spitefulsatanfics

[spitefulsatanfics]

Hiiii, I'm the one that requested the dean/bobby fic, and let me tell you...

IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL UGHHHJHK 😭😭😭😭

You write so lovely, it's like poetry, and it fills you up so gracefully ugh I love it 😭❤️

Thank you so much, I'm so glad you liked it. I had a nice time writing it. XX

[spitefulsatanfics]

The Boys with a Non-Hunter Significant Other

(Sam, Dean, and Castiel x She/Her Reader) 🖋️ Written by: Little Devil 💘 Theme: You’re not part of their world… but you are their whole world.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Dean Winchester — “Let Me Handle the Monsters, Sweetheart”

Headcanon: Dean is fiercely protective of you—not because he thinks you’re weak, but because you’re precious. You don’t carry a blade in your boot. You cry during movies. You gasp when he gets hurt, and instead of patching him up like it’s normal, you cup his face and whisper, “I hate that you go through this.” He’s not used to that. He’s used to surviving with someone, not being protected by their softness.

And God, does he guard that softness like it’s sacred.

Drabble: You’re in the bunker kitchen, stirring something warm and cinnamon-sweet, wearing his flannel like it belongs to you—and it does. Dean leans in the doorway, bruised, bleeding, quiet.

You turn. See the blood.

“Dean.”

He waves a hand. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.”

You walk over, towel in hand, eyes full of that unbearable, beautiful worry. He stiffens as you dab at his temple, your thumb trembling.

“I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate that you’re always coming home broken.”

Dean’s jaw works like he’s fighting words. Then:

“But I come home, don’t I?” His voice is rough. Gentle. “As long as you’re here, I’ve got a reason to.”

You reach up, kiss the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

Because for the first time in years… this? This is the life he wants to protect.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Sam Winchester — “You Don’t Need to Understand the Lore to Love Me”

Headcanon: Sam’s never been one to believe in fairy tales—but with you? You’re the closest he’s ever felt to peace. You ask questions when he needs to vent. You make him tea instead of pouring whiskey. You organize the bunker’s books by color because it makes you happy, even though he’ll alphabetize them later.

You’re not a hunter. But you’re his anchor. And that matters more.

Drabble: He’s reading at the kitchen table, hair falling into his face, while you sit across from him with a crossword puzzle and a chocolate croissant.

“What’s a seven-letter word for ‘overly selfless idiot with a hero complex’?” you ask with a smirk.

Sam looks up, blinks. “Excuse me?”

You smile, tap your pencil. “Clue was ‘Winchester.’”

He huffs a laugh. Then softens when he sees the way you’re looking at him—like he’s made of galaxies and mistakes you’d hold forever.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he says. “This life, it’s—dangerous.”

You reach across the table, lace your fingers with his.

“I do worry. But I’d rather have you for five dangerous minutes than a safe lifetime without you.”

He leans over the table and kisses you like you’re the answer to every unsolvable riddle.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Castiel — “Love Isn’t a Mission. It’s a Miracle.”

Headcanon: Castiel doesn’t understand at first—why you’re not trained in weapons, why you panic when someone’s bleeding, why you choose flowers over holy oil. But then… he sees how you care. How you bring soup when someone’s sick, or cry over lost strangers in the obits.

You’re not weak. You’re human. And to an angel who’s forgotten what humanity is for, that’s the most powerful thing in the world.

Drabble: The power’s out in the bunker. You’ve lit candles in the war room, wrapped in a quilt, sipping cocoa. Castiel watches you from across the room, still in his trench coat, still awkward as ever.

“Why don’t you fight?” he asks, softly.

You blink. “Because I don’t want to hurt people. Even monsters, if I don’t have to.”

He frowns. “But what if you’re attacked?”

You smile faintly. “That’s what you’re for, right?”

Castiel crosses the space between you slowly, kneels before the chair like it’s a throne and you’re something holy.

“I used to believe strength was measured by violence,” he says. “But I’ve come to learn… you are strong in ways I may never be.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“And you,” you whisper, “deserve someone who reminds you that you’re more than a soldier.”

He bows his head into your palm. And for the first time in centuries… the angel rests.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

Being a civilian doesn’t make you weaker. It makes you the reason they fight to live. Because in a world full of monsters… You are the one thing still worth saving.

[spitefulsatanfics]

《 ❝You break my heart, Kid.❞ 》ஓ๑♡๑

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Y/N (She/Her) — Supernatural

Tone: Grief, hurt/comfort, deep emotional intimacy, soft domestic moments, quiet healing, canon-level angst, found family, mutual vulnerability, protective!Dean, post-loss trauma, unspoken love as a tether to hope.

Rating: 18+ | TW: Grief and loss, vivid depictions of mourning, alcohol, emotional trauma, strong language, canonical character death 🛑 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🛑

Based On: Supernatural — Season 7, post-Episode 10 “Death’s Door” ⚠️ This show is rated 17+ and deals with dark and mature themes.

Synopsis: Bobby Singer left behind more than a legacy—he left behind a daughter. And grief doesn’t wait for monsters to disappear. While the Winchesters reel from the loss of their only father figure, Dean finds himself in unfamiliar territory: comforting the one person who loved Bobby as fiercely as he did. Through bottle caps, battered notebooks, and memories soaked in blood and whiskey, Dean and Y/N learn how to carry love’s weight, even when it threatens to bury them both.

By; 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 ♥ — date written and published: June 6th, 2025™ (Request fill — thank you so much for the beautiful prompt.)

════════════════════════════════

Scene One: The House Without Him

The house is wrong.

It smells like coffee that’s gone cold in the pot. Like old leather and dust. Like everything she ever loved and everything that just left.

Y/N doesn’t drop her keys. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the chipped threshold where Bobby once made her wipe her boots no matter how bad the hunt was. Now her boots are streaked with dried blood and Missouri mud, and no one tells her to clean them.

Dean is waiting just inside, backlit by amber hallway light, flannel hanging off his frame like it's suddenly too big for him. He opens his mouth, but the words rot before they reach his lips.

“Where is he?” she asks. It’s not a real question. Just a refusal to believe what she already knows.

Dean’s throat works as he swallows. His eyes are red, not from drink but from something heavier. Something primal. His voice, when it breaks the quiet, is ash and gravel.

“He’s gone.”

She makes a sound—half a breath, half a sob. Her legs buckle under grief’s first strike. But Dean’s there before she hits the floor, strong arms circling her like he’d built them just to hold her up. Her fists beat uselessly against his chest once, twice—then curl into the fabric of his coat like claws. She weeps in choking gasps, the kind that rip holes in the air, the kind that never end.

Dean lets her. Doesn’t tell her to be strong. Doesn’t tell her it’ll be okay.

Because it won’t. Not tonight.

Not ever in the way they both want.

═══════════════

Scene Two: Bottle Necks and Bones

Two nights later and they haven’t left the motel.

Y/N sits cross-legged on the second bed, still in yesterday’s shirt, staring at the wall like it’s holding secrets. The TV murmurs nonsense. A bottle of Jack sits between them like a fourth presence in the room, half-drunk, cap long gone.

“I keep thinkin’ he’s gonna call,” she says suddenly, voice like old sandpaper. “Tell me I forgot to lock the damn garage again. Or that I left the devil’s trap under the porch undone.”

Dean nods slowly. “I know.”

“He yelled at me the last time I saw him,” she whispers. “We argued about the damn plumbing. Can you believe that? The plumbing.”

“You think he didn’t know you loved him?”

Her jaw tightens. “What if I didn’t say it enough?”

Dean looks at her for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his tired eyes.

“You did,” he says finally. “You said it in the way you took care of him. In the way you knew which books he liked dog-eared and which ones you never touched. You said it every time you cursed like him or made his chili recipe with too much cayenne just to mess with Sam.”

She almost smiles. Almost.

“You didn’t need to say it. He knew.”

═══════════════

Scene Three: Ghosts in the Study

It takes nearly two weeks for her to walk back into Bobby’s house.

Dean doesn’t push. He drives, his knuckles white on the wheel as she stares at the horizon, one hand in his.

The moment the front door groans open, the air shifts. Cold, stale, but still full of him. She steps through and it smells like memories—like gun oil and half-finished research. Like home.

Dean watches her closely. Not hovering. Just nearby.

In Bobby’s study, the desk is untouched. The leather chair still sits askew, a notebook abandoned mid-translation. A book on Norse rites is cracked open, his cracked glasses beside it.

Y/N steps closer, fingers tracing the well-worn edge of the desk.

Then she spots it.

A photo half-tucked under a stack of notes. She pulls it out—she and Bobby, summer of ‘06. Her face dirty with engine grease, Bobby giving the camera the finger. She remembers Dean behind the lens laughing so hard he nearly dropped it.

She presses the photo to her chest.

Dean’s voice behind her is a murmur. “He kept that on his desk for years.”

Y/N turns, unshed tears glossing her gaze. “He never told me.”

“He didn’t need to.”

═══════════════

Scene Four: The Journals

Later that night, she finds the box.

Old, wooden, claw-scratched and stained. Tucked under the bed like a coffin for memories.

Inside—journals. Dozens. Some dating back to the '80s. Yellowed pages, ink smudged with whiskey and time.

Dean crouches beside her, holding a lamp. “Didn’t know he kept this many.”

She lifts one labelled: Wendigo, Montana '93. A scribbled margin note reads: “Dumbass kids didn’t salt their campsite. Nearly got toasted.”

She laughs. Actually laughs.

Dean smiles. It’s a broken smile, crooked at the edges, but real.

They sit cross-legged on the floor, knees brushing. One by one, they flip pages. Case notes blend with grocery lists. A doodle of a squirrel named “Jim Beaver” is scrawled in a page margin next to a decapitation sketch.

Y/N wipes her eyes. “He was such a mess.”

Dean leans against her shoulder. “He was our mess.”

She turns to another journal. Inside the front cover is a note written in Bobby’s unmistakable scrawl:

To Y/N—You ain’t half bad, kid. Keep this mess runnin’ if I’m not around. And if Dean’s still being a pain in the ass, smack him one for me. Love you. You idjit.

She covers her mouth.

