supernotnatural2005

[supernotnatural2005]

Just wanted you to know someone out there is thinking of you and wishing you the very best. 🧡

Thank you anon 🥹 I wish you all the best too lovely 💖

[supernotnatural2005]

Thank you for the tags guys @ambiguous-avery @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @bettystonewell @voodoochildthings

I don’t use pinterest much but they’re kinda accurate,, i guess 😂

Let Pinterest describe you to the best of its abilities and share how accurate you believe it is!! Use the first picture that pops up!

Aesthetic, character, me

No pressure tags: @waynes-multiverse @zepskies @beakaleak32 @dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy @bejeweledinterludes @maddie0101 @middleearthislife @losers-clvb + anyone who’d love to join <3

୨ৎ — TAG GAME !!

let pinterest describe you to its best abilitys and share how accurate you believe it is!! use the first picture that pops up!!

first search “aesthetic”, then “character”, and lastly “me”

i think mine is pretty accurate!!😭

no pressure tags ⋆˙⟡ @mattybsgroupie @bernardsbendystraws @mattsweethrt @mattscoquette @whore4mattandchris @whor3ing @stvrniolostan @chrisbratt333 + anyone else who would like to join in!!

— have fun ᥫ᭡

[supernotnatural2005]

Oh he sure would, but so would she and thats both the beauty and the beast of their relationship 🥲💗

A Dangerous Love

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Sam's POV of yours and Dean's relationship.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Implied smut, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and injury, poor Sammy! Dean being his typical over protective self, both of them are stubborn.

AN: Hey guys, I know I've been MIA for a lil while, but I'm doing okay, still getting there, although this isn't a full return, I just wanted to pop on and give you guys a little something, as well as catch up on some reading now I have a minute 😅. This was sitting in my drafts and finally touched it up. I tried something little different with It being from Sam's POV. But I enjoyed this one and I hope you guys do too! ❤️

Main Masterlist

They were fighting again.

Sam didn’t even flinch. He barely glanced up from his laptop as the sharp words echoed through the paper-thin motel walls—voices rising, footsteps pounding, another inevitable blowout brewing like a summer storm.

“You can’t just run in like that!”

“I had it handled!”

“No, you almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m not a child, Dean! I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me with the way you acted tonight!”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He’d heard this fight a hundred times—probably more. Same argument, different hunt. Dean being overprotective, you pushing back, neither of you knowing when to shut up.

Then came the inevitable—

“Go to hell!”

“Already been, sweetheart.”

Sam winced a second before a door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls. Right on cue, his own door flew open, and in stormed Dean—still fuming, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed with frustration.

Sam didn’t look up. He’d learned his lesson. Playing mediator between you two was about as effective as standing between two charging bulls. So, he kept his eyes locked on his screen, feigning deep concentration on the case he was researching.

A small town in Lincoln, Nebraska. Three bodies in a week, hearts missing. Probably a werewolf. Maybe a Rugaru. Definitely not as terrifying as the emotional carnage currently unraveling in the room.

Dean stalked back and forth like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam made the mistake of humming in vague agreement. That was all the opening Dean needed.

“Right? I mean, she just—she just goes in, no backup, no plan, like she’s got a damn death wish.”

Sam finally looked at his brother, eyebrows raised. “You mean like you do? All the time?”

Dean scowled. “That’s different.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, is it?”

But Dean ignored him, too deep in his rant to acknowledge logic.

“She doesn’t listen. Ever. I tell her to stay back, and what does she do? Runs straight into danger like she’s got something to prove.”

From the other side of the wall came a muffled, but unmistakably pissed-off voice: “I can hear you, jackass!”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Good!”

Sam sighed, long and suffering, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was his life. Not just the near-death experiences, not just the monsters and the ghosts—no, this. Being caught between his stubborn brother and his brother’s equally stubborn, equally reckless, equally loud girlfriend.

Dean, still grumbling to himself, flopped onto the opposite bed and crossed his arms like an angry child. Sam wisely said nothing. He knew the drill—Dean would rant, stew for a while, and eventually, in a few days—

Wait... Scratch that. 

A few hours later, Sam was rudely jolted awake by a very different kind of disturbance.

Something rhythmic. Repetitive. Suspiciously… breathy.

At first, his sleep-fogged brain struggled to make sense of it. A fight? No—too much giggling between the groans.

And then—

Oh. Oh, no.

Realisation hit like a freight train at full speed and his stomach churned.

The unmistakable sound of a headboard knocking against the wall. The low, hushed moans. And worst of all—

“Oh, God, Dean—”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Sam groaned, grabbed his pillow, and smothered his own face with it like he could suffocate the memories before they fully formed. How could he forget about the damn make-up sex? He should’ve known when Dean left the room and didn’t return that this is what would come of it. 

Burying himself deeper under the blanket, he contemplated driving to another damn state. Maybe exorcising himself. Was there a ritual for that? A way to erase the mental scarring?

Eventually, after a painfully long time, blissful silence returned, and with it, the symbolic, albeit fragile, truce between you and Dean.

The next morning, Sam nursed his coffee like a war veteran as he sat in the outdated diner, watching the two of you with equal parts fascination and whiplash.

You were nestled beside Dean on the other side of the booth, stealing bites of his pancakes with a smug grin.

Dean—who, under normal circumstances, would stab a man with a fork for even looking at his food—just smirked, all stupid heart eyes, letting you get away with it like you were some divine exception to the rule.

Sam squinted. Not even twenty-four hours ago, you two were about five seconds away from an actual homicide.

Now? Now, you were practically glowing, exchanging touches, finishing each other’s sentences, giggling like a couple of lovesick teenagers in a CW drama.

Sam exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

Every relationship expert on the planet would call this toxic. Hell, if he described it to anyone—the explosive fights, the impossible stubbornness, the complete disregard for self-preservation when it came to each other—they’d probably diagnose you both with something and slap you with a warning label.

But for as long as he could remember—even before you and Dean finally got together—it had always been like this. Back when you were just a couple of reckless teenagers, trading jabs and daring each other into stupid, dangerous situations. Before things got complicated with feelings and labels.

You and Dean were like flint and steel—constantly striking, constantly sparking, burning hotter than anything Sam had ever seen.

But the fire never went out.

It should have. By all logic, it should have burned itself to the ground a dozen times over. But instead, it just kept going, somehow forging you both into something stronger.

It was chaos. It was infuriating.

And, honestly? It was kind of impressive.

Even if it made Sam’s head want to implode.

But then there were moments that tore away all the noise, stripped everything down to the bare bones of what you and Dean truly were. Moments that left no room for doubt.

Because when it came down to it—when it really mattered—the two of you didn’t just care. Didn’t just love each other. You were willing to bleed for one another, break for the other, burn the whole damn world down if you had to.

And tonight? Tonight just proved that.

The hunt was supposed to be routine—get in, take care of the pack, get out. But the damn werewolves were faster, stronger. They had numbers. And somewhere between the chaos and the fighting, you made a split-second decision.

You saved Dean’s life. And you nearly lost your own in the process.

Dean caught you before you hit the ground. One second you were standing, the next you were collapsing, blood soaking through your shirt, pooling between his fingers as he pressed down hard against the gash in your side.

“No—no, no, no,” Dean’s voice was hoarse, raw with panic. “You're okay. I got you.”

Sam barely had time to react before Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Sam! Get the car!”

Sam was already moving, sprinting for the Impala as Dean held you against him, his flannel already stripped from his shoulders and bunched against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, his grip unrelenting. His fingers trembled against your skin, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “Just hang on. I got you.”

Sam skidded to a stop beside the car, yanking the door open. He turned back just in time to see Dean lifting you into his arms, his expression twisted in barely contained panic.

Sam didn’t miss the way his brother held you—not just with urgency, but with a kind of care that made his chest ache.

He helped ease you into the back seat with Dean, still pressing the flannel to your side. His voice was shaking, but his grip was steady.

"Step on it, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t argue. The second he was behind the wheel, he floored it, tires screeching against the asphalt.

The drive was a blur of traffic violations, but because it was nearing midnight, the roads were practically empty, making up for the reckless driving. The city flashed by in streaks of yellow and white, and in the rearview mirror, Sam could see Dean cradling you against him, his forehead nearly pressed to yours as he whispered every reassurance he could think of.

"Stay with me, sweetheart.”

"You’re okay.”

“I swear to God, you’re gonna be okay.”

But Sam heard the crack in his brother’s voice. Saw the way his hands were shaking. Dean wasn’t just worried. He was terrified.

By the time they crashed through the ER doors, shouting for help, Dean was covered in your blood.

The nurses barely had time to react before Dean was snapping at them to hurry, his voice sharp, desperate. And then you were gone—whisked away behind double doors, leaving Dean standing there, breathing hard, fists clenched, and your blood staining his hands.

Then came the waiting.

Dean couldn’t sit still. He paced the hospital waiting room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair over and over, jaw tight, eyes darting to every single doctor or nurse that walked by.  

The agitation built inside him like a pressure valve ready to burst, as Sam sat nearby, watching his brother unravel, feeling helpless.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he growled, throwing his arms up in frustration as his gaze stayed trained on the double doors they had wheeled you through.  

Sam let out a quiet sigh. He was just as worried, but kicking and screaming wasn’t going to make time move faster. “They’re doing everything they can, man. You have to let them do their job.”  

Dean clenched his jaw, his entire body rigid with anxiety, and Sam could see the cracks forming in his brother’s usual composure. Deannwas a lot of things—fearless, reckless, stubborn as hell—but right now? Right now, he just looked scared.

When the doctor finally approached them, Dean nearly jumped down his throat.  

"How is she? Is she okay?"

“She lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. “But we’ve managed to stabilize her. She needs plenty of rest, and we’ll have to monitor her overnight and go from there.”  

Sam let out a breath of relief. But Dean—Dean’s shoulders sagged, his lips pressing into a thin line as something unreadable passed through his expression.  

They had lied, of course. Told the doctors you’d been attacked by a bear because —“yeah, doc, she got slashed by a goddamn werewolf” — would’ve landed them in padded cells. Thankfully, the doctors didn’t ask too many questions.

When they were finally allowed to see you, Sam watched as Dean crumbled at the sight of you lying in that hospital bed.  

You looked so small. So fragile. The machines beeped steadily beside you, an IV hooked up to your arm, your face pale from the blood loss. It made even Sam’s heart twinge painfully to see you this way. You were not only his brother’s girlfriend. You were his best friend. His sister.

Dean approached cautiously, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he got too close. Then, without a word, he sat beside you and grasped your hand, his fingers brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that didn’t match the man who had just been almost punching walls in the waiting room.  

His throat bobbed. Then, wordlessly, he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering there as he exhaled shakily.

"You scared the hell outta me," he muttered, his voice thick, raw. “You’re gonna pull through this, you hear me?”

He swallowed hard, then softer, more broken— "cause' I can't lose you."

Sam swallowed hard against his own emotions. He knew this wasn’t just about saving you anymore. It was about Dean confronting the most terrifying thing he could ever imagine—the thought of losing you. And for a man like Dean, who was constantly worrying about this very thing, you'd think he'd be somewhat prepared for the real thing. Evidently not. It was crushing, breaking him into a thousand pieces.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the way Dean’s thumb traced gentle circles against your skin, but he saw the anger rise, predictable from his brother's guilt and fear as it continued to chip away at him the longer he looked at you. 

“Dammit, Y/N. Why didn’t you listen to me? I—“ Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he just closed his eyes, like he was trying to pull himself together.  

And then, as if on cue, you stirred. Your fingers twitched in his grasp, your eyelids fluttering, and Dean went still—his breath caught, his entire body frozen as he waited.

Slowly, your eyes opened, hazy with exhaustion and pain, but when they focused on him, you still managed a weak, lopsided smile.

"Worth it.” you murmured, voice hoarse.  

Dean closed his eyes like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time, because of course you’d have a comeback, even on the brink of death.

Sam huffed a small, teary laugh, shaking his head.

Because this was the two of you. Always on the brink of disaster. Always throwing yourselves in front of danger for each other. Always driving each other insane.

It was a deep love. A dangerous love.

But it was real.

And it was true.

