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samsexualdeancurious · 20 days ago

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Not How This Goes

Pairing: John x Reader

Words: 1,222

Summary: The reader gets hurt on a hunt.

Warnings: Hurt!Reader, hurt/comfort

Written for a Patron request

---

You don't even realize you've been hit at first. You didn't see her draw the gun. Witches don't use guns. That isn’t how any of this is supposed to go.

John’s roar of fury fills your ears, nearly drowning out the crack of his pistol even though he’s right beside you. The witch stumbles back into the wall with wide eyes but stays upright even as crimson blooms across the front of her blouse. You’ve half convinced yourself the spell John put on the bullets isn’t going to work when a final one strikes her directly between the eyes. Her head snaps back and she slumps to the floor. Silence follows.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, tearing your eyes away from the dead witch to look at John.

He’s already shoved his gun in his waistband and is reaching for you. His hands find your upper arms. “You’re okay,” he’s saying but his expression tells you the opposite. “You’re okay. C’mere sweetheart, let me look at ya. You’re just fine.”

“What?” You tilt your head down to try and see what has him so worried.

John’s hand jumps to your chin and forces your eyes up to his with a panicked “No, don’t look,” but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the pool of red spreading over your side. The pain follows fast on the heels of realization.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. Your knees feel weak.

“It’s okay.” John lowers you to the floor and carefully pulls your shirt away from your side. His fingers find the hole in the fabric and with one pull that would be hot under any other circumstances, rips it down to the hem.

“I liked this shirt,” you complain in a hopeless attempt to distract yourself from the pain. The knowledge that you’re in the middle of fucking nowhere hits hard. “John-”

“I know, I know.” He shrugs out of his overshirt and folds it to press against your side. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

“It’s bad,” you whimper. You can’t deny it. It seems like a through and through if you’re interpreting the pain right. It’s kind of hard to differentiate what is what right now. You can tell it’s more than a graze but how serious it is, that’s yet to be determined. Pretty serious by the way John’s mouth tightens.

“You’re gonna be okay,” John says again but you know he’s lying. You can see the panic in his eyes. “Hold this for me, okay.”

You obediently press your hand to the folded fabric. You’re shaking but you manage not to drop it. Once that’s secure, John scoops you up in his arms. Your head spins at the change in position but you manage to hang onto the shirt and your lunch. Puking with a hole in your abs doesn’t sound very fun at all.

“What about-”

“I’m more worried about you than a corpse,” John grunts, turning to maneuver you out the door without hitting your head.

You nod and regret it immediately when your vision goes fuzzy at the edges. Your throat clicks with a dry swallow to try and keep the nausea at bay. “Don’t feel good.”

“I know, baby, I know. Gonna get you help. You’ll be okay.”

He’s at the truck now, sooner than you expected and maybe you’re already losing too much blood if you’re losing time. Fear spikes, taking your heartbeat and breathing with it. John quickly opens the passenger door and sets you inside before taking your face in his hands.

“Hey, hey, look at me.”

You can see his fear. It’s etched in every line of him, from the tightness in his forehead to the attempt at a reassuring smile he twists his mouth into. He brings one hand up but stops before touching your cheek, seeming to realize his fingers are covered in blood.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time, dropping his hand to cover yours instead where you’re holding the folded shirt tight. “I need you to stay calm for me. Just breathe and keep this in place.”

He pats your hands. You manage a whispered agreement and then he’s gone, slamming the door shut. You watch through the windshield as he flies around the truck to the driver’s side. The truck rumbles to life moments later.

“You’re okay,” John repeats as he steers his beast of a vehicle down the long driveway from the witch’s secluded cabin to the main road. “You’re gonna be okay.”

It feels like he’s trying to reassure himself more than you.

You barely remember the drive to the hospital. You know you were conscious - at least, you think you are - but it’s mostly a blur. John kept talking the whole way and that helped. His voice is something you can cling to beyond the swirl of pain and fear threatening to wipe away any rational thought. Still, it’s a surprise when the passenger door opens and you find yourself once again in John’s arms.

“We’re here,” he murmurs into your hair. “Hang on, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you help.”

It’s a fight to keep your head up and so you let it loll, watching the lights of the parking lot and then the emergency room pass by above you. John is yelling. For help, you think, though it sounds like the words are coming through water. You watch his mouth move. You’re so caught up in that, the gurney that appears beneath you catches you by surprise. There are other people now, strangers saying things you don’t understand, but John is still there with his hands cradling your face, and then he’s gone, vanishing into the black.

“Thanks again, Bobby. You’re a lifesaver. Yeah, she’s still okay. The doc said she got damn lucky. Just waiting for her to wake up.”

John pauses and the loss of his voice feels almost painful in the sleepy in-between space where you reside. Is he still nearby? You don’t know and anxiety spikes in your chest. You want to call out but all you can manage is a groan.

“Holy shit. Bobby, I gotta go. She’s waking up. Tell Dean I’ll call him later.”

He’s here. Relief floods your body when his words are followed by a hand cradling your cheek. You turn into his touch with a whine.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

The room is bright when you peel your eyes open. You squint against the light and find his face hovering over yours. He smiles and you can see the relief in his eyes.

“Welcome back,” he says as his thumb strokes the line of your cheekbone.

“Hi,” you manage, the word barely a rasp. Your throat feels like a desert, your tongue like sandpaper.

“Shh. You’ve been out for a few days. I need to call a nurse but fuck, sweetheart.” John’s head tips forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” you rasp.

“Not your fault.” He sighs like the weight of the world is coming off his shoulders and presses a kiss to your cheek. “But don’t do that ever again.”

You laugh softly, the sound melting into a groan when doing so causes the growing ache in your belly to spike. “I’m not planning on it.”

#my writing #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic #john winchester #john x reader

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samsexualdeancurious · 21 days ago

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Ginger Ale

Pairing: None

Words: 800

Summary: Sam is sick. Dean is desperate.

Warnings: Weechesters, sick!Sammy, 10-yr-old Sam, 14-yr-old Dean

I literally did this to a bottle of ginger ale for my wife and someone said it was "Dean vibes" and here we are lol

---

Dean grumbles to himself, back to the kitchen doorway so if Sam comes in, he won't see Dean's struggle. Dean doesn’t want to see his struggle. He feels ridiculous. Sam is sick, some bug he probably picked up at the last school they were at but of course didn’t show any symptoms of until they were holed up in a one bedroom cabin on the outskirts of a nowhere town. Dean’s back is killing him from sleeping on the shitty couch that’s probably older than his dad and now, they're down to one bottle of ginger ale. Naturally, it’s the only thing Sam will drink and Dean can't get it open.

"Did they glue it shut?" he wonders under his breath.

The bottle doesn’t answer.

"Dean?"

Dean grimaces and quickly hides the bottle behind a bag of chips. "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam looks so much younger than ten when he appears in the doorway. He's dragged the quilt off the bed and has it wrapped around his shoulders like a makeshift cape. He blinks at Dean, clearly exhausted. The kid should be asleep, not wandering around the house. Was he yelling for Dean from the bedroom? Dean needs to pay better attention.

"Is there any more ginger ale?" he asks, rubbing the knuckles of one hand across his eyes. He grips the quilt tight with the other.

Dean chews his cheek and shakes his head. "Sorry. We're out. I'll have to get more tomorrow. How about water?"

Sam's nose wrinkles. "Can't you go now?"

Dean shakes his head. "Store's closed." Downside of nowhere towns with one store.

Sam's lower lip immediately pops out, the puppy dog eyes made even more effective by his sleep-mussed hair and rosy cheeks. Dammit.

"Sammy," Dean sighs. "I'll go first thing, okay? Besides, it's late. You need to go to bed."

"De-ean."

Dean groans internally and resists glancing at the chip bag hiding the last bottle. "Sammy. I'll see what I can find but you have to go back to bed."

Sam huffs but complies, padding quietly back down the hall to the bedroom. The quilt trails dramatically behind him. Once Dean hears the bedroom door close, he turns to face his opponent.

"I'll get you open," he proclaims to the bottle.

It has no response to that, peering out at him from around the chips. Stupid lid. If it was glass, he wouldn't be having this problem.

