#Dean is stuck waiting...

[shallowseeker]

any thoughts on why dean didn't seem to mention jack when he mentioned sam and castiel in the rocky's bar hallucination in nihilism?

I feel like I've been asked this before, and I answered it better than this. (But here goes!) Basically, I think that in early season 14, Jack and Mary represent a level of happiness that is far above contentedness.

They represent the things "he never thought he'd get" in life. (script, 14x20). I think it's part of why he spirals so hard after Game Night/Absence. Losing both of them was The Symbolic Obliteration of Dean's happy future. He lost Mary because Jack lost his soul, and Jack lost his soul because Dean lost control of Michael. I think that the "Michael of it all" cut so deeply that Dean, usually so quick to shoulder all the blame, couldn't bear the weight of voicing it, even to himself.

But within the world of Rocky's Bar, Sam and Cas are strategic constants in his life, sharing the hunters' workload and easing his duty/obligations so he can retire. Meanwhile, the sad fact of it all is that he settles for a meager, near-anorexic level of contentedness in a failing bar that is, quite notably, devoid of real people or loved ones.

[drasticemotions]

I love supernatural cause how do you explain to someone normal who doesn’t watch it that dean killed the reincarnation of hitler….dean winchester the man that you are

[angelsdean]

dean's kinda right for calling sam a selfish bastard in 1x11 because like, in this instance sam insisting they do what HE wants very much WILL result in two people getting killed. like it's a certainty. if they turn around and head to california two innocent people WILL die.

while they're driving and discussing the case they figure out the window for these disappearances is consistent across the board: second week of april. then sam say this is the second week of april.

sam sums up the gist of it, john's sending them there to save this next couple before they vanish. this job isn't just about hunting some monster or spirit in the area that may attack, the attack is certain. the pattern has been consistent for years. it's very likely another couple will disappear / die. and it's already the second week, there's no wiggle room, no space to pause and come back to this case later.

still, sam insists on dropping the case and heading to california. the demon and getting revenge is more important to him right now than saving lives.

dean says, this is important. saving lives is important. and sam says he understands, but his next statement shows he really really doesn't. because he says "I'm talking one week here...to get revenge." ONE WEEK is exactly the amount of time you don't have. Letting this case sit for one week will ensure that another couple dies. Revenge can wait. John can wait. It's been over six months at this point without word from John. Now that they know generally where he is, it can wait. One week won't change much on that front.

so, i mean, dean IS kinda right. sam IS being selfish in this moment (and stubborn. he is thee Most taurus)

yes, dean is also a bit defensive and deflecting because sam won't stop insisting dean's a mindless little soldier and dean also feels some resentment at sam for just leaving him to deal with john on his own (1x06 shifter monologue) and some of those feelings are a bit unfair (but dean's allowed to feel them! just like sam's allowed to feel his anger and resentment toward dean! they can feel things even if their perceptions of the situation are not 100% true). and this scene is playing off as an echo to sam leaving for stanford, he's going to california whether dean likes it or not! and that's gotta be dredging up some bad feelings for dean. but dean's still right about sam acting selfishly here. sam says he understands that hunting is important and this job is important, yet he's willing to let these people die and be collateral in his quest for revenge.

(side note: it's also very interesting to me that when sam asks "that's what you really think?" dean owns up to it right away. which is a nice contrast to the last episode where sam under ghost-possession says a whole lot of shit to dean, fulled by his anger which the ghost is exacerbating, and it's very obvious to dean and the audience that sam does feel those things, even if the words came out harsher than they might have normally. but sam insists at the end of the episode he didn't mean it !! but from dean's reaction we can tell dean doesn't buy it. but here, dean doesn't beat around the bush. he's angry with sam, he's annoyed that sam is putting his own feelings and need for revenge over what dean believes is the more important part of their job, saving people. and so he says it! and maybe it's harsh and sure he'll feel bad about it later, but it's healthier to say how he really feels abt the situation then pretend everything is fine)

in summary: AITA for wanting to drop a case that NEEDS to be completed this very week or else two people WILL disappear and likely die, just so i can track down our dad who's been MIA for *checks notes* over six months, because he's closing in on the demon that killed my mom and girlfriend and i just want to get revenge already !! even though california's a big state and it'll take me at least a day or more to get there and there's no guarantee i'll even find our dad but we can work this case now and save lives now but i just, don't wanna :/

[colorlessjay]

Part 15 of "Back to the Future" AU

Dean dreads the past. All his time traveling has only ever served to solidify guilt, longing, and 'what ifs' that float in his head. But he's older now. He hasn't moved past it, but he's learn to cope and be more open about it

So when he starts feeling like it's time to go home, he does a few things he wished he got to do.

Dean managed to talk Bobby into a quick game of catch. One that ended with them both tired and grumpy, sharing a beer, and Dean telling Bobby how much of a father he is to Dean

He takes Sam to Jessica's grave. It feels pointless at first, given Sam had no soul, but Dean sat with Sam, who, despite not really understanding what Dean was going on about, listened while his big brother said how he's sorry. And that he's glad Sam stuck by him

Then, he prays to Castiel and takes him on a quick road trip. He plays the mixtape he inevitably gives to Castiel in the future, and quietly drives to a cliffside where the view of the stars would be just perfect.

They sit in silence for a while. It's a silence even Castiel wishes to break, unsure of why Dean insisted on being alone together

But Dean says his peace eventually

He chooses his words. Careful and slow. He keeps his eyes down because he's scared of how easily he would break seeing Cas' younger face.

He's afraid of how much he wants to steal Cas and take him home

Keep Cas safe from his younger self

So he keeps his eyes downcast, hoping Castiel understands him. That Cas believes him

That Cas knows Dean will be waiting for him a decade later, with open arms and a safe home

Part1 || Part2 || Part3 || Part4 || Part5 || Part6 || Part7 || Part8 || Part9 || Part10 || Part11 || Part 12 || Part13 || Part14 || Part15

---

At the end of the road, folks

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Bully x Reader

You can still hear the record player hum in the back of your memory, like a fly buzzing against a windowpane. Some warped Elton John or Bowie song that never quite plays right—too slow, too sad. That’s the sound of the summer of ’76 to you. That, and the sound of his boots scuffing down the hallways of Lincoln High.

You never asked for his attention.

It started in that dull beige chemistry classroom, with the warped blinds and the humming fluorescent lights. You sat two rows ahead of him, always tapping your pencil on the edge of the desk, always doodling in the margins of your notebook. You weren’t trying to be noticed. You didn’t even notice him, not at first.

But he noticed you.

His name was Dean. You knew him before you really knew him—the way everyone at school did. He was the guy with the chipped tooth and the permanent scowl, the one who smoked behind the auto shop and had a detention slip permanently folded in the back pocket of his Levi’s. He was tall in the kind of way that made teachers a little afraid to raise their voice, with hair like he’d cut it himself with a razorblade and a voice like gravel soaked in whisky. Dean didn’t just walk—he prowled. He owned every space he stepped into, and if someone tried to challenge that, they ended up with a black eye or a rumor that made them invisible for a week.

And for some reason—God knows why—Dean decided you were his.

You didn’t realize it when he first knocked your books out of your arms in the hallway. That just felt like another Tuesday. He sneered at you and kept walking, and you told yourself he was just being a jerk. But the next day, he did it again—only this time, he stuck around to pick them up. And when your hand brushed his, he flinched like you’d burned him.

“You should be more careful,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second too long.

You’d never seen Dean flinch before.

That’s when things started to get weird.

Your locker, which always stuck, started swinging open easily—like someone had oiled the hinges. You found notes inside, folded a dozen times over, the paper yellowed and smelling faintly of cigarettes. They didn’t say much. Just lines like “I like the way you walk” and “You’re prettier when you’re mad.”

You started catching him watching you.

In the cafeteria, his tray untouched. In gym class, standing just a little too long by the fence while you ran laps. Outside the record store downtown, even though you were pretty sure Dean didn’t own a record player.

One day, you found a Polaroid slipped between the pages of your biology textbook. It was grainy, out of focus—but it was you. Walking down your street, alone, with your jacket pulled tight and your head ducked against the wind.

Dean never said anything. He never had to.

By September, you weren’t sure whether you hated him or feared him or something worse. Because there was a softness to his obsession, if that makes any sense. Not like a knife—like a rope. Like something wrapping around you slowly, winding tighter with every week, every glance, every scribbled note and silent stare. He didn’t push anymore. He didn’t shove. He just watched. And followed. And waited.

He left gifts in your locker. A dried daisy pressed between notebook paper. A cassette tape with no label—just heavy breathing and a song you didn’t recognize. A switchblade with your initials scratched into the handle.

You told your friends. They laughed. “Dean? He’s just messing with you.”

You weren’t so sure.

There was the night you swear you heard something outside your bedroom window. You lived on the second floor. When you crept to the sill, heart in your throat, there was nothing there. But the next morning, there was a cigarette on your windowsill. Still warm.

He never asked you out. Never said he liked you. He didn’t need to. He spoke with his presence, his silence, the way he hovered just far enough away that you could pretend you were alone.

And sometimes—just sometimes—you found yourself looking for him. Waiting to feel those eyes on your back. Waiting for the weight of his stare, like heat, like gravity.

Because Dean didn’t just want you.

Dean needed you.

You started to get the feeling that if you ever said no, if you ever tried to pull away or tell someone or make it stop, something would snap. You imagined it in flashes—a hand on your throat, the sound of his boots on your front porch, the scent of leather and blood.

But it never happened.

Instead, he started walking you home.

Uninvited.

Unspoken.

Just…there.

The first time you asked him why, he shrugged. “Gotta make sure nobody messes with you,” he said, as if he wasn’t the one everyone was afraid of.

You don’t remember when the fear turned into something else. Something worse.

Comfort, maybe.

Dependence.

Love.

No. Not love.

You don’t love Dean.

You can’t.

But he looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that’s real. And in 1976, when everything smells like gasoline and the future feels like a ticking bomb, maybe that’s enough.

Masterlist

[nyursi]

NASTY DOG. . .ᐟ

⫘⫘⫘ㅤmale reader, brat taming, size difference, age gap (around 20-40 ig), ass eating, yeahhhh,,, livestock guardian dog x recon cat reader!!!ㅤ♪ㅤ───ㅤwc: 3k

"Ow, ow, ow!" You yelped, the fingertips digging into your scalp causing whimpers. Face scrunched up— brows furrowed, lips pulled into a pout. Like a proper hurt brat. 

Dean meanwhile, had ignored your struggles and continued to drag you through the field, eyes narrowed. The sharp blades of grass (freshly cut) dug into your skin, leaving red lines to mark up your thighs. 

He had a firm grip on your hair, tugging harshly. Let it fall it out for all he cares. "Tsk. Stop complainin', it's hurting my ears." Dean huffed, pulling your head upwards for a sharp jolt. Relishing in the quick yelp that followed afterwards— echoing in the field. 

With no warning, he dropped you down onto the ground, leaving you to keel, curling up like a worm. Dean crossed his arms, large and meaty, waiting for you to get up. "I already told ya, quit whining' and get up." 

You huffed and rolled your eyes— getting up to stand. Dusting off any dirt and grime on your clothes, you crossed your own arms and gazed at him. Eyes narrowed. "What is your problem?" You hissed. "Why'd ya have to— to drag me back!" 

Dean rolled his eyes. "This is exactly why. Your attitude won't cut it in this line of work, for cryin' out loud." He pinched his temple, right between his thick brows, the lines on his face more prominent than ever. You did a really good job at making him age by the second— and he was already old as is! 

The old dog was the definition of loyal. Having been working for the ranchers since he was young. And now, with greying hair and decades of experience under his belt, Dean was the perfect mentor in their eyes. The hell were they thinking? The hell was he thinking? 

"Yeah, sure,'' Dean said. Not paying any mind to the farmer's request. Something about some cat arriving next week. He's trained a couple of their guardians before, whats a recon cat to him? He's the top dog 'round this place, second in command if you may. Any new faces got to deal with him first. 

Unfortunately, the pretty little cat they took in was far from easy. 

A hellspawn he'd called you. Not outright of course. Dean still had some decency left in him, no matter how much you tested him. But he did imply it, a more passive aggressive approach. Let you know he was really disappointed with such a brat to deal with. Huffing and puffing like some wolf 'bout to blow the hay. 

"Yeah well you didn't have to grab me by the hair!" He eyed the finger pointed at him, scoffing. Completely unthreatened. Dean was big, a tank that won't be moved so easily. That dainty little finger you waved around? Laughable. Course, he did stare at it a bit too long for his own comfort— unsure why thoughts of how easy it would be to just... handle and carry you around like a sack of feathers. 

"Boy, you're givin' me a damn headache. Recon cats are supposed to be— what? Agile? Quick? Behaved? Is chasing butterflies your job or what?" Dean raised his voice. You winced at the jab. He frowned, eyes softening the tiniest bit. 

"C'mon kid. The farm’s still away. We don't wanna get stuck out in the dark." Dean nodded his head to the distance, a faint silhouette of your new home. He trudged forward without waiting for you. 

You sighed, posture slumping. Yet you followed along anyway, dragging your feet on the ground. 

"Stupid fuckin' old dog," you murmured, plopping down on your bed. It was small and creaky, put together last minute. Much like your room. Pretty sure it was an old storage closet without the shelfs lining the walls to make room. 

It was dusty, and cramped. Reeaaal welcoming. Guess they thought a room small as this would be fine, considering you weren't that hunkering anyway. At least Dean gets a proper room. 

You sneer, feeling your blood boil at the thought of his name. "Who does he think he is? He's not the boss of me." Well... he kinda is. But whatever! It's not like you signed up for this anyway. Some boring countryside life looking out for barn animals and whatnot? Psh. Boooring! 

"Some big old hunk bossin' me around... hmph." You lay on your back, the mattress was thin and barely did anything to soften the rough wood of your bed frame. Pretty sure your back’s gonna ache quicker than Deans. 

A small snicker escapes you, lips curling into a smile. The image sends you a rush of amusement. Tiny giggles echo in your room— sounding like some maniac locked up in a padded cell with only his ideas to keep him company. 

Dean stops outside your door. Hand raised midway the air, curled into a fist. He was about to call you out for dinner, escort you to the kitchen so you wouldn't get into any more trouble. But your laughter made him stop dead in his tracks. 

He was dumbfounded, kinda. You sounded so innocent despite your... behaviour. Huh. It was almost cute. Endearing, even. Dean coughs, shaking his head. An annoyed frown tugged on his lips.

Ain't no way in hell. Never in my life would I... 

Ah. But he has already fallen for you? Slowly and surely, even if he was unaware. The day you arrived on the farm, all prickly like a cactus. He almost found it cute (he did). But he wasn't sure if the intense feelings that were harbored deep in his chest was a really intense anger or something else entirely. 

Something Dean had never thought to consider. 

Affection. 

Affection? For him? Dean blanched. He stepped back from the door like it burned him.The fucking cat? With his naughty attitude and god-forsaken defiance? Dean couldn't count how many times you stuck your tongue out at him, getting him all riled up. But fuck, maybe he did find it cute. So what? He's just a lonely old man, what's he supposed to do when the heavens throw a feline right into his arms? 

A feline that'd fit in them all nice and snug, with how small you were compared to him. That's the first thing that came to mind when he laid his eyes on your form. 

"Are ya tryin' ta kill me? That little thing's our recon?" Dean scoffed that night, complaining his heart out. "I don't know what you were thinkin'— what's he gonna do against coyotes? Wriggle and squirm?" 

And unfortunately, it had only plagued him more as time went on. When he was introducing himself to you— albeit begrudgingly. You were just standing there, leaning against the wall. Acting all smug as if Dean didn't dwarf you by a landslide. Like he couldn't just pick ya up if he wanted to, swing you over his shoulders. 

The thought made him a bit too excited. 

When he was tourin' you 'round the barn. Walking behind him like some shadow. Even his sharp ears couldn't hear your footsteps— feel your presence. Light as a feather, indeed. Maybe he doubted you too much. 

Earlier when he was dragging you on the field. Truth be told, he didn't mean to be so rough. Never in his life has Dean laid his hands on his juniors. But with you? It was an entirely different story. There was something about you that ignited feelings he didn't even know he could feel! It was a whole new area for him. 

But god. Temptation had been building up, and Dean was only a man who could hold on for so long. He'd lost control, when those sinful thoughts kept him up. Shame welling in his being for every lewd image his mind conjured up in the middle of the night, keeping him from sleeping and getting some shut eye like an old dog should, as you said. 

Gods, and how many times had you jabbed at his age? He ain't even that old! 

It only made him feel guiltier. You were a young thing— all pretty and shiny. Like a brand new chew toy for Dean to maul on. Sink his teeth into your pristine skin, leave red marks that'd prove his territory. (Territory. And this guy has the nerve to act like he doesn't have feelings for you!) What sounds would you make? If he bit deep and hard, licked up the marks afterwards. Dirty dog. 

"Fuck," Dean snarled, dragging a calloused palm down his face. He stood in the hallway, trying to cancel out your laughter. What was he here for again? Right. Dinner. 

Well shit, ain't Dean got dinner right here? Beyond that door, laying on the bed... 

He turned his head away swiftly, ragged breaths leaving his chapped lips. Chest heaving up and down. "No, no... calm down. You ain't feel like that—" Dean chuckled. But it sounded more like a pathetic strain. "Not for him." 

He didn't call you out for dinner, and he didn't eat either. But that hunger would get you both sooner or later. 

"Just... a little... bit... more...!" You groaned, hand outstretched. Curse these tall cabinets. It's not like giants live here! And what the fuck was up with Dean? He was supposed to call you for dinner! 