Dean’s hand slides into hers.

They sit there on the floor surrounded by ghosts and ink, and for once, the grief doesn't feel quite so sharp.

═══════════════

Scene Five: Not Alone

Outside, the sun is beginning to rise—light bleeding through the blinds like a quiet promise.

They haven’t slept.

Dean stands behind her in the study, arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting atop her head. She leans back into him, heavy but safe.

“You think he’s still around?” she asks, voice barely a breath.

Dean’s reply is steady. “Yeah. I think he’s in all of this. In you. In me. In every kid we save.”

Her eyes slip shut. “You promise you’ll stay?”

He presses a kiss to the curve of her neck, slow and reverent.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And in the hollow wreckage of everything they lost, that one truth glows like an ember:

They’re not alone.

Not anymore.

═══════════════✓═══════════════

🕯️ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖉 𝖎𝖘𝖓’𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞—𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖎𝖋 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚. 🕯️

[spitefulsatanfics]

═══ 𝒜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁’𝓈 𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒮𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒟𝒶𝓎 ══ “I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Pairing: Castiel x Hunter!Y/N (She/Her Reader) From: Supernatural Based on: Season 5–6 (Rated 17+)

Rating: G Warnings: Slight injury (snowball related), fluff overload, Castiel trying to understand sleds. Tone: Wholesome, soft fluff, winter romance, angel-learning-human-things joy, established relationship, snow day delight Word Count: 4,812

Synopsis: He’s faced down the wrath of Heaven. She’s killed monsters with her bare hands. But nothing prepares either of them for the chaos of a snowball to the face—or the stillness of falling snow and love, confessed under a winter sky.

Written by: Little Devil ♥ Date Written & Published: June 3, 2025™

═══

The motel parking lot glittered with fresh snow, unmarred save for the tire tracks of the Impala and the hesitant footprints of a trench coat-clad angel.

Castiel stood very still, head tilted back, watching white flakes descend from a sky the colour of old tin. His hair was already dusted, lashes tipped in frost. If he noticed, he made no sign. He looked… awestruck.

“You’re gonna get frostbite, standing still like that,” Y/N called, tugging on her beanie and cramming her gloved hands into her coat pockets. Her boots crunched over the hard-packed snow as she approached him. “Not that you’ve got the circulation for it.”

Castiel blinked, and turned to her. “I don’t feel cold. Only… something strange. Heavy and light.”

“That’s winter,” she said, stepping beside him and squinting into the grey. “The good kind. Makes your lungs burn, makes you remember you're alive.”

“I am not technically alive,” he murmured, then glanced at her. “But I believe I understand.”

They stood for a moment in the quiet. The motel behind them hummed with a furnace too old for comfort, and Sam was inside, buried in research. Dean had groaned something about “hell no” when she suggested snowball fights.

But Castiel had stayed.

A rare day off. A rare snowstorm. An even rarer angel with time to waste.

Y/N bumped her elbow lightly against his arm. “You ever had a snow day, Cas?”

His brow furrowed. “A… snow day?”

“You know. Sledding. Snowball fights. Cocoa. Bad decisions made with icy projectiles.” She grinned, stepping back and scooping a handful of snow from the hood of Dean’s beloved car. “Like this.”

And with zero warning, she nailed Castiel in the chest with a snowball.

His stunned silence nearly made her feel guilty. Almost.

He looked down at his coat, then back at her with slowly widening eyes. “You threw snow at me.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

He tilted his head. “Is it a declaration of hostility or affection?”

“…Yes.”

═══

The hill behind the motel wasn’t much—a soft roll behind a rusted chain link fence, but it had snow, gravity, and the discarded remnants of an old sled Sam found in a gas station’s clearance bin last year.

Castiel sat stiffly on the plastic sled, trench coat billowing like he was about to take flight. Y/N crouched behind him, holding on.

“I still do not understand the point of this,” he said, peering ahead with cautious reverence.

“It’s fun,” she promised.

“Fun appears to be frequently hazardous.”

“Yep. Hold on.”

They pushed off.

The sled creaked like it might give up entirely halfway down, but momentum was on their side. They hurtled down the hill, Y/N laughing and Castiel—a low, surprised noise breaking from him—leaning slightly as they twisted off-course, nearly missing a rock. The wind howled past, snow sprayed up in chunks, and for a moment, Castiel smiled.

Really smiled.

By the time they skidded to a stop, they were both breathless—hers from laughter, his from something like wonder.

He turned slowly to look at her. “That was… exhilarating.”

“Told you,” she beamed, brushing snow from his coat. “And you didn’t even smite the sled.”

“I considered it.”

═══

Hot cocoa came in paper cups from the motel vending machine. It tasted like chalky sugar and regret, but Cas stared at his like it held the secrets of the universe.

“What is this… marshmallow?”

“Technically? Foam,” Y/N said. “But it’s trying its best.”

Castiel looked down into the cup, then back up at her. His gaze was unreadable, deep and wide as the sky itself. He had snow in his hair still. He hadn’t noticed.

“This is the strangest day I have ever lived.”

“That’s a big statement, coming from you.”

“And yet,” he said, quiet, “I mean it.”

There was something about the light just then. The grey beginning to give way to soft blue. The frost on the window edge. The warm hush between them in the car where they sat with steaming drinks and boots dripping melted snow onto the mat.

Y/N watched him study the cocoa, the snow outside, then her.

And then he said it.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

It was a whisper, barely spoken. His gaze didn’t move.

Not the snow. Not the sky. Not the cocoa.

Her.

Her heart stalled. She felt it in her ribs, her hands, her throat. Her skin warmed despite the cold. “Cas…”

“I’m not experienced with compliments,” he added, softly, like confession. “But I believe I meant that one.”

Y/N set her drink down and leaned forward slowly, fingers brushing against his where his gloved hands still cupped the hot paper.

“You know,” she said gently, “you can kiss me when you say things like that.”

Castiel looked surprised. Then… pleased.

He leaned forward, unsure at first, then steady. And when his lips met hers—chapped from cold but warm with purpose—it felt like snowfall in the dark. Quiet. Soft. Certain.

When they parted, the silence was golden.

“I should like more snow days,” he murmured.

Y/N grinned against his lips. “You’ve earned ‘em.”

═══

Newly-human Castiel spends his first snow day learning how to play, love, and live like a human—with the woman who stole his grace-ridden heart.

[spitefulsatanfics]

Hiii, I hope you are having an amazing week!!

I saw that you were accepting requests, and I have this idea, so I thought about sharing it with you:

Dean x Hunter Reader (established relationship), but she is Bobby's daughter and is there when bobby dies, like how would they deal with grief and all that.

I just love the way you write, and I think you would do some amazing work with this idea ♡

Such an amazing idea, id love to do this! I'll try and get it written and posted by the end of this week! - Little Devil

Edit; POSTED NOW!!!!

[spitefulsatanfics]

𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 𝕭𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖘

"You ever heard of an old soul with a loud engine?" – Dean Winchester, Supernatural

📍 Pairing:

Dean Winchester x Hunter!Y/N (She/Her Reader) Fandom: Supernatural (Season 5–6 era)

🎼 Tone: Fluffy • Feel-Good Romance • Soulmate-Level Cuteness • Established Relationship • Hunter x Hunter Dynamic • Lovestruck!Dean • Domesticity Disguised as Apocalypse • Rainy Day Comfort Vibes • Slight Angst (Because Dean) • Slow Dancing and Oldies Vibes

📖 Synopsis: A busted jukebox, a howling storm, and a broken-in garage become a soft sanctuary from the world. Dean always knew he wasn’t much of a dancer — but he’ll let her lead, if it means holding her a little longer. And when Elvis croons through static and dust, well... even Dean Winchester can’t help falling in love.

🔞 Rating: 18+ Warnings: Cursing, Injury (minor), Intimacy (soft + steamy kissing), Shirtless Dean, Emotional Vulnerability, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

📺 Based On: Supernatural – Season 5–6 era (tagged as 17+ canon media)

🖋️ Written by: Little Devil ♥ Date Written & Published: June 2, 2025™

✦✦✦

⛈️ Scene I: Shelter from the Storm

The sky split in half. Lightning cracked bone-white through the Kansas night and thunder followed hard on its heels like God’s shotgun going off in warning.

Dean Winchester cursed and leaned harder on the gas, windshield wipers struggling to keep pace. Baby groaned under him, tires skimming waterlogged asphalt. She’d held through worse, but not much worse.

Y/N was in the passenger seat, blood dried on her forehead, lips pressed tight, hands folded in her lap like she was holding the pain back with sheer force of will. The salt-and-burn had gone sideways — a wrong turn, an old basement beam — and now her ankle was taped, her face bruised, and Dean was driving like hell had personally RSVP’d to this downpour.

“We’re gonna have to pull off,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “She’s hydroplaning.”

“I can walk.”

Dean shot her a glare like it was offensive she even said it. “With a busted ankle? Try me.”

A sign flickered through the sheets of rain: Bobby’s Auto – Service & Tires. It was barely more than a ghost town of rust and cinderblock, but the faded garage still stood. Dean whipped the wheel and Baby slid neatly into the overgrown gravel lot.

He killed the engine.

“We wait it out here.”

“Romantic,” Y/N teased, watching the rain flood over Baby’s windshield.

Dean huffed a breath and got out, water soaking through his flannel in seconds. She limped beside him, his arm tight around her waist as they shoved open the garage’s side door. It creaked like an old man’s knees but held.

Inside, the air was musty with grease and silence, walls lined with broken-down tires and rusting tools. Dust danced in the beam of Dean’s flashlight.

“Home sweet home,” he mumbled.

Y/N dropped onto a dusty couch against the wall, grunting softly as she adjusted her ankle. Dean was already digging around, his hunter’s instincts on edge even now. But this place was dead quiet — not haunted, not cursed. Just forgotten.

And maybe, just maybe, that made it the safest place they’d been in weeks.

° = ° = ° = °

📻 Scene II: Jukebox Heroes

“What’s that?” she asked as Dean crossed the garage again, squinting toward a hulking shadow in the corner.

He grinned. “That, sweetheart, is a 1960s Wurlitzer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “In English?”