AN: What started off as a Drabble, became a one shot lol. I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was fun to do. 😁💕 Also I am still working on part 2 of In The End , I'm sorry for the delay guys 😭

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[supernotnatural2005]

Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum COUNTDOWN (2025). The show will premiere on June 25th. [x]

[supernotnatural2005]

Forever a favourite 😍🙌🏻

“A Study In Tattoos” Masterlist

A Dean!AU series that follows the reader, a masters student who decides to come home for the summer, only to find out that her parents are renting out her room…to a Dean Winchester. Dean seems to catch your eye while he helps bartend at his brother Sam’s bar and again when you find out he’s a tattoo artist. The summer is filled with ups and downs of your relationship with Dean, and your two best friends Castiel and Jess. Will your relationship work out? 

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Epilogue 

Now

Missing Scenes: Engagement

[supernotnatural2005]

💗💗💗

There are still a few on my tbr’s which i hope to get to soon but for now, i will leave you with this 👇🏻 because y’all deserve it!

And also thank you to @chevroletdean for creating such a wonderful challenge and such amazing mood-boards to inspire everyone 🙌🏻💗

[MASTERPOST] CHEVROLETDEAN'S 500

Thank you guys again for 500+ followers and of course thank you to everyone who participated in this writing challenge! I would've never guessed that so many people would enter. I hope this was as much fun for you as it was for me.

I have yet to reblog a couple of submissions, sorry for the delay OTL I want to add a proper comment to them all!! Make sure to keep track of the #chevroletdean's 500 hashtag, but I will also edit / add onto this masterpost, say, if someone posted their story sometime later.

Without further ado, here is a masterlist of all the wonderful stories you amazing people wrote!

Clowning Around by @supernotnatural2005

Summary: You’ve got a crush on Dean, your best friend’s brother. The catch, he's only in town for a few more days. However, all it takes is a haunted house, a punch to the face and a surprising confession to know where you stand.

Colors & Moodboard: Yellow, Orange, Purple 💛🧡💜

Taste by @zepskies

Summary: It’s a devastating hunger. He finds you, at his own risk.

Colors & Moodboard: Purple, Black, Red 💜🖤❤️

10 'Til Midnight by @zepskies

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

Colors & Moodboard: Red, Gold, Beige ❤️💛🤎

Summertime Kisses by @that-stanford-girlie

Colors & Moodboard: Blue, Green, Red 💙💚❤️

Burning Lines by @that-stanford-girlie

Colors & Moodboard: Red, Purple, Black ❤️💜🖤

Let Me Be Part of Your World by @that-stanford-girlie

Colors & Moodboard: Gold, White, Holo 💛🤍

If You Leave by @bettystonewell

Summary: In the spring of 1988, Dean meets the girl of his dreams. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Colors & Moodboard: Turquoise, Pink, Black 🩵🩷🖤

Florida!!! by @waynes-multiverse

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Colors & Moodboard: Yellow, Orange, Turquoise 💛🧡🩵

Not Without You by @lamentationsofalonelypotato

Summary: A cursed crown, teenagers, an evil goddess bent on revenge, and two best friends who have secretly been in love for years. What could go wrong?

Colors & Moodboard: Green, Silver, Black 💚🩶🖤

i am insane by @rubyvhs

Colors & Moodboard: Rosegold, White 🩷🤍

I'm Tellin' Ya by @justwhisperingfantasies

Summary: Dean's having a bad day, luckily he finds someone to help turn his frown upside down.

Colors & Moodboard: Blue, Silver 💙🩶

Seasons Of Love by @scarletqueenx

Summary: When the world is finally safe and Dean gives up hunting, one winter morning, he shows up at your house, looking for a place to belong and a purpose for a future he never thought he could have.

Colors & Moodboard: White, Black, Blue 🤍🖤💙

Ribbon by @kamisobsessed

Summary: It's your anniversary. He takes you away from the chaos of the world for a weekend. Just you, him, and a cozy cabin.

Colors & Moodboard: Black, Green, Gold 🖤💚💛

spring, honey, forest, etc. by @samsblades

Summary: you can't help but compare sam to sweet and beautiful things like spring, honey, and forests.

Colors & Moodboard: Beige, Green 🤎💚

The Elf Queen and the Knight of Moons by @rizlowwritessortof

Colors & Moodboard: Green, Brown, Gold 💚🤎💛

Man Eater by @keircat7

Summary: Sam and Dean investigate an odd case of "animal" attacks in Chicago.

Colors & Moodboard: Purple, Silver, Black 💜🩶🖤

Glitter and Ashes by @ambiguous-avery

Summary: Dean finds you during a hunt gone sideways. He expects a demon or a curse. Not an angel with tear-stained cheeks and who’s given up on humanity. You don’t think there’s anything left to save. But Dean thinks otherwise.

Colors & Moodboard: Purple, Silver, Black 💜🩶🖤

once upon a dream by @wvffles

Summary: what do you get when you combine a pesky trickster, the most handsome mystery man you've ever seen, and a hotel on the beach? a massive headache.

Colors & Moodboard: Blue, White, Beige 💙🤍🤎

Lucky Cat by @jollyhunter

Summary: Dean really didn't want to pull you back into this job, but with Sam's 'soul' problem, he's left with no other choice but to ask you for help. Unfortunately, as always, he will regret that decision.

Colors & Moodboard: Black, Green, Gold 🖤💚💛

Piece of my Heart by @copperboom82

Summary: When Sam's sick and Dean comes across a case, he's got no choice but to work it with Lainey, despite the fact that, these days, they barely seem to tolerate each other under the best of circumstances

Colors & Moodboard: Rosegold, Black, Mint 🩷🖤🩵

Lilac, White, Grey by @maraudersoup

Summary: One of the first things Cas learned about humanity was that it was a grotty, painful thing. It made its own cage to pace in, gnawed relentlessly at the bars, grinding its teeth and howling against the winds of life until it simmered down and faded over the course of seventy-odd years. It was hardly a life, the other angels had all agreed. Cas had agreed too.

Colors & Moodboard: Lilac, White, Grey 💜🤍🩶

The Atlantic Border by @hiighlighterr

Summary: There were some things they didn’t tell you when they asked you to be a vessel. The first thing Jimmy realized was he hadn’t known what he’d lose. He’d been promised the safety of his family while he took a backseat, but his image of what that would look like was warped. It was wrong.

Colors & Moodboard: Black, Blue, White 🖤💙🤍

[supernotnatural2005]

Absolutely loved every second of this Alex 😭💗

It’s been a while since i’ve seen a professor!Dean fic and the man does something to me😮‍💨 I mean look at him! 😍

👆🏻i feel like this era of him especially screams professor!Dean to me 🤭

But i feel like you captured him so well, i get what you mean about it’s tough to fit him into a role like that, but you made it work! He would totally be that laid back fun teacher everyone loves (not just for the looks) lol

And then the whole train sequence 🙄 gahh i hate guys like that, the pushy over confident dweebs who think it’s charming to be overbearing and just plain creepy and rude!

I also love that Dean let her handle it up until it got potentially unsafe. Unfortunately women face this a lot and her looking more strong, not having a guy stick up for her straight away can speak volumes. But i’m glad he was a gentleman and walked her home even, i got the eebie jeebies from that jerk following her home or something 😵‍💫

And then the chemistry!! 😍 they’re adorable, and so sweet. Like him turning up at the very play she suggested a while ago (even though he’s not big on ‘em)

He’s IN LOVE dammit!! 😂😂

Gahh this was amazing Alex!!! And if you are adding more to this, i am so there! 😍💗

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in. 

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”  

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you right," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He laughed softly. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean smiled in amusement, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

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[supernotnatural2005]

Aww tysm lovely. I’m glad you liked it 🥹💗

A Dangerous Love

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Sam's POV of yours and Dean's relationship.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Implied smut, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and injury, poor Sammy! Dean being his typical over protective self, both of them are stubborn.

AN: Hey guys, I know I've been MIA for a lil while, but I'm doing okay, still getting there, although this isn't a full return, I just wanted to pop on and give you guys a little something, as well as catch up on some reading now I have a minute 😅. This was sitting in my drafts and finally touched it up. I tried something little different with It being from Sam's POV. But I enjoyed this one and I hope you guys do too! ❤️

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They were fighting again.

Sam didn’t even flinch. He barely glanced up from his laptop as the sharp words echoed through the paper-thin motel walls—voices rising, footsteps pounding, another inevitable blowout brewing like a summer storm.

“You can’t just run in like that!”

“I had it handled!”

“No, you almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m not a child, Dean! I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me with the way you acted tonight!”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He’d heard this fight a hundred times—probably more. Same argument, different hunt. Dean being overprotective, you pushing back, neither of you knowing when to shut up.

Then came the inevitable—

“Go to hell!”

“Already been, sweetheart.”

Sam winced a second before a door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls. Right on cue, his own door flew open, and in stormed Dean—still fuming, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed with frustration.

Sam didn’t look up. He’d learned his lesson. Playing mediator between you two was about as effective as standing between two charging bulls. So, he kept his eyes locked on his screen, feigning deep concentration on the case he was researching.

A small town in Lincoln, Nebraska. Three bodies in a week, hearts missing. Probably a werewolf. Maybe a Rugaru. Definitely not as terrifying as the emotional carnage currently unraveling in the room.

Dean stalked back and forth like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam made the mistake of humming in vague agreement. That was all the opening Dean needed.

“Right? I mean, she just—she just goes in, no backup, no plan, like she’s got a damn death wish.”

Sam finally looked at his brother, eyebrows raised. “You mean like you do? All the time?”

Dean scowled. “That’s different.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, is it?”

But Dean ignored him, too deep in his rant to acknowledge logic.

“She doesn’t listen. Ever. I tell her to stay back, and what does she do? Runs straight into danger like she’s got something to prove.”

From the other side of the wall came a muffled, but unmistakably pissed-off voice: “I can hear you, jackass!”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Good!”

Sam sighed, long and suffering, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was his life. Not just the near-death experiences, not just the monsters and the ghosts—no, this. Being caught between his stubborn brother and his brother’s equally stubborn, equally reckless, equally loud girlfriend.

Dean, still grumbling to himself, flopped onto the opposite bed and crossed his arms like an angry child. Sam wisely said nothing. He knew the drill—Dean would rant, stew for a while, and eventually, in a few days—

Wait... Scratch that. 

A few hours later, Sam was rudely jolted awake by a very different kind of disturbance.

Something rhythmic. Repetitive. Suspiciously… breathy.

At first, his sleep-fogged brain struggled to make sense of it. A fight? No—too much giggling between the groans.

And then—

Oh. Oh, no.

Realisation hit like a freight train at full speed and his stomach churned.

The unmistakable sound of a headboard knocking against the wall. The low, hushed moans. And worst of all—

“Oh, God, Dean—”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Sam groaned, grabbed his pillow, and smothered his own face with it like he could suffocate the memories before they fully formed. How could he forget about the damn make-up sex? He should’ve known when Dean left the room and didn’t return that this is what would come of it. 

Burying himself deeper under the blanket, he contemplated driving to another damn state. Maybe exorcising himself. Was there a ritual for that? A way to erase the mental scarring?

Eventually, after a painfully long time, blissful silence returned, and with it, the symbolic, albeit fragile, truce between you and Dean.

The next morning, Sam nursed his coffee like a war veteran as he sat in the outdated diner, watching the two of you with equal parts fascination and whiplash.

You were nestled beside Dean on the other side of the booth, stealing bites of his pancakes with a smug grin.

Dean—who, under normal circumstances, would stab a man with a fork for even looking at his food—just smirked, all stupid heart eyes, letting you get away with it like you were some divine exception to the rule.

Sam squinted. Not even twenty-four hours ago, you two were about five seconds away from an actual homicide.

Now? Now, you were practically glowing, exchanging touches, finishing each other’s sentences, giggling like a couple of lovesick teenagers in a CW drama.

Sam exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

Every relationship expert on the planet would call this toxic. Hell, if he described it to anyone—the explosive fights, the impossible stubbornness, the complete disregard for self-preservation when it came to each other—they’d probably diagnose you both with something and slap you with a warning label.

But for as long as he could remember—even before you and Dean finally got together—it had always been like this. Back when you were just a couple of reckless teenagers, trading jabs and daring each other into stupid, dangerous situations. Before things got complicated with feelings and labels.

You and Dean were like flint and steel—constantly striking, constantly sparking, burning hotter than anything Sam had ever seen.

But the fire never went out.

It should have. By all logic, it should have burned itself to the ground a dozen times over. But instead, it just kept going, somehow forging you both into something stronger.

It was chaos. It was infuriating.

And, honestly? It was kind of impressive.