Dean doesn't know how long he struggles. Long enough that a blister is starting to form on the inside of his right thumb. He's held it under warm water. He's used towels and the hem of his t-shirt and even a fast food napkin out of sheer desperation. Nothing. It hasn't budged at all. Dean stares it down, ready to just chuck the damn thing, when something catches his eye. He took his knife off his belt when he came in from getting firewood and now it sits, the metal end of the hilt gleaming softly in the evening light coming through the single kitchen window. It was a gift from Bobby, before they stopped visiting him, and Dean takes meticulous care of both it and its leather sheath.

Could he?

No, bad idea, Dean-

But…

He grabs a glass first. He's not that dumb. Then, Dean braces the base of the bottle with his left hand, grips the knife in his right with the blade turned away from him, and stabs the plastic where it curves out below the neck as hard as he dares.

Soda immediately starts spraying, the built up pressure escaping through the hole his knife made. Cursing under his breath, Dean drops the knife and flips the bottle upside down over the cup. A slow trickle of soda spills out. It increases when he squeezes, though not by much. This is going to take forever but at least the damn thing is open.

"Dean?"

Dean makes a face and then flashes a grin over his shoulder at his brother. "You're supposed to be in bed."

Sam ignores this, instead shuffling close to peer at the mess Dean's made and the bottle in his hand. "... what are you doing?"

"You wanted ginger ale," Dean says, like that explains everything.

Sam blinks up at him and then stares at the bottle a moment. "It needs another hole," he finally says. "For air."

Dean is skeptical but holds the bottle firm so Sam can poke another hole. Instantly, the flow of soda into the cup increases. In no time, Dean's handing Sammy a full glass.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam says, already heading back to the bedroom.

Dwan just waves him off. He gazes down at the sticky soda mess for a long moment, the empty bottle sitting to one side.

The things I do for that kid…

#my writing #supernatural #weechesters #sam winchester #dean winchester #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic

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samsexualdeancurious · 22 days ago

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Use Your Words (NSFW)

Pairing: Dean x Reader x Castiel

Words: 1,589

Summary: The reader has something specific she wants but doesn't know how to ask.

Warnings: Grace play, nipple play, edging, vaginal sex, discussion of double v penetration, no Dean/Cas contact

Written for a Patron request.

---

The calluses on Dean’s palms are rough but his touch is soft, his lips softer where they brush over a ticklish spot on your ribs. You gasp and squirm in Castiel’s hold. His body is solid against your back, only his trench coat and tie gone. The buttons of his shirt are definitely leaving marks on your spine where you’re pressed tight to his chest as Castiel’s hands keep your arms at your sides. Trapped between the two of them like this, you feel helpless and small and safe.

Heat coils behind your pelvis, desperation building beneath your skin. Your hips shift, your thighs clench, as you try instinctively to get the stimulation you’re being denied. “Dean,” you whine. “Dean, please.”

He hums softly against the curve of your breast. His amulet has fallen forward to tap against your belly, warm from his body. Behind you, Cas nuzzles the side of your neck.

“Tell us,” he says in a voice somehow even rougher than usual.

Dean’s eyes flicking up to yours through his lashes. “Yeah, sweetheart. Use your words.”

You’re trembling in their duel grips, body singing with anticipation even as heat blooms across your cheeks. Your mouth opens but no words come out. You know what you want. You know the words you need to use. You just can’t make yourself say them. Even after all this time, all the things you and Dean and Cas have explored together, you still get shy about the words. It’s stupid, you know it is, but it’s not really something you can help.

“It’s Christmas,” Dean says into the point of your hip. “You can ask for whatever you want.”

You can and you want. Oh, how you want. Behind you, Castiel thrums with a power you’re desperate to feel. Dean’s strong fingers press into your hips. Both men are offering something specific. You just have to find the words to ask.

Thankfully, Dean senses your inability. He straightens up to bring his gaze level with yours. “Nervous?” He smirks knowingly at your whimper, the way your body strains in Cas’s hold to get closer to the other man. You always feel so torn when they have you like this, a butterfly pinned with nowhere to go and no clue where you’d want to go even if you could. Dean strokes your cheek, your neck, your collarbone. Your breast. His grin sharpens at the hitch in your breath. “Think she wants her tits played with, Cas.”

Your face is on fire and your thighs clench. Cas chuckles, low in your ear.

“I think she likes being helpless,” the angel purrs and you nod, desperate. Words still refuse to come. You can’t bring yourself to say what you want, but you twist your head to catch Cas’s eye. He blinks, nods, and you know he’s seen your desire in your mind. “I understand, beloved. We’ll take care of you.”

There’s a flash of something more than human in his eyes and then you feel it. Warm, soft, carefully stroking one cheek. Your breath quickens and Dean watches you with a knowing expression. His hands drop to your hips once more.

“So that’s how this is gonna go,” he says. "C'mere, baby. Come sit in my lap."

Before you can move on your own, the men are pulling you to the bed. Dean sits on the end and pats his lap. Castiel spins you around and seats you there, your bare thighs spread by Dean's jean-clothed ones. One of Dean's arms loops around your middle, trapping your own by your sides and pulling you tight to him.

"Hold still for us," he purrs and you give the tiniest of nods in response, still working to orient yourself. His free hand curls around the front of your neck, under your jaw, to tip your head back against the curve of his shoulder. "Good girl. Maybe, if you're lucky, we'll let you cum."

“I’m sure she’ll be good,” Cas says, smiling fondly as he pulls up a chair and settles into it. He’s only a few feet away but you know he won’t be laying a hand on your body. Not tonight. Instead, that same pale blue glow lights behind his eyes.

Even though you’re expecting it, the brush of warm power against your knee makes you jump. Dean makes a soothing sound and holds you tighter to him. You take a deep breath, settling into his embrace and closing your eyes. You want to focus solely on what you’re feeling. The slide of that power up your thigh. It lingers when it reaches the top, almost like it’s considering dipping between your legs and just that thought has you biting your lip, but in the end drifts around the curve of your hip and up your side. When Dean slides a blindfold - what feels like Cas’s tie - over your eyes, it only makes the whole experience better.

You’ve only experienced Cas’s Grace like this a handful of times and every single one of them is memorable. You can feel how careful he’s being, the careful control he holds. The knowledge that an Angel is using his God-given abilities for this? Just makes it a hundred times hotter.

“Tell me,” Dean encourages. “What’s he doing?”

“Just… just touching,” you manage, the first words you’ve said in a while. Your face burns and your heart is racing but you push through it. “My hip. My… my belly.” You squirm away from the tickle but freeze when Dean’s arm flexes around your middle. “Cas. Cas, please, I need…”

“Shhh,” Cas murmurs, another tendril of Grace pressing against your lips. Tracing, tasting, and then pressing inside. The touch zings across your tongue, lightning and mint and something sweet. The tentril thickens, taking on more form, and you moan openly at the weight of what feels like a cock stretching your jaw. “Just feel.”

Dean’s thumb strokes your jaw at the same time Castiel’s Grace pets the curve of your breast. Another line of Grace takes up a post on the other side, mirroring the first, and yet another begins the creeping path up your inner thigh. Your breath is coming quick and hard through your nose.

“So fucking hot,” Dean says. His hand shifts so he can trace your lower lip where it’s stretched around the girth of Castiel’s Grace. You wonder idly if he can feel the power there, holding your mouth open just as effectively as if Cas had used his cock. “Wish that was me using your mouth.”

Your thighs clench, partly in response to Dean’s words and partly in response to the Grace touching everywhere between your thighs except where you really want it. You whine, the sound muffled, and hear both men snicker. Evil, you decide. Plain evil.

“Patience,” Cas rumbles.

Still evil.

You lose track of time, of who is touching you where after Dean brings both hands in to join Castiel, of everything except the sheer pleasure singing in every fiber of your being and yet. Somehow. It’s not enough. They’re touching your thighs, your belly, your breasts. Dean keeps brushing his thumbs over your nipple in a move that must qualify as torture in someone’s book. Castiel’s Grace slips in between each touch, the sensation almost like a mouth. You’re drowning in a sea of sensation, dancing right on that edge but never being allowed to tip over it. You clutch at the sides of Dean’s jeans to keep yourself from dragging his hands down between your legs and feel thankful for the Grace gently fucking your mouth because it means you can’t beg.