You actually fell asleep but that doesn't matter. 

What matters now, is the hunger in your stomach driving you crazy. The rumbles could echo in the barn if they got any louder. It was embarrassing enough as it is. 

Sneaking around, avoiding the creaky floorboards. Ears raised and alert for any and every sound made. What were you? A spy? You live here! 

"Goddammit, coulda saved me some leftovers. Even a grain would've been nice." You grumbled, sighing and rolling your eyes. Pouting at the thought of the meal you missed. Damn barn animals and their never ending greed. Not even a single scrap was put away for little ol' you. 

You were so caught up in your actions that you failed to notice a figure entering the kitchen, getting a nice front view of your behind. Huh. Why were you archin' your back like that anyway? 

Dean froze, mind blue screening temporarily as his eyes registered your ass all puckered out in the dark. 

He had given in to his hunger, forgetting about dinner after his... ahem, revelations. Curled up in bed, sulking in denial like he was about to be put down. Pathetic really. Since when did Dean get worked up over pretty kitties? 

Since you, apparently. 

He thought about it. Since you were their first recon cat, he didn't have much experience with felines. Only knew that they were playful, independent, and incredibly alluring. Dangerously so that when you've fallen for one, oh brother, there is no getting back up. 

Might as well dig yourself a hole in the ground to live in. 

Playful, when you gave jokes he wouldn't understand. Quick-witted, aren't you? With a smart little mouth that said all sorts of things. Curiosities and glimpses of your personality past the shallow image of a no-good cat. That twinkle in your eyes every time your soft lips curved into a smile, a triumphant "hmph!". You just loved being right, didn't you? 

Independent, always going off on your own. No matter how many times Dean reprimanded you, kept you from wandering too far. Curiosity kills the cat, after all. That's what he said, and that was the first time you rolled your eyes at him too. Wonder what it'd look like if he made them roll back for a different reason. Dean could only sigh and expect a headache to form whenever you weren't round the barn. Away from the fence and enjoying the scenery like some tourist. 

And finally: Alluring. 

As much as he didn't want to admit it. You had this charm that... well, charmed him. He beat himself up over it. But everytime he promised himself to stop— the obsession only got more intense. Every time you weren't looking he'd catch a quick glimpse. Admire your features, rake his eyes down your figure in silent appreciation. Whenever he entered a room, Dean found himself looking for you. And when you entered one? He'd feel your presence immediately. 

It was ridiculous, how downright bad he was. 

Maybe it was fate. Here, with you oblivious to his presence, arching your back and presenting yourself (unknowingly) to Dean. 

He stepped closer, silently. A shadow casted over his face. 

You could only widen your eyes and gasp in shock when two hands placed themselves onto your hips, keeping you in place. "Gah! Dean!?" You yelped, blinking at him curiously. Sweat built up on your temple, heart caught in your throat. 

"I wasn't doing anything! Just... looking for food, I swear!" You reasoned, still planted on your palms for balance. 

Dean only hummed, massaging invisible circles into your skin with his thumbs. "That so?" He said. You shivered. What the hell? What was that? Why did he sound so... intense? 

"What're you doin' up late at night?" He asked, brow raised. Eyes boring into yours. Had the nerve to sound suspicious, too. "You were supposed to call me for dinner, don't act surprised." You huffed, turning away. 

Dean only tugged you closer— hips meeting yours. Stupid kitty. Even now you have the nerve to act so high and mighty. Maybe Dean should teach you humbleness, take you from your throne for a little while. 

"Don't test me," Dean growled, satisfaction creeping in his blood as he watched you tremble. "Mh," he hummed. Yeah. You were tiny. 

"Test you? What the hell are you—" Riiip! In an instant, the cold air had latched itself onto your skin. Dean tore apart the seam in your shorts— right in the cleft of your ass. His tail has begun to wag, eyeing the cute rim staring at him. 

You were too shocked to make a sound, and even then, before you could react, Dean had dove right in, licking and nibbling at your pucker. "Huh- ah!" Your claws dug onto the wooden counter, leaving scratch marks. Dean slobbered up your hole like a man starved, saliva dripping down your chin. 

He licked and licked, made you dizzy til' your hole was nice and soft. His tongue was rough and textured, making your cock tingle and come to life. "W-wait, it's dirty down there!" 

Dean wrapped his hand around the base of your tail, tugging it upwards to bury his face deeper into your behind. Slowly, he breached your insides, licking up at your gummy walls. Your soft whimpers was like music to his ears. Oh, he felt fulfilled. 

But not quite. 

"O-oh..." you gasped softly, blush blooming on your cheeks. Dean was massaging your insides with his tongue, desperate and needy. His movements were quick yet deep and stimulating— as if he was looking for something. 

"Hnn!~" Your tongue lolled out, thighs tensing up. Unkowingly, you began to thrust your hips baclwards, meeting Deans licks. His tongue rolled onto a soft bud inside— a sensitive cluster of nerves that made you weak in the knees. "F-fuck..." 

Dean continued his assault on your prostate, never once breaking his pace. His eyes were closed shut, as if he was trying to savor the taste and feeling— keep this memory in his mind forever. His own cock jumped in his jeans, straining to be released. 

You were so warm... so tight. He couldn't wait to bury his cock to the hilt, make your belly bulge and fill you to the brim. Hump you like a dog in rut— fuck. "Uh... guh!" 

Dean parted himself from your ass, panting and heaving. Your rim was shiny with spit, legs trembling and cock leaking pre pathetically. 

It was silent for a moment. Until you heard a belt buckle, followed by a zipper and the sound of fabric falling to the floor. 

And then you felt it. 

Deans cock. Hard and hot— rubbing against your behind. Fuck. How big was that? It felt huge! You whined softly, fear striking you. But there was excitement as well, you had never done this before, and for someone like Dean to make you experience it... 

Naughty. 

You had been nothing but a brat your time here, but you couldn't deny that Dean was a good looking man when you first met. Tall and buff, yet soft. Hair on his arms and chest, a little grey in his hair. Lines around his eyes and lips... you shivered. God. What did his cock look like? 

What would it feel like, to take him nice and deep? 

You bit your lip. Dean continued to rub his length between your cheeks for a goodwhile, like he was easing you into the harsh fucking to come. "Fuck, can't wait anymore." Dean groaned, and pushed his tip against your tight vice. 

He held your hips firmly, keeping you in place as you wriggled. He was big! Your pathetic rim struggled to envelop his tip. 

Dean's mind raced as his hips rocked up, driving his thick cock deep into your tight hole. The boy was so small, so delicate compared to his large frame. Your slender body bounced with each thrust. 

"Fuck, boy..." Dean groaned, fingers digging into the cat's hips hard enough to leave marks. "You feel s' good around my cock. So hot 'n tight..." 

He knew this was wrong. You were his junior, and Dean was supposed to be disciplining you, teachin' you the ways 'round the barn. Not... fucking you senseless. But god, the way your velvety walls clenched around him, the sweet little noises spilling from those plush lips— it was too much to resist. 

Dean's balls slapped against your ass as he pistoned his hips faster, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. "Fuck, fuck," he snarled. "Take it." 

The lewd squelch of saliva and the slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen. He could feel you shaking apart on his cock, the boy's neglected dick bobbing between their bellies, flushed an angry red and leaking steadily. 

He reached around to palm your cock, jerking you in time with his erratic thrusts. Huh. For and old dog— he sure had stamina. 

Dean's thumb swiped over the sensitive head, smearing the copious precum. You let out a high, keening wail, back arching as his orgasm crashed over him. Pearly ropes of cum painted Dean's fist and splattered across the counter as your hole clamped down around his pistoning length. 

The pressure sent Dean hurtling over the edge. With a guttural groan, he slammed you back onto his cock, all the way down to the hilt. Bulging your belly. At the same time, he had bit onto your shoulder, breaking skin and leaking blood. 

Your body twitched, eyes rolled back and unfocused. You leaned forward, finding support on the wooden counter (now littered with scratch marks) as Dean massaged your hips. "Hah.. haahh.." 

Uncontrollable sighs escaped you, bones melting against Dean. Smaller spurts of semen shooting out of Dean's tip sent shocks down your spine, smaller cock red and spent. With your cum dribbling down onto your tiny balls. 

Sweat trickled down their skin, breaths heavy. Illuminated in the moons light. 

Finally, with a groan, Dean pulled out (albeit begrudgingly) of your warm hole. 

He watched, transfixed, as a string of his cum connected his softening cock to your puffy, well-used hole. The sight made his spent dick twitch with interest. Fuck, he could do this all night. 

Ah... but you seemed tired. He chuckled, eyeing your spent form. All sweaty and twitchy. Particularly focused on the bite mark that stuck out on your shoulder. 

"Congratulations, boy. Now yer a true, fully-fledged recon cat.”

this was supposed to be lamb reader but idk,,, let me see how this does first then ill think abt it :3 ALSO WHAT IS IT WITH ME AND CAT READER??? ffuckin cat burglar n heavenly,,, urg. So sorry guys idk. I just love pussy!!

[honeyryewhiskey]

when dean falls in love

or, all the little details that run through dean's mind when he's falling in love. and all the fears and self-doubt that come crashing down on him. warnings ! a pinch of angst | mostly feel good | kissing | confessions | dean admiring reader | dean's internal struggles | reader being patient | sam third wheeling j's note ! this is my apology for that sad one i posted last night. also, i had little baby 26-year-old dean in mind for this one. enjoy <3 5k words

Few rules exist in Dean’s life—most are made to be bent, broken, or ignored altogether. But you?

You’re the exception. You’re the rule he refuses to cross.

You are entirely off-limits.

Not that you seem to care. You crashed into the Winchesters' world like a wildfire, all sharp eyes and steady hands, showing up guns blazing in the middle of a nasty hunt. There was no slow introduction, no time for cautious trust. One minute, it was just another night, another hunt—then suddenly, there you were, standing in the wreckage, breathing heavily, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Dean should’ve known to let go right then and there—you were too good to be true. But he didn’t. Instead, you stuck to the corners of his mind like sugar between his teeth, sweet and relentless. Your energy, raw and electric, burned through everything around you. You invaded his thoughts, wrapped around his mind like a constant hum.

You were the kind of girl who made a man forget his own damn rules.

At first, Dean tells himself this newfound trio is temporary.

You’re a lone wolf, and the Winchesters don’t do long-term attachments. But somehow, you weave yourself into their lives like you’ve always belonged.

You slip into the passenger seat of the Impala without waiting for an invitation, kicking your feet up on the dash just to piss him off. You steal fries off his plate like it’s second nature, smirking when he glares at you but never stopping. You roll your eyes at his bravado, call him out when he’s being an ass, and yet—when it matters—you’re always there. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed for this life, for them.

For him.

Dean tells himself he doesn’t notice the little things. The way you hum along to his rock tapes like you’ve known them forever, how your hands—so much softer than he deserves—patch him up without hesitation. The way you meet his teasing with just as much fire, never backing down.

None of it means anything.

Because it can’t.

Not when he’s always been too rough, too jagged around the edges to hold onto something as good as you. Somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he made peace with the fact that he was cursed—fated to be nothing more than a soldier, a brother, a blade meant for war.

Being anything else, wanting anything more—wanting you—would only end in tragedy.

But then he catches Sam talking to you in hushed voices over coffee in the morning, like you’re family. As if every diner table and wobbly motel kitchenette was always meant to sit the three of you. He watches you clean his gun without being asked, like it’s second nature now. He hears your voice on the other end of his phone at 3 a.m., always answering when he calls, asking if he’s okay after a rough hunt. 

And just like that, you’re in. You’re a part of them.

A part of him.

And that? That’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Dean doesn’t know when it happened—when the lines started to blur, when the rule he swore by turned into something fragile, something breakable.

Maybe it’s the way you slip so effortlessly into their lives, settling into the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty—mediating brotherly arguments like you were always meant to be their missing piece. Maybe it’s the sound of your laughter, bright and unshaken, slicing through the heaviness of a bad hunt. Or maybe it’s the way you look at him, like he’s something more than the scars, more than the sharp edges—like he’s worth seeing at all.

Or maybe it’s the small moments like this.

The diner is warm, buzzing with the quiet hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates. Sam’s focus is his laptop, half-listening to whatever you’re saying as you flip through the menu, sitting beside Dean, debating tonight’s meal. Dean’s trying to keep up, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

And then, without a second thought, you reach for his jacket.

It’s been draped over the back of the booth since he sat down, familiar and worn, carrying the weight of long nights and too many miles. And you just take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves, tugging the collar up like it belongs to you.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the menu.

It’s nothing new—he’s handed it over a dozen times before, thrown it around your shoulders without a second thought on cold nights. But this? This is different. You didn’t ask. Didn’t even hesitate. You just did it, like it was instinct, like it was yours.

He clears his throat, trying to force down the feeling clawing its way up his chest. “Comfy?”

You hum, settling into the fabric, your fingers curling into the sleeves. “Mmhmm.” Your voice is light, easy. “You always run so warm. Thought I’d steal a little of that.”

Dean swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Prying his eyes off of you, he tries again to look like he’s reading the menu. Scanning the small font, even though he’s already decided on a burger and fries like he always gets. 

Across from him, Sam sighs, clicking at his keyboard. “You guys do realize you act like a couple, right?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “Shut up.”

Your laugh falls out sweet and quiet, the sound pressing against his heart with a persistence to make it move faster. Your boot nudges Dean’s under the table, and he takes it as an excuse to look at you again. “You jealous, Sammy? Want me to steal your jacket next?”

Dean barely hears the response. He watches as you burrow further into his jacket, your nose dipping beneath the collar. Then, with that same mischievous glint in your eye that always spells trouble for him, you lift the collar to make a show of taking a slow, exaggerated sniff.

His brows press down, lashes forming a tight squint around his eyes as he braces himself, “What the hell are you doing?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “One thing about this old jacket, though,” you muse, taking another thoughtful inhale. “There’s this metallicy smell… buried under all that cologne you drown this poor leather in.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his seat and turning his head to save himself from letting you see the pink creeping up his cheeks. “I do not drown it in cologne.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but his chuckle doesn’t help ease Dean’s embarrassment. “You kinda do.”

Dean’s head shoots up, tilting slightly as he glares at his brother. You’re already grinning, undeterred, your fingers lazily tracing the worn seam of the sleeve. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Like… gunpowder. And whiskey, I would assume. And maybe a little bit of blood?” Your teasing gaze flicks up to meet his, “What have you been getting into, Winchester?”

Dean should play it cool. Shrug it off. But he can feel his ears burning red and hot from that little teasing smile on your lips and his brain is a few steps behind, caught somewhere between you’re too damn close and when did this get so hard to ignore?

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. His mind makes quick work to steady buzzing nerves, “Dunno what to tell ya, sweetheart,” he sighs, jaw popping as he finds his barings, “That jacket’s seen more action than you have.”

You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. “Wow. First, you over-season your leather, and now you’re just slinging insults?” You shake your head, dramatic as ever. “I thought we had something special, D.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, yeah. You done sniffin’ my jacket, or should I be concerned?”

You huff, settling back against the booth so that your arms brush against each other when you shrug. “I dunno. Might need another whiff.”

Dean points a warning finger at you, his smile breaks his attempt at stoicism, and all it does is make you grin wider.

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. “I’m concerned. And I’m officially done with this conversation.”

You smirk, smug as ever, but Dean? Dean’s just trying to pretend he’s not completely, stupidly gone for you.

The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation—at least, for you. Dean is quieter than usual, letting you and Sam fill the space between bites of food and stolen fries. He tries to focus on anything else—the chipped laminate of the table, the hum of the old diner lights, the way his fingers tap absently against the side of his glass.

Mostly, he tries not to look at you.

Not when you lean forward, chin propped in your palm, laughing at something Sam says. Not when you nudge his boot under the table, stealing the last bite of his pie with a satisfied little smirk. Not when you adjust the lapels of his leather jacket like it’s yours now, like it belongs to you the way he does.

By the time the check hits the table, he’s still got too many thoughts in his head, and none of them are ones he should be having.

Outside, the night air is crisp, the motel’s flickering vacancy sign glowing just across the lot. Sam mutters something about research and trudges off toward their shared room, leaving the two of you lingering by the diner’s door.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is. You shift on your feet, then tilt your head toward the motel.

“What’s it gonna be tonight, D?” Your voice is soft, slipping into the quiet like it belongs there. “You sticking around for a bit, or heading to bed?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

Your laugh rings through the empty parking lot, light and easy, curling around him like warmth against the cool night air. And despite only wearing a flannel, despite the late hour and the breeze whispering through the lot, he feels nothing but warm.

“Ah, yes,” you tease between giggles, nudging his arm. “My knight in shining armor, always keeping me safe.”

The short walk across the lot is quiet but never empty—the kind of silence that lingers in the spaces between you, comfortable and charged all at once.

At your door, you unlock it with a flick of your wrist, pushing it open before leaning lazily against the frame. The dim motel light catches the amusement in your eyes as you glance back at him.

“See?” You gesture to the empty room with a grin. “All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, stepping inside without a second thought, the door clicking shut behind him.

You move past him with easy familiarity, shuffling through your things while Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. He watches as you slip into your usual routine—kicking off your shoes, pulling your hair back, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of your sweater. His jacket, draped over the chair beside your bed, stays untouched. He doesn’t move to take it. If he’s honest, he kind of hopes you’ll sleep in it. Let it take on your scent instead of his.