Even if it made Sam’s head want to implode.

But then there were moments that tore away all the noise, stripped everything down to the bare bones of what you and Dean truly were. Moments that left no room for doubt.

Because when it came down to it—when it really mattered—the two of you didn’t just care. Didn’t just love each other. You were willing to bleed for one another, break for the other, burn the whole damn world down if you had to.

And tonight? Tonight just proved that.

The hunt was supposed to be routine—get in, take care of the pack, get out. But the damn werewolves were faster, stronger. They had numbers. And somewhere between the chaos and the fighting, you made a split-second decision.

You saved Dean’s life. And you nearly lost your own in the process.

Dean caught you before you hit the ground. One second you were standing, the next you were collapsing, blood soaking through your shirt, pooling between his fingers as he pressed down hard against the gash in your side.

“No—no, no, no,” Dean’s voice was hoarse, raw with panic. “You're okay. I got you.”

Sam barely had time to react before Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Sam! Get the car!”

Sam was already moving, sprinting for the Impala as Dean held you against him, his flannel already stripped from his shoulders and bunched against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, his grip unrelenting. His fingers trembled against your skin, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “Just hang on. I got you.”

Sam skidded to a stop beside the car, yanking the door open. He turned back just in time to see Dean lifting you into his arms, his expression twisted in barely contained panic.

Sam didn’t miss the way his brother held you—not just with urgency, but with a kind of care that made his chest ache.

He helped ease you into the back seat with Dean, still pressing the flannel to your side. His voice was shaking, but his grip was steady.

"Step on it, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t argue. The second he was behind the wheel, he floored it, tires screeching against the asphalt.

The drive was a blur of traffic violations, but because it was nearing midnight, the roads were practically empty, making up for the reckless driving. The city flashed by in streaks of yellow and white, and in the rearview mirror, Sam could see Dean cradling you against him, his forehead nearly pressed to yours as he whispered every reassurance he could think of.

"Stay with me, sweetheart.”

"You’re okay.”

“I swear to God, you’re gonna be okay.”

But Sam heard the crack in his brother’s voice. Saw the way his hands were shaking. Dean wasn’t just worried. He was terrified.

By the time they crashed through the ER doors, shouting for help, Dean was covered in your blood.

The nurses barely had time to react before Dean was snapping at them to hurry, his voice sharp, desperate. And then you were gone—whisked away behind double doors, leaving Dean standing there, breathing hard, fists clenched, and your blood staining his hands.

Then came the waiting.

Dean couldn’t sit still. He paced the hospital waiting room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair over and over, jaw tight, eyes darting to every single doctor or nurse that walked by.  

The agitation built inside him like a pressure valve ready to burst, as Sam sat nearby, watching his brother unravel, feeling helpless.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he growled, throwing his arms up in frustration as his gaze stayed trained on the double doors they had wheeled you through.  

Sam let out a quiet sigh. He was just as worried, but kicking and screaming wasn’t going to make time move faster. “They’re doing everything they can, man. You have to let them do their job.”  

Dean clenched his jaw, his entire body rigid with anxiety, and Sam could see the cracks forming in his brother’s usual composure. Deannwas a lot of things—fearless, reckless, stubborn as hell—but right now? Right now, he just looked scared.

When the doctor finally approached them, Dean nearly jumped down his throat.  

"How is she? Is she okay?"

“She lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. “But we’ve managed to stabilize her. She needs plenty of rest, and we’ll have to monitor her overnight and go from there.”  

Sam let out a breath of relief. But Dean—Dean’s shoulders sagged, his lips pressing into a thin line as something unreadable passed through his expression.  

They had lied, of course. Told the doctors you’d been attacked by a bear because —“yeah, doc, she got slashed by a goddamn werewolf” — would’ve landed them in padded cells. Thankfully, the doctors didn’t ask too many questions.

When they were finally allowed to see you, Sam watched as Dean crumbled at the sight of you lying in that hospital bed.  

You looked so small. So fragile. The machines beeped steadily beside you, an IV hooked up to your arm, your face pale from the blood loss. It made even Sam’s heart twinge painfully to see you this way. You were not only his brother’s girlfriend. You were his best friend. His sister.

Dean approached cautiously, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he got too close. Then, without a word, he sat beside you and grasped your hand, his fingers brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that didn’t match the man who had just been almost punching walls in the waiting room.  

His throat bobbed. Then, wordlessly, he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering there as he exhaled shakily.

"You scared the hell outta me," he muttered, his voice thick, raw. “You’re gonna pull through this, you hear me?”

He swallowed hard, then softer, more broken— "cause' I can't lose you."

Sam swallowed hard against his own emotions. He knew this wasn’t just about saving you anymore. It was about Dean confronting the most terrifying thing he could ever imagine—the thought of losing you. And for a man like Dean, who was constantly worrying about this very thing, you'd think he'd be somewhat prepared for the real thing. Evidently not. It was crushing, breaking him into a thousand pieces.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the way Dean’s thumb traced gentle circles against your skin, but he saw the anger rise, predictable from his brother's guilt and fear as it continued to chip away at him the longer he looked at you. 

“Dammit, Y/N. Why didn’t you listen to me? I—“ Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he just closed his eyes, like he was trying to pull himself together.  

And then, as if on cue, you stirred. Your fingers twitched in his grasp, your eyelids fluttering, and Dean went still—his breath caught, his entire body frozen as he waited.

Slowly, your eyes opened, hazy with exhaustion and pain, but when they focused on him, you still managed a weak, lopsided smile.

"Worth it.” you murmured, voice hoarse.  

Dean closed his eyes like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time, because of course you’d have a comeback, even on the brink of death.

Sam huffed a small, teary laugh, shaking his head.

Because this was the two of you. Always on the brink of disaster. Always throwing yourselves in front of danger for each other. Always driving each other insane.

It was a deep love. A dangerous love.

But it was real.

And it was true.

AN: What started off as a Drabble, became a one shot lol. I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was fun to do. 😁💕 Also I am still working on part 2 of In The End , I'm sorry for the delay guys 😭

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[supernotnatural2005]

Aww thank you both 🥹 @maddie0101 & @ambiguous-avery you’re both so immensely talented and i’m so glad i get the pleasure of reading your work 💗

I read so many fics by so many talented peeps and just bravo to you all 👏🏻 and sorry if i miss anyone, it’s either because i haven’t read your work yet or my aging brain 😭

@bettystonewell @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @jollyhunter @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @kittenofdoomage @dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy @wendichester @deanwritings @bejeweledinterludes @middleearthislife @my-stories-vault @jackles010378 @titsout4jackles + many more 💗

And a thank you to all of you readers out there who keep up our spirits 🤗💗

reblog if you have skilled writer friends and you're damn proud of them

[supernotnatural2005]

Haha people always seem to find my (smuttier) fics during the worst/inconvenient points in their real lives and i’m here like oops, sorry 😅

But also feel you on the shitty job front 🫠

He is a dream tho right? 😮‍💨 i feel like one night, even in rebound form, would be unforgettable 🤭😍

Thank you for reading lovely 💗💗💗

‘Mr Right Now’

(Source)

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings/tags: Implied Smut (18+), swearing, fluff, one night stand... kinda, mentions of cheating

A/N: Entirely based on this lil clip right here 👆🏻😂, however this will be from the reader’s POV in the beginning and perhaps a lil' insight into Dean’s funny walk 👀🤣

Main Masterlist

Valentine’s Day.

It’s supposed to be your favourite night to work. Singles Night always brings in a good crowd, fun music, and flirty banter that makes your shift fly by. But tonight?

Tonight, you want to crawl under the bar and disappear.

Six months ago, your ex — Travis — said you were “pressuring” him when you asked if he’d ever thought about marriage or kids. After three years together, you figured it wasn’t a crazy question. But the truth came out not long after: he’d been sleeping with your downstairs neighbour. Class act, right?

And today? You found out he just proposed to her.

Yeah. Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day.

So yeah, you’re bitter. And tired. And trying not to punch the next person who asks for a “Love Me Long Time” shot with a wink.

You were mid-pour when you noticed him. Dean. That rugged, flirty regular who always nursed his whiskey like he had secrets too heavy to say out loud. It’d been a while since he last came in — his job took him all over, he’d once vaguely mentioned. Never said much more.

But tonight, he looked good. That usual cocky smirk in place, dark flannel and jeans and those green eyes doing their usual scan of the room before settling on me.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, once you finished up with your customer, managing a warm smile.

“Here to scope out the sea of desperation?” You teased. And Dean grinned, shaking his head.

You knew he played the field, usually always leaving with a woman on his arm. And a day like today must be like hitting the jackpot for him. You didn’t judge him for it though, these ladies knew what they were getting into.

“That obvious, huh?” he chuckles, his eyes already making their familiar appreciative sweep over you. He’d aimed and missed with you once before — back when you were still with ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named.’ But he respected the boundary, and you appreciated that. Now, though… you find yourself not minding if he looks.

“I mean, if you want to feed yourself to the piranhas, who am I to stop you.” You winked and then poured his usual - double whiskey, neat. 

“I’m surprised you’re working tonight,” he says, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “Thought you’d be spending Valentine’s with… what’s his name again? Trevor? Tyrone?”

“Travis,” you correct, unable to keep the disgust from your voice. The name tastes like poison now.

Dean notices. Raises a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Try dumping me after three years because I had the audacity to ask about our future,” you say with a tight smile. “Turns out, it wasn’t because I was pressuring him — it was because he was screwing the twenty-four-year-old downstairs.”

“No shit.” Dean blows out a breath, brows raised.

“Shit. And get this.” You lean in like you’re telling him the world’s dirtiest secret. “I found out today, of all damn days, the asshole proposed to her.”

You let out a bitter laugh. Dean just shakes his head.

“What a douchebag,” he mutters, voice rough with genuine annoyance on your behalf.

“Just feels like such a giant waste of time, you know.” you sigh, glancing out at the dance floor where the lonely and the bold are coupling off, laughing, swaying, kissing. All of them looking far less wrecked than you feel.

Then Rachel — your co-bartender and part-time devil on your shoulder — slides in beside you, muttering with a smirk, “Well, you know what they say… Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

She nods toward Dean before spinning off to help another customer. Subtle as ever.

“She’s not wrong,” Dean says, that glint in his eye turning mischievous.

You raise a brow, curious. “What, are you offering?”

“I wasn’t not offering,” he replies smoothly.

Your pulse skips.

The tension between you two has always been there — a low simmer under the surface. Banter. Glances. But you were off-limits. Now?

Now you’re single. And hurting. And Dean’s looking at you like he’s more than willing to be your rebound.

“I’m off in an hour,” you say, leaning across the bar just enough to let him see the smirk tugging at your lips. “Think you’ll survive?”

Dean’s grin is slow, sinful. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting for the last year. What’s sixty more minutes?”

An hour later, Dean’s on your couch, thick thighs spread, watching you strip off your jacket with hooded eyes.

You straddle his lap, fingers sliding through his hair as you kiss him. It’s rough, desperate, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. His hands grip your waist, pull you flush against him, and you moan into his mouth.

“My ex,” you whisper against his lips, “used to call me a sex freak.”

Dean tilts his head, grinning. “Yeah? Sounds like the douchebag couldn’t keep up.”

You roll your hips against him, feeling him hard beneath you. “Said I was too much.”

“Sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and thick, “I like too much.”

Your clothes hit the floor in a trail of chaos. You barely make it to the bedroom before he’s pushing you against the wall, kissing you like a man starved. Somewhere between the laughter and the gasps, you tie his wrists to the headboard with your scarf.

His eyes go wide. “Oh, you are wild.”

You just smile. “Still game?”

Dean huffs a laugh, already breathless. “Hell yes.”

And he is. Game for all of it. For your hands, your mouth, the way you ride him like you’ve got something to prove — maybe to yourself, maybe to him. He lets you take control, lets you wreck him, and when he finally comes undone beneath you, sweaty and flushed and utterly ruined, he lets out a hoarse, “Fuck... I’m gonna feel that for a week.”

You collapse next to him, laughing into the curve of his shoulder.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

He turns his head, kisses you slow and sweet. “I think now it’s my turn, sweetheart.” 

And before you can reply, he’s rolling you beneath him, dragging you into round two with a look that says he’s nowhere near done.