“Dean,” Castiel says, finally breaking the silence that’s fallen over the room. His voice is low, rough, and sends a shiver down your spine. “I think she’s ready.”

You can hear the smile in Dean’s voice. “Hell yeah.”

Your brow furrows but realization quickly dawns when Castiel uses his Grace to lift you so Dean can open his zipper. The sound is impossibly loud in the quiet of the room and you’re practically vibrating with anticipation when you feel the hot length of his cock bump against your ass.

“Got somethin’ for ya,” Dean says and the thick head of him rubs over your folds, the most either of them have touched you there. You gasp and squirm, begging with every inch of your body for him to just do it. “Needy. I dunno, Cas, think she really is ready?”

“Don’t be cruel,” Cas scolds but he’s laughing.

Dean laughs softly as well and then one hand is on your hip, the other positioning his cock for you to sink down on. You could cry from the sheer relief of it, finally being full after God only knows how much teasing. Of course, when you’re finally seated in Dean’s lap once more, he doesn’t move. Castiel’s Grace curls around you, holding you there as you whine and clench.

“So needy,” Cas comments like this whole experience hasn’t been one giant tease. Like you’re not hanging on to your sanity and self-control by a thread. Grace slips between your thighs, around the base of Dean’s cock, to tease at where he splits you open. “What do you think, Dean? Can she take two?”

You gasp and jerk in Dean’s hold. Can you? You’d never even considered it but now? With a tendril of Grace wiggling its way into where you thought there was surely no more room? You’re definitely considering it. If they let you cum first.

#my writing #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #Dean x reader x castiel #Dean x Castiel x reader

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samsexualdeancurious · 23 days ago

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go to sleep, darlings (till the summer comes again)

Pairing: John x Reader

Words: 2,177

Summary: A hunt leaves John and the reader stranded during a blizzard.

Warnings: Hurt!Reader, canon-typical violence, sweet!John

Written for a Patron request. I thoroughly enjoyed this and I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out, so I hope you enjoy it, too!

Title from a quote by Lewis Carroll

---

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you hiss, one hand putting pressure on your wounded left thigh and the other curled around your gun. You settle into a crouch behind a large tree and your thigh screams in protest but you force yourself to breathe through it. Your blood is already soaked through your jeans and staining the snow around you. The sky above you is a slate of dark clouds and the flakes are falling faster with every passing minute.

Snow crunches on the other side of the tree, back the way you came. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest even as you struggle to quiet your breathing. You focus on the sounds. Snow underfoot, the crack of branches breaking. The telltale snuffling of a hunter following the bloody scent trail you’ve left behind.

“Come on,” you breathe, bringing your blood-slick hand up to steady your gun. Just a little closer.

Heavy breathing, just on the other side of the trunk. You cock your head, holding your own breath just long enough to listen. To know where you need to go next.

Move.

You push up with all the strength in your uninjured leg, pivoting on the bad one to bring yourself face to face with the beast. Your gun comes up, steady and sure.

She snarls and lunges.

You pull the trigger.

The werewolf stumbles, eyes widening. You keep your gun trained on her as she goes down to her knees hard in the snow. She stays there a long moment, hands fluttering helplessly. Human hands, the claws sinking back into her fingers. Fur disappears into smooth, pale skin, and the eyes that look up at you are undeniably human. Blue, shining in the low light.

“Thank you,” she gasps and your heart breaks as she slumps sideways, going still. She looks like something from a fairy tale. A fucked up version of Snow White where the Huntsman didn’t hesitate. You stare down at the inky spill of her hair and the spreading blood and everything feels so devastatingly unfair.

“Y/N?”

The voice jerks you from your thoughts and your knees buckle in relief even as your head shoots up. You slump back against the tree.

“Y/N!”

“John,” you call, your voice barely a rasp in your throat but there he is. You hear him first, his huge form crashing through the trees toward you before he appears like a ghost out of the storm. “John.”

“Hey, hey.” John’s arm loops around you and he lowers you to the ground. The snow starts soaking through the seat of your jeans immediately but you don’t mind. The cold helps you stay focused on those warm hazel eyes, the color so like his youngest son’s. “I gotcha. You’re gonna be just fine.”

He sheds his coat and then his flannel, which he twists up into a makeshift tourniquet. You grimace as he pulls it tight around the top of your thigh. He presses a kiss to your temple and you let yourself lean into him for just a moment.

“We gotta get moving,” you finally say. The snow is falling harder than ever and the last thing you want is to get caught out here. You already don’t know where you came from, let alone where the fucking car is.

“I passed a cabin,” John says. “Looked well-stocked. C’mon, up you go. It’s not far.”

He wraps his coat around you despite your protests and lifts you to your unsteady feet. You hesitate, though, when he tries to lead you away.

“What about her?” you ask, looking down at the dead werewolf - the dead girl, slowly being covered by snow. Her eyes are open, staring unseeingly up at the falling flakes.

John’s expression softens and he holds you tighter to him. You wonder who he sees when he looks at her - what she reminds him of - and if it might be you. He doesn’t say, though. Just kisses your hair.

“There’s nothing we can do for her,” he murmurs. “We can’t carry her out right now and even if we could, where would we take her if we did?”

He’s right and you know it. She has to stay here, where the snow will keep her safe under its quilt until summer melts the last of it and then the earth will reclaim her. She can be at peace. You can’t think of a more beautiful place to go, with the pines standing guard. So you nod, giving her one last farewell look, and let John lead you away. You just pray he knows where he’s going.

You’re starting to doubt his sense of direction after a while, though you won’t say it. Yet. You’re saved from having to say it, thankfully, when the cabin abruptly emerges from the storm. You gasp, staring up at the dark building that seems to have simply appeared from nothing. It’s small, only one story and probably just one bedroom, but it’s so much more than you’d been imagining you’d find.

“Nice place,” you say, limping up the porch stairs with John’s steady help. “I was expecting a shed.”

John chuckles, pausing with one foot on the doorstep. “Can you keep yourself upright so I can pick the lock?”

You nod, reaching for the doorframe to steady yourself. John digs his lockpick kit from his pocket and bends over the doorknob. The lock must be a basic one, because it clicks open just a few moments later.

Inside is dark and you fumble with your flashlight. Clicking it on, you reveal a dusty but neat and clearly well-maintained interior. There’s one main room - nothing too fancy, just a kitchen with a dining table, a couch on a thick rug, and a fireplace. There are two doors, which you assume lead to the bedroom and either a bathroom or closet.

John feels along the wall in search of the light switch. When he flicks it on, though, nothing happens.

“I’ll have to get the fire going,” he says, helping you kick off your boots on the welcome mat and limp over to the couch. You find yourself perched awkwardly on the edge of the plush, worn-leather cushion in an attempt to keep blood off it. “Think you’ll be okay a little longer?”

You adjust the makeshift tourniquet, tightening it again, and nod. The cuts aren’t too bad. The bleeding seems to be slowing. You’ll live if you have to wait a few more minutes.

You hold the flashlight from your spot on the couch. John finds some ratty towels in what turns out to be a closet and tucks them around your leg, allowing you to sit more comfortably without worrying about getting your blood everywhere. Then he brings in a few logs from the well stocked wood pile, finds a fire starter kit with kindling in a kitchen drawer, and sets to work getting a merry blaze going in the hearth. He sits back on his heels, keeping an eye on it until he’s certain his carefully placed logs have caught.

“How you doing?” John asks, gripping the mantle to pull himself upright and grunting when his knees pops. The firelight catches him around the edges, a halo of warm light, and glints in his eyes.

“Hanging in there.” You shoot him a thumbs up.

He bends over you, examining the cuts in your flashlight beam. “These need stitches, I think, but there’s no way I can make it to the car and back in this weather.” Straightening, John crosses to the window and peeks through the curtains. He grimaces. “Yeah, we’re gonna be stuck here for a while. We’ll have to make do with whatever I can scrounge up here. Let me go see what I can find.”