“A jukebox. The kind that played real music, not Spotify garbage.”

He knelt beside it, dusting off the panel with his sleeve. The plastic cover was cracked and the lights flickered like dying fireflies. He popped it open with a hunter’s practiced hands — always prying, always fixing.

“You think it still works?”

Dean scoffed. “I once hotwired a banshee trap with a Walkman and duct tape. Watch me.”

She leaned back with a smirk and watched him tinker. There was something holy in the way he worked — the reverence he had for machines, the gentle curse under his breath, the joy in making old things breathe again.

Finally, with a wheeze and a pop, the jukebox lit up.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Y/N whispered.

Dean didn’t answer. He was staring, a little too proud, a little too boyish, as the first notes of “Fortunate Son” growled through the dust.

“I love this song,” he said, voice high with boyish delight.

He held out a hand.

She blinked. “Are you—?”

“C’mon,” he said. “We’re dry, the storm’s a bitch, and that couch has mice. Let’s dance.”

“I didn’t know you danced.”

“I don’t,” Dean said, smiling like he was already bracing for impact. “But I’ve seen you. And if I trip over my feet, you can just catch me.”

She laughed — really laughed — and took his hand.

He pulled her close, and it was awkward, and it was clumsy, and it was absolutely perfect.

They twirled through the dust and grease, her hand on his shoulder, his arm tight around her back. Dean muttered something about “stupid long legs” and she stepped on his boot, and they both laughed like the world wasn’t ending.

The music changed. The next song was softer — older.

And then…

“Wise men say… only fools rush in…”

Dean froze.

The lights flickered. The storm howled.

And in that crumbling garage, beneath a single swaying bulb, something shifted in the air. Thicker. Warmer.

Dean swallowed. Looked at her like she’d just stepped out of a dream.

“I know this one,” he said, voice soft. “Mom used to hum it.”

Y/N’s hand found his again. “Then dance with me. Slow this time.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll teach you.”

He nodded. Wordless. Willing.

Their bodies swayed gently, her chin on his chest, his cheek against her hair. He counted steps under his breath like a kid. She moved them anyway, gently guiding him through the rhythm.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” she whispered, smiling.

Dean looked down, cheeks pink. “But I’ve got a good partner.”

She looked up at him just in time to see his smile falter — just in time to feel him really look at her.

And then, with Elvis crooning on and on, Dean Winchester kissed her.

Not a hunter’s kiss — not rushed or bruising or stolen.

But soft.

Deliberate.

Like he meant it.

Like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.

And under flickering garage lights, with oil-stained floors and the scent of old engines, they kissed again.

And again.

Until her hands were in his hair.

Until his flannel was slipping off.

Until the rain drowned out everything but them.

° = ° = ° = °

🌙 Scene III: After the Storm

The jukebox was still humming when Y/N stirred, limbs tangled with Dean’s beneath a grease-stained blanket they’d found in the back of the Impala.

He was asleep beside her — mouth parted, lashes soft, arm slung across her middle like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Outside, the storm had passed. Only puddles and birds remained.

She turned slightly, careful not to wake him, and traced her fingers along the line of his jaw.

Dean stirred. “That tickles,” he mumbled.

“Good morning, grease monkey.”

He smirked without opening his eyes. “We doin’ that again? I promise I’ll only step on your feet five times this round.”

Y/N laughed and tucked herself under his arm. “You did good.”

Dean opened one eye. “Really?”

She nodded. “You’re not half bad when you let yourself be soft.”

That made him go quiet. Not broody, just… thoughtful.

“I don’t get to be soft a lot,” he said. “Not in this life.”

Y/N tilted her face up. “But with me?”

“With you,” he said, kissing her knuckles. “I can be whatever you need.”

The jukebox whirred one last time. Another song began to play — something crackly and familiar.

Dean sighed. “Alright. That one’s our song now.”

She grinned. “You remember it?”

He nudged her gently with his forehead. “’Course I do. Can’t help falling in love, right?”

“Right,” she whispered.

They didn’t dance again.

Not then.

They just laid there. Safe. For once.

And if the world wanted to burn down around them tomorrow?

Well… it’d have to wait.

° = ° = ° = °

🛠️ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕰𝖓𝖉 ™

[spitefulsatanfics]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖔𝖗

❝ I’m not a hammer, as you say. I have questions. I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore... and I do know that you’re not supposed to have favourites. But I’m pretty sure God doesn’t want you to die. ❞ — Castiel, Supernatural

=°=

Pairing: Castiel x Y/N (She/Her) From: Supernatural (TV Series) Based On: Supernatural, Season 6 — canon-adjacent, 17+ Tone: hurt/comfort, protective!Cas, near-death experience, emotional angst, healing, fluffy resolution, loyal!Cas, fierce love Word Count: 6,002 Rating: 🛑 17+ — violence, blood/injury, trauma aftermath, canon-level intensity, minors do not interact

Synopsis: Castiel had always kept you away from the fire. Away from the truth of what he really was, what he had done, and what he would still do—for you. But when a demon uses you to draw him out, there is no curtain to pull anymore. There’s only fury. And fear. And the unspoken question Castiel has dreaded since the day he fell for you: Would you still love him if you saw the worst of him?

=°=

🖤 Written by: Little Devil ♡ Date written and published: June 1st, 2025™

Ⅰ. There Was Blood in the Silence

The motel room had a smell Castiel instantly recognized.

Blood.

The scent was iron-rich, coppery, and layered over something darker—sulfur. Demonic.

The second he materialized in the parking lot, something inside him recoiled. The motel’s neon vacancy sign flickered like it knew too much. A fly buzzed lazily in the heat. The air felt still—too still.

And inside… she was gone.

The lock on the door clicked open with a twitch of his fingers. The door swung inward with a soft creak that might’ve been gentle, if not for what it revealed.

The room was wrecked.

One of the chairs had been overturned violently, the edge of its leg splintered. A lamp lay shattered on the ground beside the bed, the bulb popped like a blister. The sheets were twisted, smeared with streaks of red. And near the threshold of the bathroom—

A necklace.

Delicate. Silver. Yours.

It was broken. The clasp had snapped, the chain curled into itself like a snake gasping for breath. He knew that necklace. He’d watched you fumble it on in the mornings, seen it glint in the sunlight as you laughed.

Now it was a marker. A signature. A warning.

The angel moved slowly. Reverently. Like if he disturbed the air too much, it would wipe away what was left of you.

Castiel knelt near the broken jewellery. He touched two fingers to the ground.

And felt your pain.

It hit him like a wave—sharp, guttural, screaming. The residual energy in the room was saturated with it. You’d fought. You’d begged. You’d bled.

And he hadn’t been there.

His grace flickered like a dying candle in his chest.

You had always been a secret worth guarding. He’d kept you at arm’s length from the truth—not because he didn’t trust you, but because he loved you. Because you were the only thing that made him feel like the war could stay outside the door.

But the war had come anyway.

And now—

Now, Castiel would end it.

=°=

You came to in stages.

The first thing you registered was the ache—dull, throbbing, like your bones had been filled with wet sand. The second was the cold. A kind of humid chill that settled over your exposed skin, raw and aching.

The third was the sound.

Metal scraping metal.

You opened your eyes slowly. Your vision swam with double images and static.

A barn. You were inside a barn.

It smelled of old hay, mildew, and rot. A single bare bulb buzzed above you, casting warped shadows across the rafters. Your wrists were tied to the frame of a stall—crude rope, thick and biting into your skin.

Then you heard the voice.

"Ah, sleeping beauty wakes."

A figure emerged from the shadows. Male. Smirking. He looked like a drifter you’d cross the street to avoid—greasy hair, flannel shirt, cocky posture.

But his eyes were all wrong.

Inky. Bottomless.

Demon.

“Not much for small talk?” he asked, crouching in front of you. He ran a finger down your jaw. You flinched. He laughed.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t about you, sweetheart. You’re just the bait.”

You blinked hard, willing your brain to wake up faster. “Bait…?”

“For the angel,” the demon said simply, tossing a dagger between his fingers. “Castiel. He’s a little obsessed with you, isn’t he? I figured he’d come running if I carved you up just right.”

You went cold all over.

He leaned in, sniffing the air like he could taste your fear. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you breathing. Gotta make sure he sees.”

Your lips moved, but no sound came. Your throat was too dry. Still, your eyes blazed with one silent promise:

He was coming.

And just like that, the temperature dropped.

The lights dimmed. The bulb overhead flickered once, twice—

And then it burst.

=°=

Ⅱ. And Then There Was Light

He appeared like a rupture in the air.

One second, the barn held the quiet hiss of anticipation. The next, the shadows lengthened and the air grew thick—pressurized. The scent of ozone clung to the beams.

Then—

Wings.

Black and terrible and beautiful. Not visible, but present. Their weight pressed on the walls, the ceiling, the earth itself.

And in the centre of it all: Castiel.

He stood still as a statue. Trench coat stiff with wind that wasn’t there. His eyes glowed faintly, blue like the heart of a flame.

“You’re late,” the demon drawled, holding the dagger against your cheek. “I was starting to think you didn’t care.”

Castiel didn’t answer.

He just raised his hand.

What happened next wasn’t fire. It wasn’t lightning.

It was grace.

Pure, incandescent wrath.

The barn groaned as beams cracked, nails ripped free. The sound of wings whooshed around them—a tempest of feathers that lifted the dust off the floor and shook the rafters.

The demon’s smirk faltered.

“Wait—”

Too late.

With a single flick of his fingers, Castiel unravelled the creature’s soul.

It wasn’t showy. It was surgical. Clean. The demon screamed—high and sharp and short—as his vessel crumpled inward, black veins spreading like vines before collapsing in on themselves.

Ash fell.

And then… silence.

All that remained was the smell of scorched sulfur and a hollow, curling scream that still rang through the floorboards.

You barely had time to register it before the ropes fell away.

And Castiel was there.

His arms caught you as your legs gave out, his coat wrapping around you like armour.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice cracking, trembling fingers brushing your hair away from your face. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Everything hurt.

But his grace found you.

