#Questioning God and questioning John Winchester…

[casmilton]

something something early seasons sam&dean when they were looking for john and wondering if he was even alive and then his death and every horrible thing that comes after it with the caption as “But there's no other explanation. He's gone for good.” “You're lying.”“Am I? Do you remember the twentieth century? Think the twenty-first is going any better? Do you think God would have let any of that happen, if he were alive?” something something

[quietwingsinthesky]

like okay I have no basis in canon for this, I know that, but. Taking from Bugs Sam’s emphasis on “if you just tell your Dad what’s happening, you can make him see that what you want to do is right” and the way Lucifer presents in The End how he told God he couldn’t worship humans… They both just came out and said what they wanted to their fathers’ faces, didn’t they? And more, they expected it to work. They expected that they’d be heard and their opinions would be considered and they’d be allowed to do what they wanted.

I’m trying to get at like. There’s a level of trust that has to be there for that to happen. Or at least, a level of security in your place in the family. Neither of them went into that confrontation expecting to be kicked out.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (circa season 1) Tags/Warnings: cabin-in-the-woods moment, fluffy bestie banter, virgin reader, first time sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, and of course, Sam is a pussy god, as per usual. Word Count: ~20k (shhhh don't talk about it i have a problem) Notes: that's right, i make moodboards now bitches. these photos were collaged by my wonderful commissionee @daffodil-mania, who asked for: ""a reverse (you are a) natural, baby? where sam is the reader’s first time + a smutty cabin in the woods-type situation." Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

“Okay, okay,” you thought out loud, thinking hard, “my turn—if you could have anyone as a dinner guest, alive or dead, who’d you pick?”

A few paces ahead of you, Sam hummed in thought. His puffy winter coat made the outline of him against the swirling snow thicker, and if it was possible, taller, a menacing wall of deep blue between you and the woods. Something hiding out here and spying could even mistake Sam for something scary. Luckily, you weren’t that stupid.

Sam, for the millionth time in the last minute, checked that you were where you were supposed to be. (Two immediate steps behind him. Or he’d die). Looking back at you made the wind mess up his hair every time, and every time Sam tucked the same two strands behind his ears again. Like the shy girls in rom-coms did. Truly, monsters trembled at the sight of him.

He geeked at your question, but managed to play it cool: “Gandhi. Feel like he could teach me something. We’d probably like the same food, too, so it’d make for a good dinner.”

“Oh yeah, he was a vegetarian, right? You two could have a nerdy little salad together.”

Under the soft swell of the wind, you thought you heard Sam laugh, but it picked up in loud gusts at times that swirled skirts of untethered snow around your ankles. Well, your knees. The snow was tall enough here to seep into your boots. You’d given up totally on finding your own footing and started walking in Sam’s tracks, which were wider than yours almost all the way around. You told yourself that this was to confuse anyone tracking your prints in the snow, but really it was just fun to compare your shoe size to Sam’s. This set the walk back to the cabin at a snail’s pace. But with the way this conversation was going, you didn’t exactly mind freezing your ass off.

John had left his boys yet another unfinished hunt to distract them. Sam and Dean, tired of being distracted, changed tactics and split up. Dean was following a lead in Montana that could actually take him to John, and you and Sam were tying up John’s loose ends in upper Washington. The two of you had spent the last three days researching bloody disappearances in the area. An area in the thick of its snowiest, blurriest season, mind you, miles from anything but one of the Winchesters’ off-the-grid apocalypse shelters. This wasn’t how you and your mother had operated when you’d hunted together, but. Things changed. Parents disappeared.

Sam seemed to be shoving himself through John’s absence as best he could. You got smiles out of him here and there, but especially today, playing question games to pass the time mapping the woods and putting down traps.

“Gandhi was a fruitarian,” Sam clarified. He shielded his face from the snow by hiding in his collar, so you may have misheard when he added, “So, yeah. Him or my mom.”

Months ago, a mention of Sam’s mom would’ve shocked you into a full-on coma. He kept her memory even closer to his chest than Dean did, in some ways, and either brother even sneezing in the direction of their storied past had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. Before this hunt, that is. Now you couldn’t get Sam to shut up. Either the isolation had made him lonely or something else had pushed him to trust you, because the last two days had been spent this way—trudging through snow and spilling your guts about everything under the sun together. Sam loved to read and watch documentaries, he was fascinated by astronomy and meteorology and organized crime history and Native American folklore, and, hey, big surprise, reading. You’d never heard him talk about anything with so much passion. You hadn’t heard that passion in your own voice since before you’d lost your mom.

Still. As comfortable as you suddenly felt with Sam, you were sure to tread lightly. You risked a glimpse at his broad, snow-dusted back. “Mary would be nice too. Maybe you’d get to try some family recipe she’d make or something.”

“I think I remember my dad tellin’ me once that she hated cooking, actually, but m’ not sure,” Sam said, a bit of humor in his voice.

You thought of the soup Sam had turned to lava over the wood stove that morning, and grinned, “Yeah, I think you got that from her.”

Keeping casual eyes on your feet, you tried to see how fast you could get your boot through each foothold in the snow. Sam would make deep gouges in the powder with his longer strides. Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. You’d clear them three in a row, sometimes four, then stop short a step behind Sam and wait for him to make more tracks. Like hopscotch, almost. Every once in a while a huge gust of wind would force Sam to stop, and without a word he’d form a wall between you and the blast. You’d learned pretty much everything there was to know about Sam these last few days, but out of all his best dorky qualities his chivalry was your favorite.

“S’ not that I hate cookin’, I just suck attit.”

And the accent. The accent was gold, when the pretty drawl of it crept through with Sam’s boredom.

A little further and the spindly, snow-heavy trees parted for the lake you and Sam had been using to navigate. On your first day scouting you’d noticed how the icy surface had frozen like a misshapen heart, and since then Sam followed the point of it back to your cabin every night. Southeast of it was the abandoned mining facility that’d swallowed three people whole, and to its far right was where three more had disappeared. Your guess was a couple of territorial tree nymphs or werewolves, and Sam was betting on a Winter Hunger. The loser would take the first shift driving down to Montana.

Seeing the lake, Sam starts to arc your march around the edge, his sharp eyes on the treeline across the ice. The wind was stronger with room to run over the lake, but you reminded yourself that being a little cold was the gentlest way to die out here and forged ahead. Besides, most of your body had gone stark numb miles back. When you remembered how bad your cheeks were stinging, you’d bring your scarf tighter around your face and watch Sam, his long legs cutting easily through the snow.

The wind cooled down to a whisper. You reminded him, “Your turn.”

You’d reached a point where coming up with good questions had become harder than answering them, so Sam took a bit to stew on something good. There’d been a silent agreement on who was responsible for which kinds of asks. You would probe Sam with the deepest, most personal shit you could come up with, and after he explained what his life’s accomplishment was and what friendship means to him, Sam would go, uhhhh, what’s your favorite color? He was definitely the smartest shovel in the Winchester shed.

“How about this,” Sam cleared his throat. “Would you ever wanna be famous?”

You must’ve made a noise that gave away your surprise at the quality of his question, because he made a snooty sound back that had you seriously considering shoving him in the snow. You put your hands on his shoulders and everything, but where there should’ve been normal guy shoulders there were buff guy shoulders, which wouldn’t budge an inch. Sigh. What a lousy, muscly jackass.

Sam planted his feet, whining your name. “C’mon. Answer.”

“I’m thinking!” You laughed, and pushed with your legs until Sam tilted forward into his next step. It took a moment for you to keep your hands to yourself. “Okay. In this hypothetical world, what am I famous for?”

“Supermodel,” Sam answered right away.

You splashed a little snow at his jeans, deciding to save your funny feelings about his answer for later self-reflection. “Dude. Be realistic.”

At this, Sam snickered, and even with him facing forward you could imagine the dry sloping smile pressing into his dimples. “Okay—across the whole entire world, you’re famous for cooking the perfect soup in a can. Like, in ways no one can even imagine, that’s how good. You make millions of dollars off it and become a household name. Would you want that?”

“God, no,” you wuffed out, immediately sending Sam into a fit of giggles. “Are you kidding me? All those strangers knowing me, not giving me any privacy? And don’t even get me started on all those soup-hounds throwing themselves at me for my soup-money.”

“I guess that’s true. You could never marry for love, 'cause everybody would just want your soup,” Sam mourned. Another great Sam quality: he was excellent at going along with a bit. “You’d just have to live with brief soup-flings for the rest of your life.”

You thought about what a soup-fling could entail for all of one second, then burst out laughing, warm clouds of it spiraling into the air through your breath. The shoulders of Sam’s coat shook with glee. It was funny for a few more beats until it warmed into something that was light and airy, something you hadn’t heard from Sam since you’d met him. He had the sweetest laugh. It made your damn teeth rot.

“Y’know, speaking of flings,” you hollered over the hissing wind, “I have no idea how your brother does that shit.”

Dean was safe and familiar territory; he was the centerpiece of everything you had in common with Sam, so your conversation circled back to him plenty. Every conversation you’d had with Dean orbited around Sam some way, too, so you’d come to expect it. You’d never seen two brothers care about each other as much as they did. Which was hilarious, since the moment one of them got you alone all they did was bitch. Dean’s been driving me up the damn wall. Sam keeps stickin’ his nose in my business. Neither of them had ever had a trusted third set of eyes before, or at least one who understood that their complaints were overshadowed with love. John had been someone to look up to, to emulate and impress, but you were a fresh outlet available for family baggage. The boys were your outlet for bitching too, since it was understood that your bitching also came from the heart.

“A girl in every port sounds fun in theory, but I feel like I’d get sick of it fast,” you confessed.

The snow underfoot began to crunch harder with each step, packed down into a firm sheet. Soon Sam’s prints were so shallow that you could see the tips of your boots again. Taking the chance while you had it, you fought against the snow to walk side-by-side with him, then fought again to match him stride-for-stride. Sam’s poor face had been pounded with so much snow that his bangs were soaking wet, but he still managed a half-frozen smile seeing you next to him.

“And, I dunno. I think I care about hurting people’s feelings too much to just…” you gestured stiffly, “head to the next town after sharing a night with someone.”

“Same here,” Sam sighed, then gave a very subtle cough as a sign to shift gears: “But, uh, I think it’s kinda a stress relief thing for him.”

You probably should’ve guessed that Sam wasn’t the fling type, since you’d been there every time he’d shied away from Dean’s plans to pick up girls, but the idea… sat there. Staring at you. It’d be stupid-easy for Sam to live that lifestyle. Dean had his own notions about what girls were most into (bad boys, leather jackets, you know), but you happened to be certified in what girls were into, and you had it on good authority that Sam was a total dreamboat.

You nudged Sam with your shoulder, coaxing him open with a well-placed smile. This was unearthed territory. “Not your thing, huh?”

The snow had pinkened Sam’s face enough as it was, so what he was capable of on his own was downright impressive. Even his ears went red. “Uhh,” he chuckled, too skittish to look you in the eye. “No, not really. I’m. I, uh, I’d rather get to know her first, y’know. Before we’re intimate. And hopping towns doesn’t exactly give you the time to do that.”

Yup. Total dreamboat.

“Oh, so that’s your plan, asking me all these personal questions.”

Sam controlled his sputtering by pressing his lips into a firm, flat line, which refused to indulge your silly flirting. “You’re a jackass,” he said, and the growing smile in his voice betrayed just how little he thought that was true.

When you were done laughing at your own joke, Sam guessed, “So that’s not your thing, either? One night stands?”

You were having fun—pulling Sam’s leg, for one, but also talking to him in general, so the truth glides right out of your mouth.

“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never had sex.”

Sam had left his filter two states behind on the drive up, so he doesn’t even think to cap his disbelief. He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

His mortification with himself makes contact two beats later, and while you’re smirking and floating unbothered across the snow, Sam nearly goes belly-up falling over himself to apologize.

You soak up his groveling until Sam’s embarrassment hits a breaking point, then, in your humblest and kindest princess voice, you say, “It’s cool, Sam. No worries. I’m not at all offended you think it’s weird I’m a virgin.”

“I don—I-I don’t think it’s weird,” Sam stressed, going a little wild in the eyes. “It’s great! …I mean, not like, great, I just mean. It’s not a bad thing or anything.”

You meet his awkward silence with a smug, pleased one of your own. Sam’s smart enough to realize he’s stumbled into your trap, but not quick enough to find an escape, so he sputters for a long time and falls back on his third option.

“I’m just wondering,” he winces, knowing his question is stupid, “why are you still a virgin?” You’re about to laugh in his face, but the earnestness in Sam’s voice makes you hesitate. His question is a genuine one. “...That sounds awful, m’ sorry. But, c’mon. You’re smart enough to know how pretty you are. Charmin’ enough to use it, too. I mean, I’d…”

He caught himself. “—Anyone, would, uh…”

Sam didn’t finish his thought. He changed his grip on the shotgun swinging from his hand, self-conscious, and cleared his throat.

Well. That wasn’t obvious at all. No way in hell you were leaving that alone.

“You’d what?”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just tucked his hair behind his ears again, too shy to say what he was thinking but bold enough to let it be spoken in his silence instead. And it was a very, very telling silence.

Your brain scrambled to cram as much as possible into the blank Sam had left. There was so much potential in that one little word. I’d…

I’d understand if someone wanted to have sex with you.

I’d have found someone by now, if I were you.

I’d have sex with you.

I’d take that opportunity, ______, if I could.

Hm. Okay. Okay, huh. There weren’t a lot of people in the world capable of making you question your life decisions so quickly, but of course, this was Sam. His silence persevered. Your train of thought became an internal trainwreck.

A few opportunities had cropped up over the course of your life—third dates with guys that hadn’t totally sucked, a few handsome barflies—but nothing had… clicked. Because there was supposed to be a click, right? Before sex? Some compass in your body, moving you in a certain direction? You hoped to drift toward something that fit better than a stranger, but like Sam had said, that level of commitment wouldn’t be waiting for you out on the road. You could hook up with civilians or hunters as you pleased, but just the thought made your chest ache. Real connection wouldn’t be waiting for you in the back of a truck or a sleazy motel. Hunters lived short lives, sure, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be a hopeless romantic.

You’d held onto that notion for a long time. Someday, something would click, and it’d be worth the damn wait.

Now, Sam was here, blinking coyly at you through his bangs, keeping you close to him, listening when you spoke. Click, goes your brain. Like a gear notching into place. He has those mossy, sensitive eyes that pry right open just for you and the prettiest rasp to his voice. Click click.

“C’mon,” Sam coughs. “Cabin’s just ahead.”

I’d… Sam had said, and left you to fill in the blanks.

_

The next day, both of you were proven wrong. You found out the hard way that the disappearances weren’t caused by cannibalistic spirits or werewolves. After getting mauled by living hills of snow and almost swallowed by an avalanche, you and Sam got the very subtle and not-at-all-lethal impression that you were dealing with an insane case of cursed ground. (Cur-sed, Sam had said, because he was fancy.) It took some on-the-spot ritual work and a day’s worth of walking to bury hex bags in the right spots, but by dusk you were alive and comfortable back in the cabin.

“I say we stick around for one more night—make sure this place is clean,” Sam suggested, shaking himself out on the welcome mat. When he shucked his coat off, the silky interior and the back of his shirt were dark with melted snow.

You glanced between Sam, who was blue at the edges, and the shifting tides of flakes on the wind outside. If you stared long enough the whole mountainside seemed to come alive in the dark.

“Uh,” you told him, “are you sure? If we got even one of those spells wrong, what’s stopping this thing from burying the whole cabin?”

But Sam had already thought of that, like he’d already thought of everything else. He rose from where he’d been kicking off his boots to give your icy hands a quick, warming squeeze. “I got it covered. Go—get a fire started, and fast.”

Since you were still riding the wave of adrenaline that’d kept you alive against moving, living forces of nature, you were already following Sam’s orders before he’d finished saying them. He didn’t act hardly as hurried. Being soaked and half-frozen was apparently second nature to him, since he navigated uninhibited through the duffle of ingredients you’d unloaded on the cabin’s floor. Your fingers were so numb that it took three tries to scrape some fire out of your matches, and by then Sam was already tying off his millionth hexbag of the day.

You didn’t regain your senses until a few minutes later, which passed as slow as hours did. Somehow in that sliver of time you’d hauled more firewood inside, hurried it into the fireplace, lit it, helped Sam bury the protection spells around the yard, raced back inside, and laid all your wet clothes out in front of the hearth. The second the doors were locked, your high started to tank. Sam was talking.

“—will last us through til’ tomorrow. Then, in the morning, we can use the spell to see if the land is purified. It might even be a good idea to check with the dowsing rods, too. If this ground is as cursed as we think, the hexbags will be just fine, though, so you don’t have to worry. You listenin’?”

Sam was a big, fuzzy-edged shape sitting criss-cross on the ratty rug a few paces from the fire. His silhouette was outlined by it in handsome shades of gold and honey-white, ‘cause of course he was the kind of movie beautiful that suited romantic fire lighting. Like, really romantic. Your brain had been baking in the panicked sludge of fleeing and hunting all day, but even it was capable of looking at that image of Sam and going, Uh, yeah. There’s something going on here.

For the last few days, the two of you had purified the ground of the cabin, too. It was the most telling relic of Sam and Dean’s life with John Winchester: rationed, unglamorous, and harsh. John was usually an out-of-bounds subject for the boys, but Sam had spent the last few days describing him at length. He was paranoid and obsessive—hence the cabin’s military rations, hidden weapons, traps, metric fucktons of salt, and next to nothing else. John hated any music and technology post-1980—hence the cabin’s record player. It was the only source of entertainment on hand, and the same three records only lasted so long. Even as hunter’s hovels went, this one was impressively oppressive.

Sam, plagued by abysmal hunter-kid memories of being stuck out here, had warned you about it ahead of time. You’ll get bored and miserable. He’d said that and you’d thought to yourself how hard it would be to get bored and miserable around Sam, who mystified you just sitting there. Still, you splurged on some big fluffy blankets, the shittiest and cheapest chess set you could find, pillows, and s’mores. Not exactly the John Winchester essentials, but. Just in case.

Stuffing the footwell of Sam’s stolen truck with cozy bullshit had been worth it in the end, purely because you wouldn’t wish the sleeping situation in the cabin on your worst enemy. There was a single, boxspring-less bed crammed in the bedroom’s corner, with a blanket too pitiful to put into words. It only had one pillow. This pillow also happened to be of unknown origin and age, and you were only brave enough to touch it because you’d worn your big girl pants that day. Sam had banked on the two sleeping bags he and Dean had left there as kids, but they were unfortunately still kid-sized. The two of you would’ve been forced to share body heat under one petal-thin blanket. Now, loaded up with massive, fuzzy comforters and heavy quilts, the two of you were happily sharing body heat under enough blankets to drown in.

Sam had insisted on making a bed for himself on the floor the first night. You’d let him, purely because he was pouring on the chivalry by the truckload and you were too grateful to know what to say. Any plans to argue were pinned down by that stern, unguarded stare. S’okay, I’ve been sleepin’ like this since I was little. Just a few minutes sinking into your snug nest made you rot with guilt. Being on the road with the boys put you in a bed with Sam plenty of times, and though the quarters were a bit tighter in the cabin, the cold was sharper too. You confessed your guilt to Sam the next day, and after the usual research marathon that night you felt his weight fill the untouched side of the bed.

Okay, Sam had caved. But—you’re sleeping on the inside, by the wall. I’m a lighter sleeper. That way if somethin’ comes in, I can protect you.

Hearing that, you’d grabbed his wrist and pulled it over your side. You’d kept one hand fisted around the knife under your pillow and the other folded over Sam’s hand, as if to say, I can protect you, too. Sam must’ve understood, because he’d pressed his cheek against your shoulder blade and succumbed to sleep. The rest of the week was spent like that, Sam herding you against one side of the slim bed with his legs and his arms and his sleepy-soft breaths. Though the bed was toasty and the contact was a one-stop sleeping pill, you stayed up with your knife for company. Sam deserved to feel safe while he slept.

You didn’t get that often as a hunter. Especially the touching part. Touching of any kind only really happened when you trusted someone, and trust was earned on the road with all the ease and painlessness of pulling teeth. In Sam’s case, he was an untapped well for little doses of affection. The moment that line was crossed, the second you’d taken a hit in his place for the first time, the second you’d torn your own clothes to wrap his wounds, Sam was open to you. He would never reach for your hand first (not if he was still Sam, who thought he didn’t deserve it), but you could reach for his and he would take it without question. You could pull his arm around you and Sam would wrap it tight, pressing his nose into your back. There was an exchange that occurred. He trusted you to give him something he was too proud to ask for and you trusted him to let you in, the two of you careful not to break the magic.

While he poked at the fire and lit candles, you flitted to the other room to scoop up a blanket to wrap yourself up in. The constant back-and-forth insanity of the day had made you too nauseous to eat, but you knew your stomach needed something. Preferably something sweet to trick you into feeling rewarded. Military rations really weren’t your thing, so you opted for the pomegranate Sam had avoided to keep his research papers clean.

He’d been going through your plan for tomorrow, right. “I’m listening, Sammy.”

When you circled back to join him on the rug, you opened up an arm of your blanket-cape for him. Sam, without comment, ducked under it, and you shuffled around for a minute to give his broader shoulders some fabric to work with. “All we can do for now is wait,” he told you, “so… whaddya wanna do?”

You put a bowl down in front of you and started splitting the pomegranate with your knife. “Chess again?”

Sam’s lip slanted in a frown. All his energy for smart stuff had been spent on the hunt today, so you weren’t all that surprised at his reluctance.

“Cards, then?” You guessed. Beads of rich red fruit started to fill your bowl, which Sam didn’t hesitate to sneak a hand into.

“There’s only so many rounds of Go Fish a guy can handle losing, _____,” Sam teased.

It was true. You’d obliterated him every round so far, the poor bastard.

Sam leaned into your side, filling your peripherals with his know-it-all smirk. “Unless you—”

“We’re done playing poker,” you said, having suffered your fair share playing against him. The emptiness of your wallet must’ve reflected in your voice, since Sam started snickering into his lap—and yeah, maybe the whole cute-shy-guy routine had worked on you, but knowing Sam he’d find a way to sneak the money he’d won out of you back into your bag. He was sweet that way. Evil, but sweet.

“Okay,” Sam wet his lips and wracked his brain. “...I could read my book to you. It’s the one I was telling you about—”

“—with the corrupt cops in L.A,” you filled in. Separating the pomegranate seeds from their core was bloody work with your knife, so when the natural halves of it were happily in the bowl you picked the rest apart with purple-stained fingers.

“Uh-huh. And we’re at a part I think you’d find pretty interesting, all the crazy trial stuff.” Sam shrunk into his shoulders a little bit, then added in a quiet voice, “If you, y’know. If you want.”

Hmm. You swiped the book from Sam’s other hand, the planes of his fingers making brief, electric contact with yours. A sharp flash of heat whipped through your belly, sizzling through your nerves. It took a bit for you to refocus, but the pause made you look like you were some deep scholarly person really inspecting the back cover, which Sam seemed to appreciate. You took care not to get any fruit stains on the pages. When you turned to pass it back to him, Sam was rubbing his bruised knuckles into his sleepier eyes. How he could keep reading after staring at nothing but old newspapers all week, you had no clue.

You reeled the book back toward you. “...How about I read it to you?”

Sam froze, considering this. He considered it so long that you could watch his cheeks color in real-time, the same red they’d been in the snow, until he broke out of his trance and managed a warm, surprised sort of smile.

“Okay,” Sam melted.

“C’mere, lawboy,” you decided on a whim, and pat the top of your thigh. True to form, Sam took his permission and ran with it, twisting shyly to lay on his side and prop his cheek on your leg. “Lemme impress you with all the big words I know how to say.”

Sam chuckled, and it was the kind of laugh that told you just how many weird law words were about to trip you up. It was also the kind of laugh you could feel, rumbly and real through your leg, which was. It was. It was something. He got comfortable, curling a lazy arm around your knee and using you as a proper pillow.

You really should’ve put more thought into having Sam this close. Like, really should’ve, since he’s so big and warm that it has you running on nothing but instinct, and your first impulse having Sam in your lap is to go straight for that gorgeous hair.

You take the lock Sam’s been messing with all day and tuck it behind his ear, just because his head is there and you need a damn place for your hand to rest. Right. A deep and draining sigh airs out of Sam’s nose being touched like that, and you start to wonder if this was something he’d masterminded. He seeps into your lap like he’d been chasing this all day, all week, and something about it makes you feel special in ways no one else could manage.

You open to the page Sam left off on and start to read. Sam doesn’t move an inch, laying statue-still in your lap. He only moves to sneak pinches of pomegranate seeds. Stiff as he is, he’s there, the furnace you’ve relied on for the last few days to keep warm. You get through a few chapters this way, Sam pausing you every ten seconds to explain something or hum or snootily translate some lawyer-speak for you. The whole time you do an excellent job of keeping your hands to yourself. Ever since Sam’s comment from yesterday, the little pieces you’ve gotten of him have made you greedy. Click.

The fire and the candlelight create a perfect bubble of heat on the otherwise icy floor, so it doesn’t take long for Sam to go from resting in your lap to downright oozing across it. From your point of view he’s nothing but a mop of shining hair and a big hand curled around your knee. His presence seeps into you as much as his warmth does, and after so long it’s almost overwhelming to taste someone else’s vulnerability this way. Click click. You’re reminded of how much you care about Sam, and how long it’s been since you’ve been allowed that. There was something about him that would always be worth protecting. Maybe it was how fucking good he smelled.

“Doctor Janen’s contributions to the investigation, especially her knowledge of luminol, were,” you trailed off, “were…”

Sam’s breathing had evened out in your lap. Or, you thought it had, until his posture shifted under the sweater he was wearing. He rolled out of your lap and onto his hands with a reluctant groan. Tired as he was, Sam was always capable of being a smartass. “D’you know what luminol is?”

“Yes, detective,” you scoffed, maybe a teensy bit disappointed that he’d left your lap. The outline of his touch on your thigh burned like a heat beacon. “Should I go back and read the last few paragraphs, or was that you just pretending to sleep?”

Sam rubbed at his face, like it was possible to physically scrub the sleep from it. He sat up next to you, blinking slowly to get his bearings, and for no logical reason your heartbeat built to an ear-ringing throb in your chest. You were completely alone with him. For once, you had Sam all to yourself. Soft shadows kissed his arms and hands and neck. He was made up of nothing but full endless sloping lines, a charcoal sketch come to life.

“I was restin’ my eyes,” he sassed. “We should stay sharp through tonight, though. Stay up. I can take the first shift, since you’ve taken the last three.”

You didn’t miss the little nod to your sleeping habits. Which meant Sam had also laid awake long enough to know you hadn’t fallen asleep until late, which meant he’d laid awake next to you. In bed. Thinking with that big brain of his. It made your own big brain run around in crazy circles, chasing whatever conclusions he might come to.

You stole a glance at the nearest window. The salt lines were laid neatly on its sil, on the off chance boarding up the glass turned out to be useless. “That’s okay. I’m not exactly tired yet.”

Sam popped a few pomegranate seeds into his mouth, humming in thought. “Then it’d probably be smartest to keep each other up.”

“Samuel!” You gasped. He froze mid-chew, confused, and remained confused until you started poking him and laughing. “I’d expect a line like that from your brother, but never from you.”

You were a tease-first-ask-questions-later kind of person, so you understood Sam’s particular brand of banter and how he liked to respond to yours. Typically, you’d annoy him with a playful little taunt and Sam would let you know you were funny by calling you a jackass. You waited for Sam to hear your line and brush you off as an idiot. Instead, he did something much more interesting: he got defensive.

“I meant stay up like, like talking,” he sputtered. “I would never—y’know. I wouldn’t. Do, uh. Do that. Why don’t we keep up our question game from before? It’s, it’s your turn, right?”

“Okay. What was your first time like?”

Well. Shit.

This was the fastest question that either one of you had managed to whip out all week, and that fact hung so obviously in the air that you could feel it between you and Sam on the floor. It dropped so hard in the middle of the conversation that it shut you both up, silencing Sam’s sputtering and veering your train of thought to a shrieking, sparking halt. Sam was smart. His big brain would put together—had probably already put together—that you’d thought about asking him this. He might even be smart enough to intuit why you’d been itching to bring this subject back up, and for the first time in your life you prayed that Sam was the dumbest, most thick-headed man to ever hunt with you.

He did a great impression of someone less clever than himself. “Like. The first time I…?”

You chewed a few pomegranate seeds. “Uh-huh.”

“...Right.” Sam registered. He conveniently decided to fixate on the fire instead of you, which should’ve helped your sanity, if that was even possible anymore. The bulb of his nose and the swell of his lip curved just perfectly in profile, made even prettier by the firelight. God.

You panicked. “If that makes you uncomfortable—”

Sam swallowed. “No, no. You’re okay. Just thinking.”

You bit down on your tongue. Oh, awesome. Thinking! Exactly what I want you to be doing right now!

Sam swiped two sweaty, corded hands down each of his thighs. Tucked his hair behind his ears. Made your belly flutter and twist like a huge gust of wind going through a spring-fresh tree.

“I was seventeen,” Sam cleared his throat. “We were in Utah—well, I was in Utah, Dad and Dean were… Whatever. But I was sort of, um, on this rebellious streak at the time.”

You lazed back on your hands. “So, in hunter-kid terms, counting the days til’ you’re eighteen and packing your rucksack?”

An abrupt laugh barked out of Sam. His gaze loitered on your face with renewed comfort, remembering, again, that you’d both hidden your acceptance letters where no parent could see them. This was another Sam-move you knew the steps to.

“Yeah,” his eyes glittered. “Exactly.”

(The day you met Sam, the one reference you’d made to your associate’s degree had him crossing his legs under the table. He’d asked in a husky, tight voice what you’d gone to school for. Just hearing the words folklore and mythology had the guy close to pitching a tent.)

Sam managed to take his eyes off you. “But, uhm. There was this girl at school my Dad had ordered me not to hang around, so… I hung around. After a school dance. In her car.”

You were a very mature adult who was not at all jealous of a teenage Utahn, and thus sculpted your face into something playful. “Dirty,” you snickered. Sam’s light smile was encouraging, so you said as an afterthought, “Sounds like a squeeze, though. Don’t know if I’d want my first time to be in a car.”

“Especially in a tiny, cramped Nissan,” he agreed, chuckling. The smidgen of regret in his voice shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d earned a point against Random Utah Girl, but it did. You scolded yourself for it (your imaginary point gripped in one fist).

It was now Sam’s turn to ask a question, and he asked it fast. Impressively fast. “Okay, so. No car. Where would you want your first time to happen, then?”

Though you were an absolute animal when it came to Go Fish, your empty wallet was proof enough that you were a lousy poker player—due to an even lousier poker face. Hearing Sam’s question, it did you no favors. Even before you’d formed any thoughts about… everything, your body knew its answer, pointing every delicate nerve in your body toward the open doorway to the cabin’s bedroom.

You flicked a glance at the warm, intimate darkness waiting for you there.

It was only a second. But that one look was enough. Your hand was exposed, and Sam, by comparison, was an excellent poker player.

In a rush, you scrambled to put some distance between yourself and your obviousness. You winced. No way out. “Uhh, anywhere cozy. For the first time, I dunno if I’d wanna be cramped in a closet or something, no matter how sexy it may be. Is it lame to say… a bed?”

Sam hummed. As you’d talked, he’d become more and more relaxed in front of the fire, lounging on a propped-up arm and picking out of the fruit bowl. There was a long silence from him that could’ve been the weighted silence before a judge’s verdict.

…You’d never seen a judge draw his hand up to his mouth, suck pomegranate juice from the pads of his fingers, then pull off them with a noisy pop, but. But maybe they took a different approach at Stanford.

“It’s the standard for a reason, right?” Sam shrugged, amused.

He pushed the bowl across the floor with his wrist instead of his spit-slick fingers. It made a hollow scraping sound that brought your head back to the conversation, thank god, since the last seconds of your life post-fingers-to-mouth action had been spent elsewhere. The specific “elsewhere” that entailed Sam’s thick-knuckled fingers and Sam’s pretty pink mouth. You’d had the occasional intrusive thought about men creep up on you before, but the tricky part was that those thoughts pushed their way in. They jolted into your life then jolted back out.

Single-handed, Sam had hooked you, reeled you in, and pulled you “elsewhere.” Keyword: pulled. Not pushed.

…Then… maybe… pulled you again. And pushed you back. And again. Pulled out, then pushed in. Pulllled out slow, only to ssssink back in, deeper than before. Pulling and pushing with rhythm. Pulling, pushing, faster, deeper. Making you gasp and yelp his name, his fingers—Sam’s fingers—digging into your waist, your belly—

Click. Click click click click click click.

“_____?”

You’re so self-conscious you think you could feel the individual atoms of your body clanging against each other. “...Uh-huh?”

It’s your turn to ask a question next. But Sam breaks the rules and speaks first, since he knows exactly what he wants to ask you. He glides up onto one hand, his whole body a twenty-page study of lanky coyness, and tilts in close to you.

“If you could lay it all out—the timing, the place, the person…” Sam’s face glittered with a poker player’s curiosity. “What would your perfect first time be like?”

Or: Give me the manual, and I’ll follow it.

Your mouth was watering. It was one of a million things making it impossible for you to speak right now, including the sudden, nigh-unbearable heat of the room under your collar, and, oh right, the metric fuckton of slick soaking your underwear. The speed at which your arousal hits you is enough to make you dizzy, and in the haze you swear you start to hear something. Click. Click. Click click click click click click click—

Fuck. Sam is waiting for an answer. Fuck.

“I guess I’ve never thought about it before.”

Which was a blatant lie, since you’d spent the last ten minutes thinking of nothing else. Sam either sensed you weren’t telling the truth or was looking for something more, because he let you linger in your own answer, prying the rest out of you with his hanging silence.

Really, you should’ve been tougher, but the first long breath without anything from him shredded your strength. You caved and filled the quiet.

“I mean,” you toyed with your hands in your lap. “No matter what, I’d want it to be special. Bein’ out on the road, marching around, that’s not really a luxury we’re allowed to have. It’s like you said yesterday. I wanna be with someone I’m connected to, and I don’t think that’s gonna be in the back of a bar or—”

“—in a stranger’s bed,” Sam softened with understanding. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” You echoed. The fire crackled and popped, loud enough that you could use the sound as an excuse to look elsewhere. “And if I happened to find that person, they’d have to be in the life. We can only trust other hunters, nowadays.”

Sam snorted. “If we’re lucky, maybe.”

It disappointed you how much you had to agree with him. There used to be a sense of mutual understanding among the hunters you’d met, but something had shifted since you were little. The world was a much scarier place, and the hunters that’d survived to see it had darkened to meet it. You’d dodged all shades of skeevy, selfish people before you’d landed in the Impala’s backseat. Even Dean and Sam had colored the list of hunters you’d been warned to avoid. Of course, every inch of it had turned out to be triple-hand gossip. Maybe you were quick to judge or the boys were just good seeds in a shitty crop, either way, ending up with them was the kind of good luck that beat the devil.

You’d never had the chance to tell Sam that before.

“I dunno. Not to go all mushy on you, but I do feel pretty lucky.”

Sam indulged you with an inviting tilt of his head, impressed that either one of you had a sliver of luck between you. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. This last year, before I joined up with you n’ Dean, there wasn’t a single living soul out there I thought was worth putting my faith in,” you said, easing your mushy confession onto him under the guise of fact. Sam couldn’t digest it any other way. “I’m really grateful you changed that for me. It feels—it feels good to trust people. To feel like somebody knows you.”

Sigh. The side of your personal bubble filled with nothing but Sam started to seep with quiet, disbelieving fondness, and you could tell because Sam was giving you the eyes. The eyes. The ones that people brought out their wallets for and sent girls like you into romantic psychosis.

You dared to face them head-on, which was a reckless idea (probably brought on by romantic psychosis). Sure enough, his gaze was big and soulful and heart-rending. Sam was sitting so close now that you could almost soak up his body heat. The biting wind wormed its way through the thin walls and the fire was fading with it, but Sam oozed magnetic warmth by comparison. Stuff-your-face-in-his-neck kind of warmth.

“Do you feel like…” Sam rasped. He brushed the flats of his knuckles down your arm, breaking that final touch barrier. “...like I really know you?”

Your entire nervous system implodes with fluttery feelings. It’s just two fingers, brushing soft down your arm through your sweater, but. It’s confirmation. It’s Sam’s yes, I want this, and it puts into perspective how the two of you have spent the last week: alone together. Curled as one shape in bed. Talking just loud enough for only the other to hear, and never an octave higher. Never more than a few feet apart. If you reached for Sam first you knew he’d accept your hand, your boots in his bootprints, but when he coasts his palm down the swell of your shoulder it’s him reaching out for you.

You reach right back. You curl a hand up to cover his hand with yours, those big doe eyes asking that same question on repeat. Do you think I know you? Do you trust me? Do you want this?

“All I’ve got is me, you, and Dean. And it wasn’t him that I told all my deepest hopes and shittiest moments to,” you laughed. “So…”

Every other time you’ve hit this point, you’d been distracted by the logistics and the math of sex—protection, chemistry, the when and how, and the consequences of both. It’s not gonna hit you until two days after this moment, after Sam has you as many times as you want in the plush cabin bed, that there was no math with him. Just want. Just things sliding into place. Click click click.

“So…” Sam’s face tips even closer. Your head fogs with the heat and smell and presence of him, mesmerized.

He puts it all together for the two of you: “Your perfect first time would be with a hunter, somebody in the life that you trust. Somebody who could make you feel special. Somebody who really knows you.”

You smirk before you can stop yourself. “Do I need to drop any more hints, Sam?”

Damn, could that boy put a fireworks show to shame. He lit up. Sam’s shoulders did this really cute boyish swell and his lips parted, telegraphing with every piece of himself, Oh, you really want this, you really want me!

You’d never seen him wear that kind of happiness before, and it made sense why. Thank god the two of you were off the grid out here, because you didn’t doubt that Sam’s smile could pop every lightbulb in the entire country.

Sam aimed a bubbly laugh at his lap, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’m getting the full picture,” he tried to flirt, “a few more, maybe?”

So, getting less and less subtle as you went on, you explained to Sam the hypothetical author of the night of your life. He’d be sweet. Polite. Smart, too, but not the type to rub it in your face. (This made Sam laugh). He’d be gentle and considerate and frankly fucking awesome, but not so shy that he couldn’t give you a wild time.

When he was blushing so hard you stopped needing the fire for warmth, you sprinkled one last handful of flattery on him. “And, jesus,” you whistled, “this guy I’m picturing? Total dreamboat. So pretty it makes me wanna write dumb songs about him.”

Predictably, Sam got so flustered that he went back to futzing with that same strand of hair by his ear. With the touch barrier between you broken, your mind buzzed with a million different ways to reach out and feel him, to draw him in, and all those ideas coalesced seeing Sam’s hand come up to his cheek. Before you lost your resolve, you stroked the messiest portion of his bangs behind his ear for him. Sam melted. He liked to do that around you.

“Now I’d just sound arrogant if I assumed that it’s me,” Sam snorted.

You pressed the flats of your knuckles down Sam’s warm, smooth cheek. “It’s you. It’s been you for a while, actually.”

The easy, loving contact dazed him. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, and a short, shaky breath puffed out of him in one bracing go. It was clear that he hadn’t been touched this way in a while. He sat there absorbing your touch for a long time, a cat resting his head in the full scope of your palm. You turned your body to face his and Sam’s gaze, which was layer after layer of hazels no artist could mimic, opened for you.

You thought about saying something cheesy like, wow, ain’t I lucky, having the whole world in the palm of my hand, but Sam was much faster (and much, much cheesier).

A leather-tough hand scooped around the back of your neck. The touch was fucking-christ-big and god, so was he, the line of his thumb to his wristbone as long as the length of your neck. You knew this because that’s exactly where Sam placed it, stroking your chin with his thumb. Prickling chills tickled up your legs. He scrutinized you—and you say scrutinize loosely, since the Sam-equivalent was gazing into your face like a fatal decision was held there. Your mental yes, yes, I want you was so loud that Sam could’ve psychically heard it. If he did, it was enough to make his pupils become huge pools of want.

“C’mere,” Sam grinned.

You laughed. “M’ practically nose to nose with you, Sam, I don’t have any further to—”

The rest of your teasing was lost to a louder yelp. Sam scooped his arms around your middle and. And hauled you. Into his lap.

His—lap.

There was no way to survive this landing. You were plopped right on top of his barrel-wide thighs, your every sense instantly stuffed full to bursting with every wonderful thing that made Sam himself. A steam of woody body wash and aftershave put you under his spell. Two massive hands soothing down your back glued you happily in place. Sam’s warm chuckles seeped through his chest and into your hands, because, oh yeah, you were allowed to touch him. And there was so much of him to touch now, too. The entire front of your body was cozily smushed up against his firm, longer frame, filling your hazy vision with the soft shadows on his throat and collarbones and those fucking dimples. What the fuck.

“Is this okay?” Sam asked you.

The only time you’d been permitted in another person’s space like this was to hug them. Overwhelmed with choice—you could kiss him, touch him, run your fingers through his hair this close—you defaulted to what you knew. Sam hesitated, but with a breath, the coil of his body unwound and the two of you slid together with a satisfying smush. (Or maybe a click).

Oh my god that’s good, your senses wailed, but all you could manage with your face muffled in his neck was, “Warm. Sooo warm, Sammy.”

“Is that a yes?” He hoped.

You pulled your face out of his shirt to sigh. “The biggest yes of your life.”

Sam gleamed. Being so close to the source of all happiness on earth (the toothy grin he was biting back for your benefit) should’ve instantly pulverized you and every other hot-blooded being on this side of the planet. It should’ve. But your soul was still ringing around in your feeble body, and sure enough, your calves were still snug around Sam’s thighs like they’d been before. You’d survived being inches away from Sam’s face while he smiled all shy for you, and succeeded in feeling only a teeny bit like a pile of smoking ash because of it. For a second you tricked yourself into thinking you could survive him.

That is not the case.

With impeccable timing, Sam kisses you. Just a brief, firm peck on the mouth. Testing the waters. The waters that are now a fucking ocean in your underwear, thank you very much. It’s only a two-second kiss, but the instant Sam’s lips pop off of yours an embarrassing happy squeal follows him out. Definitely not the suave reaction you were expecting from yourself. Sam just laughs, which translates as a sexy hum under your free hand.

“That was cute,” he whispers, eyes crinkling.

“Shut up, Sam.”

He hums, still brimming with that big spoiled grin. He takes you by your prickling arms and starts to pull his hands down them, again and again, squeezing the anxiety out of you in huge handsy swaths. You feel a bit better about being such a nervous wreck. His hands are trembling too.

The first kiss was good. Really good. Wetter, warmer than you were expecting, but so fucking—good. His mouth was soft and stained by the pomegranate, but, oh no, you’re already forgetting what it was like to taste him. It’s so tempting… to just… lean in…

He’s just as tempted. Sam meets you in the middle for a second kiss that he finds so satisfying, so right that this deep rumbling moan purrs right out of him. The pink swell of his lips are, of course, pressed hot to yours, filling you head to fucking toe with that single bassy note. You gasp through your nose—because nothing is worth breaking his kiss. Not a desperate breath of air, not an uttered word.

Sam kisses you with his hands as much as he dazzles you with his mouth, laying heavy touches down your back, then your waist, then your legs, inspecting and absorbing. You’re hardly as methodical. He is a wonderful beach and it’s your first time seeing the ocean. You take the biggest fistfuls of him that you can, feeling the silky sand of him slip between your greedy fingers.

Sam is apparently into being your metaphorical beach, since after he’s done melting your brain and your underwear in the most intense make-out session of your life, he pulls away to speak.

Sam rasps. “Can I take care of you?”

It takes you a moment to respond, because. Well. A, that’s the sexiest way someone has asked to have sex with you, no contest, and B, you’ve been waiting this whole time for the moment where you don’t want this anymore. With other men, your body had just never found the spark that should’ve been there. Was this time different? Had things click click clicked into place?

You take a step back to put this in perspective for your future self. As vividly as you’re able, you think about having sex with Sam. You visualize Sam’s sharp eyes, his naked back, the cut of his hips, all of it, as he fucks you straight through the shitty mattress in the cabin’s bedroom. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his—of his fucking paws, essentially, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls. You think about it some more. How Sam would moan, how his lashes would screw shut in ecstasy as he filled you. You keep thinking about it. When your mind starts to deviate toward the filthy, thick sound of him… o-of Sam plunging into you over and over again, smushing you under his weight… uhm. Uh.

Yeah. Yeah, this is everything you fuckin’ want.

It takes conscious effort for you to close your gaping mouth, then pry it open again to blurt: “Please, yes.”

A tiny piece of his posture relaxed in relief. Sam smushed a cute, giddy peck into your cheek, reminding your entire tingling nervous system that there was a really sweet guy underneath the deadly-efficient hunter you knew.

“Okay,” he beamed, and shyly tipped his head toward the bedroom. “Shall we?”

You feel like you should be doing more than being demure and nodding a lot, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind. After you climb out of his lap and find your footing on your jellified legs, he unfolds off the floor like bucks do, knowing on instinct how to conduct the body he has so much of. The fire’s sleepy and weak in the hearth, and with it dead, Sam is the new center of heat in the room. He takes your hand and just touching the middle of his palm spurs shivery warmth down your legs. Now, you’re all too aware of Sam’s proportions—how encompassing his hand feels, how easily his shoulders fill the doorway to the little bedroom. Feeling mature, you fill the next room with bright giggles. You see in real-time how Sam melts at the noise.

Like you have the last few nights, you each scoop up a candle and find a place for it amidst the hunter clutter. It takes a beat to find your way through the dark. The space is just big enough for the slim bed pushed snug into the corner, and already you know from experience how you and Sam fit into the nest of blankets and pillows. (Hint: extremely well).

Sam uses his candle to light a few others on the bedside table, keeping a free hand stretched toward you to reserve his spot as your only hand-holder. You drop your candle on the dresser and consider the only thing next to it while you wait for him. The Winchesters had three vinyls total for their ancient record player, and seeing it unused and wasted in front of you, you have a stroke of romantic genius.

The second you drop the needle on the first jazz record and turn back toward the cozy, honey-lit room, Sam’s there, sliding into your open arms to plant a kiss on you. And another. And another. And another, coaxing little happy sighs from you. They’re such deep kisses that you dip back with each one, until the curve of Sam’s towering body is diagonal over you and you have to clutch his shoulders to stay standing. Both of his rough-sawn hands cup the scoop of your back to support you. All your daydreaming about him had convinced you that he’d be a head-to-toe brick wall, but Sam’s teddy-bear soft instead, the gleaming skin you have access to yielding and plush. His lips most of all, puffy pink and shining.

Sam persists, pressing closer, kissing you deeper, panting under his breath. Whatever it is about the happy sounds you make wake up something dark in him. There’s a tight, delicate rhythm he likes to follow, and the more of Sam you get the less of it you see. That straight-arrow persona is there, and then—poof! Sam’s tongue is laving wet and hot and perfect across your parted lips, ruining your underwear in one fell swoop.

He tilts in to start sucking on your tongue—

“Fuck, Sam,” you choke out.

The situation in your panties graduates to unbearable levels. If you have to makeout with Sam fully clothed for even a second longer, you think your core will enter a full reactor meltdown. You try to get the words across, grabbing helplessly at his sweater and whining, but Sam interprets it as something else.

“Everything okay?” He worries.

Dazed, you nod more than you need to. With your eyes open and his face in full view, you’re hit with a spark of self-consciousness. Sam fills the bedroom with easy conviction, owning his desire in a way you’ve never really been capable of. You don’t exactly have the experience to blow his mind or anything. Why would he want this if there was so little in it for him? Sam wasn’t a selfish guy, but… To you, your eagerness starts to feel more like greediness.

You shift from foot to anxious foot, shrinking in place. “...Could you, um? Walk me through it? How we’re gonna…?” You swallowed the frog in your throat. “Sorry, that must seem stupid.”

Leave it to him to make something stupid into something ridiculously, fatally sexy.

“S’okay, don’t be embarrassed. It’d…” Sam wets his lips, looking for the words. A quiet, dirty-minded smile plays across his face. He decides, “It’d be my pleasure.”

His touch moves away from your back, and you’re about to mourn the loss of it until Sam’s hands start to play with yours, twisting them around in his own like a schoolboy. He closes the space you’ve timidly left open between you by pressing your chests together. It’s a small gesture. But this is Sam, so your face is in smolders on that alone. (…And you’d just been french kissed, to be fair).

“Okay. Uhh,” Sam fumbles. He stops to consider his approach. As in, the approach he’ll take to seducing you, as if you aren’t seduced on a level incomprehensible to humankind.

You can’t help but laugh at how much Sam-math must be happening in his head, and Sam laughs too. Sam keeps laughing, until it warms into a handsome, knowing hum, and suddenly he’s laying your hands on his belt and tickling your ear with the hot fan of his breath. You squeak, sensitive, which tempts him into breaking character.

Sam reigns it back in, then whispers.

“When you’re ready… m’ gonna get you out of these clothes.”

The deliciously big set of hands on your waist sidle up under the open strip of skin below your shirt. Just one of his fingers is brave enough to sneak up to draw circles against your tummy. It’s the slightest taste of what it’ll be like to have those hands all over you, sweat-slick skin-to-naked skin, which is just enough to make your appetite for him boil in your gut.

“And I know you’re gonna be freezin’, we both are, but I promise you’ll get real hot real soon. Cause’...”

The bulb of his nose (and the ghost of his smile) brushed your cheek, then down, and the explosive fluttery feeling already lighting up your belly pitches into a whole fireworks show.

“...The minute I see you lying all pretty on your back for me…”

Sam tips in to lay a kiss on your throat. A slow, open-mouthed kiss, suckling soft on your skin.

“...In our bed…”

Our bed, he says. That choice of words alone implies so much. If the two of you sharing it before didn’t count, then Sam was about to make it your bed.

“I’m not stopping til’ you get every single thing you want,” Sam purrs. His kisses become blatant licks, the whole of his capable tongue drawing wet lines on your throat. “Til’ you’re damn spoiled.”

What. The fuck. The universe could dissolve into mist and you would be too turned on to care, tethered to the last atoms of the earth by your hands on Sam’s belt. You gape up at him. Sam, the evil genius, smirks right back. When you’d said you wished your first time could feel special, you hadn’t exactly been planning for Sam to follow that direction to the damn letter. He makes it sound like he’s going to bend to your every whim, and knowing Sam...

You swipe at your face to check that you’re not drooling. “I’m—I-I—you’re—” while you’re sputtering, he swipes a dab of spit off the other corner of your lip. “—Suh-Sam.”

Screw it. You drop both hands on Sam’s chest and twist your fingers in his shirt, forcing the words out in choppy pieces. “I’m not as experienced as you. But I really, really… want this. To be—to be good for us. Wanna give you everything you want, too.”

Sam makes a flattered, yet sympathetic face. “Oh, baby, don’t think about me—”

“—I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Now, it’s Sam’s turn to forget how to speak. Finally.

You wind your fingers into the tuft at the back of his neck, enunciating, “How… do I make this good for you?”

“You’re already here. That’s all I need,” Sam gushes, falling back on his tender chivalrous boyfriend routine. It’s really sexy. Almost sexy enough to work. He tucks back his signature lock of unruly hair, blushing from his ears to his neck.

Well, stream-of-consciousness hasn’t failed you yet.

“Uh-uh. We’ve been alone together in this teeny cabin for a whole week. There’s no way I’m the virgin, but you’re the one without the dirty fantasies.” You take a long squinting look at him to divulge any loose secrets. Thumbing Sam’s hip through his shirt, you press, “Tell me. C’mon. You want me to blow you? Pull your hair? Or do you, I dunno—wanna bite me? Pin me down?”

You can track the second Sam starts breathing harder, but somewhere between then and now his eyes have glazed over with dangerous desire.

Sam clutched fast at his shrinking sliver of self-control. “Okay,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. So… if it feels right, and it’s not embarrassing, it would be… I’d, I’d love it if you…”

“Got super noisy?”

After an intensely bashful pause filled with quiet music, Sam nods, hiding behind his bangs. Knew it. He always got so squirrely when you did your oh-I’m-so-cozy moan snuggling into bed at night.

Teasing him any more would definitely be poking the bull. But is it fun to poke that bull? Absolutely. Especially when Sam starts to unbuckle his belt, his whole body crawling with the urge to throw himself at you.

“Alright, I can do that. But how noisy are we talking? Like, normal enjoying myself kind of noisy, or best-sex-of-my-life noisy?”

He gets this nasty, disbelieving smile on his face, and it’s your last warning before—

Snap. Sam’s restraint splits in two. In an instant you’re captured by the underarms and Sam, who’s honest-to-god grinning/snarling about how you need ta’ be taught a lesson on leavin’ well enough alone, flings you onto the end of the bed. You land with a shriek. Then a second, louder squeal, as Sam takes your pantlegs in his fists and whips them clean off.

The next precious moments are filled with all sorts of lessons. For one thing, it takes a lot of force to tear pants off a person. By happenstance, you’re dragged a whole foot further down the bed and right against Sam’s lap. You also learn that pants are connected to underwear, so following that math, it makes sense why your panties are now royally rearranged on your hips. These two factors are too convenient to not be planned on Sam’s part. You’re reminded, again, that Sam is a genius.

You also remember that you’ve never been pantsed before. With and without the sexy context. Keeping that in mind, you, like any other person in your delicate situation, snap your legs closed on instinct. Not because you don’t want Sam there—holy shit, do you want him there—but because he happened to tickle you in the transfer from floor to bed, and you’re not about to let him pounce on you and tickle you to death.

This really works out for you in the long run, since having your legs closed means that it’s inevitable Sam will have to open them.

You’re laughing so hard that your sides have locked up with stitches. Sam pretends he’s not just as amused by kneeling up on the bed as grouchily as possible, ripping his shirt off, and… and, uhm… scooping his huge palms under your knees, and… yeah. He doesn’t have to do any pushing past that. Your legs just fall right open for him, and Sam wiggles in between them where he belongs.

Nothing in this entire world could prepare you to have Sam this close, so the idea that you could even cope with being absolutely towered over by the indecent amount of ab he possesses is fuckin’ laughable. Who the fuck let him have abs? For the health of all people attracted to men on this planet, who taught Sam to work out?

Your giggling trails off into mesmerized, panting silence.

“How noisy?” Sam scoffs, chuckling mean and deep in his chest. “How noisy? I’ll give you a hint how noisy you’re gonna be—”

He falls forward onto his hands, effectively blanketing you in a swath of flushed-smooth, freckly skin. There’s not a thought in your mind about how cold this room is in comparison to the last. Your hands smooth over the planes of his cheeks on instinct, and Sam follows the touch into a soul-shattering, full-body, toe-curling kiss that melts both your bodies into the homey center of the quilts and comforters. His nose squishes into your cheek and a long, satisfied groan bubbles out of him. He barely pulls his lips from yours when he hisses—

“...I’m gonna fuck you til’ you’re hoarse.”

What in the ever-loving fuck.

I cannot put into words how much I want you to do that, you want to say, and it’s true, since you end up making the world’s neediest gasp of glee instead. You’re not pleading up into his face for a full second before Sam gets your message. One can only guess what he’ll do next. (Hint: Sam cannot take in a full breath without kissing you first).

All week you’ve been toiling away to earn tiny pieces of the Sam puzzle. The picture you’ve built so far is, frankly, a touch-starved animal, who will wait at the heels of the first trusted person willing to provide. You kiss Sam once and he’s so damn grateful that he’ll multiply it by five. You get adventurous with your hands, squeezing and appreciating Sam’s flushed-smooth back. Because he’s Sam, returning the favor takes precedence over his beloved activity, and your kiss is forced to break so he can sit up and touch you proper.

Well. If any of this can be considered proper, that is. And if there’s one word to describe what Sam does to you with his hands, it’s improper.

“Still ready, _____?” He asks.

You bite back your inner worries and taunt him, “Been ready.”

He splays his fingers on your belly and is so transfixed by its softness that he stoops to smudge a kiss above your belly button. You do your best to pretend it doesn’t tickle, which is the opposite of what Sam wants. He gives your sides two quick pinches that have you squirming and squeaking under him, too shy to keep your eyes open. You’re embarrassed about the girly sounds he gets out of you until you risk a look at his face—plum red, dizzy, and glazed with fond desire.

Sam wasn’t kidding. He does want you at your noisiest.

This brings your horniness to a whole new level, turning the airy fluttery feeling expanding in your belly into the opposite: an emptiness, a vacuum, and one that desperately needs to be filled. Sam seems to do nothing but fill things. The doorways he stands in, the beds he kneels on, the snuggly center of your embrace. Naturally, this makes you insane. His hands fill up the most—big swaths of your belly, your shirt—your bra.

They push the band of the hunting sportsbra you’re wearing clear over your tits and out of his way. Sam rumbles in approval.

You stop your hands from twitching up around your naked chest, now hyper-aware of how much your breasts rise with your breath. Sam breathes you in. His gaze is soft beyond imagination, which makes the whittled-down shards of fear inside you seem even sillier than before. Either he reads your mind or he’d predicted you’d be mousy (and christ do you hope it’s the latter, since that means he thought about this already), because Sam plucks up your closest hand and presses it flat to his happy trail.

“Don’t be nervous,” he soothes. “Touch me too.”

The thought alone explodes you into steam. But you’re no quitter, so you roll with the invitation, stroking the soft pads of your fingers along the line from Sam’s naval to his ill-fitting jeans. He’s not flexing for you, so you get to feel him as Sam really is: butter-smooth and blanket-soft. Without his belt there’s a precious gap hanging between his hips and his waistband. It’s just big enough for your hand to fit inside.

You’re not brave enough to take that final plunge until Sam twists down to kiss your chest. His mouth burns scorching hot on your breastbone, and as he curls over your body, his hands on your belly slide up to take two needy handfuls of your tits. In the same motion you fit your hand into Sam’s jeans and squeeze and—ohhh fuck, you wind in as one, sharing a perfect bow-taut moment of hissing pleasure.

Sam pressed his face where he was kissing, deflating on top of you with a long, seeping, “Shittt.”

Okay. On top of feeling good, sex could be a fun little puzzle to put together. Sam urging his hips into your hand was one piece, and if you put it in the right place (i.e: touched him like that again), he’d be all yours. You do. You cup him through his boxers and follow what you feel, and what you feel is. Fucking. It’s. I-is it supposed to be that big? And, and holy shit, is he hard.

Sam. Sam’s big, thick dick in your hand. You’re gonna be wet for damn weeks.

Stupified, you blurt out, “Do you always get this hard?”

Sam cracks a wry grin, his eyes lidded. “Mm. It’s definitely you. Bein’ stuck out here with you.”

He drops a kiss on the seam of your ribcage. Then lower. And lower, leaving shiny wet circles along your tummy. “Makin’ me crazy… sticking by me every second, pressing yourself into me in your sleep. Lookin’ at me like—like that.” Just thinking about it made Sam shiver. “You turn me on like nothing else. Just last night, even, right here in this bed—I must’a stopped myself from rolling you over and tasting you a hundred times.”

The urge was so vivid for him that Sam’s mouth must’ve been watering, since he sucks the spit back through his teeth before he starts to kiss your belly in earnest. Just that sound burns with lust. Sam wants it, wants you so bad he’s shaking, his hands trembling under your thighs as he slithers down to lay between them. His kisses grow fiercer, open-mouthed and sucking the closer he gets to your panties. Kitten-soft moans start to sneak into the cycle of your panting.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop myself this time,” Sam husks.

You let him know just how comfortable you are with that by curling your legs around his back. Then his shoulders. Then Sam’s ears, and at that point he’s singeing spit-damp kisses inside your thighs like the world’s most faithful servant.

Nobody but him had ever touched you there. You choke out his name on short, needy breaths. It’s like you’re filling a meter. With enough please, Sams, you hit his limit, and he stops rubbing his face into your soft under-thighs long enough to hook his fingers around your waistband.

You’re treated to the Sam Winchester specialty. He bats long lashes at you over dark, sensitive eyes, and rasps, “Am I okay to…?”

You’re so horny that you start spurring Sam closer with your heels. “Fucking yes.”

This is the A+ answer. Sam doesn’t even wait to get your underwear all the way down your legs, yanking them out from under you and ducking straight below the bridge they make. Just seeing your pussy makes him swear. You’re so swollen and slick and his mouth is so close, so close, but Sam decides to taunt you, blowing across the spit cooling on your belly instead. Heat oozes in hazy lines from his body. From his hands. By comparison, the night has leeched the warmth from the room and you’re cold enough to get goosebumps.

“Please please please, Sam,” you hiccup, “need it. Need you. Need you t’ warm me up.”

“My poor girl,” Sam coos, brows drawn with playful sympathy. He starts to rub some heat back into your freezing legs, tilting closer, closer. “I know just how to help.”

You let your head flop back as you take his cheesiness in, laughing. That’s not exactly a line you’d expect from him. Before, though, you would’ve never pinned Sam as the kind of guy to clamp your knees against your chest, drop his head between your legs and fit his mouth on you, slurping noisily on your slick like he’s eating the juiciest fruit of his life—

“—f-uuuuckkk Sammy yes yes yes—”

Indescribable pleasure pops and sizzles along your weeping core. It’s so fucking—fucking yes all at once that you clap down both hands to white-knuckle the top quilt and howl. Sam sets to work. He covers your entire pussy with his mouth, swallowing you fucking whole, apparently, since you’re the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted. You have to be, with Sam groaning and cursing all fierce and hot between licks.

“Fuck. That’s it, pretty girl,” Sam coaches. He slurps loud and obscenely on your clit, swallowing down the results with a shiver of ecstasy. “Shit, just like that. You’re so good at this already. So good at taking it, ______. Never should’a made you wait.”

But all that must not count as getting a full taste of you, since Sam deviates, splaying his tongue flat and wide to rake it against you top to bottom. His tongue almost drools with liquid heat. At first you’d been disappointed you couldn’t see him over your legs, and now, you’re grateful for the mercy. Seeing Sam like that…

Sam licks you open until there’s no breath left in him. He goes until his jaw is sore and your slick is rolling off his chin in sticky rivulets, wetting the bedspread. He goes and he keeps going, worshipping your slippery-wet cunt between huffy moans.

You make a pathetic attempt at giving as good as you’re getting, but what should be a sexy zinger actually comes out as, “Sam, I-I—oh, god—Sam—!”

After that, your ability to form words joins your other higher brain functions in the endless sparkling expanse of white in your mind. Sam stirs a single long finger through your sopping folds. The stimulation alone has your hips twisting helplessly up to his face, on top of the rapid flicks of his talented tongue, but it’s the easy pressure of Sam’s thick finger filling you to the knuckle that actually earns a scream.

Not your average horror movie scream—an honest, enthusiastic, belly-deep cry that jerks in your chest like a sob.

You can pinpoint the precise moment that Sam realizes you’re a screamer; he hum-laughs to himself where he thinks you can’t hear.

“Next time,” (oh my fucking god there’s a next time), “‘won’t make you wait a minute, baby. Gonna give you everythin’ you want. I’m real sorry, darlin’, do you forgive me? Forgive me for not fucking you the second we were alone?”

You’re too busy having actual, real tears of desire cake your cheeks to string together a better answer than a moan. Holy shit.

Sam gives your pussy two deep, loving licks, each hot enough to send you into a coma. “Say it,” he utters, teasing, “say you forgive me.”

“I forg’ve you,” you croak.

“Forgive who?” He presses.

“I forgive you, Sammy.”

“That’s my girl,” Sam husks the promise between kisses to your clit, “So good to me. So sweet.”

Somehow, this is just as life-altering for him as it is for you. Long, flowing crests of pleasure seep hot through your system, winding tighter, tighter, tighter, twitching in the muscles of your stomach and almost cramping in your curled toes. The taste of you is so rich that Sam’s back quakes with euphoric shudders, trembling deep under the skin where he’s too far gone to rein back in. Sweaty locks of his bangs flutter as he breathes. It’s the only sign he’s breathing at all, really, what with him eating you out like he’s fuckin’ starved.

Sam gives a few good twists of his finger deep in your pussy (which doesn’t even graze how deep he might be with his cock). When you’re a puddle on the mattress and used to him, Sam withdraws to studiously coach you, “Deep breaths, ______.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Once they have, you wind down long enough to measure your crazed breathing into even strokes. The ceiling overhead swims with dancing candlelight shadows and floating cartoon stars. Sam lifts his head to see for himself that you’re following his instructions, and after he’s done falling in love with the sight of you, Sam fills you up with two digits instead of one.

“A-ah!”

Just like before, they’re thrust in to the hilt at once. The throbbing, aching, leeching core of your arousal positively explodes, the urge to be filled finally touched. Sam’s responding bassy groan vibrates all the way up your body. The length and thickness of his fingers is put to immediate use, stretching you out with long knuckling gestures. You’re so unimaginably wet that your pussy just pulls him right in.

There’s a pause where you wiggle down onto his hand and brace yourself for the next brain-melting touch, and true to form, Sam sails straight over your grandest expectations. He’s quick to find the silky heart of arousal in your core again. You only know it by reputation, not experience, so when Sam presses into it with two soft fingerpads the pitch of your wailing jumps up ten octaves. Suddenly the pleasure is hot hot hot inside-going-out.

Sam tilts his head to one side and finds the gall to ask you: “How does that feel?”

(He just wants to hear you say it.)

“So good,” you weep. “Please please please gimme more, Sam, please—”

“It’s gonna be okay, _____. I’ll make it all better…”

Only then does Sam’s tongue get back to work, and—and holy fucking shit, he swoops in to steal the gold, demolishing every other name in the pussy-eating game. Sam wins. Sam fucking wins.

If this is just how his fingers feel…

Sam’s grin takes on a confident gleam. By coincidence, it’s around then that you remember that he’s psychic.

Somewhere between licking you into the next dimension and, oh yeah, Sam licking you into the next dimension, he’s pinned your thighs to your chest with a firm hand under your knees. You squeeze that hand for all you’ve got, every feeble atom in your body scrubbed raw with perfect pulsing desire.

To think, you’d spent this whole time getting off with your hand. A fucking hand. A few fingers! Sam crooks his in a way you’d never even hoped for on your own, finding that fluttery, twitchy spot inside you and working it for all it has. You’d asked for more and he gives you more, thrusting two fingers in at a brutal, even pace—again and again and again, til’ you’re thrashing up and off the mattress, wailing, your whole body a fist cramping shut around him. You snap in so tight toward him that you shove your face into your knees and cross your ankles tight behind Sam’s neck, keening, the fire knotted in your body devouring whatever fuel he’ll give.

Sam’s skill with his hands made you feel like an amateur in your own department. But his slick velvet tongue on your slick velvet pussy, taking slow sucks on your clit that turn into big broad licks, licking you up, licking you into his mouth whole, made just the thought of masturbation fucking laughable. I mean, c’mon! What the fuck are you supposed to do after this? Pop into the bathroom to use the showerhead, when Sam and his insatiable appetite for pussy are sitting right in the next room? Why even bother fantasizing about him and dicking around with a vibrator when nothing would ever compare to the real thing, shoving his parched panting mouth between your legs in an addict’s haze?

Still lapping up your dripping core, Sam pries his free hand from your grip. You’re pretty sure you have the right to whine in protest. Without his leverage for support your weak thighs collapse straight open, and for all you know the gates of heaven had parted to reveal god’s most beautiful angel. Sam is the picture of filth. His pretty pink lips are sealed around your cunt, his nose is all cute and smushed into your pubic bone, and you watch in time with every dirty lap as his jaw rolls handsomely under his skin.

The look on his face is unfor-fucking-gettable. In fifty years, sixty years, seventy, you know this memory will still live inside you, since no man has ever looked at you that way before. You weren’t sure it was even possible. Hazy euphoria radiates in unending rays from Sam’s face. He wants you. He trusts you. He is written all over with warm, intent desire, satisfying himself on you.

“Stay still,” Sam asks, politely.

Politely, you slap back against the bed and moan out, “Mhhmm.”

A new kind of mischief flashes across his face. You would’ve never pinned Sam as the type of guy to thrive with an audience, but now that he knows you’re watching, he falls seamlessly into a performance. His act is a three-parter.

While keeping his pace with his fingers, Sam starts by sliding slow off your pussy and spitting on it even slower. Whatever hazel leftover in his eyes has been swallowed totally by glittering, black delight. The muscles is his arm bulge and cramp fucking into you so hard. Pleased with himself, Sam dips down, dark eyes disappearing under his bangs, and makes a show of pointing his tongue to flicker across the raw nerves of your clit.

There’s more after that in the finale of Sam’s act, but the constant, brutal winding toward your release has taken its final toll. You have no fucking clue how you’ve survived this long. The overpowering squeezes of arousal inside you become full-body, wracking pangs. The sweaty trembling scraps of your soul leftover from Sam’s work throb and throb until they’re a blinding star. At the center of it, your core, tight and hot and so loved by Sam’s mouth. The searing pleasure becomes explosive. Apparently, the noisy, pitchy moans waking up the mountainside are coming from you, as you claw to get Sam even a molecule closer—closer, closer, closer—s-so close—!

So…

Close…

And you’re there. In the shimmering, divine realm Sam has made just for you; the realm your meager hands could never bring you to, and the realm you’ll be chasing still for the rest of your life. It becomes blatantly obvious in the next blissful minute that you’ve never cum before. Not for real, at least. This was a real orgasm, flashing through your spirit and flowing hot and beautiful through the numb ends of your body. You wail through it like it’s real, that’s for sure.

Your pussy clamps down around Sam’s fingers in waves of slippery pressure, and he revels in every second of it. You’re fucked through it. Kissed through it. He keeps up his pace and smushes his face in close, and that’s when you realize, oh fuck, Sam is going to drink your glass empty. The soft scooping of his tongue ramps up and up and over, til’ the edges of your vision start to spot and your muscles are too tight to unknot and it’s all too much.

“Sa—Sam—”

Just that word has him off you. You think Sam draws back and away, but that’s just a guess, since the wires between you and the outside world have been fucked stupid. Even the language has been licked and lapped out of you.

“Sam…”

You feel… like soup. Wet all over and hot hot hot. Filling the shape of the bed. You make an honest attempt at communicating this to Sam as your soupy mind’s way of telling him how satisfied you are, but. Your pussy gives a delighted, distracting throb that melts you into the top quilt all over again. Wow.

Just. Wow. You marinate in the aftershocks for what feels like ages, speechless.

Down by your legs (so that’s where he went!), Sam peels his heaving chest off the bedspread. Right. If you couldn’t breathe, he definitely couldn’t either. He gets up on all fours and crawls towards you like a guy in an RnB music video, all sexy moving arms and hips. It really shouldn’t be as appealing as it absolutely is. Starry-eyed, you open lazy arms to him and haul him down the second he’s close enough. He falls on top of you with a happy oomf. He’s long and smooth and wonderful, making you sigh when he snuggles in.

A few sparkling millennia go by laying in bed with him, toying with his hair and giggling dazedly to yourself. Sam hides his blazing face in your neck and murmurs something.

You’re buzzed by the skin-to-skin contact and cum drunk, which puts everything he says into fuzzy empty speech bubbles. The low, shy rasp of his voice tickles your neck. You try again.

“...Uh-huh…?”

“Was, uh, that too intense? Or…?”

The question floats around in your head for a while, bumping into things and spinning in zero gravity. Finally, the lights in your ship start to come on, and you pull what Sam said out from space.

“Look at me a minute.”

Sam does, curious.

“How’d,” you struggled to find your breath, “how the hell’d you learn t’ do that.”

And suddenly, Sam’s high school shyness is on a man’s face, and that man licks your slick off his lip and suppresses an evil grin. “I have, y’know. A thing about it.”

“A thing?” You echo, laughing with him. Maybe if you said it again it wouldn’t blow your mind as much. “A thing. Try an addiction, Sam, holy shit.”

In a few days, you’re gonna have to act normal around him in a room with his brother, while Sam uses the lips he defiled you with to talk, drink, and smile. Fuck. For the rest of your life, you’re gonna have to sit beside him at the dinner table and remember how he told you had a thing for eating pussy. A thing.

Glowing with innocent humility, Sam pawed up onto his hands, rolled onto his side, and positioned himself like a pin-up girl inviting you to bed. When he was done broadcasting with his entire body how much he wanted you, Sam shrugged. “I dunno… I just love to do it.”

(Being stunned silent by Sam tally: one million and three.)

He’s not real. There’s no way he’s real. You grab around for some part of him to pinch, and though Sam’s indignant yelp sounds authentic, you’re unconvinced. They had to have cooked him up in a lab somewhere.

This earns you a deep, fond Sam laugh. He gives your closest hip a playful pinch too, and after a brief tickle-fight that you miserably lose, Sam tilts his lips toward yours and husks, “Roll over that way and c’mere.”

With nothing else to do but submit happily to Sam’s will, you follow his hand and tilt in toward the wall. “You are something else.”

You’re joking, but you can also kind of feel it. Sam slings his arm over your ribs to pull your back flush to his chest, and already you melt into each other, settling back into the hollows you made in the blankets the night before. This close you can feel the magic in him. Sam oozes with cozy bonfire heat, his body laying sure and protective against your body, the last dregs of hunt anxiety in him gone. You feel the worn-soft denim of his open jeans as Sam’s lap wiggles down to scoop under you. A map of what’s ahead.

He teases a hand down your ribcage, thumbing sweetly at your belly. Sam tilts his head forward for a kiss, and unable to resist him, you meet him in the middle for one that turns into two, then three, then a swath of obsessed pecks. He must have a thing about kissing, too.

Sam pulls back to study you. With less confidence than you’d expect, he asks, “You wanna keep going?”

Just the teeniest motion of your head has Sam swooping for the chance to kiss you again, but you stop him short and twist to get a better look at him. In a high, maidenly voice, you play at being confused. Your poker face is still awful, so you have to hide your massive grin behind the invisible handkerchief you’re clutching.

“Keep going? My, a gentleman like you… an unmarried woman like me… what else is there to do, Samuel?”

His week being teased by you at all angles has forced him to evolve. Sam forgets altogether about indulging your bit and upgrades straight to more wonderful, ticklish manhandling, wiggling an arm between your vulnerable side and the bed to practically throw you back where you belong. You squeak and sputter between laughs, pretending your skin doesn’t explode with goosebumps at his touch.

When his massive palm is spread over your breastbone, Sam hoists you back against him, rolls in to threaten squishing you with more plush muscle and manly weight, and snarls in a way that ruins your metaphorical panties all over again.

“Uh-uh. Don’t play. You know exactly what m’ gonna do to you. Do y—?”

Sam stirs up his hips as he talks. All the snooty teasing left in your tank evaporates in one fell swoop, feeling the delicious outline of his dick swelling against you. Okay. You’re woman enough to admit that does it for you, and you really, really don’t want to wait anymore. Sam is an unbearable tease who will drag this out forever. You take matters into your own hands. Or, really, you put them into his.

…You prop open your closest leg for him, bent at the knee.

“Aw,” Sam rumbles, “didn’t even have’ta ask.”

You don’t hide your mean little grin. Sam, of course, kisses you into oblivion just seeing it, sliding a coarse hand under the silky, sensitive flesh behind your knee to keep you open for him. The ashes of your last climax are still simmering with heat, but it’s Sam’s kiss and his touch that reignites you totally.

It’s a bit of a twist to lean back and kiss him, but Sam’s height is made for this: his bulge swells right under your pussy, and he has the room to lean in close to your ear and purr—

“Take it out.”

Sam is asking you to take out his dick. You know that, yet you imagine yourself a month from now, unsure of which weapon the boys are comfortable letting you borrow from the Impala’s trunk. Dean’ll tell you, oh, the machete’s fine. Then Sam, with glittering eyes and full knowledge of how he’s torturing you, will nudge his chin toward the trunk and utter that phrase. Go on. Take it out. Knowing exactly what you’re thinking, and when, and how. And how deep and how hard.

It takes some shuffling and some curling, but you manage to work Sam’s jeans and boxers down his thighs. Just the sound of his zipper makes your mouth water. He hisses soft by your ear at the chill of the room, but in your hand Sam’s dick is body-hot by comparison. And. And so… s-so…

You scoop your palm around the shaft, squeezing him, feeling him. Through your back you feel Sam curl in and shiver, rumbling in approval. Your cheeks feel like they’re cooking by the candlelight just going for it, but your curiosity wins out—or, more accurately, your fucking awe. Because. What the fuck. You’ve never exactly seen a dick in person before, but you’re not naive. Sam is big enough to split you in half, and—and it just kind of pisses you off, because not only is he big, his dick is pretty, too. He has a pretty dick. Just cause’ being smart and empathetic and all that other bullshit didn’t make him sexy enough. God.

You nuzzle your cheek into Sam’s and he drops his lazy temple against yours. The two of you lounge there, heaving like peeping toms, as you both take in how sexy his cock looks leaking against your belly. Laying between your legs. It’s goddamn photo-worthy. Then, the angle your hand is taking slow, experimental pumps of him… accidentally… grinds Sam’s shaft between your abuse-swollen folds. He’s already twisting to moan into your mouth when you start to rock along him in earnest. You take a fistful of Sam’s hair and ride him for all he’s worth, dragging your sopping wet cunt across his dick until he glistens.

For three blissful seconds Sam locks you against his chest and grinds with you, making it instantly clear why people always use the word friction with sex. The push and pull of it has you whimpering loud and high against Sam’s mouth. And, thank god for him, because when your head starts to fog with visions of being filled raw, Sam pulls away from your kiss and recollects his control.

“Condom,” he gasps for breath, “we should. Probably. Yeah.”

“...Right,” you cursed. Your high school sex-ed teachers would not be proud of your lack of forethought, but it’s impossible to have any kind of thought in this situation, period.

For example: Sam tilts away to fish around in his duffle bag beside the bed, and, unfiltered, your mind taps its fingertips together and cheerily hopes, maybe Sam will be so rough the condom breaks.

Woah there, girlfriend, your reason butts in. But it doesn’t have anything else to say, since you start picturing how Sam’s cum would look oozing out of you, and. Um.

“You almost sound disappointed,” Sam jokes, digging for his wallet.

You snuggle down into the blankets and pretend you’re not hiding your face. “A little bit,” you confess, chanting the word responsible over and over in your head for good measure. “How much am I gonna feel you?”

Sam finds the condom and rolls back into your bubble. He turns in to kiss your shoulder, and you can feel his smile when he tells you, “You’re gonna feel every bit of me. Every inch… every stroke… I promise.”

He is so determined to assuage your worries that he holds the condom where you can see it, turning it over (between those long, long fingers) to make sure it’s punctureless and new. The little foil packet has XL printed on one side, which both adds to your sexy thoughts and pulls you out of them. Sam really is that big. He knows it, too, which is probably how he reads your nervousness.

“We’ll take it slow,” Sam promises, voice honey-sweet and quick to reassure you. “S’ big, yeah, but I’m gonna do everything to make you comfortable, kay? And if you wanna stop—”

He cares so much, you realize.

“Sam?”

He looks into your eyes like he loves you, and utters, “Yeah?”

“Thank you for making this good for me,” you say.

Sam melts. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and you let him know it’s okay with a softer, warmer kiss than the others you’ve shared. You take in the shape of his face, the subtle freckles on his cheeks and nose, how the candlelight shadows sweeten Sam’s gaze. It slams on top of you how there’s nobody in the whole world you’d rather be doing this with, and in one puff your anxiety is in the wind.

You wrap your fingers around Sam’s wrist and flirt, “...Can I put it on you?”

Sam nods, eyes lidded. You’ve never exactly had to open a condom before, so you’re careful to pry the foil open with your fingers. For whatever reason you hadn’t figured it’d be lubed, but it makes fitting the ring of it around Sam’s tip and sliding it down his shaft a bit easier. A soft happy groan escapes him. They keep escaping him as you pump his cock in languid twists of your hand.

Sam nuzzles his face between your shoulder blades, whisper-rasping, “Would you like to…? It’ll be less scary that way.”

You really, really would. Before you make your move, Sam adds, “But, uh, before you put it in—want you to look at me.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Wanna see the look on your face when I fill you up.”

Well, fuck. You tilt your face against Sam’s, nose to nose with him and warmed by his breath, and feel the slow ripples of heat in your belly roll into long, growing waves. Sam slides a hand back to the silky underside of your thigh and props you open for him. When you line Sam up, you start with the tip, not pressing, just stroking, feeling him against you. A satisfied purr drizzles out of your mouth to Sam’s. So far, your chosen pace has been “just go for it,” and since it hasn’t failed you yet—

—you go for it.

Sam’s bulbous cockhead dips between your folds to find your hole. A desperate, keening yes squeals out of you. You’re spit-wet and absolutely caked in slick, so there’s no hitch when you pull Sam in, just a hot, sudden fullness that seems to go endlessly deeper and deeper. The fit is so fucking snug. Snug like he’s made for you. Snug and perfect and stinging, made easier by Sam’s soft huffing coos. Look at you go. Makin’ this look easy. You looked so pretty when I ate you out, baby, but I knew you’d look even prettier taking my dick. So eager, Sam says, and he’s right. Your wetness is just begging to swallow him whole. Just being stuffed with half of Sam’s cock has you sucking down air, so the final surge to bring him to the hilt pries a genuine, hoarse cry from your belly. Sam shoves his face in your hair and groans, the sound catching on the snarl between his teeth.

Together, you orbit around the throbbing core of pleasure between you, suspended in the moment.

Sam is a wind-up toy, springs tightening with every vicious squeeze of your pussy. His mouth has made you soft, slippery, and swollen, so the firmness of his cock is different but stellar. This close, in such an intimate position, you can feel his heartbeat in more ways than one, and it surrounds you and fills you so effortlessly that you can only assume it’s your own. He touches your body like it’s one he just stepped into, feeling you from a new perspective for the first time. Sam fixates on your tummy, too, and you find out why when he presses down under your belly button—feeling the thick swell of him under your skin, deeper than anyone else could ever go. He gives you a turn too, pressing your hand down in the same place. It sends electric blackouts of lust through your system that demand to be fucked brainless.

You start to wiggle in his grasp for more, stirring your hips down onto him and choking out his name. Sam is already responding: your open leg is scooped into the crook of his arm and drawn tight to his chest, spreading you open as wide as you’ll go. His hold cants up your hips in a way that lets his cock hit just that much deeper, and that’s all you need to dash your head against the pillows and mewl for your life. Two rough fingerpads slip back into the sopping wet home of your clit and stir against it at a pace brutal enough to cramp. Between Sam’s fingers and the thick drag of his cock against your soft walls, you’re desperate for something to hold onto. You latch onto Sam’s wrist for dear life. Then starts Sam’s pulling and pushing in brief, filling strokes, rocking, driving you fucking crazy, making you need him to fuck you like you need air. He was deep to a point that you swear you could feel him in the back of your throat.

“You want more?” Sam asks, and if it weren’t for the breathy rattle in his voice he could’ve sounded innocent.

You nod until your head is close to rolling off. “Yes, yes Sammy please.”

Sam grins. You feel it for an instant, then his cheek pulls away from your back and all you have left to read him by is the needy, carnal noises he’s making. All at once he’s drawing out further than he had before. You’re almost empty for a whole sob-worthy breath, which Sam makes up for with every ounce of his being.

For what has to be three glorious hours, Sam leans back to fuck you in powerful, even strokes, filling you to the brim every time, and filling the room with the thick, wet sound of his cock pounding into you. You repay him the only way you can, and—get—noisy.

You moan. You wail. You mewl, pretty much every time Sam’s hips snap up into your ass. You pant hard through it all, begging him in soft whines to f-fuck me, fuck me, p-please, Sam and to go deeper, baby—uhnn, more more more…! From there you’re on autopilot, letting loose even the most primal noises that Sam gets out of you. He is very, very good at his task, so you color the room with every erotic syllable under the sun. A porn studio would hire the two of you without even entering the room. Sam especially, but you might be biased since every time you sigh his name he drives in a little harder.

Indescribable pleasure follows even his tiniest movements. You absorb every pump with nothing but desperate enthusiasm, spreading your legs further, curling your back, and digging your fingers into the cushions for any sort of leverage at all. Just a few minutes pass until your limit is a trembling boulder of knots in your gut, but still Sam’s nowhere near finished yet. Slick coats your thighs and Sam's cock, you cry at every thrust, your body twitches and shudders all over, but he's still not there.

He slows. The brush of his lips against your ear and the wisp of his breath set your nerves on fire. “You’re gonna finish first, but tha’—that’s okay, baby,” Sam reassures, and works your poor swollen clit even harder, choking a string of thready moans from you. “Wanna feel your pretty pussy cum all over my dick.”

“Oh fuck,” you whine.

(Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up and wonder where the hell he got that dirty mouth from. Somebody needs to clean it out with soap.)

It’s as Sam’s laying sloppy kisses on your throat that his prediction comes true. The tissue in your body pulls taut, winding tight, tighter, curling around the epicenter of pleasure, toward him. You expect Sam’s thrusts to take a fierce turn. Instead, you’re treated to the same thorough, determined pace that got you here in the first place—the same pace that is currently jellifying your insides and reducing you to tears on this teeny bed. If the percussive slapping of skin on skin wasn’t enough to wake up the entire planet, then the vicious slam of the bedframe putting a new dent in the wall would certainly do the job. Somehow you hear it all past your pulse thundering in your ears. The arm hooked behind you to rake a hand through Sam’s hair bobs with each thrust, and your leg trapped in Sam’s hold bounces on beat. All you can do is scrape out broken gasps, until the tossing waves of heat and lust and power twisted in your belly have built too high—and all things that go up must inevitably come crashing down.

“That’s my girl,” Sam slurs, squeezing your tits in both hands. He rolls his hips into you and coos, “Just like that… take what you need, baby, it’s okay…”

Like last time, Sam fucks you through it. You’re scooped up in his arms and squeezed tight, tight enough to be drawn into Sam’s body and absorbed. The hot, gorgeous drags of friction against the sensitive walls of your cunt slow, but Sam never draws out, burying himself deep and soaking up every wild clamp of your pussy. There’s something fucking spectacular about having something to clench down on. Sam is that perfect something, vieny and thick and still fucking hard.

You cum on him in long rippling rushes of wet heat that feel downright unrealistic, otherworldly—exaggerated, maybe, by the fact that you fucking—black—out!

It must only be a few beats later that you come out of it, but the fact remains that Sam Winchester made you cum so hard you passed out, and you’re going to have to live with that for the rest of your life. You’re already starting to realize that Sam is the best lay you’re ever going to have, period, and the dull happy throb of your orgasm hasn’t even left your body yet. Sam hasn’t even left your body yet.

Wait, fuck. He’s still hard.

…This could be. This could be very good.

Fueled by hormones, sweat, and adrenaline, you pull off him and roll the rest of the way onto your belly. During all the crazed fucking, you and Sam had migrated halfway down the bed. You crawl to the top as sexily as you’re able, stuff your cheek against the closest pillow, and wiggle your cum-soaked ass in the air just for him, open for his taking. Your face could start the whole bed on fire, but you feel more alluring than embarrassed.

“C’mon, Sammy,” you taunt, and throw him a mean grin, “gimme the big finish.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath from his nose, probably preying for strength. A dirty smile touched his face. “You’re… you’re amazing, _____.”

Feeling like it, you turned your face over onto the other side of the pillow and tempted him with another mesmerizing ass wiggle. Sam was up on his knees in an instant. You should’ve known that Sam, the addict, would instantly take the chance to shove his face between your legs. The only warning you get is his massive hands clamping down on your calves to hold you still, then a hot, silky tongue swipes once through your folds for a taste. You haven’t finished squealing when Sam’s weight saddles up behind you, and the heavy shape of his cock starts to rut between your legs.

“Sorry,” Sam hums, not sorry at all, “Needed a taste of you.”

Stars above, he doesn’t hesitate to get handsy with you, too, taking two broad handfuls of your ass-cheeks. Your ass sits so nicely against his hips that you start to wonder if soulmates are real. Because Sam must be yours, fitting into you like a key and teasing you open like a master lockpicker. Once you’re where Sam wants you, he bobs your ass back until his tip has room to part your folds, and after that you’re both brought home into sparkling, slippery, blinding pleasure. He digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you right on him, filling your pussy to the hilt, like always. Key. Lock. Click click click.

“Yes,” you and Sam hiss together.

“Fuck,” Sam adds. “You should see yourself like this. You look so stuffed, baby, squeezing down on me.”

“Feel so stuffed,” you flirt back, wiggling into him.

This angle is different than the last, exaggerating, as Sam immediately starts in on his pace from before, how thick his cock is. He curls his fingers around your waist and beats in hard, pulling on your still-sparking overstimulated wires from last time. Every joint in your body locks ramrod straight, overwhelmed with brief flashes of too much too much. Your pussy clenches helplessly around him, but Sam brings you over it with a few well-placed stirs of his hips. In no time you’re mewling for him like you were before, emboldened by your first round.

You get your nails into Sam’s sculpted ass and drag him deeper, faster, urging him on the end of a moan, “Fuckin’ take it, Sammy—mhhnn, take what—what you need, Sam, yes, so good—”

This is exactly what Sam needs to hear. You’re scooped up around the middle, just like before, and Sam crushes his face into your back, spooning you close as he brings himself closer and closer to where he needs to be. Your hands can’t get enough of him, smoothing down his vieny arms and squeezing his hand against your belly. The picture the two of you must make is obscene on unimaginable levels. Sam, latched onto you like a parasite and reaming you for his release. You, smushed under him and loving it, digging your ass up into him for more. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his palms, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls.

Finally, Sam’s hoarse choked panting cuts off with a sharp breath. His hips putter into you for the last time, then still. Sam spills into the condom, shuddering against you from head to toe, and slowly… the two of you collapse into each other… panting and panting until your breathing syncs up. Sam’s chest goes up. You suck in a breath. His chest goes out, and you deflate right with him.

He doesn’t get up and you don’t ask him to. As the haze of sex starts to clear from the room (as much as it can, anyway), the chill of the mountainside creeps in behind it, and the hottest thing around for miles is easily the giant, naked Sam Winchester in your bed. Wrapped up in him and as warm as can be, you wonder if he’s as close to passing out (again) as you are.

But no. Suddenly, Sam’s up on his hands, and there’s only two possible reasons why.

“Didn’t get to kiss you as I finished,” he complained.

Smushed into your pillow, you tell him, “I think you have two addictions.”

Regardless, you roll onto your back so Sam can lay one on you. Since your soul is officially back in your body, you’re more aware than ever of the aches and bruises you’ve earned, not to mention a few sets of pomegranate-purple fingerprints. After a few stunning kisses from Sam, you’re still not sure that all of that actually happened. You touch his face and pinch his cheeks plenty of times, but all he does is look at you extra dreamily. Still doesn’t seem real.

Of course, being a gentleman, he decides to prove it to you.

“Speaking of my other addiction…” Sam lays a playful hand on your belly, “I know I wound you up a bit back there. Can I take care of you one more time? Please?”

“Hmm…” You pretend to think, grinning to yourself. “Man. I just can’t say no to you, Sammy…”

_

Two weeks later, you’re crammed in a teeny car instead of a teeny cabin, riding down a back road in rural Texas the Dean way—blowing by road signs at sixty miles an hour, windows down and music up. Sam’s shotgun. You’re content to sit behind him, catching his eye in the side-mirror as he pretends to hunt around newspapers for a new case. His hair flutters in the wind, outlining his face in the most enchanting way.

“I don’t know how the hell the two of you stayed up there the whole week!” Dean hollers over his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape, which he could turn down whenever he wants to. He throws you an unenvious look from the driver’s seat, “You must’a been bored out of your fuckin’ gourds!”

You’re honestly surprised that Dean didn’t automatically assume sexy shenanigans occurred at the cabin. Sam doesn’t move to answer, deeply engrossed in his reading. Where Dean can’t see, you curl your fingers into the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and caress his scalp, which earns you a look that promises that sexy shenanigans can happen anywhere. They can happen in motel rooms. Click. Even Impalas, when Dean’s gone. Click click click.

You shrug at Sam’s brother, shouting over the music with an unsubtle grin. “We entertained ourselves!”

_

Tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration

READ PART TWO.

[zepskies]

Smoke Eater - Part 6

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader 

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 7,000 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort

Part 6: “Just Casual”

A few days after the house fire that claimed the life of Paul Richardson, father of two, Chief Bobby Singer was joined in his office by Detectives Winchester and Novak, along with his resident Squad Captain and Truck Lieutenant, Benny and Dean.

“The Richardson fire has officially been determined an arson,” Bobby revealed.

“They found a time-delay incendiary device hidden in the attic. No fingerprints. But that’s not even the odd thing,” he said. “The medical examiner found a brand mark on his wrist that was inconsistent with his other burns. Which is why you’re here, I reckon.”

Bobby directed his gaze at both John and Cas, who didn’t look surprised to hear this news.

Dean raised a brow. His gaze shifted to his father, but John only met his stare for a moment before he answered Bobby’s unspoken question.

“We’ve been investigating a series of murders in the area over the past six months,” John said. “Each victim died in their home, with the same brand somewhere on their body. Typically the wrist, or the back of the neck.”

“So we officially have a serial killer turned arsonist on our hands,” Bobby concluded. His attention shifted to Benny and Dean. “Keep this close to the vest, but keep your eyes open.”

“Arsonists are hard to catch,” Dean said, looking to the detectives. “What do you know about this guy?”

Cas glanced at John. The older man could feel his stare, but had to ignore it for now.

“Not much as of yet,” John said. “Right now he’s a coil of smoke, if you’ll pardon the phrase. Our psychologist says he’s most likely a white male, statistically speaking. College educated, or at the very least intelligent, efficient, and so far, he thinks every step through. Like he said, no prints. But the brand is a message.”

“To who, and why, is what we’ve been trying to figure out,” Cas added. “We think that’s the key to pinpointing a suspect.”

“Really,” Dean said. He raised a brow and crossed his arms. “Six months, and that’s all you’ve got?”

“Dean,” John started, but the Lieutenant shook his head.

“Come on, Dad. I know you. Who is this guy?”

“Dean, this is the best I can give you right now, but believe me, we’re working on it,” John said, that tone that boded no further argument.

Bullshit, Dean wanted to shoot back. But he held his tongue for now. He knew that John wouldn’t budge. Instinct still told Dean that his father was holding something back though.

As the men filtered out of Bobby’s office, Dean held Cas back for a moment.

“Watch the old man’s back, all right,” Dean said. “He’s got a penchant for being reckless.”

Cas gave him a wry, pointed look. “I’m doing my best. Winchesters are a stubborn lot.” 

Dean smirked and walked out with him. Meg was headed inside, having just come in from an ambulance call. She smiled when she saw her boyfriend.

“Hey, lover,” she greeted. And she smacked his ass in front of God and the entire Rescue Squad, who liked to sit outside the firehouse and play cards at their table.

Ramirez and the others smirked and called out their customary whoops and cat calls. Dean smirked at the actual blushing discomfort that tightened up Cas’s face and shoulders.

“Dinner tonight at Casablanca’s, right?” Meg asked, unfazed by the catcalling peanut gallery.

“Right,” Cas said stiffly. But he still brushed her cheek with his thumb in affection. “See you later.”

“Yep,” she nodded, though she shot Dean a wry brow. “What? I stole your boyfriend. Get over it.”

She continued on her path back inside the firehouse, leaving Dean and Cas to stare after her in annoyance and begrudging fondness, respectively.

Dean turned to his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good luck and Godspeed, my friend. That woman’s fuckin’ terrifying.” 

Cas gave him a lazy salute as he walked away. He found that John had already started up their police car. He was in the driver’s seat, as always, with a hand resting casually on the steering wheel.

Dean typically sat in much the same way. Cas thought both men were more comfortable in a car than anywhere else in life. Except, maybe, the precinct and the firehouse.

Cas slid into the passenger seat and gave his partner a knowing look.

“I still think you should tell Sam and Dean what’s really happening here,” he said.

John looked over at him with an almost unreadable expression. But they had been partners for a few years now; long enough for Cas to get a read on the older veteran.

“I understand why you want to keep them out of this, but now this guy is starting fires. Here, in Dean’s district,” Cas pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer for him if he had clearer eyes walking into the next one?”

If, God forbid, something should go wrong on the next call Dean responded to, John would never forgive himself. Both he and Cas knew this, but John never answered his partner’s question. He didn’t want his sons getting their noses in this just yet, even if it meant the worry he saw in Dean’s eyes.

So he put the car in “drive” and peeled away from the firehouse.

Trying to match your schedule with Dean’s was a challenge you two were trying to figure out. Though you’d fallen into a pattern of talking on the phone to fill the void when you two couldn’t meet.

Even after almost two more weeks and a third date, you were pleasantly surprised that you and Dean still had plenty to talk about. You told him more about your childhood with your grandparents, while he told you funny stories about him and Sam growing up with their dad, though he was often gone while working on cases.

It was family friend and Fire Chief, Bobby Singer who looked after them whenever John couldn’t, or his old partner Jody Mills, or even Ellen Harvelle, owner of the Roadhouse.

The more you learned about Dean, the more invested you became. And he listened to you when you went on tangents about new recipes you wanted to try out (as long as he got to be your official Taste Tester).

You two argued, playfully and fervently, about music. And you’d been creating a list of old shows the other hadn’t seen, but absolutely needed to.

Dean had suggested Dukes of Hazzard, for example, while you suggested Smallville. You each only agreed to put up with this list if you two watched it together. (Needless to say, there would be some marathon binge watching in your future.)

You particularly took notice though, when Dean invited you to join him at the Roadhouse to meet Cas, one of his best friends, and his girlfriend Meg. You’d invited Andréa to come along, and even Dean’s friend Benny, who she’d also been seeing ever since that night at the Roadhouse.

Apparently, the couple had their own plans.

You tried not to feel some type of way about her brush-off, but your friend had been increasingly distant since she met Benny Lafitte. However, you supposed you couldn’t judge. You hadn’t been calling her as much either, ever since you met Dean.

You knew that if you kept dating him, some adjustments would have to come in your life. You also promised yourself that you’d never be someone who forgot your friends for a man…even for a man like Dean Winchester.

Tonight, however, you’d come directly from work to meet him at the bar. It made more sense than to make him come pick you up from your house, so you sat with a ginger ale while you waited. He’d promised you via text that he was on the way, just stuck in traffic.

Okay, drive safe. 😘 Don’t speed, please.

You knew how he liked floor the Impala with that damn lead foot of his.

No promises. 🏎️

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were smiling unconsciously as you read his reply.

You were soon knocked out of your thoughts when a smooth voice said your name. You looked up and to your right, and there stood a familiar face. The man greeted you with an easy smile as he sat down next to you.

“I thought that was you,” he said. He reached out his hand and re-introduced himself. “Gordon Walker. Not sure if you remember me.”

“Oh, yes! Of course I do, Gordon,” you smiled and shook his hand.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. His dark eyes subtly took you in from head to toe in your skirt, heels, and blouse. “Though I’ve gotta admit, I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Ah, right,” you said. “Well—”

Before you could explain, Gordon held up a finger as he noticed your drink of choice.

“Oh, wait a sec. Let me get you something stronger than soda,” he said. He started to flag down Jo, but you shook your head and made a cutting motion with your hand.

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” you said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“What?” Gordon asked.

It was getting busy in the bar, making it loud enough that you could understand why he hadn’t heard you. You leaned over towards his ear.

“I’m good for now, thanks,” you said, raising your voice a bit. Gordon leaned in even closer and chanced resting a hand above your knee.

“You sure?” he asked. He gave you a smile that was all smooth sex appeal and confidence, without being arrogant.

It was undoubtedly attractive, but you were more shocked than charmed in your blush. You instinctively leaned back when you felt his hand on your thigh. Your hand clenched on the counter.

While your brain scrambled to figure out a response that would successfully remove it (without snapping rudely like you were itching to), a hand slipped along your lower back.

You jolted a bit in your seat with a flare of unease, until you turned your head and found Dean.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted, and dropped a kiss at your hairline. He also clapped a heavy hand on Gordon’s shoulder and squeezed. The other man graciously got the hint and leaned back, withdrawing his hand from your thigh.

“Hi,” you said, finally able to breathe a bit easier. You gave Dean a smile, and he returned it.

He looked over at his friend with a sharper smile. “Hey, Gord. How’s your night goin’?”

“Good.” Gordon nodded, now with a knowing gleam in his eye. “Though I’m sure your night’s gonna go better.”

You weren’t sure how to take that remark, considering the way Dean reacted with a tighter expression and pursed lips. Then, they flickered at a smile.

“Well, we’re meeting up with Meg and Cas in a minute. You should join us,” Dean said. Even though his tone wasn’t so very inviting. The two men seemed to have a wordless conversation between the lines that you couldn’t decipher.

Gordon shook his head, but raised his drink. “No worries, you guys hang. I’m leaving in a few.”

“All right. Let us know if you change your mind,” Dean said. He thumped Gordon once more on the back, more friendly this time.

Dean’s other hand slipped around your waist. He tapped you on the side.

“Come on, I’ve got us a table. It’s quieter,” he said.

You nodded and slid out of your seat. You offered Gordon a polite smile, even if you’d rather not.

“Have a good night,” you said.

The other man’s smile was less flirtatious and more polite this time as well.

“You too,” he said. 

Dean helped you onto your feet, like the gentleman he was, and he continued to lead you away from the bar with a hand on the small of your back. You instinctively pressed against his side to squeeze past the throng of patrons.

When you reached a high-top table in the corner, he pulled out your chair and held your hand as you climbed up in your skirt. You thanked him with a more genuine smile. Though once he was seated next to you, you leaned towards him and laid a hand on his arm, which rested on the table.

“I tried to tell him I was waiting for you. He took me by surprise,” you whispered.

Dean’s brows rose, but his face soon evened out with a smile. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Don’t worry about it. He didn’t know about us,” he said. “He was shootin’ his shot…a bit aggressively. Sorry about that.”

“Oh…it’s okay. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” you replied. Though butterflies ran through your belly when you considered what us meant.

You noted his frown at what you’d said though, and so you aimed to change the subject.

“But Cas and Meg know, right?” you asked.

Dean nodded. His frown started to lift. “Yeah. Cas is one of my best friends. Meg is…well. She’s the little sister I wish I didn’t have.”

You shook your head in amusement. Then you let out a squeal as Dean hooked a foot around the leg of your chair and brought you closer. He stopped you from becoming too unbalanced by wrapping an arm around your waist. You clenched your hands into the open panels of his plaid shirt, and his charming smile greeted you.

“Hi,” he said.

You laughed. “Yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”

“Well, I’m doing it right this time,” he said. And he dipped down for a lingering kiss.

Across the bar was Jo Harvelle, doing her job behind the counter. She poured five shots in succession and doled them out to a party of frat bros without even looking.

Her eyes were drawn to the back corner of the bar, where you and Dean sat closely together, exchanging whispers and the occasional steamy kiss.

“Mind your business,” came Ellen’s whisper in her ear.

Jo whipped her head to glare softly at her mother, but she saw Ellen’s point. It was both obvious and pathetic of her to stare.

Despite the unease making her feel a bit sick to her stomach, Jo went over to Gordon down at the end. His sympathetic smile bothered her; she knew then she hadn’t just been caught by her mother.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“What?” Jo said. She began wiping down his area of the counter. “Would it kill you to keep it in the glass?”

Gordon gave her an amused look as he sat back in his seat. His tumbler of whiskey was drained.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” he said.

Both of them knew he wasn’t apologizing for the spill.

Jo’s brows knitted together, mostly in annoyance. “Again, for what?”

“I know it’s gotta be hard to see him actually moving on,” he replied.

Her lips pursed, and her eyes darted to the back of the room again. She stared for a moment at the side of your face.

“Knowing him, whatever it is won’t last,” she muttered.

Gordon hissed at the "burn," with a deep chuckle. She knew her words weren’t kind, but it was how she felt.

“That may be,” he allowed. “But he’s not just chasing tail anymore. That’s what scares you.” 

Gordon dropped a nice tip for her next to his glass. He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and left Jo with the churning in her gut.

Cas and Meg finally arrived a few minutes later.

Dean knew you’d been to the Roadhouse before, but this was different. You were meeting some of his friends, and he realized how much he wanted you to. He felt…comfortable around you. And he wanted his friends to know you, and to like you.

“As you know, Meg’s our Paramedic in Charge over at 25,” he began, gesturing at the woman as she got settled in her seat.

You admired her long brown hair, tall boots, and black leather jacket. She seemed to ooze confidence and dark charisma as she tossed you a smirk.

“Guilty,” she said.

You smiled back. Dean gestured at her boyfriend next, clad in a beige trench coat, slacks, and blazer.

“And Cas, who bravely suffers being my dad’s partner on the job.”

Cas nodded wryly at the introduction. His dark hair and blue eyes were striking, you could admit. His tie was loose and slightly rumpled. Along with the stubble coating his face, he was handsome, if a bit scruffy. It was hard for you to believe he’d earned the top scores his year in the Police Academy, but you supposed that looks could be deceiving.

“What’s that like?” you asked with a smirk. “From what I’ve heard about John Winchester, he sounds like he’s a bit of a hard-ass.”

Dean barked with a dry laugh. “An understatement.”

“He has a crab-like shell,” Cas agreed. “But he has a soft center where it counts, not unlike his sons.”

You turned to Dean with a more teasing smile. “Aww…”

He rolled his eyes, even though his arm, which had been draped across the back your chair, now dropped to curl around your waist.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Columbo,” he remarked at his blue-eyed friend.

Always had to get the last dig in, it seemed, but you couldn’t help but laugh a little along with Meg at Cas’s expense.

“You guys all seem really close,” you said. It was nice for you to see.

Dean shrugged like it was no big deal. Or rather, like it was commonplace.

“Well, maybe family ain’t just about blood,” he said.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Ugh. What a friggin’ sap.”

“You love it,” Dean grinned. She smiled, begrudgingly.

Family ain’t just about blood.

You liked that sentiment as well. It seemed to be true here. 

Even Ellen Harvelle treated Dean like a son when she came over to greet your table. She kissed his cheek and gave Meg and Cas’s shoulders a squeeze. Even you got a warm hand on your shoulder when she introduced herself.

“Welcome, hun. I understand it’s not your first time here, but if you got any questions on the menu, you let me know,” she said.

Dean shot you a conspiratorial smile, and it got you wondering what he was about to do.

“I mean, I don’t know why you don’t put the order in for chili fries the second you see me come through the door,” he teased. “Come on, Ellen. How long’ve I been coming here? Since before I had a license?”

Ellen narrowed her eyes and flicked the side of Dean’s head, regardless of his flinching protest.

“Don’t you go sayin’ that so damn loud,” she reproached. “You never drank underage at my bar.”

His eyes averted with a smile, in a way that told you Ellen was a damn liar. You bit your lip to try and hide your smile.

“Anyway, I’ll get your damn fries—”

“And a beer,” Dean interjected. She rolled her eyes.

“And a beer. Four?” she pointed at the rest of you, and you, Cas, and Meg nodded in agreement.

“All right, four beers. Anything else, darlin’?” She looked at you with a mother’s charm.

You looked up from the menu and unconsciously smiled.

“Um, sure. Can I get the chicken sandwich?”

She patted your shoulder. “You sure can.”

Ellen then took the rest of their orders without writing a thing down. You were impressed by her memory. At the end though, Dean didn’t let her go without a hand on her arm.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he said with a more sincere smile.

“A-huh,” she replied, with all due sarcasm. But there was a fondness in her eyes that was hard to miss when she playfully grabbed the back of his neck. “Knucklehead.”

A giggle escaped you, and Ellen tossed you a wink before she went to put in the orders and get the drinks.

Conversation flowed easier when the alcohol came. One beer became two, and even three (four, for Meg). By then, you were sure it was one beer too many for yourself, but you didn’t want to be the odd one out. You were mostly listening to the three of them bounce back and forth between reminiscing with old stories and roasting one another mercilessly.

It was hilarious and entertaining, but you were trying not to get caught in the crosshairs of the volleying. Inevitably though, Meg’s attention turned to you with a certain sly smile.

“You must be real special,” she remarked, gesturing at Dean. “He usually doesn’t bring his girls around here, where he actually likes to hang out. Guess that’d mean he’d have to see ‘em again with the lights on.”

You blinked in surprise.

“Meg,” Dean’s voice cut like a warning.

Your eyes widened as you took in the change, his deeper voice, his more serious gaze, versus Meg’s nonchalance. Even Cas gave her a chiding look.

“Not sure I want to know what that means,” you tried to joke.

But you could guess. It was fairly obvious.

You glanced over at Dean, whose lips pursed. Before either of you could say anything more, Meg chimed in.

“Oooh, is this gonna be your first fight?” she teased.

Dean’s brows furrowed with a glare. “That’s enough.”

“And that’s our cue,” Cas nodded. He’d already slipped out his wallet as soon as his girlfriend started talking. He left a generous few bills to cover their half of the night, plus tip, and got up out of his seat. He claimed his coat and then encouraged Meg off her chair.

“What? I’m not done with my beer,” she protested.

“I think you are,” Cas said.

Meg scoffed, but she allowed his manhandling as he wrapped a supportive arm around her waist.

“You’re not the boss of me, Clarence,” she snipped.

“Certainly not,” he agreed. “But you’re a lightweight. Time to go home, before you insult the entire bar.”

“You’re no fucking fair,” she groused, hitting his chest over his jacket. Cas leveled you and Dean with a long-suffering look of apology.

Dean waved him off with a “no sweat it” look and a shake of his head. Meg annoyed the shit out of him sometimes, especially when she was drunk. He turned to you with a sigh.

“Again, sorry about that. I didn’t think I’d have to apologize for my friends more than once tonight,” he said.

You shook your head. “It’s...okay. Overall, they were really fun.”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t think Cas has been called fun even once in his life.”

You smiled in amusement, but Meg’s words still swirled around in your head like heady wine.

“Dean,” you began, but your attempt to broach the issue was cut off by his cell phone ringing. He gave you an apologetic look and fished in his pocket for his phone. His brows rose when he saw the caller ID.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I gotta take this,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, okay—” You’d barely nodded when Dean was up and out of his chair, heading out of the bar. You could still see him through one of the faded glass doors as he held the phone up to his ear.

It was late, and quieter now. A blonde server came to take your plates, and you actually remembered her.

“Oh, hi! Jo, right?” you asked. She hesitated when you spoke, but she bobbed her head.

“That’s me,” she said. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” you said with a smile. “I met your mom. She’s really nice.”

Jo uttered a wry laugh as she stacked the plates and silverware. You helped her collect the silverware and empty beer bottles.

“Yeah, when you get her good side,” she replied. 

You smirked at that, remembering how Ellen snapped back and forth with Dean. You had no doubt that woman could be a pistol if you pissed her off.

“Well, it's nice here,” you admitted, once again taking stock of the décor. The music, the warm lighting, the good food… “It’s cozy.”

Jo’s smile quirked to one side as she paused.

“Well, it’s been in my family for three generations of Harvelles,” she said. “This was my father’s favorite place in the world.”

You caught the note of melancholy in her words, in her eyes.

“Was?” you echoed. She met your gaze and nodded.

“He was a firefighter,” she said. “He died on the job.”

You dimmed considerably. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jo only nodded.

“How did he…” Your curiosity got the best of you, but you soon shook your head and backtracked. “Never mind, you don’t have to explain.”

“It was a fire that wasn’t properly vented,” Jo answered your half-spoken question. Her blue eyes were heavier. “He got caught in an updraft…but he actually worked at Firehouse 25. He was their brother. That’s why this’ll always be their place.”

You processed that with a slow nod of wonder.

“It’s good that you and your mom will always have that support,” you said eventually. “Even though…it might be hard too, to always be reminded.”

Jo’s lips quirked again. “It’s more the first one, but…sometimes the second one. A lot of these guys have known me since I had braces. It’s hard to shake that perpetual little sister thing.”

You smiled at that. “Yeah, I’d imagine that gets old real quick. A bunch of over-protective older brothers.”

“Overbearing, more like,” she scoffed. You laughed.

Unconsciously, you glanced over to the front of the bar, where you saw Dean still on the phone. You remembered the second date you were meant to have, when he was late due to a five-car pileup his team responded to.

You remembered that night he called you for the first time, after a long day he didn’t want to tell you about. He’d let you distract him instead. All the while, it had you wondering what he’d seen. What he’d responded to that day.

Had it been another car accident? A fire? What made someone as upbeat and funny and smooth as Dean seem to lose all the life in his voice?

Though while you were lost in your thoughts, Jo was watching you.

Jealousy roiled inside her, unbidden. She didn’t want to hate you, because unlike the girls Dean usually messed around with, you had some self-respect. Jo heard Meg’s snide clips at you earlier, and no one could fake the surprise in your eyes. Unless you were just that good a damn actor…

But no, she didn’t get that vibe from you.

It didn’t mean she had to like you though. 

“You’re right to think twice,” Jo said, earning your attention back with a swivel of your head. “What Meg said…she wasn’t wrong. Dean’s broken a few hearts, if you catch my drift.”

Just a few well-placed words, Jo thought. She realized then that she had the power to twist the wrench here, widening the gap between you and Dean. Feed your doubts.

She didn’t have to feel bad about it if it was the truth.

And yet…she saw the way your gaze fell. The disappointment setting in, the anxious clench of your hands on the table. You glanced over at Dean again out of the corner of your eye.

Jo realized then just what she was doing, not just to Dean, but to herself.

You’re not some petty bitch, she dully reminded herself.

“But,” she found herself adding. You raised your gaze back to her. Jo let out a subtle breath.

“It’s not always his fault,” she admitted. And maybe she was speaking a bit too much from experience. “The job demands a lot from him.”

Slowly, you nodded. You looked pensive, but not like you’d made up your mind.

Fine, Jo thought, as she collected the dishes and left your table.

She didn’t know if she wanted to sway you one way or the other on taking a chance on Dean Winchester.   

While you were talking to Jo, Dean was taking his father’s unexpected call.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” he said.

“Hey, son. How are ya?” John’s voice was gruff and tired. Dean frowned to hear it.

“I’m good. I’m out right now, but did you need something?”

“Have you responded to any fires lately?”

“You mean like the Richardson fire?” Dean asked pointedly. “No, haven’t had one since. And no cattle prod brandings either.”

“All right, good. Just checking in.”

Good? Dean thought. John would be chomping at the bit for a new arson. If he was “just checking in,” then he was worried about something. Is he worried about me?

“What’s going on? Is there something I need to know?” Dean asked in suspicion. This was why he had taken the call. “Seriously, you can tell me. I’m not even gonna bitch at you like Sam does.”

John chuckled. But then he hesitated. Dean knew he’d hit on something.

“Dad?” he pressed.

John’s sigh was a heavy one. “Okay. What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.”

Dean’s brows furrowed in trepidation. “Okay, fine. What the hell is it?”

“Richardson, the father of two?” John reminded. “He was a lawyer, linked to a money laundering scheme through a company called Stull Storage. It’s an old company, dates back to the seventies.”

“Okay…” 

As John continued to explain, the more confused Dean became… 

About 30 years ago, John Winchester had been a young, but promising officer in the Narcotics division. He’d married young, and by then was just barely clearing the five-year mark. Already he had the house he’d inherited from his wife’s parents, a four-year-old son, and a newborn.

Stull Storage’s units were used by a drug ring that John had been trying to infiltrate, undercover. Those units had stored cocaine, illegal weapons, and other flavors of contraband, mostly from South America (and back).

“We got close to breaking that case, once, but after the fire…I transferred out of Narcotics, as you know,” John said.

Dean knew the real story there. After his mom died, his father went into a spiral, trying to find whoever set that fire—even after the Fire Department found no evidence of arson. John had eventually been forced out of Narcotics. He requested Homicide.

As he’d told Dean once when he was extremely drunk: I seem to do better at my job when the bodies are already dead.

“Now I know that I was right about your mother’s death,” John said.

Dean released a shaky sigh. “Aw, man. Not this again, Dad. For Christ’s sake.”

“There was something wrong about that fire, Dean,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over Dean’s objections. “I just didn’t find the connection…until now.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath. His gaze fell to the ground. Sam was usually the one who drew a hard line at hearing any more about their mom’s supposed murder, but now Dean had reached the end of his tether. It was too much.

He glanced back through the glass doors to make sure you were okay. He saw you talking to Jo, and he frowned at himself.

Here you were, waiting on him back in the bar, and his dad was calling him in the middle of the night, chasing ghosts again.

“Look…it’s been my whole damn life with this.” Dean held the phone to his ear with one hand, and rubbed at his forehead with the other. “I just can’t do this with you anymore.”    

“Dean, listen,” John urged. “You wanna know what I’m digging into, this is it. I got Mary’s file unsealed.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “What? Thought you couldn’t do that without new evidence and a court order.”

“Well, I’ve got the evidence…maybe I was a bit impatient with the court order.”

Dean rolled his eyes. His father liked to play a little fast and loose with the rules.

“At the time, the medical examiner dismissed it. She’d been burned…” John paused on a deeper breath. “But I saw it. Mary had a burn on her wrist. It was the same brand found on Richardson. On Jerry Stillwell, CPA. Amanda Waller, journalist. It’s all connected, Dean. How they’re connected to one another, I’m not sure yet. We’re still digging…but I do know this. Richardson was a message.”

Dean’s back hit the wall of the Roadhouse. His brows furrowed as he struggled to digest everything John was saying.

“A message?” he asked. “To who?”

“To me, I think. Those kids, and their mother…you got ‘em out alive, but they weren’t meant to,” John said, his voice sounding heavy. "The wife told me her husband was erratic when he got home, holding his wrist. He'd been burned before the fire. He wouldn't say what happened...then they smelled the goddamn smoke."

"Shit," Dean replied. He leaned heavily against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. There was an ache starting between his eyes.

“Yeah," John agreed. "The drug ring I was investigating, when I was in Narcotics. I was getting close. And I mean close. I was about to get the Big Kahuna. The kingpin of the whole operation…and then the house fire.”

Fuck. Dean wiped at his mouth anxiously as he realized what John was saying. Fuck.

“He burned me, Dean. He must have,” John said. Meaning, the drug lord he was trying to pin down somehow discovered his identity. “Your mom paid the price of that.”

“Who is this guy?” Dean asked. His hand holding the phone was starting to tremble.

“I still don’t know his real name. Workin’ on that one too,” John said. “But they called him Azazel.”

When Dean eventually hung up with his father and returned to you at the bar, he saw you brighten. But you soon dimmed with a tinge of worry. Something of his thoughts must’ve shown on his face.

Shit. He tried his best to school his features.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he said, grasping your shoulder. “I’ll take you home.”

“I met you here, remember?” you asked.

Dean paused, then shook his head. Get it together, asshole.

“Right," he said. "Well, I’ll walk you to your car. Let me just pay real quick.”

After he sorted out the bill (he didn’t know that you’d slipped in an extra $30 in Cas’s stack for your part), he led you out, saying goodbye to Ellen and Jo while you went.

You hesitated when the two of you got to the car. Something wasn’t right with him. And both Jo and Meg’s words still rolled back and forth through your head.

“Dean, are you okay? Who was it on the phone?” you asked.

“I’m fine. It was just my dad, called to have me take a look at his car. We were just arguing about our schedules…I’m sure you can relate,” he replied, trying at a smile.

You weren’t sure if you believed him. Though he was nearly convincing, he was also shifting on his feet, hands in his pockets. His gaze roamed away from yours, above your head and over your shoulder.

“Um, I might’ve had a beer too many,” you said with a half-chuckle. “Could you walk with me for a bit? Just until my head clears enough to drive.”

“I could take you home,” Dean offered.

“And leave my car here?” you asked. In a public parking lot behind a bar?

You shook your head and pointed down the road.

“Just there and back…but if you need to go, I guess I could just sit in my car for a while.”

Dean shook his head with a frown. He couldn’t tell you that a damn serial killer was on the loose.

“No, it’s okay,” he said. “It’s a relatively safe neighborhood, but not so much at night. Not by yourself.”

He laid a hand on your back to start walking with you, but his hand soon fell back to his side. You glanced at him, but he looked straight ahead, unusually quiet and reserved.

It felt like he was checking out of this night with you. Like he just wanted to usher you into the car and leave. Did he just not want to deal with what Meg said?

“You must be real special,” she remarked, gesturing at Dean. “He usually doesn’t bring his girls around here, where he actually likes to hang out. Guess that’d mean he’d have to see ‘em again with the lights on.”

Letting out a breath, you tried to see if you could broach the subject.

“It was nice to meet some more of your friends,” you said, and with a nervous laugh, “even if it did get awkward there at the end.”

Dean finally looked over at you.

“We never exactly talked about what each of us was looking for,” you said. “What we were really doing here.” 

You stood your ground, but you tried not to look censuring. Just open to whatever he might have to say. Even so, unease churned inside you.

Dean sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Look, she wasn’t exactly wrong about me.”

You considered that with a nod, biting the inside of your lip.

“When was the last time you were in a relationship?” you asked. Dean gave a humorless huff of a laugh. This really was the last thing he wanted to get into tonight, but he had a feeling he had no choice.

“A few months ago, for about a minute,” he said. “But uh, before then…never.”

Together, you began to cross the street while the cars on either side waited at the red light. Pedestrians had the right of way for the next 30 seconds. You looked over at him and steeled yourself.

“Dean, is this is something casual for you?”

“Define casual,” he attempted to joke (or to deflect). Though the bravado fell the moment he saw that look on your face: tight and disappointed…and hurt.  

He reached for your hand, but you weren’t having it. You slipped away from him and continued walking at a more brusque clip, even in those platform heels.  

“Okay, hold on.” He quickly followed after you and tugged you back by the hand. It had you both stopping in the middle of the crosswalk.  

Dean squeezed your hand and peered into your eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry. Don’t close up on me,” he implored. “…Please.”

Despite your better judgment, and your pursed lips, you waited. Something told you this man didn’t often say please.

“The truth is, I’m trying to do something different here with you. I don’t think we would’ve made it to date #4 if we were just casual,” he said. “I’m not playing games either.”

You wanted to trust that he was serious. Once again, your mind and your heart were at odds; the former told you to be wary, while the latter told you to trust the earnestness in his eyes.

Your heart won. “Okay, Dean.”

“Yeah?” he asked, with hopeful brows raised.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

You finally smiled. And you leaned up, resting a hand against his chest, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His stubble was coarse, but familiar against your lips.

Dean turned his head and leaned in for a proper kiss. His hands found the curve of your waist and brought you closer against his chest. You both sunk deeper into it, your lips gliding as your head tilted into the kiss…

Until a horn honked loudly, making you both jolt at the sound.

The streetlight was green, and several cars were waiting for you to cross. You snorted in amusement, leading Dean to grin down at you. He tugged you back into step with him across the street.

Again, you hesitated at your car. Dean was more himself as he’d held your hand all the way back.

He now held your car door open while you threw in your purse. But when you turned back to him, you still saw something brooding behind his eyes.

You drew near and grasped the open edges of his shirt. This man wore a lot of plaid when he was out of uniform, always with an undershirt. Tonight it was green plaid on gray, complete with some faded jeans and a pair of boots. This was the only “casual” way in which you wanted Dean.  

“Hey,” you started.

“Hmm?” he replied, holding you by your arms.

“I get that we haven’t known each other all that long. So you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you said. “But did something happen when you stepped out? When you talked to your dad?”

Dean paused. His eyes, a pale green under the streetlamp, flicked to yours.

“I just want to know that you’re okay,” you said. “And if you’re not, that’s okay too.”

After a moment to blink in surprise, your earnestness got to him. His grip moved down your arms, and he took one of your hands. His dad’s warning echoed through his mind.

What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.

Dean knew his dad didn’t make demands without a reason, even if he wasn’t typically so forthcoming with them. But Dean drew enough courage to be as honest as he could be. You deserved that much, after everything you'd put up with tonight.

“My mom died...when I was about four,” he said. “It was a house fire.”

Your eyes widened. All this time, you’d assumed his mother had passed away. You hadn’t expected that, though. You squeezed his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, and you meant it. Dean just shook his head.

“It was ruled an accident. Really they just didn’t have much evidence either way,” he continued. “But uh, my dad’s been obsessed with the idea that it wasn’t. That someone started the fire on purpose… Well, today, he might’ve found his proof.”

He held your gaze for as long as he could, but in the end, he just couldn’t. His chest was tight. Saying those words out loud made them real, and he wasn’t sure of how to handle it.  

“Oh, Dean,” you said, starting and stopping, as you struggled to formulate a response that wasn’t just “I’m sorry,” or “Are you okay?” 

He clearly wasn’t. You also didn’t want to give him platitudes like, “That’s crazy,” or the ever-inspired: “Wow.” 

Or some other variation of what you’re supposed to say. You wanted to give him something honest. Something real. 

So you curled your hands around his arms, earning his gaze.

“You must be reeling right now,” you said. “Do you think he’s onto something this time?”  

“I don’t know what to think,” said Dean. “I’ve been pressing him for answers, but…honestly? I wish he hadn’t told me a damn thing.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that. You were surprised that he actually confided in you with this. But the only thing you could think to do was lean up on your toes and slip your arms around his neck. You hugged him, warm and tight. 

You couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling, but you just wanted him to know that someone was there for him. You were there for him. 

Dean eventually hugged you back. He held you, reassuring you as well as himself. He blew out a cathartic breath, and his hand came up to cup the back of your head. His lips tugged upwards.

“You’re a sweetheart, you know that?” he said. 

A smile spread across your face. Your fingers soothed through his hair gently. You pressed your lips into his neck.

“I aim to please,” you said against his skin.

Dean smiled more fully at that. The new warmth in his chest warred against the roiling in his stomach. Despite his best efforts, his smile faded.

His mom’s killer was still out there.

The thought was haunting his mind, and he knew it probably would for many nights to come.

So for now, he’d just hold you a bit tighter.

AN: 🥲 I honestly didn't mean it to end so angsty, but Dean finally got some much-needed hurt/comfort there! What did you think of how Jo handled her jealous side? And Gordon "shooting his shot" lol.

Coming soon in Part 7, we finally get to a huge milestone between these two lovebirds, with a side helping of baking shenanigans. 😏❤️‍🔥

Next Time:

“Ey, ey!” he raised a warning finger with his free hand. “You’re about to take this to a new level.”

You met his gaze through your lashes with a playful smile. “So?”

Dean raised a brow at you. He could admit, you had audacity. All he could do was call your bluff.

He took one of your battered fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widened at the feel of his soft tongue swirling around your finger, sucking it clean. All the while, his eyes never broke from yours.

Lord have mercy, you thought. Really, it was the only coherent one in your head.

Keep Reading: PART 7

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb

@vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @katherineann814 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Skin | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: mentions of assault/battery, canon violence, canon gore (take care of urselves bbies)

Word Count: 5826

Series Rewrite Masterlist

You and Dean didn’t talk about Toledo. You were back to not talking about much of anything. Your fights had become much less frequent, and when you did fight, it was more playful than malicious. For that, you were grateful. You felt incredibly conflicted about the fact that he was beginning to grow on you. 

‘Like a wart,’ you thought. ‘Or a blister, maybe.’

Whatever he was, he was beginning to chip through your hard exterior. You also found out he hadn’t told Sam what you’d told him about your family which you were surprised by. 

The three of you spent more time on the road than you did anywhere else. When you used to drive cross-country by yourself, you felt yourself beginning to go crazy a few hours into the drive. As much as you loved your alone time, you also craved the company of others. Now that you had it, you weren’t sure how you were going to leave these guys once you found John. 

Dean turned in his seat to face Sam. “Alright, I figure we’d hit Tucumcari by lunch, then head south, hit Bisbee by midnight.” 

He didn’t respond.

“Sam wears women’s underwear.”

“I’ve been listenin’, I’m just busy,” he finally answered. 

“Busy doin’ what?” you placed your head on his shoulder over the top of the seat.

“Reading e-mails.” 

Dean had gotten out of the car and began pumping gas. “E-mails from who?”

“From my friends at Stanford.” Sam still seemed disinterested in conversation.

“You’re kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies?” Dean asked.

“Why not?” He still hadn’t turned his attention from his phone.

“Well, what exactly do you tell ‘em? You know, about where you’ve been, what you’ve been doin’?”

“I tell ‘em I’m on a road trip with my big brother. I tell ‘em I needed some time off after Jess.”

“And I couldn’t make my way into that lie?” you asked. 

“What do I tell ‘em, (Y/N/N)? That we picked up some chick in California and took her on the road with us?” he chuckled. “And I don’t lie to them. I just don’t tell ‘em… everything.”

“Yeah, that’s called lying,” you retorted. “I get it, though, the truth is much worse.”

“So, what am I supposed to do, just cut everybody out of my life?”

His older brother shrugged.

“You’re serious?” Sam wasn’t really asking.

“Look, it sucks, but in a job like this, you can’t get close to people, period,” Dean responded.

“How many friends do I have, Sam?” you asked him.

“Me.”

“Exactly,” you giggled.

“You two are kind of anti-social, you know that?” He returned to scrolling through his emails.

“Eh, whatever.” You flopped back on the bench seat.

“God….” Sam trailed off.

“What?” you and Dean asked.

“In this e-mail from this girl, Rebecca Warren, one of those friends of mine.”

“Is she hot?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Dean—” 

Sam ignored the two of you. “I went to school with her, and her brother, Zack. She says Zack’s been charged with murder. He’s been arrested for killing his girlfriend. Rebecca says he didn’t do it, but it sounds like the cops have a pretty good case.”

“Dude, what kind of people are you hangin’ out with?” his brother questioned.

“No, man, I know Zack. He’s no killer.”

“Well, maybe you know Zack as well as he knows you.”

“They’re in St. Louis. We’re goin’.”

“Look, sorry ‘bout your buddy, okay?” Dean chuckled humorlessly. “But this does not sound like our kind of problem.”

Sam wasn’t having it. “It is our problem. They’re my friends.”

“St. Louis is four hundred miles behind us, Sam.” Dean and Sam got into what you can only describe as a staring contest before Dean scoffed; seemingly admitting defeat. Next thing you knew, you were headed to St. Louis.

***

The massive door on the undoubtedly expensive house you’d arrived at opened to reveal a beautiful blonde girl. 

‘Damn all these pretty blonde bitches we keep running into,’ you thought.

“Oh my God, Sam!” she smiled, throwing her arms around her friend.

“Well, if it isn’t little Becky,” Sam jested.

“You know what you can do with that little Becky crap.”

“I got your e-mail.” His tone had become somber.

“I didn’t think that you would come here,” she answered earnestly.

Dean shoved in front of Sam. “Dean. Older brother.”

‘He’s making his fucking voice deeper again.’

She shook his hand. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she smiled back.

“We’re here to help. Whatever we can do.” You peeked out from behind Sam. “I’m (Y/N), by the way.”

“Nice to meet you!” You were only mildly annoyed by how wonderful her disposition was. “Come in.”

“Nice place,” Dean commented, taking in his grandiose surroundings.

“It’s my parents’. I was just crashing here for the long weekend when everything happened. I decided to take the semester off. I’m gonna stay until Zack’s free,” Becky explained.

“Where are your folks?” Sam asked.

“They live in Paris for half the year, so they’re on their way home now for the trial.”

‘Of course, they fucking do.’

“Do you guys want a beer or something?” she asked politely.

Dean obviously did, but his brother stopped him. “No, thanks. So, tell us what happened.”

“Well, um, Zack came home, and he found Emily tied to a chair. And she was beaten up and bloody, and she wasn’t breathing.” Becky began to cry. 

‘She’s even pretty when she cries.’

“So, he called 911, and the police— they showed up, and they arrested him. But, the thing is, the only way that Zack could’ve killed Emily is if he was in two places at the same time. The police—they have a video. It’s from the security tape from across the street. And it shows Zack coming home at 10:30. Now, Emily was killed just after that, but I swear, he was here with me, having a few beers until at least after midnight,” she relayed.

“You know, maybe we could see the crime scene. Zack’s house.”

“We could,” Dean agreed, but you could tell he still wasn’t picking up where Sam was going with this.

“Why? I mean, what could you do?” the blonde asked.

“Well, me, not much. But Dean’s a cop.” Sam patted his brother’s shoulder.

“Detective, actually,” Dean laughed.

“Really? Where?”

“Bisbee, Arizona. But I’m off-duty now.”

“You guys, it’s so nice to offer, but I just— I don’t know,” she said.

“Bec, look, I know Zack didn’t do this. Now, we have to find a way to prove that he’s innocent,” Sam replied.

“Okay. I’m gonna go get the keys.”

“Oh, yeah, man, you’re a real straight shooter with your friends,” Dean mocked after Becky had walked down the hall.

“Look, Zack and Becky need our help,” Sam responded.

“I just don’t think this is our kind of problem.”

“Two places at once? We’ve looked into less.”

Dean said nothing, clearly defeated.

***

“You’re sure this is okay?” Rebecca asked Dean as the four of you walked into Zack's house.

Dean clearly was having fun with the whole “cop” thing. “Yeah. I am an officer of the law.”

You hated how smug he could be. Rebecca came inside with you and informed you that Emily had let her attacker in. 

She then informed you about a recent incident that struck you as odd. “Um, there was something, about a week before. Somebody broke in here and stole some clothes— Zack’s clothes. The police— they don’t think it’s anything. I mean, we’re not that far from downtown. Sometimes people get robbed.” In the midst of her story, you could hear a dog barking angrily across the street. Dean peered out of the window, and Becca came up behind him. “You know, that used to be the sweetest dog.”

“What happened?” you asked her.

“He just changed.”

Dean turned over his shoulder to her. “Do you remember when he changed?”

“I guess around the time of the murder,” she shrugged. 

You found Sam staring at a picture of himself, another college-aged boy you assumed was Zack, and Rebecca that was framed in the hallway. 

Dean came up behind you soon after. “So, the neighbor’s dog went psycho right around the time Zack’s girlfriend was killed.”

“Animals can have a sharp sense of the paranormal,” Sam said.

“Yeah, maybe Fido saw somethin’.”

“So, you think maybe this is our kind of problem?”

“Yeah, prob—” you started, only to be cut off by Dean.

“No. Probably not. But we should look at the security tape, you know, just to make sure.”

You shot him a look. “The evidence is staring you in the face, and you still can’t admit you’re wrong.”

He shot a look back at you that said, ‘Don’t try me.’

Before you could push each other’s buttons any further, Rebecca came over to you, and Dean turned his attention to her. “So, the tape. The security footage— you think maybe your lawyers could get their hands on it, ‘cause I just don’t have that kind of jurisdiction.”

How Becky was buying into Dean’s lie, you had no idea. He was really laying it on thick.

“I’ve already got it. I didn’t wanna say something in front of the cop,” she giggled. “I stole it off the lawyer’s desk. I just had to see it for myself.”

The three of you went back to Becky’s parents’ home to review the security footage. It was of Zack entering his house, but a strange glint on the film caught your eye.

“22:04,” Dean noted the time stamp, “that’s just after ten. You said time of death was about 10:30.”

“Our lawyers hired some kind of video expert. He says the tape’s authentic. It wasn’t tampered with,” Becky added.

“Hey, Bec, can we take those beers now?” Sam asked. 

“Oh, sure,” she replied politely, turning to go to the kitchen.

“Maybe some sandwiches, too?” He was putting on the puppy dog eyes just a bit to convince her. 

“What do you think this is, Hooters?” she snarked.

“I wish,” Dean mumbled. 

“Can you focus, please?” you asked him.

“What are you, my mother?” Your banter was no longer filled with malice, just a hint of aggravation. 

“No, but frankly, the thought of you trying to bang someone makes me want to throw up in my mouth. I’d prefer not to watch it happen,” you replied playfully. “But look.” You rewound the tape an started it over. You caught the glint again, paused it, and realized Zack’s eyes were silver. “There!”

“Well, maybe it’s just a camera flare,” Dean shrugged.

“Does that look like any camera flare you’ve ever seen?” you asked rhetorically. 

He just looked away, defeated. 

“You know, a lot of cultures believe that a photograph can catch a glimpse of the soul,” Sam chimed in. “Remember that dog that was freaking out? Maybe he saw this thing. Maybe this is some kind of dark double of Zack’s, something that looks like him but isn’t him.”

“Like a Doppelganger?” Your brow knitted together, mind trying to wrap around what you were dealing with.

“Yeah. It’d sure explain how he was in two places at once,” Sam said.

Despite the luxurious villa Sam’s friend called home, the three of you didn’t want to intrude on her privacy; opting for yet another shitty motel. Something about this case was bugging you, though, and you tossed and turned all night thinking about it. And then, it hit you.

You pulled on your jacket and boots and rushed over to the boys’ room. A sleepy Dean answered the door. You hated to admit it, but he and his fluffy, mussed up hair were adorable when he’d just woken up.

“Morning, sunshine,” you grinned.

He scratched his head. “(Y/N), what the fu—”

“We have to get to Zack’s house. I just thought of something. “

Sam appeared behind Dean, already dressed. “Whatcha got?”

Dean stepped back from the door, letting you into the room. 

“We saw ‘Zack’ go in, but never saw the killer leave,” you explained. “But of course, we didn’t. Why would the cops be looking for that when they nabbed Zack in his house with his dead girlfriend?” 

Sam was with you, nodding his head.

“Did you have to realize that before five in the morning?” Dean yawned, pulling a pair of pants on.

“Sorry,” you replied sheepishly. “Couldn’t sleep. But I figured that out, so that’s all that matters.”

Dean shook his head and yawned again. “Sam, you’re driving. I might crash my baby if I drive right now.”

***

“He must’ve gone out the back door,” Sam said. You and the brothers were walking toward Zack’s house. “So, there should be a trail to follow. A trail the police would never pursue.”

“I still don’t know what we’re doin’ here at 5:30 in the morning,” Dean grumbled.

“C’mon,” you groaned, dragging his arm to follow Sam around the back of Zack’s house. Sure enough, there was a dried, dark red substance smeared on a nearby telephone pole.

“Blood. Somebody came this way,” Sam noted.

“Yeah, but the trail ends,” Dean added from a few paces ahead. “I don’t see anything over here.”

Just as he finished speaking, an ambulance drove past the house with its sirens wailing. You and Sam looked at each other before hurrying back to Dean’s car. Dean followed the ambulance to its destination where a man was handcuffed and being shoved into the back of a police car.

“What happened?” Dean asked a bystander.

“He tried to kill his wife,” she responded with a hand to her chest. “Tied her up and beat her.”

“Really?” you asked.

“I used to see him going to work in the morning. He’d wave, say hello. He seemed like such a nice guy.” She shook her head sorrowfully and watched as the police car drove away.

The three of you hung around the scene for a while until it had been completely cleared out. You regrouped while you snooped around.

“Remember when I said this wasn’t our kind of problem?” Dean asked as he approached you and Sam.

“Yeah,” his brother answered.

“Definitely our kind of problem.”

You gasped, feigning shock. “Mark it in the calendar, Dean Winchester admitted he was wrong!”

“Watch it, sweetheart,” he retorted.

“What’d you find out?” Sam asked.

“Well, I just talked to the patrolman who was first on the scene, heard this guy, Alex’s story. Apparently the dude was driving home from a business trip when his wife was attacked,” Dean explained.

“So, he was in two places at once, too.”

“Exactly. Then he sees himself in the house; police think he’s a nutjob.”

You paused for a moment, thinking. “You think it could be a shapeshifter?”

“Something that can make itself look like anyone? Sure,” Sam responded. “Every culture in the world has a shapeshifter lore. You know, legends of creatures who can transform themselves into animals or other men.”

“Right, skinwalkers, werewolves,” Dean added. “We’ve got two attacks within blocks of each other. I’m guessin’ we’ve got a shapeshifter prowlin’ the neighborhood.”

“Let me ask you this— in all this shapeshifter lore, can any of them fly?” the younger brother asked.

“Not that I know of.” You shook your head. “But someone ran out the back of his house and headed this way. And then… the trail just… ends. Just like at your friend’s house.” You gestured toward Sam.

“Well, there’s another way to go.” You followed Dean’s gaze down to a manhole.

“Ew, gross.” Your face scrunched up in disgust as Sam started to move the manhole cover. 

The three of you quickly climbed down so as to not be seen. 

“I bet this runs right by Zack’s house, too,” Sam said as the three of you made your way down the tunnel. “The shapeshifter could be using the sewer system to get around.”

You were leading the group, and stopped suddenly when you noticed a pile of blood and skin on the ground. “Blegh, look!”

“Is this from his victims?” Sam looked equally as disgusted.

Dean pulled out his pocket knife and lifted a piece of the skin off the ground. “You know, I just had a sick thought. When the shapeshifter changes shape, maybe it sheds.”

“That is sick,” you affirmed.

He dropped the skin back to the ground and turned to you to wipe his knife off on your jacket.

“Ew, dude!” you shoved his arm. “What the fuck?”

He just laughed in response.

You and the boys headed back up to the car to load up with some weapons.

“Well, one thing I learned from Dad—” Dean began, riffling through the weapons cavity, “—is that no matter what kind of shapeshifter it is, there’s one sure way to kill it.”

“Silver bullet to the heart,” you chimed in.

He nodded and handed you a case of the bullets. 

Sam’s cell phone rang. “This is Sam… We’re near Zack’s, we’re just checkin’ some things out… What are you talkin’ about?”

He seemed caught off-guard. You thought he was talking to Rebecca, but had no idea why she’d be upset with you. You eyed Dean who shrugged.

“Why would you do that?... Bec— We’re tryin’ to help… Bec, I’m sorry, but—” And then he clapped his phone shut, looking disappointed.

Dean found it an appropriate moment to be a bit of a dick. “I hate to say it, but that’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about. You lie to your friends because if they knew the real you, they’d be freaked. It’s just—it’d be easier if—”

“If I was like you guys,” he replied quietly. 

“Sam, I’m not trying to be heartless, but Dean’s kinda right.” Both brothers seemed surprised you were agreeing with Dean for once. “We’re not like other people.” 

“But I’ll tell you one thing.” Dean’s lighthearted tone was back. “This whole gig— it ain’t without perks.” He held out a gun to Sam, whose face was still crestfallen.

You followed Sam and Dean back down the manhole, gun loaded with silver bullets. You carried the case of bullets Dean handed to you in your inner jacket pocket; just in case. After a few minutes of trudging through toxic sludge with baited breath, you noticed another pile of blood and skin on a pipe next to Sam’s head. “I think we’re close to its lair,” you told them.

“Why do you say that?” Sam asked. 

“Because there’s another puke-inducing pile next to your face,” you snickered. 

“Oh, God!” His face scrunched up in disgust.

There was another pile of clothing and rotting skin a few paces ahead of you. 

“Looks like it’s lived here for a while,” you heard Dean say from behind you.

You turned to face him as you spoke. “Who knows how many murders he’s gotten away— Fuck, Dean!” you cried, seeing the shapeshifter in the form of its last victim behind him. 

Dean wheeled around, only to be knocked to the ground by the smirking creature. You and Sam rushed to his side as the creature sped off. 

“Get the son of a bitch!” Dean commanded. 

The three of you sped down the tunnel and followed him out of the manhole. You couldn’t see where exactly he ended up, and you decided to split up. 

Under the cover of night, you headed down streets and alleyways with your gun hidden inside your jacket. You came to a stop at a dead end and wheeled around at the sound of footsteps behind you. The shapeshifter, still in the form of the businessman, knocked you out cold before you were even able to raise your gun at him. 

***

The next time you came to, you felt itchy bits of rope binding your hands, feet, and neck to a cold, metal post behind you. As your vision began to clear, you could see you were in some kind of a dark, dingy room. It seemed like a house, but you weren’t entirely convinced. You heard what sounded like the older brother’s voice coming from behind you.

“Dean?” you called.

“(Y/N), it’s not—” Sam shouted, but cut himself off with a groan.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” he smirked, leaning down to your eye level. He put a hand next to your head on the post. 

You turned your face away from him, straining against the rope. He even smelled like Dean. 

“You are one fucking trainwreck,” he said, searching your face. 

You eyed him curiously. He just laughed coldly in response. “The more I learn about you, the more fucked up you get.”

“What do you mean ‘learn’?” 

As if on cue, the shapeshifter held a hand to his temple, grunting in pain. After a moment had passed, he spoke again. “You made a big mistake telling him— I mean, me— about what you did to your family. If I wasn’t ready to get rid of you before, I sure as hell am now. I hope you’re tellin’ the truth about leaving the second we find Dad, ‘cause I don’t know how much longer I can put up with you. God, from your voice to your personality, you aggravate the livin’ crap outta me.” The shapeshifter leaned back down in front of your face, the two of you only inches away from one another.

“You’re a burden, (Y/N). You’re exhausting to be around. I constantly have to keep my guard up around you. I can’t trust you, not after what you told me in Toledo. How do I know you won’t turn on me and Sammy?”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you kept them at bay. You instead reared back as much as you could and spat in his face. You had taken him by surprise, but his hand was around your throat in an instant. His lips were inches away from your ear and he squeezed your neck just tight enough to where you were beginning to see stars. “You fucking bitch. Y’know, take your voice and personality away, Dean would definitely wanna fuck you. He thought you were hot the first time he met you. Then he actually got to know you, and, eh, things changed. But I’m sure he’d have tons of fun with Sam’s little friend Becky.” A wicked grin spread across his face. “I think I’ll go pay her a visit.”

He released your throat and you sputtered and coughed when he did. He covered you up with a tarp moments later. You felt pathetic, but you let your tears flow freely now that he was gone, wiggling around to get the tarp off your head. 

“(Y/N), are you back there?” Dean called from somewhere you couldn’t see. 

You knew he hadn’t said those hurtful things to you, but it was still difficult to hear his voice. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here.” Your voice was still shaky from crying. “He went to Rebecca’s, lookin’ like you.”

“Well, he’s not stupid. He picked the handsome one,” Dean gibed at his brother.

You admired his ability to keep his snarky attitude and stupid jokes despite his circumstances. His confidence bewildered you at times.

You pulled at the ropes binding your hands, hissing when you felt the rope creating angry brush burns on your wrists. 

“Yeah, that’s the thing. He didn’t just look like you, he was you. Or he was becoming you,” you heard Sam tell Dean.

“What do you mean?” the older brother asked.

“Yeah, it was like he was downloading your thoughts and memories,” you told him.

“You mean, like the Vulcan mind meld?” 

You giggled. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t just kill us,” Sam added.

“Yeah, he probably needs to keep us alive. Some kind of psychic connection— ah,” you yelped at the feeling of the rope aggravating your wrists again. The shifter had bound you unbelievably tightly.

“(Y/N), stop, I’m coming to help you,” Dean instructed. 

“I’m a big girl,” you replied sassily. “I can do it.”

Dean had made his way over to you. “Do you have to fight me on everything?” He untied your hands with ease and began working on your neck. 

“Yes, but thank you,” you told him. You still couldn’t look him in the eyes after what the shifter had told you. You were doing your best to keep your exterior steely. You couldn’t deny, though, that his tight-fitting gray t-shirt over rippling muscle and the way he’d helped you were starting to break down your walls a little. 

“Come on, we gotta go,” you heard Sam order from behind you. “He’s probably at Rebecca’s already.”

Dean pushed a window out of the building you were kept in and the three of you climbed out. 

Sam started down the street. “Come on. We gotta find a phone, call the police.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dean stopped him. “You’re gonna put an APB out on me.”

His brother shrugged. “Sorry.”

“This way.” Dean led the three of you down the street. You ran shielded by the darkness until you reached a store window. There was a display wall of televisions in it, and the news was on. Conveniently, Dean was the breaking news.

“An anonymous tip led police to a home in the Central West End—” the reporter stated, “—where a S.W.A.T team discovered a local woman bound and gagged. Her attacker, a white male, approximately twenty-four to thirty years of age, was discovered hiding in her home.”

Of course, Dean’s attitude was unwavering. “Man! That’s not even a good picture.”

You looked around nervously. 

“It’s good enough,” Sam said.

“Man!” Dean grumbled, following Sam down the street to an alleyway. 

“They said attempted murder,” you pointed out. “At least we know—”

“I didn’t kill her.”

You nodded.

“We’ll check with Rebecca in the morning, see if she’s all right,” Sam said, looking over his shoulder.

“Alright, but first I wanna find that handsome devil and kick the holy crap out of him.” 

‘He’s still as arrogant as ever.’

“We have no weapons, though. No silver bullets,” you countered. 

“Sweetheart, the guy’s walkin’ around with my face, okay, it’s a little personal, I wanna find him.” He turned to face you, but you couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I get it. We need guns, though.”

“The car?” Sam threw in. 

“I’m bettin’ he drove over to Rebecca’s.” Dean’s face began to heat up. You knew he was thinking about his precious Impala.

“The news said he fled on foot. I bet it’s still parked there.”

“The thought of him drivin’ my car—” he whined.

You shook your head. “Come on.”

“It’s killin’ me,” Dean whined again.

“Let it go,” you and Sam commanded over your shoulders.

The three of you rounded the corner along a tall hedge only to be greeted by the sight of the car.

“Oh, there she is! Finally, something went right tonight.” Dean’s joy was almost contagious.

His stupor was broken by a police car appearing down Rebecca’s street and blocking the end of the road. 

“Fuck.” You spun around the way you came, but another cop car appeared back down that street, too. 

“This way, this way,” Dean began leading you over to a fence and easily climbed atop it. 

“You guys go. I’ll hold ‘em off,” Sam told you.

“What are you talking about? They’ll catch you.” Dean turned into a seated position on top the fence.

“Look, they can’t hold me. Just go, keep out of sight. Meet me at Rebecca’s,” Sam quickly spoke. 

You and Dean hopped over multiple fences, fatiguing your limbs quickly. Several blocks from where you and the boys had run into the cops, the two of you stopped to catch your breath. You sat down on a street corner and tucked your knees into your chest.

Dean sat beside you. “What did he say to you?”

You turned to him. “Huh?”

“The shifter. What’d he say to you?”

You shook your head. “Nothing, it’s fine—”

“(Y/N), you haven’t looked at me once since we left that thing’s hideout. Tell me what he said.”

“Why can’t you drop it?” you spat, looking down at your boots.

“Because,” he protested. “I gave you a chance to explain in Toledo. At the very least, you owe me that.”

You sighed. “He said you think I’m annoying. And, um, a burden. He said you’re trying to find your dad so quick to get rid of me. And that you can’t trust me because of what I did to my family.”

Dean was silent for a moment. “Anything else?”

“He said everything about me aggravates you and that I exhaust you.”

He nodded. “Do you really believe that?” You could feel his gaze burning holes into the side of your face.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly. “You haven’t exactly proven otherwise to me.” You looked up at him for the first time in hours.

He seemed surprised by that answer.

“Don’t look at me like that. Aside from Toledo and a few seconds on that plane, all we’ve ever done is fight,” you reminded him.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” A few moments of silence passed before he spoke again. “But I don’t think those things about you. Honest.”

“I feel like I’m pulling teeth here, Dean,” you remarked. “What do you think of me?”

“I mean, you can be annoying.”

You scoffed, but a smile tugged at your lips. 

“And you’re way too stubborn.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “And so are you.”

“And you’re too smart for your own good.”

“I wouldn’t say that…”

“Would you let me finish?” he deadpanned.

You took a deep breath. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You just… you intimidate me a little, honestly.” Now Dean was the one who couldn’t look at you.

You were shocked. “Really? Why?”

“Dammit, (Y/N), I’m not good at this,” he sighed. “I know you heard what I said to Haley about that being the most honest I’ve ever been with a woman.”

You giggled at the memory.

“This tops that by far,” he admitted.

You nodded. You’d have this conversation another time. You rose to your feet, and he followed suit. 

“Can we start over?” you asked him.

He eyed you curiously.

“As… acquaintances, I mean,” you explained. “We’re no closer to finding your dad than we were the day I met you, so I imagine I’ll be around for a little while longer. I’d rather us not fight the whole time. It’s getting exhausting, if I’m being honest.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess we can do that.”

“Okay, then.” You cleared your throat and stuck out your hand. “Hi. I’m (Y/N).”

Dean shook his head at your antics despite the smile pulling on his lips. “Dean.” This time, he actually shook your hand.

***

Later that morning, you and Dean had returned to the car for weapons. Thankfully, Dean still had some silver bullets left in the trunk. With guns in hand, the two of you headed back to the sewers. A few minutes into your walk, you came across a rancid pile of flesh, teeth, and fingernails.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” Your face contorted in disgust. You looked up when you heard a rustling noise a little down the tunnel. You could see a dim glow from the place you’d heard the rustling. You tightened your grip on your gun and let Dean lead the way into the chamber. He nodded his head in the direction of the left side of a figure covered in a tarp at the back end of the chamber, indicating for you to go that way. You followed his instruction and crept up on the figure with him. He pulled the sheet away from the figure, only to reveal Rebecca.

“What happened?” you asked her. Her hands and feet were bound, her mouth was gagged, her hair was a mess, and her skin was littered with bruising and cuts. 

She was still shaking and crying as she spoke. “I was walking home, and everything just went white. Someone hit me over the head, and I wound up here just in time to see that thing turn into me. I don’t know, how is that even possible?”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay,” Dean told her. 

The two of you untied her and made sure she was able to walk before guiding her out of the sewers.

“We’ve gotta hurry,” Dean said. “Sam went to see you.”

When you got to Rebecca’s house, all you could hear was the grunting, furniture breaking, skin hitting skin, and bones cracking coming from the living room. And then, choking. You had no doubt it was Sam.

Dean seemed to pick up on that as well. He hurried into the den, shouting, “Hey!”

The shifter spotted Dean and got off of Sam. Dean shot twice, and with that, the shifter was dead. 

You rushed over to Sam and cradled his head in your lap. “Are you okay?” you asked him. 

He smiled painfully at you. “Peachy.”

You giggled at him. You looked up at Dean standing over… Dean… and watched as he ripped his necklace off the shifter.

You watched Rebecca say goodbye to Sam, and she waved at you and Dean who stood by the Impala. She turned to go back inside her house.

Sam approached the two of you.

“So, what about your friend, Zack?” Dean asked his brother.

“Cops are blamin’ this Dean Winchester guy for Emily’s murder,” Sam jested. “They found the murder weapon in the guy’s lair, Zack’s clothes stained with her blood. Now they’re thinking maybe the surveillance tape was tampered with. Yeah, Becca says Zack will be released soon.” 

You giggled. Dean just rolled his eyes. 

“Get in the car, (Y/N),” he chastised you. For the first time since you met him, you knew he wasn’t trying to tear you down. It was refreshing to have an amicable relationship with him.

As Dean tore down the road, he turned to his brother. “Sorry, man.”

“About what?”

“I really wish things could be different, you know?” the older brother said earnestly. “I wish you could just be… Joe College.”

“No, that’s okay. You know, the truth is, even at Stanford, deep down, I never really fit in,” Sam admitted.

“Well, that’s ‘cause you’re a freak,” Dean quipped.

You loved earnest moments between the two brothers. It made you feel normal; in a weird way.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said dryly.

“Well, I’m a freak, too. I’m right there with ya, all the way.”

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s voice softened.

“You know, I gotta say. I’m sorry I’m gonna miss it.” 

You felt one of Dean’s stupid jokes coming on. “Oh, here we go.”

He eyed you in the rearview mirror. 

“Miss what?” Sam asked.

“How many chances am I gonna have to see my own funeral?” Dean smirked.

You shook your head. “And there it is.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle

[pagannatural]

1.18

Something Wicked

-Winchester brothers investigate a sickness that spreads through child-siblings that’s really a monster that’s really the thing that haunts Dean for letting it get to Sammy. Help

-“Two queens” “I bet” Michael thought they were a gay couple trying to hide their relationship

-Nine-year old Dean made his little brother’s dinner and didn’t even sit down to eat anything himself. He gives the last bowl of lucky charms to Sammy due to puppydog eyes. He throws away Sammy’s spaghettios rather than eating them, saying Sam was the one who wanted them in the first place- so he probably doesn’t like them. Everything in this scene is for Sam.

-Sam offers Dean the cereal box prize. Dean remembers that 17 years later, which means it really meant something to him, which is so fucking cute.

-This is also the age at which Dean started making his own money Somehow and got a subscription to a news magazine. I think he wanted a way to feel like he was connected to the world outside that still allowed him to stay home watching Sam so he didn’t have to risk leaving again.

-Dean knew about all of the monsters his dad hunts and knew how to shoot a gun at this point and yet he wasn’t scared to leave the motel by himself and walk alone at night. And he’s in what, third grade? His fear center is broken

-Sam was probably scared to be woken up by his dad losing his shit over him, glaring daggers and yelling at his older brother standing in his doorway pale and shaking.

-Dean tells Sam “he gave me an order and I didn’t listen and I almost got you killed.” No wonder he did as John said for the rest of his life.

Sam tries to comfort him by saying he was just a kid, but Dean shuts him down.

He was never a kid. He still feels guilty for this.

-It’s not like he ran away or froze up. He pushed open Sam’s door, picked up and aimed his gun, and then hesitated when the monster roared at him. I think he was out of his mind afraid of what he was seeing-Sam in danger- and afraid that he would miss and accidentally shoot Sam. He tells Michael to get under the bed before they can take a shot at the shtriga later in the episode, so that’s definitely on his mind.

-Michael asks Dean if he would do anything for his little brother and Dean says “yeah I would.” Sam has told Dean both “I would die for you” and “I would do anything for you.” It’s Sam’s way of communicating how much he loves Dean. But I don’t think he’s heard that from Dean yet. Dean really doesn’t express how he feels with words the way Sam does, so he probably loved hearing this.

-Sam says “I’ve really given you a lot of crap for always following Dad’s orders. But I know why you do it.” Dean turns away and says “oh god kill me now” like this is too emotional for him. If the reason he followed orders was like, For Safety, this wouldn’t be an emotional conversation. Sam’s looking at Dean like, I know you do it for me.

-Shtriga attacks Sam, and Dean gets to save him and kill it, maybe allowing him to start changing the belief that challenging John would lead to Sam getting hurt. Before it was I failed so Sam almost died, now it’s I acted and I’m not nine anymore.

-Sam says sometimes he wishes he could have the innocence of never having known about monsters. Dean says “if it means anything, sometimes I wish you could too.”

Dean doesn’t even wish for his own innocence. I think Sam notices this.

Dean got to be a part of Sam’s life before he knew about hunting. He probably saw how Sam started getting scared, how he resisted hunting, and wished he didn’t have to do it. This is Dean admitting that yes, he does question and resent the way they grew up sometimes, he does see the ways that it hurt Sam. They both acknowledge the realities of each other’s lives- Sam understanding why Dean always follows John’s orders and Dean understanding why Sam wanted a different life.

This whole episode was about how big Dean’s love for Sam is, and about a monster that feeds on children’s youth and life force that Dean believes only got to Sam because of him. But Sam doesn’t even remember, Dean is the one living with that guilt.

[winchester-reload]

I have a few thoughts about the Winchesters finale, and though I wasn’t gonna weigh in on this, it turns out I needed to write this down to get it out of my head, so here we go.

I understand that Misha was approached to be included on the show and that there was a “scheduling conflict” that included multiple conversations with Jensen. Here’s my interpretation of that: 

I believe Cas was supposed to make a cameo in episode 13 to tee up the confession resolution—this was always the episode where they were going to crack open the “surprise twist” even before learning they would only get 13 episodes total. In the original scenario, episode 13 would have been the hellatus episode rather than a finale, leaving room for everything to come to a head with episode 22 instead. It’s then they would have given us the actual Dean and Cas reunion. This would have wrapped both stories nicely with each group going off into their own respective sunsets—their own happy endings, while still leaving all the room for the new crew to explore more seasons; all along, we see, The Winchesters was about Dean and Cas as much as it was about Mary and John.

When they didn’t get the back half of the season picked up, I assume they feared it would be more dangerous to show a Cas cameo without getting to address the confession, so Misha likely opted to be left out instead. With the only hint to Cas being Dean’s line that he was looking for his family when he found the Akrida, then directly drawing the parallel that Jack and Bobby were “family.” The core crew for Dean has always been Bobby, Sam, Jack, AND Cas. And he wasn’t looking for Sam because he was still on earth. So who’s left? You might be compelled to believe he was window shopping AU versions of his parents, but he confirms he ran into the Akrida in this world and then sought to interfere with the order by approaching John in an effort to prevent it from spreading to Sam's world. (Why Cas would be AU hopping, idk. The boy is really afraid of being shot down, I guess.)

It goes far to explain the vast narrative parallels we saw reflected in the Monster Club crew if it was intended as a setup for the confession payoff. It honestly doesn’t make a lot of sense otherwise. There’s no reason these people should be living Dean's experiences and regrets every episode unless the writers wanted the viewer to be thinking about the lessons and resolutions in how they relate to Dean too.

Additionally, as this has been a largely uncontested take, this is Jensen's well-funded fanfic come to life. Complete with the embracing of many of our favorite fanfic tropes and emphasized by Dean’s own words throughout the season. Because this is an obvious embrace of that “write your own story” fan side, I believe the reason Dean couldn’t even say Cas’ name in the episode is because they were going to change the spelling from “Cass” as it was in the show proper to the fan-adopted (and more accurate) spelling of “Cas,” which would have appeared in the subtitles and later the script pages.  And even that little thing right there would have been a huge giveaway to the whole game. And a very dangerous thing to do if there wasn’t going to be enough time for follow-through. 

But the truth is, this isn’t a game for many people, and the harm that can be caused by good intentions is just as real. It also begs the question: why should this be so difficult? The answer is it’s not. Edging forever isn’t fun. It’s torture. I understand there’s an art to storytelling, but your audience is weary, and trust has been violated too many times. Even still, the flip side of that coin is honest to god respect for DeanCas endgame means taking the story and the reveal seriously. It’s a tightrope walk. And one that Robbie somehow managed to keep balanced after the finale, without it falling either way.  Also we also need to consider the possibility that Jensen did pitch a full-on destiel love story spin-off but got shot down, opting to couch it in a more CW-branded world instead. He’s mentioned over half a dozen pitches were rejected. It's up to you whether you want to give him the benefit of the doubt on that.

But, I’m gonna be honest here, I don’t know that we will ever get that resolution we crave. Even Robbie confirmed The Winchesters were always meant to “go it alone” after the first season. It’s hard to imagine Dean popping in there to fuck around again after that handoff. But the dude is clearly a very restless sea-faring*, swoopy-haired mofo right now, so I’ll leave that one up to the SPN multiverse and the new Mr. Superwholock’s magical universe-traveling impala. (This show used to be about what again? *looks at notes*.) And FWIW, if they do get green-lit for a whole second season or are allowed to move networks, I believe a good-faith effort will be made to tie the narrative parallels we saw in season one to some real Dean and Cas resolution. If there gets to be a world where John *might* not turn into an abusive dick, then this possibility has to be true too.

For the record, I enjoyed The Winchesters, all the new characters, and the doors the finale opened for the possibility of more. I would have been fine half-watching it with no promises, empty head no thoughts, but I got my clown** suit on again, and though I mostly kept quiet, unlike last time, I did regrettably manage to drag a few friends down with me yet again.  Though the spec sessions were epic, and we did get some art out of it—it still rocks the boat when the base level expectations were only 1. Dean alive, and 2. seeing Cas again. 

But for anyone, like me, upset by the (likely unintentional) Cas-baiting or anyone still reeling about why this stuff can hit so hard, here’s an interesting article about the way our brains respond to fictional characters. Tl;dr: There’s nothing wrong with you. This is science. And while you’re at it, take a look at this article about the very real power of disenfranchised grief over character loss.

Ramble on, fam. And take care of yourselves.

<3 Jackie

*Um hi he appears as a sailor? Literally, on a show with a story Dean is writing whose audience is looking for a resolution to a conversation between two people who’re famously the “most shipped” characters of all time? That’s not an accident. That’s intentional. And it’s another reason why there might be a bitter taste in your mouth. These nods came without resolution, so it still feels dirty, despite the brilliant Easter egg.

**I hesitate to say “clown” here because the lesson on episode 12 was that the clowns were the ones who chose a self-induced limbo rather than face some personal hard revelations. That sounds more like a certain closeted character than it does the people cheering him on, and that felt like an intentional nod too.

***obviously, this is my own rambling spec as I try to reorder my thoughts in the wake of the finale.

[sammysmaddy]

Normal (Winchesters x Reader) - Part Two

Summary: Growing up as the baby of the Winchester family led you to be constantly guarded. Soon enough, you start to learn what's normal between families and what's not.

Pairing(s): John x Daughter!Innocent!Reader, Sam x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Incest, naive!reader, manipulation, graphic descriptions of porn, fluff, virgin!reader, oral (female receiving), daddy kink *I guess*, praise kink, soft n fluffy, angst (?), light thigh riding, smut implied 

W/C: 5.7k+

A/N: I forgot I was supposed to be posting this story! Happy almost Thanksgiving to my American followers!

Normal Masterlist

Masterlist

Some time ago...

Things started off innocently. Sam and Dean were at school and you were at the motel doing what you usually did- you read, and read, and read, and read until John walked through the doors. 

You were ecstatic to see him. John had been away for a few weeks too wrapped up in the case to even call home. The look of relief in your father's eyes when he saw you was like no other, he loved you more than anything in the world. 

John took you to lunch, saying it was to make up for all the time he missed with you- not bothering to pull Sam and Dean out of school like he usually did. Things seemed normal all throughout lunch, you chose of course, but things changed drastically when he asked you a certain question during the car ride home. 

"Do you know what sex is?" John asked, looking over to you as he kept a firm grip on the steering wheel. 

Your brows furrowed at the question. It sounded familiar, it really did, but you had no idea what it actually meant. 

"I don't think so," You told him calmly and he let out a low chuckle. 

Judging his reaction, it definitely seemed like something you should know about, so you began to feel a little embarrassed at your lack of knowledge. 

"You mean, your brothers never taught you what it was?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and keeping a small smile on his face. 

You shook your head and he didn't seem particularly pleased or displeased. 

"Normally, by your age, you know what it is. You're already legally an adult." John mentioned.

"So then... does Sammy know about this?" You asked, tilting your head, and wondering why your twin had never said anything about sex.

"I'm sure he does, sweetheart. Caught him with one of Dean's not-so-private skin mags," John chuckled and you scrunched your nose. 

"What's a skin mag?" You asked him and he continued to chuckle at your question. 

"It's pictures of sex. We call it porn," John answered and you frowned, still not knowing what the hell he was talking about. 

"Daddy, I don't know what that is," You reminded him and instead of the instant explanation you wanted, he looked over smiling and shaking his head. 

"God, I wish you could stay little forever," He sighed and you continued to frown, wishing that you knew why this conversation was occurring or why it was so important for you to know about. "When you and Sammy shower together, does he ever touch you?" He asked and his face shifted to concern.

"Yeah, he helps me wash my hair sometimes, but mostly he just uses all of the hot water," You huffed out, crossing your arms, and John shook his head. 

"I meant, does he put his hands on your body?" He reiterated and you shrugged your shoulders, not knowing what he was gaining with these questions. 

"Sometimes he helps me wash my back," You answered and John nodded his head. 

"Do you ever wonder why you have different body parts than him?" He asked and you slumped your face, of course, you wondered why, but you knew that it was just because you were of different sexes. 

"I guess, but Sammy says it's just because I'm a girl and he's a boy," You told him all the information you knew and he nodded his head. 

"So, you know that boys can't get pregnant right?" He asked and you nodded your head. "And you know that boys don't get periods?" He asked again. 

"Yeah, because Sam doesn't get them and neither does Dean. Only I do," You crossed your arms, thinking about how unfair it was that they didn't bleed once a month.

"Okay, well at least you know the basics," John sighed, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips. 

"Is this the part where you tell me what and why we're talking about this? You said you didn't want to talk about when I get my periods," You turned your head to look for his reaction, and he just shrugged his shoulders in return. 

"I don't. It's just- It's just important if we're going to talk about sex," He muttered and you rolled your eyes.

"I don't know what that is," You reiterated, growing more and more impatient by the second. 

"I, uh, I never had this conversation with your brothers. They kinda figured it out on their own," He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't holding on tightly to the steering wheel. 

It wasn't even worth responding to, so you decided to stay silent until he said something else. You could tell that he was feeling awkward, but you weren't- you were just impatiently waiting. 

John looked over and gave you a small smile to which you just raised your eyebrow, then his face straightened and he knew you were waiting for something more. 

"You know what, sweetheart? I think it just be better if I showed you."

•••

He dragged himself in and out of her at an excruciatingly slow pace. His eyes were locked into hers as his forehead began to form sweat beads, panting like he was running a marathon. 

Their lips connected and their tongues ran against each other as he continued to move above her. When he pulled his lips back, she had her mouth parted slightly, close to tears falling out as she cried out profanities. 

But she wasn't actually upset and he wasn't actually hurting her, they were enjoying it- John made sure you knew that.

You stared at Sam's computer in awe, they were so in love with one another- so happy to be together like this. You didn't understand what was so awkward about it, you were confused as to why you had never seen anything like this before- confused as to why you had never done it. 

They both looked so pretty like this, so close together and in complete and utter bliss. She was gorgeous, her breasts were perfectly symmetrical- almost like she was handcrafted. Her lips were stained with red and her body was glistening in the bright lighting that infected the room. 

He had the perfect body too, big strong arms that held onto her like she was a breath of fresh air. His chest was chiseled flawlessly and he reminded you of John and your brothers, they were all just as handsome as he was. 

"Remember: You only do this with people you love," John reminded from behind you, watching you closely as you reluctantly peeled your eyes away. 

"I can do this with Sam?" You asked as your eyes reached his. 

John frowned at your question and you grew impatient as your excitement only grew.

"I love him. How come we don't have sex?" You questioned again and John's face fell into the palm of his hand, his fingertips rubbing harshly against his temples.

"Sweetheart, you don't do that kind of stuff with your brothers," John answered with a sigh, picking his head up to look back at your confused stare. 

"Oh, right. That's her Daddy. I almost forgot." You said and his eyes widened.

"I think you've had enough for today," John cleared his throat and his hand reached over you to stop the video playing in the background, but your hand reached his first. 

"Daddy, don't turn it off. I like it," You told him with a small smile, his wide eyes staring at you as you watched his Adam's apple move up and down as he gulped. 

John nodded his head slowly, bringing his hand back to rest at his side, and you turned your head to watch the screen again. 

You stared intently as you began to focus on all of the sex happening right in front of your eyes. She sounded so pretty every time he shoved himself fully inside of her. He was grunting and telling her how much of a slut she was and at first it confused you- it was a bad word and Dean used it negatively when he didn't like someone. So why did she seem so happy to hear the mean name? 

After watching the first few minutes, you discovered she actually liked being called slut. She kept saying yes yes yes, and it only made him go faster, which in return made her cries louder. Her begging was like music to your ears, and for a second you began to imagine yourself in her position. 

What if someone made you feel that good? What if they made you so happy that you were screaming in pleasure? 

Thinking about being her brought out a feeling that you had never felt before. First it gave you the chills and you had goosebumps prickling on your skin. Then you started to feel it in your stomach- almost like period cramps, but in a good way. 

After that, having pants on almost seemed uncomfortable, especially after feeling a new type of wetness in your panties. You watched as he dipped his head down to kiss her again, so passionate and raw, and it made you jealous. 

"Why don't you kiss me like that?" You snapped your head around to look at John. 

His face became flushed and it took a few seconds for him to respond back- which were mostly incoherent mumbles. 

"Don't you love me, Daddy?" You asked and he instantaneously jerked his arm away as you absentmindedly placed a hand on it. 

"I do love you, baby, I do. I just- they're not real. I didn't mean to- uh, they're not related." John managed to muster out, obviously flustered by your comments. 

"She kept calling him Daddy," You frowned, once again thinking about how much you wanted to be in her position. 

"I know, sweetheart. It was just the first video I clicked on. I wanted to get this over with." He sighed and it hurt your heart that he didn't want to do it with you. 

What if he didn't love you enough to do those things? What if Sam or Dean didn't love you enough? 

"Don't be sad, Y/N. It's just a video." John said, picking up on the sudden mood change, and reaching over to cup your cheek. 

Usually, it would make you feel better- it's something that he always did when you were upset- but it was different this time. 

"You don't love me enough for sex," You said, pushing his hand away and looking down. 

John had put you through all of this trouble of telling you about it- even showing it to you, and now he was going to deny the pit you felt in your stomach? 

"Y/N, you didn't even know what it was thirty minutes ago. You're not ready to have sex," John said in a quiet tone and you continued to frown.

Why was he being like this? Why would he show it to you if that's not what he wanted?

"I'm ready. I want to be like her, Daddy. The video made me feel things." You told him honestly, gaining the courage to look back up at him. 

Just as your courage regained, you could tell that his was suddenly gone. He looked as pale as a ghost as he swallowed down whatever liquid was in his throat. 

"What kinds of things, princess?" John asked nervously, almost sounding like he was guilty of something. 

His eyes were locked on yours and you couldn't help but feel like you might be able to break him. A perk of being Daddy's little girl was getting whatever you wanted. 

"I don't know how to explain it," You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to explain the way your core was aching for something. 

"It's called being horny. It's natural," He chuckled nervously, a light sweat breaking out on his forehead. 

"Do you feel it too?" You asked, seeing the way that his pants were tightening around his lower region like a tent. 

"Fuck, sweetheart," He sighed aloud, and your eyes watched as his hand pressed against the crotch of his pants.

"I want to be like her, Daddy," You confessed as your eyes began flickering up and down between his face and his legs, not sure which was a prettier sight.

The sweat and the bulge were both good indicators that he was ready to do things that were in the video, you just knew it. With a sudden whiff of confidence, your hand reached back and landed on his thigh, rubbing circles with your fingers. 

John didn't say anything. He didn't move either. You watched closely as his pants became more restrictive and it was evident that your hand on his thigh was doing something for him. Smiling at the reaction, you looked back up to him and saw an unusual darkness in his eyes. 

It came as a surprise when his hand came to meet yours and you expected him to move it away, but instead, he trailed it higher. Your fingers traced the rough denim material until they landed in between his legs. A small groan left his lips and you grinned at the sound because of how much it resonated with the guy in the video. 

After your hand sat there for a few seconds and you admired how hard he felt underneath you, he stood up without warning. You frowned, wishing that he never moved. 

Sighing aloud, John looked down at you as you looked up at him through your lashes. His hand came up to rest on your cheek as his thumb lightly brushed your bottom lip. 

You held onto his hand, relishing any touch that came to your body, and just as soon as it began, it ended. He pulled his hand back and you watched as he walked towards the opposite side of the room. 

"Come here," John commanded in a low and gruff voice, sitting on the edge of the unmade motel bed. 

You weren't sure whether to be eager or concerned as you stood up from your chair and made your way to him. His arms opened up as an invitation and you straddled his hips, lazily hanging your arms on his shoulders as you began to realize how intimately close the two of you were. 

You looked down, feeling instant relief as you pushed the weight of your core on him. It wasn't much, but even through your jeans and his, you could feel how good he felt pressed against you. His fingers came to the bottom of your chin and motioned your head up so that he could look at you. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asked, his eyes begging for you to say yes as his arms wrapped around your waist. 

"Yes, Daddy. I love you," You confirmed, breathlessly waiting for him to do something to relieve the rapidly burning coil in your stomach. 

John's lips connected with yours as soon as he got his answer and you tried your best to copy his movements. It was effortless when your mouth began to move in sync with his. Each time his tongue reached into your mouth you felt like you knew exactly what to do. 

His lips felt like soft pillows every time they ran against yours- he was so perfect, you wanted to make him happy just like the guy was in the video. You chased his mouth as it pulled away, but didn't complain when you felt the wet kisses on your neck. 

John was sure to be careful as he took his time, giving you soft and warm kisses all along the crook of your neck, occasionally stopping to nip at your ear. 

Your fingers raked their way through John's hair and you heard him groan when you shifted your hips in an effort to get more comfortable. His fingers reached down, pulling the fabric on your torso over your head. 

You felt the goosebumps on your skin in reaction to the colder air and you traveled his gaze to your breasts. John brought his hands up, cupping through your bra and marveling at the sight in front of him. You took the initiative to reach around and unclasp your simple cloth covering, letting it slide down your arms and shoulders as your nipples hardened. 

"You are so beautiful, sweetheart," John said breathlessly, his eyes completely focused on the stiff peaks in front of him. 

Your cheeks swelled with his approval and you moaned when he brought his mouth to one of your breasts, tweaking the nipple with his tongue and running small circles around its entirety. Something about the way he was sucking made your core itch for attention, so your hips pressed up as close to him as possible. 

John moaned against your breast, his lips ghosting the skin on your chest and latching around the other nipple, treating it just as well as its predecessor. 

His hands trailed down the sides of your body, reaching the middle, and undoing the button on your jeans before encouraging you to stand up. As you raised, he slowly pulled your jeans down and let his fingertips touch your skin as they moved south. 

When the denim was pooled around your ankles, you held onto his shoulder for support as you kicked them off lightly. 

"Sit back down, Y/N," John told you and you followed directions. 

Straddling his hips once again, feeling much less constricted, he gripped tightly onto your sides. He shifted you slightly so that you rested completely on his thigh, instead of in between, and began to move your body back and forth. 

Small whimpers fled your mouth as you felt the friction rubbing against your aching core, it felt so unfamiliar and foreign to your body- but it felt so good. 

"Feel good, princess?" You heard John chuckle lightly, as his hands continued to move you. 

The wetness from your panties was sure to have made its way out, but you didn't care. Being like this with him like this felt so good. 

"Daddy, I want to make you feel good too," You told him, looking back into his eyes. 

John's hand reached up and brushed a stray hair away from your face, smiling at you. 

"Let Daddy make you feel good first," He answered in return and you nodded your head. 

His lips collided with yours as his grip on your hips tightened, picking you up and laying you flat on your back. He continued to kiss you passionately as he hovered above you, his hand reaching down and dipping into your soaked panties. 

You felt him smile into the kiss as his fingers easily glided through your slick and you moaned every time they would ghost against your clit. 

"You're so wet for me, baby."

"Is that a good thing?" You asked him and he chuckled at the question. 

"A very good thing," He told you and you smiled with the praise. 

Placing a quick peck on your lips, he adjusted himself so that his knees were on the ground. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your soft cotton underwear, pulling them down, and encouraged your thighs to open more. 

John brought his calloused thumb up to work small circles on your bundle of nerves and you moaned at the feeling. Everything that he did made you feel more and more relieved, you could practically feel how much he loved you. When you situated yourself on your elbows so you could see what he was doing, he looked up at you. 

"Can Daddy taste you?" He asked, licking his lips, as he looked directly into your eyes. 

"Please," You squeaked out, feeling hot and bothered and needing as much of him as you could get. 

Watching as his head disappeared in between your legs, you bit your lip as his tongue trailed once up your slit and collected as much wetness in his mouth as possible. You could hear his groaning in approval just before he began to delve into your core again. 

Not bothering to suppress your satisfaction, you moaned as his tongue flicked itself over and over on your clit, bringing out a type of burn that you'd never felt before. 

You could feel your core heat up as he relentlessly attacked you with his tongue, alternating between circling and flicking, perfectly timing when one or the other became too much or dull. He began to suck down lightly, pulling more moans out of your throat, and you felt the uneasiness in your stomach waiting to spill itself. 

Your fingers locked themselves in his short hair, gaining a grunt from him as he began to go faster with his motions. His tongue was hammering your sensitive bud at a furious pace, leaving you a moaning mess as something suddenly snapped inside of you. 

"Daddy," You whined when he didn't stop. 

Your hips buckled and your thighs tried to shut themselves as John's hands wrapped around and held you down. He kept the pace as he helped you get through whatever it was that just happened. Once he was satisfied, he came to the surface, leaving your legs shaking. 

"What was that?" You asked him, panting as you tried to stop your legs from moving on their own. He continued to hover above you.

"That was an orgasm, sweetheart," John told you before placing a tender kiss on your lips. You could taste yourself when his tongue reached into your mouth, moaning at how satisfied and happy he seemed to be. 

•••

Things were never the same after that day. John insisted on not taking your virginity until he was sure it was going to be special. He wanted the whole candle-lit dinner and the rose petals on the bed, but mostly- he wanted it not to occur in a shitty motel. 

John wanted the whole nine yards just for you and as much as you wanted that too, you didn't really care about the fine details. You wanted him as soon as you could get him and you didn't care what the circumstances were, even if that meant losing your virginity in a crappy motel where the beds creaked.

Plans were whisked away from the two of you, a hunt would come up or Sam and Dean would stick around for too long. It almost seemed impossible to find the 'right' time. 

In between, John helped you learn different things that surrounded sex. You could only assume that those acts were just as satisfying as the real thing, but it only made you crave him more. 

You were so eager to please John and he seemed to feel the same way about you, making you feel more special than Sam or Dean ever felt. Everything just made so much sense, everything seemed so perfect. 

It was hard to contain yourself around your brothers, but John wanted to keep your relationship a secret. You didn't understand why. Why wouldn't he want to show Sam and Dean how happy he made you? Was he embarrassed? Were you not good enough to boast about?

Those questions didn't matter in the middle of the night when he would steal you away to his truck. Every bliss-filled night brought a euphoric feeling that lingered for the following days... but then he would leave. Again. 

It became a routine. Things would seem so hopeful that maybe in a few days, he would be able to steal you away for the night- make it special, but those plans seemed almost hopeless as the weeks went on. 

The hunts became more frequent, especially after Sam came home from school, and John wanted both of his boys as strong as possible- so he chose to hunt by himself most of the time. 

John also became a bit hunt-hungry, losing days of sleep and trying his best to find the monster that killed your mother. It was consuming him and John only really ever seemed to be at peace when he was with you- when you helped suck out every ounce of worry from his soul. 

But a strange guilt was burning slowly in your core. Sam was the one person you trusted in your entire life. The one person you could trust with your secrets, the one person you could trust to be on time, the one person you could trust to be there for you. 

When Sam would come home from school and tell you about his day, or come back from a small day hunt with Dean, you would have nothing to say to him. 

You weren't reading like usual, you were too busy with John or learning new things from porn. You weren't supposed to tell Sam and it ate at you every day. 

It hurt to keep something so special and important away from him. You've told him everything since the moment you could talk- the only saving grace was that he was keeping things from you too. 

First, it started off with him not telling you about sex or what it was. Then, it turned into getting girlfriends that he wouldn't tell anybody about. He was hiding things from you for the first time in your life and you didn't understand why. 

Was he upset with you? Did John say anything to him? Or was he just growing apart from you? 

Showers seemed to be less fun for the past three months. Sam barely talked to you. He barely cracked a joke, he didn't even turn the water cold on purpose to make you squeal. It was just a shower now. You got in, you washed your hair, he washed his hair, you washed your body, he washed his body, and then you both got out. 

Sam wasn't the same Sam that you knew and loved, but you tried your best not to notice.

It was another day. Another boring and quiet shower. Sam hogged all of the water while you focused on trying your best to be normal. 

To be honest, you were upset. All of these months, waiting for him to say something. You were waiting for Sam to explain why he was acting so strangely, but he didn't. 

Sam closed himself off from everybody and every shower that remained silent, other than the casual 'pass the shampoo' that seared into your heart. Maybe Sam didn't love you as much as he used to. Maybe he found someone else. 

You couldn't hold it in anymore- you couldn't live without knowing what was going on in Sam's head. 

"Are you okay?" You asked Sam quietly. He just shrugged his shoulders in return. 

Sam muttered 'I'm fine' and nodded his head, turning back to finish washing his hair. You frowned, knowing that he was probably not fine, and continued to pry. 

"Sammy, please. Just talk to me." You frowned, watching the soapy water fall down his back.

"Talk to you about what?" Sam asked in return, bitterness in his voice that shocked you to your core. 

His tone definitely showed you that he was upset about something, and it hurt to know that he was bottling it in himself. You trembled when he snapped, shivers running down your spine that brought you to cross your arms, and you watched the way he glared at you when he turned around. 

It hurt especially because it was the same glare he often gave your father. It was the same hatred in his eyes and you didn't know what you did to deserve it. 

"Y/N, I'm not angry. I promise. I'm sorry for scaring you." Sam must have picked up on your hurt as his face slumped into concern, placing his hand on your arm. 

You immediately pulled away as Sam continued to look at you sympathetically. 

"I just wished you talked to me, that's all," You replied quietly.

"Yeah, well, I wished you talked to me too," Sam muttered in a voice so close to a whisper you almost couldn't hear. You decided to look back up at him. 

"That's what I'm trying to do, Sam," You told him just as softly as before, looking into his soft eyes. 

Sam gave you a small smile out of courtesy, and you could tell it was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you. 

"I just feel like you are avoiding me. Like you don't want to tell me what's going on in your life anymore." You admitted.

"What about you?" Sam scoffed and you raised an eyebrow at him. "I mean, you don't talk to me about your life. Why should I?" He asked, crossing his arms. 

"I don't go to school anymore and I barely leave the motel. There's not much to say," You sighed, frowning at how his aggressive switch was flipping on and off with each comment. 

Sam didn't get upset with you often, but most of the time he was irrational and tended to say things that he didn't mean. 

"Just- just tell me about a book you've read recently," Sam struggled to get out and you shrugged your shoulders. 

"Um, okay. I read The Little Prince recently. The guy in the story crashed in the Sahara desert and-" You were quick to explain. 

"You told me about that book months ago, Y/N," Sam cut you off with hints of a low growl. You furrowed your eyebrows and tried to reach his eyes as they ran away from yours. 

You hadn't read it in a while, but, it was the most recent book you had read- that part was true. The truth about what had been preoccupying your past few months was a secret, a secret that John didn't want anybody to know about. 

For a second, you thought about telling the truth- maybe Sam would be happy to hear about it. Happy that John loved you so much. Happy that you weren't sitting at home miserable every day. 

Ultimately, you decided that you didn't want to upset your father. What if he stopped whatever it was that was going on between the two of you? That, in addition to Sam and Dean, was the only thing that ever made you truly happy around here, and you didn't want to take it for granted. 

"I, uh, I reread it. It's a great book," You lied, this time trying to look away without being too conspicuous. 

It hurt every part of you to lie to Sam like this, especially because you were lying about one of the most important things in your life.

You never lied to Sam, ever. When he didn't say anything back, it ate you completely. The guilt you felt was pounding in the back of your throat. It only took you a few moments of silence to realize that you couldn't take it anymore.

"Sammy, I'm- I'm lying to you." You told him, feeling a rush of relief flood your body as you looked down to the ground.

"I know, Y/N," Sam told you quietly and you nodded your head, the guilt vacuuming back into your body. 

This is why you shouldn't have lied to him in the first place. He knew you so well, too well to let anything slip by. 

"Do you want to tell me the truth?" He asked softly, bringing his fingertips to your chin so that you could look back up at him. 

You nodded your head, tears threatening to spill out of your eyes as he looked at you with so much care- something you missed dearly from him. 

"I- I can't." You told him, jerking your head to look anywhere but at him. 

You loved Sam more than any person in the world, but this was something that you needed to keep from him.

"Because Dad said you can't?" Sam asked you and your eyes shot up to look at him, widened at full capacity. 

He knew. That's why he was so upset. That's why he didn't talk to you, why he closed himself off from everybody. But, why? Why did he seem so upset about it? If Sam knew, why hadn't he brought it up sooner?

"It's okay, Y/N, really. It's okay, you can tell me the truth." Sam told you, pulling you close as you frowned into his chest and began to let your mind run. 

What if John found out you told him? Would he not want anything to do with you anymore? Even though the shower was still running against the both of you, the only wetness you could feel were your tears. 

"He's going to hate me, Sammy," You told him, sniffling as you pulled back to look at him. His arms were lazily hung around your torso as he stared down at you with soft eyes. 

"Y/N, did he hurt you?" Sam asked softly, gripping your waist tightly and gently forcing you to keep focused on him. 

"What?" You asked, furrowing your brows as you noticed that Sam seemed to look sad. "No- no, he didn't hurt me. Why would he hurt me?" You questioned again and his grip loosened around you, looking just as confused as you did. "Are you upset?"

Sam took a few seconds to answer, head shaking a confused expression formed on his face. 

"I, uh, no- I'm not upset. I just thought-" He trailed, seeming to be at a loss for words. "I just thought he was hurting you."

"Daddy would never hurt me," You gave him a small grin, shaking your head at the silly comment. "Sammy, he's made me very happy." You purred, feeling his body tense as your fingers glided up and down his sides. 

It was a small chance that you took- if he wasn't upset... then maybe he was happy. Maybe he was just jealous this entire time.

•••

Next Part

[marie-swriting]

A Part Of The Family - Dean Winchester

Masterlist

Summary : You go on your first hunt with your father John and your half-brother Dean, hoping you'll finally be able to prove you're a true Winchester to your father.

Warnings : half-sister!reader, Y/N is 15, John is a shitty father, angst, feeling like you don't belong in the family, killing vampires, maybe some grammatical mistakes as English is not my first language so tell me if you see some or if I missed any warnings.

Word count : 3.1k

French version

Prompt : PL n°1, n°10 "We could have prevented this"

“What are the rules ?” John asks you with a harsh voice.

“Always be on alert and ready to attack, kill first and ask questions later.” you answer, determined.

“Good, don’t forget you have to cut their head or they’ll still be able to attack. As it’s your first time on the field, you stay close to me or Dean, right ?”

“Yes, sir.”

John hands you a machete before closing the trunk of the Impala. You feel a knot in your stomach as you realise you’re only a few minutes away from the most dangerous moment of your life. Your hands start shaking, you tighten your grip on your weapon, hoping it’ll give you more courage. Rapidly, you look up and see Dean’s eyes on you. He puts a hand on your shoulder to reassure you. You give him a quick smile but the fear can still be read on your face. When you’re finally ready, you start entering the vampire nest.

You’ve been on their trails for a few days now and thanks to your personal researches, you found where they’re hiding. Now, you hope you’ll be able to kill these monsters without making a mistake, you want to show John he did a good thing by taking you out of the foster system after Sam left for University. Indeed, when the younger Winchester decided to leave the family business, John didn’t like being one hunter short so he came to get you, knowing he’ll have your custody easily because your mom died at your birth. Until he’d come to your foster family, you didn’t know your father’s identity, let alone that you had two big brothers. When you met them, an immense amount of joy had filed you, you thought you’d finally belong to a real family. John had said to your foster parents he came to have your custody because he just discovered your existence. He made a beautiful speech to them on the importance of having his daughter in his life. When he had pronounced those words, your heart had burst with love, but reality caught you up quickly when he immediately put an emotional distance between you before starting your hunter training. You knew it wouldn’t be easy but you want to prove to him he can count on you during hunts so you make sure to always give your best. However, John is demanding, you feel like you’ll never meet his expectations and because of the pressure you can make some mistakes. Fortunately, Dean knows to be patient with you, he protects you from John's reprimands.

When you’re in the old building, you’re faced with a heavy silence. It doesn’t feel like there’s any threat on the horizon while you’re getting deeper into the nest. You keep walking discreetly and glancing in every corner until you find some kind of cage with a prisoner inside. With a glance, you recognise Jake, a teenager your age who’s been helping you to find the vampires. He had started searching for them before you arrived ; his sister was one of their victims. Together, you had put your skill to good use, you with your supernatural knowledge and him with his knowledge of the city and its residents. When you see him, you lower your machete and run toward the cage.

“Jake ! My God, you’re okay ? Did they do anything to you ?” you question, examining his body quickly with your eyes.

“You know him, Y/N ?” John interrogates.

“He helped me to find the nest.” you inform before turning back to your friend. “You’re okay, Jake ?”

“I’m fine.”

“We’re getting you out of here, don’t worry.” Dean states while starting to force the lock.

“Kid, do you know where the vampires are ?” John questions with a dry tone.

“No, I just regained consciousness, actually. Thanks.” Jake says when Dean finally frees him.

Jake gets out of his small prison stumbling. You catch him when he’s losing his balance. You’re about to ask him if everything is fine when you see pointy teeth coming out of his gum. Surprised, you don’t have the reflex to lift your machete up. Dean and John are about to intervene when other vampires leave their hiding place. You finally push back Jake, scared but he comes back to you again. You try to fight him with your weapon but Jake breaks your arm, forcing you to drop it. Dean hears your cry of pain and turns his head to you. He sees Jake about to bite you in the neck when Dean runs to you and cuts Jake’s head without a second thought. You’re too stunned from what’s just happened to move.

“Everything okay ?” Dean questions, preoccupied.

“Yes, don’t worry.”

John growls angrily, making yours and Dean’s head turn to him. Dean leaves you to help John. You pick your machete up from the ground and try to at least hurt some vampires. Not able to use your dominant hand, you have even less strength to cut heads. By some miracles, probably due to adrenaline, you cut the head of one blood-drinker. In spite of yourself, you stare at the body and their head, not believing you’re the cause of it. Snapping out of it, you look up and see that most of the vampires are dead. John is handling the Alpha vampire while Dean seems to lose his fight with another monster as he’s struggling to get their fangs away from his neck. You run to him and cut the vampire’s head with all the strength you have. When Dean understands he’s not in danger anymore, he sets his gaze on you, proud to see you were able to save him. You can’t help but smile lightly as you realise that, for a first hunt, you did pretty well. With your valid hand, you help him to stand up while John finally kills the Alpha vampire. You look at John, hoping to see he’s happy or at least relieved to know you and Dean are alive and almost not hurt, beside your broken arm, but it’s an angry John who comes your way.

“What the hell was that ? We got ourselves in an ambush because of your stupidity ! How could you not understand Jake was a vampire when he was helping you ? Don’t tell me you didn’t even think about checking him before telling him everything !”

“He… I…” you stutter, making John even more mad.

“Answer !”

“He told me he was looking for the vampires, too but he didn’t know how to attack them.” you explain, feeling ashamed.

“And you didn’t think it was weird he knew that much ?”

“He said he’d been researching for two months so it seemed normal to me.” you defend yourself and John sighs to contain his anger.

“Damn it, Y/N, that’s unbelievable ! We could have prevented this if you had some common sense !”

“Dad, she’s still learning. It’s okay.” Dean intervenes with a calm voice.

“Not when she puts us in danger ! We could have died and she has a broken arm. She should have done better !”

While listening to John’s reproach, you lower down your head. On second thought, the hunt went worse than you thought. You put your loved ones in danger and you disappointed John. it’s going to be even harder for you to find your place in your little family and you hate yourself for that. John is right, you should have done better.

“We’re all alive and they are all dead. It’s a win.” your brother insists.

“I don’t care if we did well ! She should have thought like a hunter.”, John retorts before taking you by your shoulder with strength, forcing you to look at him with a wince, “You better not do that again, next time, use your head.”

“Yes, sir.”

John sighs, letting go of your shoulder. Dean has a quick peek at you to make sure you’re okay, you give him a quick nod to reassure him, but your glistening eyes don’t convince him.

“Come on,” John starts, “we have to go to the hospital for your arm, we can’t fix it. Another waste of time because of your stupidity.”

“I’m sorry.” you breathe, ready to cry in any second.

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t change anything. And get those tears out of your eyes, half Winchester or not, Winchesters don’t cry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Your shoulders drop when you follow John while Dean looks at you with compassion. He knows what it’s like to fight for John’s approval, it’s very rare to gain it, even for him it’s complicated while he does everything John tells him.

In the Impala, John doesn’t say a word, too angry he doesn’t even take a quick glance at you, as for Dean, he wishes he could reassure you, but he doesn’t want to get John more mad. You hold your arm to minimise the pain on the way while you think back to John’s words. Among every thing he reproached you about, his last sentence hurt you the most. Since he came to get you, you know John treats you differently than Dean, he doesn’t see you as a part of the family. Yet, it doesn’t stop you from feeling your heart burst out in pain every time he reminds you of it when he specifies your only Dean’s half-sister or when he refuses you calling him ‘dad’, that one hurts the most.

When you arrive at the hospital, there aren't a lot of people, surprisingly so you just have to wait an hour and a half to be taken in charge of. When your cast is on your arm, you go back to the motel still in silence. You bite your lips, stressed while you’re searching for something to say to rectify your mistakes but you don’t really know John, you ignore what you should say. When you walk through the door of your motel’s bedroom, John points the small kitchen table to you. Reluctant, you walk toward it without a word and sit. Dean starts following you but John orders him to get cleaned up. Knowing it’s not the time to challenge him, Dean obeys. John stays on his feet in front of you, towering you with his height. Instinctively, you look down on your fingers, fidgeting with them until John starts talking.

“I hope you realise what you did was dangerous.”

“Yes, I won’t do it again, promise.”

“You better ! You could have died and so could have your half-brother. At least, you did kill some vampires but apart from that, you ruined this whole hunt ! If you don’t want to go back to your foster family, you better be more useful next time. I don’t need a deadweight but a hunter.” he rumbles.

“I’ll do better next time.” you assure him, determined.

“We’ll see in a few months because with your bullshit, you got yourself a broken arm. You’ll be in charge of the research and when you’ll be able to train again, we’ll get back to it and this time, I’ll be more strict. You need to learn correctly, I can’t have a kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing.” John spats, emphasising on the word ‘kid’, hurting you once more. “Don’t make me regret my decision to get you. And get that sad look out of your face, I can’t waste my time with weak people either.”, he orders and you try to get a grip on yourself, “I’m going to the bar.” he finishes, walking away from you. 

Without a glance, John leaves the room. When you hear the door slam shut, you jump. Tears filling your eyes in an instant. You try to hold them back but the more you blink, the harder it is to prevent them from falling. In spite of yourself, a tear rolls down your cheek. You wipe it away quickly, hoping Dean didn’t see anything because he just got out of the bathroom. You take deep breaths, trying to cool down your emotions. Dean delicately puts a hand on your shoulder and kneels down in front of you. 

“Hey, kid, you’re okay ?”

Contrary to John, the word ‘kid’ in Dean’s mouth seems affectionate. You see in his eyes he’s genuine, but you refuse to show you’re weak for another second. You clear your throat before looking him in the eyes.

“Yeah, just tired of the day. John went to a bar.”

“Just you and me, then ? What do you say about going to the Burger in front of the motel ?” he proposes with a smile.

“I’m not really hungry and I wouldn’t like John to get even more mad because he won’t find us when he’ll get back.”

“He’ll be in that bar for some time, don’t worry, besides, you need to recharge your battery, you did your first hunt !” he states, hoping it’ll cheer you up.

“What a victory it was !” you scoff, rolling your eyes.

“You got through it with only a broken arm and it was a vampire nest, I call that a victory. C’mon.”

Dean helps you to stand up from your chair. He puts back on his jacket and takes his wallet before inviting you to leave the motel.

At the Burger place, you almost don’t eat anything. You swallow only some French fries but don’t touch your hamburger while Dean devours everything in a heartbeat. Dean doesn’t start a conversation, guessing you need some silence after everything John told you. Dean knows he wasn’t kind with you the second time he reprimanded you with the small part he was able to hear through the bathroom walls. Furthermore, Dean and you have been knowing each other only for a few months now, he ignores if in this kind of situation, you’d rather talk or stay on your own. Just to be safe, he prefers to stay close to you without being oppressive so that's what he’s currently doing. When he’s finally done with his meal, he asks for a doggy bag for yours and goes to pay. On the way back, you don’t see the Impala, which reassures you because you know you still have some time off before John’s return. Entering the room, you take your stuff and close yourself in the bathroom. When you’re ready to go to sleep, you lay on your bed, your back facing Dean who’s on his own bed watching TV. You try to sleep but John’s words keep haunting your mind. The more you think back about the hunt, the more you realise how naive you were. Mentally, you’re calling yourself names, telling yourself that because of your mistakes you lost what little esteem John had for you. Feeling your tears again, you try to breathe slowly. You can’t cry, especially with Dean next to you. He can’t see how weak you are or you'll go down in his estimation as well and it’s the last thing you want. Despite your tries to be discreet, you sniff, drawing Dean’s attention to you. At first, he doesn’t think too much about it, but when he hears your heavy breath and your sniffing several times, he gets up from his bed and comes to you. He sits down next to you and puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. Feeling his presence, you don’t dare to move, waiting for him to scold you.

“Wanna talk about it ?” he questions softly.

“There’s nothing to say.” you state.

“Y/N, I know how his words can affect someone.”

“He’s right, I’ve been stupid, I should have been a better hunter.”

“You’re fifteen and you’re still learning.” Dean retorts, “You were naive, it’s true, but a few months ago, you still thought vampires were some kind of legend from Transylvania, not the reality. You can’t be perfect from the start. You were bound to make mistakes on your first hunt, you can’t be mad at yourself for that. Believe me, I made worse mistakes on my first hunts”, he tries to reassure you but you’re still silent, “Y/N, could you look at me ?”

“No, I don’t want you to think I’m weak.” you refuse, ashamed.

“Why would I think that ?”

“Winchesters don’t cry. Even if I’m not a real one.” you say, repeating John's words.

Dean sighs, trying to find something to say. He hates the way John’s words already got into  your head. He wishes he could reassure you like a big brother should but he’s still facing your back, not wanting to confront him. He knows he shouldn't take it personally but knowing you think he could act like John tightens his heart.

“I know I’m not well placed to say this,” he starts, hesitating, “but you can cry. Before being hunters, we’re humans.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you like I disappointed John.” you whisper, sniffing.

“You’re not gonna disappoint me and as for John, he’ll get over it, you can trust me. When you’ll be fully trained, he’ll see how excellent of a hunter you are.” Dean affirms.

“If he didn’t send me back to my foster family by then.” you add.

“I won’t let that happen.”, your big brother states, determined, “Now that I know I have a little sister, I can assure you you’re stuck with me as long as you decide otherwise.”

“Half-sister.” you correct, John’s voice still echoing in your head.

“In other words, my sister. You’re a part of the family.” Dean insists and you feel a new tear rolling down your cheek.

“Why are you so nice to me ? You didn’t even know I existed six months ago, you have  every right to ignore me.” you question with a trembling voice.

“I just told you, we’re family, I care about you.”

Without responding, you turn around before throwing yourself in his arms. All the tears you’ve been holding back for the past few months finally roll down your cheeks. Feeling your shoulders shaking, Dean holds you closer against him. He strokes your back, inviting you to let all your emotion leave your body. His heart breaks a bit more when he realises how much you’ve been holding back to at least satisfy John a bit. He knows the pain all too well so that night, he makes sure you know he’ll always be there to support you. Your head still hiding in the crook of his neck, you stay in his arms, accepting for the first time the comfort of your big brother.

Masterlist

{This is my side blog so I'll be answering comments under the username @marie-sworld}

[pink-sparkly-witch]

The One That Got Away - Chapter Five

Warnings: tw: child abuse, tw: physical abuse, tw: slut shaming, angst, language.

Word Count: 1.5k

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Female Reader

A/N: There are TRIGGER WARNINGS in this part - please heed these, and if you think you’ll be affected by any of them, please do not read.

You can catch up here!

 My Masterlist AO3    Ko-Fi

“Dean,” Mary got up from the table and went to the fridge, opening its door and pulling out a beer bottle. “Have a seat, sweetie,” she said, pulling out a chair and putting the bottle on the wooden dining table.

“Thanks, Mom. So, what don’t I know?”

“Sounds like Y/N might be back in town, son,” John said. “We don’t know for sure yet, only Jess has seen her, but she’s a nurse, and if it is her, she’s going by Singer now,” John carefully eyed Dean. Seeing his son go through such a range of emotions was heartbreaking.

“Yeah, it’s her,” Dean whispered, wiping his hands down his face.

Clearing his throat, Dean downed half of his beer in one swallow. “Bobby told me after Thursday's shift before I went fishing with Benny and Cas. Danny’s not got long left. His liver and heart are going, and he’s in a hospice. So, Bobby called her and said it might be time to think about coming home.”

“I didn’t even think of making the connection to Bobby,” Jess said softly. “He’s her uncle?” she clarified, and Dean nodded.

“Her mom’s brother. Caroline died in a fire when Y/N was little. Then her dad turned to booze and beatings to cope with his grief,” he glanced at Jess, who had a horrified frown on her features.

“From what I saw today and how caring and kind she was to me, I’d never have guessed she went through something like that,” Jess commented, and Dean chuckled.

“That’s Y/N for you! Carries the whole damn world on her shoulders, and you’d never know it. She cares about those around her way more than she cares about herself. She always has,” he smiled.

“You guys were a thing back in the day?” Jess asked curiously, and Dean let out a soft laugh.

“Yeah, you could say that! Dad, Bobby, and Danny go way back, and Mom and Caroline became best friends, so Y/N and I grew up together. We were best friends before we became childhood sweethearts. She was my first everything, and I was hers.”

“They could’ve been married with a couple of kids and a dog by now if he’d asked her to stay,” Mary pointed out, and Dean shook his head in exasperation. “Did Bobby say if anyone came with her?” she continued, trying to find out if someone had followed her from her past life.

“No. No husband or boyfriend,” Dean smiled, knowing the real reason behind his mom’s question. “Bobby said she dated but never settled with anyone. Apparently, she was a love them and leave them, too!” he chuckled just a little bitterly.

“Cute little thing like her, bet she broke some hearts!” Mary grinned. “Now that she’s back, are you gonna finally tell me why you didn’t ask her to stay back then? You and I both know she would’ve if you’d asked her to,” she enquired gently.

“I wanted to. God, I wanted to so bad! But I couldn’t do that to her,” Dean rubbed a hand down his face. “You’re right, Ma. She’d have stayed if I asked her to, and she asked me to ask her. If I had, I’d have married her as soon as we were eighteen, got her out of that godforsaken house. Ain’t no doubt about it. But I couldn’t.” He stood from his seat and brought the whiskey out of the liquor cabinet with three glasses. Mary wasn’t a whiskey drinker, and Jess was pregnant, so John took one of them and Sam another.

“She took a damn beating every day for fifteen years, Ma, from the one person who was supposed to protect her. He was her only parent, and he beat her because she looked too much like her mom. Because she survived,” Dean fumed as he fought to keep the tears at bay.

“Her mom begged him to get her out of that house, and he punished her for it. She was only three years old! That’s her first memory, the fire and her mom screaming at her dad to make sure she got out. Did you know that?” It was a rhetorical question, but the hurt and shock were hard for everyone to hide.

“I don’t know if she still does, but before she left, that memory used to replay itself as a nightmare whenever she was scared or stressed. Y/N didn’t deserve any of it. She deserved a life without beatings and abuse, and hatred. And if going to Chicago instead of Lawrence, fuck, even Kansas City or Wichita gave her that, then who was I to stop her?

“If I’d asked her to stay, her life wouldn’t be any better because of it. Sure, I could’ve protected her from the beatings and got her away from him. But Jody would still call her whenever he got arrested. Y/N would still have to deal with his rage, and she’d still fall victim to his verbal assaults and vulgar degrading. I did the only thing I could to truly protect her and… I let her go.”

Mary rushed over to him and hugged him tightly, trying to ease the pain her eldest son still felt after all this time, and she knew then what she had to do. Mumbling that she’d be right back, she headed upstairs to her bedroom and opened the drawer on her bedside cabinet. She pulled the ageing envelope out, the word ‘Dean’ scrawled in blue ink in unmistakable handwriting and returned downstairs.

“Years ago, Y/N wrote me a letter,” Mary explained to Sam and Jess, as the others already knew about it. “She was in therapy, and her therapist thought it’d be a good idea to write letters to the people she cared about most, and she told me what happened. We all knew something was happening, but I had no idea the extent of it. The fractured skull when she was six? Choking her at seventeen because she missed curfew?” Mary shook her head in disgust. John wrapped his arms around Mary to stop himself from getting in his car and killing the sick bastard himself.

“Was it ever…?” Sam let his question hang in the air, not wanting or needing it to be said aloud.

“It fucking better not have been, or I’ll kill the bastard myself!” John fumed.

“No, thank God,” Dean answered. “Always physical and verbal. The fractured skull and when he choked her were the worst he’s done to her. There were countless other fractured and broken bones, though. He was smart, and that made me so fucking mad! He’d always play off the broken bones as just a kid being a kid, you know? He’d say she fell from the climbing frame in the park or got injured doing gymnastics or playing hockey or netball. She fractured her skull and had a severe concussion from falling down the stairs, not because he pushed her so hard she fell into a fucking hardwood coffee table. 

“The manipulative bastard hardly ever left a mark where anyone could see. She had a few black eyes and bruises on her arms throughout the years, and that was it, at least until he tried to strangle her. He damn near killed her that night. She was blacking in and out of consciousness and only got him off her by hitting him over the head with her mom’s crystal vase. She knocked him out cold!” he chuckled sadly. “All because she was helping me graduate. He thought she missed curfew because she was “whoring herself out” to me, but she was helping me study. I never forgave myself for that.”

“Don’t blame yourself, son. Y/N told me you knew everything and made her feel safe and loved. She told me you blamed yourself for what happened to her that night, but she knew it would have been something else if it wasn’t because she missed curfew. She never blamed you for it. For any of it,” Mary smiled sadly at Dean’s scoff of laughter. “And she apologised. For leaving you and breaking your heart,” Mary said, desperate to comfort him.

“I broke hers more when I didn’t ask her to stay,” Dean responded. “If I could go back, I’d…” he sniffed, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“I know you were hurt when a letter never came for you. But one did, and it was in with mine. Y/N told me to give you this when the time was right and if it was in your best interests. I honestly didn’t know if I’d ever give it to you. If the time would ever be right, but that time is now. I’m not gonna apologise for keeping this from you,” Mary held her hand up to cut off his rebuttal. “If I’d given this to you all those years ago, you’d have run off after her, and I don’t think you’d like what you would’ve found,” she finished as she handed him the letter.

Dean sobbed as he recognised her handwriting and ran his fingers gently over the faded ink. Turning it over, he glanced up at his mom, a silent question hanging between them.

“I didn’t read it. It wasn’t my place to,” Mary raised her hand, wiped his wet cheeks, and gave him a gentle wink. Dean tore open the envelope without another second’s hesitation.

Next Chapter >>

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[sloppyneedybmxboy]

why supernatural 4x16 is the best episode (so farrr in my rewatch)

sickly&tired, pale looking cas concerned and covered in raindrops at the beginning "goodbye sister", he looks heavy, i feel so sorry for him

dean "im tired of burying friends sam" he's so done with angels and demons and walking into yet another crappy motel they'll have to leave in the morning someone needs to give this man a break! someone give him a break!

"cas you remember pamela right? you burned her eyes out?" cas looking horrified and concerned 4 dean's sake is so sweet like my human seems to be having a mental break down ….. what do I do in this situation …. dean … dean please …..

HE LOOKS SO TORN between his duty as an angel and dean winchester oh my god I forgot the homosexuality of this show truly it's rewiring my synpases

everytime cas and dean speak or even look at each other or are in the same room there's like there's this unspoken push and pull going on between them with cas torn between his father/faith and .. homosexuality and dean torn between obeying the angels aka being daddy's good little soldier again/breaking free like a spooked wild HORSE

Like dean is noting that cas has been demoted/punished/answers to uriel now and of course he is, he's daddy's perfect little soldier hasn't he had this all so deeply ingrained in him since he was just a child, he sees cas being put down and he doesn't like it one bit u can see him champing the bit and looking concerned for cas. Like even though dean outwardly is pissed off by cas' inconsistency and lack of answers and um soldier-like mentality at this point in their story and is quite often hostile adjacent towards him, you can tell he has a soft spot for cas already and is like eyeing him up like bbz you ok, bbz who got you down. bbz do you need me to step in and save u

like you have cas' struggle with faith, cas having been punished for his developing feelings for dean, cas taking orders (sexy), dean angsting, dean having to torture his torture-daddy from hell, deans daddy issues and machismo exposed, the beginning whispers of cas' fall from heaven foreshadowed because of all the sillly obsessed feelings he's started to develop towards an actual human, all the intricate power struggles going on in this episode and it's so cas centred that it's really sexy and hot. so much angst. cas hasn't had a feeling in millions of years and now he's starting to feel and he's terrified

ahh what I find so hot and gleeful is how you can see dean absorbing the whole situation. and castiel's position. castiel compromised in his position (as an angel and a soldier of god) because of his feelings for DEAN WINCHESTER. everytime the angels are in the room (ie uriel and cas, and sam and dean) there's this power struggle going on between the secret intimacy/sleep paralysis demon/night visits weird boy bestfriends shit those two got going on between them contrasted with cas' position as an actual ANGEL and it's like deans seeming him erring and questioning his orders and having DOUBTS and he's absorbing it ALL and it's like a blast from the past in a way for dean because wasn't god and castiel like him and John? didn't he follow daddy's every order without a thought of his own? didn't he try so hard to bend himself into whatever shape john needed him to be? and he can see castiel going thru the same motions and having the same problems and deans like how can I exploit this situation. and make you my boyfriend at the same time.

"you can't ask me to do this cas. not this" UHHHHMMMMMM the hitch in his voice, the rage in his eyes, the angstttt. his trust in cas hurting dean so bad. he would do a lot for castiel already and they've only met 7 times. but not this. this is too far. the sexiness of saying no to the angel that pulled you out of hell idk

the framing of the shots between them and when they are both in frame is really interesting too, like cas positioned just behind dean, almost like he's sitting on his shoulder or whispering into his ear, positioning cas as his guide, his confidante,

they're still figuring out the dynamic between the two, who calls the shots, he orders who around, who can say no and when

"you can't make me do this" dean saying NO to heaven the loudest he ever has . why should he retraumatise himself for heaven. why should he step into that room. dean ANGST

something like a plea in castiel's eyes the whole episode, torn between his orders and his feelings for dean, hesitant about the whole thing like no he doesn't want his poor human going in there and torturing alistair actually because it will put him in harms way and the lack of agency cas has over their orders now and the struggle ooo the struggle ! "this is too much to ask. I know. but we have to ask it" AND THEN LOOKING SO FRIGHTENED, looking frightened that they have to ask it. I castiel have to ask this of you, not because I want to but because I've been ordered to by my father god and I have never questioned him not once in millions of years. And now you. And now this. And now this opening to fear, doubt

and DEAN seeing through the facade and being like. I need to talk to castiel alone actually. like he's confused and he can't completely read cas but he sees that he's frightened, like his angel is actually frightened by what he's been asked to do and he can recognise that

as soon as uriel leaves and its just the two of them alone dean is completely different with cas, so much more personal

"uriels the funniest angel in the garrison. ask anyone" dean looking like he's reconsidering all his feelings for cas like why this angel . why him. jesus christ

his slutty little walk up to castiel why does he always do that flirty walk towards him! what hte fuck is up with that!

I think cas is pleasantly surprised at how quickly dean can see through the shitshow that is going on in heaven (and also himself) rn, like oh. yes. I chose him for a reason. He's shocked that dean has seen thru him just like cas has seen right through dean's facade in the past, but also proud. "Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?" OKKKKK PUPPY CAS

"My superiors have begun to question my sympathies - I was getting too close to the humans in my charge" looks down, looks up "- you." SCREAMINGGGG why does he say it like that? only he could say it like that I swear tofuck. dean not quite believing his ears or knowing what to make of it all. he's looking at cas' lips AGAIN and seems amused for the first time the whole episode. Personally I think he's blushing inside.

is this the moment when dean starts to accept that he will torture alistair? he seems to start softening from this convo with cas onwards, is he doing this FOR cas????! does he think it will help cas? or is he just like buttered up by this whole speech because tbh it is really so sweet it hurts and I think the autistic rizz is really starting to work its wonders on him . like how many times has dean been told that someone cares about him without an ulterior motive (maybe just by sam, and even then)? cas has no ulterior motive, no manipulation under what he's saying, he's just saying it bluntly like. yeah. they've begun to have doubts about me in general even though I've been in this position since the beginning of creation and whatnot. because I have begun to develop feelings for the first time ever. for YOU specifically. HELLO????? Who wouldn't be charmed by that? Oh dean u eternal 14 year old who just wants someone to love him

I think he's too scared it might disappear or not turn out to be true so he doesn't push it, he just absorbs everything cas is saying and is like. ok, time to cover that one moment of exposed vulnerability back up with XTRA machismo now.oh dean.

"You ask me to walk through that door and do this, you will not like who walks back out" "For what it's worth, I would give anything not to have you do this". CUT TO DEAN CLOSING HIS EYES. TAKING IT IN. UGHH

ok so why was this whole scene like so sweet and angsty. gosh these two. dean knows now that he's cared for, and by all people, an ANGEL. his angel, the one who pulled him out of hell and who has seen right through his facade since the very beginning. and in the same moment that care does come with a price, whether cas means it to or not, because in accepting cas' care he also has to accept what cas wants him to do, right?? right? I feel like love for dean has always come with price, could he ever get any care from john without having to sacrifice ridiculous things to earn it? so it hurts because. Dean you should really say no to this actually. You should trust your gut. But he trusts castiel instead and it hurtsssss. Because cas doesn't know any better at this point, and hasn't started to act for himself. I think it would've benefited castiel too if dean had said NO WAY because cas doesn't want this to happen either, he senses it is all wrong, and in the end we find out the orders were made up by uriel or whatever so weren't even legit orders from heaven. idk its all a mess up there rn. oh baby dean. oh baby cas. dean sees love as coming with the price of pain cut to roman roy having his stitches burst open by kendall when they hug each other so its totally natural he would accept that he has to torture alistair now after cas reveals his emotions? for dean? JESUS

castiel (Angel of the lord) (didn't feel anything for 4 billion years) (feels things now)

castiel this whole ep is just like 🕴️ dean … I am conflicted ….

anna has cas' feelings for dean so clocked she's just like "cas baby, the father you love would never ask this if YOU specifically" specifically you. he would never put u through watching the man u have feelings for hurting like this! Cas is just like .. oh….

cas closing his eyes because he can hear alistair screaming and he knows dean is hurting and he cant take it my poor baby

cas looking like a lost little boy in his sad man trenchcoat. there's something so fragile about him this episode

bloody resigned dean getting beaten within an inch of is life by alistair is so inexplicably hot

YES castiel stepping in and saving him just in time, his dean's in danger radar was going off!

cas' little cunty walk in the hospital when he's talking to sam lmao he's so overdramatic no one's doing it like him

cas realising the whole thing was POINTLESS & the fact that dean of all people was so endangered by his 'orders' …. he's having feelings ….. waging a war against god in his head …. oh poor cas

cas being like 🧎 ANNA? ANNA!!! HELP "I'm considering -disobedience" hahahahaha

I don't think even cas knows exactly what he feels, just that he does feel and it terrifies him

YES anna my queen, force him to think for himself for once YESSS

Uriel made such a huge mistake when he told cas his plan was for alistair to escape and KILL dean like that's cas' baby. That was the last straw for cas I think this episode no wonder he went at uriel like that

BLOODY CAS ON HIS KNEES BLOODY CAS ON HIS KNEES. DONT YOU UNDERSTAND?

Anna's so iconic for killing Uriel when he says there's no god left and saying "maybe. maybe not. but there's still ME" such a queen

CASTIEL AT DEANS BEDSIDE OH LORD. "Are you alright?" He cares so deeply. "No thanks to you", he feels the weight of letting Dean down so heavily on his shouldersss. Why does Cas tell him he needs to be more careful here, I never really got that? What's he trying to warn him about?

Dean asking Cas if it's true what alistair said, was dean responsible for breaking the first seal, and Cas saying yes and dean breaking down and Cas looking upwards because god help him what can he say to this man he feels so strongly about who is so broken and beat up and tired. yes, you started the apocalypse dean. he just looks so regretful that this ever happened to him, that he was too late to save dean, he looks repentent for so much that he's got wrong this ep at the cost of dean. oh cas. oh cas. you can tell her bares the weight of being too late to save dean on his shoulders.

Cas telling dean he is also the one who will be responsabile for stopping the apocalypse like leave this damn man alone he has enough on his plate. "Don't you go disappearing on me you son of a bitch, what does that mean?" dean still sounding like he's going to SOB and telling cas dont u dare abandon me you bitch

"I can't do it Cas, it's too big" Cas chewing his lip and looking so upset that dean has to take this all on himself like yes, it is too much, he knows it

"I'm not strong enough" whispering it his voice breaking oh my god dean :( Cas looking at him with such concern it's making my heart hurt ache. Dean looking away as he cries because he can't bare to show weakness infront of another man even his angel

"I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be" IT HURTS BECAUSE he believes he's letting castiel down somehow in this moment by not being strong enough but castiel also believes he's letting dean down by placing this burden on him when's he's clearly broken THEY BOTH THINK THEY'RE LETTING THE OTHER ONE DOWN (miscommunication between super masc human and autistic angel)

dean thinks he has to WORK to be worthy of Cas, worthy of love and care, and he can't work right now, he's too beat up and tired and he's in hospital and he can't move and he's worn down, he can't take anymore, and that is so deeply shameful to him. He hates to feel helpless but it's all he's ever felt. Little does he know cas is head over heels for him anyway and doesn't give af what he can or can't do.

[green-typewriterz]

Some hurt/comfort with sam please?

When the Sun Hits

Sam Winchester x gn!reader

summary: set in 2001, you and Sam finally get the chance to go to prom together

Ask: Some hurt/comfort with sam please?

Warnings: injury, mention of blood, sam is pining and awkward

Author Notes: thank you for this ask my love! Sorry for disappearing for so long, i got a new hyperfix im sure many of you can understand! Also I took what I had an ran with it so sorry if this wasn’t what you imagined!

word count: 2135

SOMETIME IN 2001 - FEBRUARY

Sam sat across the room from you, his chair far in the back and to the left whereas you sat to the front…you had pulled the short straw. You found yourself turning around every now and then, locking eyes across the room, trying to get him to laugh. He was in one of his bad moods today, hair in front of his eyes and hood up. You and Dean had pretty much accepted the fact that you’d be moving around alot, your families working together as hunters but Sam wasn’t as happy about it. He didn’t want to leave again.

“Y/N,” the teacher began and you spun back around, eyes wide. “Eyes on the front please, Sam doesn’t need you distracting him.” You nodded and got back to work, though you could feel Sam’s gaze burning on the back of your head.

You had known Sam for as long as you could remember, the two of you used to share toys while your parents were out hunting with John. He was always a shy kid, but this year seemed to be the worst of it. Maybe he was going through a phase.

Class finally ended and you packed up your books before heading to the back of the class, kneeling down and leaning against Sam’s desk. He looked up and smiled, muttering a quiet, “hi.” you grinned and grabbed his bag, watching as he pushed the hair away from his eyes (it had been longer than usual lately).

“Are you still upset about moving again?” You asked, walking alongside him, his hand gently holding yours. Sam sighed, shaking his head as you made your way out of the school and toward the same motel you had been staying for the past few months.

He ran his spare hand through his hair. “It’s just…we’ve just got comfortable here. I’ve actually made friends that aren’t you or Dean. I just wish we never-.” He stopped himself short. It was a stupid thing to wish.

“I know,” You replied. He wished his family weren’t hunters. You both stopped in front of his door, staring at each other silently. It wouldn’t be long before Dean got back and started his relentless teasing, so with one final goodbye, you went your separate ways.

That evening was wholly uneventful, an hour or two of homework, some research for your dad then the sweet and familiar feeling of zoning out while listening to Deftones on your hard motel bed. ‘Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want.’ had just faded out when there was a gentle knock on the door, one you recognised. You opened the door and took in the smiling sight of your best friend. He was wearing an oversized tee with a blue dog on it that you had given him and a pair of pyjama bottoms. He looked much more comfortable than he felt.

Sam had been building up his courage since the beginning of the year and, knowing the both of you would still be on the case when it rolled around, he wanted to ask you to prom. Even if it were just as a friend.

“Hey Sammy,” you smiled and stepped to the side to let him in, noticing how he was fiddling with the strings of his pyjamas. He was nervous. “You ok?” It was a simple question, but from the look on his face you would’ve assumed you had asked him to marry you.

He laughed slightly and scratched the back of his neck, replying, “all good, just wanted to come chat!” He smiled awkwardly. God, he thought, he was already blushing. He sat across from you, slightly wet hair brushed to the side and fluttering eyes locked on yours.

You laughed at his nerves but pressed play on your music again, turning the volume down so ‘when the sun hits’ could gently sit underneath your conversation.

“Y’know,” he began, hands fidgeting, “We’re gonna be in Oregon until spring, which means we’ll actually graduate this time.” he spoke, voice soft and wavering. “So um-”

He cut himself off, not knowing how to ask. He had wanted to do something nicer, get you flowers or something, but it hadn’t exactly gone to plan (that and Dean had told him to do it now before he got too nervous). You put your hand on his to stop it from shaking and urged him to keep talking and he smiled so softly you could’ve imagined it.

He breathed out before speaking again, “I was thinking we could go to prom? Together?” You went still. That’s what he had been nervous about.

“As friends?”

He seemed to shrink. “Uhm, yeah, if that’s what you’d want.” Sam was downtrodden, though he had expected you to take it this way, it still stung.

You smiled gently. “I’d love to go with you, but maybe not as just…friends.”

He looked up, confused for a moment. You had said yes. Blush bit at his ears as he fought the urge to get up and physically jump for joy. “I’d like that.” He managed to get out before standing again, you joining him by the door.

“I should probably head back, dad will be wondering where I am.” Though you both knew the statement wasn’t true at all, you agreed and let him walk out the door.

“Sam.”

He spun back around on his heel and you stepped closer, placing a kiss on his cheek. To him, it felt so gentle, like the breeze gently brushing his face, but it still brought up a blush so aggressive it felt like he was on fire.

SOMETIME IN 2001 - PROM

It was a few weeks before graduation, which meant it was prom night. You were sat in your motel room, in the nicest outfit you could find for cheap, waiting for Sam to finish getting ready. Since asking you to prom, the two of you had spent every waking moment together though you weren’t, as Dean would say, official yet (despite being only a label away from it).

Eventually, he walked out of the bathroom in a simple navy suit, one that matched your own outfit almost perfectly. You had both found them by chance in separate thrift stores and found yourself extremely lucky when they not only fit, but matched. “You look so handsome.” you said as he fiddled with his tie, trying to get it to sit right. Eventually, he gave up and gave you a look of desperation, asking you to do it for him with his eyes alone.

His gaze never left you as you fixed the tie, gentle hands righting the knot. Sam had planned tonight out to a tee: Dean was going to drive the both of you in their dad’s impala and then he’d get permission to take three (which was masterfully negotiated down from ten by Sam) photos. Then, he’d link his arm in yours like a gentleman and walk you into the gym. From there, his dancing skills took charge.

Each part of the plan went well and it was the middle of the night before either of you took a break to get a drink. There was a tired flush on both of your faces and a glint in Sam’s eyes you hadn’t seen since you were young. It was there, the two of you were sat when ‘your song’ came on. The song Sam had asked you to prom with (though it was more of a coincidence).

The boy took your hand gently and led you to the dancefloor again, his hands finding a place on your hips. You wrapped your arms around his neck and swayed gently, humming along to the song and staring into Sam’s eyes. The night was perfect.

Or would’ve been.

There was an impossibly loud crash and both you and Sam stared at each other in a split-second of recognition before the gymnasium went dark. Screams erupted from the crowd but the two of you stayed calm, quickly retrieving your respective silver blades that John had forced you to keep that night. Sam was furious. John had promised he would chase the monster in the opposite direction. The man had lied. In the panic, the two of you had been separated and you knew better than to call out for him in the dark school corridor.

You had prepared for this, trained. But you had never actually fought a monster before. Your hands shook from fear and tears glistened on your cheeks as you gingerly made your way down the hall. Your only lightsource was the large, dirty skylight that sat at the far end of the hallway and you found yourself glad - for the first time ever - that it was a full moon. Light trickled through the glass, fragmenting when a crack or some growing mould got in its path.

There was a growl from behind you and you stiffened, chills running down your spine. You turned slowly, eyes shut tight. You weren’t meant to be scared, you had been taught to not be afraid - so why couldn’t you find it in you to be brave. Your eyes opened and locked with the werewolf that was a mere centimetre from you now.

You gripped the blade with a sweaty palm and shoved it forward, piercing through the monster’s heart, though not before it could bring its claws down across your face. You both cried out and fell to the ground, you clutching your face and the werewolf growing still. “Y/N!” Sam called out as he sprinted over. Within a second, his hand was under your head and he was cradling you close to him.

Sam was hurt too, grazes littering his skin and a cut pulling at his lip - though he found that unimportant compared to the overwhelming amount of blood that seeped from your face.

“You’re ok.” He whispered, “You’ll be ok.”

THAT EVENING

You leaned against Sam as he got the first aid kit ready, having previously cleaned his own injuries as quickly as he could. Tears mixed with the blood on your face and Sam had to fight not to cry too, he hated seeing you hurt. “This is going to hurt, Y/n/n,” He began, eyes wrought with sympathy and a dusting of tears, “I’m so sorry.” he whispered and you nodded, preparing yourself. He moved his spare hand to the least injured part of your cheek for both control and comfort then gently let the alcohol John had provided trickle over your injuries.

You let your hand rest on his forearm, his mint breath fanning your face as you held in your tears with sharp breaths. “I killed them.” You whispered and Sam looked at you in empathy. He knew exactly how you felt. He didn’t want to shush you, (he didn’t know why people did that) he knew you needed to cry - but at the same time he didn’t want you to feel guilty.

“He was going to kill you. You did the right thing.”

You sighed, breathing shaky from the tears that stuck in your throat. “It doesn’t feel like that.” Sam stopped what he was doing and pulled away, eyes meeting yours.

He smiled gently. “You saved so many people, Y/n. no one in there would have been as brave as you.” Sam whispered and you nodded, finally finding it in yourself to agree with him. He gave you a break from cleaning the injury for a while and you got a better chance to look at him.

There were rips in his tux, some tinged with deep red stains and his previously white shirt was littered with mud stains. Cuts littered his arms and face while a particularly vicious bruise was slowly forming on his jawline. Despite all of this, he still looked handsome - you found it difficult to look away.

He knew what he was doing well enough, sanitise everything, clean the wound and then pray you didn’t need stitches - still, he couldn’t stop the anxiety from filling his mind. Sam was gentle, it was just who he was. Soft, caring hands worked quickly and lovingly while he muttered words of comfort. You were incredibly lucky, the wound was mostly superficial.

Both you and Sam sighed in relief as he placed the butterfly closure tape to each major point of the scratch mark. “See,” he whispered, “Told you you’d be ok.”

You smiled, careful not to tug at the cuts and leaned in, wrapping your arms around him. Sam’s hands found a home in your hair and he gently ran his hands through it as he sighed in comfort. “I’ll always be here for you, Y/n/n.” he whispered, voice strong, honest. You found it easy to believe him.

[boywifesammy]

careful what you wish for (deanjohn nsfw)

Dean is surprised to wake up after his encounter with the Djinn and find that his wish has come true. The fire never happened, Sam is on track to becoming a lawyer, and both his parents are alive.

The strange part of it all, however, is how excited John is to see him. That and the weird salacious winks that he keeps giving him when no one else is looking.

Everything here is part of the wish, right? So what exactly has Dean wished for?

another very late submission for @dadfuckerfest. this is literally just porn. the plot is not integral to the story it is just dean having a daddy kink. ao3 version linked above :)

It takes Dean a second to orient himself after the Djinn attack. His hunter instincts are blaring sirens, but when he picks up the picture frame on his and Carmen’s bookshelf, the pieces fall in place all at once. It’s a picture of his family. His nuclear family.

He’s on autopilot the whole drive home.

Good things don’t happen to Winchesters. That’s why the first feeling that Dean gets when he sees his mother, happy and healthy, is a deep, deep feeling of dread. Following the disbelief is shock. Then, lastly, an overwhelming wave of love washes over him, because, God, that’s his mother. That’s his mother, and she’s alive.

Mary doesn’t comment on the desperation in Dean’s hug. She ushers him inside and watches with a careful eye as he oggles at their shelves. Each picture frame immortalizes a moment from this dream life, like the mundane is precious, because to Dean, they are.

Dean didn’t even know that this is what he wanted, but now that he has it, he can’t argue against it. Sam’s graduation, tacky family photos, ball games and birthday parties. Hell, there’s even a picture of John holding up a fish the size of his torso, because this version of his father apparently does things like fish and play softball.

Good things don’t happen to the Winchesters. Dean wants to stab something. His terror sits thick at the back of his throat and no matter how hard he tries to push it down, it manages to worm out through the cracks. He takes a deep breath and hugs his mother again. His chest is not big enough for all of this hope.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Darling?” Mary’s worry is more pronounced now. Dean forces himself to calm down.

“I’m okay, Mom. I just— I missed you, you know?” His voice is still slightly wavy when he speaks. Mary pulls back from the hug and gives him a concerned look, her slight wrinkles crinkling at her eyes.

“Have you been drinking?” She says, accusatory. Dean’s response is cut off by a creak from behind and he whips around, hand already shooting down to his waistband. His pistol isn’t there. He starts flailing around for his knife but freezes when his father walks down the stairs.

“Dean?” John’s voice is deep and sleep-rough. He’s standing at the bottom of the steps in a wife beater and boxers. Dean’s heart stops.

“Dad.” Dean gasps, and it comes out horribly broken. John’s heavy eyelids slowly slide open. He gives Mary a questioning look.

Good things don’t happen to Winchesters, but apparently in Djinn dreams, the rules are different. This John looks happy. Fulfilled. The scar across his cheek that parted his beard is gone, and his dark circles have given out to slight wrinkles. He’s strong but not hunter strong. His arms are thick and his eyes are soft and his belly is slightly rounded from middle age. He’s alive. Holy shit. Dean’s father is alive.

Dean stumbles forward to the stairs. John’s confusion turns to worry but he throws out an arm and Dean doesn’t hesitate before falling into his chest. His forehead drops to his father’s shoulder. John gives him a comforting pat on the back.

“You okay, son?” He asks, and Dean sets his jaw. He lets himself enjoy John’s strong grip for just a moment, to appreciate the ease of his affection, then he leans back. He can’t bring himself to hug back. He just can’t.

“Yeah.” John raises an eyebrow. He glances over at Mary.

“Yeah, I’m great.” Dean repeats, more steady this time, but not fast enough for John to miss the sheen of his eyes. He looks over at Mary and gives her a reassuring smile. It’s skinwalker-ish in how ill suited it looks on his face. The only smiles that John ever gave Dean were sly little smirks or wide-eyed, adrenaline-induced grins of bloody teeth.

“Go get some sleep.” John nods his head towards the stairs. “I’ll be up soon.”

Mary looks back and forth between Dean and John, unconvinced, but it’s late and she’s tired. She sighs and makes for the stairs. She gives Dean a brief kiss on his temple as she walks past.

“Night, sweetie. I love you.” Again, Dean’s brain screams skinwalker. His heart screams to follow her. His body, however, stays rooted in place.

“Me too.” He whispers back. Mary smiles warmly and turns to trudge up the stairs. Her baby-pink nightdress scuffs the floor. Dean watches her go.

“Dean.” John motions to the sofa. “Sit down, will you?”

Dean doesn’t know how to approach this new dynamic with his father. This man isn’t the hunter he remembers. He isn’t even the same father. Dean responds with yes sir to John’s question and he laughs, smacking him on the shoulder like he just said a funny joke.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see you, but why the sudden visit?” John asks and leaves his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tries not to flinch at the warmth of his palm through his shirt.

“Not sure. I… I had this nightmare. Where Mom— Mom was gone, and you…” Dean starts, and trails off when he realizes how nonsensical his words must seem to this version of his father, oblivious to anything supernatural and soft around the edges from civilian life.

John raises a questioning eyebrow. His stubble is neatly trimmed and his hair soft with conditioner. He looks well-rested despite the slight wrinkles and eye bags. Dean immediately averts his gaze. It feels blasphemous, seeing this warm, happy version of his father after burning his corpse on a pyre.

“You been drinking, son?” John asks, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

“No. No, I’m just… forget it.” They sit in silence for a beat. Then John gets up and heads for the liquor cabinet. He pours them a glass of whiskey each and walks back to the couch.

“Here.” Dean awkwardly accepts the glass, a strange shiver running through him when their fingers brush. John sprawls back against the sofa with his own drink. They drink in amicable peace, avoiding each other’s eyes.

The whiskey is good. It’s smooth and heavy-bodied, definitely more expensive than the cheap stuff John bought out on the road, but not so overpriced to be a guilty purchase. Dean follows it down his throat. He focuses on the warmth of his drink and not the warmth of the man next to him.

He can’t stop staring at his father’s body. His lightly tan skin is smooth and free of scars. He has a faded USMC tattoo on his inner forearm. A slight beer belly pokes through the front of his wife beater, and a spattering of chest hair peaks up from the hemmed neck.

His nipples are peaked up underneath the soft cotton. They look perfectly hard and pebbled, like they’d fit perfectly between Dean’s teeth.

The thought makes the whiskey sneak back up Dean’s throat. He looks away quickly from his father’s chest. What the fuck was that?

“Whatever it is, Dean, you’ll figure it out. You’re more smart than you give yourself credit for.” John’s voice is softer now, protective. Dean doesn’t let himself look at him.

“You’ve always got your old man on your side. Don’t ever feel like you have to do anything alone.” The whiskey comes back up a second time. Good things don’t happen to Winchesters. Dean clenches his jaw to keep back an ill-timed tear, forcing himself to turn and look his father in his eyes.

“Thanks, Dad.” Dean doesn’t think he’s ever said thank you to his father in his life. Then again, he can’t remember him ever doing anything for him worth thanking.

John gives Dean a hearty pat on the back and puts down his empty glass. He gets up from the sofa. Dean looks down at his drink, listening to the distant patter of his father going up the stairs. Even his gait is unfamiliar. Slow, patient, void of any panic or anger.

Dean swirls the whiskey in his glass. He watches it slosh up the sides and thinks about the Djinn. He thinks about Sam and Carmen and softball and his mother’s sleep-scratchy voice singing him to sleep.

Dean thinks until it starts to hurt, then he throws back his drink and puts his glass down on a coaster. He spreads out on the sofa and listens to the silence of his childhood home ring loud.

Dean sleeps surprisingly well. He wakes up feeling well-rested and considerably less panicked than the night before.

Good things don’t happen to the Winchesters, but when was the world ever predictable? Wasn’t it about time that their bad luck changed? They deserved better. Sam deserved better. He deserved a normal life and a stable job and a girlfriend who isn’t burning up on the ceiling.

His father deserved better. He isn’t about to destroy all of this just because he’s too keyed up and anxious to trust a good thing. This isn’t just his wish, it’s his family’s too. Maybe good things do happen to the Winchesters. It’s nice to hope.

The sandwich Mary makes him for lunch is the best damn thing he’s ever eaten and Dean’s tried every gas station sandwich known to man. It’s perfectly layered, a tantalizing blend of honey mustard, cured meats and thick bread. Mary tells him to eat slowly so that he doesn’t choke. Dean moans incomprehensibly around a bite and she laughs, shaking her head fondly.

John is sitting at the other end of the table. He’s absentmindedly flicking through a copy of the Lawrence newspaper while wearing a pair of reading glasses. His coffee cup from this morning is sitting on the table. Milk and sugar. Suburbia really does change a man.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” John flippantly asks, then turns a page. Dean looks up from his sandwich.

“Work?” He mutters, mouth full of bread and salami. Mary tuts from the kitchen.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, sweetie.” John turns a page and readjusts his glasses.

“You know, I spoke with Maggie the other day. Her car broke down again and she swears that you’re the only one who can fix it.” John’s smiling slightly, his teeth flashing white. “You ask me, she’s got the hots for you.”

Mary clicks her tongue and smacks John’s arm with her dish towel. She’s trying to frown, but her lips still quirk up slightly.

“John.”

“What? He’s a catch, I can’t be proud of him?” Mary huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. She goes back to the stove, stirring something or another, and John catches Dean’s eye over his newspaper. He gives him a cheeky wink.

Dean chokes on his sandwich. His cheeks are suddenly alarmingly red and he feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin.

“Eat slowly!” Mary calls again from the kitchen. Dean puts down his sandwich. John isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t seem shaken at all by the exchange, in fact, he’s smirking to himself about it like that’s a normal thing for fathers to joke about with their sons.

Dean blinks in confusion at his sandwich. Maybe it is normal. How the hell should he know? He isn’t exactly the poster child for a healthy father-son relationship.

“I’m going out for a beer.” John folds up his newspaper and places it on the table. He looks up at Dean. “You coming?”

Dean flails for a response. How is he supposed to tell his father that, yes, he does want to have a beer with him, but also that he’s still flustered by the strange almost flirty exchange they just had?

“Yeah.” He settles for instead, and John’s smile is worth the discomfort.

The beer is a perfectly icy bottle of El Sol, because everything here must be tailored exactly for Dean's preferences. Him and John sit in a comfortable silence as they drink. It’s strangely familiar. The moment reminds Dean of all those silent nights cleaning guns or racking salt shells while his father drank quietly in the corner.

God, his life really is crap. Or, was, he supposes.

John finishes his beer and sets it down on the porch. He stretches with a groan, his shirt rucking up his belly. Dean’s eyes automatically flit down to the flash of salt and pepper hair peeking up from his pants then scramble away in shame once he realizes what he’s doing.

“The uh— the lawn looks like it could use a mow.” He mutters. John gives him a disbelieving smirk. He raises an eyebrow.

“You want to mow the lawn?”

“Are you kidding? Hell yes.” John doesn’t seem entirely convinced but he shrugs and leans back on the porch.

“Knock yourself out.”

Dean does not know how to mow a lawn. That was the appeal of the whole thing at first but after struggling with the lawnmower for a minute with his father watching in silent amusement, he’s decided that the novelty of it is not worth the humiliation.

“You’re doing great!” John yells from the porch. He’s onto his second beer, his feet thrown up to enjoy the show. Dean sends a glower in his direction and his chest stutters when John laughs. It’s high, unrestrained and genuine.

“Christ, you’d think that you’d never mowed a lawn in your life.” John sets his half-finished beer on the steps and dusts off his hands before making his way over to Dean.

“Carmen really does spoil you, hmm?” Dean freezes when his father slides in behind him and straddles his lower back. He reaches around to grab the handle on the mower.

“Like this. Pull the string.” He yanks the pull cord and the lawnmower starts up with a deep growl. John doesn’t move away. He leans in closer, his chin resting on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s brain totally short circuits.

His father smells like beer and summer sweat. The heat from his body sinks into Dean. His soft belly pushes into his lower back and his arms curl around Dean to pull him back into his chest. They’re plastered together, John’s hips nestled into his ass.

“Uh… Dad?” Dean’s voice comes out strange and choked. John isn’t hard, but he isn’t exactly soft either. It’s not overtly sexual yet that only makes the whole thing weirder.

Dean’s entire body tenses up tight. Is this a thing that normal father’s do? It’s not like John is making any advances or acting like this is out of the ordinary. He’s simply holding Dean and nuzzling his beard into the soft skin of his neck.

Then again… all of this is Dean’s wish. Maybe somewhere, deep down, this is what he wants. What he needs. His father wrapped around him, smothering him in his warmth like a blanket.

“Yes?” John asks, voice gruff. Dean barely hears it over the motor of the lawnmower.

He takes a second to gather his thoughts, but he can’t come up with an argument. It’s not like John’s doing anything untoward. His lips push to Dean’s neck, not moving, just resting on his sweaty skin. Dean shivers.

“…Nothing.” It comes out a bit too breathy. Thankfully, the rumble of the motor is too loud for John to catch it. Dean leans back into his father’s body and shivers when John hums in approval. His strong arms move to wrap around his stomach.

“Dad.” This time, it’s definitely too breathy. Dean basically gasps the word. John laughs, low and deep, and he gives Dean a pat on the side before backing up.

“Finish up here, I’m heading back in.” Dean watches him go, flustered and confused and more than a little hard.

“Okay?” He mutters, and John winks. Again.

The front door shuts, and Dean forces himself to shift his attention to the lawn. He fumbles through it and manages to get the lawn looking somewhat decent by the time Sam pulls into the curb.

Jess gives Dean the same confused look that Mary did when he hugged her. He starts up an awkward conversation with Sam, who’s standing there in the most hideous combination of expensive clothes that Dean has ever seen. Seriously, a sports jacket over a button up? He looks like the king of preps.

“So, I see you started off Dad’s birthday with a bang, as usual.” Sam huffs and points to the bottle in Dean’s hand. Dean brings it up to eye level and squints.

“W-wait, Dad’s birthday— that’s today?” Another huff. Dean glares at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah Dean… that’s why we’re here.” Then Mary comes out to greet them, and Sam completely tunes him out. Dick.

“It’s good seeing you boys get along.” John whispers into Dean’s ear and Dean jumps at how close he is. He whips around to see him glancing over Dean’s shoulder. When did he get there?

“Yeah, it’s nice.” Dean mutters, watching Sam greet their mother with a hug and kiss to the cheek. Ugh.

“California did something strange to that boy.” John mutters slyly, and it makes Dean feel a little better that he’s not the only one put off by Sam’s demeanour. It’s not what Dean pictured when he imagined “normal”.

Then John’s hand sneaks around Dean’s waist, thumb rubbing right above his waistband, and Dean is reminded that his understanding of normal is apparently way off from reality. And if he gets a bit chubbed up from the touch, then he can pass it off as him adjusting to this new normal.

Apparently, it’s Winchester tradition to go fishing every year on John’s birthday. It’s an inexplicably surreal and bizarre day for Dean. John goes the whole mile; bucket hat, board shorts, fancy propellor boat and carbon-steel fishing rod. His lure box even has a Bass Pro Shops sticker on it.

Dean doesn’t remember ever going fishing in his life. He’s always loved the idea of it, the serenity of being out on the lake with a cooler full of beer, but there isn’t exactly much time for them to fish between burning bones and finding yellow eyes. There are very few things that take priority over the hunt. Now that Dean’s given it a try, he kind of regrets not doing it sooner.

Sam is terrible at fishing. This is supposedly well-known, because John pokes Dean in the side every time Sam loses a fish, in a ‘get a load of this guy’ motion. Eventually, Sam throws his rod aside and storms off to Jess. They have a brief, heated conversation, before Jess kisses him on the cheek and he settles at the other end of the boat with a huff.

Dean turns out to be pretty good at fishing. It’s a lot like hunting without the life-or-death pressure. Setting out the bait, waiting for a bite, then reading what’s on the other end to get a grasp on how to reel. Still, it takes one or two chances before he gets the hang of it.

John hands him a consolation beer when he loses his first fish. ‘I never get the first one either. Slippery bastards.’ When Dean does manage to reel one in, he earns a hearty pat on the back and an attaboy. Afterwards, he finds himself unconsciously leaning into his father. John doesn’t move away when their shoulders brush.

They set off on the little sailboat at quarter to two and come back right as the sun starts to set. John steers them to shore. Dean leans back on the deck next to Carmen and watches the splash of colour spreading across the sky. He sighs loudly, content.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you so happy in a long time.” Carmen whispers. Dean is laying on her lap and she’s absentmindedly running her thumb over his shoulder. Dean smiles and opens his eyes. Her soft features look beautiful in the shadow of the setting sun.

“It’s a good look on you.” She leans down to kiss him. Dean pecks her back and grabs her hand. Their fingers loop together.

They hold hands the whole way back to shore.

Sam’s engagement announcement during dinner is met with hugs and teary congratulations. Dean picks at whatever horrific asparagus abomination is on his plate and wordlessly thanks Carmen when she slips him a pack of jerky under the table.

Between the six of them, they manage to finish off two bottles of wine and get pleasantly buzzed by the end of the night. Dean’s face pales when he sees the bill but John doesn’t hesitate before throwing a few hundreds out onto the table.

They split into two cars on the way back. John drives with Dean and Carmen in the backseat of his SUV. Carmen dozes off onto Dean’s shoulder halfway through, a safe, comfortable weight pressed to his side. Dean chews on a strip of the jerky she gave him at the restaurant. He avoids his father’s eyes in the rear view mirror every time they dart to stare at his mouth.

When they get back home, Dean lays Carmen to bed and comes back down for a glass of water. He finds John sitting on the sofa, watching a rerun of a nondescript ball game.

John looks over his shoulder at Dean. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes half-lidded, and there’s a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He gives Dean a cheeky little smile. He looks so warm, wine-drunk and soft under the glare of the TV. Dean stiffly walks over to the sofa and pours himself a glass from the decanter on the coffee table.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asks, settling next to John on the sofa. John lazily gestures towards the stairs.

“He turned in for the night with Jess. You know he gets handsy after a drink or two.” Dean startles when John’s palm comes down to rest on his thigh. It squeezes at the junction of his thigh and crotch, dangerously close to his dick. John’s laugh is more of a growl.

“Guess it runs in the family.” The humor in his tone is overshadowed by the liquor. Dean is frozen solid. His thoughts are running a mile a minute, a blurry mess of excuses and explanations and denials.

John’s hand slides up towards his crotch. For one long, terrifying second, Dean is sure that he’s about to slip it between his legs, but it drags past his hip to rest on his quivering belly. His fingers dip under the edge of Dean’s shirt to pet at his happy trail.

“I’m real proud of you, you know that, Dean?” John is so close that his breath washes across Dean’s lips. An involuntary noise escapes Dean’s throat before he can choke it back. He’s never heard his father say that to him in his life.

“Sam too, of course, but you… you make all of this,” he gestures around vaguely, “worth it.”

“All of what?” Dean asks, breathless and strained. John smiles softly.

“You know, life. I wake up every day and ask myself what it’s for, then I see you and I understand.” His hand drags up under Dean’s shirt over his washboard abs. Calloused fingertips skim the peaks of his nipples.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Dean. You have a job, a house, a lovely girlfriend, and most importantly… you’re happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. For you to build a life for yourself.”

Then John dips closer, and Dean whimpers. Fucking whimpers. It’s embarrassing as hell. He grabs John’s arm reflexively and shivers at how big he is. He’s never been on the receiving end of that. Usually, it’s something with fangs or claws.

“Still, I miss you, kiddo.” John wet lips brush against Dean’s pulse as he talks. His rough fingers toy at his nipple. Dean grabs him tighter and his jaw drops open. He should be pushing him away. Why isn’t he pushing him away?

“Seeing you today… that was the best birthday gift of all.” John’s palm suddenly drops down between his legs. It rubs up against Dean’s very hard dick and his hips automatically grind forward into the friction. John hums in approval.

“Dad?” Dean pants, far shakier than he intended for it to sound. John nibbles at the shell of his ear. His lips trail down to Dean’s pulse point.

“And I think I know how to make this birthday even better.” He whispers, then he sucks a hickey into Dean’s throat. Dean gasps.

“Dad—” And that time, it’s more of a moan than a question.

John spends some time nibbling and sucking at Dean’s skin to darken the bruise. It gives Dean some much needed time to process all of this, even if most of it is a hazy blur of confused arousal and shame. John’s fingers start working at the button of Dean’s jeans.

“Come on, baby. Lay back and let me show you how proud I am of you.” The pet name is what finally breaks Dean out of his stupor. John unzips his jeans.

“Dad, wait.” His fingertips skim over Dean’s hard cock and it’s like fucking lightning in his veins. He scrambles back against the sofa.

“Wait— stop!” John immediately pulls back. He gives Dean a worried look.

“What’s wrong?” Dean wipes his hand over his face to hide his furious blush.

“Nothing. I just… need a second.” The ceiling is hazy. The edges of his vision swim. He hears his father sigh.

“Okay, sport.” Dean squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the uncomfortable twitch his dick gives at that name.

The worst part of this isn’t even the incest. It’s how hard he is right now. If this wish world is truly a product of Dean’s subconscious, he must be one sick motherfucker, because this is leagues better than anything that he could have dreamed up.

It isn’t all that surprising, really. Sure, it's so goddamn humiliating that he will never live down, but Dean Winchester having daddy issues? That isn’t exactly news. Even Dean can admit that he’s had some weird dreams once or twice, but dreams are one thing. This? This is beyond depraved.

“What’s wrong?” Dean eases open his eyelids. John is hanging over him with concern in his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything as Dean slowly sits up. He looks so nervous, so apologetic that Dean’s shame dulls out to confusion.

Does he really want to do this? Dean takes in his Dad’s salt and pepper beard, his middle-aged body and the gentle wrinkles around his eyes. John’s chubbed up dick is heavy in his slacks. He’s staring at Dean with raw hunger in his eyes.

Dean shivers. God, yes. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything else in his life so bad.

“Nothing.” He mutters. He pushes up onto his knees and moves to the other side of the sofa.

Then Dean kisses his Dad.

It’s good. Really good. Rough and wet and perfect. John leads the pace with a bruising grip on Dean’s jaw, sucking his tongue and grunting into his mouth. It’d be disgusting if it wasn’t so hot. Dean’s hands scramble up to grab his father’s collar and he whines into his mouth, lapping up the taste of whiskey on his teeth. He can feel the rough bite of his father’s stubble on his chin, turning his skin a bright red. He leans into it, moaning louder. It feels like coming home.

“Baby…” John says again, that damn nickname, and Dean melts in his arms. He lets John lay him back against the arm of the sofa. He sucks on Dean’s tongue one last time, then, all at once, he shoves his hand inside Dean’s boxers.

Dean makes a disproportionately loud noise and his heart stops. John drifts his knuckles over a vein on the side of his dick, forcing him to bite his lip bloody to keep back a moan.

“What if they hear?” Dean hisses. John laughs and keeps teasing his dick.

“You care about that now?”

“But— Carmen—”

“I can’t help that she’s a lightweight. If she wanted in, she should’ve laid off the pinot noir.” Dean’s mouth falls open. Partially from the insinuation that his girlfriend is somehow in on this, and partially from the way that John is thumbing at the tip of his dick. He’s starting to drip now and it’s making everything sinfully slick.

“You’re my present, Dean. Today is all about me and you. I don’t want anyone else interrupting.” That sends an unexpected jolt of excitement up Dean’s stomach. His foreskin slides back in John’s grip and John’s thumb rubs at the bead of precum dripping from his slit.

“Okay?” Dean gasps, and it’s more of a question than a statement. John laughs again, gruff and deep.

“Lay back.” Dean lays back onto the arm of the sofa. The motion grinds his dick up into his jeans and the sensitive tip drags across the denim. Dean’s entire body jolts up but John pushes his hip down. He tugs on his belt loop.

“Turn over.” Dean, ever obedient, does so without any questions. After he’s on his stomach, though, he suddenly feels uncomfortably exposed.

“What are you–” John spreads his asscheeks and spits. It lands haphazardly on top of Dean’s hole, and he clenches up with a jolt.

“Shh, I know what you like, darling. Just let me take care of you.” Dean forces himself to relax. His heart is beating a mile a minute and his throat is choked up with shame but he can’t pretend that this isn’t making him rock hard. He pushes his ass back into his Dad’s hands. The knowledge that it’s John back there, groping him with those massive hands and groaning at the sight of his fluttering hole? That does things to Dean that he wouldn’t admit to under the worst of torture.

John plays with his cheeks for a bit. He kneads them, skirting his thumbs over the edges of Dean’s asshole. Then, without any preamble, he leans down and licks a stripe from Dean’s balls up to his sweaty hole.

“Dad! Holy fuck–” Dean moans out, then shoves his face into the crook of his elbow to muffle his noises. John’s elbows are balanced on either side of Dean’s thighs on the sofa. His tongue is rasping over Dean’s puckered hole, the tip teasing at the opening and trying to slide inside.

The rough prickle of John’s beard between Dean’s cheeks has him grunting out in surprise. It’s not entirely bad. Actually, it feels surprisingly good, the tingle of pain along with the insistent pressure of his Dad’s tongue massaging his hole. Dean pushes back into the mixture of sensations.

John growls as he buries his face deeper into his ass, his hand coming up to hold back one cheek. He eats Dean out like a fucking animal, using his grip on his ass to yank him back onto his tongue and make out with his hole like he’s being paid for it.

“You taste fucking amazing.” The buzz of his voice against Dean’s bare skin has him bending back. Dean really doubts that he tastes good at all considering how sweaty he’s gotten since he showered this morning, but John seems to think differently. He gets both hands on his ass and lifts him up so he can shove his face deeper.

The drool he’s spilling is dripping down his chin and Dean’s ass, down his balls in thick streaks. John’s slick lips latch onto Dean’s hole and suck. Dean makes a humiliating, keening noise at the back of his throat and bucks back onto his mouth.

“Dad! Please, Dad, please–” John sucks again at the sensitive skin and Dean breaks down into a mess of whimpers. Fuck. He didn’t think he’d like this so much.

“Please what, baby boy?” John’s voice is sly and cheeky. His thumb dips between his cheeks to rub at his soft asshole, slick with spit, and Dean forces himself to focus.

“Please. I… I think I–” ‘I think I’m going to cum,’ Dean is about to say, because his dick is dripping like a facet down his leg, but John interrupts him.

“If you can still think after I’m done with you, then I haven’t done my job.” He takes that moment to spread Dean’s cheeks as far as they go and start wiggling his tongue into his ass.

By the time he manages to get the tip inside, Dean is a sweating, panting mess against the sofa. His mouth is hanging open and his arms are slick with drool. His eyes might be crossing a little bit. John uses the spit pooling at his crack to slick up his finger. He slowly works one in along with his tongue, quirking it until he brushes something that makes Dean jolt.

“Oh– oh!” It’s good. It’s too good. John keeps hitting that perfect spot inside of him and spewing filth and it’s rewiring something crucial in Dean’s brain because he has never been this turned on in his life. Dean doesn’t think he can cum hands-free, but If John so much as brushed Dean’s dick right now, he’d go off like a shot.

“Come on, Darling, show Daddy how good it feels.” Fireworks shoot off in Dean’s brain. His vision spins dangerously. Something awful in his chest that never should have seen the light of day explodes and fills every part of his body.

“Yes yes yes!” Dean might be screaming. He doesn’t know, and he frankly doesn’t care. John slides his tongue out of his hole and slips a second finger in to pummel that spot.

“There you go, just let go.” John mutters into his asscheek. Dean is convinced that he can’t cum just from this, but the feeling building in his stomach is indescribable. It’s almost painful how violent it is.

John kisses a freckle on Dean’s asscheek. He laps at it with his tongue, then gets his teeth around the peachy flesh and bites. Hard. Dean seizes up on the sofa.

“I c-can’t, Dad– Daddy! Daddy!” Dean’s brain to mouth filter is one hundred percent offline when he moans those words. He can vaguely recognize that it’s possibly the most humiliating thing he’s ever said, but he really can’t give a fuck. He’s in the middle of the best damn orgasm of his life and it just won’t end.

“Always so full.” Dean hears John mutter over the haze of another orgasmic pulse. Soft lips wrap around his balls to suck and massage them with a tongue, and Dean lets out another unintelligible garble. It’s warm and slippery and the perfect amount of pressure. He bites down harder on his forearm to suppress his grunts, riding John’s mouth and fingers as he hits the tail end of his orgasm.

John gives Dean a few seconds to recuperate. He flips him over and lets Dean cling to his shoulders as he comes down from the high. A few seconds before Dean can doze off, he reaches down and nudges his thighs open.

“Legs up, Sweetheart.”

Dean hooks his arms around his legs and lazily pulls them up to his chest. John’s full weight crushes his front and he pushes up into the grip, just to feel the broad edges of his father’s chest and shoulders when he bears down harder on him. John smiles against his neck.

“You like how big I am, baby?” A shiver runs up Dean’s back. He sighs and nods.

“Yeah, Daddy.” It sounds ridiculous in Dean’s deep voice but he’s too far past the point of humiliation to care. He wraps himself around his father in a koala grip, nails digging between his shoulder blades. The muscles of John’s upper back flex under his palms. His skin is slick with sweat.

Dean buries his face into John’s throat and just lays there for a second. Taking it in. The heavy weight of his father’s chest pushing him into the cushions, the slight brush of hair on his chest, the fevered pants clouding up their shared air.

“I got you, okay? Just lay back. I got you.” John whispers into the crook of Dean’s neck. To Dean, it translates as an order. He burrows deeper into John’s chest and pushes all his reservations out of his mind, leaving space for nothing but his father, surrounding him completely.

John wipes his hand over the mess of cum on Dean’s stomach and uses it to slick up his dick. Dean is already blissed out from his orgasm. His breath catches when John’s cock nudges up against his hole, sloppy and spit-slick but still tight. John teases the opening with his tip.

“I’m big here too, hmm?” He hums. Dean distantly registers that the porn-worthy bad acting is probably also part of this wish, and that he needs to stop watching bad erotica because it’s melting his brain. He does really want that dick in him though. And it’s not like the dirty talk isn’t working for him.

Well… when in Rome.

“So thick.” Dean moans back, only cringing slightly at the high pitch of his voice. It was definitely the right choice because John’s eyes pool up with lust and he rolls his hips to shove his dick into Dean. The tip pops into him and Dean gasps for air.

He’s never done this before. He doesn’t know why everyone assumes he has. Dean isn’t gay. He’s just… a little fucked up.

It’s a lot. Dean’s head rolls back against the headrest. His eyes are rolling back into his skull. John braces his body weight on his shoulders and bucks his hips up. It shoves more of his dick past the resistance of Dean’s hole. Dean bites his lip and tries to relax.

“It’s all for you, darling. Every inch of it.” As promised, another inch slides inside. Dean nuzzles up into John’s rough cheeks like a cat. He’s so cock-drunk, drooling all over the sofa and his chest.

“Dad—” The sentence is cut off by a gasp when John bears down on Dean and shoves the rest of his dick inside. His hips slap against Dean’s ass with a loud smack.

“Dad!” Dean can feel his dick all the way up in his fucking throat. John bends him in half and puts their foreheads together. He licks his lips as he slowly grinds his hips down. The thick head of his dick keeps rubbing at Dean’s prostate, glancing over it with each grind like a bone deep massage. Dean cries out in pain-ecstasy.

Everything after is a mess of messy thrusts and breathless moans. Dean shoves his face into John’s throat and lets go. He lets himself sink into the pleasure, thighs trembling as he’s drilled into the sofa, and all that’s left is the satisfaction of being filled completely and the warmth of his father’s body so close that they share the same air.

In some roundabout way, this is everything he’s ever wanted.

By the end, they’re both sweaty, panting messes. John’s breakneck pace has slowed down to a leisurely hump, dick barely pulling back from Dean’s sore hole before grinding back in. Dean can feel another orgasm building at the pit of his stomach.

“I love you, baby.” John mumbles that right before he cums. He stares into Dean’s eyes the whole time, his breathing stuttering with every wave, and it’s too much for Dean. He death-grips the sofa back and spills across his belly.

“Love you too, Daddy.” John fucks him through it. He rubs up against Dean’s prostate until he wrings out the last of his orgasm, his thin, watery cum pooling at his belly button. The last few spasms are completely dry but they’re still incredible. It feels like it goes on forever.

A few minutes later, John pulls out of his ass with a hiss. Dribbles of cum drip down Dean’s crack and onto the sofa. Suddenly, he’s full again, and Dean whimpers. He grinds back down into the hand, slowly realizing that it’s John, stuffing the cum back into him.

“Keep it in.” John growls. Dean shivers.

Laying in John’s arms is the most soothing thing in the world. Dean snuggles into his chest and lets him pull him closer to his chest. They’re cuddling. It’s as strange as it is amazing.

John’s soft belly and chest are a perfect cushion for Dean’s body, all hard edges and fear. He burrows deeper into his neck and lavishes in the smell of his father, thick, rich and sweaty. John places soft little kisses across his temple.

“God, I’m never going to get over you.” He mutters. There’s genuine love in his voice, a deep, terrifying kind of need that makes Dean shiver. He closes his eyes and dozes off on his father’s chest.

The Djinn, Sam, Yellow Eyes, none of that matters right now. It might never matter again. As long as John is happy, Dean is too.

“My pretty boy.” That’s the last thing that Dean hears John say before he drifts off into half-sleep. He can feel John stroking his pink cheeks, and he realizes that he might be absolutely smitten with this man. When Dean smiles faintly in his sleep, John strokes his lips too. Dean can’t help but smile wider.

Maybe good things do happen to Winchesters.

[zepskies]

✍🏽 Writing Update

Hey, friends! I have the day off today (thank God), so I thought I'd give you an update on what I have coming up next, besides the last couple of chapters of And So It Goes.

It's another story for the Midnight Espresso-verse:

A Wish to Build a Dream On

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader

Summary: Dean has been harboring the archangel Michael in his mind for weeks now, putting a strain on your relationship as you struggle to help him. When Dean makes a wish that accidentally brings his father back from the dead, you get to meet the (in)famous John Winchester. But as always with magic, your boyfriend’s wish has unintended consequences.

👀 Sneak Peek:

“I think we summoned you,” Sam says, after he and Dean pick themselves up from the ground.

John takes a beat to try and process, but he has too many questions.

“You boys better tell me what’s going on right now,” he says. Though he turns and notices you after you slip your gun back into the waistband of your jeans and draw closer to Dean, laying a hand on his arm. A subtle look passes between you two.

You good? yours says.

I think so, Dean’s replies. The exchange doesn’t go unnoticed.

“And you are?” John asks. His gaze is focused on you, and the directness of his tone somewhat takes you by surprise. You never thought you would meet John Winchester.

But after you tell him your name, Dean rests a hand at the small of your back.

“She’s my girlfriend,” he says.

[EDIT]: Story is Out Now!

▶️ Read "A Wish to Build a Dream On"

[nicole-timey-wimey-stuff]

Fix You

Sam Winchester x Fem Singer Reader

Soulmate AU very loosely based on the Coldplay song ‘Fix You’.

‘Lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones and I will try to fix you’

Sam Winchester x reader

Warnings - slight angst, soulless sam briefly, johns terrible parenting, mentions of death, fluff, my terrible writing/ editing.

Mainly fluff but some angst

Words- 2.2K

The term soulmate is used to describe an all consuming love, a love so deep it was created by God? Fate? When two souls are destined to be together, two halves of a whole. Who knows where they originated from, some say it’s when the universe was created with a big bang, every atom was split into two and spread miles apart, you are one of those broken atoms, trying to find your other half.

The idea has been romanticised by happy couples across the globe, who have been lucky enough to find their soulmates. But it’s not sunshine and daisies for everyone, some never find their soulmates, others don’t have a soulmate at all, and some very unlucky people lose their soulmates death pulling them apart.

At 18 years old you received your mark, a burning sensation carved into the skin above your heart, searing pain as his name branded into your skin. The day started like any other, you woke up early your Dad knocking on your door “wake up kiddo we’ve got a job” you dad calls through the door. “Yeah ok dad, give me five minutes and I’ll be down” you reply voice still laced with sleep. You made your way quickly to the bathroom to get ready, before grabbing your to go bag and heading through the front door. “What’s the monster of the week then dad?” You ask hopping into the passenger seat of your dads run down mustang. “Vamps we think, the Winchester's are meeting us there” he replied. You’ve known the winchesters since you were a small kid, practically growing up with the boys. They would stay over yours for weeks at a time while John was working a case, so naturally you were all close friends, you were especially close with Sam though who was only a year older than you. Together you shared a love of books, animals, watching the stars and annoying Dean.

The vamp case went well, the nest was extinguished and you were all back at your motel rooms. John and your dad were outside your rooms, sitting on the steps to the motel sharing a drink, while you and the boys were settling down for the night. While brushing your teeth in the bathroom it started, the burning across your chest. The pain was pretty unbearable and you toppled over into the shower space, sitting now on the damp floor of the shower you held your chest gasping.

After what felt like hours the pain sizzled down to a soreness, which felt very much like a sunburn. Giving yourself a second to gain composure you stood up and walked to the bathroom mirror, with a deep breath you pulled your oversized band tshirt over your shoulder and peered at your chest. And there in neat cursive writing was the name ‘Samuel Winchester’ “holy shit!!!” You gasped completely in shock. You braced yourself before running out the bathroom and out of your motel room, startling John and your dad as you banged on the room two doors up from you, Dean answered the door wearing an equally as shocked expression as you were, he stepped to the side allowing you access and there on the motel room floor was a very distressed Sam holding his chest still, “it’s you!” He exclaims, “your my person?” He questions, a quiet “Yeah” is all you can muster up at that moment, panicking that he’s annoyed or worse disappointed.

When Sam stands up and starts walking over to you, you really start to panic, but to your surprise he throws his arms around you, and pulls you in snug to his chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. ‘I always knew it was you, well I hoped anyway” he confesses a blush across his cheeks, “me too” you reply, smile gracing your lips and unshed tears in your eyes. “I’m so glad it’s you” you continue , before standing on your tiptoes and placing a small peck to his lips. All the while Deans still stood in the doorway with a vacant shocked expression on his face, before coming out with “damn it! Now we all have to put up with this chick flick mushy crap from you both”. Sam huffs out a laugh before turning to his brother and answering with a “yep, get used to it man’. After that your dads come in to see what’s going on, your dad congratulates you both, all while giving Sam the don’t you ever hurt her speech, John on the other hand looks anything but pleased, muttering something along the lines of ‘no good will come from this’.

That was nearly a decade ago now, and you have been through hell together since then, quite literally. You followed him to Stanford, starting a degree in literature and eventually sharing a dorm with him. Unlike his dad, your dad Bobby was supportive, happy you we’re both getting out and living life. You left Stanford and said degree with him to help find his dad, started travelling with him and Dean, and hunting again much to your dads despair. You held his hand through the whole psychic thing, with the yellow eyed demon, told him he wasn’t a freak and it wasn’t his fault. When he died your soul shattered with him, you held him sobbing into his hair while Dean took the deal to bring him back. You had to hold him again when Dean was taken to hell for making that deal. You both tried everything, read every book, asked every Demon, monster and hunter if there was any way to bring him back.

Lucifer was one of the biggest obstacles you faced together, with Dean safely back things were better for a while, only to be pulled into the lucifer and Michael war. Seeing him fall into that pit after your touch snapped Sam back into control of his body, was one of the worst pains you’d ever felt. Watching Dean and Cas fall into their lives and some normalcy was incredibly hard. “Will you be alright sweetheart?” Dean had asked, “Yeah I guess, I’ll probably head back to dad’s” you had replied, a complete lie obviously you were far from alight. You felt left behind, broken and alone, you couldn’t just move on when half of you was missing. But his name never left your chest, usually when a soulmate dies the other loses their mark. But not you, you’d later come to realise this was because not all of Sam was in lucifer’s cage.

Soulless Sam was one hell of a challenge at first you were just so glad to have him back, that you didn’t question how wrong he felt, you did every test on him and he smiled and allowed you to do so. But that pull to him, the warmth and unconditional feelings were gone. You’d felt awful, riddled with guilt. This was Sam your Sam, and he was home with you, safe and breathing! So why couldn’t you shake that feeling something was off? Especially when he kept telling you to not tell Dean he was alive and well.

Working with the Cambels was exhausting and you didn’t like his grandfather Samual at all! He was hiding things you knew that much, and he treated his so called family terribly. You eventually found some comfort when Dean was back with you guys, he was soo mad to start with why hadn’t no one told him. Then he also began to realise Sam wasn’t Sam, the first time he talked to you about it you had fallen apart, just sat there and sobbed on Dean. It had felt like such a relief to talk to someone about it, your dad had said it may just be Sam now, that Hell may have changed him. But you’d told Dean that you couldn’t feel that connection anymore, your couldn’t feel him! And that was enough for Dean. He had called your dad to explain further to him “Even y/n can tell somethings off Bobby! I’m tellin’ you when his soulmate says she can’t feel him in there, I’m inclined to believe her! My skins crawling just being with him Bobby please just ask around, find something!” Dean had yelled through the phone.

Cas had eventually come when Dean had called, and discovered what we had all thought, Sam’s soul was missing. Cas had said putting it back into him would be “ill advised” but neither of you could leave him like this, and the way he had been treating you saying he didn’t care, it was crushing your heart. “Death said he will go to hell and collect his soul, he’ll put up a sorta wall in his head sweetheart to block out Hell, it’s going to be ok. I promise I’ll get sammy back” Dean had explained to you before ‘playing death’ for 24 hours, a wager Death had set in order to place Sam’s soul back.

You felt it before you saw it, Sam’s soul was in that bag death was carrying, it called to you desperate to feel yours. That moment was all too much, the desperation to be near his soul again, the screams from Sam begging not to have it put back in, “don’t do it Dean please! It will kill me! You heard Cas!” Sam yelled, “I’m sorry Sammy we have too” Dean replied, emotion clutching at his voice. “Now Sam, I'm going to put up a barrier inside your mind... You might feel a little itchy. Do me a favour... don't scratch the wall. Because, trust me, you're not going to like what happens.” Death had explained, “Now y/n I’m going to need you to hold his hand, feel the energy connecting between your souls, you need to hold onto it. And when I push his soul in, use that energy to surround it, your connection will help to hold that barrier in place and heal his soul, it won’t fix it completely, but it will get Sam on his feet” Death further explained to you. You’d blindly followed his instructions, moving towards Sam on shakey legs. You sat on his cot with him trying to ignore his violent thrashing and took hold of his hand. As soon as death opened the bag your energy’s pulled together like magnets. It was in that moment you saw and felt the pure power of soulmates, blinding white light filled the room, Sam’s soul was forced back in place and you pushed your energy in too, healing, binding, connecting. And you knew it would be ok, you would be there to help him, to help fix what’s broken.

For a little while things were good again, Sam woke up not remembering the year of being soulless. Dean had refused to tell him but as always the truth outed, and Sam was left feeling guilt ridden, sad and for weeks now he could barely look at you.

You walked into your kitchen where Sam was sat staring aimlessly into his beer bottle, worry lines creasing in his forehead.

“Sam” you signed, walking over to stand beside him. Rubbing your hands over his shoulders you continued, “Hey look at me” you gently caressed his chin before bringing his face up to meet yours. “ you have to stop blaming yourself, you weren’t you and Dean and I forgave you the second you were you again, I don’t blame you for this ok!” You said sternly. “You can’t keep pushing me out ok? That’s what’s killing me here, not what you did last year” he looked up at you eyes laced with tears, “But everything I’ve done to you, Dean and your dad! I tried to kill him y/n I can’t just get past that!” He cries. “He has Sam, he’s passed it. No one blames you ok, it’s done and we can’t change it, but we can all move forward, don’t push away everyone who loves you, you need us and we need you! I need you…..” you reply desperation in your voice, tears slowly trailing down your cheeks. That seems to do it, he pulls you into his lap, his face in your neck and arms securely around your waist, hugging you close to him, and he lets it all out, you both do.

Dean silently stands against the doorframe small smile on his lips, while he watches you and his little brother cry it out, holding each other close. “Hopefully things can only go up from here” he thinks.

“I’ll be there for you Sam, that’s what a soulmate does, your stuck with me whether you like it or not Winchester” you smirk. Sam looks at you, brows pulled together small smile on his lips, before he pulls you in for the softest kiss, conveying all the love he feels for you. Once you part he whispers “I wouldn’t have it any other way, I love you”

“I love you too Sammy, always”

[jensenackleswifey]

Just Married !!

Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: After you, Dean and Sam all get shitfaced drunk, something unexpected happens

Notes: Cringey ass fluff, bogan is kind of like the Australian red-neck

It all started at the end of an easy hunt. Sam, Dean and I had to fight a demon that was possessing the mayor of Las Vegas. He wasn’t killing anyone or necessarily hurting anyone, only convincing the city people to do stupid, inhumane things purely for its own enjoyment. If anything it was funny and I didn’t even want to stop it but of course, our job was to hunt demons, so we did just that. It didn't even realise we were in the city until we cornered it in the mayor’s apartment and sent it back to hell. We were in the city for about 2 days. It is the first and probably the only time we'll ever have the opportunity to have an excuse to be in Vegas, so we were obviously not going to waste it. After we kill the demon, me and the boys all get in Dean's Impala and go back to our shitty motel and shower and change into something a little more comfortable. As I'm getting changed Dean comes into the bathroom to give me a shirt since I forgot to bring one in to put on after my shower. He brings me a plain white singlet top to pair with my low-waisted blue jeans and black converse. As I put it over my head, Dean starts stripping off to get in the shower and as soon as he steps in the white tiled shower, I slip out of the bathroom keeping the door shut enough so Sam doesn't see in and see his brother naked in the shower. As always, Dean takes his time getting out of the shower, so Sam and I just put on the TV while we wait, and luckily our favourite kids show was on, Astro Boy. Watching kids shows while out on jobs makes it so much easier to forget about all the gore we see every day and escape our weird lives for a little while.

When Dean finally comes out of the shower, I put on my oversized leather jacket and we all leave in Dean's car and head down to the local bar (which was between about five different bars, but we chose the cheapest option). We sit down on the bar stools; Dean orders a beer and I manage to convince Sam to order the randomest named cocktail on the menu with me.

After around 2 hours it hits 9 o'clock and we're all absolutely smashed when two people come in with a bogan tux and short white dress on with a sash that reads 'Just Married!'

Dean looks at me with wide, excited eyes "Y/n, let's go."

I nearly spit out my cocktail as I reply "What? Why?"

"Sam, call Cas. Y/n and I are getting married"

"You called?" Cas said from behind Dean, causing Dean to spill his drink all over the bar.

"God, warn a man next time!"

Cas just looked at Dean with a blank expression.

"Where is the chapel?" Dean looks at me and Sam then at the married couple, "Hey!! Where is the cha-"

He's cut off by Cas transporting us to the chapel.

"This is a disgrace. What even is this?"

"It's a fake wedding Cas. Obviously, it's not going to be a real, holy church." I tell him but he still has a slight look of disgust on his face.

Dean and I are just looking around until Dean catches sight of a fake Elvis watching us and he chuckles before he clears his throat to speak.

"Hello good sir, we'd like to get married please"

"Of course, if I could just see some ID"

Dean pulls out a driver’s license for 'John Harris' and I pull out a license for 'Ella Powerly'

We could hear Sam snicker from behind us and I looked back at him and Cas while Elvis was explaining to Dean what we have to pay and what the terms are.

Cas still looks really nervous about this whole thing as he says, "Why didn't they just get married normally?"

"Because 1. we're poor and 2. they’re in loOoOoOve" Sam replies, slapping Cas's back and slurring his words. Sam has always been a lightweight drinker and it is very obvious in times like this when someone asks him a question and there is an opportunity to make fun of them.

Dean takes my hand and I turn around to face him.

"Do you, John Harris, have anything to say to your soon-to-be-wife Ella Powerly?”

"Y/n-" He clears his throat and looks anxiously at 'Elvis' while I try not to laugh at him, "Ella, I have loved you ever since I met you and I know that that doesn't make up for the way I treated you when we first met but I'm hoping that you can start to forgive me so we can spend the rest of our short, horrible lives together."

Seeing Dean so flustered made me want to start crying.

"John, everything that happened between us before we got together made our relationship stronger and it could never make our relationship different. I love you more than anything."

I heard Sam sniffle from behind us, so I turn around to see a single tear run down Sam's face.

"It's just so beautiful." He mumbles to no one in particular and Cas gives him a tired/annoyed look.

I turn around as 'Elvis' continues the ceremony

"John, do you take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, to honour her, to comfort her, and to keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"And Ella, do you take this man to be your husband, to live together in holy matrimony, to love him, to honour him, to comfort him, and to keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"Do you have any rings to exchange?"

I say no at the same time Dean says yes and I look at him with my eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

Dean pulls out a little, silver ring with a raw diamond on it and my jaw drops slightly as I look between him and the ring.

He takes my hand and slips it on my finger with ease and I look back up at him with tears in my eyes, threatening to spill out at any moment.

"You may kiss the bride"

Den grabs me by the waist and pulls me in and kisses me, full of emotion and we pull apart and we're free to go. 'Elvis' hands me a 'Just Married!' sash and Sam pull us outside so that Cas can send us back to our motel because he is about to throw up. As soon as we get back, Sam sprints inside and Cas puts a hand on mine and Dean's shoulders.

"Congratulations" And just like that, he disappears.

I look at Dean and smile widely and he flashes me the same smile back.

He holds out his arm "Shall we?"

I smile even wider and take his arm and we practically skip inside.

------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning when I wake up, Dean was awake before me, running his hands through my hair.

"Good morning." I say quietly to him.

He just smiles at me, and I turn back around and let myself get more comfortable with his hands running through my hair.

Sam comes out of the bathroom, and he looks white as a ghost. He looks at us and groans.

"I think I'm going to throw up again"

Dean chuckles from behind me and I look back up at him.

"Well Dean, I can't wait to legally spend the rest of my life with you."

"Well technically Ella Powerly and John Harris are legally married but you’re still my little wife. My little Mrs. Winchester."

And with that, I just push myself up his chest and peck him on the lips and lay back down, ready for whatever comes at us next.

My first fic ever so please ignore how shit it is LMAO