John takes the flashlight and disappears into the bedroom. You assume the bathroom is attached. Hopefully the toilet works without electricity. You hear him rummaging around out of sight. While you wait, you adjust the towels so you can sit sideways on the couch with your back against one arm and your legs stretched out. The fire is starting to warm the room, though it’s slow as it competes with the chill from the blizzard raging outside.

“Guess what I found,” John announces as he emerges triumphantly from the bedroom with a surprisingly large first aid kit in hand. “The owners of this place believe in being prepared. They’ve got all we need and more.” He sets the kit on the rug beside you. “I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

“Looking forward to it.”

John kneels next to the couch and hands you the flashlight. You groan when the first thing he pulls from the kit is a pair of scissors.

“I like these jeans.” you whine even though you knew this was inevitable the minute the werewolf got you. “I’m gonna be pantsless in a blizzard.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” John says, bending over your legs.

You don’t protest again as he cuts your pant leg open, even though it’s still cold in the cabin. You do, however, tell him he’ll be going to get you new pants as soon as the storm stops.

He chuckles. “Deal. Should probably get some drugs in you.”

“Yes, please.”

John digs a bottle from the kit and shakes two pills into his palm. You swallow them dry, grimacing, and lay back against the arm of the couch. Feeling a little dramatic, you throw your arm over your face.

“Go on,” you say with a little “get on with it” hand wave.

John gets to work. You really would like something stronger than what you assume was just some Advil but you’re a hunter. You’ve been stitched up more times than you can count and you know how to handle it when you have to. You fold a clean corner of John’s flannel up and shove it between your teeth to make sure you don’t crack something when you grit them through each carefully placed stitch. Silently, you thank the cabin owners for their planning.

When John finally tapes a piece of gauze over the whole mess, you sigh deeply and let the flannel drop from your mouth. You keep your arm over your eyes, though, and just listen to John tidying up.

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” you ask when he settles on the other end of the couch and lifts your leg into his lap. The towels were deemed a total loss - and DNA evidence you’d rather not leave behind - so he tore them up to add to the fire. The couch cushion is cool under your one bare leg.

“Hopefully just tonight. We’ll have to see how long the storm lasts.” John’s big hand curls around your ankle. His thumb digs into a sore spot near your Achilles tendon and you groan appreciatively. “There’s canned food in the cupboards and the stove is gas, so we can heat something up. Soup?”

You drop your arm at last, letting the weight of it fall across your belly. “Mmm soup.”

“In a minute.” John slides his hand up the back of your calf, massaging the tight muscle. Part of you is self-conscious of the fact that you haven’t shaved in a while but the rest of you is thinking about the much hairier parts of your body he’s happily braved in the past. He can handle a little leg hair. “How’re you feeling?”

“Much better. Think we can find some blankets in this place?”

“Definitely.”

“Good, because I want out of these ‘pants’.”

John chuckles at your finger quotes and helps you out of the offending item. Your underwear is a little stained along the elastic of one leg hole but it’s all you have, so you’ll have to live with it. You find some blankets in the closet and take them back to the couch to get cozy while John bangs around in the kitchen.

“Chicken noodle or tomato?” he calls.

“Chicken,” you answer without hesitation. “Unless you somehow have the stuff for grilled cheese.”

“I wish I had the stuff for grilled cheese. Chicken noodle it is.”

The food cooks up quick and then John is joining you on the couch again with two soup mugs in hand. You snuggle against his side, tucking yourself under your arm with the warm mug in hand.

“You know,” you say softly, settling into his embrace. “This isn’t too bad. I wouldn’t mind if we had to stay a couple nights.”

“Don’t jinx us,” John groans. “We want it to stop snowing.”

You laugh and sip at your soup, letting it warm you from the inside out. Secretly, a small part of you wishes you could be snowed in until summer chases away the final frost. That the storm would cover you up like the girl out there in the dark forest, tuck you in gently, and let you stay as long as you like in this safe little cabin with the man you love.

#my writing #supernatural #john winchester #john x reader #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic

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samsexualdeancurious · 24 days ago

Text

Softy

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Words: 1,302

Summary: A storm is rolling in and the reader can feel it in their bones.

Warnings: Fluff, light h/c, the reader character was born without a right hand (which is something I personally don't have experience with but I do have experience with changes in barometric pressure causing joint/muscle pain, so I pulled from that)

Written for a Patron request

---

You wake to an ache at the end of your right arm. It's not a stabbing pain and honestly, it's pretty tolerable, but you still groan and stretch your arm out as far as you can in a feeble attempt to relieve the throbbing.

"Everything okay?" Dean asks, words soft and muffled against your shoulder.

"Hurts," you mumble into the scratchy fabric of the motel pillow as you lift your arm to indicate the smooth nub of your right arm, where most people would have a hand.

"Shit. Sorry, sweetheart."

Dean lifts the arm he's draped over your waist and curls his fingers around your forearm. Very, very gently, he massages where it aches from skin to bone. His hand is warm, his touch the just-right level of firm, and the relief may be temporary but you're no less grateful. You let out a low moan before you can stop it and feel Dean smile, pleased with himself.

"You should take something," he suggests.

You shake your head. The Winchesters' stock of meds is running low and you don’t want to take something when you can get by without it just fine. "I'll be okay. It's just a bad dag. I probably slept funny. This mattress sucks." You stretch as you speak and your spine pops, emphasizing your words.

Dean seems skeptical but he just presses a kiss to the top of your spine. "Let me know if you change your mind."

You twist in the sheets to face Dean, nuzzling into the warm curve of his neck. Just then, there's a loud knock on the motel room door that makes you jerk back even though you weren't doing anything naughty.

"You two better be decent," Sam says, announcing his presence as he opens the door and warily peeks inside. You hadn't even realized he wasn't in his bed. "I got breakfast."

Sure enough, the smell of coffee and greasy fast food breakfast follows him into the room. You push yourself upright, ignoring Dean's pout, and reach for the tray of cups with a grabby hand.

"Caffeine," you coo, cradling the warm cup. The heat of it through the thin cardboard sleeve feels heavenly on the ache at the end of your arm. "Thanks, Sam."

"No problem." Sam digs wrapped sandwiches from the paper bag and tosses two to Dean. "Seen the sky? Looks like there's a nasty storm coming in."

And that explains it. You grimace, trying to pass the expression off as your coffee being too hot, and stretch your arm. Stupid changing air pressure. No wonder you're in pain.

"It better not rain before we get out to the cemetery," Dean says, unfolding one wrapper and tucking it around the sandwich to make a little pocket to hold it with. "I hate digging in mud."

"Unless you wanna dig a grave by daylight, we might not have a choice."

Your brow furrows. "We don't even know what grave we're looking for," you say, setting your coffee on the bedside table to accept the sandwich Dean passes to you.

"Hopefully we don't figure it out until after the storm passes," Dean grumbles and Sam pelts him with a ketchup packet. Dean quickly adds, "as long as the ghost doesn't kill anyone else, of course."

You roll your eyes and focus on your breakfast as the boys bicker. You keep finding yourself stretching your arm, pressing it against your knee or the mattress in an attempt to bring some relief. Now that you're more awake, the pain seems to have intensified. That or maybe you're just more aware of it. The throbbing goes bone deep, spreading up your arm to your elbow, and nothing you do is helping much. This isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with changing weather causing pain, though, and it certainly won’t be the last. It’s one of the worst bouts you’ve had in a while, though, and a small wave of panic rises in your chest when you can’t seem to get the pain to abate.

"Hey, hey." A calloused hand catches your arm and you look up from your breakfast to find both brothers looking at you with concerned expressions. Dean rubs his thumb against the soft skin of your inner elbow and asks, “You okay?”

You nod, trying to ignore the way the ache burrows persistently beneath your skin and up your arm. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… the storm.” You suddenly feel a bit ridiculous that this is even something you’re complaining about, despite how very real the pain is, and a laugh escapes you. “I sound like an old man. ‘There’s a storm comin’. I can feel it in my bones.’” you put on an imitation of a gruff old person but Dean doesn’t look any less worried.

“The weather guy on the radio said to expect a pretty big pressure change,” Sam says, wiping his face and balling up his napkin to toss across the room. He nails the trashcan and throws his hands up in success. Dean, embolden, gives it his own shot and huffs dramatically when he misses. “You should take something.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, rubbing the heel of your left hand against your sternum to try and relieve the tightness there. “Really. It’s not a big deal.”

“Y/N.” Dean fixes you with a serious expression. “Take some Advil and I’ll… I don’t know. Run you a bath while we do some more digging on our dead guy. Heat helps, right?”

You make a face even as warmth floods you at his words. “Yeah, heat helps. Please don’t call the ghost a dead guy.”

“He’s a guy and he’s dead.” Dean gets up and digs through his duffle for the basic med kit they keep on hand. “Here.”

He tosses the bottle into your lap. It makes a pitfully quiet rattle and you open it to find only a handful of pills. “Dean, I can’t. What if you need these?”

“We’ll raid the pharmacy before we skip town. Plus, we’ve still got some of the heavy duty stuff in the car.”

“We’ll be fine,” Sam pipes up. He’s cleared his breakfast trash off the motel table and is unwinding his laptop cord. “Seriously.”

Sighing, you wash a couple of pills down with a mouthful of coffee. Pleased, Dean ducks into the bathroom and you hear water running. Your aching arm has you feeling testy and more than a little grumpy, but your heart swells at the sound. Dean puts on a macho tough guy front, killing monsters and hustling pool and listening to Led Zeppelin, and then he tears all that down doing stuff like this.

Coffee in hand, you grab some clean clothes from your bag and join Dean in the bathroom. You find him bent over the tub, testing the water with one hand while it fills.

“Here, check this,” he says, beckoning you over.

You set your stuff down and test the water, deeming it an agreeable temperature. Dean nods and straightens.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” he asks, looping an arm around your waist to draw you close. His body is warm against your own and you lean into him.

“This is perfect,” you assure him. “Can you…” you hesitate, unsure if you want to ask and bother him with more. “Could you come sit in here with me?”

Dean’s expression is soft. “Of course, sweetheart. You get comfy. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks Dean,” you sigh, feeling better already. The tightness in your chest ebbs. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone what a softy you are.”

He chuckles. “You better not.”

You mime zipping your lips before kissing him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“It’s not safe with me!” Sam calls from the other room and Dean groans.

#my writing #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic #dean winchester #dean x reader

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samsexualdeancurious · 25 days ago

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The Improper Use of Angel Blades (NSFW)

Pairing: Sam x Dean x Castiel

Words: 2,588

Summary: Castiel is surprisingly kinky.

Warnings: Dom!Cas, Sub!Sam, Sub!Dean, bottom!Dean, bottom!Sam, penetration with an angel blade handle (poor Dean), oral sex, anal fingering/sex, rope bondage.

A/N: This is exactly what it says on tin.

---

The handle of Castiel’s angel blade gleams where it protrudes from the seat of the cheap motel room chair, the blade itself driven all the way through so it pokes out the bottom. Dean’s eyes had gone wide at the sight of it - at the realization of what Castiel has in mind. This certainly isn’t what Sam had expected when he’d suggested they let Cas take charge of their next “play date”. Dean had laughed and wondered aloud how kinky an angel could actually be. Now, sitting on the end of the motel bed and watching Dean’s eyes squeeze shut as his naked body writhes in Cas’s grip, Sam decised the answer to that question is “very kinky.”

“Cas,” Dean gasps, fingers digging into the angel’s bicep even as his hips roll back against Castiel’s hand. Sam can’t see what said hand is doing but based on the sounds Dean is making, the way he throws his head back against Cas’s shoulder? Sam can certainly guess as he takes in the scene from his assigned position.

Dean is a beautiful sight. Head thrown back, eyes half-lidded, kiss-swollen lips parted in a low moan that makes Sam’s cock twitch within the confines of his jeans. A sweet pink flush has crept down Dean’s neck and chest, a shade matching the tip of his cock where it bobs against his belly. Sam’s mouth waters at the sight and he digs his fingers into the edge of the mattress to keep from adjusting himself. He’s not as accustomed to taking orders as his brother but he’s determined to be good for Cas tonight.

“I think you’re ready,” Cas says, pulling his fingers free of Dean’s body with a smirk at the resulting whine. His clean hand comes up to grip Dean’s jaw and force lust-blown green eyes to meet his. Sam shivers at the sight of those strong fingers pressing into Dean’s skin. Holding him in place. The brothers have had threesomes before but always with women until Cas came along, and never have they allowed the guest in their bed to be in charge until now.

“You will be good for me, won’t you, Dean?” Castiel is asking.

“Yes, sir,” Dean answers. The words are barely a whisper, a desperate exhale as his cock is enveloped in the circle of Cas’s hand.

“That’s what I thought.”

Sam watches in fascinated, aroused horror as Castiel confirms their suspicions and leads Dean towards the chair. Dean’s breathing is quick and nervous but his erection never wavers and he doesn’t use his safeword. He just holds tight to Cas’s shoulders to steady himself as the angel guides him to sit backwards in the chair, facing Sam as he’s impaled on the immovable length of the handle. Cas takes it slow and Dean sinks down inch by impossible inch and fuck. Sam is torn between enjoying the way Dean’s mouth parts in a helpless moan and wanting to see the handle splitting him open.

“Holy shit,” Sam murmurs once Dean is fully seated. He sits stiffly and Sam can only imagine what it must feel like. The handle is near nine inches by Sam’s estimate and has no give, no movement to it like a cock or even a dildo would have. He can only assume it feels like having a rod shoved up your ass and that doesn’t seem pleasant but Dean’s cock hasn’t flagged one bit. In fact, Sam can see the gleam of precum on his tip and the sight of that - the knowledge of Dean’s arousal and pleasure - is good enough for him.

They need to do this again, Sam decides. Preferably in positions that allow Sam to fully enjoy his brother being fucked by the handle an angel blade.

“Gorgeous,” Cas says, picking up the length of rope he had carefully chosen from their armory in the trunk. “Give me your hands.”

Dean obeys and Castiel binds his wrists to the top of the chair back, which is open at the bottom so Sam has a perfect view of Dean’s cock. He can just see the gleam of silver behind Dean’s balls. Next, his ankles are tied to the chair legs and that makes Dean groan. He can move but only as Cas permits it and he certainly isn’t getting off that chair any time soon. Sam’s own breath quickens at that knowledge. His powerful big brother, submitting so beautifully to an angel’s commands.

“Good boy, Dean,” Castiel praises and Dean practically preens, chin tilted up to welcome the kiss offered to him just before Cas loosens his tie, slips it from around his neck, and places it between . Dean grunts but accepts the gag with a glare. “There. Perfect. Stay, Dean. I’m going to take care of your brother now.”

Anticipation sings under Sam’s skin, sending his heart racing as that intense blue gaze lands on him. It takes everything in him to stay still as the angel moves across the room, a preditor stalking his prey, and Sam suddenly feels every ounce the fragile human he is. Castiel stops at Sam’s knees, peering down at him with his head cocked slightly to the right. Neither one of them moves. The only sound in the room is Dean’s breathing and the pounding of Sam’s heart. Sam has the thought - not for the first time - that Castiel is looking into him, beyond flesh and bone to his soul, and he wonders what the angel sees.

“Samuel,” Cas says finally. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Sam breathes and with that, the tension between them shatters. He finds himself pressed back onto the bed, the warm weight of Cas on top of him and soft lips on his. Sam moans and grip the sides of Cas’s coat, pulling his body closer. Watching Cas handle Dean has put Sam in a state of arousal he’s only felt a few times and he needs.

Sam is distantly aware of Dean moaning as he and Cas sink into each other. It’s been so long since Sam gave himself like this to anyone other than Dean but he finds it surprisingly easy to relinquish control to his angelic lover. He relaxes into Castiel’s touch, eager and willing, and whines softly when Cas pulls back.

“Shh,” Cas soothes and Sam quiets. He’s rewarded by the soft press of lips against the underside of his jaw and deft fingers working their way through his buttons. Soon his shirt is being slid from his shoulders, his undershirt pushed up and off, and then those fingers are pressing into the skin of his waist with a strength that makes him feel small.

Cas pulls Sam upright, rendering him temporarily off-balance before he realizes what’s going on. He helps Cas with the buckle of his belt and then he’s naked, stepping out of his pants as Cas guides them off. Sam catches Dean’s hungry gaze and his cheeks flush despite his brother having seen him nude countless times.

“Absolutely stunning,” Castiel says and Sam’s blush deepens. Cas smiles and brushes a thumb over Sam’s lower lip, tilting his chin down to meet Cas’s gaze. “And so humble. Tell me, Sam. What do you want me to do to you?”

The question catches Sam off guard but he knows the answer already. “Fuck me. Please.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Cas lifts his chin to catch Sam’s mouth in a long, slow kiss that steals the breath from his lungs. “Undress me.”

An order. Sam can work with that. He might not be accustomed to taking orders in the bedroom but he’s always been a fast learner and Cas makes it easy. Perhaps it’s his angelic nature or the sheer power that seems to thrum under Castiel’s skin but Sam finds himself eager to please. He wants to make Cas happy, wants to follow his orders and receive praise for it, and so that’s what he does.

“Good boy,” Cas says when Sam pushes his boxers down, leaving the angel naked. He reaches up to curl one hand around the back of Sam’s head. “Kneel.”

Sam hits his knees without hesitation, the rough motel carpet digging into his skin. His hands find Cas’s hips and he gazes up at Cas, lips already parting in anticipation of his next instruction. Cas doesn’t speak, just presses on the back of Sam’s head to guide him forward.

Dean groans as Sam takes Cas’s cock in his mouth. Sam closes his eyes and relaxes his throat to sink deeper with each bob of his head. Above him, he hears Cas’s breath quicken and pride warms his chest at the knowledge that it’s his mouth giving an angel pleasure. Sam holds tight to Cas’s hips and breathes through his nose.

“Beautiful,” Castiel says and Sam’s cheeks burn but he doesn’t falter in his movements. “Isn’t he, Dean? A work of art and so obedient. So sweet. So good.” Sam’s face is on fire and his heart aches in his chest, torn between soaking up the praise and rejecting it. Like he can sense this inner turmoil, Cas stops Sam with a careful tug on his hair, drawing him off his cock and tilting Sam’s face up towards his. “What do you say to that, Sam?”

“Not good,” Sam answers before he can stop himself. “I - I’m -” He falters, a sudden darkness in Castiel’s gaze killing the protests in his throat.

“Samuel.” Cas’s voice is stern, laced with divine, unquestionable power. “You are good and kind and beautiful. Your soul is the brightest I’ve ever laid eyes on. You are unquestionably pure, despite all of the ways the world has tried to sully you. I know I did not see that when we first met but I see it now and I’ll be damned if I allow you to speak poorly about yourself. Understood?”

Speechless, Sam manages a small nod.

“Good.” Cas bends to kiss Sam before drawing him to his feet. “I’m going to fuck you now, if that’s all right.”

A laugh breaks free of Sam’s chest and the tension between them shatters. Cas grins up at him, clearly a little confused about what’s so funny but also relieved that Sam is happy.

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding. “Yeah, that’s more than all right.”

Dean whines, drawing their attention to him, and Sam groans at that sight. Dean’s arms and thighs are tense, muscles flexing as he moves. His movements are hesitant and a little jerky as he tries to find a good rhythm on the unyielding metal within him.

“I think Dean wants to join us,” Cas observes and Dean whines, tugging on the ropes keeping him in place. “Jealous, Dean? You want to be in my place, don’t you?”

Dean’s expression darkens at that and he pulls harder on the ropes but they don’t budge. Sam licks his lips and tears his gaze from his brother to meet Castiel’s.

“On the bed,” Cas orders.

Sam obeys without hesitation, turning to crawl up on all fours. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, hungry and definitely jealous. Sam holds still as the mattress dips behind him. His cock aches for attention that he knows he’s not going to get yet and his every nerve is on edge with anticipation. He hears the click of the lube cap and then two slick fingers are pressed against his hole. Sam gasps and arches back into the penetration, fingers curling around fistfuls of the motel comforter. The filthy-wet sounds of Castiel working Sam open mix with the creak of the chair as Dean fucks himself on the angel blade and Sam’s cock throbs.

Suddenly, Cas pulls his fingers free of Sam’s body and the younger Winchester whines at the loss. He’s rewarded with a sharp smack to his left ass cheek, which makes him jerk and gasp. “Turn around, Samuel.”

Sam obediently shuffles around on the bed until he’s facing Dean and fuck, that sight. Dean’s body flexes and rolls, muscles straining as he rides the angel blade. Sam can’t decide where to look. His eyes are hooded and dark, unreadable in the low light of the room. His face is flushed, the make-shift gag is soaked with saliva and his skin is shiny with sweat as his chest heaves. His thighs are spread wide to show off his bobbing cock and the gleam of the handle as it plunges in and out of his body. Sam shivers at the sight. He can feel Dean’s hunger, his desire. It’s clear Dean is desperate to be where Cas is, settling into place behind Sam and curling his clean hand into Sam’s hair to keep his head up as he presses his cock to Sam’s hole.

“Keep your eyes on your brother,” Castiel says and Sam’s not sure which of them the order is for but they both obey as Cas sinks into Sam with one, smooth thrust.

Sam moans and his eyelids flutter but he keeps his head up, keeps his gaze on Dean’s. Dean, who is almost desperately fucking himself on the angel blade. Beautiful, powerful Dean, who’s pace Castiel matches with unnerving accuracy. Each thrust punches helpless sounds from Sam’s throat, mirroring the sounds Dean is making, and his body rocks back against Cas’s hips. Cas maintains his grip on Sam’s hair, holding his head up and sending jolts of pleasure-pain through his scalp that are only feeding the building pressure at the base of Sam’s cock.

Suddenly, Dean’s rhythm falters. His breath catches. His thighs tremble, his head falls forward with a broken sound that Sam would know anywhere, and then his cock expodes in thick white streaks all over his belly and the seat of the chair. The sight is more than enough for Sam, who spills untouched all over the comforter. He’s barely aware of Castiel groaning and pulling out to jerk off all over Sam’s ass and lower back. He faintly remembers Dean laying down that law - no one but Dean gets to cum inside of Sam.

Castiel helps him lay down, brushing sweaty hair off Sam’s forehead. He’s speaking, soft words of praise filling the air, but Sam’s mind is slow to process them. He’s pretty sure Cas fucking his brains out. Sam just lays there, catching his breath and watching Cas cross the room to untie his brother.

“You did so well,” Cas is saying as Sam’s brain starts comprehending words again, pulling the tie from Dean’s mouth. “Come on, up you go. Your brother needs you.”

Dean is as shaky as a newborn foal but he manages to stand and cross the room to collapse beside Sam on the bed. The handle of the blade is slick and shiny where Castiel leaves it, blade still plunged through the seat of the chair.

“Next time,” Dean says, voice hoarse and lips chapped. “You get to sit on the dildo from hell.”

“You enjoyed it,” Sam laughs.

“Think I pulled something,” Dean complains.

Castiel chuckles, joining them on the bed and dutifully reaching out to massage on of Dean’s thighs. “You’ll recover.”

“I vote Cas takes charge more often,” Sam decides.

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“I wanna see him fuck you with that.” Sam gestures to the chair, where the blade gleams surprisingly bright. Divine steel, he thinks. There has to be something sacriligeous about using it like this and yet, the thought of it makes his spent cock twitch.

“You’re a sadist,” Dean grumbles but he pulls Sam into a kiss.

#my writing #supernatural #wincestiel #Sam x Dean x Castiel #Sam/Dean/cas #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic

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samsexualdeancurious · 26 days ago

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The Only Lonely One

airing: Dean x Reader

Written for a Patron request

---

Bright laughter cuts through the drone of the bar and draws Dean’s attention from the whiskey he’s been nursing to the couple just a few stools down. They’re older, probably around the age of Dean’s parents, but the way the woman’s face lights up at something her partner says is ageless and simultaneously a knife in Dean’s heart. Feels like he’s the only lonely one here tonight.

“It’s their anniversary,” the sweet young bartender tells Dean, leaning against the counter as she fills a glass of ice water for herself. “Forty years. Can you imagine?”

He can. He can definitely imagine. He takes a too-large sip of his drink, grimacing at the burn of it in his throat, and turns away from the couple - away from the mental image of him and Y/N, a little grey and maybe a little worse for wear but still smiling just as bright.

The bartender is watching Dean with a knowing expression. “You fucked it up, didn’t you?”

Dean throws back the rest of his drink and doesn’t respond.

She leans on the counter, nodding solemnly. “I know the look. Seen it plenty of times. Ya know, it might not be too late.”

“It’s definitely too late,” Dean says gruffly, setting his glass down a little harder than necessary.

“If you say so.” She pushes herself upright and dusts her hands on her apron. “Another?”

Dean considers it for a second, gaze flitting to the couple. The woman is leaning on her husband’s shoulder, smiling to herself. The bartender’s words have sparked something in his heart, in his mind, and he’s not sure he can snuff it out even if he wanted to. Dean shakes his head and digs out his wallet to leave her a cash tip. “Nah. I think I’m good.”

She smirks knowingly. “I’ll close out your tab.”

Dean shoots the couple one last look as he leaves the bar, and then pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through until he finds the number he wants.

“You better be calling to apologize,” she says after two rings.

#my writing #supernatural #dean x reader #dean winchester #demon drabble #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic

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samsexualdeancurious · 27 days ago

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Stay Very. Very. Still. (NSFW)

Pairing: Sam x Jess

Words: 556

Summary: Jess has chosen Sam as the subject of a series of kinky art pieces.

Warnings: Sub!Sam, Dom!Jess, rope bondage, kind of predicament bondage, oral sex (male receiving).

A/N: The position Sam is in is based on this image (NSFW)

---

The shitty carpet of their bedroom is rough under Sam’s bare soles, the back of the chair pressing hard into his back just under his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t move. Jess told him to stay and he’s determined to be good. He keeps his breathing carefully controlled. The position isn’t exactly comfortable but it’s far from his least favorite and besides. Jess arranged him like this. Jess tied the ropes - his wrists bound behind the chair, pulling his shoulders at an awkward angle. The position makes his back arch off the seat and into the harness of knots looping from his neck, around his torso, and ending at the base of his cock. Each knot was carefully placed precisely where Jess wanted it, his body molded into her own artistic vision before she slid the black satin blindfold over his eyes. He is her creation tonight and he plans to please his goddess.

“You’re doing so good,” Jess says, her words sudden in the room that had been quiet except for the soft scratch of charcoal on canvas. He manages not to startle and upset his careful balance. His feet on the floor and the top of the chair back are his only support and falling is the last thing he wants. “Just a few minutes longer, baby.”

Just a few minutes of this session. There will be others, he knows. He’s been her favorite subject since practically the day they met but this particular series she’s working on has seen him bound in a variety of positions, both familiar and new, over the last few weeks. He knows there are more to come but he’s pretty sure this is the most uncomfortable one on the list. He can do this, he tells himself. For Jess.

Sam continues to breathe through his nose and ignore the burn of arousal in his belly. The rope is wrapped just tight enough around his cock to keep him hard but he’s itching for contact. Jess is a master at teasing, getting him turned on just enough for the image she wants. It makes the wait that much more difficult as he struggles to keep from squirming in search of relief.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed or how much more time passes. It’s not his job to know. He breathes a small sigh of relief, though, when he hears her set the charcoal down and stand.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs and pleasure warms his chest at the praise. “My good boy. You deserve a reward, don’t you?”

“If you think so, ma’am,” Sam says softly. His voice is loud in his own ears even though he’s sure he whispered.

“Exactly.” Her hand finds his hair, tangling in it a moment before he feels the tickle of her breath on his lips. “Don’t worry. I have something in mind but you have to stay very. Very. Still.”

She steps away and Sam almost whimpers at the loss of contact. When her hands land on his thighs, his body goes tense.

“Easy,” Jess purrs, and her thumbs stroke soothingly back and forth. He forces himself to relax again - as much as he can in this position. “There you go. Stay still, Sam.”

That’s all the warning he gets before the warm, wet heat of her mouth envelopes his cock.

#my writing #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic #sam winchester #jessica moore #Sam/Jess #Sam x Jess

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samsexualdeancurious · 28 days ago

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Chicken in a Biskit

Pairing: Charlie x Reader

Words: 504

Summary: The reader is done with the Winchesters.

Warnings: Fluff

A/N: I told y'all I wanted to write more wlw stuffs xD I write way too many men for a lesbian lmao

---

You’re slamming everything and you know it. It starts with the Impala door - and you’re going to get an earful from Dean about that one - and continues with your hand on the rattily old steps up to the third-floor apartment you share with Charlie. The front door bangs open and then closed, followed by the thuds of your shoes against the wall.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Charlie calls from the living room. “Stop beating up the walls and c’mere.”

You practically throw your bag on the floor, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the thump it makes on the tile of the entryway, and round the corner into the living room. You find Charlie sprawled on the couch, a box of Chicken in a Biskit tucked in the crook of one arm as she flips through TV channels with the other hand. She flashes you a smile much brighter than anything you could manage right now. Her brow is furrowed in concern, though.

“Hey, babe,” she says, muting the TV before setting the crackers and remote on the coffee table to open her arms to you. You’re more than happy to fall into her, tucking your face into the warm curve of her neck. “Whoa. That bad?”

“I hate the Winchesters,” you grumble against her skin.

“Uh oh. What happened?”

“They’re assholes. They don’t think I’m capable. It was just a ghost but they’re still babying me and it’s fucking annoying.”

“May I offer you a cracker in these trying times?” Charlie says, perfectly solemn as she reaches over to grab the box. She shakes it and you lift your head long enough to fish out a cracker. You settle back down with your snack. They’re good crackers. Nostalgic. “Better?”

“A bit,” you say around a mouthful of crumbs.

“You know they baby you because they care, right?”

You huff out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Jumping in before you’re ready is how you get hurt. Trust me. I’ve made that mistake.” She strokes your hair, cheek resting against your forehead. “If it’s a choice between the Winchesters annoying you and you getting hurt, well…” She trails off and instead tilts her head to kiss your hairline. “You’re still new to all this. You’ll be kicking monster ass with the best of them in no time. But for now… please let yourself be babied?” Charlie brings one hand up to cradle your cheek, drawing your eyes to hers. “For my own sanity?”

At the genuine concern in her expression, you feel your annoyance at Sam and Dean’s overbearing attitudes begin to soften. You nod in agreement and she thanks you with a kiss.

“No more hunting talk,” she declares. “I wanna watch Food Network.”

“We’re gonna need more snacks if we’re watching Food Network,” you say with a soft laugh. Food Network always makes you munchy.

“There’s pizza on the way.”

You groan happily at the thought of pizza. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Charlie chirps but her cheeks are pink when you kiss her again.

#my writing #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic #charlie bradbury #Charlie Bradbury x Reader #reader insert

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samsexualdeancurious · 29 days ago

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A Moment to Make Memories (NSFW)

Pairing: Amara x Rowena

Words: 391

Summary: A quiet morning with the two most powerful women in the world.

Warnings: Set s11-13-ish, light sexual content.

A/N: I've never written this pairing before but a friend suggested it and I've been craving more wlw ships lately, so I decided to give it a shot!

---

Her skin is soft under Rowena’s hands. Soft as their silky sheets and yet, so pale against the deep red. She doesn’t tan, doesn’t burn, doesn’t even freckle, and that’s so damn unfair. Rowena says as much, the words muffled against the curve of one smooth shoulder.

“I happen to like your freckles,” Amara says, her own fingertips tracing the little spots of pigmentation across Rowena’s shoulders. The touch sends a shiver down the witch’s spine. “They’re like… the antithesis of stars.”

Warmth floods Rowena’s body at that. “Who knew the Darkness would be so sentimental.”

“Who knew an ancient witch would enjoy… what is the word? Cuddling?”

Rowena laughs softly. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.”

“Of course, darling.” Amara’s lips brush softly against her temple, her hair, the shell of her ear. Rowena’s breath quickens. “What would you like for breakfast?”

Rowena hums thoughtfully, lifting her head to trail her own lips along the soft point of Amara’s jaw. “I have some ideas.”

The way their bodies fit together, skin on skin between silk sheets - it’s the closest to Heaven that Rowena is sure she’ll ever have. For the first time, Rowena is not the most powerful person in the room and she finds she doesn’t mind. Not when that power crackles between them in moments like this, mingling with her own and sparking pleasure through their bodies. It’s sweet and intoxicating and perhaps it is so unlike both of their natures. Perhaps this isn’t something either of them should have found or even deserves. They’re the two most powerful women in the world. If the world has something to say, well. Rowena has a very hard time caring.

She has everything she wants in the form of long, muscular limbs looping around her waist and shoulders. Slender fingers in her hair, on her hips, between her thighs. Dark curls thrown across her pillows. Bitter-sweet slick on her tongue.

Rowena is more than familiar with how fleeting life can be. The impermanence of it all. And yet, despite that, Amara is permanent. Amara will always be here. Even when Rowena is gone, Amara will continue. Rowena plans to take every moment she can to make sure her time with Amara, as brief as it may seem in the context of an eternity, will be time worth remembering.

#my writing #supernatural #rowena macleod #amara #amara x Rowena #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fic

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samsexualdeancurious · 4 months ago

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"Why can't the freaks on AO3 just go and make a site for all the gross stuff and leave AO3 alone."

Because AO3 is that site. Because AO3 was that site long before you decided AO3 was better than the sites you bullied us off of before, and I can promise you if someone somehow comes up with a fanfic site you like better specifically for the 'gross stuff' you'll try to bully us off that too so you can benefit from it.

AO3's specific core purpose is to preserve fanfiction, yes, but it was also instigated as a host site for the fanfiction that kept getting yeeted off other platforms like Wattpad. Its designed to preserve all fanfiction, not just the fanfiction you, personally, think is 'allowed' to be written.

AO3 is the site for all the gross stuff the freaks make. We've been there just as long as you. We've been funding it just as long as you have. AO3 has specifically said you have a place here. The timeline was literally:

Wattpad/FF.net/LiveJournal purge fanfics > AO3 is born > The people who's fics got purged moved over to AO3 > AO3 gains popularity as the best functioning site > The people who pushed for the fics to be purged off Wattpad move to AO3 > The same people try to push for AO3 to purge fics.

AO3's source coding is open-access. You go make a polished, strict, rigid site where nothing 'icky' is allowed. You go make a site where you can control what is hosted. We already have our space.

#fandom history

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samsexualdeancurious · 2 years ago

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The Sight of Stars (Makes Me Want to Dream)

Pairing: Technically none but I'm calling Sam x Castiel cos I wrote it and therefore I can 😤

Words: 1,027

Summary: Castiel returns from a year-long journey into the depths of Hell with precious cargo in tow.

Warnings: The Cage, mentions of torture

A/N: This is just a lil something expanding on an idea @wendibird had, also betaed by her 🥰️ This isn't very Christmas-y but I love it and Sam coming back from the dead is always a gift

---

Castiel’s wings burn with each upward push but he doesn’t slow down. He did not come this far, spend this long wandering the depths of Hell, only to fail when he finally has what he came for cradled against his chest.

His true form burns bright in the darkness of Hell and he knows it draws attention. He roars with his lion head even as his gazelle head swivels, noting the dark eyes peering at him from the shadows and darker forms lunge at him. Their screeches fill the air. Their claws leave Grace-bright marks on his body and tear feathers from his wings but he pushes on. His blade flashes around him and Demons fall away, vanishing into the depths of the Pit below.

Faintly, he thinks he can hear Lucifer screaming.

Castiel seems to fly forever and yet for no time at all, the strangeness of Hell twisted around him. A sliver of doubt is creeping into the corner of his mind when he sees it at last - a light, just a glimmer, that belongs in this darkness just as much as he does. Demons reach out, desperate to keep him. Fire licks and catches on his feathers. Castiel pushes himself farther, faster. Just a little more. Almost there -

Cool night air washes over his face as he slots back into the Earthly plane and the vessel he left waiting for him. He feels the gate of Hell close behind him as his knees buckle and Castiel tumbles into the grass, Sam Winchester still cradled in his arms.

Sam wakes with cool air in his lungs, grass beneath his body, and a vast expanse of stars above him.

He blinks up at the stars. Lucifer has made illusions with stars, of course, but never so many and besides, they always felt… wrong. Like a sky much younger than the one Sam is accustomed to. The one he’s looking at right now.

He breathes deeply and tastes sweet night air. Fresh, in a way not even Lucifer has proven himself capable of so far. Perhaps the Devil is improving. Perhaps Michael has a hand in this, though Sam strongly doubts that. The two are united in their hatred of him and that alone but Michael has never participated in Lucifer's games before.

A breeze stirs his hair and Sam soaks it in. He wants to enjoy every moment of this new trick while it remains peaceful.

"Sam."

Hm. That's a new one. Dean, Lucifer has conjured plenty of times. Enough that Sam almost feels immune. Almost. But Castiel? Never. Lucifer really is upping his game, then.

"Samuel."

Sam doesn't look. Being ignored will just piss Lucifer off but Sam wants to look at the stars and pretend he doesn't hurt to his very core.

His head is pillowed on an arm, he realizes. It moves now. Adjusts. Then a hand presses against his forehead and Grace washes through him.

Sam gasps, and his spine arches off the grass as panic rises in his chest and threatens to swallow him whole. But this Grace… it tastes different, on the back of his tongue. Unfamiliar and yet, very familiar. Not ice and fear. Not ash and flame. This is sweet. A warm spring rain, cleansing and gentle right down to his soul. He knows intrinsically that there are things wrong with him that not even an Angel can heal but the relief still leaves him breathless.

Castiel.

Sam looks, finally, and finds blue eyes watching him with concern. They soften when they meet his.

"There you are," Castiel murmurs.

Sam's gaze shifts beyond him at a movement over Cas’s shoulder and his brow furrows. Huge wings rise up from Castiel’s back. Tattered and charred, smoke rising from the feathers still, and still beautiful in a way that is beyond this plane of existence. The feathers are inky black and seem to mirror the stars above them. They flutter and one curves over Sam, like Cas is trying to protect him. When Sam blinks, though, all he sees is the stillness of the night sky.

"Castiel," Sam whispers, turning his gaze back to his friend’s face and God, his voice feels like it hasn't been used in at least a year. "Cas."

"Hello, Sam. It's good to see you."

Confusion and wonder war in Sam's head as he tries to work through what is going on. "How…? Where…?"

"We're in Stull Cemetery," Cas says softly. "Exactly one year from your leap into the Cage."

Sam blinks. "I'm not…?"

"In the Cage? Not anymore. You're safe now. Lucifer cannot touch you again."

The sob that tears itself from Sam's throat is raw and primal. He’s not sure he believes, not yet, but he wants to. He wants nothing more than to be so certain of his own safety. Of his family’s safety.

His brother. Where is his brother? The last thing Sam remembers of Dean is him with a face swollen from Sam’s own fists, kneeling on the grass by the car. Is he here still? How long has it been?

Sam tries to sit up but Cas holds him down. His hand flies up to grip the angel’s wrist. "Dean…?"

"Safe,” Cas assures him. “He was with Bobby last I saw. Though, that was a year ago.”

“A year?” Sam gasps.

“The Cage is deep in Hell. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Cas looks ashamed of himself, even though he fucking saved Sam. Saved him. He’s still processing that one. The warm press of Cas’s hand against his chest helps, skin on skin. A small corner of his mind realizes he’s naked but somehow it’s not important. He’s alive. He’s not in the Cage. It still feels impossible.

“Cas,” he says softly. “Pinch me?”

Cas’s brow furrows but he obediently pinches a spot next to Sam’s tattoo.

“Ow,” Sam hisses, batting his hand away. “Fuck. This is. Fuck.” He lets his head fall back against Cas’s arm. “I’m really out?”

“Yes, Sam.”

Sam manages a small smile, allowing that little spark of hope in his chest to grow. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas returns the smile. “Happy to help.”

---

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—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @manawhaat @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @emoryhemsworth @imsuperawkward

#my writing #supernatural #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #spn fanfiction #sastiel #samcas #sam/cas

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