When you wake the next morning, deliciously sore in all the best ways, you turn to find Dean still there, tangled in your sheets, a lazy arm draped over your waist. You smile and appreciate his beauty for a minute and wonder why you hadn’t just fucked Travis off sooner and took up Dean’s offer, because holy shit that was probably the best sex you’d ever had. 

Dean seems to notice your staring and hums as he pulls you closer, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder, then your neck, all the way up until he’s claiming your lips once more. 

You sigh happily into it and as he shifts closer and he groans. “Damn, sweetheart. You really did a number on me.” He chuckles and drops his head to your shoulder.

You giggle beneath him, but bite your lip a little insecure. “Too much?”

He seems to notice your apprehension and lifts his head, his grin is lopsided as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never too much. I’ll take the limp proudly.”

The two of you burst out into laughter and then spend another 20 minutes sharing a few more lazy kisses before he finally vacates your apartment, leaving you with one last long, lingering kiss at the door and a promise of a repeat.

Back at the bunker, Dean limps into the kitchen like he’s been hit by a truck, wincing with every step. He makes a beeline for the fridge, yanks it open, and grabs a questionable takeout container like a man on the edge.

Sam glances up from his laptop, frowns. “Is that a hickey?”

Dean pops the lid, scoops a bite of rice into his mouth and immediately spits it out, not caring if half of it ends up on the floor. He was too hungover for this.

He sets down the container and shuffles toward the coffee pot like it’s holy salvation. Thank God Sam’s an early riser.

“And?” Dean grunts. “It was Valentine’s Day. Can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“You got half of that right,” Sam mutters, not looking up.

Dean smirks. “Just doing my civic duty. Helping a recently single lady rediscover her joy.”

“So… you were the rebound?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You know the best thing about February fourteenth? You don’t have to be Mr. Right. Just Mr. Right Now, and if that means in the rebounding sense? Who cares? I still got laid.”

Sam scoffs. “Classy.”

Dean huffs, tired of the third degree. “Yeah? What did you do, judgy? Curl up in a snuggy, watch fifty shades on cable?” 

“Yeah. No.” Sam huffs humourlessly.

Meanwhile, Dean sips his coffee, eyes unfocused as his mind wanders back to the scratch of your nails down his back, the gasp you made when he kissed that spot behind your knee, the way your voice broke when you said his name.

Yeah. He thinks.

Best. Night. Ever.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was a fun little experiment and just what my brain conjured up watching this clip lol 😂 I don't know about you guys, but Dean could happily be my rebound 😍

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

[supernotnatural2005]

Tysm @toadspondofwhimsy i love your tastes 😍

Dance with me - blink-182

No one does it better - You me at six

Sun Queen - Gerry Cinnamon

Ooh ahh (my life be like) - Grits

Pacifier - Catfish and the bottlemen

Forget me too - MGK

No pressure tags: @chevroletdean @jollyhunter @bejeweledinterludes @bettystonewell @ambiguous-avery @beakaleak32 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse + anyone else 💗

tysm @thebitterbeanjuice for the tag! The chain was kinda long so I started a new one

gekka no yasoukyoku by malice mizer

beast and the harlot by avenged sevenfold (honestly hell yeah)

join me by him

dive in by pierce the veil

demolition lovers by mcr (goddamn this wants me dead huh😭)

falling on deaf ears by hail the sun

a lot of these are pretty fitting tbh very cool tho!!

@undead-vamp @doctorbrightside @er0gutz @therealaxlrose @aresissad @d3l-t4co @m1lkywaymikey @stupidlanie @fawn-ehehehehehe @the-fabulous-killjoy @glxybld-mustdie and anyone else!

[supernotnatural2005]

Aww thank you lovely 🥹 i feel honoured truly 💗 It was a really fun one to do 🤗

‘Mr Right Now’

(Source)

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings/tags: Implied Smut (18+), swearing, fluff, one night stand... kinda, mentions of cheating

A/N: Entirely based on this lil clip right here 👆🏻😂, however this will be from the reader’s POV in the beginning and perhaps a lil' insight into Dean’s funny walk 👀🤣

Main Masterlist

Valentine’s Day.

It’s supposed to be your favourite night to work. Singles Night always brings in a good crowd, fun music, and flirty banter that makes your shift fly by. But tonight?

Tonight, you want to crawl under the bar and disappear.

Six months ago, your ex — Travis — said you were “pressuring” him when you asked if he’d ever thought about marriage or kids. After three years together, you figured it wasn’t a crazy question. But the truth came out not long after: he’d been sleeping with your downstairs neighbour. Class act, right?

And today? You found out he just proposed to her.

Yeah. Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day.

So yeah, you’re bitter. And tired. And trying not to punch the next person who asks for a “Love Me Long Time” shot with a wink.

You were mid-pour when you noticed him. Dean. That rugged, flirty regular who always nursed his whiskey like he had secrets too heavy to say out loud. It’d been a while since he last came in — his job took him all over, he’d once vaguely mentioned. Never said much more.

But tonight, he looked good. That usual cocky smirk in place, dark flannel and jeans and those green eyes doing their usual scan of the room before settling on me.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, once you finished up with your customer, managing a warm smile.

“Here to scope out the sea of desperation?” You teased. And Dean grinned, shaking his head.

You knew he played the field, usually always leaving with a woman on his arm. And a day like today must be like hitting the jackpot for him. You didn’t judge him for it though, these ladies knew what they were getting into.

“That obvious, huh?” he chuckles, his eyes already making their familiar appreciative sweep over you. He’d aimed and missed with you once before — back when you were still with ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named.’ But he respected the boundary, and you appreciated that. Now, though… you find yourself not minding if he looks.

“I mean, if you want to feed yourself to the piranhas, who am I to stop you.” You winked and then poured his usual - double whiskey, neat. 

“I’m surprised you’re working tonight,” he says, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “Thought you’d be spending Valentine’s with… what’s his name again? Trevor? Tyrone?”

“Travis,” you correct, unable to keep the disgust from your voice. The name tastes like poison now.

Dean notices. Raises a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Try dumping me after three years because I had the audacity to ask about our future,” you say with a tight smile. “Turns out, it wasn’t because I was pressuring him — it was because he was screwing the twenty-four-year-old downstairs.”

“No shit.” Dean blows out a breath, brows raised.

“Shit. And get this.” You lean in like you’re telling him the world’s dirtiest secret. “I found out today, of all damn days, the asshole proposed to her.”

You let out a bitter laugh. Dean just shakes his head.

“What a douchebag,” he mutters, voice rough with genuine annoyance on your behalf.

“Just feels like such a giant waste of time, you know.” you sigh, glancing out at the dance floor where the lonely and the bold are coupling off, laughing, swaying, kissing. All of them looking far less wrecked than you feel.

Then Rachel — your co-bartender and part-time devil on your shoulder — slides in beside you, muttering with a smirk, “Well, you know what they say… Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

She nods toward Dean before spinning off to help another customer. Subtle as ever.

“She’s not wrong,” Dean says, that glint in his eye turning mischievous.

You raise a brow, curious. “What, are you offering?”

“I wasn’t not offering,” he replies smoothly.

Your pulse skips.

The tension between you two has always been there — a low simmer under the surface. Banter. Glances. But you were off-limits. Now?

Now you’re single. And hurting. And Dean’s looking at you like he’s more than willing to be your rebound.

“I’m off in an hour,” you say, leaning across the bar just enough to let him see the smirk tugging at your lips. “Think you’ll survive?”

Dean’s grin is slow, sinful. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting for the last year. What’s sixty more minutes?”

An hour later, Dean’s on your couch, thick thighs spread, watching you strip off your jacket with hooded eyes.

You straddle his lap, fingers sliding through his hair as you kiss him. It’s rough, desperate, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. His hands grip your waist, pull you flush against him, and you moan into his mouth.

“My ex,” you whisper against his lips, “used to call me a sex freak.”

Dean tilts his head, grinning. “Yeah? Sounds like the douchebag couldn’t keep up.”

You roll your hips against him, feeling him hard beneath you. “Said I was too much.”

“Sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and thick, “I like too much.”

Your clothes hit the floor in a trail of chaos. You barely make it to the bedroom before he’s pushing you against the wall, kissing you like a man starved. Somewhere between the laughter and the gasps, you tie his wrists to the headboard with your scarf.

His eyes go wide. “Oh, you are wild.”

You just smile. “Still game?”

Dean huffs a laugh, already breathless. “Hell yes.”

And he is. Game for all of it. For your hands, your mouth, the way you ride him like you’ve got something to prove — maybe to yourself, maybe to him. He lets you take control, lets you wreck him, and when he finally comes undone beneath you, sweaty and flushed and utterly ruined, he lets out a hoarse, “Fuck... I’m gonna feel that for a week.”

You collapse next to him, laughing into the curve of his shoulder.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

He turns his head, kisses you slow and sweet. “I think now it’s my turn, sweetheart.” 

And before you can reply, he’s rolling you beneath him, dragging you into round two with a look that says he’s nowhere near done.

When you wake the next morning, deliciously sore in all the best ways, you turn to find Dean still there, tangled in your sheets, a lazy arm draped over your waist. You smile and appreciate his beauty for a minute and wonder why you hadn’t just fucked Travis off sooner and took up Dean’s offer, because holy shit that was probably the best sex you’d ever had. 

Dean seems to notice your staring and hums as he pulls you closer, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder, then your neck, all the way up until he’s claiming your lips once more. 

You sigh happily into it and as he shifts closer and he groans. “Damn, sweetheart. You really did a number on me.” He chuckles and drops his head to your shoulder.

You giggle beneath him, but bite your lip a little insecure. “Too much?”

He seems to notice your apprehension and lifts his head, his grin is lopsided as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never too much. I’ll take the limp proudly.”

The two of you burst out into laughter and then spend another 20 minutes sharing a few more lazy kisses before he finally vacates your apartment, leaving you with one last long, lingering kiss at the door and a promise of a repeat.

Back at the bunker, Dean limps into the kitchen like he’s been hit by a truck, wincing with every step. He makes a beeline for the fridge, yanks it open, and grabs a questionable takeout container like a man on the edge.

Sam glances up from his laptop, frowns. “Is that a hickey?”

Dean pops the lid, scoops a bite of rice into his mouth and immediately spits it out, not caring if half of it ends up on the floor. He was too hungover for this.

He sets down the container and shuffles toward the coffee pot like it’s holy salvation. Thank God Sam’s an early riser.

“And?” Dean grunts. “It was Valentine’s Day. Can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“You got half of that right,” Sam mutters, not looking up.

Dean smirks. “Just doing my civic duty. Helping a recently single lady rediscover her joy.”

“So… you were the rebound?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You know the best thing about February fourteenth? You don’t have to be Mr. Right. Just Mr. Right Now, and if that means in the rebounding sense? Who cares? I still got laid.”

Sam scoffs. “Classy.”

Dean huffs, tired of the third degree. “Yeah? What did you do, judgy? Curl up in a snuggy, watch fifty shades on cable?” 

“Yeah. No.” Sam huffs humourlessly.

Meanwhile, Dean sips his coffee, eyes unfocused as his mind wanders back to the scratch of your nails down his back, the gasp you made when he kissed that spot behind your knee, the way your voice broke when you said his name.

Yeah. He thinks.

Best. Night. Ever.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was a fun little experiment and just what my brain conjured up watching this clip lol 😂 I don't know about you guys, but Dean could happily be my rebound 😍

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

[supernotnatural2005]

Aww tysm Faith 🥹 i’m glad you enjoyed this one 💗 ily 🤗

A Dangerous Love

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Sam's POV of yours and Dean's relationship.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Implied smut, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and injury, poor Sammy! Dean being his typical over protective self, both of them are stubborn.

AN: Hey guys, I know I've been MIA for a lil while, but I'm doing okay, still getting there, although this isn't a full return, I just wanted to pop on and give you guys a little something, as well as catch up on some reading now I have a minute 😅. This was sitting in my drafts and finally touched it up. I tried something little different with It being from Sam's POV. But I enjoyed this one and I hope you guys do too! ❤️

Main Masterlist

They were fighting again.

Sam didn’t even flinch. He barely glanced up from his laptop as the sharp words echoed through the paper-thin motel walls—voices rising, footsteps pounding, another inevitable blowout brewing like a summer storm.

“You can’t just run in like that!”

“I had it handled!”

“No, you almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m not a child, Dean! I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me with the way you acted tonight!”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He’d heard this fight a hundred times—probably more. Same argument, different hunt. Dean being overprotective, you pushing back, neither of you knowing when to shut up.

