sweetheart. So, all that, back there,” he shakes his head. “There was no acting.”

You can’t help the stupid smile that graces your features. “No acting?”

“No, I meant it, sweetheart. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” Dean shrugs. “And if I don’t tell you now, I think Sam will kill me.”

It was your turn to laugh. It came out choked from everything your brain was processing regarding the revelation. “Well, I guess Sam already ratted me out,” your expressions softens as you see the hope in Dean’s eyes, “but, yeah, I’ve been… waiting to kiss you, too. I just thought… you weren’t interested.”

“Sweetheart.” Dean steps closer, his hands rest on your waist. “How could I not be?”

Your hands finds his shoulders. The idiotic smile stays glued to your face. “Good answer, Winchester. Where’d you learn all that charm?”

“Natural born.” He nods at you. “So, would you take a charming, handsome fella like me?”

“Think so.”

Dean pulls you closer as he leans in. You meet for a kiss again, and somehow, it’s better than the last time, because you’re his. Dean’s tongue slips into your mouth easily and the kiss deepens. Suddenly, you’ve never needed Dean more. Even surpassing the late nights when you’ve thought about him as you hand snaked down between your legs.

You pull away after a few seconds. “Dean- I- you know, they gave me this really nice lingerie-”

You don’t even get to finish before Dean hitches you up. Hands under your thighs as he carries you directly to his bedroom and lets you fall back into his bed. “Sweetheart, fuck,” he says breathlessly as he leans over you. He sucks on the exposed skin of your neck right under your ear. “My girl is so beautiful.”

You push yourself up just enough to untie the robe, leaving you in the lingerie in front of him. His eyes slowly take you in. His licks his lips before taking your robe and throwing it onto the floor.

“Sweetheart, it’s a really good thing Cas zapped us out of there. God, those costume designers must have been trying to kill me.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I think they were.” Your hands find the bottom of the sheer cover up, and you slowly lift it up over your head. “Good thing we got home.”

Dean begins to palm himself through his boxers. As you throw the coverup over your shoulder, Dean steps forward once again.

“Ah.” You hold up a finger. “Impatient. Let me finish undressing, first.”

“Sweetheart.” He tilts his head. “Fuck, I can’t wait.”

“It’s worth it. Promise.”

"Oh, I know it is, but I've been waiting so long already-"

Your hands move teasingly slow to your back, unhooking your bra. You try to ignore the growing wet spot in your panties, wanting the moment to be as memorable as possible for Dean. You stand up after getting rid of the bra. You hook your thumbs under the panties and slide them down your legs. They drop on the floor with the softest swish.

Dean’s head falls back as you’re bare in front of him. “Please, sweetheart. No more waiting. Need you now.”

You sit back down on the bed, nodding at his boxers. “Then what are those still doing on?”

In a blink, Dean removes his boxers, and he’s back on top on you. He latches onto your neck as his thumb runs circles over your clit. The touch is so sudden that you arch your back at even the slightest friction. You were already so sensitive from just the thought of Dean ruining you.

“So wet and ready, huh?” He whispers into your ear.

A finger pumps inside of you, and then another. The quickly scissor, stretching you out while he continues circling your clit. You can’t help how the heat is already building in your stomach and just about as the pressure gets to be too much, his fingers are out of you.

You whine.

“Shhhh, pretty girl. When you cum, it’s going to be around my cock. You want that, right?”

“Yes, please,” you say in a breathy voice.

“Mhm.” He nods. “Good girl.” He pumps himself a couple times before lining up, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock. He moves in slowly, stretching you out until he’s fully inside you.

“Oh, god,” you murmur at the feeling. “Dean, fuck.”

“You feel so good.” Dean closes his eyes, taking a breath. He begins to move slowly. Dean keeps a tight grip on your hips, stopping you from speeding up the movement.

It’s agonizing but so perfect. He slides almost fully out before filling you again. He hits that spot inside you every time that causes your hips to buck despite his grip and your head to feel fuzzy.

“Please, Dean, faster,” you plead after a few thrusts at the slow pace. “Need more, please.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Dean doesn’t speed up, but his thumb is back on your clit. “Like this?”

You swallow, a lewd sound leaving you that you would have been embarrassed about had you not been so desperate. “Please, Dean,” you try again.