When you return from the bathroom, fresh-faced and sighing contentedly, you crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, flipping absentmindedly through an old paperback—the one you grabbed from the library when you were supposed to be researching.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so deep in thought tonight?” you break into the silence without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

Dean huffs, tipping his head back. He’s trying to find something other than you to look at, he’s gotta stop watching you so often. “I’m always deep in thought.”

You snort, “yeah, okay. Sure.”

Your eyes flicker over him, he’s always following you into your room like a stray pup, like he doesn’t know where else to go. He lingers in your space, but is careful to maintain a set distance. At first you thought he was trying to claim you as another notch on his bedpost, but all that ever happened on these nights were quiet talks until your eyes grew too heavy to keep open. And by morning, you’d be alone, tucked beneath the blankets like someone made sure they were pulled around you just right.

You watch him for a beat, noting the familiar tension winding through his shoulders. “Seriously, though. You were kinda out of it at dinner.”

Dean hesitates, glancing away like he can pretend he didn’t hear you. His eyes settle on the peeling motel wallpaper, tracing the cracks like they hold some kind of answer. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this late—not when his head is already full of you. Not when it’s dangerous for the sanctity his carefully drawn lines to be near you like this, feeling the way he does.

But neither of you move. You, cross-legged on the bed, book in hand. Him, still leaning against the dresser, pretending he has somewhere else to be.

He should make an excuse, crack a joke, steer this conversation somewhere safer. But your voice, soft and steady, tugs at something in him. And instead of fighting it, he lets himself lean in.

“You ever think about what happens when we stop?”

Your fingers still against the worn pages of your book. “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything. “The hunting, the moving around. All of it.”

Your brows furrow slightly as you consider his words, the weight of them pressing down in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. This life—it’s far from glamorous, but it’s all you’ve got. Stepping away from it is a thought you buried long ago, a fantasy that never had a chance. You shrug, pushing the thought aside. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Never really let myself think about it too much.”

Dean exhales a heavy breath, eyes dropping to the floor like the weight of your words is sinking in. “Yeah.”

A beat of quiet settles between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a weight to it that presses against Dean’s chest, making the space feel tighter than it is. You can feel his tension, like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t look up.

Then, you shift, breaking the silence with an easy gesture—a pat to the empty space beside you on the bed. “Don’t just trail off on me, D. Sit down. Tell me more.”

Dean hesitates for a split second. This is a bad idea. It’s an invisible line he’s been toeing for too damn long, one he’s tried not to cross—never sit on the bed, never get too close when we’re alone. But then again, it’s you. You’re looking at him like you care, soft and patient, as if whatever’s inside his head actually matters.

And just like that, he gives in. One little exception, just for tonight.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes off the dresser, settling beside you on the bed. He stretches his legs out, but the small mattress makes it impossible to keep any real distance. His legs brush against yours, and his arm brushes yours too. He hopes to hell you don’t see the flush creeping up his neck.

If you notice, you don’t mention it. There’s no teasing, no playful smile—just the quiet comfort of your presence beside him. You don’t push, don’t pry. You just sit there, calm and steady, waiting for him to speak.

“I dunno,” he mutters, “just been thinkin’ lately. About what it all looks like when it’s over. If it ever is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And?”

Dean swallows, debating how much to say. How much to admit.

“And… I don’t see much of anything.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Spent my whole life doing this, I don’t see an ending where I’m not dying at the hands of this. Y’know, going down in the fight.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then—so softly he almost doesn’t notice—you shift closer, your arm snaking its way around his. You’re snuggled right up next to him, watching with careful eyes.

“There will always be monsters to hunt,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady in the dim room. “But you don’t have to be a warrior forever, D. There will always be hunters, too. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

Dean chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, more an exhale than a laugh. His gaze drifts toward the bedspread, unable to meet yours. "Yeah, well... I don't know if I could just walk away." His words come out quieter, like he’s unsure if he’s talking to you or to himself.

You turn slightly toward him, noticing the tension still coiled in his shoulders. The quiet settles deeper now, heavier with each passing moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice the distance between your words.

“What’s got you thinking about all of this?” you keep your voice light, though there’s a weight to it.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, his thoughts at war with the words he wants to say. "I can’t have the things I want, not really," he finally admits, the confession slipping out before he can second-guess it. His gaze drifts to the side, and his fingertips come up almost absentmindedly, dragging across your temple, pushing stray hairs back into their place.

“This life," he continues, barely above a whisper, "it consumes all the good things in my life."

“Not true,” your voice is firm but gentle, like you’re trying to remind him of something he can’t see.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just quirks a skeptical brow at you.

“You have your brother,” you continue, “and you’ve got me. Nothing in this universe can take us from you.”

Dean’s breath catches, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if you understand just how much weight those words hold. He swallows, trying to hold it together, but he can’t ignore the ache that creeps up his spine. He gives a small, almost rueful chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "What makes you so sure?"

You meet his gaze with a steady confidence. "Because I know you wouldn’t let it."

His hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing softly against the warmth of your cheek. There’s an electricity in the touch, something that feels too close and yet too natural. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, how much his body wants to close that last inch of space between you. But he doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You just watch him, like you’re waiting for him to decide whether to take the step—or to retreat.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes drop to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, like he’s trying to reconcile the gravity of what he’s feeling. His voice drops to almost a whisper, his words thick with something raw. “You have no idea how right you are, little miss.”

Your hand comes up, curling over his with a quiet, deliberate touch. The softness of your skin against his makes it almost impossible for him to remember the times he’s watched you move through the world—handling a gun with precision or a blade like it’s second nature. Most of you makes him forget, really, about everything that doesn’t involve you in this moment.

Your warmth, your softness, it makes him lose himself in daydreams of a version of you—one that doesn’t belong to this life. A version where you’d lean into that gentleness, the part of you that exists outside the hunts and the danger, in a life far away from the chaos that haunts him.

You shift, sitting up, still keeping your gaze on him, and it makes something in his chest tighten. The determined strain in your features catches his attention immediately. It’s the same look you get when you're deep into a lore book, your brow furrowed with that little scowl—like something has piqued your interest, and you won’t rest until you’ve unraveled it completely.

“Dean, there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a quick, dismissive shrug, his lips pouting up into his best attempt at nonchalance. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

You let out an exasperated huff, and Dean can tell you’re seeing straight through him. It’s not enough to deflect you. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the rough shove to his shoulder. It makes him blink in surprise, but before he can recover, your fingers press right back into the tension of his muscles he’s been trying to ignore all night.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” you point out, your fingers digging in a little harder. “Something’s bothering you.”

His breath comes out shakier now, and for a moment, his whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight. You can feel it, he knows you can. There’s no denying it now, but the words feel too heavy in his throat. He wants to argue, to brush it off again, but something in the way you’re watching him shifts. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s concern. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him wants to let you in.

But damn if it doesn’t feel like a risk.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away, but the pressure of your fingers is a subtle anchor, keeping him there. His gaze flits to the floor, anywhere but your eyes, because once he looks at you, he knows he won’t be able to hide.

"I told you, it's nothing," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, the words escaping before he can stop them. He tries to push himself up, but the weight of your stare presses him back down.

You don’t buy it. You never do.

"No, Dean," you start softly, the concern clear in your voice, "I know you better than that. Something’s been eating at you for a while, and you’re not gonna keep dodging it."

His chest tightens, his heart racing in his ribcage. Every part of him wants to throw up some wall, some excuse. Something to keep you from seeing the rawness of what’s inside. The vulnerability he’s been running from his entire life.

But still, you watch him, waiting, your eyes steady and unwavering.

"Come on, just let it out," you press, your hand moving to his shoulder again, your touch gentle now but insistent. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know?”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening, hands suddenly restless at his sides. The fight inside him is crumbling, piece by piece, until he's barely holding on to whatever's left. His voice comes out strained, almost desperate.

“Please, just drop it,” he grinds out, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again, helplessly. “I’m fine. You don’t... you don’t need to know all of it.”

You sit forward, leaning in just a little, your hand still gently gripping his arm as you search his face. The determination in your gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something softer there now, almost like a plea. “Dean—”

He jerks back slightly, suddenly standing up with a bit too much force, the air between you thickening with a tension that’s making it harder for him to breathe. He takes a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, his back turned to you as he tries to calm the storm rising inside.

"I can’t do this," he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel. His shoulders still tense with the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You’re silent for a beat, and he knows it’s because you’re giving him space. But he also knows you won’t stop until you get him to say what he’s been holding back.

He exhales sharply, his hands trembling as he clenches them into fists, his back still turned, fighting a battle he knows he’s losing. "God, I don’t want to talk about this." His voice cracks slightly as he says it, and he hates how much it betrays him.

His eyes flick to you then, and there's a crack in the armor—a vulnerability that’s almost painful to see. He looks at you, but he’s not sure he can bear the weight of your gaze anymore. Not when all he wants to do is keep you safe from the wreckage inside him.

His body is coiled tight, but his chest feels like it’s going to implode. He wants to walk away. He wants to escape from the weight of this conversation, from the way you're looking at him like you’re waiting for him to finally crack open and spill it all out.

But when he finally turns back to face you fully, all he sees is that unflinching patience, that quiet insistence that you’re not going to let him go until he finally says what he’s been hiding for so long. It makes him want to burn every rule he’s built for himself.

"You don't get it," he spats roughly, eyes flicking to the floor. "I can’t just... say it. It’s part of me, it’s who I am, this thing that I can’t get away from."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room in one smooth motion. There’s no anger in your steps—just a calm resolve that cuts through the tension between you like a knife.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," you peek up at him, unfamilarly timid as you cross this uncharted territory. "I see the way you look at me. Hell, at first I thought I was imagining things but I can see it’s eating you alive. And I—” your words cut off in your own shock at the confession, the sincerity in your expression making his knees weak, “I can’t bear to see you like this.” 

Your hands reach up tentatively, like you’re scared he’ll tear himself away again. But he stills, letting your warm hands press into either side of his jaw, “you’re my rock, alright?” your words trail into a soft laugh, easing the tension of your own truth. “I don’t wanna live in a world where I’m not by your side, because you make life worth the fight to stay alive. But you can’t just keep me in the dark, I have to know what you’re feeling.” 

His breath catches in his throat, the weight of your words hitting him harder than he expected. The realization that you know, that you’ve seen through all his defenses, makes everything inside him ache.

"I don’t know what you want from me," it comes out sounding like a plea, still looking for an excuse to retreat into himself.

"I want you to stop hiding from me." Your words are simple, but they strike right at the heart of the matter. "I want you to stop pretending like you can’t have the one thing you want most."

His throat tightens, and he shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. "I don’t get it," he mumbles, though his eyes are locked on yours, searching for the reprieve he still doesn’t believe he’ll find. "I don’t... I’m not fit for this."

"I’m not either, D. I’m just asking you to let it happen." You’re so close now, he can feel the warmth of your body, the soft pressure of your fingers against his jaw. Your gaze doesn’t break, it never wavers.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s been afraid of this—afraid of the way you make him feel like he can finally breathe, like all of his pain and avoidance can cease in your presence. he’s been holding himself together with tattered shreds for so long, and you’re the only thing that’s strong enough to pull him out of the mess he’s made of himself. 

And letting that security live in someone else terrifies him more than any monster he’s faced. 

“I’m not perfect,” he admits quietly, his words like gravel in his throat. “I’m broken, and I’m scared as hell, but god, if you only knew how much I want—”

You stop him with a soft kiss, the sweetest touch of your lips to his. It's gentle, almost hesitant, but it shatters something inside him, enough to freeze him in place. The weight of everything unspoken presses in, and for the first time, it feels like the walls he's built around himself might finally crumble in your hands.

The chains of his tightly kept composure snap at the delicate pressure of your lips, and without thinking, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His hands find purchase at your waist, holding you as if you were the only thing that kept him grounded. The kiss deepens, desperate, as if he's trying to kiss away the years of holding back, the silent fear of letting you see the real him, the uncertainty of if you’d stay with him in the wreckage.

When you finally pull back, your lips linger just above his, breaths mingling. Your voice is a soft whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a thread being pulled taut. “Then say it, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

His heart beats in his chest, loud and frantic, as his walls come crashing down, piece by piece. He can’t think straight with you in his arms, all of his steely armor melts at your touch. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets go of some of those fears.

His eyes are nearly consumed by his pupils as he takes in the sight of you slightly out of breath, lips wet and a little more pink. From his doing, from his touch—it makes every broken rule worth the trouble.

“I've fallen for you, Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice is raw, shaky, but it's honest, every word carrying the weight of what he’s been holding back. “I want to keep falling for you, love and all that crap. And I’m terrified of it, but I can’t keep hiding this from you.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the gesture soft, but nevertheless, grounding. A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your eyes hold nothing but certainty. “You’ll never have to hide any part of yourself, Dean. I’ve been here all along, with nothing but love. Just been waiting for you to see that.”

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis

[wendichester]

please can I request a Sam x reader (already dating) based off the episode with the rabbits foot, I think it could be rlly funny bc he’s getting lucky then he loses the rabbits foot and it would be cute if ‘reader’ is like worried sjd looking after him

btw im loving the Castiel fics

-💌

｡𖦹°‧ a stroke of bad luck,

summary. who needs a lucky charm when they have you?

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 395

notes. okay, but i love that episode so much. thank you for requesting and for the support lovely 🤭🩷

Sam is untouchable.

At first, it’s hilarious.

You watch, utterly baffled, as he trips over a crack in the sidewalk and somehow lands perfectly upright with an abandoned lottery ticket stuck to his boot. You both laugh about it—until he scratches it off and wins five hundred dollars.

“What the hell?” you murmur, staring at the numbers.

Sam just shrugs, grinning like an idiot. “Guess it’s my lucky day.”

It doesn’t stop there. He tosses a coffee cup toward the trash from across the diner—swish. Calls a wrong number and accidentally gets an FBI informant to spill actual case intel. Even Dean starts getting annoyed when Sam cleans him out at poker.

“Alright, what gives?” you ask, arms crossed.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Rabbit’s foot. Found it on a hunt.”

You frown. “Wait—the cursed rabbit’s foot?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s fine. Long as he doesn’t lose it.”

He loses it.

And suddenly, Sam is not fine.

It starts small—he knocks over three cups of coffee before noon, gets a parking ticket in a no-ticket zone, and somehow manages to rip his jacket sleeve just putting it on.

Then things escalate.

You’re crossing the street together when his shoelace snaps. He stumbles—right into an oncoming cyclist, sending them both crashing to the ground. You’re horrified and fuss over him while Dean cackles from the sidewalk.

“You’re cursed,” you say, gripping his arm as he limps back to the car.

Sam groans. “Yeah, I noticed.”

And now, you’re stuck to his side like glue. Every time he moves, you’re there—catching, redirecting, shielding.

When he drops his phone? You catch it.

When he nearly sits on a sharp piece of metal? You yank him away.

When he accidentally pulls a cabinet door off its hinges? You pry it out of his hands before he takes himself out with it.

Dean finds the whole thing hysterical. Of course, he does.

“Dude,” he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes, “she’s your own personal bodyguard.”

You scowl at him. “He needs one.”

Sam sighs, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “I hate this day.”

You press a kiss into his hair, gently rubbing his back. “I know, babe. Let’s just try to keep you in one piece until we fix this, yeah?”

He groans again but doesn’t pull away.

Dean just snickers. “Guess we know who wears the pants in this relationship.”

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[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

I dreamed of the places I’ve been with you

(Sam Winchester x female reader)

Summary You have a dirty dream about Sam while the two of you are stuck in the Impala, and Sam has a… reaction to it. CWs Stuck in the Impala. Wet dreams. Inappropriate boners. Dirty talk. Mutual masturbation. Sammy being the sweetest dork. 18+. 4.1k words.

Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

“How does he keep doing that?” you sigh, a touch of admiration in your voice.

Sam chuckles. “I don’t think he can help it, honestly.”

You cross your arms over the back of the Impala’s front seat, put your chin on your hands. “They just keep throwing themselves at him,” you say.

Sam nods. “Yup,” he says. “Welcome to my life.”

Both of you keep watching as Dean talks to the single mom you just saved from a ghoul a few hours earlier. She's hot, there's no denying it, and Dean has been flirting shamelessly with her from second one. Now that she's out of immediate danger, she's flirting back.

Sam sits in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, the Impala, you in the back while you marvel at them, watching them like zoo animals where they are standing a few feet away from the car.

Just then, the hot mom’s hand lands on Dean’s arm in an oh-so-casual gesture.

“Look, look,” you say, slapping Sam’s shoulder to make sure he pays attention. “She’s about to do the horny giggle.”

A second later, the mom leans forward, cocking one of her hips as she laughs at something Dean said, then bites her lower lip.

“Wow,” Sam replies, “lip bite, too, huh?” You nod. “I guess we’ll be here a while.”

But a few seconds later, Dean turns away from her and walks towards the car, leaning into the window on Sam’s side. “Allison wants to show me her record collection.”

Sam scoffs, and you say: “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Dean rolls his eyes.

“Okay, virgins,” he replies. “I’ll just hop in and you guys wait here, okay? Won’t take long.” Sam makes a face.

“Dude,” he says, “that’s not something to brag about.” You lean forward to see Dean better.

“We’re not gonna sit out here while you’re in there getting laid, Dean,” you say, your tone irritated. “We can just drive back to the motel and pick you up when you’re done disappointing her.” Sam chuckles, but Dean shakes his head.

“The motel’s an hour away,” he says. “I’m not waiting an hour to have Mom and Dad pick me up. I’m not fifteen.”

You are just opening your mouth to complain, when Dean says: “My car, my rules. You’re waiting here.”

Then he walks off back to the hot mom and the two walk into her house. Sam shakes his head.