Then came the inevitable—

“Go to hell!”

“Already been, sweetheart.”

Sam winced a second before a door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls. Right on cue, his own door flew open, and in stormed Dean—still fuming, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed with frustration.

Sam didn’t look up. He’d learned his lesson. Playing mediator between you two was about as effective as standing between two charging bulls. So, he kept his eyes locked on his screen, feigning deep concentration on the case he was researching.

A small town in Lincoln, Nebraska. Three bodies in a week, hearts missing. Probably a werewolf. Maybe a Rugaru. Definitely not as terrifying as the emotional carnage currently unraveling in the room.

Dean stalked back and forth like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam made the mistake of humming in vague agreement. That was all the opening Dean needed.

“Right? I mean, she just—she just goes in, no backup, no plan, like she’s got a damn death wish.”

Sam finally looked at his brother, eyebrows raised. “You mean like you do? All the time?”

Dean scowled. “That’s different.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, is it?”

But Dean ignored him, too deep in his rant to acknowledge logic.

“She doesn’t listen. Ever. I tell her to stay back, and what does she do? Runs straight into danger like she’s got something to prove.”

From the other side of the wall came a muffled, but unmistakably pissed-off voice: “I can hear you, jackass!”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Good!”

Sam sighed, long and suffering, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was his life. Not just the near-death experiences, not just the monsters and the ghosts—no, this. Being caught between his stubborn brother and his brother’s equally stubborn, equally reckless, equally loud girlfriend.

Dean, still grumbling to himself, flopped onto the opposite bed and crossed his arms like an angry child. Sam wisely said nothing. He knew the drill—Dean would rant, stew for a while, and eventually, in a few days—

Wait... Scratch that. 

A few hours later, Sam was rudely jolted awake by a very different kind of disturbance.

Something rhythmic. Repetitive. Suspiciously… breathy.

At first, his sleep-fogged brain struggled to make sense of it. A fight? No—too much giggling between the groans.

And then—

Oh. Oh, no.

Realisation hit like a freight train at full speed and his stomach churned.

The unmistakable sound of a headboard knocking against the wall. The low, hushed moans. And worst of all—

“Oh, God, Dean—”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Sam groaned, grabbed his pillow, and smothered his own face with it like he could suffocate the memories before they fully formed. How could he forget about the damn make-up sex? He should’ve known when Dean left the room and didn’t return that this is what would come of it. 

Burying himself deeper under the blanket, he contemplated driving to another damn state. Maybe exorcising himself. Was there a ritual for that? A way to erase the mental scarring?

Eventually, after a painfully long time, blissful silence returned, and with it, the symbolic, albeit fragile, truce between you and Dean.

The next morning, Sam nursed his coffee like a war veteran as he sat in the outdated diner, watching the two of you with equal parts fascination and whiplash.

You were nestled beside Dean on the other side of the booth, stealing bites of his pancakes with a smug grin.

Dean—who, under normal circumstances, would stab a man with a fork for even looking at his food—just smirked, all stupid heart eyes, letting you get away with it like you were some divine exception to the rule.

Sam squinted. Not even twenty-four hours ago, you two were about five seconds away from an actual homicide.

Now? Now, you were practically glowing, exchanging touches, finishing each other’s sentences, giggling like a couple of lovesick teenagers in a CW drama.

Sam exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

Every relationship expert on the planet would call this toxic. Hell, if he described it to anyone—the explosive fights, the impossible stubbornness, the complete disregard for self-preservation when it came to each other—they’d probably diagnose you both with something and slap you with a warning label.

But for as long as he could remember—even before you and Dean finally got together—it had always been like this. Back when you were just a couple of reckless teenagers, trading jabs and daring each other into stupid, dangerous situations. Before things got complicated with feelings and labels.

You and Dean were like flint and steel—constantly striking, constantly sparking, burning hotter than anything Sam had ever seen.

But the fire never went out.

It should have. By all logic, it should have burned itself to the ground a dozen times over. But instead, it just kept going, somehow forging you both into something stronger.

It was chaos. It was infuriating.

And, honestly? It was kind of impressive.

Even if it made Sam’s head want to implode.

But then there were moments that tore away all the noise, stripped everything down to the bare bones of what you and Dean truly were. Moments that left no room for doubt.

Because when it came down to it—when it really mattered—the two of you didn’t just care. Didn’t just love each other. You were willing to bleed for one another, break for the other, burn the whole damn world down if you had to.

And tonight? Tonight just proved that.

The hunt was supposed to be routine—get in, take care of the pack, get out. But the damn werewolves were faster, stronger. They had numbers. And somewhere between the chaos and the fighting, you made a split-second decision.

You saved Dean’s life. And you nearly lost your own in the process.

Dean caught you before you hit the ground. One second you were standing, the next you were collapsing, blood soaking through your shirt, pooling between his fingers as he pressed down hard against the gash in your side.

“No—no, no, no,” Dean’s voice was hoarse, raw with panic. “You're okay. I got you.”

Sam barely had time to react before Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Sam! Get the car!”

Sam was already moving, sprinting for the Impala as Dean held you against him, his flannel already stripped from his shoulders and bunched against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, his grip unrelenting. His fingers trembled against your skin, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “Just hang on. I got you.”

Sam skidded to a stop beside the car, yanking the door open. He turned back just in time to see Dean lifting you into his arms, his expression twisted in barely contained panic.

Sam didn’t miss the way his brother held you—not just with urgency, but with a kind of care that made his chest ache.

He helped ease you into the back seat with Dean, still pressing the flannel to your side. His voice was shaking, but his grip was steady.

"Step on it, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t argue. The second he was behind the wheel, he floored it, tires screeching against the asphalt.

The drive was a blur of traffic violations, but because it was nearing midnight, the roads were practically empty, making up for the reckless driving. The city flashed by in streaks of yellow and white, and in the rearview mirror, Sam could see Dean cradling you against him, his forehead nearly pressed to yours as he whispered every reassurance he could think of.

"Stay with me, sweetheart.”

"You’re okay.”

“I swear to God, you’re gonna be okay.”

But Sam heard the crack in his brother’s voice. Saw the way his hands were shaking. Dean wasn’t just worried. He was terrified.

By the time they crashed through the ER doors, shouting for help, Dean was covered in your blood.

The nurses barely had time to react before Dean was snapping at them to hurry, his voice sharp, desperate. And then you were gone—whisked away behind double doors, leaving Dean standing there, breathing hard, fists clenched, and your blood staining his hands.

Then came the waiting.

Dean couldn’t sit still. He paced the hospital waiting room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair over and over, jaw tight, eyes darting to every single doctor or nurse that walked by.  

The agitation built inside him like a pressure valve ready to burst, as Sam sat nearby, watching his brother unravel, feeling helpless.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he growled, throwing his arms up in frustration as his gaze stayed trained on the double doors they had wheeled you through.  

Sam let out a quiet sigh. He was just as worried, but kicking and screaming wasn’t going to make time move faster. “They’re doing everything they can, man. You have to let them do their job.”  

Dean clenched his jaw, his entire body rigid with anxiety, and Sam could see the cracks forming in his brother’s usual composure. Deannwas a lot of things—fearless, reckless, stubborn as hell—but right now? Right now, he just looked scared.

When the doctor finally approached them, Dean nearly jumped down his throat.  

"How is she? Is she okay?"

“She lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. “But we’ve managed to stabilize her. She needs plenty of rest, and we’ll have to monitor her overnight and go from there.”  

Sam let out a breath of relief. But Dean—Dean’s shoulders sagged, his lips pressing into a thin line as something unreadable passed through his expression.  

They had lied, of course. Told the doctors you’d been attacked by a bear because —“yeah, doc, she got slashed by a goddamn werewolf” — would’ve landed them in padded cells. Thankfully, the doctors didn’t ask too many questions.

When they were finally allowed to see you, Sam watched as Dean crumbled at the sight of you lying in that hospital bed.  

You looked so small. So fragile. The machines beeped steadily beside you, an IV hooked up to your arm, your face pale from the blood loss. It made even Sam’s heart twinge painfully to see you this way. You were not only his brother’s girlfriend. You were his best friend. His sister.

Dean approached cautiously, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he got too close. Then, without a word, he sat beside you and grasped your hand, his fingers brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that didn’t match the man who had just been almost punching walls in the waiting room.  

His throat bobbed. Then, wordlessly, he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering there as he exhaled shakily.

"You scared the hell outta me," he muttered, his voice thick, raw. “You’re gonna pull through this, you hear me?”

He swallowed hard, then softer, more broken— "cause' I can't lose you."

Sam swallowed hard against his own emotions. He knew this wasn’t just about saving you anymore. It was about Dean confronting the most terrifying thing he could ever imagine—the thought of losing you. And for a man like Dean, who was constantly worrying about this very thing, you'd think he'd be somewhat prepared for the real thing. Evidently not. It was crushing, breaking him into a thousand pieces.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the way Dean’s thumb traced gentle circles against your skin, but he saw the anger rise, predictable from his brother's guilt and fear as it continued to chip away at him the longer he looked at you. 

“Dammit, Y/N. Why didn’t you listen to me? I—“ Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he just closed his eyes, like he was trying to pull himself together.  

And then, as if on cue, you stirred. Your fingers twitched in his grasp, your eyelids fluttering, and Dean went still—his breath caught, his entire body frozen as he waited.

Slowly, your eyes opened, hazy with exhaustion and pain, but when they focused on him, you still managed a weak, lopsided smile.

"Worth it.” you murmured, voice hoarse.  

Dean closed his eyes like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time, because of course you’d have a comeback, even on the brink of death.

Sam huffed a small, teary laugh, shaking his head.

Because this was the two of you. Always on the brink of disaster. Always throwing yourselves in front of danger for each other. Always driving each other insane.

It was a deep love. A dangerous love.

But it was real.

And it was true.

AN: What started off as a Drabble, became a one shot lol. I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was fun to do. 😁💕 Also I am still working on part 2 of In The End , I'm sorry for the delay guys 😭

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[supernotnatural2005]

Aww i loved this 🥹

It’s bittersweet but also so unique and different. It’s also ironic how she feels is exactly how us humans feel sometimes 😂 so she’s on the cusp of getting it 🙌🏻

And the “i’m leaking again.” 😂 we’ve all been there 🫠

I know you said this felt like a doozy at first but i think you’ve captured it so well. I really enjoyed this Avery. So much so, i wouldn’t mind reading more to this… maybe the boys showing her these “small things” that make up living 👀

No pressure obvs this was amazing regardless 😍 and also i hope you feel better soon! 💗💗💗

Glitter and Ashes

No pairings, fem!Angel!Reader/You | WC: 1513

Summary: Dean finds you during a hunt gone sideways. He expects a demon or a curse. Not an angel with tear-stained cheeks and who’s given up on humanity. You don’t think there’s anything left to save. But Dean thinks otherwise.

Tags/Warnings: no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: My submission for @chevroletdean’s 500 celebration! Not gonna lie, this thing was a doozy for me to try and come up with an idea for! But it was a super fun challenge! A huge shout out to @jollyhunter, @losers-clvb, and @bettystonewell for all the help! I was hoping to get this done and uploaded earlier, but a bug has kept me in bed for the last two days straight. I’m still on cold medicine right now, so please forgive me if some of this seems... not entirely coherent.

When Dean kicked down the door of the motel room, he expected claws and fangs or maybe some sort of creature mid-feast. What he wasn’t expecting to find was you sitting on the bed with a horribly out of date floral-patterned comforter, wearing little more than an oversized t-shirt, staring at the static on the television, and with countless beer cans littered around the room.

Your gaze flicked over to him and Sam as they stepped into the room, surveying the mess around you. You made a small noise of acknowledgement.

“Huh... thought you’d be taller.”

“Excuse me?” Dean asked, lowering his gun and flashing you a confused expression.

“I watched you before I fell. A lot of angels did.You were the Righteous Man. Michael’s vessel. We all thought you’d be… I dunno… more impressive in person?” You shrugged and took another swig from the beer can in your hand. You grimaced at the taste.

“You’re an angel?” Sam asked, stepping further in the room. His gun was still trained on you, but he wore the same confused look as his brother.

“Was.” The word was bitter on your tongue. “Fell about three months ago. Still getting used to…” you made a vague gesture to yourself, “all this. Hunger. Exhaustion. Intoxication.” You raised your beer can in a mock toast. “And emotions. God the emotions! They’re like the worst part of it all.”