“Since you asked so nicely.” He gives you a small smile before he speeds up, pounding into your weeping cunt at a faster pace that quickly builds up the coil in your stomach.

“Oh, god.” Your hand grips at the blankets like a prayer. “Close, Dean, god. So good.”

“You feel amazing, sweetheart. So tight. Are you going to drench this cock for me? Come on. Go ahead.”

Dean hits that spot inside you one more time, and you cry out his name as your pussy flutters erratically around him. Your body shudders, your back arching as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck-” You feel Dean’s warm release filling you as he comes over the edge. He thrusts into you throughout his orgasm, his hips slowing with his breath as he finally rides out the euphoria.

You take a breath, looking up at him and pressing a kiss into the corner of his mouth where he was crumpled over you.

“That was fucking… fantastic, Dean.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” He pulls back to grin at you. “I’m going to pull out now, okay?”

You nod. Dean maneuvers himself out of you and moves to stand up.

“I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” He turns and walks out of the room, but quickly returns with a damp towel. He cleans your thighs and cunt while murmuring praises in your ear.

He cleans himself up before moving to disregard the towel. He brings you a new set of clothes and helps you into them.

Once you’re finally both redressed and cleaned up, you fall back onto the bed. Dean lies next to you, but an outstretched hand tangles with yours. Eventually it morphs into you pulled into his side, tucked against his chest.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I can’t believe it took us being zapped into another universe for us to admit our feelings.”

Dean snorts. “We always were stubborn bastards.”

“Well, that’s alright.” You shrug. “We’re stubborn bastards together, now.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Damn right.”

elle is yapping: this is the longest thing I have ever posted. uh, you're welcome? sorry? I don't know. I'm delirious. it's almost three in the morning help. I don't want to edit this.

non delirious yapping: this is the mutual pining fic I spoke of oh so long ago. it was meant to only be 4k words... oopsies :):)

tyty for reading!!

tags ↓

everything <3: @studiogrimm810 @wchswift @bejeweledinterludes @losers-clvb @rositaslabyrinth @samslovebug @fuckedupfate @starzify @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @bluemerakis @tinas111 @pieandflannel @lunaleah

spn fans: @shuuji71

the jackles obsessed: @figthoughts @cupidzbunny

the dean team: @deansbbyx

get added to a tag list here

check out more dean works here, or check out all my works here!

sparkle divider by @/anitalenia

Photos are not mine, can be found here (Pinterest)

[meowjuz]

Hot and Heavy

summary: when clark gets into an argument with his parents about his abilities, he comes to you to release his frustration. warnings: fem!reader, sex (like a lot), dirty talk, overstimulation, the nickname 'baby', mentions of arguing, cursing, 18+, mdni (1k words) just watched Heat in season 2, and I'm obsessed with horny clark kent, so here we are!! (gif credit to the wonderful @bellasweetwriting )

Clark loved his parents, that's not something anyone ever had to doubt – but that didn't mean they got along all the time, especially when it came to their opinions on how clark should manage his abilities.

Those disagreements are exactly what led him to stand out on your doorstep at 11:15 pm – no call, no text, no warning. He debates calling you first and asking if you’re busy, but soon decides to just knock on the door, the pent-up frustration enough to make him not think clearly.

You’re reading some trashy magazine on your bed, just having finished your nighttime routine, when you hear the familiar hard-handed knock on your front door. A small smile makes its way across your face as you get off of your bed and peer out of your bedroom window, looking down onto your front porch and the familiar figure that stands on it. Clark. 

You look over at the clock on your desk; he was here late. You rush down the stairs with a small smile on your face as you reach the door, opening it to reveal Clark in some worn-out jeans and his favorite denim jacket.

“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” you smirk, moving out of the doorway to let him in. You never minded when your boyfriend showed up, announced.

“It’s my parents – they have no trust in me, no faith.” he huffs, frustration evident in his voice as he rushes in through the door. He begins pacing in the living room, and you follow him with a frown on your face.  “Clark, I’m sure they’re just worried because they care-” you murmur, and he stops in his tracks, shaking his head.

“No, no-” he huffs, “they just don't understand.” he mutters before walking over to you, backing you into a wall. “All they see is some kid who can’t control his abilities, but they can't accept the fact that I’m not a kid anymore.” he mutters, forehead pressed against yours. “Clark,” you frown, your manicured hand coming to rest on his cheek sympathetically.