“This is…” he says, but doesn't finish saying what it is.

“I feel like a pimp,” you offer instead. You stare at the house Dean and the woman just vanished into.

“Well,” you sigh, resigned, pushing your backpack you have on the backseat with you towards the far end of the bench, moving to lay your head down on it. “Nothing to do but wait and hope Allison’s a fast one.”

Sam chuckles and turning back to you, seeing you laid out on the bench, asks: “You wanna take a nap?” You shake your head.

“Just getting comfortable,” you say. “I’m not even tired.” You're asleep five minutes later.

You're feeling warm and your body is tense and you wake with an intense shudder.

You notice your mouth is open and your fists clenched, your chest heaving, desperately trying to suck in oxygen.

Nightmare, you think immediately, but then, noticing the intense pressure in your core as your brain iss moving further towards consciousness, nope, definitely not a nightmare.

You blink your eyes open, disoriented by the darkness in front of you and a weird rushing sound. For a moment, you have no idea where you are until you angle your head up and recognize the roof of the Impala. A few seconds later, you realize that the roaring is rain coming down on the roof of the car.

You feel shaky, but also weirdly grounded. Warm and comfortable. Pushing yourself up on your elbow, you look around.

The car is still standing in front of hot mom’s house, the memory of which is slowly coming back to you. Sam is in the front seat, his back leaned into the angle of the door and the front bench. He's looking down and when you press yourself up higher, you see that he has a huge leather bound tome on his lap, one hand slightly angling it so he can read it by the soft light of his flashlight he is holding with his other hand.

The reason the flashlight is on is not just because it's raining, but because it has gone dark, the only other light a street lamp somewhere nearby.

You run your hand over your face, trying to rub some of the sleep from it.

“Dean not back yet?” you ask.

You half expect Sam to flinch, considering how deep he is usually absorbed in his reading, but he doesn't.

“Uh, nope,” he says, only throwing you a very quick look, immediately looking back at his book. Your breathing has slowed down but when you touch your face you feel that it's hot.

“Oh,” you say, then swallow, hoping you sound normal. “Good for you, Allison.”

Sam chuckles, but it's forced. Maybe you would notice earlier that he's acting weird if you didn't look at him then, at his profile, bringing the details of your dream back to you.

It's only splinters, but it's enough to make your face feel even hotter immediately.

You dreamed about Sam. His mouth, and his hands, sucking against your throat and gripping your hair. His broad back over you, and his narrow hips moving, pushing…

You have to move your legs when you realize you're pushing your thighs together, the remnants of what you're pretty sure was the orgasm you had in your sleep coming alive immediately.

You push yourself up further to a sitting position, throwing another look at Sam quickly. He isn't looking back at you, but his jaw is clenched, the hands holding the book gripping the edges hard. Oh no. Oh no no no.

Did you make noises that told him what you were dreaming about? Did you say anything that might have given away that you were dreaming about him? Does he know that you…?

“Shit,” you mutter, involuntarily.

“Hmm?” Sam says, still not looking up.

“Nothing,” you say way too quickly. You move your legs and suddenly in abject horror wonder if Sam might be able to tell that you were still aroused, smell your sweat or your wetness, so you quickly pull your legs up, tugging your arms over your knees.

Silence, then, horrible awkward silence that makes your head spin and then makes you think of your dream-Sam again, the noises he made, like the ones the real-Sam makes when he's hurt or angry, and you wonder if that was how he sounded.

You take a sharp breath to dispel the thoughts. You are making this a lot worse for yourself, you think.

The silence continues, the only sound the rain and your breathing and your heartbeat in your ears. It's deafening. Looking back at Sam, you see that his tongue is going over his lower lip, his brow knotted in concentration.

“What are you reading?” you ask finally, unable to stand it anymore. This time Sam does flinch.

“Uhm, uh,” he stutters and then he actually slightly turns over the front cover of the book because he has to look at it to see what he's reading. Weird, you think. He looked so concentrated.

“It’s, uh,” he continues, “a history of this underground society that basically, uhm,” he looks at the page again, seemingly completely forgetting what this underground society did. While he's still looking for the answer, you chuckle a little.

“Sounds like it’s real engaging,” you can't help but tease him. Sam grins.

“It is,” he says. “I mean it was.” You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.

“Let me see?” you say, holding your hand out to him. Sam usually loves it when you show interest in whatever he's obsessing over that week, but he looks up and then at you with shock on his face.

“No,” he says. You wrinkle your brow.

“What?” you ask.

“It’s just,” Sam says, “I don’t think you’d like it.”

"What are you talking about?” you ask. “I love cults, or societies or whatever, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says, “I just don’t think you’d like this one.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, then, forgetting your worries about your body, lean forward, over the bench and pull the book from his hands. Sam doesn't fight you, but fidgets in his seat when you sit back, leaning forward a little. You look at the book, keeping it open at the page Sam was on.

“This even has illustrations,” you say, then look up at Sam. “Sam, I’m a sucker for illustrations, what do you mean I wouldn’t like this?” Sam doesn't reply immediately, just clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little more quiet. “I know.”

He isn't making any sense, so you lean forward and pass the book back to him. He's just grabbing for it when you look down.

There's a considerable bulge in Sam’s pants.

You immediately lean back, but Sam knows you’ve seen it. He lays the book back over his lap, his lips in a tight line, looking anywhere but at you.

The brothers and you live so closely together that this shouldn’t be a big deal. You’ve seen Dean in several states of undress and walked in on him and a hook-up more times than you can count.

But Sam has always been more private, more considerate, you might say. He changes his clothes where you can't see, even though, if you're being really honest, you want to see. It has gotten to the point where seeing him in a t-shirt sometimes gets you flustered, so starved are you for seeing more of him.

So this, while it shouldn’t be, feels like a big deal. A big deal. You chew the inside of your lip and that awful silence is back.

“Sam,” you say, and he immediately says: “Don’t, okay?” His tone is gentle, though. “This is really embarrassing, I feel like a damn teen.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” you reply, because it really isn't, thinking of your own little excitement mishap. To tell the truth, the thought that Sam is sitting there, hard, is not helping you calm down any.

Hoping to make things less awkward for him, you say: “I mean, illustrations get me going, too.” Sam looks up, and then understands a second later. He looks away, grimaces, and some of the discomfort seems to dissipate from him.

“Wasn’t the illustrations that did this,” he says, a small bashful smile on his lips.

“Oooh,” you say, nodding. “Hot mom Allison and her record collection?” Sam actually chuckles, and you feel proud of yourself. Crisis averted. Now you can just go back to pining for Sam without the chance that anything is ever going to come of it.

But then he shakes his head, and his expression turns serious.

“Wasn’t her either,” he replies, his voice quiet. Then he looks at you, his head slightly turned to the side. “What did you dream about?”

A wave of heat goes through you. So you did make some noises. Goddamn it. A flash of dreaming about Sam kissing you roughly goes through your head, his lips bruising yours. But maybe you just made general noises, dream noises. Maybe you can convince him it was a nightmare.

“Uh, not sure,” you say, and it's your turn to stutter now. “Why, did I, like, say anything?” Sam licks his lip, still looking at you. You se him swallow, his throat moving.

“Uhm, you were kind of sighing? And, and,” Sam clears his throat, then continues. “And your body was really tensing up, and I thought maybe it was a nightmare but then you… moaned?” Sam looks down at his lap where the book is. So much for your amazing plan.

“Oh,” you say, pretending this is surprising you. “Sounds like a fun dream.” Like you don't remember the warm waves going through you when you woke up, the lightness and then the delicious heaviness. Sam nods.

“You were also kind of, uhm,” he continues, and you're not sure why he is telling you all this, why he can't just downplay this like you did his stupid boner. “You were also kind of…writhing. And moving your hips a lot. And your face was…” Sam swallows again. “You had this expression that was really sexy.”

Your mouth drops open. Sexy?

Sam keeps going: “It looked like you were in pain for a  second and then it was gone and it just looked…sexy.” He’s said it twice now and you feel heat go through you. What is he even saying?

Sam licks his lips again, the short view of the muscle making you press your lips together, and then he looks back at you. “And I guess I was maybe watching you and listening to you and that’s what lead to this whole situation.”

Your breathing is going heavy and you wondered if Sam notices. What is going on with you might generally be easier to hide than what Sam has going on, but you're pretty sure that right then it is clear as daylight. Sam is hard because he listened to you having your sexy little dream. The dream that was about him. Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick. How are you going to ever deal with that?

“I’m—I’m flattered,” you say quietly. Sam smiles a little.

“It doesn’t weird you out?” he asks carefully. You shake your head.

“No, it’s actually kind of appropriate,” you reply. Sam frowns.

“Appropriate?” he asks. You can't help but grin, suddenly feeling a little mischievous. “Yeah, cause the dream I had was about you.”

Well, it's out there now, that's for certain. You watch Sam’s reaction, wondering if he's about to be the one who's weirded out. But he isn't. He keeps looking at you and you notice that his breathing has gotten heavier too. Something twitches in his jaw and he leans one arm on the back of the front bench. Just lying there, not doing anything, but its closeness, seeing his hand splayed there causes a reaction in you that you did not anticipate.

You press your legs together where you still hold them against you, and Sam’s eyes shoot down for just a moment, tracking the movement. Then he looks up at your face again.

“What was I doing,” he asks, voice low, “in the dream?” Your teeth find your lip at his words, the need to press down on something strong in you suddenly. This is happening. This is really happening.

“You… were touching me,” you say.

“Where?” Sam asks. His voice isn't shaky at all, it's steady, confident suddenly, which is not something you would have expected from him. You try to remember the dream, thinking for a second.

“Everywhere,” you say. “But you started with my face.”

Sam’s eyes meet yours then and both of you look at each other for a moment. You feel your eyelids flutter at your renewed arousal, the heat between your legs becoming uncomfortable. Sam nods.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks, voice still steady but breathing harder. You move your shoulders.

“I do,” you say, “but it’s making me, uhm, it’s making me a little…”

Sam nods again. “Me too.”

There's silence for a moment again, and then Sam and you notice at the same time that you're rocking yourself against the bench beneath you. You stop immediately, but Sam says in the same moment: “Keep going.”

Fuck. You really want to. You really want to but this is so…

Shouldn’t you kiss first? Go on a date? Hold hands? You're not sure about any of this, only that Sam is looking at you and that you want to touch yourself.

“Are you gonna...?” you ask, too nervous to say more.

Sam nods. “If that’s okay with you?” Oh wow, is it ever okay with you. You nod.

Sam’s arm over the back of the bench doesn't move, but you can see the shoulder of his other arm does. He turns the flashlight off, the light from the street light still letting you see him, then you hear the it fall to the floor, and his arm keeps moving.

So you push your ass further down on the bench, meaning your legs are angled away from you a little, then let your hand slip between them, pushed into your jeans. It's a tight fit and there's another layer of clothing in-between but when you press down your lower body twitches in response.

Sam is still watching you, not saying anything, but you see his shoulder moving.

“Tell me,” he finally says, his voice so quiet as to be difficult to hear over the rain outside.

“We were,” you start, “in bed. It was a huge bed, not some dingy motel room. Nice white linen and sheets and, and we were both naked.”

Sam breathes in through his nose, and you press down on yourself again, another shudder going through you. Jesus, you're sensitive right now.

“It was, uhm, it was like snippets, cause it was a dream,” you explain, and Sam nods, his eyes not leaving your face. “But in one of them, you were over me. And you were kissing my neck, sort of rough and gentle at the same time.”

“What were you doing?” Sam asks.

“I was… My head was leaned back and my eyes were closed and my hands were in your hair, holding on to you.”

“And?” Sam asks.

“And,” you reply, your fingers having found a rhythm while you're still rocking yourself against the seat. “And you were fucking me.”

Sam closes his eyes for a few seconds, a low moan escaping him.

“Did you like it?” he asks, his voice sounding a little cracked now. Holy shit, it's the most erotic thing you've ever heard in your life. Sam, the master of self-control and decency, losing it at the wet dream you had about him.

“I loved it,” you say, your own voice a little breathy. “You were big and solid and fucking me hard and making me come.”

Sam’s shoulder starts moving faster.

“I want to do that,” he says, almost panting. “I want to make you come.”

Your own rhythm is picking up, your fingers pressing hard against you, and you can feel an almost violent knot of pleasure building in you.

“Do it, Sam,” you say, and your other hand going to your breast, finding the nipple and pinching it through the fabric.

“I want to see that face you made,” Sam pants. “Really hear you, hear you say my name when you come.”

He looks into your eyes then and your vision almost becomes blurry. “I want to feel you come while I’m inside of you.”

Then your body is tensing, everything pulling inwards, your eyes squeezing shut and a pained sounding noise leaves you, and a second later your head falls back on the bench, a sob of "oh God" leaving you as wave after wave of intense pleasure rolls through you.

You're breathing hard, eyelids heavy but then your eyes fly open when your hear Sam curse under his breath.

“Fuck,” he says, and you look at him just in time to see him also squeeze his eyes shut, his shoulders drawing up and his face making the most beautiful expression you have ever seen. He groans once and then lays his head back, panting, features full of bliss, all tension gone from him.

You're both quiet for a while, letting your bodies calm down, your breathing adjust.

After a few minutes, you see Sam move out of your half-closed eyes, and he's looking at you again.

“Holy shit,” he says, his face unbelieving. You can't help but laugh.

“Holy shit indeed,” you respond. He grins at you, lopsided. Then his attention is drawn away, and he opens the glove box, rummaging around for a second. He pulls something from it and holds it up for a second, a shy smile on his face. It's a box of tissues.

“Gotta clean up,” he mumbles, pulling a few tissues out and then throwing the box back into the glove box. You see him move his arms, a concentrated look on his face as you study at his features, watch at him move.

“I think I’ll skip the cleaning process,” you say after a while, “and go straight for new underwear.” Sam grins again.

“I know I didn’t do anything,” he says and seems to be finished with what he's been doing. “But why does that feel like such a compliment?” Now it's your turn to grin.

“Believe me, Sam,” you say, “it is a compliment.”

He looks back up at you, his boyish grin slowly dropping from his face.

“Do you,” he says, suddenly seeming nervous again, “want to maybe, uhm, have dinner with me some time? I mean I know we have dinner together all the time, but I mean, like a….”

He falters for a second, so you finish his sentence. “A date?”  

Sam nods. “A date.”

“I think we did this the wrong way around,” you say, instead of answering. “I think you’re supposed to have dinner first and then come at the same time.”

Sam’s laugh surprises and thrills you.

“I guess it’s a little untraditional,” he says, nodding.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Sam,” you reply, and he beams at you, making you want to kiss him. So you do. Despite what you had just done, it still makes you nervous.

You lean forward, pushing yourself up until you're up to the front bench. Sam moves forward as well when he realizes what you're doing and then your lips met.

The angle is awkward, the bench pressing against your boobs and when Sam tries to get his hand up to cup your face he has to first turn his upper body, break the kiss and then lean in again.

It's perfect. It's just awkward and uncoordinated as a first kiss should be, no matter what else you have done.

When you stop kissing, you faces still close, you grin at each other like idiots. You kiss Sam's cheek, just because you felt like it.

Suddenly the light outside changes and you both turn to look. It's hot mom’s porch light and a second later you see Dean come outside and jog down towards the car, collar up to stop the rain from getting in.

You lean back on the bench, and Sam turns again, pretending he's sitting normally in his seat.

Dean makes it to the driver’s side, quickly opens the door and sits inside, making a few drops of rain spray everywhere.

“Now,” he says, closing the door behind him. “That little bit of waiting wasn’t so bad, was it? You kids have fun?”

There's silence for a moment, then Sam picks up the book from where it has apparently fallen into the foot well on his side.

“Yeah,” he says. “We entertained ourselves.”

Dean opens his mouth, probably to make fun of his brother’s nerdiness, but then closes it again. He sniffs. Your body tenses and you see Sam’s do the same.

“Did you guys screw in here?” Dean asks, eyebrows high and eyes narrowed.

“No!” you and Sam say at the same time. It's technically true, depending on your definition of screwing. Dean looks back at you and then at Sam, suspicion on his face.

“Mmh hmm,” he says, then looks forward, starting the car. Sam throws a quick look back at you and you have to suppress your grin. 

Once you've been driving down the dark roads for a few minutes, Sam puts his arm back over the back of the front bench. Instead of laying it on top, however, he lets his arm dangle over it, letting it swing until his hand finds your leg. When he does, he squeezes it.

You bring your hand forward as much as you can without moving, hoping not to draw any attention to yourself. Finding Sam's big, warm hand, you lay yours over it, gently stroking it with your thumb.

You look up, and Sam is grinning in the dark.

[lila-lou]

✨All over again - 1/4✨

Summary: After a crash leaves Dean with permanent memory loss, you’re nothing but a stranger to him now. Years of love, gone in an instant. But the hardest part isn’t that he forgot you, it’s that he doesn’t want to remember.

-requested-

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Language, Angst

Word Count: 3974

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the scent of damp asphalt lingered in the air as you stood outside the hospital room, your heart pounding against your ribs. Through the small window in the door, you could see Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, a doctor speaking to him in a calm, measured voice. Sam was by his side, nodding along, his expression carefully neutral.

You barely heard the words when the doctor stepped out to speak to you. Something about head trauma, something about memory loss—something permanent. The only thing that really stuck was the look in Dean’s eyes when he had glanced at you through the open door.

Empty.

Like you were nothing more than a stranger in the hallway.

When they finally let you in, your breath hitched. The man before you was still Dean—your Dean—but he wasn’t at the same time. His green eyes studied you, but there was no flicker of recognition, no warmth, no spark of familiarity. The wedding ring on his finger might as well have belonged to someone else.