It shimmered beneath your skin—warm and soft and tinged with sorrow. Bruises faded. Cuts sealed. The pain receded like the tide.

Your heart kept pounding.

And he didn’t stop holding you.

Then his eyes met yours.

You saw the fear in them before he even spoke.

“Y/N,” he whispered, “you saw… what I did.”

You blinked slowly. Your throat was still raw, but you managed, “Yeah.”

“I never wanted that for you.” His voice shook. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that. The violence. The power. I’ve tried—so hard—not to let you near that part of me.”

He looked away. “I understand if you can’t love me now.”

You stared.

Then, slowly—shakily—you reached up. Your fingers brushed the stubble on his jaw.

“Cas,” you rasped, “do you really think I didn’t know what you were capable of?”

He didn’t move.

“I’ve seen it. The way your hands shake after a fight. The way your eyes go cold when something threatens the people you love. You think that’s ugly?”

He didn’t answer.

“I think that’s love.”

Something broke in his face then.

His mouth opened slightly, eyes wide—disbelieving.

You leaned your forehead against his.

“I saw the fury,” you whispered. “But I also saw the love behind it. You didn’t lose control. You chose me.”

Silence.

Then—

“You’re the most human thing in my life,” you said. “And that’s why I love you.”

Castiel shuddered.

And for the first time since he fell, he didn’t feel like he had to apologize for it.

He just let himself be loved.

=°=

Ⅲ. The After

You didn’t go back to the motel.

He took you somewhere quieter—a hillside, far from roads or towns, where the sky stretched endless above you.

Grass cradled your sore body, dewy and soft. The air smelled clean. You could hear crickets. A distant owl.

He summoned water—cool and clear—and helped you drink.

You lay beneath the stars, fingers tangled with his. He hadn’t let go once.

The pain was mostly gone, but your chest still ached in a way healing couldn’t touch.

“Cas,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “Do you hate what you are?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I fear it,” he admitted. “What I become, when I lose you.”

You rolled onto your side, resting your cheek against his coat.

“Do you hate what you did tonight?”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I hate that it was necessary.”

You looked at him—serious and still.

“Do you think I should be afraid of you?”

He met your gaze. “I was afraid you would be.”

You exhaled through your nose, brushing your fingers against his chest.

“I could never be afraid of you.”

A pause.

“But I will kill you if you ever lie to me again.”

His lips quirked. “You are terrifying.”

You smirked. “Yeah. Where do you think I learned it?”

He chuckled—quiet, breathless.

And you smiled. Because that was the sound you’d almost never hear again.

You curled closer.

And in the quiet night, beneath stars that had no name for love like this, Castiel pulled you into his arms and whispered:

“I will never let you be used again. Not by Heaven. Not by Hell. Not by me.”

You believed him.

Because that was the thing about Castiel.

He wasn’t just your protector.

He was yours.

🖤 THE END 🖤

[spitefulsatanfics]

════════════════════ 𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕲𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖘 ════════════════════

❝ I want to believe in it. The life. The possibility of it. You and me. ❞ — Sam Winchester, Supernatural

PAIRING: Sam Winchester x Y/N (She/Her Reader) SHOW: Supernatural, Season 8–9 era TONE: Soft & supernatural, established relationship, feel-good domestic fluff, soulmate-level longing, hunter x hunter, cursed object case fic, a sprinkle of awkward romance RATING: 18+ (for themes of intense romantic fluff and emotionally intimate moments — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🚫) BASED ON: Supernatural, Season 8–9 (MoL Bunker Era) (Note: Show is rated 17+ for violence, supernatural horror, and adult themes) WORD COUNT: 5,433 words SYNOPSIS: A cursed mirror shows Sam Winchester the life he’s always been afraid to want—white picket fence, laughter, a dog, and Y/N in a sunlit kitchen calling him “honey.” It’s everything he’s run from and everything he’s ever dreamed of. But when reality rushes back in, Sam is left flustered, awkward… and deeply in love. Turns out, Y/N saw it too. And she's been waiting for him to say something all along.

𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲: 𝙇𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡 ♡ 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 & 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝: 𝙅𝙪𝙣𝙚 1, 2025™

⋆｡°✩ Scene One ✩°｡⋆ 𝙈𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧, 𝙈𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧

The mirror wasn't supposed to do anything.

Which, in retrospect, was probably the first red flag.

"Definitely cursed," Dean muttered, wiping his hand on his jeans as he stepped back from the ornate, gilded frame propped against a dusty motel chair. “Gave me a nosebleed just looking at it too long.”

Sam only half-heard him.

Because the second Sam Winchester looked into that mirror, the world tilted. Warped. Recalibrated.

And then—

A backyard. The creak of a screen door. Sunlight spilling in like warm honey.

And her.

Y/N, barefoot in a cotton dress, chasing a dog across a green lawn, laughing. Her hair was longer, lighter maybe, eyes soft and bright. Domestic. At peace. She looked back at him through the vision, and Sam—this version of him—stood with a mug in one hand and a wedding band on the other.

Y/N called out something he didn’t hear.

He said something back that made her laugh. That laugh. It cut through the air like a promise he hadn’t known how to keep until now.

Then the mirror cracked. A tiny line. And everything blinked back to normal.

“Sam?” Y/N asked softly behind him, her brows drawn in concern as she gently touched his shoulder. “You okay?”

He blinked. Swallowed. Nodded.

But he wasn’t. He was somewhere between breaking apart and breaking open.

Because for a heartbeat—just one—he’d seen the life he never dared to believe in.

=

Back at the Bunker, Sam moved like a ghost.

He researched. He catalogued. He made coffee and forgot to drink it. He smiled too wide when Y/N asked him what was wrong, then shook his head with a tight, "Nothing. Just tired."

She didn’t believe him.

Y/N always knew when he was lying. Maybe that was the worst part.

Sam Winchester had fought Hell, Heaven, Leviathans, trials, even himself. But the mirror—just a cursed object in some dead woman’s attic—had undone him completely.

Because he hadn’t just seen peace. He’d felt it.

And he missed something that had never really been his.

°

⋆｡°✩ Scene Two ✩°｡⋆ 𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝘿𝙤 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙣

She cornered him in the kitchen.

The bunker was quiet—Dean was out on a beer run, probably taking longer on purpose because someone had told him, “Dude, Sam is acting weird.”

Sam stood at the sink, staring at his reflection in the metal of a spoon like it might show him something again.

Y/N crossed her arms behind him.

“I’m gonna ask this once,” she said calmly. “And if you say ‘nothing’ again, I’m going to throw your laptop into the shower.”

Sam turned, eyes wide.

“…You wouldn’t.”

She stepped closer. “Try me.”

He hesitated. Chest tight. Jaw twitching.

It spilled out in pieces, like glass slipping from shaking hands.

“I saw us,” he said. “In the mirror. Not just a version of us. Us. Married. Together. Happy. There was a dog. And a porch swing. And you called me honey and kissed me like we’d done it every day for years. And it didn’t feel like a curse, Y/N. It felt real.”

He looked up finally. His voice cracked, low and unsure.

“I don’t know what’s worse. That I saw it… or that I didn’t want to leave.”

For a second, all he could hear was the hum of the fridge.

Then—

“I saw it too,” she whispered.

Sam blinked.

Y/N smiled, shy and trembling, like a girl in love at seventeen again. “I was going to wait for you to say something. I thought maybe I imagined it, or maybe the curse was messing with my head. But it didn’t feel wrong. It felt like…” She stepped closer. “Like something I already knew.”

The silence between them was its own kind of sacred.

Then Sam surged forward, cupped her face, and kissed her like a man who had wasted too many years running from what he needed most.

And she kissed him back like she’d been waiting her whole life for him to stop.

°

⋆｡°✩ Scene Three ✩°｡⋆ 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙒𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙁𝙖𝙠𝙚

They kept the mirror.

Dean rolled his eyes about it, but Sam and Y/N tucked it away in a Bunker room labelled Miscellaneous Magickal BS. Covered the crack with tape. Called it a “research piece.” But mostly, it sat quiet and dusty.

Sometimes Sam would walk past it, hand brushing the wood, and just smile.

Because he didn’t need to look anymore.

He had the real thing.

He had her.

She wore his flannel now, always left out on the back of a chair. She made tea in his mug. Their rooms blurred together until it was just their room. One bed. One closet. One life.

On nights when the hunts were hard, when the blood didn’t wash off all the way, Sam would lie beside her and breathe her in.

“You still believe in it?” he’d ask quietly.

And she’d whisper back, “More than ever.”

Sometimes she’d joke about getting a dog.

And sometimes he’d close his eyes and see it—sunlight, screen doors, and peace—and know he was finally brave enough to chase it down.

With her.

𝙀𝙉𝘿

[spitefulsatanfics]

Having a crisis...

Hello all my lovely readers out there, some of you might know me and some of you may not but I've been writing on this page for a very long time... I have found family and friends through writing and through Tumblr for longer than I can remember.

I am currently facing homelessness in a country I am not from with no family to lean on, no real friends since I have spent most of my time here in an physically and emotionally abusive and unstable relationship (someone whom I left my entire life behind for and moved across the world, trusting him id be safe here... turns out that was a lie.)

I hate asking for help in any situations, even the most minor and silly things, that's possibly a huge part of why I've ended up in this situation now. I didn't know where else to turn so I've come here in hope to find some kindness.

I understand this is a lot to ask complete strangers really, but I've found myself in a position now that I have finally managed to leave my abuser- (taking my housing and all the friends I thought I had once along with it) -that I have no other choice but to hope there are people out there that wouldn't mind helping me out with basic things like a meal and a way to get transport to work so I'm able to find a new place to live. I am currently waiting for a bed in a shelter nearby me to open up a bed.

if anyone out there has ANYTHING (even its one cent) to spare I'd appreciate it more than you can ever know.

I will attach my paypal below -

if you can't help, that's totally understandable but reblogs help so so much.