He just looks down at you, a new type of fire in his eyes as he crashes his lips onto yours, not giving you a chance to react before your lips melt into his. You’re a mix of moans and grunts as he leads you upstairs, one hand grasping the back of your head as you stumble up the stairs and into your bedroom.

It doesn't take long for him to lift you onto the bed, lying you down on the soft duvet cover as he crawls on top of you. His hands are working a mile a minute as he takes off his jacket and t-shirt, his lips still glued to yours as you work off your pair of pink silk pajama shorts – not that they were covering much anyway.

You two only break apart when he lifts your matching tank top over your head, taking a moment to admire how beautiful you are before his lips meet yours again. As his body cages you, you feel a large bulge pressing against your core, making you mewl softly.

“I know, baby, its okay” he mutters, lip trailing down your neck as he strips off his jeans and boxers, grabbing his already hard length in his hand as he smears the precum leaking from his cock across your pink cotton panties, his tip grazing your clit in the process, making you cry out in white hot pleasure. 

You’re a mess of pants and heavy breathing when he pulls your panties off, the delicate fabric tearing around your hips, but you can't bring yourself to care. When he looks down at your glistening folds, he exhales softly “this all for me?” he murmurs gruffly, his fingers coming down to swipe across your bundle of nerves, making you gasp. “yes” you whine softly, eyes rolling back. 

You feel Clark's hands grasp your thighs, pushing them up to rest over his shoulders as he presses into you, an ache you’ve never felt before blossoming in your lower stomach. He drills into you like he’s mad at you, small huffs escaping his lips as he focuses on pressing his full length into you like it’s the most important thing in the world.

The only sounds escaping you are small huffs and whines as he croons in your ear, “yeah, baby, I know, i know” he murmurs, fingers gripping your waist tightly as his head hangs down, eyes clenched tightly together.

It’s only a few seconds later that he grabs your arms – which were being used to steady yourself as you grip his built forearms – and raises them above your head, one-handedly holding them in place to prevent you from squirming. He takes this opportunity to press into you deeply, eyes focused on the bulge that presents itself in your lower stomach from his massive length.

You feel the coil inside your stomach about to snap as you whine, “clark- clark i’m gonna-” “i know, baby” he mutters, cutting you off as one of his large hands grabs your legs off of his shoulders, forcing you into a mean mating press. You feel your ankles coming close to your head, and the pressure of his body over you is like a weighted blanket as you finally snap, weak whines escaping your lips.

Although you feel yourself go limp, Clark's stamina is unparalleled as he continues to pound into you, chasing his own high as you come down from yours, small gasps and cries of overstimulation coming from your lips. By the time you feel him tense up, prominent veins flexing in his forearms, you’re covered in a layer of sweat and exhaustion.

“Well that was fun,” you muse, stifling a tired smile as you look over at him, lips bitten and cheeks warm as he lies down next to you. “feel any better?” you hum, giving him a look that said are you done yet?

He turns to look at you with a familiar smirk, cheeks flush but not enough to give him the appearance of being tired. “I could go another round.” he teases quietly, and you just shake your head with a laugh as you lean in to kiss him. Another round it is.

[meowjuz]

omg this is by far my favorite acc! Could u do a part 2 of take one,forever? Set in the future when they’re married. Reader left the show in the early seasons but came back again towards the end.

But shes now married to Jensen. And they really act like those fun married couples. Maybe they even bring they’re kids on set sometimes ?

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ take one, forever²,

summary. you were once the star of the tvshow supernatural, alongside jared and jensen. eventually, you quit the show but you'll come to find out that a decade later, no much has changed.

pairing. jensen ackles x actress!reader genre. extra fluff!!

wordcount. 681

notes / warnings. oh, to be jensen's wife 🤭 thank you for the request sweets!

ᯓ★ read part 1

Years later, the forest's still freezing.

You’d think they’d have figured out how to warm up a damn set by now, but no—Vancouver’s still doing its icy, pine-scented thing. Only difference?

Now you’ve got his jacket and his ring.

“Careful,” Jensen calls from across the clearing, “you’re about to bust your ass on that moss.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

He laughs—deep, warm, easy. That laugh you’ve known for over a decade now. “Promises, promises.”

You flip him off, and he winks back like the absolute menace he is.