“Hey, Dean…”, you managed, stepping closer, forcing a small smile. “It’s me”.

His brows knitted together slightly. He glanced at Sam before looking back at you. “Yeah, uh… sorry. I don’t… I don’t remember you”.

The words sliced through you like a blade, but you had prepared for them. You had repeated to yourself over and over that this would be the outcome. Still, hearing it from his lips felt like the ground had disappeared beneath your feet.

“You—”. Your throat tightened. “We’re married”.

Dean blinked, then glanced down at his hand as if noticing the ring for the first time. He turned it absentmindedly, lips pressing together. “Right”, he said, but there was no emotion behind it. Just fact.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. He wasn’t asking for details. He wasn’t trying to remember. He wasn’t reaching for you.

Sam cleared his throat. “The doc says it’s permanent. The memories aren’t coming back”. His voice was gentle, but it didn’t cushion the blow.

You took a deep breath, nodding, though it felt more like a reflex than a choice. The last five years—everything you had built together—were just gone. Erased as if they had never happened.

Dean still looked wrecked from the crash. Deep cuts marred his skin, bruises darkened his jaw, and his arm was wrapped tightly in a sling. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive. You had spent days by his bedside, waiting for him to wake up, hoping against hope that when he did, he'd reach for you.

But now, standing in front of him, you realized the man you had been waiting for wasn’t there.

Tears gathered in your eyes, hot and unrelenting. Normally, Dean would notice in a heartbeat. He never let you cry without pulling you into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances, hating the sight of your pain.

But now? Now, he just looked away.

“Sorry”, you mumbled, quickly brushing your tears away. You felt pathetic, standing there crying in front of him like some broken thing. “This is just… a lot”.

Dean let out a slow breath, rubbing his temple with his good hand. “Yeah. Tell me about it”. His voice wasn’t cruel, but it was detached—like he was talking to a stranger, not his wife.

Sam shifted awkwardly beside him. “Dean, maybe we should take this slow—”.

Dean cut him off. “What do you want me to say, man?”. He gestured vaguely in your direction. “She says we’re married, but I don’t remember a damn thing. I don’t feel anything. I don’t—”. He stopped, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do this”.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into your palms.

Dean had been your home for years. Your anchor, your safe place. And now, standing this close to him, you had never felt more like a stranger in your own life.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now”, you said, your voice quieter than before. “I just… I just wanted you to know that I’m here. That I love you”.

Dean tensed at that, shifting uncomfortably. It wasn’t an unfamiliar phrase—you had said it to him more times than you could count—but this time, it landed on deaf ears.

“Look”, he exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair. “I get that this is hard for you, but I don’t wanna be an asshole and pretend I feel something I don’t. I don’t even know you”.

The words cracked something inside you. Not because they were cruel. But because they were honest.

Sam looked between the two of you, his lips pressing together. “Dean—”.

“I need some air”, Dean muttered, already shifting to stand. He winced, his body still weak, but determination set in his jaw. “I just need a minute”.

Without another word, he grabbed his jacket and pushed past you, his steps uneven but steady.

You turned away before Sam could say anything, before the lump in your throat could escape as a sob.

Dean was alive. But he wasn’t yours anymore.

A few days later, you stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at the sizzling eggs in the pan, exhaustion weighing heavy on your bones. You looked like shit. You felt even worse. Sleep had been scarce—every night spent tossing and turning in a bed that felt too cold, too empty.

Dean had been trying. Or at least, he had at first. He sat with you for hours, listening as you told him about your life together. How you met, how you fell in love, how he proposed on the hood of the Impala under a sky full of stars. You told him about the hunts, the late-night drives, the inside jokes only the two of you had shared.

And he listened.

But not the way he used to. Not with that boyish grin, not with teasing remarks or warm eyes filled with affection. He listened the way a stranger would, nodding along, offering the occasional “Huh”, or “That’s crazy”, like he was hearing about someone else’s life.

It wasn’t long before you realized the truth—he wasn’t really interested.

He thought you were alright. Maybe even a decent person. But not someone he would’ve chosen. Not someone he loved. And that realization had been the cruelest cut of all.

A tired sigh left your lips as you turned off the stove, plating the eggs and bacon like you always did—his portion bigger than yours, the way he liked it. Muscle memory. Habit. Even when it hurt.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him, the sound of his boots against the wooden floor making your stomach twist. “Morning”, he muttered, rubbing his eyes as he stepped into the kitchen. He still looked like hell, bruises fading into sickly yellows and purples, bandages still wrapped around his ribs.

“Morning”, you murmured back, setting his plate on the table.

Dean eyed the food, then you. “You didn’t have to do this”.

“I know”.

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. The only sounds were the occasional clink of Dean’s fork against his plate and the hum of the fridge in the background.

Sam was out for his morning run, leaving just the two of you. Alone.

You stood at the counter, barely picking at your food, your stomach too twisted up to eat. Across from you, Dean dug into his breakfast with enthusiasm, his usual appreciation for good food still intact, at least.

“Damn”, he muttered between bites, shaking his head slightly. “This is really good”.

The corner of your mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost. He had always loved your cooking, always made a big deal about it, whether it was a homemade meal or just a damn sandwich.

“I know”, you said softly.

Dean glanced up at you briefly, then back down at his plate. He didn’t respond, just kept eating, oblivious to the way your heart clenched at the way things used to be.

You swallowed thickly and set your fork down, unable to force another bite. The past few days had drained you more than any hunt ever had. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of filling him in on five years of life together—it was the way he absorbed it all like it was just a story. A story that had nothing to do with him.

And that was the difference.

He remembered Sam. Bobby. Hunting. The basics of his life. But you? You were just another detail. Another thing he was trying to make sense of, but not something he felt compelled to hold onto.

You tightened your grip on the counter, willing yourself not to cry. Not again.

Dean finally pushed his empty plate away, letting out a satisfied sigh. “Damn. I don’t know how I forgot someone who cooks like that”.

It was meant as a joke, but it wasn’t funny. He seemed to realize it too, because his smirk faltered slightly.

Your throat felt tight. “Yeah, well… you used to say that all the time”.

Dean exhaled, leaning back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “Look, I know this is hard. And I hate that I’m making it harder”.

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “You’re not making it harder, Dean. You’re just… being honest”.

And that was the worst part. Dean Winchester wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He just didn’t love you anymore. And there was nothing you could do to change that.

The seconds stretched out before he finally nodded, looking down at his hands. “Yeah”, he muttered, voice rough. “I guess I am”.

You turned away before he could see the fresh tears brimming in your eyes. This was your new reality. A life with Dean… but not really.

The coffee in your mug had gone cold, but you kept holding it anyway, fingers curled around the ceramic like it was something to hold on to—something solid, something real. You stood at the counter, staring down at the dark liquid, listening to the faint creak of Dean shifting in his chair.

He had finished eating, but he hadn’t left. That was something, wasn’t it? Or maybe he just didn’t know what to say.

The silence stretched between you, heavier than it had been before. You could feel him watching you, like he was trying to piece something together in his mind. You weren’t sure you could handle that look—not from him.

“You gonna eat?”, he asked finally, nodding toward your half-empty plate.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. “Not really hungry”.

Dean made a low noise in the back of his throat, something between acknowledgment and uncertainty. He sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know”, he started, his voice careful, like he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say. “I don’t remember us, but I can tell this is tearing you up”.

Your stomach twisted painfully. You forced a breath in through your nose. “Wouldn’t it tear you up?”.

Dean hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “Yeah. Probably”.

Probably.

That single word cut deep. Because it meant that even hypothetically, he couldn’t put himself in your shoes—not really. Not in the way that mattered.

You swallowed, staring down at your untouched food.

“I just…”, Dean exhaled slowly. “I wish I could fix this. I do. But I can’t force something that isn’t there”.

Your throat burned. “You don’t even want to try?”.

He tensed at that. Not in anger, just in discomfort. “I have been trying”, he said, but his voice was too calm, too rational. “But what am I supposed to do? Pretend? Lie to you?”.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hating how easily your emotions threatened to spill over. “No”, you whispered. “I don’t want you to lie”.

Dean sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Then what do you want me to do?”.

You lifted your gaze to his, voice shaking. “I want you to want me”.

The second the words left your lips, the room felt colder.

Dean exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the table. His eyes flickered to yours for a brief second before he looked away, like he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze when he said what he was about to say.

“You’re a pretty girl, (Y/N)”, he murmured, voice quieter than before. “Smart. Kind. I can tell you’re a good person”.

The words landed in your chest like a dull blade, one that twisted just enough to sting. You didn’t want to be a good person to him. You didn’t want to be nice or smart or anything that sounded so distant. You wanted to be his.

Dean swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But I can’t change what happened. I don’t know you—not in the way you want me to. And I don’t think that’s gonna change”.

The air in the kitchen felt suffocating.

“You think I should just accept it”, you said, barely above a whisper.

His jaw tightened, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “I think you should move on”.

The finality of his words knocked the breath from your lungs.

Move on.

As if it were that simple. As if five years of love, of laughter, of promises whispered in the dark, could just be erased—just like his memories of you.

Dean shifted in his chair, hesitating for just a moment. Then, before you could fully process what was happening, he lifted his left hand. And slowly, carefully, he pulled off his wedding ring.

Your entire body went still.

The metal caught the dim morning light as it slipped from his finger, leaving his skin bare—like it had never been there at all. He held the ring between his fingers for a second, staring at it, brow furrowed like he was trying to feel something.

But whatever he was looking for—whatever hope you were clinging to—never came.

Dean set the ring down on the table, the soft clink of metal against wood echoing in your ears like a gunshot. “I’m sorry”, he murmured, voice heavy with something close to regret. But not close enough.

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t move. You could only stare at the ring—the symbol of everything you had built together—sitting between you like it was just another piece of silver.

Dean Winchester, the man who once swore he would love you forever, had just walked away from you in the worst way possible.

Not with anger. Not with betrayal. But with nothing at all.

The sound of Dean’s footsteps faded down the hall, and then—nothing. Just silence.

You stared at the ring on the table, your vision blurring. The tears that had been threatening to spill finally broke free, slipping down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting. Your chest ached, a deep, crushing weight pressing against your ribs.

He was gone.

Maybe he was still in the bunker, but that didn’t matter. The man who had once held your heart like it was the most precious thing in the world—the man who had vowed to love you through every battle, every nightmare—was gone.

And he wasn’t coming back.

Your breath hitched, and you quickly wiped your face, willing yourself to pull it together. But before you could even think about composing yourself, footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Sam.

You barely had time to turn away before he entered the kitchen, sweaty from his run, reaching for a bottle of water from the fridge. But he froze the second he saw you. “(Y/N)?”. His voice was careful, laced with concern.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Sam took a step closer, frowning. “Hey, what happened?”.

The kindness in his voice—the softness, the understanding—nearly broke you all over again. You shook your head quickly, blinking away the tears, your only goal now to escape before you completely shattered in front of him. “I—I need to be alone”, you choked out, already moving toward the hallway.

Sam didn’t try to stop you, but you could feel his eyes on you as you walked away, past the war room, past Dean’s room—the room that had once been yours, too—until you reached the guest room.

No. Not the guest room. Your room.

Because that’s what it was now. Just yours. No more shared space. No more whispered conversations in the dark. No more waking up to Dean pulling you close, pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. None of that existed anymore.

You pushed the door shut behind you and leaned against it, your fingers gripping the wood like it was the only thing holding you up. Your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as the sobs finally took over.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his damp hair as he watched you disappear down the hall. He didn’t need to ask what had happened—he already knew. He had seen the way things had been unraveling between you and Dean over the past few days, had watched the slow, painful realization sink into your face every time Dean failed to look at you the way he used to.

With a heavy exhale, Sam turned on his heel and made his way toward the library.

Dean was exactly where he expected him to be—sitting at the long wooden table, eyes glued to his phone, scrolling through the news for any sign of a new case. Business as usual. Like nothing had happened.

Sam’s jaw clenched as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. Dean barely looked up, only acknowledging his presence with a slight nod. “So, we got anything?”, Dean asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

Sam didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied his brother—the way his shoulders were still a little tense, the way he kept rubbing the spot on his finger where his wedding ring used to be.

“You just gonna act like that didn’t happen?”, Sam finally said, voice tight.

Dean sighed, setting his phone down with a dull thunk against the table. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sam, I don’t wanna do this right now”.

“Well, too bad”, Sam shot back, leaning forward. “Because I just walked into the kitchen and found (Y/N) crying her damn eyes out”.

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.

“What the hell, man?”, Sam pressed. “She’s your wife”.

Dean exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering with something Sam couldn’t quite place—guilt, maybe. Or frustration. “No, she was my wife”, he muttered. “I don’t remember her, Sam. I don’t feel it. And I’m not gonna sit here and fucking pretend I do”.

Sam shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Right. Because pretending would just be too hard for you, huh?”.

Dean shot him a glare. “That’s not fair”.

“Neither is what you just did to her”, Sam snapped. “She’s been fighting like hell for you, man. Sitting with you for hours, telling you every detail about your life together, hoping—praying—that something might click. And you’re telling me you never once thought about trying to love her again?”.

Dean’s expression hardened. “I did try”, he bit out. “I listened, I asked questions, I gave it time. But nothing changed, Sam. Nothing. I can’t force myself to love someone I don’t remember”.

Sam’s fingers curled into fists on the table. “You loved her once”.

“Yeah, well, that guy’s gone”.

The words came out too fast, too sharp, and for a moment, Sam thought maybe Dean regretted saying them. His brother’s face twitched slightly, like he had surprised even himself. But he didn’t take them back.

Instead, he stood abruptly, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. “I’m gonna go check Baby”, he muttered. “Let me know if you find anything”. And with that, he walked out, leaving Sam alone at the table, the weight of the moment settling between them like a ghost.

Sam exhaled, running his fingers over the cool metal of Dean’s wedding ring, the weight of it pressing against his palm. He had found it on the kitchen table, left behind like it meant nothing—like it wasn’t the symbol of the life Dean had built with you. The life he had fought for.

Sam shook his head, staring down at the small band of silver.

It was almost unbelievable.

Because if anyone had told him years ago that Dean would forget you—not just in memory, but in feeling—he never would’ve believed it.

Dean had chased you. For months.

Sam could still remember it so clearly—Dean, cocky and confident, flirting with you every chance he got. It had started as a challenge, something he thought would be easy. Just another pretty girl, another bar, another night.

But you weren’t interested. And that had driven Dean insane.

You had wanted nothing to do with him at first. You weren’t a hunter back then—just someone who had gotten too close to something supernatural without even knowing it. And Dean? He had swooped in, saved the day, and fully expected you to fall for the charm like every other girl did. But you didn’t.

You called him reckless, arrogant, insufferable. And Dean? Dean loved it.

He kept coming back, kept teasing, kept pushing, determined to break through that wall you had built. And, damn, did he try.

It had taken him months to get you to go out with him. Months of stolen moments, of late-night conversations, of him proving—over and over again—that he wanted you, not just for a night, but for real.

And when you finally said yes? Dean Winchester fell. Hard.

It wasn’t just about the chase anymore. The moment he had you, he knew. You were it. You were everything.

And you had changed your entire life for him. You left everything behind—your job, your friends, your family—to be with him. To learn how to hunt, to live this life, to fight by his side.

Not because he asked you to. Because you loved him. Because he loved you.

Sam squeezed the ring in his fist, his jaw tightening. Dean might not remember, but he did. He remembered the way Dean used to look at you. The way he always pulled you close in crowded rooms, like he couldn’t stand to be too far away. The way he used to talk about you when you weren’t around, like you had hung the damn moon.

Dean Winchester had been head over heels from the moment he met you. And now, that same man had just let you walk away without a fight.

Sam let out another slow breath, shaking his head.

Dean might think this was over. But Sam knew better. Because no matter what his brother said—no matter what he thought—there was no way in hell that kind of love just disappeared.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 2

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Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

[castielthinkr]

ELECTRIC [ih-lek-trik] adjective. electrifying; thrilling; exciting; stirring

dean x fem!reader cw suggestive (mdni), making out, nicknames (sweetheart, his girl, darlin’), swearing, minor spoilers for s3/4? (hell) wc 746 cross posted on ao3

summary to dean, you’ve never looked better than when you’re covered in blood and sweat after a hunt notes this is 100% self indulgent. i need this man like i need oxygen

dean knew, deep down, that you could handle yourself. you were a big girl with an even bigger gun - anything in its right mind would fear you.

still, that didn’t stop him pacing anxiously while he and sam waited for you to finish the hunt. it was one of the more simple hunts they’d had in a while; a witch was luring men to a house deep in the woods where they’d be put under a spell the second they stepped foot inside.

dean would honestly rather have been completely pliant under the witches thumb than let you go in alone, but you and sam were adamant.

waiting for you felt like a lifetime, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d heard sam tell him to “just sit down” but he couldn’t, not while his girl was in there alone. even sam was beginning to get a little antsy before you finally emerged.

you were panting, covered in blood splatters (dean hoped none of it was yours) and sweat.

to dean, you’d never looked hotter.

he was so entranced by you that he almost missed you recapping your fight to sam, instead watching you effortlessly clean off your blade and gun and feeling his jeans get a little tighter.

“dean,” you said, clicking in front of his face, “you good?”

he smirked. “yeah, sweetheart. i’m good.”

“you’re disgusting,” sam mumbled almost immediately, heading off to the impala.

dean looked you up and down and you raised an eyebrow. “what about me looking this gross turns you on? i’m covered in some random witches blood, my own blood, and dirt and god knows what else-” you started, but dean took a few steps towards you and your words died in your throat.

“sweetheart,” he drawled, the southern twang in his voice heavy, “you always - always - look hotter than hell. and trust me, i’ve been there.”

he moved closer, one hand hovering at your waist. “may i?” he asked, his voice low and thick.

“please,” you all but whined in return, not trusting yourself to speak more.

dean’s hand landed on your waist, and your body lit on fire. he moved impossibly closer, your lips meeting his in the middle as electricity exploded between you.

kissing dean was like nothing you’d ever felt before. his lips were soft, softer than you’d thought (and you’d definitely thought about them before). he was gentle at first, but as you deepened the kiss, slipping your tongue into his mouth, he grew more passionate, rougher, almost like he couldn’t control himself, fighting you for dominance.

he pushed you against the side of the house, body flush against yours. one of his hands was still stuck to your waist while the other roamed your body, mapping out your hips, your ass, your waist in his mind.

you moaned as he tried desperately to get closer to you, deepening the kiss even more. you could feel everything - his chest, his abs, the bulge in his jeans (that made you smile into the kiss - you knew the effect you had on him, but feeling it was something else). you ran your hands up his stomach, feeling up his chest before they eventually settled at the nape of his neck. you tugged at his hair a little, eliciting a groan from the man in front of you.

“fuck, y’can’t do that to me, darlin’,” he said, breaking the kiss.

to him, you looked stunning. your pupils were blown out, lips swollen, and face flushed.

from your point of view, things didn’t look much different. dean looked positively angelic, eyes half lidded and focused only on you, hair a mess, panting hard.

you were about to lean in again, chasing more of the passion, the electricity that flowed between the two of you, when dean’s phone rang. he groaned, checking the id.

“sam,” he supplied, briefly flashing you his phone screen.

“we should head back,” you said, still breathless.

“let’s continue this later then, sweetheart.”

you made your way to the impala where sam was waiting, an impatient yet knowing look on his face. you climbed into baby, not saying a word.

sam didn’t see you on the ride back, adjusting your jeans and sitting with your legs crossed the whole time.

dean, however, did. his thoughts were already drifting to getting a second motel room before, but now it was first on his to-do list when you got back.

[ghostfacd]

I BET ON LOSING DOGS.

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

PART TWO

summary: you were the epitome of sunshine, and coriolanus? he was like the storm, the rain, and the everything in between.

warnings: SPOILERS from the movie & book, SMUT (protected cause we wrap it before we tap it! p in v), losing virginities to each other, snow (cause he himself needs a warning), toxic relationship, coriolanus is only in it for himself, mentions of losing virginity, you practically giving everything to snow and getting zero in return

author’s note: erm this is kinda long idek where tf i was going with this, first time writing smut on this account LOL so it might be bad. also this isn’t proofread so there might be mistakes, just ignore! as always, reblogs and comments are so greatly appreciated, enjoy reading + kisses 💓

You were the epitome of the sun itself, the sparkle, the light, and most importantly, the brightness. Despite being filthy rich, you were still that sweet sunshine Y/N everyone grown to love, the heir to the Cicero family.

Coriolanus Snow hated that about you. Not only were you everything he was not, but you lived such a lavish and easy lifestyle that it made him sick. Why was he stuck eating cabbage while you were off eating the finest thin slices of meat in the Capitol made by your chefs? It wasn’t fair, it just simply wasn’t.

“Well, Coryo!” Your sickeningly sweet voice fills his ears like a mantra.

He turns around, a smirk plays on his face. “My Y/N.”

Hearing him call you his made your heart flutter. You loop your arm through his, passing through the other academy students who were engrossed in their conversations

“Finally the star pupil.” Arachne Crane says, a glass of posca in her hand. “Lovely shirt you’ve got there. What are these cunning buttons? Tesserae?”

He looked at the shirt, shrugging. “Hm? Are they? Must’ve why they reminded me of the maid’s bathroom.”

You held his hands in yours. You knew of Coriolanus’s home life, how he wasn’t so lucky like you to have a gigantic home filled with lovable parents. His mom had died during childbirth, Coryo mentioning to you once how he was supposed to have a little sister. His father—died in the hands of rebels.

“Have you tried this lamb? It's scandalous.” Felix suddenly spoke up, taking a bite of the food that was currently on his plate.

“Didn’t daddy teach you table manners?.” Festus sneered, watching the other boy in disgust.

“Maybe he would have if he wasn’t so busy running the country.” Felix snapped back

Coriolanus took a deep breath in, already feeling overwhelmed by his classmates arguing.

After the announcement of the assigning of mentor to tributes, you could tell Coriolanus was upset. Although he wouldn’t let anyone see, he was visibly anxious and quite frankly, annoyed.

“I mean, cmon, how could it that I got the worst district?” Coriolanus says, head in his hands. “He hates me. He really does.”

“Who hates you Coryo?”

“Dean Highbottom! Isn’t it obvious?” He cries out, hands flinging into the air. You slightly flinch back, never seeing your boyfriend in such state. “He hates me Y/N. He adores you.”

“He doesn’t adore me,” you say, feeling like you were stepping around eggshells talking to Coriolanus.

“He does!” Coriolanus screams in anger, getting up in a hurry.

“Wait, no Coryo, I’m sorry.”

But your words aren’t enough, they’ll never be for Coriolanus Snow, so he walks out without a second thought.

- - -

The next day, Coriolanus apologizes. It’s a breathy, quick 5 second apology, but you being so you—accepted it without a second thought.

You loved Coriolanus, so it didn’t matter how much he hurt you.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” he says, placing a soft kiss on your lips.

You felt quite excited, you and your boyfriend hadn’t exactly gotten to that stage in your relationship, so thinking about sharing an intimate moment with him filled you with giddiness.

His tip had entered carefully through your folds, making you slightly wince as it bullied its way to your walls.

“Coryo..” you breathe out hazily, doe eyes coming to meet his. He sucked in his breath at the sight, never has he felt anything as good as this.

He tries so hard convincing himself he doesn’t love you. That this—it meant nothing to him. He was just here for your money, your possessions as the only daughter of Cryon and Hermione Cicero. But as he felt your nails claw its way into his back, he lets out a slip, a tiny whimper that makes your head foggy.

He spilled into the condom, pulling out with a hiss. Although you told him you were clean, and it was fine if he didn’t wear one, he simply couldn’t risk it. He wasn’t going to accidentally bring in a child into the world, having no intentions of taking care of anyone besides himself—maybe Tigris, and his Grandma’am.

“I love you,” you say quietly as you sat up, watching him discard the plastic into your trash bin.

“I’m hungry, aren’t you?” He says, putting his shirt on. It kinds of pains you at his total ignorance of the intimate words you just shared, but you nod your head.

“I could use some food,” is all you say, putting on your pajamas from earlier. “What’re hungry for Coryo? I’ll ask the chef.”

- - -

Dr. Gaul and Dean Highbottom had allowed all the mentors and their tributes roam the arena for about 15 minutes, letting them think of ways to win the game.

You were talking to Bobbin, a boy from District 7 whom you’ve had become closer with these past few days.

Suddenly, the loud scream of Felix catches your attention and before you knew it, loud bombs filled the air as tall lights fell to the ground near you.

“CORYO!” You scream, coughing loudly at the dust filling your lungs.

“Quick Y/N, we don’t have time!” Sejanus screams, grabbing ahold of your hand.

“But Coryo—”

Meanwhile, a tall pole had crushed Coriolanus’s arms.

Well, he thought, this was it.

This was how he was going to die. His girlfriend and best friend hand in hand as they ran out of the arena, the sickening feeling of betrayal filled his guts.

“What’re you doing?!” One of the tributes screamed at Lucy Gray, who was struggling to get the giant metal off Coriolanus’s arm. “Run while you can you idiot!”

But she doesn’t bother, only focusing on getting Coriolanus out. And she does, successfully, before all went black.

- - -

“Coryo? Oh Coryo!” You say, hugging him softly to ensure you weren’t hurting him.

You had felt so guilty after everything had happened. You should’ve never ran off with Sejanus, Coriolanus was your boyfriend, you should’ve saved him.

“Is Lucy Gray okay?” Is the first thing he croaks out, which makes your heart slightly crack.

“She’s—she’s okay Coryo.” You say, brushing a few blonde curls out of his eyes.

“And where were you?” He says, gaze slowly turning into anger. “I was going to die, Y/N.”

“I know! I was going to—”

He cut you off. “But you didn’t, now did you?”

His bitterness towards you makes you want to cry, tears already forming at your lash line.

“Oh now you’re crying?” It seemed like everything you did seemed of inconvenience to Coriolanus, but he opens his arms, letting you reside in them as you let out a few tears. “Always the crybaby, Y/N.” He says, hand holding your head as you buried your face into his chest.

- - -

Coriolanus Snow never believed in love. Not when he used to look at his mother and father when they were still alive, and not when he found himself a girlfriend, you.

Your relationship was merely another step stone towards success, Coriolanus viewed it. You were the heir of your family, you had countless amounts of money, and you were easily fooled by his advances. To Coriolanus, he had hit the jackpot, regardless of loving you or not.

So why did he feel so weird watching you interact with Sejanus? Sure, he considered the former district 2 boy his best friend, but it was only because Clemensia had been spending time at the hospital. The flu, Dr. Gaul described it; but Snow knew better. He was there when she had gotten bit by the snakes, and to be completely honest, if she hadn’t, he’d probably have dated her instead of you.

Clemensia Dovecote was way more smart, and he knew he wouldn’t fall inlove because they were both after the same thing. Power.

But with you, you were head over heels for Coriolanus. It almost made him sick, if it weren’t for your family name.

He clenched his jaw as he saw you throw your head back, hitting Sejanus’s shoulder as you hysterically laughed at something he had said.

What was so funny? Nothing was funny in the Capitol, not now. Maybe he was bitter, he should’ve never cheated in the games. It was stupid, and now he was getting the punishment of getting sent to 12 as a peacekeeper for 20 years.

Fuck, he really shouldn’t have cheated. And now he couldn’t even use his girlfriend’s family name as a way out.

He really should’ve known better. He knew you loved him, but he didn’t think you’d love him so much so that you begged your father to let you stay in 12 for a while to be with Coriolanus.

If there’s one thing about you—it’s that you’re a Daddy’s girl by heart, and of course, your father had once again served your request with a silver spoon. He hated that about you. He hated it. You got things too damn easily.

“Hi Coryo!” You say, making your way to him. Your beautiful sundress made him gulp, and he wanted nothing more but to snatch you away, pulling it off so he could get inside of you. But he couldn’t—he was in 12, much to his dismay.

“Y/N,” he says, placing his peacekeeper gun to the back. “Talking to the scums?”

“They’re just people from the district,” you say, frowning at his rudeness. “They’re nice, Coryo. Real nice, you’d like some of them.”

Coriolanus scoffs at that. How oblivious and stupid you were. Him, Coriolanus Snow, liking some of the district 12 citizens? What a fucking joke.

“Go along now Y/N, I’ll see you later.”

You nod, giving him a sloppy kiss on the cheek before you left, leaving the other peacekeepers to whistle at Coriolanus who only responds with an eye roll.

When later eventually comes, he was packing away the Jabberjays in their metal cages, Sejanus being right next to him.

“I saw you earlier,” Coriolanus says nonchalantly, “talking to that woman in the window. What are you playing at Sejanus?”

Sejanus scoffs, shaking his head. “They’re gonna escape Corio. Leave the districts. And I’ll be helping them.”

Coriolanus sucks in a breath, “is Y/N all in this too?”

God, he hoped Sejanus said no. But then again, it’d give him an advantage if he had said yes.

“She is,” Sejanus says, continuing to tell Coriolanus of the plan.

Without Sejanus knowing, Coriolanus had tuned the jabberjay so it could record back the whole conversation. When Sejanus finally leaves, Coriolanus sneaks to where the train bringing the birds back to the Capitol stood, placing the jabberjay in it to send it to Dr. Gaul.

If anything, Sejanus was a blocking point in Coriolanus’s way, and getting rid of him and you were like killing two birds with one stone.

- - -

The next day came and you were peacefully talking to one of the younger girls in the district when you’re suddenly pulled away along with Sejanus.

“Hey! What the hell!” You scream, thrashing in the unfamiliar peacekeeper’s hold. “Get off me!”

You and Sejanus struggle, and Coriolanus almost wants to step in and get you out of his fellow peacekeeper’s arms. Almost.

“Coryo! Tell them they’ve been mistaken!” You cry out, locking eyes with your so called lover.

“You two have been charged with treason towards the Capitol.” The peacekeeper says, his cold gaze and strong hold on you makes you let out a whimper.

“Treason?” You say, “there has to be a mistake! Call my father! Call my father!”

“I’m afraid your father can’t get you out of this one, Miss. Cicero.”

He drags you and Sejanus up the main stage of the district. “Everyone! Pay attention! This is what will happen if you are disloyal to the Capitol!”

Another peacekeeper points a gun behind Sejanus’s back as the peacekeeper who was holding you earlier pokes your back with the cold metal. You felt terrified gazes of the citizens of District 12, including Lucy Gray, stare at you.

“CORYO! TELL THEM!” You scream, begging with your eyes. “Coryo, please. Please.”

But Coriolanus Snow stands still in his spot, not budging a thing.

You thought he had loved you—or at least, cared for you. You gave him shelter when he was at his worst, you gave him your virginity, you held him when he cried about how unfair Dean Highbottom was, you let him into your home, and you always were there for him. You practically did everything for Coriolanus Snow. And what did you get? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Your Coryo won’t save you.” The peacekeeper snarls, before firing the gun.

Two gunshots go off, and the body of yours and Sejanus fall to the ground in an instant.

Coriolanus Snow almost wants to barf, his eyes closed for a minute before reopening them again.

Had it really been worth it? Ratting you and Sejanus out so he could get home to the Capitol faster?

He thinks so when your family and the Plinths give him their fortune as a thank you for being such a good boyfriend and friend towards their son and daughter.

If only they knew, though. But Coriolanus would never let that happen, because no matter what, Snow lands on top.

And this? It was just the beginning.

[bluemerakis]

okay but imagine being stuck in a room with beau, dean and soldier boy and how the dynamics would fucking CLASH 😭😭

soldier boy’s gonna be all up in your ass with some shit he thinks is slick—barely giving you room to breathe while he tries to coax you into his bed. beau’s 100% horrified at the shit streaming from sb’s mouth and he’s getting all protective and steps in to make sure he’s backing the fuck off of you and sb’s either gonna give in with some disdainful sniff before continuing to smoke away his loss or he’s going to throw one on beau and the two start brawling to the death. and then dean, who was happily watching the drama unfold, is eventually gonna step in to break up the fight and shove the two apart to take a breather—and while they’re recollecting their dignity, he starts chatting it up with you like he’d been waiting all this time to let the other two guys eliminate themselves as worthy candidates.

and like,,, don’t get me started on the bedroom dynamic either. im gonna though sorry 🤷‍♀️

oh soldier boy is SO MEAN. SO primal. so. fucking. rough. like shoving your head into the sheet rough, vice grip on your neck rough, and spanking you until you’re as red as the fucking commie flag he despises. that man is ALL about establishing control and revelling in the way you fall apart under his touch. manhandling more like. it inflates his dick as much as his ego to hear you plead for things you shouldn’t want—everything that he can give you. and the mouth on him is FILTHY. he’s calling you that fuckin’ slut, that velvety soft cock-warmer, his little, dirty cum-guzzler with a palate refined just for him. oh, he wants to RUIN you. wants to leave you so internally branded with his touch that you’ll morph into a lock that can’t be accessed by any key other than his. and he’s so. fucking. possessive. not to mention he’s going to see you on top of fucking cloud nine as you’re riding him, and he’s DYING to further raise you to the skies of fucking heaven by making you snort a line from his stomach or some shit. corruption kink most definitely.

meanwhile, beau can barely fathom how you’re enjoying any of it. through the entirety of it all, he’s lowkey giving sb the stank eye for his lack of respect for women—and you, more importantly. And while he knows you’ve fully consented, it doesn’t stop him from checking in with you every now and again—

“still hangin’ in there, darlin’? you let me know if it becomes too much, yeah? i’ll tell this jackass to dial it down.”

and beau, oh my god, he’s the king of checking in. he’s all about making sure you’re constantly comfortable and enjoying yourself—to the point where soldier boy’s making some remark like,

“what’re you—some fuckin’ gimme a c for consent cheerleader? shut the fuck up, grown a damn pair, ‘nd give the woman what she wants.”

and beau’s lugging in the DEEPEST breath of composure with the most disconcerting glare he can muster before recollecting himself and focusing all his attention back to you. his thrusts are gentle, but not weak—he’s hitting all the right spots with each approach and withdrawal. he’s listening to your breathing, the sounds you spew, and constantly reaching to brush the hair from the grip of your sticky face. and he lowers himself to place a kiss to whichever inch of you is most accessible at the time—favouring the curve of your cheek, where it’s easy for him to dip down to your ear and murmur some words of admiration and encouragement. oh he’s such a fucking praiser and words of affirmation guy. and he’s making sure to soothe every bruised part of you that soldier boy leaves behind, almost always sparing the supe a pointed glare that utters some silent claim of and that’s how you treat a lady. he’s littering kisses along your bruises and easing the tender skin with soothing rubs—cradling you and cherishing you like an expensive, one-of-a-kind china.

and then there’s dear, dear dean. this man is WAITING for his time to shine. i can 100% see him not caring for either of the other two men in the room—his attention’s all on you. when sb’s taking you all the way to nasty town, he’s glancing off to some other corner of the room, but can’t help sneaking occasional glances at your visceral, very verbal reactions. and he lowkey digs it. when he’s got his turn to make you feel things, he’s taking it nice and slow—all at your pace. and you know those fucking love-sick eyes he loves casting? yeah, HE’S GIVING YOU THE FULL-PACKAGE SUBBY LOOK. his every grip on your body is intentional—constructed to make you feel like you’re something he absolutely adores and cannot let go of. like a sentimental keepsake he’ll hold close to him for all the years to come. he’s observing every look ghosting across your features, savouring the way you absentmindedly caress him in the midst of your euphoria—revelling in the spell you cast that makes him feel like he’s all yours for the taking. he wants to be. and he shows you it. he’s simultaneously got his hand down under, adding to your stimulation with a skillful dally. and he does it all just to hear the sounds you make—the way you beg for more of him. all of him. and he unequivocally wants to hand himself over to you. his high only comes on after he’s seen yours through. if anything, your undoing spurs him on. and he’s planting tender kisses along your collarbone and jaw and making sure you know just how well you did for him.

“that was. . . freakin’ somethin’, baby. you’re amazing—can’t get enough o’ you. don’t ever wanna, so help me god.”

and you KNOW he’s serious if he whips out the name of the big ol’ guy in the sky.

and then when it comes to aftercare, beau takes the fucking cake—i just know it. in an instant, he’s encouraging you to go and use the bathroom to relieve yourself, making sure you’re physically capable of pulling yourself into a semblance of a functioning human when they’re done with you. and he’s offering you any and all assistance you need before recollecting your clothes and fetching a fresh pair—if any are available. he’s getting you an ice cold glass of water, a little shnaky snack and is ready to give you the cuddle of your life.

dean’s pretty content to monitor you coming down from your high, dragging a gentle palm across your hair while his other hand settles in a gentle frame of your jaw, thumb striking gentle lines across the framework of your face. he’s pretty insistent on short cuddles following the aftermath of everything, going so far as to trap you in a spooning session for a good few minutes before he lets you slip away to the bathroom. and even as you stroll off into the distance, he’s trailing after your every move like a lost puppy that doesn’t know how to utilise his free time. he’s so utterly infatuated with you that he’s got to watch everything you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter what. he’s admittedly not the most forward-thinker when it comes to aftercare, but he’s happy to tend to whatever you need AFTER you bring it up. and he’ll learn it like a routine after a while.

soldier boy does not believe in aftercare. oh my god that man is going to cradle a cigarette with more care than he’s ever shown you once he’s delivered you your high. as soon as he’s blown his load, he’ll let you slump down to the bed if only to admire the absolute glistening puddle he’s reduced you to. and he’s going to wear that smug ass cocky grin—even go so far as to chuckle demeaningly as he drinks the view of you in. he could probably get drunk on that visual alone. and then he’s throwing himself down onto the bed beside you, immediately reaching for that bedside cig. he’ll light it, take a long pull, and offer you a taste. at most, he’ll drape a lazy arm around you, but outside of giving his dick a joyride, you essentially stop existing. he’s good at making you feel used, and he’ll watch you clean yourself up without a second thought of lending a helping hand. he might just say some shit about it that he knows will piss you off because he loves getting a rise out of you.

“what’s with all the pussy-pamperin’? thought you’d marvel at havin’ my baby pumped into you.”

oh he’s such an ass. we love him for it though.

OKAY IM DONE NOW. for now

cheers to @bohemianblasphemy for letting me yap about this dynamic AGESSS ago and now i think it’s time to share a taste of it with the world 😭 YOU’RE EITHER ALL FUCKING WELCOME OR IM SORRY!!! i am SO tempted to turn this into a proper fic SOMEWHERE DOWN THE LINE❗️❗️❗️

i sincerely apologise for the shitty mismatched icons that are lowkey pissing me off but i had zero energy to sift through my pics for ones i haven’t already used and somehow make them match so DEAL WITH IT PLS & THANKS 💪

[pathologicalreid]

an ode to a conversation stuck in your throat | s.r.

in which Spencer tries to talk you out of taking a job across the country

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: miscommunication (sigh), very cheesy, brief mention of wine, defining the relationship, insecure spencer, easily confused reader, chemist!reader word count: 1.04k a/n: if i could go a week without writing a dwg song fic that would be crazy. also surprise it's chemist!reader again.

"Thanks for stopping so I could change,” you say to Spencer, leading the way into your apartment and locking the door behind you. “I’m sure lab dress code and David Rossi dress code are miles apart,” you continue, hanging your backpack on the wall.

Spencer hums in response, “You’d look great in anything you wear.”

Your face warms at the compliment, “You’re sweet. You can just wait out here, I shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes,” you gesture to the living room, smiling at him before heading off to your room.

Nervously, you pull off your lab-safe attire and discard all of it into the laundry hamper before putting on the dress you’d chosen for dinner tonight. It’s not overly fancy, but you hope his team will like it. You hope his team will like you.

Looking at yourself in your dresser mirror, you reconsider your choice of shoes, switching from a pair of kitten heels to flats before walking out the door, “Hey, Spence, is Rossi’s patio heated, or should I bring a sweater for when the sun goes down?” You stop in your tracks when you find Spencer, still in the entryway, looking at the color-coded whiteboard calendar you keep by your front door, “What’s up?”

His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his slacks, and he looks upset. What’s worse is you think he might be upset with you. “What’s this dinner you have planned next Friday?”

You feel like a child who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t be, draping the proposed sweater over the back of a kitchen stool and crossing your arms in front of your stomach. “It’s a work dinner,” you answer nervously.

“With?” Spencer asks, but he’s not pushy about it, there’s something desperate in his tone.

Pursing your lips, you look at the purple writing on the calendar, “The chair of Biochemistry and Molecular Genetics at Northwestern, and a representative from the college's dean. They’re offering me a job with a private lab and my own team of researchers… so they’re taking me out to dinner.”

Spencer’s face fell, “They’re offering you a job in Chicago?”

“Well, that’s where Northwestern is. Evanston, if you want to get technical about it,” you respond, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He looks at you dumbfoundedly, “I don’t want to get technical about it. When were you going to tell me that you’re taking a job in Chicago?” It almost seems like he’s afraid.

You raise your eyebrows in curiosity, you’ve been seeing each other for a month, and you’ve never known Spencer to jump to conclusions. “I’m not,” you tell him, keeping your tone void of any accusation, “They’re just taking me to dinner.”

Spencer sighs, “But they’re offering you a job. In a different state. In a different timezone.”

Admittedly, he was beginning to sound a bit ridiculous to you, “Don’t you field offers from colleges all the time? They want you to teach or tell you to become Spencer Reid, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, or whatever?” 

His eyes follow you as you move to sit down at the kitchen counter, “It never gets as far as dinner.”

“I’m not taking the job,” you tell him simply, shrugging your shoulders demurely.

Spencer falters at that, knitting his brows together as he tries to piece together the answers you’re willingly giving him, “If you’re not taking the job then why are you going to dinner with them?”

Hiding a small smile, you give him the truth, “They pick up the tab. I go to a lot of these and I get good food out of the deal. These people love to schmooze but I’ve never been offered anything that I would be inclined to accept.” This specific job seemed perfect on the surface, but they weren’t willing to let you choose what to research. That was non-negotiable for you.

“I could schmooze you,” he insists, “You don’t need other people to schmooze you.”

You giggle at him, waving him over to you so you can look him in the eyes when you tell him, “I go for free food and good wine. No other reason.” Your smile was gentle, but inside your heart was pounding. He was scared I was going to leave, you think to yourself.

He sighs, “Will you… will you tell me in the future when you get these dinner offers?” His voice is tentative, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll think he’s asking too much of you.

Nodding, you reach out and take one of his hands in yours, “I can, but I didn’t think were at the ‘I’m being courted by another workplace, and I wanted to let you know’ stage yet. That’s kind of a girlfriend thing,” you explain.  

Spencer frowns, “Aren’t you?”

Tilting your head to the side, you look at him curiously, “Aren’t I what?”

“My girlfriend,” he clarifies.

Your eyes go wide, “Oh! I didn’t think so, I thought you had to ask yet.” Although you’re far from a relationship expert, you’d had to ask your PhD advisee what to wear before your first date with Spencer.

The panicked look on his face returns, “I’ve been telling people you’re my girlfriend. Should I not have been doing that?”

Shaking your head, you beam up at him, “I don’t mind. I just thought you had to ask about that kind of thing.”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “I’ve never really done this before.”

The two of you sit in an awkward silence for a moment before you decide to speak up again, “So, just so we’re on the same page. I’m not moving to Chicago.”

Spencer frowns again, and you have to hold yourself back from using your thumb to smooth out the crease on his forehead, “Will you?”

Confused, you lean your head back, “Move to Chicago?”

“Be my girlfriend,” he amends quickly.

You nod, “I would love to.”  

“And just so we’re on the same page,” he ducks his head down, so close to a kiss that it makes you feel dizzy, “I like to think I’m the only one who can really court you.”

Laughing, you lean forward and peck his lips, “I would be insulted if you didn’t think that.”

[ikeuki]

and the world kept spinning ! / 니키

( pairing ) nishimura riki x fem!reader ✶ grumpy x sunshine ; fluff/crack, light cursing + one mention of a dealer/"product" — ( wordcount ) 1.3k

ᯓ★ ikeuki’s note. mr. nonchalant is not so nonchalant now…HE’S SELLING !!!

synopsis. after getting detention on picture day, riki swears he hates you—his actions do not follow his words however.

“i'm gonna dip at lunch.” jake decided and laid back.

“same i have a bio test during fifth that i'm not trying to do,” heeseung added and leaned on the classroom’s wall.

it was routine for the older boys to accompany riki in his class before the bell rang since they all had class without him. riki’s classmates refused to even look to the back of the room where the delinquents were sprawled out.

jake was trying to paper football with sunghoon, having his legs on some poor kid’s desk and flicking a triangle “football,” made out of that same kid’s notebook paper.

sunghoon was half-playing with jake and half-on his phone. his additions to the conversation were the occasional “mhm” and “yeah i'm down.”

jay was sitting in front of riki, turned around with his arms resting on the chair. he continued speaking to heeseung, who was by the window, about their plans to ditch.

“um since when do you take bio?” jake asked, repositioning his little football before flicking it across the desk, through sunghoon’s goal.

“since forever—just haven’t been to actual class yet,” heeseung answered with a laugh.

“so riki, you gonna ditch with us?” jay asked the younger boy who was carving random drawings on his desk with an overly sharpened pencil.

“uh i don't know...my mom's been on my ass since i ditched on monday, she got a call from the school or something,” riki mumbled, keeping his eyes on the smudged lead in front of him.

he was still upset at how the school dean reported riki leaving the school premises during picture day. everyone else was doing it and he just happened to be the only one who got caught. maybe if he wasn't so distracted that day...

“you’re joking—they still do that?” jake asked.

“apparently.” he recalled that day, when he was waiting in line to get his picture taken so he could slip out unnoticed. unfortunately, his long last name prevented him from leaving in the morning like the rest of his friends and was stuck in the stuffy gym for more than three hours.

he thought it was pretty unproductive. on the school’s part. the students would all line up then go to class once done. but since they can’t monitor each student leaving, they’re giving everyone a one way ticket out of class!

moments before his impatience was going to kill him, he was distracted by a vanilla-scented girl who would click her heels nonstop.

aka, you.

after your little interaction, riki swiftly exited the gym, but not before turning to watch you take your picture through the door's window. you smiled softly, teeth showing naturally with your lip gloss shining under the reflective screen.

you easily listened to his advice, his scoff turning into more of a subtle smile. his eyes followed your figure hop off the black stool and pick up your freshly printed student id.

"hey!" a voice called from down the hall.

riki whipped his head towards the sound to see a man walking towards him, "why aren't you in class!" oh shit, it was the dean.

thus, he got detention and the dean called his mom to tattletale his "ditching." he blamed it on you. if you hadn't clicked your stupid little heels, he would have never talked to you and then would have never stood there outside the gym, out in the open for any hall monitors (or deans...) to come and catch him.

now he had to bail on his friends and was in deep shit at home. all because of you and your stupid heels. and stupid curls. and stupid vanilla-scented perfume. whatever!

jay continued talking about their afterschool activities and heeseung shared that his dealer just shipped new product. uninterested in the conversation, riki turned his head to the window. his eyes drifted outside where students were rushing to class.

he skimmed through the various students he never cared to look twice at. until a familiar figure emerged from the hurried crowd.

wait—soft and shiny hair, little black heels, and the freshly pressed school uniform that never looked this good on any other student. riki knew that girl anywhere.

you were chatting away with your friends, too immersed in whatever you were saying to notice the steps by the front of the building. your mouth was moving at the same speed as your legs. failing to see the four steps ahead of you, your little black heels tripped on the first one.

riki instantly stood up. pushing back his chair and desk and watching as you fell forward. the loud movement from his desk attracted the attention of everyone in the class, turning to watch their silent, mysterious classmate become the star of the spotlight. riki didn’t even notice though, his eyes glued to your clumsy figure.

“dude—!” jake exclaimed at the sudden movement.

“what the fu—” jay moved back.

luckily (not for riki), class president and top student, yang jungwon managed to step forward just in time to catch you. the scene played out like one from a kdrama, him swiftly turning you on your back and making you lock eyes with your savior.

riki watched from across the courtyard, three stories above, and through the window as you two smiled at each other before you awkwardly got to your feet. he watched as you patted his shoulder and rambled an apology.

your cheeks were flushed, a little embarrassed and maybe a little blushing. riki hoped it was only the first.

hold up.

why would he care if you were blushing. blushing for that goody-two shoes yang jungwon—who all the teachers and students adored. whatever. you should’ve fallen on your face, riki would’ve liked that better…yeah he totally would’ve.

“what the hell man!” heeseung asked, gripping onto his shoulder to question his outburst.

snapping out of his trance, riki turned to his friend and finally realized that everyone was staring at him. he wasn’t used to such attention.

“o-oh..uhh it’s nothing—i thought—nothing nevermind.” riki stammered, embarrassed. he quickly took his seat again and kept his head down to avoid any awkward glances. the class slowly returned to their conversations, ignoring the boy’s questionable actions.

“what do you mean nothing...” sunghoon spoke up, furrowing his eyebrows.

before his friends could continue hounding him for an answer, the front door slid open with a loud slam! everyone turned their heads to the teacher walking into the class. upon spotting the four misplaced boys, his demeanor immediately turned sour.

“yah! you four—get to class!” the teacher shouted from the door, pointing to the obviously out-of-place seniors in a junior class.

startled but unmoved, the boys casually got to their feet and walked to the back door.

“im so sorry teach, we just love our riki so much!” jake fake apologized and bowed a whole ninety-degrees.

the other three began putting their hands together and bowing too, sarcastically muttering apologies to the teacher and the other students.

“GET OUT!”

“have fun learning algebra!” heeseung shouted with only his head peeking in from the back door. riki only laughed at his annoyingly loud friends as they ran out into the hallway.

as the teacher began class, he looked back out the window to see you long gone. instantly, he internally slapped his own face.

‘stop looking at the window, riki.’

‘why are you looking for her, riki.’

‘she likes jungwon, riki.’

‘STOP THINKING ABOUT HER, RIKI!’

riki kept his eyes shut and tried to calm his own crazy thoughts. he put his head down on his desk, ignoring whatever the teacher started blabbering about.

with the inviting warmth of the sunlight radiating through the window, he was slowly drifting to sleep when suddenly he heard the door open.

click. clack. click.

[bunnysbrainrot]

Size Matters

Kinktober Prompt: Size kink

Relationship: Sam Winchester x Reader

Content: Explicit sexual scenes, oral (f receiving), creampie (wrap it up, kids), dirty talk, rough sex, dom Sam, fluffy/funny aftercare (it’s crucial)

Summary: Your plan for making the boys dinner goes awry, leaving you alone with Sam in his bedroom, and coming to terms with a kink that only Sam Winchester can fulfill.

A/N: 🤭

"C'mon,' you strain, reaching for a high shelf in the cabinet. Apparently Sam and Dean didn't find a need for a stepladder in the bunker. Your calves screech in protest as you reach for a jar of pasta sauce, your fingers brush the bottle, but not enough purchase to grab it.

A long arm reaches above your head, grabbing the sauce in a large, familiar hand. Sam hands you the jar with a smile.

You took it from his hands and chide, "Not everyone's as vertically gifted as you and your brother, you know. Y'could be more inclusive and invest in a stepstool."

He leans against the counter you'd been setting ingredients on. Sam's eyes scan over your form as you open the pasta sauce.

"You know you can ask us for help, right?"

"I was gonna make dinner for us, I didn't want to make you guys help me," you reply Sam stands fully now and looks over your shoulder. You crane your neck to look up at him, "How's the weather up there?"

Sam chuckles lightly, "You know, I could tease you about your height. It'd be pretty easy."

You turn back to the counter and place freshly-washed vegetables on a cutting board. Unsheathing a knife from the knife block, you keep conversation with Sam.

"I don't have a problem with being short," you bump your hip sideways into Sam's leg. He does the same to you, except the direct strike in the ribs knocks you off balance, stumbling over.

He's able to snatch you up to safety before you bust your ass on the floor. Now cradled in Sam's arms, a rush of comfort comes over you in his stable grip. His hands catch your waist, with his long fingers spreading broad across your torso. Fuck, together they could probably go around most of your waist, and those fingers...