[spitefulsatanfics]

🎵 The Boys & The Loss That Broke Them 🎵

(Dean, Sam, and Castiel x She/Her Reader — Head canons, Explanations & Novella-Style Drabbles) 🖋️ Written by: Little Devil 💔 Theme: How each of them copes with losing you, and what remains when love turns to mourning

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Dean Winchester — The Man Who Stopped Singing

Head canon: Dean grieves in reverse. First comes the silence. Then the anger. Then the haunting. When Y/N dies, he doesn’t cry at first. He drives. He puts "Ramblin' Man" on repeat until the stereo cracks. He hunts like he's got a death wish. And worst of all—he doesn’t talk about her. Not to Sam. Not to Cas. He’s scared if he says her name, the grief will pour out and never stop.

Why it breaks him: Because Dean doesn’t just lose you. He loses the chance to fix it. The memory of you becomes a wound he pokes at daily, like penance. The bunker feels colder. The Impala emptier. And he stops singing along to the radio. Because every lyric sounds like goodbye.

Drabble: The first time he goes back to your room, it still smells like you—lavender and gun oil and that cherry lip balm you swore wasn’t yours but always ended up in his pocket.

He sits on your bed. Doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t breathe too deep.

Your journal’s still on the nightstand.

Dean stares at it like it might open and speak, like you might’ve scribbled a note just for him between pages filled with sigils and salt lines.

He doesn’t open it. Can’t.

The hallway light flickers. Somewhere upstairs, Sam coughs.

Dean presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard, until stars bloom behind his lids.

“Shoulda saved you,” he whispers.

Then, softer—like a vow. “Next time... I will.”

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Sam Winchester — The Archivist of Grief

Head canon: Sam mourns like a scholar—obsessively, quietly, with stacks of paper and unanswered questions. He documents everything. Photos. Voice memos. Half-cracked case files you worked on together. He creates a shrine of memories because he's terrified he’ll forget anything. The way your voice dipped when you teased him. The way you wrote lowercase ‘g’s. The way your hand always found his in motel parking lots.

Why it breaks him: Because Sam needed you to believe he was more than what the world made him. And now, without your belief, he falls back into that pit of self-loathing. He blames himself—like always. And he’d trade every last lore book in the bunker to hear you call him “Sammy” just one more time.

Drabble: He finds your hoodie in the laundry two days after the funeral.

It’s balled between a pair of his flannels. He presses it to his face and breathes like a man drowning.

Later, he sits at the kitchen table, the hoodie in his lap, a legal pad in front of him. Across the top, he’s written:

Things I Loved About Her.

The list starts practical.

Always kept silver bullets in her boots

Learned Latin better than I did

Knew how to charm librarians and bartenders

But then it starts to unravel:

Called me “baby” when I was sick

Said I looked like poetry in the morning

Told me I was still good, even after Lucifer

The page blurs.

He doesn’t stop writing.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Castiel — The Angel Who Forgot How to Pray

Head canon: Castiel has lived for millennia, but when Y/N dies, time finally feels real. Heavy. Cruel. He stands at your grave every morning like it’s a church, waiting for some kind of resurrection. He doesn’t speak to Heaven. Doesn’t ask for miracles. He just… waits. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel your soul brushing his grace. A phantom sensation. A cruel echo.

Why it breaks him: Because Cas understood you—your pain, your wonder, your stubborn defiance. You weren’t divine, but you were the only thing that ever made him question Heaven’s justice. Now that you’re gone, his faith collapses. He doesn’t rage. He doesn’t scream. He just dimples at the edges, unravelling with grace that no longer knows where to land.

Drabble: He visits your grave on the 40th day.

Not because it means something to angels, but because it meant something to you. You liked numbers. Patterns. You once told him 40 was sacred—rain, floods, wandering, rebirth.

“Then I will return here,” he had promised.

Now, he kneels in the grass, fingers pressed to the stone like he might feel your warmth through marble.

“I don't understand this,” he murmurs. “I don’t understand why love must end in silence.”

The wind stirs.

He closes his eyes.

“I would fall again,” he admits, voice cracking. “Even knowing you’d be the end of me.”

And maybe that’s what faith is now—not light, not certainty, but choosing love even when it hurts.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

tags aren't completed

[spitefulsatanfics]

𖤐 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐇 𖤐

“You ever hear of a car wash, Dean?” ↳ Supernatural

Pairing: Dean Winchester x She/Her Reader (Supernatural, Seasons 10–11)

Tone: Fluffy, feel-good romance, sweet and spicy tension, playful teasing, domestic bliss, intimate chemistry, and sunshine-drenched thirst.

Rating: 18+ ⚠️ Warnings: Female nudity (visible through wet clothing), heated makeout session against the Impala, mildly suggestive imagery, passionate kissing, and mentions of sexual desire. Minors do not interact.

Synopsis: Dean Winchester returns home expecting nothing more than a hot shower and maybe a cold beer—what he gets instead is Y/N, a white tee, and a bucket of soap suds with his name all over it. She knows exactly how to work the hose and turn up the heat, and this time? Dean doesn't even try to resist.

Based on: Supernatural — Season 10–11 (non-episode specific downtime) ⭐️ Canon-rated TV-17+

𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐘: 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 ♡ ⟡ written and published: June 1st, 2025™

═══ °═══

𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞: 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐒𝐮𝐝𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐬

The gravel crackled beneath the Impala’s tires as she rolled up the winding drive, humming low like a satisfied cat. Dean leaned forward in the driver’s seat, squinting into the sunlight as the bunker came into view—but that wasn’t what stopped his breath in his throat.

No. That would be you.

You were in the driveway, bare feet in the grass, daisy duke shorts hugging every curve like they were tailored by sin itself, and a worn white tee clinging damp to your chest. You danced to Led Zeppelin blaring from an old speaker on the stoop, a sponge in one hand, hose in the other, and every inch of you glinting with golden heat and mischief.

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

What the actual hell...

He put Baby in park, watching with a disbelieving half-smirk as you turned your back to him—on purpose, no doubt—and dragged the dripping sponge down the hood of the backup car you'd been washing. Your hips swayed, your shirt rose an inch too high, and Dean Winchester forgot all about the salt-and-burn he’d just finished.

He didn’t even shut the door before you turned to face him.

“Well, hey there, handsome,” you grinned, pushing your damp hair out of your face, chest rising and falling. “Welcome home.”

Dean blinked like a man walking out of a mirage.

“Is this…” He gestured at you with a bemused look. “Is this what I think it is?”

You cocked a hip and flicked suds from your fingers. “What, a surprise car wash for my favourite hunter? Sure. Or maybe I just wanted to play pin-up girl while soaking your precious car.”

Dean’s lips twitched. “You’ve been talking to Baby again, haven’t you?”

“She told me she likes it when I use the lemon-scented soap,” you said innocently. “And when I wear white.”

A beat passed. Then Dean stepped forward, eyes dark with a hunger that had nothing to do with dinner.

“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

═══ °═══

𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐰𝐨: 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭

Dean stood frozen, hands slack at his sides, every muscle straining with restraint. His eyes dragged slowly—agonizingly—down your body, noting how the wet tee hugged your skin, nipples clearly visible beneath. You swayed closer like a slow summer breeze, the garden hose abandoned behind you, puddles splashing underfoot.

You didn’t stop until you were toe-to-boot with him.

“You’ve been gone a week,” you murmured, reaching up to curl your fingers into the collar of his flannel. “You didn’t even call last night.”

He swallowed hard, jaw twitching. “Bad signal.”

You raised a brow. “Liar.”

“Maybe I wanted to make it up to you in person.”

“Lucky for you,” you said, standing on your tiptoes, “I’m easy to please.”

And then you kissed him.

Hot, searing, a kiss that started in the sun and promised thunderclouds. Dean groaned low in his throat as your fingers tangled in his hair, your wet body pressing shamelessly into his. The flannel between you might as well have been air—useless, ignorable.

Dean’s hands found your waist, sliding down to your hips, gripping tight.

“I missed you,” you whispered against his lips.

He kissed you again—harder this time.

And then he spun you around, backing you against the front of the Impala.

“You trying to kill me?” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He pushed your wet shirt up just enough to bare your ribs to the sun and his hungry mouth.

“I’m washing your car,” you gasped.

“With your tits out,” he growled, one hand sneaking up beneath the hem to cup your breast. “Don’t act innocent.”

Your laugh was breathless, cheeks flushed. “I never said I was.”

The kiss turned frantic, all tongue and teeth, a fever of want and warmth. Dean’s hips pinned yours to the metal, his hands exploring, memorizing. The low rumble in his chest nearly matched the purr of the engine still ticking beneath you.

Then—just when you thought he’d throw caution and the entire neighbourhood to the wind—he slowed.

Breath heaving, he pulled back just an inch, looking down at you like you were sunlight and sin incarnate.

“Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

The soft sincerity in his tone nearly undid you.

“Dean,” you breathed, brushing your fingers over his jaw.

He kissed you again—slow this time. Deep. Reverent.

And just like that, the fire dimmed to a steady flame.

Not gone. Just... banked for later.

═══ °═══

𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐃𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐈𝐧 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

Dean tossed you over his shoulder with zero ceremony and zero warning.

You yelped, laughing, hands flailing as he carried you—still wet and wriggling—up the front steps of the bunker.

“Dean!” you squealed. “Put me down!”

“You started this,” he said, voice smug. “I’m just finishing it.”

“I didn’t even get to rinse the car!”

“She can wait. I can’t.”

You weren’t sure who slammed the door shut, just that it echoed like a starter pistol—and from the look in Dean’s eyes when he finally set you down on the bed inside, you knew: the race was far from over.

Later, when the sweat had dried and the sun dipped low behind the trees, you’d find your way back out to the Impala with a towel and a fresh bucket of water. Dean followed behind, shirtless, still grinning like a man freshly struck by lightning.

“You missed a spot,” he said, smirking, watching you bend over the hood.

You grinned back. “I know.”

═══ °═══

[spitefulsatanfics]

🖤 𝕸𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝕺𝖜𝖓 🖤

“You don’t have to be anything but mine tonight.” — Dean Winchester, a king claiming his queen

Pairing: Dominant!Dean Winchester x Innocent!Y/N (She/Her) Setting: Hunter x Hunter, Season 1–2 (canon-adjacent), established relationship (3–4 months in) Tone: Slow burn, soft dominance, first time, innocence meets hunger, vulnerability, romantic aftercare

Rating: 🔥 Explicit (18+) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, virgin reveal, oral sex (f receiving), soft dirty talk, praise kink, gentle domination, possessiveness, very slow and sensual first time, mutual consent, emotional vulnerability, aftercare

Written By: Little Devil 🖋 Written On: June 1, 2025

Synopsis: After a gruelling hunt, Dean and Y/N find themselves wrapped in shadows and unspoken promises in a dusty motel room. When she reveals she’s never been with anyone before, Dean handles her with reverence and hunger, showing her exactly what it means to be his — slow, deep, and unforgettable.

Ⅰ. The Hunt’s Aftermath — Motel Shadows and Silent Heat

The Impala’s engine finally cut, leaving only the steady hum of cicadas outside, their song tangled with the crackle of the neon motel sign. Inside, the stale scent of cigarettes mixed with the faint musk of motor oil lingered heavy—like the motel itself was breathing slow, tired breaths.

Dean’s boots hit the floor with that familiar, confident thud. His jacket slipped from his shoulders with the ease of a man shedding the weight of the world. Under the faded yellow light, every muscle traced sharp and warm—something built in the fire of hell and worn like armour.

Y/N followed close, nerves humming under her skin like a secret electric current. The adrenaline from the hunt faded, replaced by something thicker, something softer—something that pulsed between them like heat waiting to crack open.

Dean dropped the duffel by the bed with a deliberate thud. His gaze locked onto hers—steady, raw, claiming. No words. The hunger in his eyes was old and fierce, the kind that promised safety and fire all at once.

“You good?” His voice was a low rumble, full of both question and command, shrinking the space between them until the whole world felt like this dim, peeling room.

She swallowed hard, cheeks flushed with more than just the heat of the chase. “Yeah... just glad it’s over.”

Dean’s smirk was slow, tired, victorious. “Yeah, me too.”

Ⅱ. Quiet Sparks — The Language of Touch

Dean shrugged out of his jacket, revealing the lean power in his arms and shoulders—the kind of strength that doesn’t shout, but hums steady. He settled beside her on the edge of the bed, close enough that her breath caught like a trapped flame.

The faded sheets smelled faintly of musk and something clean—like they’d been washed a thousand times but still held the ghosts of a hundred restless nights.

Without breaking eye contact, his hand slid over hers—fingers warm, sure, and tender, like tracing a secret map only they knew.

“Been wanting to do this all day,” he murmured, voice thick with promise, roughened by the edges of the hunt.

His lips found hers—slow, patient, hungry but gentle. The kiss wasn’t just a kiss; it was a conversation, a claiming, a surrender all at once. His mouth moved against hers with reverence and fire, careful to listen to every breath she gave back.

Her hands traced the hard planes of his chest, feeling the rapid pulse beneath the cotton, steady and wild.

She melted—vulnerable and brave, caught between fear and the fierce hunger that rose in her belly.

Ⅲ. The Reveal — Secrets Wrapped in Shadows

His hands explored, light and teasing—fingers flicking at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up just enough to reveal the trembling skin beneath.

Her breath hitched. The room spun slightly as she pulled back, voice barely a whisper, fragile as glass.

“Dean… there’s something I need to tell you.”

His brow furrowed, thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t noticed fall.

“What is it, baby?” His tone softened, the hunter’s walls falling away like armour.

She bit her lip, heart pounding like a drumbeat echoing in the dark.

“I… I’m a virgin.”

The confession hung between them—raw, delicate, a secret treasure laid bare.

Ⅳ. Gentle Power — The Tender Throne

Dean’s eyes darkened, swirling with fierce protectiveness and awe.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed, voice thick with reverence and hunger. “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.”

His hand cradled her face—soft but sure—thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over her cheek like she was the most fragile thing he’d ever held.

“We’ll take it slow. You tell me what you want, what you need.”

She nodded, breath trembling beneath the weight of his gaze—his promise.

He leaned down, lips ghosting over hers—softer now, patient, like he was writing poetry on her skin.

His hands moved with worshipful reverence, mapping every curve and hollow of her body. The faint scent of her skin—warm, sweet, and innocent—mixed with the salty heat of his own.

His fingers trembled slightly as he peeled her shirt over her head, revealing skin flushed pink with nerves and desire.

She shivered, anticipation and awe twisting in her veins, as his lips followed the trail of her collarbone—featherlight kisses that set her skin on fire.

Dean’s mouth found her neck, teeth grazing gently, breath hot and ragged as he murmured, “You’re mine, all mine.”

He moved lower, hands steady as he sank to his knees. The motel room grew smaller, the air thick with scent—her sweat, his musk, the mingling of something sacred and wild.

His tongue traced slow, worshipful patterns along her inner thighs—each touch a promise, each lick a prayer. She gasped, clutching the edge of the bed as waves of sensation washed over her.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” Dean whispered, voice rough. “I wanna make you feel things you didn’t even know were there.”

When he finally entered her, it was a slow, deliberate dance—every movement a sacred ritual. She gasped, trembling around him, every nerve alight with the gravity of the moment.

His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her to him as he whispered, “You’re perfect, baby. Perfect for me.”

The world fell away until there was only this—only him, only her, only the heat and the slow burn of something new and deep.

Dean’s mind was a storm of tenderness and hunger—how fragile she was, how fierce she could be. Every gasp, every soft moan was a prayer answered.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, voice thick with feeling. “Look at me.”

Tears sparkled in her eyes, raw and unguarded.

“I’ve never felt this safe,” she whispered, breathless.

Dean kissed her forehead, heart swelling like a tidal wave.

“That’s ‘cause I got you. Always.”

They lay tangled in the worn sheets, skin slick and flushed, breaths mingling in the silence.

Dean’s fingers traced lazy, comforting circles along her spine, a quiet lullaby in the dark.

“You did amazing,” he murmured, pride and awe in his voice.

She smiled softly, exhaustion folding into peace.

“With you…” she whispered, voice trembling with emotion. “I feel safe.”

Dean kissed the crown of her head, holding her close.

“Always, kid. You’re mine.”

Ⅷ. Tender Aftercare — The Promise in Stillness

Dean pulled the thin motel blanket over them, wrapping her in a shield against the world. His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles on her bare back, steady and quiet.

“Anything hurt?” His eyes were watchful, the hunter’s instinct softened by love.

She shook her head, snuggling closer.

“No. Just… overwhelmed. But good overwhelmed.”

He smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

“We’ll take it slow. Every time. Till you feel like a damn queen.”

Y/N closed her eyes, heart full, safe in the arms of a man who was fierce in protection but tender in love.

[spitefulsatanfics]

🔥 The Boys & You: How You Make Up After a Fight 🔥

(Dean, Sam & Castiel x She/Her Reader) Written by: Little Devil ✨ Tones: Real talk, raw feels, teasing forgiveness, tender moments, slow burn to soft smiles

🌿⚡ Fights burn bright—but so does what comes after. ⚡🌿

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Dean Winchester ✴️

How You Make Up: Dean’s pride is real, but so is his soft heart under all that leather and bravado. After a fight, he’s stubborn at first—silent brooding, sometimes slamming doors like a grumpy teenager. But beneath that? A tidal wave of regret and the need to fix what’s broken. You know he’s coming when the classic rock starts playing low somewhere nearby and you catch that familiar “I’m sorry” in his voice, rough but sincere.

Your Move: A little teasing goes a long way—maybe a sarcastic jab or a smirk that cracks through his armour. Then, sliding next to him, maybe stealing a kiss when he’s least expecting it. Dean melts for honesty and vulnerability, so when you own your part and show him you still got his back, he’s all in.

The Moment: You catch him staring at you in that way only he can—a mix of heat and relief. His hand finds yours, fingers curling possessively. “Next time,” he mutters, voice low but sure, “just say it. Don’t shut me out.” And suddenly the fight feels miles away, lost in the warmth of your tangled limbs.

Drabble: The room is thick with unspoken apologies, the air humming with tension and old rock. Dean finally breaks, voice rough like gravel, “Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.” You grin, reaching over to punch his shoulder lightly, “Guess you’re stuck with me anyway.” He smirks, pulling you close like it’s the only thing that matters. “Yeah. Always.”

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Sam Winchester ✴️

How You Make Up: Sam’s the thinker—he needs space, but also needs connection. After a fight, expect a lot of quiet moments filled with glances and unsaid “I’m sorry.” He’ll probably pull away at first to process, but once he’s ready, he comes back with that soft gaze that says, “I want to understand.” He values the slow rebuild—the careful patchwork of trust.

Your Move: Words, words, and more words. Sam loves open, honest conversations—even if it’s awkward at first. A genuine apology, a “tell me how you feel,” and willingness to listen will thaw his heart. And maybe bring some homemade coffee or chocolate—he’s not above bribes.

The Moment: You’ll find him sitting close, arms open, inviting you into his world again. He reaches for your hand, voice gentle: “Let’s figure this out. Together.” It’s the kind of moment where everything else falls away and you just breathe in the relief of being on the same side again.

Drabble: After the silence, he finally speaks, voice soft but sure, “I don’t like fighting with you. I want to fix this.” You nod, voice barely above a whisper, “Me too.” His fingers lace with yours, steady and warm, anchoring you both in the messy, beautiful process of healing.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Castiel ✴️

How You Make Up: Cas approaches conflict like a puzzle to be solved—calmly, thoughtfully, sometimes awkwardly. After a fight, he may seem distant, processing what went wrong in his head. But beneath the angelic stillness is a profound desire to restore harmony. His apologies come in quiet acts: a touch, a whispered prayer, a steady gaze that holds more meaning than words can express.

Your Move: Patience and gentle reassurance work wonders with Cas. Sometimes, just being present—no need to push for words—lets him come back to you. A soft touch on his hand or resting your head on his shoulder says everything. He craves the comfort of peaceful presence over loud declarations.

The Moment: In the quiet moments, he pulls you close, voice low and tender, “I regret causing you pain. Let us heal, together.” His hand glows faintly, warmth spreading through you like a balm. You smile, letting the stillness carry you both back to a place of peace.

Drabble: Cas brushes a stray hair from your face, eyes full of reverence. “I am sorry. Your heart is precious to me.” You lean into his touch, feeling the calm radiate from him. No more words are needed—only the quiet promise of healing and forever.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

⚡ Fights may shake the ground, but love rebuilds it stronger. ⚡

[spitefulsatanfics]

🎵 The Boys & Your Song 🎵

(Dean, Sam, and Castiel x She/Her Reader — Head canons, Explanations & Novella-Style Drabbles) 🖋️ Written by: Little Devil 🎶 Theme: What your song is as a couple & why it just fits like destiny wrapped in melody

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Dean Winchester — “Poison & Wine” by The Civil Wars

Headcanon: Dean Winchester doesn’t do vulnerability easily—but when he’s in love? It’s wildfire and wreckage, devotion and self-destruction in equal parts. He doesn’t just love you. He needs you, even when he doesn’t think he should. “Poison & Wine” sounds like his soul laid bare: contradiction, craving, and quiet devastation.

Why it’s your song: Because the way Dean loves is both a shelter and a storm. You fight, you make up, you hold each other like lifelines. This song hurts—but it hurts honestly. It’s the push and pull of “I love you, but I don’t know how to keep you safe from me.”

Drabble: You're sitting on the hood of the Impala under a motel parking lot lamp, silence heavy between you. The song drips from the radio, soft and aching.

Dean’s hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets, jaw clenched like he’s chewing glass.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, low. “But I will.”

You look at him, eyes steady. “You already do. Every time you pull away like you don’t think you deserve this.”

The music swells: “I don’t love you, but I always will.”

Dean’s voice breaks when he says, “I don’t know how to be better.”

You reach for him anyway. Fingers curled in his sleeve, head against his chest. He kisses your hair like a silent apology, and holds you like maybe—just maybe—you’re the only thing keeping him human.

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Sam Winchester — “Saturn” by Sleeping at Last

Headcanon: Sam is all about seeking meaning—what’s right, what’s real, what’s worth it. He doesn’t fall easily. But when he does? It’s soul-deep, world-altering. “Saturn” is the sound of awe, the ache of discovery. That’s how he feels about you: like something cosmic, something earned.

Why it’s your song: Because Sam never thought he’d find something beautiful in a life built on tragedy. But you changed that. With you, he doesn’t have to carry the world alone. This song is reverent, patient, and soaked in starlight—exactly like the way he looks at you.

Drabble: The power’s out in some small-town safehouse, and the two of you are wrapped in blankets on the porch, stars spread like spilled sugar above.

“Do you ever wonder if this—us—was written in the stars?” you murmur.

Sam hums. “Maybe not written. But… guided. Like gravity pulling me toward you.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “I used to think love had to burn bright to matter. But this? This feels quiet. Sacred.”

The song plays softly from your phone, forgotten in the windowsill. Sam closes his eyes like he’s memorizing the moment.

“I used to think I was cursed,” he whispers. “But then I met you. And for the first time, I thought maybe the universe got it right.”

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

✴️ Castiel — “As It Was” (Acoustic Version) by Harry Styles

Headcanon: Castiel is change embodied—an angel unravelling, becoming human, becoming something more. You are his tether, his constant in a world that won’t stop shifting. “As It Was” (acoustic) holds the melancholic truth he doesn’t always say aloud: nothing stays the same, but he wants you to.

Why it’s your song: Because Castiel lives in a permanent state of becoming, but when he’s with you? He’s just here. This song is stripped, haunted, soft—just like the quiet way he loves. Not performative. Not perfect. Just true.

Drabble: You find him watching the rain from the war room, barefoot and solemn.

“It’s strange,” he says. “How the world spins forward, even when it feels like time should stop.”

You reach for his hand. “Is that a good strange or a bad one?”

He looks at you—really looks. “It’s better, because you’re here. But I’m still not who I was.”

The song plays faintly from the bunker’s old radio, distant and echoing through the halls. You know it’s not the same as it was…

You smile, eyes shining. “You don’t have to be who you were. Just… be here. With me. As you are.”

Castiel leans in, presses his forehead to yours, breathes your name like a prayer. “Then I am home.”

✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧

[spitefulsatanfics]

💥 The Boys’ Kinks & Aftercare: What Makes Them Melt 💥 (Dean, Sam & Castiel x She/Her Reader)

🖋️ Written by: Little Devil ✨ Tones: Flirty, cozy, teasing, sensual, tender afterglow vibes

🌙🌿 Whispers in the dark, warmth in the silence — this is how they love you. 🌿🌙

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Dean Winchester ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Dean’s that unapologetic classic alpha—but beneath the rugged veneer is a man who thrives on feeling deeply wanted and respected. He craves the electric tension of power play, but it’s all wrapped in trust and silent understanding. He loves when you take control, teasing him with boldness that catches him off guard. His kink? Dominance mixed with worship—he’s utterly addicted to hearing how good he makes you feel, especially when you’re gasping his name like a prayer, raw and unfiltered.

Favourite Position: Missionary—simple, direct, and utterly intimate. His hands clutch you close, eyes locked on yours, the unspoken connection pulsing between you. It’s a quiet storm, grounding and fierce all at once. But when the night calls for something wilder, Reverse Cowgirl steals the show, giving him a front-row seat to your confident rhythm and the way you own the moment.

Aftercare: Dean’s aftercare is a cosy fortress of quiet devotion. Soft fingertips brush your hair, low murmurs weaving comfort into your skin. He’ll wrap you in his worn leather jacket, even if it means melting in summer heat, because it’s about feeling safe in his arms. A beer might be cracked open, classic rock humming low as he holds you close, heartbeat syncing to yours until the world fades. A massage? If you ask, you’re officially his favourite person—no debate.

Drabble: His fingers glide slow and deliberate down your spine, each touch a promise. His eyes, dark with need and tenderness, never leave your face. When you breathe out his name, barely more than a whisper, a fire ignites in his chest—something fierce and protective. After, he pulls you closer, rubbing gentle circles on your back as his voice softens, “You good, baby? You okay?” Your nod brings a rare, full smile, and he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine. Always.” The words hang in the air like a vow, and you believe every one of them.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Sam Winchester ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Sam’s a gentle giant whose every touch is loaded with care. His pleasure blooms slowly—he savours the build-up, every breath, every shiver, every stolen moan. His kink? Tender restraint—silk scarves that whisper against your skin, the soft command to “stay” said with a voice thick with desire. He’s also a sucker for understated dirty talk—words that hang in the air between you, meaning layered beneath every syllable.

Favourite Position: Spooning, nestled so close you feel the warmth radiating off him. His hands explore every curve with reverence, every breath shared like a secret. It’s his sanctuary, safe and unshakeable. But for those deeper, soulful connections, missionary with slow, lingering eye contact is his ultimate—body and soul laid bare in perfect vulnerability.

Aftercare: Sam’s aftercare wraps you in a cocoon of emotional warmth. Soft words drip like honey as you melt under heavy blankets, the quiet punctuated only by shared breaths and the turning of pages if he’s reading aloud. He might bring you tea, fingers trailing lazy patterns over your skin as sleep steals over you. When anxiety claws, he’s the steady anchor holding you down, reminding you that here, now, you’re safe.

Drabble: Afterward, his hands cup your face with such reverence it steals your breath. His eyes, wide and luminous with tenderness, hold you like you’re the most fragile thing in existence. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, voice low and sure, a balm for every doubt. Pulling you close, he wraps his arms like a fortress, his heartbeat steady against yours. “No rush. Just us.” In that moment, your world stills, and you drown in the safety only Sam can give.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Castiel ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Cas approaches love like a sacred ritual—no games, no noise, just pure presence. His kink? Worship—not only of your body but your soul, your scars, your power and fragility. He revels in the holiness of surrender, when you let him cradle you like a fragile light, when your control slips and he becomes guardian of your pleasure. Ritualistic slow touches, long, lingering kisses—they’re his prayers, his devotion made manifest.

Favorite Position: Face-to-face, hands intertwined, foreheads touching—a sanctuary where the world dissolves. Breaths mingle in perfect harmony; eyes lock in silent worship. Another favorite is when you sit on his lap, slow and deliberate, the electric stillness between you pulsing with unspoken devotion.

Aftercare: Cas’s aftercare feels like a benediction. Soft prayers whispered into your hair, hands glowing faintly with celestial grace as he soothes every ache, every lingering tension. Wrapped in his trench coat, he murmurs affirmations of love and strength, a promise bound in quiet faith. Sometimes, a lullaby drifts from his lips—a celestial song that lulls you toward peace, cradled in eternal warmth.

Drabble: His fingertip traces a gentle path over your cheek, eyes luminous pools of tenderness and awe. “You are a miracle,” he says, voice steady but brimming with reverence, “in your softness and your scars.” His hands glow with gentle warmth, seeping into your skin, unraveling every knot of pain. Held close in his arms, you close your eyes, surrendering to the quiet light. “I will stay with you,” he promises, voice low and unwavering. “Always.”

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

🌙🌿 The night folds you in, and these are the ways they show love—through touch, through presence, through the sacred quiet after the storm. 🌿🌙

[spitefulsatanfics]

Where the Light Gets In

(Dean, Sam & Castiel x She/Her Reader — Self-Harm Themes)

🖋️ Written by: Little Devil 🚫 MINORS DNI — 18+ ONLY ⚠️ Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, suicidal ideation, emotional breakdowns, graphic aftermaths, active intervention, gentle recovery, scars, trauma, grief, and healing. ✨ Tones: Protective comfort, safe love, emotional honesty, vulnerability, and the slow miracle of healing.

━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━

✴️ Dean Winchester ✴️

Headcanon: Dean is the guy who acts like nothing rattles him—but when it comes to you? He falls apart in silence. When he finds out you’ve been self-harming, it guts him. It’s not about being mad. It’s not even about blame. He’s just... devastated that you’ve been carrying that kind of pain alone.

He doesn’t rush in to “fix” things. He’s a fixer by instinct, but this? This requires something else. Patience. Presence. Gentle hands that don’t let go even when you’re at your lowest. He reads up quietly. Learns how to spot the signs. And when he realizes you're slipping again, he's there. Like clockwork. His love becomes the anchor you never thought you deserved—but always needed.

--

The motel room is dim. You thought they were both out on a supply run. You’d planned for this.

But your hand trembles as you drag the blade across your skin. It’s quiet. Precise. Controlled. You don’t cry anymore when you do it. You’re just... numb. That’s what makes it so dangerous.

The front door creaks open.

You freeze. Your sleeve still rolled up. Your wrist bleeding.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice. Casual, then confused. Then—his footsteps stop.

The air changes.

You don’t even look up. You can’t.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracks. “No.”

Suddenly he’s there, kneeling in front of you, taking the blade out of your hand so gently it makes your breath hitch. He presses a towel to your wrist—not too tight—and you’re crying now, sobbing so hard it hurts.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I—I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”

Dean cups your face, thumbs brushing away your tears. His own eyes are glassy. “You don’t have to go through that alone. You don’t ever have to do this alone again.”

You collapse against him. He wraps you up like armor, like prayer, like home.

And he doesn’t say anything more—just rocks you slowly, breathing for you when you forget how.

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✴️ Sam Winchester ✴️

Headcanon: Sam’s reaction is quiet but soul-deep. When he sees the signs—fresh bandages, retreating into yourself, late-night showers—you don’t even have to say the words. He just knows. And he never pushes. Never shames. He simply becomes a quiet force of unwavering care.

He’ll light the hallway so you don’t feel alone in the dark. He’ll research therapists, grounding exercises, recovery guides—then gently offer, never insist. When he finds you relapsing, he doesn’t lose his calm. He just gets to you fast, and loves you harder.

With Sam, there is always room for the broken parts. He loves you like all your jagged edges are sacred. Because to him? They are.

-- The bathtub is running. You’re sitting on the floor, sleeve rolled up, tears slipping down your face as you stare at the blade in your hand.

Just one more time. That’s what you told yourself.

You don’t hear the knock at first. You only hear your breath—shaky, fast, desperate.

“Y/N?” Sam’s voice. Close. Too close.

The door jiggles.

You freeze.

“Can I come in?”

“No.” Your voice is hoarse. Hollow.

There’s silence. Then his voice, lower. “Please don’t hurt yourself. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. I’ve lived it.”

The words hit you like a wave.

The door clicks open.

You gasp—but he’s already on his knees, gently easing the blade from your grip, wrapping your arms in a towel. Not scolding. Not judging. Just holding.

He presses his forehead to yours, heart hammering against yours. “I’ve had nights like this too. I promise you—this isn’t the end. It’s just one night. We’ll get through it.”

You break. But you do it in his arms.

And he holds you like the whole world is wrapped in that bathroom. Safe. Soft. Still here.

━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━

✴️ Castiel ✴️

Headcanon: Cas doesn’t understand human pain in the way most people do—but he understands you. And when he catches you hurting yourself, he doesn’t react with panic or lectures—he reacts with heartbreak.

He’s infinitely gentle. He offers celestial healing not as a fix, but as comfort. He learns how to be there in silence. He researches trauma, writes affirmations in his angelic script, and places them around your room. Sigils of healing. Of hope.

He calls your scars “evidence of survival,” and you believe him. Because when he says you are divine in your brokenness—you feel it.

-- He didn’t mean to walk in.

You’d left the door unlocked. A mistake. Or maybe a cry for help.

Cas’s form appears in the mirror, and you flinch, your bleeding arm still poised over the sink.

He doesn't speak. Just moves closer, slow as dusk.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I didn’t think you’d see.”

“I did see,” he whispers, taking the blade from your hand. “And it broke something in me.”

You try to pull away, ashamed.

But he gently tilts your chin. His grace flickers, warm and soft.

“I have seen the marks humanity leaves behind,” he murmurs. “But never before have I seen someone who wears them with such quiet strength.”

You laugh—bitter. “There’s no strength in this.”

Cas’s hand glows slightly, not to heal you, but to ease the pain. To soothe. To comfort.

“There is strength in staying. Even when it hurts. Especially then.”

You collapse into him, and he wraps his coat around you like wings, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

And in the quiet, you hear it—not from his lips, but from the pulse of grace beneath his skin:

I love you. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.

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💌 You’re Not Alone If this story found you on a hard day: please stay. Your story isn’t over. You are not broken. You are not beyond help. You are fiercely loved.

And like our boys remind us—there is light, even here. - Little Devil

[spitefulsatanfics]

🖤 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖎𝖗𝖊, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖚𝖈𝖐 𝕴𝖓 𝕭𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 🖤

❝I’m not gentle, sweetheart. I’m not soft. But I’ll ruin you if you let me.❞ — Dean Winchester, Supernatural

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Hunter!Y/N (She/Her Reader) From: Supernatural (TV series)

Tones: NSFW, Rated R, angry sex, kitchen sex, oral (f + m), rough sex, dominant!Dean, arguing-then-fucking, kitchen counter shenanigans, rough hands and rougher words, borderline hate sex turned love sex Rating: 🔞 18+ | Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, possessive language, dominant/rough tone, oral (both), spanking, hair pulling, lots of swearing, minors DO 👏 NOT 👏 INTERACT

Word Count (Story Only): 5,173 words Based On: Supernatural – Season 3–4, post-hunt tension vibes — ✎ written by: 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 ♡ date written & published: May 31, 2025™

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Ⅰ. The Argument

The bunker’s kitchen was dark, save for the flickering overhead light and the fire sparking behind Dean’s eyes.

“I said no,” he growled.

Y/N crossed her arms, jaw tight. “And I don’t give a shit, Dean.”

He slammed his hand on the counter, making a nearby whiskey glass rattle. “You can’t just throw yourself into danger like that! You’re not invincible—”

“Neither are you!” she snapped, stepping in close. Her face was inches from his. “And yet you get to play hero every goddamn time, and I’m supposed to sit back and what? Watch?”

His eyes flared. “Because if something happened to you, I’d lose my mind.”

There was a beat of silence. Tense. Electric.

“You already have,” she whispered, voice trembling—not from fear. From fury. From fire.

Then she kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was a punch in the mouth with lips.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He shoved everything off the kitchen island with a crash—papers, bottles, a salt tin scattering like snow. Then he grabbed her by the hips, spun her, and lifted her up like she weighed nothing.

“Fucking brat,” he muttered against her throat, voice rough, breath hotter than the fire in the oven. “You want to act like a bad girl?”

She smirked. “Only if you’ll punish me.”

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Ⅱ. Counter Culture

Dean fell to his knees.

No teasing. No preamble. Just big, rough hands yanking her jeans and underwear down in one practiced pull, dragging her thighs apart.

“Spread,” he ordered. Voice low. Dangerous. Worshipful.

She did, gasping when his mouth latched onto her like salvation.

His tongue was filthy. Desperate. Like she was his last meal before Hell. He groaned into her, devouring her, face buried between her thighs as he gripped her ass and pulled her in like he needed her to breathe.

Y/N’s head fell back, hitting the kitchen cabinet behind her.

“Dean—fuck—oh my god—Dean—”

He growled, deep and possessive. His tongue curled inside her, lips sliding over her clit in lazy, punishing circles until her vision went white. She came hard, thighs clenching around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

He dragged it out until she whimpered, pushing at his shoulders.

Then he rose—mouth slick, eyes black.

“Good girl,” he rasped, leaning in. “Now your turn.”

She dropped to her knees, dragging his belt open like she was born to worship him.

“Gonna shut you up with my cock,” he muttered, hand threading into her hair.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Shut me up.”

She wrapped her lips around him, slow and sinful. Dean’s head dropped back with a moan, hips jerking forward as she took him deeper. Her tongue swirled, hands working what her mouth couldn’t reach.

“Fuck, that mouth,” he hissed, tightening his grip on her hair. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

She gazed up at him, spit slicking her chin, hollowing her cheeks like it was her life’s calling.

Dean didn’t last long.

He pulled her off with a growl, lifting her up effortlessly and throwing her over his shoulder.

“Bedroom,” he snarled. “Now.”

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Ⅲ. Wrecked and Ruined

She didn’t touch the floor again.

Dean kicked the bedroom door open, stormed inside, and slammed it shut behind him. Then he dropped her onto the bed and yanked his shirt off, muscles flexing in the low light.

“Get naked,” he commanded.

She obeyed.

He stripped, towering over her, then grabbed her ankles and dragged her down the bed until her legs dangled off the edge.

“No teasing. No games. I’m gonna fuck the fight out of you.”

He thrust into her with no warning, no mercy. She cried out, arching under him, gripping the sheets like they’d save her.

“Dean—fuck!”

“That what you needed?” he grunted, pounding into her. “You needed me to remind you who you belong to?”

“Yes—God—Dean, yes—!”

His hand slipped under her ass, pulling her deeper. The other tangled in her hair, yanking her head back so he could lick and bite down her throat.

“You like being fucked like this?” he growled. “Rough and dirty?”

She could barely speak.

He flipped her onto her stomach, dragged her hips up, and slammed back in. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, lewd and rhythmic. Her moans were wrecked. Wordless.

Dean spanked her—once, twice—just enough to make her whimper, then soothe the burn with a rub and a kiss to her spine.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, thrusts getting sloppy. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she sobbed. “Dean—I’m yours—please don’t stop—”

He grunted, hips snapping harder. “Not gonna. Not ‘til I’ve fucked every word out of you.”

And he did.

She came again, back arched, nails clawing the mattress. He followed—hard and deep—roaring her name like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

° = ° = ° = °

Ⅳ. Afterburn

The air was heavy with sex, sweat, and something too soft for either of them to admit.

Dean lay beside her, chest heaving, fingers brushing her hair from her eyes.

Y/N blinked up at him. “Still mad at me?”

“Still mad you kissed me in the middle of a fight,” he muttered, voice low.

She smirked. “Worked though.”

He grinned, wicked and fond. “Yeah. Worked too well.”

He pulled her close, kissed her temple, and whispered against her skin.

“Next time, baby, just use your words.”

She kissed his jaw. “Where’s the fun in that?”

° = ° = ° = °

═══ ™ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ™ ═══ (until next round in the kitchen, anyway)