”Yeah, well, welcome to being human. It sucks.” Dean tucked his gun in the waistband of his jeans and cautiously moved around the room. You didn’t flinch when he stepped closer and the floor creaked beneath his boots. “So, what, you just decided to take a little vacation from Heaven? Thought you’d slum it with us mud monkeys for a while?”

You barked out a laugh that sounded less like a laugh and more like shattering glass.

”Vacation? Is that what you think this is?” You gestured with the hand holding the beer can, sloshing the liquid over yourself and the bed. You didn’t bother wiping it away. “Can you believe I chose this?” You asked incredulously. “We chose. Me and her. We believed in what Castiel was fighting for. Humanity. Free will. All of it. We thought…” Your voice caught in your throat. “Thought it would be worth it. Wanted to experience it.”

”What’s your name?” Sam asked, finally lowering his weapon. His expression softened as he came to stand by Dean.

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” you muttered, reaching for another beer that sat on the table next to you. “The name I had in heaven means nothing here.” You cracked open the lukewarm beer and downed a quarter of it in one go. 

“You’ve just been living like this?” Dean asked. There was no judgement in his voice. Just... pity? Understanding? Sadness? You weren’t entirely sure.

“I stopped living when she died,” you said quietly, turning your attention back to the static on the TV. “This is just what comes after.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“My sister,” you said, the words feeling hollow in your mouth. “We fell together. Cut out each other’s grace. Figured we’d navigate this whole human thing together as a team.” You took another long drink, the alcohol going down easier than it had a couple weeks ago. “About a month in, a demon found us. Recognized what she was. What we were.” Dean frowned, his expression hardening.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Don’t be.” You shrugged. “You didn’t rip her apart while I watched. I couldn’t do anything. No grace. No power. Just... screaming.” Your free hand covered your ear, as if it could silence the cries you heard in your head every night. Sam moved closer, his foot kicking one of the stray beer cans on the floor.

“Is that why you’ve been causing trouble? The incidents around town–”

“I haven’t been causing trouble!” you snapped. “I’ve been trying to survive. Turns out that humanity doesn’t exactly welcome my kind with open arms. No ID, no history, no skills. Can’t even smite anything anymore.

“Castiel gave up everything for your kind. And we followed him down thinking that maybe we could understand what he saw. But it’s all just pain. Cruelty for no reason. And these parasites you call emotions,” your voice cracked as you spoke. “They feed on you when you least expect it. I thought you humans were supposed to have hope. And longing. And happiness. All I’ve gotten is despair and hurt.”

Sam and Dean shared a look between them, a silent conversation you couldn’t decipher even after a millennia of people-watching. It was different being among them – being one of them. Dean met your gaze.

“Yeah, some days it’s mostly crap.” Dean’s voice was gruff but there was a sense of understanding laced in it. “But that’s not all there is.”

“Then where is it?” you straightened up, beer sloshing over the rim of the can. “Cause I’ve been searching for the last month and a half, and all I get is ending up back at this motel room.” The room felt too small with the three of you in it. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and desperation.

“It doesn’t just come to you,” Sam said gently. “That’s not how being human works.”

“Then how does it work?” your voice went quiet. “Because I don’t understand any of this. I watched humanity for centuries. I saw civilizations rise and fall. I thought I understood, but–”

“You were watching from the cheap seats, sweetheart,” Dean interrupted. “Big difference between seeing a game and being in it.” He stepped closer and carefully took the beer from you, scowling when he felt how warm it was. “Look, I get it. The world’s a mess, and people are worse. And when you’re in the thick of it, it can feel like there’s nothing good left.”

You sank back into the pillows on the bed, his words sinking into you like lead. The weight of humanity dragged at your bones in a way your vessel never did when you had your grace.

“I just wanted to understand,” you whispered. “I thought that... whatever Castiel must’ve felt had to be wonderful if it was enough for him to sacrifice everything.” Sam took a seat on the edge of the bed beside you.

“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’re looking for some big revelation. Some perfect moment that makes everything worth it. But that’s not what being human is about,” he said gently.

“Then what’s it like?” You hated how small your voice sounded. How human it made you feel.

“It’s... moments.” Sam paused, searching for the right words. “Small ones. A good cup of coffee. A book that holds your attention while the hours go by. Laughing until your sides hurt.”

“Or pie,” Dean cut it, his lips quirking up in a half smile. “Definitely pie.” You stared at them like they had gone mad or perhaps grown a second head.

“That’s it?” you asked incredulously. “That’s what makes all this,” you gestured vaguely to the room around you, “worthwhile?”

“Didn’t say it would be easy,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “But yeah, those little moments? They matter. They’re what you fight for.”

“I’m not fighting for anything anymore.” The admission felt like defeat. Regret. Regret for falling. Regret for ever believing in silly little humans. Dean held his hand out for you.

“You’ve seen the worst of us. Let us show you the rest.”

You looked down at your own hands. Hands that used to hold the stars and now shook from sorrow and regret. For a brief moment, they seemed to twinkle in the dim light of the motel room. And after another second, you realized they weren’t twinkling. Tears had dripped down onto your palms and caught the light.

“Oh,” you whispered. “I’m... leaking again.”

“Crying,” Sam corrected softly. “It’s normal. Healthy, even.” You wiped the tears away with the heel of your palm.

“It feels terrible.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean gave a half-shrug, his hand still extended towards you. “Most of the important things in life do.” You stared hard at his outstretched fingers – calloused, scarred, human. The hand of someone who’s fought and bled and lost but kept going regardless. After a long moment, you took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

“So what happens now?” you asked, swaying slightly. 

“First, a shower.” Dean wrinkled his nose. “And some fresh clothes for you. Then food. Real food. Not whatever crap you’ve been living on.”

“I had pizza the other day.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna need more than that, sweetheart. How about this? You shower, we’ll get you some clothes and some pie, then we can get you to someone who can help you adjust better than we can.”

“Who?” Your defenses immediately went up. The world had taught you caution these past few months. Every kindness came with a price tag you couldn’t afford.

“Cas,” Dean said simply. “He made you believe in us. Let us show you that we’re worth believing in.”

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Tagging everyone on my list bc it's Spn related: @jollyhunter @aylacavebear @globetrotter28 @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @maddie0101 @sir-thisisadndserver @colours-of-thewind @kiddieclaws @mostlymarvelgirl @rurwu @imalapdog @losers-clvb @zyra-7 @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @voodoochildthings @theamuz

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!

[supernotnatural2005]

Aww tysm! 🥹💗 I’m so glad you liked it 🤭 it was a bit of a challenge, but i saw the clip and my brain was like - “i have to write a backstory for this, it’s too fun” 😂

(same 🤤)

‘Mr Right Now’

(Source)

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings/tags: Implied Smut (18+), swearing, fluff, one night stand... kinda, mentions of cheating

A/N: Entirely based on this lil clip right here 👆🏻😂, however this will be from the reader’s POV in the beginning and perhaps a lil' insight into Dean’s funny walk 👀🤣

Main Masterlist

Valentine’s Day.

It’s supposed to be your favourite night to work. Singles Night always brings in a good crowd, fun music, and flirty banter that makes your shift fly by. But tonight?

Tonight, you want to crawl under the bar and disappear.

Six months ago, your ex — Travis — said you were “pressuring” him when you asked if he’d ever thought about marriage or kids. After three years together, you figured it wasn’t a crazy question. But the truth came out not long after: he’d been sleeping with your downstairs neighbour. Class act, right?

And today? You found out he just proposed to her.

Yeah. Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day.

So yeah, you’re bitter. And tired. And trying not to punch the next person who asks for a “Love Me Long Time” shot with a wink.

You were mid-pour when you noticed him. Dean. That rugged, flirty regular who always nursed his whiskey like he had secrets too heavy to say out loud. It’d been a while since he last came in — his job took him all over, he’d once vaguely mentioned. Never said much more.

But tonight, he looked good. That usual cocky smirk in place, dark flannel and jeans and those green eyes doing their usual scan of the room before settling on me.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, once you finished up with your customer, managing a warm smile.

“Here to scope out the sea of desperation?” You teased. And Dean grinned, shaking his head.

You knew he played the field, usually always leaving with a woman on his arm. And a day like today must be like hitting the jackpot for him. You didn’t judge him for it though, these ladies knew what they were getting into.

“That obvious, huh?” he chuckles, his eyes already making their familiar appreciative sweep over you. He’d aimed and missed with you once before — back when you were still with ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named.’ But he respected the boundary, and you appreciated that. Now, though… you find yourself not minding if he looks.

“I mean, if you want to feed yourself to the piranhas, who am I to stop you.” You winked and then poured his usual - double whiskey, neat. 

“I’m surprised you’re working tonight,” he says, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “Thought you’d be spending Valentine’s with… what’s his name again? Trevor? Tyrone?”

“Travis,” you correct, unable to keep the disgust from your voice. The name tastes like poison now.

Dean notices. Raises a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Try dumping me after three years because I had the audacity to ask about our future,” you say with a tight smile. “Turns out, it wasn’t because I was pressuring him — it was because he was screwing the twenty-four-year-old downstairs.”

“No shit.” Dean blows out a breath, brows raised.

“Shit. And get this.” You lean in like you’re telling him the world’s dirtiest secret. “I found out today, of all damn days, the asshole proposed to her.”

You let out a bitter laugh. Dean just shakes his head.

“What a douchebag,” he mutters, voice rough with genuine annoyance on your behalf.

“Just feels like such a giant waste of time, you know.” you sigh, glancing out at the dance floor where the lonely and the bold are coupling off, laughing, swaying, kissing. All of them looking far less wrecked than you feel.

Then Rachel — your co-bartender and part-time devil on your shoulder — slides in beside you, muttering with a smirk, “Well, you know what they say… Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

She nods toward Dean before spinning off to help another customer. Subtle as ever.

“She’s not wrong,” Dean says, that glint in his eye turning mischievous.

You raise a brow, curious. “What, are you offering?”

“I wasn’t not offering,” he replies smoothly.

Your pulse skips.

The tension between you two has always been there — a low simmer under the surface. Banter. Glances. But you were off-limits. Now?

Now you’re single. And hurting. And Dean’s looking at you like he’s more than willing to be your rebound.

“I’m off in an hour,” you say, leaning across the bar just enough to let him see the smirk tugging at your lips. “Think you’ll survive?”

Dean’s grin is slow, sinful. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting for the last year. What’s sixty more minutes?”

An hour later, Dean’s on your couch, thick thighs spread, watching you strip off your jacket with hooded eyes.

You straddle his lap, fingers sliding through his hair as you kiss him. It’s rough, desperate, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. His hands grip your waist, pull you flush against him, and you moan into his mouth.

“My ex,” you whisper against his lips, “used to call me a sex freak.”

Dean tilts his head, grinning. “Yeah? Sounds like the douchebag couldn’t keep up.”

You roll your hips against him, feeling him hard beneath you. “Said I was too much.”

“Sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and thick, “I like too much.”

Your clothes hit the floor in a trail of chaos. You barely make it to the bedroom before he’s pushing you against the wall, kissing you like a man starved.

Somewhere between the laughter and the gasps, you tie his wrists to the headboard with your scarf.

His eyes go wide. “Oh, you are wild.”

You just smile. “Still game?”

Dean huffs a laugh, already breathless. “Hell yes.”

And he is. Game for all of it. For your hands, your mouth, the way you ride him like you’ve got something to prove — maybe to yourself, maybe to him. He lets you take control, lets you wreck him, and when he finally comes undone beneath you, sweaty and flushed and utterly ruined, he lets out a hoarse, “Fuck... I’m gonna feel that for a week.”

You collapse next to him, laughing into the curve of his shoulder.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

He turns his head, kisses you slow and sweet. “I think now it’s my turn, sweetheart.” 

And before you can reply, he’s rolling you beneath him, dragging you into round two with a look that says he’s nowhere near done.

When you wake the next morning, deliciously sore in all the best ways, you turn to find Dean still there, tangled in your sheets, a lazy arm draped over your waist. You smile and appreciate his beauty for a minute and wonder why you hadn’t just fucked Travis off sooner and took up Dean’s offer, because holy shit that was probably the best sex you’d ever had. 

Dean seems to notice your staring and hums as he pulls you closer, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder, then your neck, all the way up until he’s claiming your lips once more. 

You sigh happily into it and as he shifts closer and he groans. “Damn, sweetheart. You really did a number on me.” He chuckles and drops his head to your shoulder.