You snap out of your stupor to find Sam smiling down at you. His eyes linger on yours long enough for your mind to wander, wondering who would lean in first. Stolen glances at each other's lips, hitched breath, low-lidded eyes, it was a perfect concoction for Sam to kiss you.

Beneath him, you're so delicate in his arms, as if you'll break if he isn't careful. It was in his own reflexes to catch you, but the feelings that rushed through him afterwards were something deeper. Almost instinctive that in any moment with you like this, hushed and ogling, would lead to something more. Forget dinner, he thought, he could just order something for delivery.

At least, after he's done with you.

"Sam," you whisper. Maybe you hadn't been paying attention, but his face is now just inches from your own.

He finds himself leaned over further, close enough to share the same air, breaths mixing.

You smile nervously, and to your relief Sam gives one of his own. But he doesn't break away - doesn't help you to your feet to cut vegetables for the dinner you were kindly making for him. It couldn't matter much now that he's holding you like this.

"Sorry," he replies, barely audible. You wave your hands in dismissal and place them around his neck. The air shifts as the movement brings you ever closer, your lips no more than three inches away from Sam's.

"It's okay," you whisper. Soft, hazel eyes wander over your face and flicker to your lips, seemingly stuck there until Sam takes a risk he'd been waiting for.

Relief washes over you when his lips meet yours. After all this time, it turns out that he had the guts to break this tension, and everything that had been bottled up could now overflow. You let a deep hunger overtake your body, purely going on instinct as Sam embraces you. Sam sighs into your kiss and swallows a moan it drew from your throat, whiny and eager.

Sam nips at your bottom lip, tugging at it tentatively with his teeth. You do the same in response, only harder. Testing the waters. Usually a dangerous game, especially with a Winchester.

Your hands had made their way to his broad shoulders - his lean muscles flexing and stretching as he moves his hands over you, meandering from your waist, spanning from your shoulder blades to the top of your ass. His fingers toy with the fabric of your clothes, like he was trying to unwrap a present too early and didn't want to rip the packaging.

“Not here,” Sam says, his words slurring like a love-drunk fool, “Can’t do this here.”

He breaks the kiss and leaves you panting for more; there's a new darkness in his stare, one that makes you shudder. You give him a smile, wiggling in his grip to the pasta sauce jar, and shut it closed.

“What about dinner?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “You seem like you have other plans.”

He was caught red handed, but you weren’t declining the advances. If anything you spurred them on as much as he did.

Sam slowly releases you from his grip, setting you stably on your feet. Not once have his eyes left you, even if you weren’t paying attention - Sam was set on this goal, you’d given him the ‘yes’ he needed, and he intended to make good on his commitment.

Patience was wearing thin for Sam. He ogles at the sight of you bent at the waist, putting the pasta sauce and veggies back in the fridge. The curve of your ass sucks him in whole, as if there were nothing else in the room.

A hand settles on your ass from behind, cupping and kneading gently. You let out a shuddering exhale before standing and turning to Sam.

The softness of your voice surprises you, “Where do you want me?”

The ball was in his court. Sam looks you over coolly, his hands kept to themselves in his pants pockets. Your eyes drift lower and pause on the large bulge in Sam’s pants, straining slightly against his thick jeans.

“My bedroom,” he said plainly.

—

There was little time to brace yourself for Sam’s next move. You're pressed against the wall before you can protest, although you wouldn’t dare object to this.

Sam grips the backs of your thighs and lifts you up, wedging your hips with his own, keeping you steady. A new hardness presses against your core as Sam juts his hips into you, pure instinct taking over his movements. His cock twitches in his jeans - he needs to watch his cock sink into you, to watch your face contort in bliss when he bottoms out in your pussy.

There was nothing small about Sam Winchester - he's a Goliath of a man, towering over you at any given time, with thick broad muscles that send a rushing heat to your sex. If your intrusive thoughts ever won, you were sure he could toss you around like it was nothing.

But now, you didn’t have much choice but to stay pinned to the wall, where you and Sam both grind your hips desperately, letting out lilted moans and grunts against each other’s skin.

The friction on your swelling clit was rough and warm, with Sam's cock perfectly nestled atop your drenched slit. Each rough push shot pleasure through your core, but it wasn’t enough for your aching cunt.

“If you need me to stop, you tell me, okay?” he emphasized. You shook your head at him. You wouldn’t break so easily, but if anyone were to shatter you apart, it could happily be Sam.

Your lips found his ear, after staining yourself up his long torso, “I’m not gonna break that easily, don’t worry.”

“Oh, yeah?” his voice deepened as his lips found your neck, eagerly nipping at your skin and making you whine. "Let's test that theory."

You gripped the hem of your shirt and shimmied it over your head, casting it to the floor carelessly.

Sam’s eyes trail over your chest, still beautifully bound by your bra. Their softness served as an undeniable invitation for his mouth to lower. He dips his head to greedily nip and suckle at the supple skin, leaving red and purple splotches in his wake.

You grip at his hair, urgently tugging him closer, as if the direct contact could never be enough to satisfy. Each of your soft moans is echoed with a low groan from Sam’s chest. He had doubled over, completely encapsulating you in his clean scent, now thick with a lustful musk.

Two fingers found the band of your bra, unclipping it with the utmost ease, and cast it to the floor with your shirt. Through panting breaths, Sam works off his shirt, though his lips have no hesitation to return to your exposed chest, and found a pebbled nipple between his teeth, rolling and biting to bring out a symphony of moans from the both of you.

Your hands lunged for the waistband of your pants. Sam took notice and sighs happily against your skin, his warm breath like a gentle wave across everything you'd exposed to him. Above you, Sam grew more unhinged with each passing second, grabbing and biting and kneading your flesh like a man starved.

Sam's lips capture yours once more in a tangle of tongues and teeth, exploring one another as if it was your only chance to do so. His tongue grazed the roof of your mouth, swallowing a deep moan that erupts from deep within your chest. He assesses your position and grows frustrated. It would be difficult to remove your, or his, pants without risking dropping you to the floor.

As quickly as you'd been slammed into the wall, Sam tosses you onto his bed, but stays standing at its foot, his hands reaching for his belt buckle. All else in the room vanished as you watch him remove the thick denim, shoving it down his legs to the floor. His cock strained against his boxers, throbbing and twitching to be free.

"Those," Sam nodded his head to your pants, "off."

The sudden dominance springs you into action. Your hands fly to your waistband and wiggle them off of your hips, down your thighs, and kick them away. Your soaked panties act as your final barrier, barring you from what you so badly needed.

Sam returns to his hunched position over you, letting his hands rove over your exposed thighs and ass, pawing at you greedily. You reach down to the band of his boxers, and slip your fingers under the elastic, inching them down until you felt a resistance against it - Sam's cock fights against the removal, straining your short arms until Sam reaches down to aid you.

The head of his cock springs up to smack against your covered core. You gasp softly at its warmth, your neglected cunt tightens around nothing of substance, an empty hole aching to be filled with something substantial.

"Feel." This was Sam's only order as he tugs your hand down to his length, coaxing you to wrap your small fingers around the middle of his shaft.

He's thick and warm against your palm, with a thick vein creeping up its underside to the tip. Your mouth waters at the way his cock twitches eagerly in your hand, and you slowly begin to pump along his length, making Sam hiss through his teeth.

Sam's voice is lower than you'd ever heard; it sends a heat directly to your teased pussy, now bracing against the base of Sam's cock. Its length covers most of your abdomen, casting your body in its silhouette in the dim lamplight of the room.

"Jesus..." he remarks wistfully, trailing a free hand up to his tip, pressing into the soft flesh of your belly.

Beneath him like this, Sam can finally see the scale of his cock to your insides, mapping out precisely where he'll settle inside of you. You whine softly as his cock drags another stroke over your soaked folds - the abrasion from your underwear was no longer tantalizing, but rather a nuisance.

His breathing becomes ragged, "I need to taste you."

The words shudder through you as Sam's lips work through the valley of your breasts, showering kisses along your middle, and finally he settles between your thighs. Sam places a kiss atop your clit, still kept out of sight by your soaked panties. Two fingers hook into the waistband and tug downward, sliding the soiled garment off of your shaky legs and to the floor behind him.

Cold air strikes your slit as Sam pries it open with two thick fingers, teasing at your aching hole, spreading the wetness around your cunt.

"Are you always this wet when you think about me?" his voice tremors through you. You nod quietly and hold your breath as Sam's head dips lower. All you can see is his rich brown hair cascading over your belly before warmth spread through your core, leaving you moaning at his first touch.

With the way his tongue teased at your clit, Sam may as well have set you ablaze. Your skin radiated a warmth unlike no other, rolling in waves as the cold of the air shocked your most sensitive areas.

"Sam," you whine, carding your fingers through his soft locks. You tug on him gently to push him further.

He pays no mind to your plea, and instead wraps his toned arms under your thighs, pulling your pussy flush against his thick tongue. It flicks your clit perfectly, and pairs with his lips as he suckles on the sweet bundle of nerves.

The taste of you makes Sam groan, his cock straining against the mattress beneath him. Above him, your moans and cries are a siren song, calling him to the bottomless sea of his desire. He pictures what lies ahead - you, sprawled on the bed, blissed out from his tongue and cock, sated and sleepy from a relentless pounding.

That image is pasted in his mind as he laps at your cunt, occasionally dipping his tongue into your tight entrance, and tasting your innermost parts. You arch your back at his touch, sighing his name like a prayer. His restless tongue toys with your hardening clit as pressure builds in your belly.

Sam creates a rhythm on your clit that sends you unfurling under his touch, mewling and whining and moaning slurred versions of Sam and please and need you. But he refuses to give more. Not until he can taste your release directly on his tongue.

The tightness in your belly snaps, breaking you apart until you're crying Sam's name against your hand, clasped firmly against your mouth. His tongue lolls over your clit even still, skyrocketing the shockwaves of the orgasm and making you whimper. Your slick coats his tongue and fills Sam's senses. All there is is you, your sounds, and your delicious cunt.

"Fuck," mumbles Sam, his voice reverberating through your convulsing sex, clamping down onto nothing.

You whine in response. All thought and sense had escaped your mind, now shattered and cast off to a void in the back of your mind. Sam laps up your juices and swallows, savoring every last drop your body had to offer.

The cold air of the room kisses your exposed cunt as Sam rises to his knees, his heavy cock bobbing above your abdomen.

"So small," he remarks, lining his cock over your stomach and admiring just how much of your body he'd overtake.

You'd surely be sore for days afterward, which sent a flush of pride through his chest. His cock ached to carve you hollow - to leave you gaping after a thorough fucking, to shape your pussy perfectly for him.

His hips rear back as he positions himself with your wet hole, shining with your slick, beckoning him inside. Sam's eyes meet yours when he notches the head of his cock past your entrance, surveying your expressions as he slowly filled you out. The girth of his cock could practically split you down your middle, stretching your little pussy to wrap perfectly around his shaft.

"God, you're so fuckin' tight," Sam groans, ogling at his own cock as it spread your pussy open. His hands press against the backs of your thighs and push them toward your chest, angling himself so the both of you could share the view.

He sighs, "Look at that - such a big cock, stretching out your tiny pussy, just for me."

Astonishment, teasing, and lust filled his tone, and something else. Something more primal that has your walls fluttering around Sam's cock.

You gape at the sight of his cock entering you, and you finally come to terms with exactly just how big he is. Your pussy is stretched blissfully wide, swallowing his length with earnest. Sam slams his hips and strikes deep, the head of his cock brushing against your cervix.

Each thrust is harsher than the last and all you can do is stare at the brutality your pussy is being subjected to. You cry out as Sam's cock crashes into you, every time, without fail.

At this point, there's no hiding the reality of what's behind Sam's bedroom door. If Dean, or anyone else, heard you, let them. Bliss overcomes your senses and dulls all rationality in your muddled mind.

There is nothing else that matters - just the overwhelming size of Sam Winchester and his remarkable cock.

He whispers your name like a summons, meeting his eyes with yours as he presses your body into the mattress. A hand presses into your tummy. Sam gasps softly and takes your hand to replace his own.

"Feel that?" his purrs, pressing onto your hand to deliver some pressure. As he thrusts in you can feel a shift in your insides, until you feel a firm strike of the head of his cock against you palm.

You look to him with wide eyes and find a wicked smile plastered on his face.

Sam crouches over you, enveloping you with his large size, encasing your body with his. He leans toward your ear, "Can you feel it up here, baby? Because I can. I can feel how tiny your cunt is before I go in and stretch it out."

He pushes deeper, to let you really feel it, "I can feel how you try to fit me, and how just tight you're getting, 'cause you're gonna cum, aren't you?"

A dumb nod follows his question, making his grin widen across his lips. No words form on your lips, only shaky wanton moans reply to his commentary.

"I know, sweetheart, feels good," Sam coos, slowing down his movements to draw out a raw cry from your throat. His cock drags through your walls until its head is all that remains, and slams in harshly.

Your cry is on the verge of a scream, but Sam does not relent. There is no plea to stop or slow down, because this is all you'd been dreaming of - to feel a comforting helplessness under someone far larger, to be at their disposal and usage.

A growl leaves his throat, "So fucking small... I bet you feel like you could break, huh? With my cock this deep inside you, your little pussy can barely take any more, can it?"

Your walls clench around him in reply, pulling Sam in deeper until his balls slap against your ass, now pairing with the obscene squelching of your abused pussy.

Between the lilting moans and quieted pleas from your perfect mouth, Sam issn't sure how much longer he can last. He vows to himself that he will not give in to it yet, not until he feels it. He needs to feel the way you wrap around his cock when you cum.

He needs to be the reason you finish, this time and each orgasm after.

"You've been waiting for this. You've wanted this the whole time - someone big and strong to pound your little pussy 'til you can't stand. Because you want a thick cock splitting you open." Sam stammers through the last few words - his own comments are bringing him closer to the brink, but you've already reached yours.

You shudder around him harshly as your orgasm hits you full-force, leaving you no room to ride it out as Sam's pace quickens. His breath hitches at the sensations flowing through his throbbing length - he hisses when you clench around his sensitive tip, leaving his gasping as he fucks you faster. Harder. Deeper.

His cock plunges into your cunt, hitting that same spot in your tummy as he mentioned before. Sam's hand presses against your abdomen, adding a glorious pressure that has you climaxing again in a matter or seconds.

"Thaaaat's it, attagirl," he encourages. "Such a tight little cunt, but she takes me so well."

The words flow through you like fire, sending you over the brink once again and leaving you whimpering beneath him. Sam smirks, knowing he's doing his job right, he has you exactly where he wants you, pinned, helpless, and impossibly full.

"Please... S-Sam," you whisper.

He laughs, pounding you so roughly you can barely brace for the slam against your cervix, "Can't handle it, can you, baby? I thought you said you don't break easily."

Your soft cries reach his ears as you slip into that thoughtless void of your mind, moaning with each strike.

Sam's lips brush over the shell of your ear, "You think you're so strong, but I'll break you. I'll have your cunt so bruised you can't think about anything else - only me, because this pussy is mine, do you understand?"

A reply doesn't come, only the sounds of your moans fill his ears. Sam delivers a harsh slap to your ass, thrusting his cock as deep as he could manage. You let out a long moan but still don't reply.

"Who's pussy is this?"

The words form on your lips and fall out feebly, "Y-yours."

He kisses your forehead, but does not let his hips falter, "That's right, angel. All mine."

Pressure builds in his abdomen, his balls growing tight as his own release crept up from behind. Sam nips at your earlobe, his words clang through you with a primal desire.

"And since this pussy's mine, I'm going to fill it."

The swift relentless pace resumes, crashing into your hips to verge on soreness, your tight cunt still wrapping perfectly around him, and Sam's name falling past your slacked mouth. Sam's eyes screw shut as his own orgasm finally approaches, and his cock begins to twitch.

He unsheathes his cock from your warm walls, aiming directly at your now gaping pussy. Sam pumps himself fervently as his cum spurts from his cock, right into your stretched hole. You stare in awe as his cum seeps into your cunt, the angle of your hips inviting it all in.

Sam hisses, "Keep it all in there."

You pant as you try to recover yourself, but Sam plunges his cock into you again, making you let out a low, drawn-out moan. He strikes as deeply as before, his movements are urgent, borderline predatory, insistent to have you bred nicely.

"Keep it in there, and don't you dare fucking waste it."

His movements start to slow - the thrusts are languid and gentle until Sam finally pulls himself out of your abused pussy. He grips your thighs and lowers them until you can finally breathe freely again, gasping in the cool, refreshing air.

"There you go. Deep breaths, honey," Sam coaxes, running his hands along your sore hips, massaging gently into the aching flesh. You do as you're advised and calm your breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Sam did the same until he slumped into the mattress next to you, groaning into the sheets.

You smile lazily at him, "You okay over there?"

Sam nods into the bed, still letting out a low groan, "Y'fuckin' drained me."

Pride wells in your chest. You giggle at him, earning you a playful slap on your thigh. Your giggle turns into a hearty laugh before you nestle next to Sam, eyes fluttering shut with fatigue. He takes notice and nudges you.

"Bathroom, no UTI's for us today."

You retort, "Sam, I don't think I can even walk properly right now."

He shifts and rises from the bed, scooping you into his arms and lifting you to his chest. Your laughs echo around the room as Sam Winchester takes you to the bathroom, ever the gentleman.

Hi! Thank you all for your patience as i get out of my lil' brain funk. I hope you enjoyed!

If you liked this fic, reblog to show others! Who cares if we're depraved little animals?? don't you just wanna go apeshit???

anyways ily, and i hope this fic gets the love it needs cause i had a wonderful time writing it >:3