They talked you into coming back for the final season—“full circle,” they’d said. “Nostalgia,” they said. Really, it was just Jensen, smirking over his coffee one morning and going:

“C’mon, babe. Just one more run. For old time’s sake. Plus, the kids’ll love seeing Mom on screen again. We can make it a family adventure.”

And like always—like always—you’d caved.

So now you’re here. On the same damn show you started all those years ago. Same woods. Same demons. Only now, there’s a wedding band on your finger and a pair of tiny boots sitting by the craft services table, covered in mud and jelly donut glaze.

“Mom!” comes a squeaky voice from behind you.

Speak of the devil.

You turn just in time to see your youngest barreling toward you, arms outstretched like a missile of pure, joyful chaos.

“Hey,” you laugh, bending to catch her. “What happened to staying with Daddy?”

“She wanted gummy bears,” Jensen answers, jogging over with your son balanced on his hip and a juice pouch between his teeth. “And apparently, that was more important than, you know, listening to instructions.”

“She’s got your stubborn streak,” you tease.

Jensen huffs, shifting the weight of your son, who’s now trying to unzip his coat with sticky fingers. “She’s got your everything, babe. I’m just along for the ride.”

You brush a kiss to her forehead, holding her close while she babbles about a giant fake demon head she saw near the props truck.

Jensen watches you the whole time—fond, smug, like he still can’t believe this is real. Like he’s still falling for you even with a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and applesauce on his hoodie.

“Y’know,” he says casually, “you in flannel again is doing things to me.”

You arch a brow. “Jensen.”

“What? I’m just saying. It’s nostalgic. Sentimental. Romantic.”

“It’s sticky,” you deadpan, pointing to a spot on your sleeve where your daughter’s wiped her face. “And covered in god-knows-what.”

“Still hot.”

You laugh, trying to swat him, but he leans in and steals a kiss anyway—quick and warm, just enough to make your heart flutter. Ten years in, and the man still kisses you like it’s the first time.

“Okay, people!” the AD shouts. “Places for rehearsal!”

“Duty calls,” you sigh, passing your daughter off to Jensen and smoothing your hair as best you can.

“You got this,” he says, squeezing your hand before he steps back. “Go remind them who the real badass of this show is.”

You flash him a grin, cheeks flushed, heart full. “Try not to get upstaged by a toddler while I’m gone.”

“She already owns me. It’s over.”

As you walk toward set, flannel flapping behind you, you hear Jensen whisper something to the kids. Then a tiny voice calls out:

“Go, Mom! Kick the monster’s butt!”

You look back—and there they are. Your whole world, waving at you with gummy-sticky fingers and juice-stained smiles.

God, how did this all happen?

How did freezing woods and flirty banter become marriage and two wild kids and a love story still unfolding?

You don’t know.

But as you step back in front of the camera, same forest, same show, same smirk from across the set—you know one thing for sure:

You’d do it all over again.

Even the Wendigo.

Maybe.

If there’s coffee.

And if Jensen promises to keep looking at you like that—like you’re still the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

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[meowjuz]

Hii idk if you take Jensen ackles request but I was wondering if u could make one of him and actress!reader. Like they meet during the 1st season during the episode wendigo. Basically how Jared and Gen.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ take one, forever,

summary. jensen, jared, and you. the stars of the tvshow supernatural. and damn, there's a lot of chemistry.

pairing. jensen ackles x actress!reader genre. fluff ; slice of life au

wordcount. 527

notes / warnings. loved loved this request! thank you so much sweets 🩷

The first time you meet Jensen Ackles, it’s freezing.

You're deep in the Vancouver woods, shooting Wendigo, bundled up in layers that do nothing against the biting cold. Your breath puffs out in white clouds as you hug yourself, shifting from foot to foot to stay warm.

Then, from behind you—

"You’re gonna shiver yourself right off this set if you keep that up."

You turn, and there he is.

Jensen Ackles.

Even under the layers of flannel and the worn-in leather jacket, he looks insanely good. Sharp green eyes, that easy, lazy smirk—like the cold doesn’t affect him at all. Like he’s made for this.

"You’re not cold?" you ask, incredulous.

He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. “Nah. Texas blood.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Meanwhile, I’m over here turning into a human popsicle.”

Jensen grins, and without hesitation, he shrugs off his jacket, stepping closer to drape it over your shoulders. “Here. Don’t tell wardrobe.”

You blink up at him, surprised. The jacket is warm—smells like leather and a hint of aftershave.

"Jensen, I can’t take—"

"Sure, you can." He winks. “Can’t have my co-star turning blue before we even hit episode two.”

You should’ve known, right then and there, that you were in trouble.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹

The thing about Jensen is—he’s stupidly easy to like.

It starts small.

The inside jokes between takes. The way he always, always makes sure you’re okay after a long day. How he learns your coffee order by week two and starts showing up with an extra cup, just for you.

And then, one day, Jared figures it out before you even do.

“You guys are so obvious.”

You nearly drop your script. “What?”

Jared smirks, stretching out on one of the director’s chairs. “You and Jensen. The thing.”

“There is no thing.”

Jared gives you the most Jared look ever. “Right. So you just happen to be wearing his jacket again?”

Your face heats. “It’s cold—”

“And the way he looks at you? I mean, come on.”

You roll your eyes, but later, when you catch Jensen watching you from across set—his gaze lingering, thoughtful, warm—you wonder if maybe Jared has a point.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹

It happens in the quiet, in-between moments.

A late night on set, waiting out a rain delay, just the two of you huddled under the same coat, talking about everything and nothing.

A wrap party, where he pulls you onto the dance floor, spinning you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

A Tuesday afternoon, where he catches you laughing at something stupid Jared said and mutters, God, you’re something else, like he didn’t even mean to say it out loud.

And then—

"You wanna grab dinner sometime?"

You look up, heart stuttering. "Like… cast dinner?"

Jensen shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah. Just us.”

You swallow, pulse skipping. “Like a date?”

He shrugs, but there’s something softer in his gaze. “Yeah. If you want it to be.”

You do. God, you do.

"Yeah," you breathe. "I’d like that."

And when he grins, dimples deep and ridiculously charming, you think—

Maybe this is the start of something big.

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[meowjuz]

lucky you

summary you get a new pair of pants, including a little surprise for your boyfriend.

words 1195

note yes. reader gets those jeans with the 'lucky you' under the zipper. I've seen them everywhere and I want a pair so I'm writing about reader owning one because I'm broke 😔 don't know if this is horseshit or cute. mind that English isn't my first language pls 🥹

masterlist

At first it had heen nothing but a coincidence. You'd been at the local thrift store for some new clothes - not just for yourself but for Sam and Dean, too.

After actually finding some decent jackets and shirts for the boys, you finally looked for yourself. There were few nice looking ones but you couldn't find your size so you kept searching. And then, you saw it. The perfect pair of jeans. Nicely washed out, material looking nice, low waist but not so far it would be impractical and most of all you saw the zipper when taking them into your hands.

Instead of just blank denim behind the zipper, it said ‘lucky you' with a four-leaf clover, the writing gold on wine red fabric. It's adorable. It's your size. And you just know Dean would have an aneurysm when he sees the little detail.

So, you go to the cash register and buy them.

You're at the motel you, Sam and Dean had been staying at for the most recent case not much later, clothes in two bags and purse under your arm.

When you open the door Dean is sprawled on the bed Sam had taken, eating what looked like greasy fries.

He grins at you and waves his hand, fingers shining with grease, “Welcome back, baby.”

You grimace, “Go wash your hands.” He pouts and looks offended, turning his hand to check what you mean and then biting back a sassy retort to instead say, “Will do when I'm done eatin’.”

“We were gonna get dinner and look for another case tonight?” You remind, unpacking the clothes to sort which brother got which. Dean watches you, still noisily enjoying what you're pretty sure are cold fries from yesterday's dinner. He shoves the last few fries into his mouth, sucks the salt off his fingertips, chews and then nods, saying a food-muffled, “yes, ma'am.”

You roll your eyes, albeit fondly, and dump the new clothes on Sam's duffle, assuming he's out for either a run or to stock up on some snacks for the road and stem your hands on your hips. The look you give Dean is enough for him to move of off Sam's bed with a grumbled complaint.

Instead of going to the small – definitely moldy – bathroom, he stalks over to you and wraps one arm around your waist, looking over your shoulder and at the small pile of clothes for him. Using the angle to his advantage he nips at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, then kisses up to your ear and finishes with sucking a hickey there.

You let him — not just used to his possessiveness by now but having learned to love it, too.

“These for me?” You just hum, rifling through the two jeans and one jacket to give him an overview. “Yeah, these are good. Thank you, angel,” he moves from his spot behind you, kissing the corner of your mouth as he moves past you and to the bathroom. He says something that you tune out because it's definitely TMI, then slams the door behind himself.

You roll your eyes fondly when he calls out an apology for slamming the door (something you had instilled in him not to do), then chew on your bottom lip in thought. Hm.

He's in the bathroom and judging by the look of the fries he will be in there for at least ten minutes…

With that thought you try on the cute jeans you had spoiled yourself with, surprised to find them fitting almost perfectly. They're almost mid rise but not enough to really be considered that, they sit tight but not painfully so around your thighs and are loose around your calves, typical straight fit. They do however accentuate your behind nicely, which you're sure Dean will take note of and appreciate.

With a satisfied little hum you sit down at the table and look through the newspaper for possible new cases.

Dean comes out a moment later, furrowing his brows deep in thought before tilting his head. “You changed your pants,” he notes, proud of himself to have noticed the small detail. It makes you chuckle and nod, “Bought these today. Thought they were cute.”

He makes a contemplative sound and gestures you to stand up and come over to where he's sitting on the edge of the bed. When you do his hands grasp your hips. “Turn around f’me, angel?” You do, weak to the needy but demanding tone in his voice.

“Fuck,” he grunts, definitely appreciating the view. “You like?” You ask, looking over your shoulder. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and he licks his lips.

“My gorgeous girl,” he murmurs, kissing along the revealed skin of your belly where your shirt had ridden up. Smiling softly you run your fingers through his hair, waiting for his next move.

Expected but also totally unexpected he pops open the button on your jeans, then tugs down the zipper slowly. You see the exact moment that it registers what is imprinted on the inside of the zipper, his mouth opens a little and his one hand tightened on your hip.

“You tryin’ to kill me, baby?”

Grinning, “‘s a fun little detail, ain't it?” He groans as if you'd shot him, head falling forward and resting against your belly. He pushes his hand to the small of your back, mouthing at the sensitive skin of your abdomen, “Gettin’ me all worked up when you know Sammy's gonna be back any second.”

Biting your lip you make a punched out little sound, his mouth always putting you on edge. He grips the waistband of the jeans with both hands, fully ready to pull them down when the motel room door opens and Sam's ‘hello’ is interrupted by the sight of Dean's face burrowed in your stomach, your hands in his hair and the fly of your jeans open.

“Oh my God, guys. This is a shared space. Get a different room for that.” You snort, stepping back after Dean dutifully zips your pants back up and pats your bottom.

“Take it as an apology that I brought you new clothes?” he huffs but looks through the pieces you'd put on his duffle, ultimately saying thanks. Dean is still staring at you — more so the way you move in these lethal jeans — his eyes dark and his hands fisting the sheets.

It's a sight you couldn't withstand.

“Hey Sammy, Dean and I are gonna get dinner. D’you want a caesar salad?” There's a thumbs up and then you're being dragged out of the room with possessive hands gripping your waist. You're glad for the summer heat because Dean would not have let you waste another second by grabbing a jacket.

When you reach Baby he stops, breathing down your neck — literally.

“‘s that your gun or are you that excited to see me?” you tease and he nips at your shoulder in warning. “Get in the backseat, baby. Need to have a closer look at these new jeans.”

Oh, you're in for a ride judging by the look in his eyes.

[meowjuz]

looked at me like i was summer

pairing: 18!dean winchester x 18!fem!singer!reader summary: she isn’t supposed to be kissing dean winchester in a diner at three a.m. not in a sundress. not on his lap. not with cherry on her lips and his dad walking through the door. bobby’s daughter knows better. but knowing better doesn’t mean you stop.

disclaimer: english is not my first language! warnings: lowercase intended, first love vibes, fluff, dean is cocky, no use of y/n, no explicit physical description, third person, suggestive??, caught in the act (kissing), john looks like a decent father in this!, secret relationship, kiss now think never, stealing, summer love is my favorite. word count: 1.3k+

chye's corner: i love love, love doesn't love me. that's why i need to write. was thinking of creating a series of drabbles/one-shots for these two, 'cause i love them. let me know!! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:

the diner's nearly empty. just the buzz of bad fluorescent lights that haven't been cleaned in a decade and the soft hum of something summery coming from the jukebox. fleetwood mac, maybe, she doesn't really recognize the words. somewhere, a ceiling fan clicks out of sync with the music. outside, the summer heat still clings to the pavement.

it's 3am and the booth seats are still warm from hours of sun still trapped in the vinyl. she's in a sundress the color of cream soda, the kind that rides up without asking, one strap falling loose, legs tucked sideways across dean's lap like she belongs there. one arm draped around his neck, bare skin against denim. dean's hands keep finding the hem of her dress, then forgetting to let go. he's looking a her like she hung the moon and crashed it into the earth just for fun.

the cherry slushie sits on the table with two straws and one loud slurp left at the bottom. "last sip's mine," she says.

"you've had like, seventy percent of it"

"i don't care about percentages. i care about vibes, and the vibe says it's my turn," he squints at her, then tips the straw into his mouth anyway. very dramatically. "dean!" she laughs, half-shoving him, half-climbing further into his lap.

"you snooze, you lose, peach."

"you are such a little..." but he's already grinning that smug face of his, like he knows she won't stay mad. and she won't. not when he looks at her like that. not when his cheeks are pink from the heat and his hair's all messy and he smells like leather and stolen cologne, something way too old for him.

she's closer now. knees tucked against his side, one hand braced on his chest. he's looking up at her, lips stillstained red from the slushie and from her. it's stupid how cute he is, really.

and so, of course she leans in. almost kisses him. he lifts his chin, eyes fluttering half-closed. and she stops. smiles.

“what are you doing,” he says, eyebrows raising. “why’d you stop?”

“i’m just thinking about my slushie. you know, the one you stole.”

“thinking’s for nerds. kiss me.”

“maybe i don’t want to.”

“you do.”

she shrugs. “how do you know?”

he leans in now, a little bolder. his voice drops to a whisper. “because you keep looking at me like i'm summer.”

her heart does something it’s not supposed to. “ugh,” she says, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“you’re still not kissing me.”

“maybe i like watching you suffer.”

“maybe i like when you…”

but she cuts him off. finally.

the kiss is soft at first, but not careful, a little too warm, a little too much teeth. his hand presses into her back, pulling her closer, like he doesn’t know what to do with the air between them. they move lower, groping her butt. she tastes like cherry and he like something distinctly dean. it makes her dizzy. it's the kind of kiss that makes her feel like she's floating. his hand tightens on her waist, hers curls into his shirt. they forget the time, they forget where they are, they forget to be careful even if it's 3am in the morning.

the door jingles. they are too wrapped up into the kiss to even notice the footsteps inching closer. dean tries to bite her lower lip, she giggles on his mouth.

"you've got to be kidding me."

they pull apart like they’ve been tasered. she nearly falls off the booth. dean’s arm flails trying to steady her.

they both look toward the door like they’ve seen a ghost. john winchester is standing in front of them, staring at the booth, the dress, his son's hands, at his crumpled shirt and her messed-up hair. he sighs, defeated.

"it's three in the morning," no one speaks, the jukebox has stopped working. john blinks slowly, then looks at dean. "you took my car. again. i woke up, no son, no car. i think, hey, maybe he's out hunting. wrong. he’s sucking face in a diner booth with bobby's kid like it’s a damn teen soap opera.”

dean gulps. "dad, i..."

"don't. just don't, son" he pinches the bridge of his nose. "and, you... you've got three seconds to get off his lap."

she whines, but does what she's told. "mr. winchester..."

"listen, kid, i like you. i do. but if your daddy ever finds out about this, about you and my idiot son playing house in a booth at 3 a.m.? i’ll be the one dodging shotgun shells. and you won’t be far behind," she swallows hard. nods. "glad we're on the same page."

"that's... dramatic," dean says weakly.

john blinks like he’s counting to ten in his head. “get. in. the car. and clean that damn cherry crap off of your mouth."

dean stands, tugging his shirt down, trying to regain some dignity. fails. before he leaves, he glances at her, his face still a little dazed, a little proud, a little oh my god i’m gonna die. he looks at his dad, still with a murderous gaze in his eyes. dean decides here and there that he doesn't really care that much so he leans down again. a small peck on her lips. that wins him a smile from her and a slap on the neck from his father.

“worth it,” he says, voice low, grinning like a fool.