You giggle beneath him, but bite your lip a little insecure. “Too much?”

He seems to notice your apprehension and lifts his head, his grin is lopsided as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never too much. I’ll take the limp proudly.”

The two of you burst out into laughter and then spend another 20 minutes sharing a few more lazy kisses before he finally vacates your apartment, leaving you with one last long, lingering kiss at the door and a promise of a repeat.

Back at the bunker, Dean limps into the kitchen like he’s been hit by a truck, wincing with every step. He makes a beeline for the fridge, yanks it open, and grabs a questionable takeout container like a man on the edge.

Sam glances up from his laptop, frowns. “Is that a hickey?”

Dean pops the lid, scoops a bite of rice into his mouth and immediately spits it out, not caring if half of it ends up on the floor. He was too hungover for this.

He sets down the container and shuffles toward the coffee pot like it’s holy salvation. Thank God Sam’s an early riser.

“And?” Dean grunts. “It was Valentine’s Day. Can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“You got half of that right,” Sam mutters, not looking up.

Dean smirks. “Just doing my civic duty. Helping a recently single lady rediscover her joy.”

“So… you were the rebound?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You know the best thing about February fourteenth? You don’t have to be Mr. Right. Just Mr. Right Now, and if that means in the rebounding sense, who cares? I still got laid.”

Sam scoffs. “Classy.”

Dean huffs, tired of the third degree. “Yeah? What did you do, judgy? Curl up in a snuggy, watch fifty shades on cable?” 

“Yeah. No.” Sam huffs humourlessly.

Meanwhile, Dean sips his coffee, eyes unfocused as his mind wanders back to the scratch of your nails down his back, the gasp you made when he kissed that spot behind your knee, the way your voice broke when you said his name.

Yeah. He thinks.

Best. Night. Ever.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was a fun little experiment and just what my brain conjured up watching this clip lol 😂 I don't know about you guys, but Dean could happily be my rebound 😍

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

[supernotnatural2005]

Holy, wow 🥵

This was the hottest, monetarily worrying, sweetest thing ever 😍 and that smut tho 🥵

For second there at the end i was worried we were going to have two idiots in our midsts but, thank god for that 😮‍💨😅 this was incredible 💗💗

Say It

Summary: @impala-dreamer issued a Dean POV challenge, and I accepted. The prompt for this fic is “drunken mistakes”.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Word Count: 3197

Warnings: smut from the outset, angst, Dean’s POV, oral sex, fingering, full penetrative sex, alcohol use, intoxicated intimacy, ambiguous ending

AO3 Link

It’ll never be more than this, he tells himself every time she’s got her hands on him, every time her vodka-soaked tongue is in his mouth. It can’t be more than this; drunken fumblings in the dark, dingy corners of back-street bars where they share a few shots before she’s got her fingers on his belt, her lips on his throat, and all the while his mind is screaming at him to tell her, to confess, to risk it all. Tomorrow, it will be unspoken again, left in the darkness… like it never happened.

Except it keeps happening. Tonight is no different than the last four times he’s failed to resist her. He’s helpless when it comes to her, weak and pliable, hard by the time her hand is inside his pants, fingers wrapping around him. She’s moaning in his ear even though he hasn’t even touched her, and the sound makes him shudder.

It takes every ounce of willpower he has to pry her hand out of his jeans. She pouts, that full bottom lip sticking out in a way that almost makes him give in but he is going to have her in a bed tonight at least. They’ve yet to find one in any of their drunken endeavours; alleyways, the Impala, a park bench, but not a bed, and he’s determined that they’ll make it to one this time.

His resolve weakens when they get outside the bar, into the silent nighttime beyond the booming jukebox and watered-down beers. She tugs him around the corner towards a wall, already dropping to her knees before he can stop her. Anyone could see them there, but that doesn’t stop her pulling him out of his pants, her hot little mouth descending on him before he’s got time to blink. His head almost hits the bricks as she takes him down, making all the right noises that vibrate along his cock and completely wreck any coherent thought he might have.

He has to stop her. He doesn’t want it to be like this, not here anyway. But the wet cavern of her mouth is distracting, and it takes the flash of headlights for him to finally stop her. That bottom lip comes out again - he ignores it, and pulls her to her feet, tucking his cock away before they can be arrested for indecent exposure.

She stares at him, either confused or hurt, and he doesn’t want either of those things. He takes her hand, smiling as he jerks his head towards the motel room across the street. “Sam’s out,” he murmurs, too afraid that if he says outright what he wants, she’ll reject him. The expression on her face morphs into a wicked smile that steals his very soul and her fingers squeeze his before they’re moving off in tandem.

It’s definitely warmer in the motel room. Her desire hasn’t waned either; they’re barely in the door when she’s on her knees again, and he finds himself with his back against the wall as she swiftly resumes the mind-shattering blowjob she’d started moments before. He can’t think as her tongue slides along his shaft, letting her pull his pants down a little further so she can cup his sac. The sensation has his eyes rolling back, and a long drawn out moan leaves his lips when he feels her throat tightening around his tip. She’s messy, drooling as she deep-throats him, choking every so often in a way that almost tips him over the edge, fingers working on his balls and the inches of his dick she can’t fit in her mouth.

He’s close within minutes. He doesn’t want to come yet, even if the heat of her mouth is so welcoming he could easily lose himself in it. The last time she did this, she swallowed his load without missing a beat, and he’d almost told her he loved her.

He can’t ever tell her that.

God, he wants to.

“Stop,” he gasps, trying to pry her off. She scowls and releases him, looking up without pouting this time. He’s annoyed her. “I don’t wanna come yet.” The scowl doesn’t disappear but she lets him pull her to her feet. He takes a chance and caresses her face with the back of his knuckles; maybe it’s too intimate for them, and his fear of driving her away makes him act like he always has. “Wanna get you off first.”

She meets him in a harsh kiss, swiping her tongue into his mouth with a moan. His hands slide around her hips, pushing her towards the bed, but she breaks away and almost dances out of his grip, kicking her shoes off with more grace than he expects considering just how much vodka they had piled on top of the beers. He definitely still feels drunk, though he feels a little like he’s more drunk on her than he is on the booze, following her as if she’s holding a leash on his dick.

Maybe it’s around his heart. Maybe it’s both. He doesn’t care as long as he can taste her.

“You’re staring,” she whispers with amusement, reaching out with one hand to snap open the buttons on his shirt. He wants to tell her he can’t help it but she’s kissing him before he can say a single word, and he’s suddenly consumed with wanting her naked underneath him, tearing at both her clothes and his until he’s got her on her back, legs spread with his face buried in her pussy. It’s something he dreams about more than he’ll ever admit; feeling her tremble as he licks at her clit, the way she whimpers when he pushes her into a climax that soaks the sheets under her ass.

He could drown in her. Could die happy between her thighs, whichever way she’ll have him. Feeling her fingers in his hair, encouraging him to go harder until she’s practically riding his face, hearing her tiny moans as she drips down his chin. She’s addictive, yet she doesn’t know it.

“Oh god, Dean -”

That, he thinks absently. She speaks his name like an urgent plea to God. He slides a finger inside her, making her say it again, feeling a jolt in his cock that matches the twitch of her slick walls around his intruding digit. A second fits in alongside the first, and she starts to cry out when he fucks them into her until she’s nearly thrashing on the bed.

“Dean, fuck me, please,” she begs; he can’t deny her, not in any lifetime. He climbs up the bed, stealing another kiss as he fumbles between their bodies to line his cock up with her entrance, and he can’t help groaning into her mouth as he fills her, swallowing down her whines. She’s tight, wet, hot around him; he’s sure he can feel the throb of her pulse through his cock, and he indulges in the sensation, holding himself inside her as he tries not to lose control.

Her knees press into his sides as her impatience gets the better of her. He anticipates her move before she makes it, letting her roll them both until she’s in his lap, still stuffed full of him, and the sound she makes as she arches at the extra pressure inside her is nothing short of euphoric. He loves this view, he muses, as she grinds down on him, head thrown back in wild abandon as she takes exactly what she needs from him. His teeth grind together in concentration - he doesn’t want to come, not right now when he’s enjoying the show so much. She’s fucking beautiful, a goddess riding his cock without a care, and he’d tell her just as much, if he thought for a second she would believe him.

She comes with a cry, toppling forward to catch her weight on her hands either side of his head. Her hips are still moving, lifting her off of him by a few inches before dropping down, and he groans at the extra friction. There’s no way to resist the ecstasy swimming in his veins, building with every stroke, threatening to tear him apart at the seams. She drops her lips to his, kissing away the desperate sounds he’s spilling out, and he grabs for her hips, matching her speed until he’s driving up into her without a care for whether it lasts or not.

Her whole body tenses as he wrings another orgasm out of her, moaning into her mouth when he follows in her wake, thrusting until he feels the first spurt of come filling her. He holds her down on his cock, determined to get every last drop inside her, and she doesn’t fight it, dragging her lips away along his jaw, finally collapsing onto his chest with a low whimper of contentment.

It’s a finite few seconds he gets to bask in her. Too soon, she slips off and to the side, curling underneath the sheets as she pants quietly. He wants to kiss her again, to tell her all the things he shouldn’t feel, but his body demands other needs be seen to. She doesn’t say a word when he gets up and pads naked towards the bathroom.

He cleans up, mentally thinking about what happens next, but when he returns a few moments later, she’s already asleep, curled up in his bed. A triumphant smile lifts the corners of his mouth, and he pulls on a pair of boxers before reoccupying the spot he’d been in, turning to face her. He watches her sleep, trying to memorize the shape of her face, the curve of her shoulder, desperately trying to stay awake just so he can marvel at having her right there next to him. But the hunt, the alcohol, and the exertion, eventually drag him into unconsciousness.

Her side of the bed is empty when he opens his eyes and squints at the bright sunlight filtering through the curtains. She hasn’t gone far; he spots her immediately when he sits up, sitting at the table with a takeaway coffee in front of her. There’s a second cup, presumably for him, so he gets up, throwing on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before joining her at the table. She doesn’t look at him, and his heart thumps painfully in his chest when she slides the cup closer to him.

“Sam’s not back yet?” he asks, wishing she’d look at him.

“He texted me a couple of hours ago,” she replies. No eye contact. He feels cold from head to toe. “Said he’ll be back in an hour or so.”

He nods, clasping the coffee cup in both hands. It’s still hot. Did she wake up beside him this morning? The other bed in the room doesn’t look slept in. He wants to ask, but he knows he has to phrase it carefully.

“Did you sleep okay?”

She speaks at exactly the same time. “We should probably talk.”

His stomach drops to the floor. He takes a breath when she meets his gaze, her face in a mask he can’t translate. Does she want to end… whatever this is?

She answers his question when he doesn’t speak: “I slept fine.” It doesn’t tell him where she slept. For all he knows, she made the other bed when she got up - she has a habit of doing that. He holds eye contact, still terrified, still unsure what to even say, and eventually she blinks and looks away, tucking her chin into her chest.

She’s going to end it. She’s gonna leave.

He can’t help the panic that clogs his throat. Swallowing does nothing to clear it, and the seconds before she speaks stretch into eternity.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out.

That he wasn’t expecting. “What?” he asks incredulously, frowning at her. “What are you sorry for?”

“We keep - I keep…” Whatever she’s trying to say isn’t coming out, and her hands tense around her coffee as her eyes close for a brief second. She inhales deeply, then exhales, finally looking at him. “It’s been a rough year,” she says softly, “and I needed an outlet. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be using you for that.”

His own personality gets the better of him, and he smirks. “I ain’t complainin’,” he drawls, immediately regretting it when she winces. He sobers, frowning again. “Hey, look, we’re both adults, consenting -”

“It’s a mistake, Dean.”

The way she says it has a hard edge to it, something that bristles along his spine and fills his gut with acid. He has never thought of it as a mistake, even if they’d gone about it in all the wrong ways. To hear her say it, to even imply that she regrets being with him… it hurts more than any rejection he’s ever experienced.

Then she speaks again, and a different kind of agony fills him.

“I know I’m not the type of girl you usually go for,” she whispers, keeping her eyes on the table. She’s trembling. He hates it. “This is just a roll in the hay for you, but I can’t - I can’t keep pretending like I don’t feel something for you.” There are tears in her eyes now, and his heart is breaking. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to - to keep doing this.”

She’s so far from the truth that he could laugh, but he recognizes that would probably be the worst thing to do. All this time, his feelings were reciprocated, yet here she was, believing that he can’t want her that way, that he is just… using her.

He feels sick.

If it shows on his face, she doesn’t see it. “I-I was thinking about heading back to New Jersey,” she continues, fidgeting in her seat. “You and Sam don’t need me to hunt, and I’m used to going it alone, so -”

Exactly what he was so terrified of hearing. The thought of watching her leave makes him want to burn the whole world. “No,” he says suddenly, silencing her. She lifts her chin and stares at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“I don’t want you to go,” he clarifies. The truth sits on his tongue, begging to be told, only the consequences of it frightened him beyond belief. She might want him, might feel the same way, but whenever he’s gotten close to anyone, bad things happen. His damage is a curse that infects everyone. He can’t see that happen to her… except he’s already close to her. Since the moment she had ripped him a new one for disrupting her hunt six months ago, he’s been unable to keep her out of his thoughts for more than five minutes. And now he’s had her, he knows what it feels like to be inside her, he doesn’t think he can go back.

Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Then what do you want?” she asks quietly, haltingly, like she’s terrified of the answer.

He’s scared of it too.

His mouth opens and closes but he can’t get the words to come out. He wants her to stay, wants her to be with him, more than these fleeting drunken moments that leave him aching constantly. But he can’t say it. He can’t give voice to his desire knowing it will damn her so thoroughly.

Coward.

The expression on her face hardens and she gets to her feet, abandoning his coffee. “It’s better this way,” she mutters, dragging her bag from where she’d kicked it underneath the bed. He watches her, feeling the chasm in his chest widen at the idea of never seeing her again. She keeps her back to him as she packs her things before disappearing into the bathroom, and he releases the breath he was holding.

He can’t let her walk away. He knows he’ll regret it if he does. It’s selfish, and it will probably get her killed, or worse, but he can’t.

When she comes out of the bathroom, he’s on his feet, staring at her like she’s the sun. She freezes, shampoo in one hand, conditioner in the other, meeting his stare with a mixture of confusion and alarm. “Dean?”

“I -” He licks his lips. Speaking is never usually this difficult for him. But this is different. “I don’t want you to go because I -” 

She tilts her head with a frown. “You what?” she prompts when he fails to finish his sentence.

“I don’t wanna pretend either,” he finally forces out, words almost jumbling together. “About feelings. Because I have them. For you.” How eloquent, his brain mocks, and he wants to scowl at himself when his inner voice sounds a little too much like his brother. Sam has already told him multiple times to tell her how he feels, receiving choice curse words in return.

It hasn’t felt that simple before. But as the silence lingers after his confession, he starts to think that maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe saying it isn’t enough to make her stay. Either way, the truth is out there now, and all he can do is wait for her to say something.

Anything.

Her shoulders drop into a sigh that tears through him with the power of a tornado. “That’s not funny, Dean,” she mumbles, taking her gaze away from him and back to packing.

He scowls at her back, more than a little frustrated and hurt that she’s taking his very honest moment as nothing more than a prank. “I’m not joking,” he replies in a stiff tone, holding his fists at his sides. She doesn’t turn, and he feels a flare of anger that she’s just dismissing him. “None of this is a mistake to me. Not one second of it. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone zero-to-fucking within the blink of a shot but this will never be something I regret, Y/N. You are someone I will never regret.”

This time, his words make her turn. She stares at him in disbelief, and he longs to close the gap between them, to kiss her and remind her just how fucking good they are together. He wants to wake up with her in the morning, go to sleep by her side at night, he wants every cheesy Hallmark moment that could possibly exist, but most of all, he just wants her.

“But -” 

Her tongue darts out along her bottom lip after the single word escapes, and it’s obvious she’s trying to figure this out, figure him out, because he’s never been great at anything but the Dean Winchester mask he’s worn since the moment he carried Sam out of that burning nursery. With her, the pretense is gone, and he’s so fucking vulnerable - he has to trust she’s not to going to break his heart.

He already knows he’s gonna do everything to keep hers safe.

The space between them is unbearable. She doesn’t so much as flinch when he’s suddenly in front of her, one hand cupping her cheek. “I don’t want you to go,” he says softly, “because I’m in love with you.”

There. His final confession. He holds his breath, and waits.

[supernotnatural2005]

Aww thank you Beth 🤗

This was a fun lil experiment, and really this is what captured that series? 😱 Personally i haven’t watched passed season 10 as much, so the episodes get more foggy for me, i’m deffo more of an og season 1-5 watcher 😅 maybe thats just because they feel the most nostalgic to me.

But also for the sake of this fic, let’s forget about Amara and let Dean fantasise 👀😂 and maybe this might not be the end of these two 🤭 ……

‘Mr Right Now’

(Source)

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings/tags: Implied Smut (18+), swearing, fluff, one night stand... kinda, mentions of cheating

A/N: Entirely based on this lil clip right here 👆🏻😂, however this will be from the reader’s POV in the beginning and perhaps a lil' insight into Dean’s funny walk 👀🤣

Main Masterlist

Valentine’s Day.

It’s supposed to be your favourite night to work. Singles Night always brings in a good crowd, fun music, and flirty banter that makes your shift fly by. But tonight?

Tonight, you want to crawl under the bar and disappear.

Six months ago, your ex — Travis — said you were “pressuring” him when you asked if he’d ever thought about marriage or kids. After three years together, you figured it wasn’t a crazy question. But the truth came out not long after: he’d been sleeping with your downstairs neighbour. Class act, right?

And today? You found out he just proposed to her.

Yeah. Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day.

So yeah, you’re bitter. And tired. And trying not to punch the next person who asks for a “Love Me Long Time” shot with a wink.

You were mid-pour when you noticed him. Dean. That rugged, flirty regular who always nursed his whiskey like he had secrets too heavy to say out loud. It’d been a while since he last came in — his job took him all over, he’d once vaguely mentioned. Never said much more.

But tonight, he looked good. That usual cocky smirk in place, dark flannel and jeans and those green eyes doing their usual scan of the room before settling on me.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, once you finished up with your customer, managing a warm smile.

“Here to scope out the sea of desperation?” You teased. And Dean grinned, shaking his head.

You knew he played the field, usually always leaving with a woman on his arm. And a day like today must be like hitting the jackpot for him. You didn’t judge him for it though, these ladies knew what they were getting into.

“That obvious, huh?” he chuckles, his eyes already making their familiar appreciative sweep over you. He’d aimed and missed with you once before — back when you were still with ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named.’ But he respected the boundary, and you appreciated that. Now, though… you find yourself not minding if he looks.

“I mean, if you want to feed yourself to the piranhas, who am I to stop you.” You winked and then poured his usual - double whiskey, neat. 

“I’m surprised you’re working tonight,” he says, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “Thought you’d be spending Valentine’s with… what’s his name again? Trevor? Tyrone?”

“Travis,” you correct, unable to keep the disgust from your voice. The name tastes like poison now.

Dean notices. Raises a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Try dumping me after three years because I had the audacity to ask about our future,” you say with a tight smile. “Turns out, it wasn’t because I was pressuring him — it was because he was screwing the twenty-four-year-old downstairs.”

“No shit.” Dean blows out a breath, brows raised.

“Shit. And get this.” You lean in like you’re telling him the world’s dirtiest secret. “I found out today, of all damn days, the asshole proposed to her.”

You let out a bitter laugh. Dean just shakes his head.

“What a douchebag,” he mutters, voice rough with genuine annoyance on your behalf.

“Just feels like such a giant waste of time, you know.” you sigh, glancing out at the dance floor where the lonely and the bold are coupling off, laughing, swaying, kissing. All of them looking far less wrecked than you feel.

Then Rachel — your co-bartender and part-time devil on your shoulder — slides in beside you, muttering with a smirk, “Well, you know what they say… Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

She nods toward Dean before spinning off to help another customer. Subtle as ever.

“She’s not wrong,” Dean says, that glint in his eye turning mischievous.

You raise a brow, curious. “What, are you offering?”

“I wasn’t not offering,” he replies smoothly.

Your pulse skips.

The tension between you two has always been there — a low simmer under the surface. Banter. Glances. But you were off-limits. Now?

Now you’re single. And hurting. And Dean’s looking at you like he’s more than willing to be your rebound.

“I’m off in an hour,” you say, leaning across the bar just enough to let him see the smirk tugging at your lips. “Think you’ll survive?”

Dean’s grin is slow, sinful. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting for the last year. What’s sixty more minutes?”

An hour later, Dean’s on your couch, thick thighs spread, watching you strip off your jacket with hooded eyes.

You straddle his lap, fingers sliding through his hair as you kiss him. It’s rough, desperate, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. His hands grip your waist, pull you flush against him, and you moan into his mouth.

“My ex,” you whisper against his lips, “used to call me a sex freak.”

Dean tilts his head, grinning. “Yeah? Sounds like the douchebag couldn’t keep up.”

You roll your hips against him, feeling him hard beneath you. “Said I was too much.”

“Sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and thick, “I like too much.”

Your clothes hit the floor in a trail of chaos. You barely make it to the bedroom before he’s pushing you against the wall, kissing you like a man starved.

Somewhere between the laughter and the gasps, you tie his wrists to the headboard with your scarf.

His eyes go wide. “Oh, you are wild.”

You just smile. “Still game?”

Dean huffs a laugh, already breathless. “Hell yes.”

And he is. Game for all of it. For your hands, your mouth, the way you ride him like you’ve got something to prove — maybe to yourself, maybe to him. He lets you take control, lets you wreck him, and when he finally comes undone beneath you, sweaty and flushed and utterly ruined, he lets out a hoarse, “Fuck... I’m gonna feel that for a week.”

You collapse next to him, laughing into the curve of his shoulder.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

He turns his head, kisses you slow and sweet. “I think now it’s my turn, sweetheart.” 

And before you can reply, he’s rolling you beneath him, dragging you into round two with a look that says he’s nowhere near done.

When you wake the next morning, deliciously sore in all the best ways, you turn to find Dean still there, tangled in your sheets, a lazy arm draped over your waist. You smile and appreciate his beauty for a minute and wonder why you hadn’t just fucked Travis off sooner and took up Dean’s offer, because holy shit that was probably the best sex you’d ever had. 

Dean seems to notice your staring and hums as he pulls you closer, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder, then your neck, all the way up until he’s claiming your lips once more. 

You sigh happily into it and as he shifts closer and he groans. “Damn, sweetheart. You really did a number on me.” He chuckles and drops his head to your shoulder.

You giggle beneath him, but bite your lip a little insecure. “Too much?”

He seems to notice your apprehension and lifts his head, his grin is lopsided as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never too much. I’ll take the limp proudly.”

The two of you burst out into laughter and then spend another 20 minutes sharing a few more lazy kisses before he finally vacates your apartment, leaving you with one last long, lingering kiss at the door and a promise of a repeat.

Back at the bunker, Dean limps into the kitchen like he’s been hit by a truck, wincing with every step. He makes a beeline for the fridge, yanks it open, and grabs a questionable takeout container like a man on the edge.

Sam glances up from his laptop, frowns. “Is that a hickey?”

Dean pops the lid, scoops a bite of rice into his mouth and immediately spits it out, not caring if half of it ends up on the floor. He was too hungover for this.

He sets down the container and shuffles toward the coffee pot like it’s holy salvation. Thank God Sam’s an early riser.

“And?” Dean grunts. “It was Valentine’s Day. Can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“You got half of that right,” Sam mutters, not looking up.

Dean smirks. “Just doing my civic duty. Helping a recently single lady rediscover her joy.”

“So… you were the rebound?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You know the best thing about February fourteenth? You don’t have to be Mr. Right. Just Mr. Right Now, and if that means in the rebounding sense, who cares? I still got laid.”

Sam scoffs. “Classy.”

Dean huffs, tired of the third degree. “Yeah? What did you do, judgy? Curl up in a snuggy, watch fifty shades on cable?” 

“Yeah. No.” Sam huffs humourlessly.

Meanwhile, Dean sips his coffee, eyes unfocused as his mind wanders back to the scratch of your nails down his back, the gasp you made when he kissed that spot behind your knee, the way your voice broke when you said his name.

Yeah. He thinks.

Best. Night. Ever.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was a fun little experiment and just what my brain conjured up watching this clip lol 😂 I don't know about you guys, but Dean could happily be my rebound 😍

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes