#dean winchester fanfiction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

maddie0101 · 3 days ago

Text

about damn time pt.3

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it @anbernen ! ❤︎

summary: as dean cares for your injury, tension builds, unspoken but undeniable. when you’re finally healed, there’s nothing left to stop what’s been inevitable all along.

warnings: soft!dean, smut (mdni) , sexual tension, cute little moments, fluff, teasing, injury recovery, p in v, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it), dirty talk, praising, pet names, lmk if I've missed anything.

word count: 6.1k

series masterlist

The hunt had ended days ago, but its effects still stuck to you like a shadow. Your side ached but It was healing.

That didn’t stop Dean from hovering though. You didn’t mind it. Not really. Not when it meant his hands were always on you, always brushing against your skin, always stealing kisses when Sam wasn’t looking.

Dean shut the door behind him, tossing his duffel onto the table before his gaze flickered to you. His expression softened, but there was something else there too, something protective. He hadn’t let you out of his sight since the hunt, like he still wasn’t convinced you were okay.

“You need to sit down, sweetheart,” he said, already stepping toward you.

“I can walk, you know,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Dean ignored you completely, his hands already curling around your waist, gently, so careful not to touch your injury as he guided you toward your shared bedroom. Sam sighed behind you, muttering something about grabbing a beer, clearly used to Dean’s newfound obsession with taking care of you.

Dean helped you sit on the bed before crouching in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs. His green eyes scanned your face, searching, checking. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” you said.

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly, not buying it. “Lemme see.”

You huffed but lifted your shirt slightly, revealing the bandage over your stitches. Dean’s jaw tensed as his fingers brushed lightly over your skin, peeling the tape back with careful precision.

He had been checking your stitches constantly since you got back—changing your bandages, making sure there was no sign of infection, and hovering like a mother hen. Except mother hens didn’t usually murmur, "That’s my beautiful girl", every time they looked at you.

Dean inspected the wound, his thumb ghosting just below the stitches. His touch was gentle but his eyes darkened. “S’looking better,” he muttered, carefully smoothing a fresh bandage over your skin. “Healing up real nice, sweetheart.”

His voice had dipped lower, and when you glanced up at him, his gaze was already on your lips.

You smirked. “Y’know, I think I liked it better when you were just bossing me around.”

Dean grinned, leaning in. “Nah. You love it when I take care of you.” His lips brushed over yours in a teasing ghost of a kiss. “And you really love it when I call you sweetheart.”

Heat curled in your stomach. He was right, damn him.

But before you could come up with a witty retort, his mouth was on yours, slow and gentle. His hands slid up your thighs, his thumbs tracing soft circles over your skin. You sighed into him, melting against his touch, your fingers curling into his flannel.

Dean smirked against your lips. “Told you.”

You huffed, but your pout didn’t last long because he kissed it right off your face. His hand skimmed up your waist, featherlight over the bandage before sliding higher, fingers brushing under your shirt. His kisses turned slower, deeper, and God, you could drown in this.

Dean’s hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, ghosting up your ribs. His touch was careful—but the way he kissed you? That was anything but. His tongue slid against yours, coaxing soft, breathless sounds from your lips. His body was so warm, pressing against you, his grip tightening like he never wanted to let go.

But you wanted more. Needed more.

A soft whimper slipped past your lips as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Dean groaned at the sound, his hands flexing against your hips, and then suddenly, you were on your back. He had shifted you both, careful not to bump your injury, but the weight of him over you sent heat pooling in your stomach. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath hitched as you tugged him down, rolling your hips just enough—

Dean swore under his breath, suddenly breaking away. His forehead dropped to yours, his chest heaving. “Shit,” he muttered, his voice tight.

Your stomach clenched at the way he sounded, at the way his fingers still gripped your waist like he was barely holding himself back.

“Dean,” you murmured, reaching for him again.

But he exhaled sharply and pulled away, sitting back on his heels. His hands ran over his face before gripping your hips again, but this time, it was to steady you as he shifted you upright.

“Sweetheart,” he started, his voice softer now, more controlled. “We gotta stop.”

You blinked, still a little dazed, your body buzzing from the heat of his touch. “What?”

Dean huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, eyes flickering to your lips before quickly darting away. “You know why.”

Your injury. You frowned. “It’s been a few days—”

“And it’s still healing,” Dean cut in, giving you a pointed look. “I’m not gonna let you push yourself just because we finally figured our shit out.”

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. “I feel fine.”

Dean’s lips twitched. “Yeah? Then why’d you wince when I touched your side?”

Your mouth opened, then shut. You had winced. You just hadn’t thought he’d noticed. Damn it.

Dean smirked. “Exactly.”

You huffed, but your irritation faded when his hands smoothed over your thighs again, his thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles. He looked at you then and something in his expression softened. “You have no idea how much I want you,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, like he was admitting something dangerous. “But not like this. Not when you’re still hurting.”

Your breath hitched at the raw honesty in his gaze.

“We’ve got time,” he said, his fingers brushing along your jaw, his touch achingly tender.

A few days passed, and true to his word, Dean was taking his time. But that didn’t mean he was making it easy on you.

No—he was relentless. It started small. Subtle. A hand on the small of your back when he passed by, his fingers lingering just a little too long. Sitting too close on the couch, his thigh pressed firmly against yours. His arm draped lazily over your shoulders whenever you walked through the bunker together.

And the pet names? He had doubled down.

“Morning, beautiful,” he’d murmur in that rough, sleepy voice when you shuffled into the kitchen, barely awake.

“There’s my girl,” he’d grin when you walked into a room, his eyes flickering over you like he was drinking you in.

“You need help with that, baby?” he’d tease, watching you struggle with something, knowing damn well he was only offering so he had an excuse to press up behind you, his chest flush against your back.

It was infuriating. But was hot as hell. And Dean knew exactly what he was doing.

But the worst part? He wasn’t even trying to hide it. He wanted to see you flustered, wanted to watch you squirm under his gaze. And God help you, it worked.

Like when he had you backed against the counter one evening, reaching past you for a glass, his body crowding into yours. His fingers skimmed your hip as he leaned in, lips ghosting just beside your ear. “Still blushing every time I touch you, sweetheart?” His voice was a low, teasing drawl.

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your neck, and you hated how smug his smirk was when he pulled back.

“You’re unbearable,” you muttered, shoving at his chest.

Dean only laughed, eyes bright with amusement as he popped the cap off his beer. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You did. God, you did. And Dean loved it, too. He thrived off it, the way you’d turn pink under his gaze, the way your breath hitched when he got too close. He absolutely loved it.

One month later and Dean was still impossible as ever.

The man had always been a flirt, but ever since the night you’d finally confessed your feelings, he had taken it to a whole new level. He did it so effortlessly, like he had been waiting his entire life to treat you like this.

“Lemme see, sweetheart,” Dean said, kneeling in front of where you sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing under your shirt before you could even protest. His hands were warm and every time he peeled back the bandage to check your stitches, his lips would quirk. “Look at that—healing up real nice. Told you I was good with my hands.”

You’d roll your eyes, but it never stopped the heat from crawling up your neck.

And then there were the kisses. They were everywhere. A kiss to your temple when he passed you in the hallway. A slow, lingering press of lips to your shoulder when he caught you making coffee. A teasing graze along your jaw before whispering in your ear, “Morning, beautiful,” in that deep, gravelly voice that left you weak in the knees.

And God, the touching. Dean found every excuse to touch you.

It was subtle at first. A small brush of his fingers against your lower back as he passed behind you in the kitchen. A casual hand on your shoulder when he leaned in to steal a bite of your food. The occasional nudge of his knee against yours under the table.

But then it got worse.

His hand gripping your hip when he pulled you in close—just to murmur some completely unnecessary comment about how damn good you looked in his shirt, his breath warm against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

His palm, broad and warm, sliding over your thigh whenever you sat beside him on the couch, fingers absently tracing slow, lazy circles that had you squirming before you could stop yourself.

And then there was the way he watched you—his eyes dragging over you like he was committing every inch of you to memory. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

“Y’know, sweetheart, you really are somethin’ else,” he’d murmur out of nowhere, his voice low and rough as he leaned against the counter, twirling a beer bottle between his fingers.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Oh yeah? And what exactly am I?”

Dean just smirked, pushing off the counter, closing the space between you in two slow steps. He hooked a finger in the hem of your sleeve, tugging you forward until your chests nearly touched. “Gorgeous. That’s what.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck as you shoved at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

It was relentless. And it was driving you absolutely insane.

Because the tension between you had grown thick, stretched so tight it felt like the slightest touch could snap it in half. And if Dean was going to torture you with all his lingering touches, pet names, and that damn gravelly voice of his, then two could play at that game.

You started off small, an innocent stretch in front of him that made your shirt ride up just enough to expose a sliver of skin. The way you “accidentally” brushed your fingers against his when you passed him something, letting the touch linger just a second too long. The way you sighed his name, soft and breathy, when he handed you a fresh cup of coffee in the morning.

Dean noticed. Oh, he noticed. You caught the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers twitched like he was seconds away from reaching for you. The way his green eyes darkened, heat flashing behind them before he forced himself to look away.

But still, he held back. So you pushed a harder.

One night, stretched out on the couch beside him, you let your head tip back, exposing your throat as you let out a dramatic sigh. “God, I feel so much better now. Fully healed. Good as new.”

Dean didn’t look away from the TV, but you saw his grip tighten on the beer bottle in his hand. “That so?”

You hummed, shifting just enough so that your leg brushed against his. “Mhm. Probably should celebrate. Maybe do something fun.”

Dean finally glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “Fun, huh?”

You bit back a smirk. “Yeah. Maybe something hands-on.”

Dean’s nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched. You watched as he swallowed hard, his grip tightening just so on the bottle.

But instead of rising to the bait, he only smirked, leaning in until his lips barely brushed your ear. “Nice try, sweetheart.” His voice was rough, dripping with amusement—but there was something tight in it, strained, like he was hanging on by a thread.

You turned to face him fully, eyes searching his. “What?” you asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying, it’s been weeks, Dean.”

Dean let out a breath through his nose, setting his beer down on the table before leaning back against the couch, his arm stretching behind you. He turned his head, eyes dragging over your face, your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own before he smirked.

“Baby, when I finally get my hands on you…” His voice dipped lower, rough with something dangerous. He reached up, fingers tracing along your jaw, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip before he pulled away. “I wanna make sure you can handle it.”

Heat rushed through you, pooling deep in your stomach. God, he was killing you. And from the way his eyes darkened, from the way his chest rose and fell a little heavier than before, you knew—You were killing him, too.

But one day, you had enough.

It had been two months. Two whole freaking months of Dean touching you whenever he damn well pleased—his hands on your waist, his lips brushing your temple, his voice low and rough as he called you baby like it was his favorite word. Two months of him holding back, of him teasing you but never letting things go further, always stopping just short of what you both wanted.

But you were fully healed now. The stitches were long gone, replaced by a faint scar along your side. There was nothing holding you back anymore. Nothing keeping Dean from finally giving in.

Except for his own damn self-control. So, you decided to break it.

One evening, as he sat at the table polishing his gun, you casually strolled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but his shirt and the smallest pair of sleep shorts you owned. You made a show of grabbing a popsicle from the freezer, peeling the wrapper away with your teeth before sliding the icy treat between your lips.

Dean didn’t notice at first, too focused on his gun. But the second he glanced up—Jesus Christ. His fingers froze on the cloth, his whole body going still as his eyes locked onto your mouth. His gaze darkened instantly, lips parting as you took slow, deliberate licks up the length of the popsicle.

You pretended not to notice, leaning against the counter as you sucked lightly on the tip, tongue swirling just enough to make Dean shift uncomfortably in his seat. His jaw clenched. “You doin’ that on purpose?”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “Doing what?”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face. His fingers flexed against the gun, like he was imagining gripping something else.

You bit back a smirk, tilting your head as you slowly, slowly, slid the popsicle between your lips again. A soft, pleased hum vibrated in your throat as you pulled it back out, licking a stray drop from the corner of your mouth.

Dean shot up from his chair so fast it nearly fell backward. You barely had time to react before he was in front of you, hands gripping the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in. His eyes burned into yours, his breath coming rough and uneven. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with restraint.

Your pulse pounded in your throat, heat curling in your stomach. But you kept your expression innocent, blinking up at him through your lashes.

“I don’t know what you mean, Dean.”

Dean let out a sharp breath, his fingers twitching against the counter like he was using every ounce of strength not to touch you. His entire body was taut, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might crack a tooth. His green eyes burned into you, dark and hooded, flickering between your lips and the smug little smirk you were fighting to hold back.

Then, something in him snapped.

Dean's mouth crashed into yours, hot and demanding, swallowing your surprised gasp. God—his lips were hungry, rough and relentless as they moved over yours, tongue sliding deep into your mouth like he was trying to devour you whole. He kissed you like a man who had been starving for too long, like he had spent the last two months in agony, holding back, resisting, and now he wasn’t resisting anymore.

His hands roamed over your body, fingers digging into your waist, sliding up your back, fisting in the fabric of his own shirt that hung off your frame. His grip tightening like he wanted to rip the damn thing off. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed against your lips, his voice rough, ragged. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and unsteady. “You really think I didn’t know what you were doin’?”

You grinned, breathless, trailing your fingers up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “And yet, here we are.”

Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head before tilting your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to look at him. His thumb dragged slowly across your lower lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth as his tongue flicked over his own. “You got no idea what you just started,” he murmured, voice thick with promise.

Then he kissed you again. Hard. Your fingers curled into his shirt as he pressed you back against the counter, his body crowding into yours, his heat swallowing you whole. His hands slid down to your ass, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, fitting himself between your thighs. The moment your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips rolled into you, slow but deliberate, and fuck—you felt just how much he had been holding back.

A broken moan slipped past your lips, and Dean felt it, his entire body shuddering against you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his lips dragging down your jaw, nipping at your throat. “You been drivin’ me crazy, baby. Every fuckin’ day.”

His teeth scraped against your pulse, and you arched into him, nails biting into his shoulders. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding under his shirt where it hung off your frame, fingers dancing over bare skin, teasing, but never quite giving you what you needed.

The tension between you had been simmering for months, and now it was boiling over, molten and scorching. You could feel it in the way Dean touched you, in the way he kissed you like he had been waiting for this forever.

His hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt that still hung off your frame, fingertips brushing against bare skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. His body was pressed between your thighs, heat radiating off of him, his breath ragged against your lips.

And then Dean suddenly gripped your hips, his muscles tensing beneath your hands as he lifted you clean off the counter. A surprised gasp escaped you, but he swallowed it with his mouth on yours, his grip firm as he carried you effortlessly.

“Dean,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, your lips ghosting over his jaw as he moved.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with restraint, with promise. “Been waitin’ too damn long for this.”

The hallway blurred past you, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was him, his strong arms around you, his steady, unrelenting steps, the way his lips never strayed far from yours. He pressed open the door to his room with his shoulder, kicking it shut behind him, the sound a final barrier between the rest of the world and the two of you.

He laid you down on the bed so gently it made your heart ache, but the moment your back hit the mattress, he was on you again. His body caged you in, his weight sinking into you, his mouth moving over yours in a way that sent fire licking down your spine.

His hands roamed, slow and deliberate, fingers teasing the bare skin of your thighs before sliding up, bunching the fabric of his shirt higher, exposing more and more of you to his touch. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice rough, his forehead dropping to yours for the briefest moment, his chest rising and falling hard. “You have no idea how bad I want you.”

You gasped as his teeth scraped along your jaw, his lips trailing lower, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Then take me,” you whispered, breathless, arching into him, your nails biting into his shoulders. “I’m yours, Dean. Fuck me." You demanded.

Dean let out a low, guttural sound, his entire body going rigid above you. His fingers dug into your hips, his breathing ragged as he hovered, eyes locked onto yours with something primal, something raw.

“Fuck,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut like he was battling the war raging inside him. When he opened them again, they were dark, blown wide with hunger. Your nails scraped lightly down his back and you arched beneath him, pressing your body flush against his, rolling your hips just enough to feel the evidence of how much he wanted you.

Dean snapped. With a growl, he crashed his lips against yours, devouring every breath, every sound you made. His hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading, exploring the soft curves of your body like he was finally allowing himself to have what he had wanted for so long.

His shirt was yanked up and over your head, discarded somewhere in the room as his mouth trailed down your throat, nipping, sucking, leaving marks that would remind you of this moment tomorrow. His hands slid up your thighs, parting them as he settled between them, his body solid, scorching against yours.

Dean was hard, his length pressing against you, the heat of it burning, even through the thin layers between you. The moment it brushed against your aching core, a needy whimper escaped your lips, your body arching instinctively toward him.

A deep, satisfied groan rumbled in his chest as you instinctively tried to lift your hips, desperate for any friction, any relief. But his grip tightened, holding you firmly in place, dragging out the anticipation until you were nearly trembling beneath him.

“Dean—” Your voice came out breathless, needy, but before you could say another word, his grip tightened, and he leaned in, his lips just barely grazing yours.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “Beg for it.”

“Please, Dean—” Your voice wavered, barely more than a breathy plea, thick with desperation. Your fingers dug into his skin, your body arching instinctively, aching for him.

Dean’s lips crashed back onto yours, hot and demanding, swallowing every breathy whimper that slipped past your lips. His tongue teased yours, deepening the kiss, leaving you dizzy with need. You barely noticed the way his hand slid up your spine, his fingers trailing lightly as they found the clasp of your bra. With one smooth motion, he unhooked it, the straps slipping from your shoulders as his other hand trailed down your side, his touch scorching, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your lips, his voice rough, almost wrecked, as his eyes dropped to your bare chest. His breath hitched, his fingers tightening on your waist like he was trying to ground himself. He’d never seen anything so damn gorgeous, so utterly intoxicating.

"I knew you had some nice tits baby, so beautiful." Dean groaned before he trailed a slow, heated path down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, each one setting your skin ablaze. When his lips finally closed around your nipple, his tongue swirling, sucking, teasing, a broken moan spilled from your lips, your back arching instinctively into his touch.

“Dean—” you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure as waves of sensation coursed through your body, leaving you breathless and craving more. “Dean, please… I need you,” you begged, your voice dripping with desperation. But he only smirked against your skin, deliberately ignoring your plea as he took his sweet time. He wanted to savor this, to make every touch, every sound, every shiver unforgettable, burned into both your memory and his.

A deep, guttural groan rumbled from Dean’s chest as you palmed him through his his jeans. His movements stilled, his breath hitching, before his heated gaze lifted to meet yours—dark, intense, and filled with barely restrained desire.

Dean didn’t utter a single word, his focus solely on you as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, each one leaving a burning path in its wake. When he reached the lace of your panties, Dean let out a low primal sound.

His eyes raked over you with raw hunger, darkening his gaze. His eyes then dropped to your soaked core, his lips curling into a smirk. "Baby… have you been this wet for me the whole damn time?”

You only bit your lip and nodded, still trying to ignore the burning ache between your legs.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Dean exhaled, his voice thick with hunger. His fingers traced slow, teasing circles over the damp fabric clinging to you, barely touching yet sending a shiver rippling through your body. He pressed his fingers more firmly against you, moving in slow circles, his touch teasing. His gaze stayed locked on you, dark and heated, watching as your breathing grew uneven, your lips parting to moan his name like a prayer.

Before you could even begin to regain a shred of control, Dean hooked his fingers into your lace panties and tore them away with a single, impatient motion, sliding the remnants down your legs and leaving you completely bare beneath him.

He wasted no time at all before he planted his mouth onto your pussy. A loan moan ripped through your throat as Dean started to swirl his tounge, hitting every spot that made you squirm above him. Large and warm hands quickly pressed down on your thighs to hold you in place as Dean groans at the taste of you. "God you taste even better than I imagined."

His darkened green eyes locked onto yours, intense and burning with hunger as his tongue flicked and swirled over your clit. Every teasing motion sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you, making your body arch and tremble beneath him. Your breath hitched, turning into desperate, broken whimpers of his name as the coil deep in your stomach tightened, ready to snap.

The rough graze of Dean’s stubble against your slick heat, combined with the sinful things he was doing to you with his mouth, sent you spiraling. A sharp cry tore from your throat as pleasure crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as he worked you through your high, his tongue relentless.

The room filled with the obscene sounds of his mouth on you, your desperate moans mixing with the wet, sinful noises. Your vision blurred, body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure wracked through you. His name tumbled from your lips in a breathless chant, the only thing you could think, the only thing you could say, as you shattered beneath him.

Dean let out a low hum, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Such a pretty little mess for me.”

But you weren’t about to let him have all the control. Before he could even catch his breath, you pushed yourself up, fisting the fabric of his T-shirt and pulling him toward you slowly. Your lips barely brushed his, your heated breath fanning over his mouth as your fingers curled tighter in the fabric.

“You’re wearing way too much,” you murmured, your gaze dark and full of intent.

Something flickered in Dean’s eyes—hunger, challenge, pure fucking need. His jaw tensed, his control hanging by a thread, and damn if that didn’t turn him on even more.

You wasted no time, your hands eager as you helped him tug his shirt over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. Your eyes raked over his bare chest, but impatience gnawed at you as he took his time unfastening his belt.

With a frustrated huff, you reached for the leather strap yourself, yanking it free from the loops before popping open the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down in one swift motion. Dean let out a low chuckle at your eagerness, but you ignored him, helping him shove his jeans down his hips until he could kick them off entirely, leaving him in nothing but his boxers—and fuck, he looked good enough to devour.

As Dean’s jeans hit the floor, your breath caught in your throat. He was gorgeous. Broad, strong shoulders that tapered into a solid, well-defined chest, every muscle sculpted like he was made to be worshiped. His skin was warm and golden, a mix of faint scars and freckles scattered across his pecs and down his arms, each one telling a story, a battle won. Your fingers itched to trace every mark, to map him out like a treasured discovery.

His biceps flexed as he ran a hand through his hair, muscles shifting effortlessly beneath his skin. His abs—God, his abs—were fucking unreal, a perfect set of taut ridges that led down to his V-line, disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers. The thin fabric did absolutely nothing to hide how painfully hard he was, and you felt your thighs clench instinctively at the sight.

Dean smirked when he caught you staring, his green eyes dark with amusement and something hungrier, deeper. “See something you like, sweetheart?” His voice was thick, teasing, but you were too busy admiring the way his lower stomach tensed, the way the muscles in his thighs flexed as he shifted his weight.

Without hesitation, you crashed your lips against his, desperate and starving for more. The kiss was all heat and urgency, a collision of need that had been building for far too long. Every other kiss you’d shared before had been intense, but this—this was different. This time, neither of you held back.

Dean groaned into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine, tongues tangling, breaths mingling as the heat between you ignited into something unstoppable.

You were so lost in the heat of his kiss, the way his hands explored your body, that you barely registered the moment Dean kicked off his boxers. But then—God—his tip grazed against your slick folds, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you.

A needy moan escaped your lips as your body arched toward him, desperate for more, but Dean wasn’t giving in just yet. Instead, he dragged his length teasingly along your slick heat, his touch just enough to drive you insane but not nearly enough to satisfy.

“So fucking wet for me, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger, laced with something deeper—something possessive. His dark, lust-blown eyes locked onto yours, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you squirm.

“Think you can take me, sweetheart?” His fingers traced along your thigh before gripping it, holding you open for him. “Go on—beg for it. I wanna hear how bad you need me inside you.”

“Dean, please,” you panted, your voice breathless and desperate, every nerve in your body on fire with need. “I need you inside me.”

A low growl rumbled from Dean’s chest, his grip tightening on your hips. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with praise and hunger. Then, with agonizing slowness, he pushed into you, stretching you inch by inch, his eyes locked onto yours, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, every little reaction that told him just how wrecked you already were for him.

Then he started to move, his hips snapping forward with a deep intensity. A moan tore from your throat as your nails raked down his back, desperate to ground yourself in the overwhelming pleasure. His name tumbled from your lips, breathless and raw, a plea and a praise all at once.

“So fucking perfect,” Dean groaned, his voice thick with desire. “This pussy was made for me—fits me like a goddamn dream.” His hips drove into you relentlessly, each thrust deep and unyielding. His breath turned just as ragged as yours, mingling with the filthy symphony of skin meeting skin, the room thick with heat and desperation. Your body consumed by the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you.

“Dean, I—” you gasped, but he cut you off, his voice rough and commanding. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

That was all it took. Your vision blurred, eyes rolling back as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Dean’s name spilled from your lips in a breathless chant, your body trembling beneath him, utterly consumed by the intensity of your release—so overwhelming it left you feeling weightless, dizzy, completely undone.

But that only seemed to push Dean over the edge. His thrusts grew frantic, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with reckless abandon. The sight of you falling apart beneath him, moaning his name like a prayer, was all it took. A deep groan ripped from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, his release spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves. His forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, bodies trembling as you rode out the aftershocks together, lost in the haze of your orgasms.

The two of you stayed tangled together, bodies still humming from the aftermath as you tried to catch your breath. A slow, satisfied smile spread across your lips before you finally managed to speak. “Wow,” you breathed, still dazed.

Dean let out a rough chuckle, rolling onto his back beside you. His chest rose and fell heavily as he turned his head to meet your gaze, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Wow is right,” he murmured, his voice still laced with exhaustion and satisfaction. Then, with a grin that was both cocky and utterly genuine, he added, “Best damn sex I’ve ever had.”

You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming as you admitted, “Guess I was right all along… I had a feeling you’d be good in bed.”

“Just good?” Dean raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Sweetheart, I think we both know that was a hell of a lot better than just good.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Need me to prove it to you again?”

“I’m just messing with you,” you said with a playful smile, shifting onto your side to face Dean. His gaze trailed over you slowly, drinking in every curve like he was committing you to memory. But when his eyes finally settled on your bare breasts, his smirk deepened, appreciation flickering in those dark green eyes.

“Jesus, you’re perfect,” Dean murmured, his voice thick with admiration. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like he was memorizing every inch of you. Then, he kissed you, slow and deep, pouring everything he felt into the connection, like he never wanted to let you go.

When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours, intense. “I love you, Y/N,” he confessed, his voice rough with emotion.

A smile spread across your lips as you traced your fingers over his jaw. “I love you too, Dean,” you whispered against his mouth before pulling him into another kiss, this one softer, filled with the quiet promise of everything that lay ahead.

Dean sighed against you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you closer, pressing your bodies together like he needed to feel every inch of you. “Hope you know you’re stuck with me now,” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You chuckled, resting your forehead against his. “Good,” you murmured. “Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

series masterlist

author’s note:

annnd they finally did the nasty 🤭 I honestly tried to write this smut differently from the other works I’ve done but honestly i just can’t help myself. I hope y’all enjoyed this little mini series!

— requests are open.ᐟᅟplease read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off the list) btw I apologize for the small spam…

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

221 notes · View notes

zepskies · 1 day ago

Text

Want to catch up with the Espresso-verse before ONE MORE DAY drops in April? (And how do you like the new header?) 😘💜☕

⋆˙⟡ In case you missed it, check out the sneak peek here.

Midnight Espresso || Series Masterlist

In honor of Hispanic Heritage Month, here's a Masterlist for all stories in the "Midnight Espresso"-verse! ❤️‍🔥☕

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-size Latina!Reader

STORIES:

(**Notes 18+ only and/or smut)

Midnight Espresso** You’ve never taken Dean’s flirting seriously…until he asks you for an impromptu Spanish lesson.

��️ Podcast Fic:

Want to listen to Midnight Espresso in podfic form, narrated by @talltalesandbedtimestories? Check it out below:

Then keep reading...

Touch Me** Dean isn’t used to how “touchy” you can be, but he never said he didn’t like it.

Devour Me** - Complete! When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for.

Part 1 - A Takeover Part 2 - Telenovela Style

Bad Boy (Chico Malo)** You catch Dean red-handed—with one of his favorite episodes of Casa Erotica.

Show Me** - Complete! Dean meets your infamous ex-boyfriend at a fallen hunter’s funeral. You just forgot to mention that he’s a hunter as well. Maybe because he still has the power to get under your skin…in the worst of ways.

Part 1 - Objects Are Closer Than They Appear Part 2 - A Thorough Reminder

🎙️ Podcast Fic:

Get Stuffed Dean enjoys the way you cook Christmas dinner with a Latin flair, even if Sam likes to tease him about his insatiable appetite. You remind Sam about the true reason behind one of Dean’s biggest quirks.

A Wish to Build a Dream On** Dean has been harboring the archangel Michael in his mind for weeks now, putting a strain on your relationship. 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.

A Little Danger** While relaxing together in the bunker, Dean takes your playful teasing to a new level. (And he’s too horny to care about the consequences.)

In Bad Weather** You and Dean tackle the biggest possible monkey wrench in your relationship yet: could Chuck have been manipulating you two all along?

[Set in S15 - "Fix It" for season finale]

Dream With Me** - Complete! When your ex-boyfriend calls for help on a case, you have a tough decision to make. But Dean isn’t going to let you do anything alone. (AKA: The last hunt you, Sam, and Dean will ever go on together.)

[Set in 15x20 - The true "Fix It" story]

Part 1 - On the Drop of a Dime Part 2 - We Can Fix This Part 3 - What is Deserved

One More Day** - Coming soon on 4/04! You and Dean take a beat to de-stress with a nice hot shower.

Dean Winchester Series

Dean Winchester One-Shots

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

✦ Enjoying the Espresso-verse? ☕

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

411 notes · View notes

bejeweledinterludes · 11 hours ago

Text

still got the blues.

OR on one quiet night spent in the bunker, you discover that the notorious, god-fearing, big, bad ‘n scary, six-foot badass hunter that is dean friggin’ winchester (aka one of your closest friends) isn’t as tough as he seems.

well.

in bed, at least.

my masterlist

「 pairing 」 : sub ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 8.8 k. (FAITH BE NORMAL CHALLENGE LEVEL: IMPOSSIBLE)

「 content / warnings 」 : MINORS 🤺🤺🤺 GET BACK! AWAY!later seasons sub dean winchester x fem reader (yes i have a problem, no i don’t care thank you!). masterbating, handjob, unprotected sex. yeah this may be the horniest thing i’ve ever written in my life.

you have two ( 2 ) new messages from the author ! ↓

HELLOOOOO THE LONG-AWAITED SUB!DEAN SMUT IS FINALLY HERE 🙂‍↕️🙏‼️ shoutout and thank you to @supernotnatural2005’s drabble / oneshot for the inspo on this one <3 because i think we all want to catch dean like this— which is why i wrote about it!

ALSO @figthoughts’ post from the other day too… yeah idk guys we’re just horny and ovulating connected or something when it comes to mr. jensen ackles and his characters. love you figgy pudding!

𖤐 ─────────────────────────

being on the road with sam and dean for god knows how long now, you’d gotten used to all the sounds each idiot knucklehead brother would make in their sleeping state as you passed their rooms— so much so that it was basically white noise at this point, and you just tune it out.

yeah, tonight was different, though. sam had left much earlier— he and elieen were finally going on a real, live, actual date, much to your joy. which meant you and dean were alone in the bunker together. that doesn’t happen often, but when it does, you usually stay up watching 80s movies and arguing over niche things like whether or not they used real flames in back to the future (they didn’t).

that was yet another reason why tonight was different: you hadn’t seen dean all day, much less tonight. he’d been out doing god knows what— and you barely even heard him come back a few hours ago.

but you didn’t push. actually, you didn’t dare to set foot past dean’s door— taking the long way down the hall to get to the kitchen or the library throughout the evening, secretly hoping he wouldn’t come out of his room or even acknowledge your existence.

because… honestly?

living with two other men?

who the hell were you kidding. you could use a night to yourself.

and not to your knowledge or anything, but so could dean.

no disrespect though, because dean really was wishing you were there— or, rather, he was imagining you with him, which was the only acceptable option at the moment.

…but this was definitely a new low. even for him.

see, while you were actually attempting to be productive with your night, dean was not.

like, at all.

while you were doing your laundry, putting clothes away in your room, watching a show on your laptop with your airpods in— thank god, otherwise this whole thing would blow up in dean’s face…

…for the most part, figuratively.

because dean— and how does one say this without sounding like a complete and total creep?

well, dean was jerkin’ it in his own room.

fappin’.

beatin’ da meat.

whatever the male version was of flickin’ the bean.

oh, and the (best) grossest part?

he was thinking about you while doing it.

yeah, yeah, it’s sick, it’s definitely wrong on so many levels— and it sure as hell feels downright illegal and a sin to be doing it while you’re in the fucking bunker.

it’s the lowest of the low. weird. pathetic.

but then again, dean’s always been a little… pathetic when it comes to you.

don’t let anyone know you know that, though.

so, back to dean being pathetic and horny. he’d been at the bar in town for hours earlier tonight, trying to find someone to satisfy the strain on his pants— and that someone needed to look a whole lot like you to get the job done.

how hard could it be?

well, apparently, in lebanon, kansas, finding a look-alike clone of your best friend so you could fuck them silly? it’s really goddamn hard.

and so was dean.

so here he was—did i say pathetic already?— jerking off in his bedroom like some horny teenager. he’s on his fourth, maybe fifth time cumming to the thought of purely just you.

that’s right, no porn, no nudie mags, not even a goddamn picture in his free hand— because dean was wound up so freakin’ tight, he didn’t need anything. just his hand and his filthy imagination.

it’s humiliating. dean’s literally bucking his hips up into his hand as of right now, imagining it’s yours and not his— all while letting out these little noises that do not sound like they’d be coming from a six-foot, tough as nails hunter. but they are.

and they’re all for you.

dean winchester does not whimper. hell, no. but the broken sound that rips from his throat, tossing his head back on his pillow after he tugs a little too hard on himself was anything but.

and maybe dean should be making less noise— but he knew you so well, too well— you’d have your airpods on noise canceling, anyway. and he can’t even think about if you didn’t. he’s too wrapped up in a haze right now. he’s so distracted. by-god intoxicated.

because dean’s imagining you after that one hunt in virginia. yeah. the moon had been out that night, and god, the way it hit you— a combination of this deep blue and silver and it just lit up your skin, illuminating you like you were one of those ancient goddesses, like the ones he’s only read about in old myths and legends when he’d been so bored he actually did research in the library.

dean’s imagining you, just you, right there with him, and it was your hand, not his. imagining you pulling those sounds from his throat while he’s breathing so heavy, his chest heaving up and down. and the sheets covering only his bottom half were shifting with him as he was moving what seemed like his entire bed along with him as of now.

dean was trying to be quiet.

but his body was not letting him.

and poor you— oh, sweet, innocent you. because as far as dean knew, you were completely oblivious to what was currently occurring in his bedroom at the moment.

but what dean didn’t know was that your airpods had died over an hour ago.

and you’d made the mistake of not taking the long way back to your room this time, thinking that dean had gone to bed due to the late hour.

you had stopped in your tracks in the hall coming back from the kitchen— because you heard dean. heard his little broken groans, damn close to whimpers.

and you genuinely believed that dean was just having a nightmare at first— because hell, with the shit you guys encountered on the daily, it wasn’t uncommon for any of y’all to make a goddamn racket in your sleep.

drawing that conclusion— because it was the only one that was realistic, you start towards your room again, already starting to tune out dean’s weird-as-hell noises.

but before you even take two more steps past dean’s room, you hear something else— a little muffled through the door, but clear as day. because it sends a jolt straight through you.

your name.

he’s having a nightmare, you remind yourself. he could be just calling out to you in that sense, because that would be logical. but then he says your name again. and again.

and it’s just your name.

not sam’s.

not cas’.

just. yours.

and dean sounds like a man possessed at this point. his eyes are squeezed shut, as if he’s trying to banish the image of you from his mind.

but he can’t. and he never would.

he just can’t do it. can’t keep himself in check anymore.

so that’s why dean groans your name at the next motion of his hand on his dick— saying it for the fourth time since you’ve been stopped outside his door.

and it wasn’t a ‘i’m-in-so-much-pain-and-scared’ groan, the kind when someone has a nightmare— no, dean’s groan sounded like a ‘oh-that-feels-so-fuckin-good’ groan, like the kind someone makes when…

oh.

dean knows he sounds pretty close to, if not completely pathetic. not at all like the good ol’ badass hunter of lore, not that you’d believed him to be. you’d think he’d sound more in control, or at least not whimpering.

dean’s battled both heaven and hell. purgatory. angels, demons, monsters, even sometimes, just people, you name it— he’s fought it and kicked its freakin’ ass, even god himself.

and his one fault? his only weakness?

you.

it’s always been just you. your stupid pretty face. the way you laughed at his jokes, even when they weren’t that funny. the way you stood by him and his brother’s side— and in the hunting world, associating with the winchesters meant a death sentence. you didn’t care, though. you never did. it was in the way you were always there, especially when it counted.

and here he was. jerking off and thinking about you.

this had to be rock bottom. right? if not that, purely a whole new level of scumbag. even if you couldn’t hear him.

oh, but you could. and you’re lingering outside dean’s door— because you didn’t even have to put your ear on it to hear the noises he was making, clear as day.

dean feels like he’s drunk, delirious. this always happened whenever he fantasized about you. a pathetic, groaning and whimpering mess. hell, in this state, he’d damn well beg.

and oh, he was.

“fuckin’— please— god, i need you, please—”

damn, you could almost see it— dean’s hand, hidden by the dark of his room, but the way the sheets move makes it obvious just where his hand is. and it’s a blur.

yeah. there was no more holding out, no more being strong. not now.

because dean feels like he’s on the edge of his own personal hell.

and you? you’re stuck.

dean was… well, fucking doing that. and you’re just… stuck. you would have just kept walking past his door, putting your pillow between your ears and teasing him about it tomorrow morning.

because instead crying or groaning out the name of some random girl or even farah fawcett— dean was currently begging.

for you.

and you’re still stuck. dean feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind. he’s gonna cum again, he knows it. he also knows he should be quiet, but the words and your name just keep spilling out of his mouth, and he’s too far gone to stop them.

“ah— fuck. please. please, please, goddamn it, i need you, i need you, i need you…”

yeah, dean’s brain’s not in charge anymore. honestly? it hasn’t been since he met you all those years ago— with your stupid pretty hair, and your stupid pretty mouth, and the stupid soft sounds you make in your sleep that drove him insane whenever you used to share a motel room.

dean needs you.

and you needed a fucking cold-ass shower.

because the way dean was sounding right now? he only sounded like that in your dreams. your deepest, darkest fantasies. it was making your knees buckle.

yeah. there’s absolutely no way any of this was real. this was straight out of a porno. this had to be the trickster’s doing, or something.

because the real dean didn’t act like this. and yet, here he was. and here you were, your stomach flipping each time a sound leaves dean’s mouth and bounces off the wooden door that was still splitting you two apart.

and right then and there, you wished you had the balls to just open it.

because you wanted to be right there next to dean, pulling those noises out of him yourself.

“need you—need you right there, need you, right, right, oh, god, there—”

even in dean’s own fantasies, the ones that drove him to insanity like right now, he’d always thought about this. you actually being there, him actually saying all this to you.

dean would’ve given anything, then. anything. just to have you right next to him in his bed.

yeah, well, you’re still just stuck.

because what the fuck do you do.

do you walk back to your room? pretend you didn’t notice? pretend it never happened? not listen to the sounds dean was making?

or, do you open the door? go in his room and just show dean how you’d really felt about him— for years now?

and lately, it seemed like you all you could think and dream about was being in the same bed with dean, touching every part of him.

because if you were in there right now, you’d touch dean’s skin that you yourself had deemed forbidden, because it’d be seen as crossing a line, breaking a boundary.

hello? reality check, anyone?

come on. dean was your friend.

but the noises he was making in your name— because of you? that was anything but.

yeah. if you were in there, you’d start with your hands on dean’s chest, going lower, and lower, until he started making the sounds he was making now, gasping and begging right in your ear for you, not stopping until he completely just—

yeah, that was it.

you knew your answer.

and dean needs exactly what you’re about to do. because god, he’s thought about it. in the dead of night, when he was alone, or when you’d been just out of reach sitting next to him in a dive bar, he’s wanted this. wanted you.

dean wanted to know the way your hands would feel against his skin, how your body would feel against his own. he’s thought about it. hell, he’d dreamed about it. fantasized— just like he was doing now.

and dean was still fantasizing when you throw away every single rational thought you had at the moment and manage to open his door without making a noise— thank you, hunter skills.

this was crazy. right?

eh. you’ve done crazier.

no. not like this.

and not with dean.

but still, you managed to cross the threshold of dean’s room— and you even sit down on the edge of his bed.

okay, the more you thought about it…was this awkward?

maybe.

oh, but dean doesn’t even notice you— his eyes were screwed tightly shut, mouth parted and huffing out pants and broken noises as one of his hands continues to move fervently. his hips are wild, bucking into his hand— and his body is shaking his entire bed frame.

dean’s too far gone to notice anything, lost in a fantasy that’s been haunting him for longer than he’s willing to admit out loud. the only thing that could even remotely stop him would be—

hold on.

dean’s hit by a familiar scent— the one he’d been imagining this whole time. but that really does smell like— and its now so close, so real, it practically envelopes him. and his eyes open to—

you.

right there. in his bed. within reach. looking at him like he’s always wanted you to look at him.

and there’s no disgust or anger on your face as you look down at dean, still frozen in place. no, just a hint of amusement, mixed with something else—

something dangerously close to pure want.

you don’t say anything, even though you know you should by now. because now dean knew that you knew exactly what he’d just been doing— more importantly, you were now aware of who the focus of it all was.

and goddamn if the look on your face doesn’t have dean pausing, too. he’s never seen it on your face before. and it’s too dark in his room for him to really make it out, but he thinks he sees—

you weren’t disgusted. you weren’t grossed out, or even angry.

you’re just… looking at him like the fantasy he’s been chasing isn’t a goddamn fantasy anymore— but instead something he could reach out and touch. feel.

dean has to swallow whatever excuse he could come up with to talk himself out of what you’d just walked in on. what you’d just heard. and his mouth is dry.

a part of you wants to pounce onto dean right now. to kiss him silly, touch him everywhere and make him gasp your name again— only with you being the sole instigator this time.

but the annoying other part of you halted that urge.

and why?

because of your stupid morals.

your goddamned feelings.

and you had to ask dean, had to know— even if the answer hurt you.

“how long?”

dean’s brain almost completely flatlines for a long moment. though, he knows what you’re insinuating, of course.

how long dean has been thinking about you in that way? how long and hard had he fantasized about his hands on your body, his mouth on your skin, and his dick buried so deep inside you, he gets hand cramps almost every night he’s alone?

yeah. it scares him, just how goddamn long it’s been.

“…years.”

that was all you needed. in reality, you don’t actually pounce or anything, but you do move closer to dean on his bed, tossing one leg over both of his to straddle his lap before meeting his gaze again.

“you have no idea,” your voice is barely above a whisper to dean as you keep his gaze, making yourself comfortable in his lap. “how much i wanted to hear that.”

and dean can’t help the groan he lets out, at feeling your weight, your body, straddling his lap. he’s spent too many nights dreaming of exactly this. his hands automatically go to your hips, as if they’re on autopilot.

because he’s not in charge anymore.

and honestly?

he doesn’t think he ever was when it came to you.

and a small smile tugs on your lips when you feel dean’s hands on your hips— your own fingers start to trail from his wrists and up his arms, your pace slow, but deliberate.

because you were going to memorize every inch of dean that you could.

oh, dean’s just barely managing to keep his hips still, to not buck up underneath you. he can feel you, now that you’re straddling him, the heat there, where he’d wanted to feel you for so, so long.

and when your fingers trail up his arms, dean shudders. because it’s so gentle, tender. he can’t remember the last time anyone touched him this way, if at all.

your hands eventually reach dean’s face. oh, his gorgeous face. you cup both sides, taking in everything: those green eyes of his, the freckles you could see only if you were up close dusting on his nose and cheeks—his features were illuminated only by the dim light of his desk lamp, but you could see so much because of how close you both were now.

the slight smile is still on your lips as you look at dean— because you were still a little sure you were going to wake up at some point.

but this wasn’t a dream, you had to remind myself. dean was under you. he wanted you, in the same way you’d wanted him for as long as you can remember.

and dean feels like he can’t breathe properly. he’s been slapped, punched, cut, beaten, tortured, everything violent under the sun done to his face— but no one’s had their hands on it like this.

he feels too exposed, too vulnerable, but he doesn’t move.

because it’s you. it could only ever be you.

dean keeps his gaze locked to yours, even as he has to stop himself from just completely melting into the palms of your hands on his face. he wants to look at you for forever, keep you just like this— and his expression is so open, so bare.

your thumbs gently graze across both of dean’s cheeks as you hold his face in your hands.

and you can’t look away.

so you don’t.

but you do lean a fraction closer to dean in his lap, breaking the silence in a hushed whisper— because there goes your stupid doubts and feelings, again.

“you want this?”

even though he almost wants to, dean can’t laugh. not when he knows you’re being serious. it kills him, a little— that you’re still doubting it.

because how could he not want this? you?

“god, yes.” dean’s not even sure if he says that out loud, or just thinks it— but he’s nodding regardless, and with the movement bringing his face even closer to yours.

and your gaze softens almost completely when dean says that— but there’s one doubt that sticks, even when his words wash all the others away from your mind. the one that’s been there almost the entire time you’ve known him.

“de, i…” you don’t take your hands off of dean’s face when you try to speak again— but the words die in your throat. you swallow a little, averting your gaze.

and god, when dean hears you hesitate, he’s already on edge.

dean doesn’t know what you’re about to say,— all he’s aware of is that you’re now looking away from him. and he can’t have that, so he brings his hand (non-jerking, of course) to your chin, gently but firmly, forcing you to look at him again.

he tries to keep his voice even, but he can’t.

“tell me.”

you’re forced to keep dean’s gaze when his hand touches your face— and his fingers are so warm, you almost lose your train of thought completely.

you’ve wanted dean for so long— but you had to make sure he fully felt the same way you did.

not just lust. not something to walk past awkwardly the next day.

“i— i can’t do this… just for tonight,” you swallow hard again, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes flick between dean’s. “but i… i think you know that.”

even with the worry that had been coursing through his veins, dean couldn’t help but be impressed at the fact you think there’s a chance in hell he’d be able to have you once and just… let you go afterwards. his hand on your chin drops a fraction, resting on the side of your throat instead. he swallows, then finds his voice.

“i know.”

your gaze softens a little— and it’s a little embarrassing how much weight felt completely lifted off your chest when dean says that.

you had denied your feelings for dean for years now. and now knowing that he felt the same way, it was getting harder and harder to control the urge to just do what you wanted.

“well, good,” you bring your hands to tilt dean’s head up more to you as you’re in his lap, eyes flicking down to his lips— because you so needed to know what they felt like. “that’s— that’s good.”

and damn, if dean isn’t already struggling. nothing’s even happened yet, and he’s trying his best just to keep still, to resist all his natural impulses and desires to just grab you and never, ever let you go. when your eyes flick down to his lips, his follow suit almost instantly. his voice is almost a damn croak when he responds.

“yeah?”

all your senses were filled with just dean. and you needed more. you’d denied your feelings for far too long— years now, in fear of him not reciprocating. but you couldn’t deny your feelings or your urges anymore.

“yeah,” you echo back in an exhale, your thumbs grazing on dean’s cheeks. your gaze is still on his lips, but you look back up at him. “you— you’re all i’ve ever wanted.”

hot damn.

dean feels like he’s going to wake up at any second at those words that just came out of your mouth. because he never dared to let himself hope that you could feel the same way he did. and it’s been so, so goddamn long of wanting you with every fiber of his being, wanting to touch you and hold you and never, ever let you go.

oh, he’s too far gone to even feel sheepish about how he’s almost shaking now, hands trembling and breath coming fast as he’s barely keeping the reins on his self-control.

dean’s trembling sends a shiver down your spine. even after you just said all that, he still wanted this.

you might die.

or you were already in some version of heaven that jack made up.

because dean wanted you.

“just lemme kiss you,” dean would be embarrassed of how desperate and out of breath he sounded if he could give two damns. he says your name again: “please—”

dean can’t even think straight anymore. yet, never could when it came to you. his hands go to your thighs, gripping tight like it’s all he can do to resist the urge to just flip you over right that moment.

you can’t hold back anymore.

neither can he.

so you don’t.

you close the final distance between you both, taking his mouth in a kiss that’s hard, desperate and full of years’ worth of emotion.

and dean’s lips felt like home. and that’s a weird thing to say, but it was true. you’d never kissed him before this, but it really was him that you’d been missing all this time.

your hands on dean’s face trail into his hair, and you could feel yourself completely melting into him when you pull myself closer to him in his lap, hips fully slotting with his own— and you both groan a little at the feeling.

dean kisses you like a goddamn starving man, his hands gripping at your thighs so hard he’s afraid he’s leaving marks. but he can’t bring himself to care, because he’s finally kissing you. finally having you in the way he’s only dreamt of.

dean hasn’t been touched— kissed like this, ever.

like he’s something precious. to be loved. it makes him feel weak. but he can’t really bring himself to care about that, either.

all you could think about was how good dean smelled. and as his lips danced with yours, he even tasted good. like whiskey and something you couldn’t place— but it sure as hell was definitely dean.

and god, it’s perfect. dean’s trying to swallow the little noises his mouth is threatening to make again as you kiss him back, kissing him like you feel the same— he thinks he’s losing his mind for what felt like the millionth time tonight.

dean’s grip on your thighs tightens even more. he couldn’t help it anymore— he rocks you against his lap, his hips bucking up against yours in an involuntary but much needed movement. and a little sound pretty close to a whimper does escape him this time, hitting your lips as you grind your own hips down onto him.

you had to break your lips from dean’s to get stupid air, but your forehead rests against his as one of your hands unlatches itself from his hair, trailing downward on the fabric of his henley as you’re in his lap.

and you’d tease him about the noises he’s making— if it wasn’t leaving your underwear a complete and sopping mess because of it.

dean’s mind is hazy, lost in the feel of you against him and in his lap, his mind trying to keep up with all the things happening.

he’s a hunter, goddamn it.

he needs to get a freakin’ grip.

but he can’t.

because of the way your kiss felt like a drug. the way you’re so close he can feel your breathing, and the way you’re grinding up against him like you mean it—

and then dean feels your hand on his shirt, sliding further down past his stomach, and he feels like he’s about to go insane. he’s hallucinating, under some sort of spell that shows you what you’ve always desired. that’s the only plausible explanation.

but this was real. oh, so real.

dean’s hands were still holding on for dear life on your thighs, but your own was still going farther and farther down the fabric of the henley he was wearing, stopping at the hem and tugging on it, talking against his lips—

“put your arms up f’me, dean.”

goddamn, if that doesn’t make him literally shiver when you say his name like that, all breathless and pretty.

and dean follows the instruction, raising his arms and letting you pull the shirt over his head, revealing his the skin underneath.

he’s not even embarrassed of his scars, the marks on his body from over the years. not with you. the uneven skin told their own tales he wouldn’t dare open his mouth about, even after three whiskeys deep.

you discard dean’s shirt somewhere in his room without another thought when he lifts his arms up.

you’ve actually only seen dean shirtless twice— once after a hunt, and if you count that one time when that motel room with shitty air conditioning that got too hot last summer. you kept your eyes glued to the lore in front of you then, not daring to look.

this time, however, you couldn’t look away.

not even if you tried.

your lips are parted in what could only be described as pure awe while your eyes and fingers rake over every inch of new skin revealed while still in dean’s lap. first trailing a path up his exposed arms as your eyes continue to drink in all the details of him you’d never thought you’d see.

dean has never, ever been looked at the way you’re looking at him right now.

your fingers continue to trail up dean’s arms, fingertips grazing on the scars you could see in the dim light of his room. you actually knew some of them— having been there when he sustained the wound that made the scar, but a lot were new to you.

and you wanted to memorize it all.

it’s almost embarrassing how he feels like something to be worshipped under your touch. like someone to be taken care of. to be cherished.

as your fingers trail up his arms, he has to bite down on a whine in the back of his throat— forcing himself to keep still under your gaze as you rake your gaze over him. his voice is rough and hoarse when he manages to speak, but all he could get out was your name.

your hands found themselves resting dean’s shoulders while you take in the breathtaking view that is him under you, meeting his gaze when he says your name, voice just as quiet as his.

“yeah, de?”

your touch feels like dean took the jumper cables he had in the back of baby and put it against his skin. but it’s so soft, so gentle. it’s also making his whole body ache, yet he just wants more. and he can’t keep his eyes off you, either. the way you’re looking at him, at his scars like they’re nothing to be ashamed about… it’s almost safe.

dean swallows, hands coming to rest on your waist now that he’s topless. his voice sounds wrecked, broken.

because he’s begging.

“touch me.”

dean’s hands on your waist were making your heart beat all out of rhythm— and you almost completely lose your train of thought looking into his green eyes, wide and blown out.

for you.

you just nod at dean’s words— and your fingers continue their journey downward from dean’s shoulders, trailing over his skin until you eventually reach the waistband of his boxers, and you keep your hands there on the fabric when you look back up at him.

because you still needed to know:

“can i take these off?”

oh, for the love of—

dean nods rapidly before you’re even done asking, because he’d do anything, anything, to have you touch him like he had been not just a few minutes earlier— in fact, he’s already lifting his hips off the bed to make it easier for you, because he’s not about to hesitate. he needs you. he’s needed you for too goddamn long.

and when you manage to pull off dean’s boxers, discarding them in one fell swoop after he confirms and lifts his hips for you, your eyes widen at the sight of him completely exposed beneath you on his bed— and a quiet ‘jesus christ’ escapes from your lips before you can stop it.

and your reaction makes dean’s breath hitch. because it’s not a disgusted one— it’s the exact opposite. he feels vulnerable like this, exposed to you in a way he’s never been to anyone else. he should feel embarrassed. but he doesn’t, oddly enough.

his voice is so goddamn quiet when he bites down on another whine.

“please.”

and you just nod again. then both your hands find dean’s chest once more— and you start trailing a path down his lower torso with your fingers.

dean can’t help the way he lets out a strangled moan at your touch against his bare skin. with no clothing in the way to block it, he’s so much more sensitive. every single touch makes his breath hitch, his head spinning with how perfect it feels.

it’s too much.

and yet, he needs more.

dean’s hands find your hips again, gripping, trying to get you even an inch closer to him.

and as your fingers get lower and lower on dean’s stomach, you hesitate your hands. not because you weren’t sure— but it felt… well, wrong not to at least ask him for permission first.

so you look back up and meet dean’s gaze, eyes searching his again as you whisper, shifting closer to him in his lap.

“can i go lower?”

and at your question, a sharp shiver wracks through dean’s whole body— he’s half convinced he’s going to to just cum right there, even if you don’t end up touching him.

dean’s practically trembling under you now, hands gripping tighter on your hips. he tries to speak again, to say something— but his voice comes out in a strangled moan.

all he can do is nod against his headboard.

a soft exhale escapes you when dean confirms. you nod— and don’t hesitate again.

not when he was like this.

you take all of him in one of your hands— but you don’t even try to look away from his face while you do so. because you had to see his face for this.

and dean feels like the air’s getting ripped from his lungs at how good your touch feels. he’s never felt anything like this before. it could be the fact that he hasn’t had actual sex in a while (apparently, he’s considered old now), or purely just because of you.

yeah, but dean’s never been touched like this before. so goddamn gentle. but it’s still perfect. his eyes are still locked to yours, and his expression looks pained. it’s all too much, after wanting this for so long.

and all he can do is whisper your name before your hand starts to move.

you start starts slow— not too slow, though, because dean had already fucked his palm tonight more times tonight than he’d like to admit.

dean’s eyes actually flutter shut for a moment when your hand starts to move, a moan catching in the back of his throat. because it’s barely even started, and it’s so good. too good.

dean’s hands on your waist are close to shaking now, but he has to speak— even as it comes out in a hoarse croak.

because he needs—

“more. jesus, i need—”

you don’t even entertain the thought to tease dean or not do as he asked— because the sounds he was desperately trying to keep in were making you want to keep going, to not stop.

so you don’t stop. your hand speeds up, going back and forth on dean’s dick— and your gaze still doesn’t leave his while in his lap, touching him in the way you’ve always wanted to for so long.

and when you pick up the pace, dean’s breath hitches even more— god, it’s so good, but he still needs more. his hands are shaking as they grip tight on your waist, and his eyes somehow keep your gaze, even as his head feels like it’s spinning right into his headboard.

dean manages to get out his next request, in a begging whisper of a breath. he’d be ashamed if he wasn’t so desperate.

“please— please, i need—”

“its alright,” you nod before he can finish this time, leaning your head and pressing a kiss on his cheek. “i gotcha, de.”

and that’s it. you say those words and dean feels like he could cum right there. he’s already so close, just from your touch, the way your hand’s moving so beautifully up and down on his dick. the way you’re looking at him. he tries to keep his eyes open, too— to keep looking at you, but everything you’re giving him is starting to overwhelm him, he can hardly even breathe anymore.

dean glances down at your hand between both of you— big mistake, because the sight of your fingers around his dick and covered in him makes him let out strangled whimper. he bites down on his lip hard, his head falling back against the headboard and his eyes screwing shut. because it’s embarrassing how close he is to cumming in your hand.

you notice, of course— your hand doesn’t let up, but your other hand on dean’s shoulder goes to the side of his face, thumb grazing on his cheek. it’s a stark contrast to what you’re doing to his dick.

“de, its okay,” you reassure dean as his breaths become more and more unsteady, eyes flicking over his face. “you can let go if you wanna.”

and that’s it. that’s all it takes.

as soon you give him permission, dean’s gone.

his body suddenly goes rigid, then he’s bucking his hips into your hand so erratically and sloppily you would’ve been knocked from your position on dean’s lap if he hadn’t buried his face in your still clothed chest, tightened his arms fully around you and pulled you closer to him. he cums loud and hard, a mixture of soft groans, whimpers, swears and pants of your name spilling into the fabric of your shirt.

you’d never heard him like this before, ever.

but dean winchester— the man, the myth, the hunter god, was whimpering as you’re in his lap.

for you.

because of you.

and because it’s all too damn much— the way your hand feels, the touch of your thumb against his face, the look in your eyes when you said that it’s okay for him to let go of the tight rein he’s been holding onto for so long.

dean can feel himself shaking and still coming apart under you as you guide him through it, his face buried in your shoulder as you pull every last bit of pleasure out of him that he has with your fingers. he’s never felt so goddamn free before. he’s never come apart, not like this— not completely exposed like this.

dean’s hands are still shaking as they rest your waist, his entire body almost trembling with it being still so overwhelming. but it was perfect. and he needs to say that, to tell you that it was everything he’d ever wanted—

“please— please, just kiss me.”

and that comes out of dean’s mouth instead. you’d barely started to wipe your hand when the words spill out in a plea— a beg into your shirt. you’re a little surprised that was the first thing he said post-orgasm.

but still, you lean back just enough after dean says that, bringing your free hand to the side of his face while still in his lap, your gaze flicking between his in the dark of his room for just a moment before you lean back in, pressing your lips onto his again.

dean doesn’t hold back now. he doesn’t care about the mess he just made, the way he sounded, or the fact that he begged you to kiss him after you just made him cum.

he kisses you like a starved man, like the air he was breathing needed to come from your mouth and not any other source. his hands move to the back of your hips, gripping your shirt tight and pulling you even closer to him on his lap, now that your hand wasn’t between you both anymore.

dean tears his lips off of yours— and he is still just barely coming back to himself. his brain still hazy from pleasure, from you, but he tries to get out words because he needs to tell you how much he still wants, needs you. his hands grip tight on your hips, like he’s afraid you’ll just get up and leave if he lets go. his voice is still wrecked when he only manages to whisper your name again.

you don’t move out from dean’s lap, though. you stay pressed against him, his skin so warm and flushed against your own. neither of you had to say anything to know how intimate this all was. dean should be attempting to at least do something besides burying his face back in your shirt.

but you don’t let dean stay like that for too long. your hands go to the sides of his face, holding his head as you tilt it back to look up at you, searching his gaze as you continue to straddle him. and your own voice is a whisper, too.

“y’okay?”

and god, dean feels like his entire body’s just come apart again at that single word, because how do you answer a question like that.

dean has to take a breath, because he still feels the aftermath of it. everywhere. he nods, once— because he’s better than even alright. then again, because he has to tell you that, too.

“yeah,” he manages to get that out, and it’s still so damn wrecked, so out of breath. “more than okay.”

“okay, good,” your gaze softens and you nod when dean confirms that he was okay— and your other now-clean hand finds the side of his face when he looks up at you. a small smile tugs on your lips as your thumbs graze on his cheek. “just checkin’.”

dean’s blown-out eyes are still locked to yours as you brush your thumb against his skin, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of feeling you touch him like this.

it’s so tender. so soft.

and dean’s just… lost. in you.

but dean does finally manage to speak again, his voice still hoarse as his hands release from your hips start to trail down, calloused fingers rubbing gently on your exposed thighs and saying your name like a prayer. “god, i need—”

you keep dean’s gaze still— but not before glancing down to see his hands on your bare thighs in his dimly-lit bedroom as you straddle him.

dean’s hands looked like they belonged on you.

felt like it, too.

one of your own hands reaches down from dean’s face to his on your thigh, grasping on his fingers with yours.

“tell me what you need,” your voice is still a hush of a whisper, but remains completely and utterly genuine as you search dean’s gaze. “de, tell me what you need me to do, and i’ll do it.”

holy goddamn.

dean’s breath actually stutters a little at that, because you sound so ready, so willing— he can’t help but let those last three years of pining, of wanting you, of hoping show as he looks up at you.

“ride me. please.”

the words come out in a half-choked plea. dean’s so damn desperate for you, he’d beg. hell, he was begging in the darkness.

and you weren’t about to say no.

your hands take themselves off of dean’s face and hand, lifting your leg to discard your sleep shorts, then your (soaked) undies— then going to the shirt that you’d still been wearing, grabbing the hem of it and tearing it off, discarding it somewhere in his room before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.

and when that finally comes off, too, dean’s entire damn body tenses. because he felt like the air had just been ripped from his lungs.

again.

he’s seeing you more exposed to him, for him than he’s ever seen you before— and the sight of you like this is goddamn perfect. you’re so perfect.

dean’s hands tighten on your thighs, his eyes taking in the view of you like a man starved.

“holy—”

there’s a thousand words he has for you right now. things like beautiful, perfect, mine. but he can’t get them out yet. because his brain is still trying to catch up from the fact that you’re actually here and naked in his lap.

both of dean’s hands reach for your hips as he’s still staring up at you in awe, his fingers gently but almost greedily gripping on you— because he wants to touch you so bad that he wants to let out a goddamn sob. because no one has ever felt like this for him.

because no one has ever come close to the way he craved you.

your eyes meet back up to dean’s green ones once again. you didn’t have to tell him anything or even say something else.

so that’s why you just nod, then reach down between you both once more, starting to fully sink yourself on dean’s dick— all while still keeping his gaze while you let your hands rest on his shoulders, a exhale escaping you both.

you not even halfway on his dick, and dean thinks he might bust again right then and there. his fingers dig into your hip, all while a groan escapes his parted lips: “ah, shit—”

and oh, he’s big. it takes you a second, but you sink down completely on top of him, your pussy sucking him all up— dean feels like he can’t breathe. again. the sight of you like this is gonna fuel his jerk off sessions for the rest of his goddamn life.

dean’s not sure if it’s possible, but he uses his hands on your hips to gently just pull you even closer against him— which ended up being a mistake, because you involuntarily clench around him. his head drops in between your tits at the action.

and.

he.

whines.

“f— fuck—”

yeah. dean just whined at the feeling of being inside of you, eyes screwed shut and everything as he buries his face deeper between your breasts— you can feel the pant of air and his lips on your skin.

dean’s fingers lace together with yours fully, holding your hand tightly while his other is still gripping tight on the meat of your hip, finally taking his face off of you to look up at you above him.

and oh. you’re a goddess, at least. not something heavenly though, because angels are dicks— but you look unreal as you look back down at dean, your mouth just a little parted from feeling him.

dean twitches a little inside you as he tries to find words, just a few, to tell you how much he wants this— or at least to tell you to move.

all he can get out, though?

“p— please.”

you don’t have to ask for clarification.

you know what dean’s asking for.

so you give it to him.

you grind your hips—and dean whines a little again at that— down onto his just once, testing the waters before you find a rhythm.

and dean feels his entire brain just go on complete and total motherfucking overdrive. because this is it. he’s finally getting the most intimate part of you, the part he’s been wanting for so damn long— he literally can’t see straight anymore. that’s how good it feels. how good you feel.

dean’s head goes in between your tits again, still holding your hand as you move your hips on top on him, grinding down on his dick. his other arm goes around your waist, pressing himself against you and gripping you tight in an attempt to steady himself— but it barely helps. his eyes screw shut again, and he’s letting out another whimper before he can stop it.

“fff— oh, fuck—”

a moan drops from your mouth, too, but it’s nothing compared to the sounds dean’s making, gasping and groaning into your skin as he fucks up into you, meeting your movements. his dick is brushing on that spot that makes you groan— and kickstarts your urge to go faster.

so you do.

dean can’t control anything right now. his hips are bucking up into you erratically, the movements only being stunted a little due to how strong your thighs were around him as you straddle him.

your hand not holding dean’s goes into his hair as you’re both pressed together for a better grip— and dean almost sees stars. he groans a little again, his breaths coming in hard pants on the skin between your breasts.

and the praise falls from your lips onto dean’s ear before you can stop it—

“you’re doin’ so good, de.”

dean feels like he’s gonna cry. just from how perfectly good you feel on top of him— and he’s making the most delicious noises that sound like words but it’s just broken moans mixed with whimpers. his hand on your hip tightens to the point it’s almost painful, but you don’t mind all that much.

“ah, don’ worry, i gotcha,” you whisper against dean’s ear again, your hand tightening on his as you let out a rough exhale, chest heaving rapidly against his as your movements don’t falter once. “you’re doing so good f’me, dean.”

dean’s not in control of the sounds that come out his damn mouth anymore— the praise goes straight to his dick, straight to the familiar burning building low in his tummy. it’s just all swearing, sounds of your name and incoherent begging being said into your skin.

“ah— shit, fuckin’— please—”

dean’s not even trying to stop the words from rushing out of his mouth right now, even if he sounds pathetic. because it all feels so goddamn good, and he’s being so good— for you.

and dean can feel nothing but you right now, in every sense possible. everything else has been long gone, and he’s been so goddamn wrapped up in how good your pussy feels around his dick.

dean gasps for air, because wants to tell you that you’ve ruined every living thing for him in the entire goddamn universe forever.

he wants to tell you that he’s about to cum— again.

“jesusfuckin’christ— oh, please—” is what comes out of him instead.

the words are barely intelligible, and dean’s whole body is starting to tense underneath you as he manages to choke out a ragged cry of your name. your hand is still gripping hard onto his own, the other burying itself deeper his hair. you needed to hold onto him right now. shit, you needed a sec.

because dean winchester was begging to cum inside of you.

you almost stop grinding down on him for a second— the keyword being almost.

you just nod against dean’s head still buried in your tits, holding him against you as you talk into his ear again.

“go ahead, baby.”

dean almost sobs again when you say that. he lets go completely just as before, his hands’ grips becoming painful on you as his whole body shakes and convulses against yours, the movements of his hips becoming so erratic once more as he’s painting your walls with his… sixth? seventh? load of the night— only this time, it’s inside of you. and he’s making every sound in the book: whimpers, groans, a whine here and there, too.

you came, too— but honestly, if you didn’t, you would’ve been fine either way. seeing and hearing dean come apart like this was enough to last you a lifetime.

you don’t know how long dean and you stay like that, pressed into each other and panting, fluids mixed together, spilling out and sticking all over your thighs— but even as you pull back just enough to look down at him, dean’s still trembling under you, long after both your orgasms had surpassed their high, melting into a thick haze between you two.

dean can’t look at you— or won’t, but either way, your hand in his hair trails to the side of his face, and you gently force him to look up at you.

dean swallows hard, and his face flushes. the embarrassment was finally, finally starting to set in now that he’d fucked you and himself out. he braces himself for the teasing, the jokes— and the look on your face.

but you weren’t looking down at dean like he was pathetic, or weak. you never did— and you sure as hell weren’t about to start now, after he’d just shown you every side you’d wanted to see of him.

no, you just smile a little, eyes flicking between dean’s as your thumb grazes on his cheek. he can’t help but lean his head into your palm as you exhale your next words out in a breath—

“that was really fuckin’ hot.”

───────────────────────── 𖤐

you now have two ( 2 ) new messages from the author ! ↓

heyyyyyyy guys… soooo how we doin’? LMFAOOOOOOOO this has got to be the longest i’ve ever spent on a fic (only for dean wbk!)

and i know i said this last time, but on a real note: if you have stayed to the very end— first, THANK YOU FOR READING! and second, if you enjoyed, please consider SHOWING ME THAT ( reblogs / comments / etc ) because this took me FOREVER to write (again). i would love to know if my efforts are worthwhile!

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @figthoughts @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina + i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

#faith’s works . . . @bejeweledinterludes!#dean winchester x reader #sub dean #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester smut #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester fanfiction #dean smut #dean x you #dean x reader #dean supernatural #gif from pinterest!

151 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 3 days ago

Text

Chapter 13 - You'll Have to Believe It

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: So much is happening for them. All at once. And please welcome Bobby to Sam's "Jesus Christ can these two just kiss" club. Enjoy!

Chapter title from Love Is Emotional by Neil Finn

Word Count: 17.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You throw yourself into saving Dean, and get a surprise visitor. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 12 - Chapter 14

Read on A03!

She and Dean had been hiding for an hour. Tucked in the very back of a library, with one eye on the door.

Dean thought he could—if permitted—spend the rest of his life here. Where She was right there with him, their knees were pressed together with neither of them bothering to move away, and two paper coffee cups had been long forgotten the table.

Dean had abandoned his because he didn’t really fucking need it—She kept chewing on Her pencil and looking at him, and that was stronger than a shot of caffeine right into his blood stream—but She had stopped drinking because it slowed Her down.

She seemed to know this random, tiny, dusty old library better than the actual librarians. When they’d arrived, She’d ignored the greeting from the desk and blazed right to the back, combing over the shelves and pulling out about a million books on the occult.

“These are yours.” She’d pushed three of the smaller ones across the table to Dean, barely moving Her own attention from her own selection. “Remember, you’re not look for anything explicit. Demons won’t have been advertising how to do this, we need to look for historical exceptions or leverage over Lilith-“

“That we can use to force the contract away from her.” Dean had finished, and She’d narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ve heard the lecture, Princess-“

“I’m sorry I’m trying to save your life-“

“I’m not.” He’d shrugged, shooting Her a half grin as he flipped his own book open. “It’s pretty awesome.”

Her eyes had flashed, She’d mumbled something Dean hadn’t been able to make out, but She’d also relaxed. Almost slumped in Her seat as she leaned over her own, tome-like book—starting to take notes at a pace Dean could only describe as frightening—and he’d grinned as he’d looked to his own book, because that always worked.

It's all become routine.

They wake up in another new town, and Dean will roll over to find Her still there. Still asleep at his side, still possible to touch if he’d allow himself to. They find a local library—Sammy might try to offer a case as distraction, and She’ll snap that they don’t have time for distraction—and get to work.

Mostly She will work. Dean will try to work, but he’ll spend most of his time trying to make sure She doesn’t kill Sammy, and wasn’t going to somehow twist in on Herself and bite off her own, pretty head.

Because She’s still here. Despite Dean’s lingering nightmares that She’d vanish into dust and fire, maybe spit on his body before it was even in the grave, She’d stayed.

But She was still furious. Not at Dean—although he knew that, if he got out of this alive, She might skin him alive for lying to Her, right before patching him back together just by staying where Dean could orbit around Her, and he’d let Her without protest—but at everything.

She was on edge. Dean had to drag Her to sleep, and if he didn’t wake Her up the exact second light leaked into the motel room, She’d spend the whole morning muttering about moments lost.

And sometimes he couldn’t help himself from letting the time slip by. Those brief, silent seconds in the morning where She was relaxed—and peaceful and beautiful and there—were a better motivator than any speech Bobby could give him. The soft, silver and golden light of the morning made Her hair look like a halo, and there were no lines drawn on Her face from focus or stress in Dean’s name. Labor in his favor that he hadn’t earned, but was unable to deny.

He’d given Her the out. He’d told Her she could leave, and he’d never blame Her or hate her for it. There would be a large, gaping hole in the cavity of his chest—bigger and emptier and more painful than the pit, just a little to the right of his heart—for the rest of his fucking life, but he’d never hate Her. She should’ve left. She was smart enough to have known Dean wasn’t worth lost sleep or a war with demons, and a good enough hunter to know this would be impossible. That they’d need a borderline miracle to pull it off.

But She’d stayed.

It was why Dean loved that second in the morning so much. He could stare at Her and marvel in the fact that She was the miracle, where Sammy wouldn’t roll his eyes, and She wasn’t at risk of finding out.

He didn’t know why She’d stayed. He’d never make any sense of it. Why She was allowing him to still be her friend when he’d lied, why She was ripping Herself apart in his name—spending hours in the dark, hanging over books with a flashlight until Dean grumbled that she needed to rest, and She let him drag her to bed—and why neither Sam or Bobby seemed surprised.

“You tell her?” Bobby had asked when they’d arrived at his house, looking over his shoulder as She’d stomped inside with a look of determination on Her face that could’ve moved mountains.

“She found out.” Sam had given Bobby a pointed look Dean hadn’t understood. “I’d, uh- She’s not happy.”

Bobby had snorted, shaking his head. “No shit, boy. I’m surprised you two idjits are still alive, after pulling that on her-“

“You helped, Bobby.” Dean had grumbled. “It’s not like I’m the only one who lied to her-“

“But it wasn’t our lives on the line, dumbass.” Bobby had moved back inside with a shrug, and Dean has blinked at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“It means you’re lucky she’s only pissed at you-“

“She not that pissed at him.” Sam had fucking chirped from behind them, like this was all some sort of joke Dean wasn’t allowed to be in on. “They’re still sharing a bed-“

“They’re what.” Bobby had whipped around, his eyes narrowed on Dean, and Sam should’ve gotten his nose broken right there.

“Sam.” Dean had grunted. “I’m gonna fucking kill you-“

Sam had only shrugged and headed upstairs, abandoning Dean where Bobby was very likely about to murder him before the hellhounds had the chance.

“He’d find out when you put your stuff in Her room, dude.” Sam had called over his shoulder, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Good luck!”

“In her room?”

“It’s- uh- Bobby it’s not like that-“

“Not like what.”

Dean had blinked, every single explanation he’d ever had suddenly caught in his throat. It wasn’t like that—like what they both knew Bobby was implying, like what Sam had made it sound like—but that didn’t mean Dean wasn’t haunted by the thought of it. It didn’t mean that every time he rolled over and She was there, he didn’t imagine a world where he was worthy enough to have Her open her eyes, smile at him, and crawl over his body until they were so close he’d never be able to lose Her.

He’d had a feeling Bobby would be able to see right through any lie he offered. Dean was pretty sure Bobby was almost listening to every thought of Her, soft skin and shining hair and smelling like that stupid fucking fruit, better than a drink, better than a drug, better than anything else in the world and bright than the goddamn sun, and wouldn’t it be real damn nice to hold the Sun and kiss it stupid and fuck it until She was moaning his name and smiling all the time-

Bobby had cleared his throat, and Dean had let out a long breath, scratching the back of his next and refusing to meet Bobby’s eyes.

“That.” His answer had been flat, and he’d felt just as stupid as he’d sounded.

Bobby had only rolled his eyes. “She know it’s not like that?”

“Does-“ Dean had frowned, shaking his head. “Course she does, it’s- We don’t have to- I mean, it’s your house, and she’s your- Uh- I can sleep on the couch-“

“Dean!” She’d called from the library, and the way he’d stood a little taller—just from the sound, on pure instinct alone—hadn’t done him any favors.

“Uh,” he’d glanced at Bobby, who’d just been glaring at him like he was imaging Dean’s head, mounted on the wall. “Yeah?”

“Come here!”

“I- uh-“ Dean had swallowed, physically bracing his body to stop himself from moving to Her side. “I’m-“

“Haul ass, Winchester,” She’d cut him off with a half shout, and he’d been able to perfectly picture her glaring at the doorway from her chair. “I need you.”

There had been no hiding his reaction to that. Bobby’s eyes had flashed slightly, but he’d mostly just sighed, running a hand over his face and raising his voice to match Her’s.

“Dean’ll be right there, kiddo, give ‘im a second.” He’d scanned over Dean with an unreadable expression, his voice lowering back to a grunt. “Be careful, boy. She may not be able to bring herself to kill ya, but if you make ‘er cry, I’m not gonna have the same reservations. Don’t think Sam’ll either.”

He’d started to move away, and the only thing that had jolted Dean to action was the thought of Her. One of the countless, infinite things he owed Her, just for being alive where Dean could witness it.

“I- uh- Bobby-“

Bobby had grunted, and Dean had forced the words out, before he lost the nerve.

“Can I take a look at the junk cars later? I’m trying to, uh-“ This hadn’t been about to do him any favors. He’d said it anyway, keeping Her name casual and normal on his tongue, rather than more of a prayer than any Latin he’d ever heard. “She wants a car.”

Bobby has stared at him for a long moment, then given a tight nod that had made Dean’s whole body relax.

He wasn’t getting shot today.

“Look when you got the time.” Bobby had muttered. “But I’d go to the library first. Think she’ll drag ya if you don’t.”

Dean had nodded, and shuffled over the library, a grin breaking over his face the moment he saw Her.

He’d found a scrap car that afternoon, while She and Bobby were out getting dinner. One that needed enough work to be interesting—to be proof that Dean was really trying, for Her—but wouldn’t consume all his time when they visited.

They’d spent more than half of the last month at Bobby’s when they weren’t on the road to look for other options. They’d show up without warning, Bobby would roll his eyes and tell Her they could stay as long as they wanted, and everyone would silently agree to pretend Dean wasn’t sleeping in Her room. He’d even go to one of the guest rooms when they all headed off to bed, nod to Sam as he closed the door—Sam would snort, and Dean would ignore it—and wait for everyone to be asleep before sneaking into Her room.

They never went past that. And Dean might be plague by fantasies and weak futures of more, but he didn’t want more. He was already demanding too much of Her. He couldn’t ask for more, for everything, for every bit of Her she’d care to give him. He already couldn’t believe he was still allowed in Her bed at all, let alone offered Her hand holding his in the dark, and a mumble of night, De, every time he’d crawl under Her covers.

So the car was reparation. A silent plea for Her to never, ever leave him, even when he more than deserved it. An apology for keeping secrets, for only ever taking and destroying and ruining things, for never being able to stop, never managing to stay away. He’d find lame excuses to head out to the yard while She was reading, and he’d get a little closer, and know She may have even forgotten about his half-joking promise to fix Her a car, but he needed to give Her something.

At the pace he’d hit, Dean would have the car ready before this all… finished.

He wasn’t allowed to say before he died or before his death.

The words die and death were no longer permitted in the Impala, motel rooms, Bobby’s house, or any other place where She may be within earshot. And She couldn’t read Dean’s mind—Dean was almost positive She couldn’t read his mind—but he was still trying not to use them in his head. For Her.

If She was going to drive Herself mad trying to save Dean—fucking Dean, of all people She was losing her mind over Dean—the least he could do is not think of it as his death.

He didn’t want it to be. He wanted a way out of this, a way to stay with Her, no matter how simply impossible that seemed to be.

And it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be… other problems when they got out of this. Two very specific problems they were hiding from right now.

The first reason was the only thing keeping them from staying at Bobby’s for the remainder of Dean’s time.

The demons.

They’d started to turn out of every shadow and corner, all fixed on Her, all screeching about the Knife they’d stolen from that British douchebag, taunting them about how Lilith wanted it more than almost anything, and sneering that they’d never have a second of peace as long as they kept trying to keep safe what was rightfully of Hell.

“You should ditch the blade.” Ruby had snapped, arms crossed in the dark of their motel room. “It’s not worth all the running, not when sweet little Dean is almost hellhound chow-“

“He’s got time.” She’d hissed, and Ruby had tensed. The bitch seemed to still be afraid of Her, and Dean understood that. In the shadows and dim lights, She looked more like a vengeful god than a human. “And I’ll eat fucking glass before I hand this thing over.”

Ruby had rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say hand it over, just put it somewhere safe until this whole mess is cleaned up-“

“What about eat glass are you not understanding-“

“The part where you’re endangering everything, you spoiled little bitch-“

“Watch it.” Dean had snapped, taking a firm step forward that Ruby hadn’t flinched from, but had the brains to shut her mouth. “She says we’re not giving up the knife, we’re not giving up the damn knife.”

Ruby had scoffed. “Really. You spend so long keeping each other in the dark, and one secret out in open gets her claws back into you? I expected better from you, Deano-“

“Ruby,” She’d lowered her voice, tilting Her head slightly. “I’d recommend you shut the fuck up. Now.”

“I’m just making an observation,” Ruby had shrugged, even as she’d eyed Her wearily. “No need to lose your shit-“

She’d taken a step forward, and that had gotten to Ruby. Under Her glare and cold words, the bitch has taken a shaking step back, and no amount of scrambling to regain control would fool Dean. He’d seem the widening of Ruby’s eyes, and known that Ruby was really afraid of Her. He may not trust any other part of the demon, but he trusted that. It wasn’t a show, or an act.

There was no faking the taut sound of worry Ruby had let out, or how she’d braced herself against the dresser.

“Keep going.” She had sneered, pulling the Blade out of Her jacket and spinning it in her hand. “Let’s find out just what me losing my shit looks like-“

Sam had said Her name cautiously, and somehow managed not to balk as Her glare had turned in his direction. “I- Look, I’m on your side, but we can’t kill Ruby-“

“You’re on her side?” Ruby had snapped, staring at Sam with borderline indignance. “She’s crazy, Sam, do you really think she can be trusted with that knife more than me-“

“I think you should know better than to push her.” Sam had muttered, and Dean had frowned.

He didn’t know what that meant. What Sammy was implying, why She’d had such a strong reaction—it had been hot, and Dean would pay good money to see Her rip Ruby to shreds any given day, but it still seemed stronger than he’d expected—or why She was hanging on to the Blade so tight.

Why Sam was backing Her up on it, when he’d been the one who wanted to give over the arrowhead. But he was. Sam had told Ruby that they were keeping the Blade. Specifically, She was keeping the Blade, and Ruby would have to go through Sam and Dean to get it away from Her.

The threat had worked, but Dean was pretty sure it hadn’t been because of Sam.

It was because behind Sam, Dean had been able to see Her. Looking at Ruby like She could make the bitch implode with only a thought, and Ruby staring at Her like that was true.

“I-“ Ruby had cleared her throat, her whole body braced as she’d looked back to Sam, and raised her chin. “Fine. Be that stupid. But if you’re not going to make her drop it, you need to drop her.”

Sam had blinked, Dean had felt his fists clench, and Ruby must have been trying to get fucking shot. His gun had been on the table. If She hadn’t laughed like the whole thing was only boring and amusing, and the sound hadn’t made Ruby flinch like it was worse than a gunshot—when to Dean, it was better than any song or hymn in the world—the bitch would’ve ended up with a bullet through her skull.

“That’s hilarious.” She’d sneered at Ruby, Her pretty mouth curved in a mocking grin. “That’s- You know, you’re a lot funnier than I thought-“

“I’m serious.” Ruby had snapped, and She’d just raised her brows in amusement. “You want to be a petulant little bitch-“

“Ruby.” Dean had grunted, taking a sidestep to block Her from view. “Last fucking warning, then I shoot.”

“Oh, you shoot?” Ruby had rolled her eyes. “Threatening, Dean. You’ll shoot me with a normal, boring gun that won’t do fucking shit-“

“It’ll hurt.” Dean had shrugged. “Long as you’re suffering, bitch, I’m happy.”

“Aw, look at you going to bat for the great whore-“

Dean had taken a step forward, and been caught by Her hand on his arm. He’d shot Her a look of disbelief over his shoulder, and gotten only three blinks in return.

Three blinks.

Everything was fine.

It hadn’t fucking felt fine, but She’d said it was fine.

He’d stood down.

Ruby had laughed. Loud and dry and cruel.

“Look at you, Dean, standing down like a good, muzzled dog-“

“Ruby.” Sam had snapped, his interference maybe the only thing that had saved Ruby from Her wrath—Her grip on Dean’s arm becoming painful, Her body tensing behind his—and the sharp end of one of Her knives. “That’s enough. We’re not dropping anyone, or anything. Let’s- Can we please just get back to making a plan to deal with the demons, instead of killing each other?”

She’d muttered an agreement, Dean had followed suit, and they’d all somehow managed not to strangle each other for the remainder of the time in that motel room. And Sam had kept backing Her up, every time—that day and since—Ruby had brought up dropping the Blade.

It hadn’t left Her side since they’d gotten it. Dean was over trying to understand why, and he was mostly just grateful Sam was keeping Her and Ruby separated.

That was the second reason they were hiding in this library. Sam had warned that Ruby was heading to give them a new lead on Lilith, and it was in all their best interest for Her and Ruby to be kept apart.

“We could drop her, Princess.” Dean had offered a week ago, watching Her patch up a wound on his shoulder, the aftermath of their latest run-in with demons. “You tell me you want her gone, she’s gone.”

She’d shaken Her head, but Dean hadn’t missed the small smile that had tugged at her lips. “We need her, De.”

“Nah, I don’t think we do-“

“Sam says we need her.” She’d murmured, frowning at Her stitches on Dean’s skin. “And it’s- We have to have options. Alternatives.”

There had been a long moment of silence, and Dean had wished he didn’t know exactly what She was talking about.

They hadn’t found any leads that stuck. They had two months, and no way forward. She never spoke about it, and Dean knew better than to bring it up, but the horizon was bleak. He’d stopped counting the mornings She woke up at his side, because it made a heavy weight press on his chest, and made it so much harder not to reach over and touch Her. Just once. Before this was finished.

The only thing that kept Dean’s hands to himself was repeating over and over that he couldn’t do that to Her, no matter how careful Her touch was on his skin, how gentle Her words were as they spoke, how bright Her eyes remind when she looked at him.

Dean might be the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, and She might want him in a microscopic and thin way—only on the surface, only the body he’d offered countless woman before instead of the barest, most raw part of his essence he’d always pour into Her hands without thought—but he couldn’t do that.

Not like this.

Not when he deserved Her less than he ever had, and he couldn’t possibly be worthy of Her light when he’d be buried under dirt and stone so soon.

He couldn’t think like that. It made everything worse.

But that didn’t stop his hand from catching Her wrist, his gaze from locking onto Her’s and his voice dropping to barely a rasp as his heart bloomed in his chest.

“I’m serious,” he’d muttered Her name, not even sure what he was referring to anymore. Serious about dropping Ruby. Serious about not needing anything but Her. Serious about how all She’d ever need to do is say the word, and Dean would find a way for the world to bend to Her will.

Not that he’d ever need to.

The world seemed to do that just fine on its own for almost anything, except for this.

Except for Dean.

She’d offered him a sweet, almost sad smile, and nodded. “I know, Dean. So am I.”

She’d finished on his arm. It still hurt, even a week—another stop at Bobby’s, another two Demon attacks, another twenty dead ends—later, and Dean had been a little more tired than usual, but he’d be fine.

A bad shoulder was the least of their problems, when Ruby was talking to Sam and they had to keep watch on demons between the shelves of the library.

The Blade was out on the table. Smooth, polished metal, hilt faced towards Her, covered in a bunch of strange symbols and glinting in the light-

“Don’t touch it.”

Dean blinked at Her. “I wasn’t-“

“Yeah, you were.” She didn’t look up from Her book, but she was smiling at the pages. “Don’t.”

“Whatever, Princess. I didn’t wanna touch your stupid knife anyway.”

“Uh huh.” She shot him an amused look. “Sure, Deano.”

“Just a dumb knife.” He muttered, glowering at the pages of his own book. “Maybe I was wondering if we could use it to carve the contract out of Lilith, when we find her-“

She let out a long breath, shaking Her head. “That won’t work.”

“But Ruby said-“

“Since when do you trust a word Ruby says?” She raised Her brows at him, and Dean paused.

He wasn’t sure.

But the bitch did seem to know a least more than they did about the Blade, and she’d spent the last month—between fights with Her about how they should use it—telling them about how it was dangerous, and could be used to kill anything unholy, which was why Lilith was sending so many demons after them to find it. It could kill her, and—even if Dean trusted Ruby less than he believed in angels—it lined up. Made sense.

But She’d said that like it was wrong.

So Dean blinked at Her, speaking with slow, carefully chosen words. “You, uh- Anything else you want to tell me about that thing, Princess?”

He nodded to the Blade, and She sighed, still not looking up from Her book.

“What Ruby’s been saying is bullshit.” She muttered, frowning at the pages. “It- It’s total fucking bullshit. More make-believe than dragons.”

Dean gave Her a small grin. “But not aliens? Or unicorns?”

“No,” She hummed. “Those things are real. Alternate life through the universe is almost impossible to not exist, and Unicorns attack and eat virgins.”

“That’s-“ Dean blinked at Her, shaking his head. “You’re telling My Little Pony is after virgins like a creepy fuckin’ vampire-“

She hummed, nodding absentmindedly as She made another note from her book. “They’re creepier than creepy vampires. I hunted one with Rufus once.” She pissed, glancing up at Dean with a frown. “You can’t tell Bobby that. He still thinks I just tripped and fell.”

“Bad hunt?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed, looking back Her book with a slight flush. “I still think you should let me talk to Ruby.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re the one who said we needed to keep her around, sweetheart-“

“And I meant it,” She shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be allowed to like, yell at her or something-“

“What’d you want to yell at her about?”

“Being a lying fucking cunt.” She muttered, scowling at Her notebook as she took another note and Dean bit back a snort.

“You gonna tell me how she’s lying?”

She sighed. “I- It’s compli-“

Dean drawled Her name, giving Her a pointed look. “C’mon, Princess. Don’t say it.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Barely a movement. Still more than enough. “We need to focus on the research, Winchester-“

“We got time.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Sammy said Ruby was gonna be on his ass about the Blade all day. Might as well know everything I can about it, right? You’re the one who’s always telling me to pay more attention the lore.”

She glared at him, but he’d gotten Her attention away from the book. A small victory. “I tell you to pay more attention overall. You’re already good with the lore. Stop trying to distract me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”he said Her name with a wink, bumped their feet under the table, and got another flush. Hitched breath. “And if you’re not gonna let me touch it, least you can do it talk to me-“

“I’m going to stab you.”

“That’s pretty freakin’ rude-“

“Shut up.”

“Bossy.”

She wrinkled Her nose at him. “You’re a massive toddler-“

“You love it.” He waved Her off with his widest, most winning grin, and scored better than winning lottery numbers. Flush. Hitched breath. Parted mouth. “You’re not gonna entertain a dying man’s wish-“

He was a toddler. Dean knew he was all put pulling at Her pigtails until She paid attention to him, and when Her gaze snapped up from book, he knew he’d won.

He was maybe about to get actually stabbed, but he’d won.

“You’re not dying.” She said, Her voice suddenly strained and harsh. “You’ll be fine, Dean, you just have to shut up and let me read-“

He said her name slowly, leaning over the table. “You’ve already read that one. I know you have. And that one, and that one.” He nodded to a few more books in Her large pile, and a few of them were titles Dean hadn’t seen, but the majority were repeats. Books he’d seen in Her hands before, books that had given them nothing but dead-end leads and wasted time.

“I might have missed something.” She muttered, fidgeting with the corner of a page, and Dean shrugged.

“Maybe, but- Please.” He let out a long breath, bracing himself to be shot down. She might care about saving him, but that didn’t mean She owed him anything. It really meant the opposite. Dean shouldn’t be spared an extra second of Her time, let alone a single breath of Her full attention. “Gimme one hour, Princess. Tell me about the blade.”

She let out a long breath, glancing between the pile and Dean with an unreadable expression, and nodded slowly.

“One hour.” She muttered, place Her book back on the table. “That’s it.”

Dean grinned at Her—toothy and unrestrained, because he had Her, in the loosest sense possible, Dean had Her—and nodded to the Blade.

“I know Ruby’s a fucking liar.” He drawled, raising his brows. “But seems like you’ve got more to say about it, sweetheart. What the hell is up with that thing.”

She sighed, pulling the Blade into Her hands and twirling it with a bored, practiced ease that made Dean’s pants too tight, his mind flying to places it shouldn’t be allowed to wander. Those same fingers, holding him like that, gliding up and down with deliberate, taunting movement, building him up until those pretty lips wrapped around him and he got to lose control with a fist in shining hair-

“I’ve been reading,” She muttered, and Dean had to cough to cover up how he’d been about to start drooling.

“Really, Princess? I hadn’t noticed-“

“Shut up. There’s- Sam said this thing and the arrowhead were connected, and sometimes certain people limit my access to the library-“

Dean swallowed at Her glare. “That’s, uh- Bobby said you wouldn’t eat if we didn’t stop you-“

“So I’ve been stealing Sam’s laptop and reading on that instead. Figuring out what the deal with this,” She placed the knife back on the table, and started to twist Her rings on her fingers. “Is.”

Lie. That was a lie. Dean didn’t know exactly where the lie was, but he knew that She’d lied, and before he could open his mouth and call Her out on that, she continued talking, and the moment passed by.

“It’s called a solemn oath weapon.” She said, watching the Blade with a frown. “They’re part of a discovery in the 1400s, in the middle east, but most of them were lost again after like, a hundred years.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Why’d you say discovery like that-“

“They were part of a, uh- Kind of a native population. But they got wiped out, or vanished, or something. I couldn’t find much about them, and I’ve been looking for like, a while. Pretty much all of the lore about them and the weapons has been lost, but we know their mythology was like, soul gods or something.”

“Soul gods.” Dean repeated, staring at Her with a frown. “I- what?”

“I know.” She muttered, exhaling through Her teeth. “I told you it was complicated.”

“Just- Gimme a second.” Dean took a long breath, frowning at the Blade as his hands drummed on the table, his head turning too fast to keep up with. “You said- What, solemn oath?”

She nodded, and he felt his frown deepen.

That phrase was tugging on something in the back of his skull. He’d heard that before. He’d- Dean could fucking swear he’d heard that before. He’d been reading something about demons in Norway, or Denmark, maybe Germany, and it had been full of old words, and he’d stolen Sam’s laptop, and-

“You said native people.” His words were slow, his brain still rattling to try and drag a fogged memory to the surface. “I- What native people-“

She swallowed. “It’s, uh- Kind of a tribe. Into, like, witch things. All women.”

That didn’t help. There were women everywhere. But Dean knew he’d heard—technically read—the term solemn oath, and he’d read it multiple times because the stupid online translator was horrible, but the only one available because that book had been so damn old-

“And they didn’t really worship gods,” She continued, frowning at the Blade. “I mean, like the soul gods thing is just a theory, but they were talking about souls a lot, so the old European assholes assumed it was a god situation-“

“Son of a bitch.” Dean muttered, and he leaned forward to grab Her hand as lightning almost shot through his body, the memory vaulting to the surface. “That’s- Shit, that was it. Solemn oath means soul, in like, ancient German or something.”

“Ancient German-“

“Not- it’s not called that. But- I dunno, Princess, I was reading something about demons and this word kept popping up, and it was in a real old language, so I looked it up and it kept saying it translated to solemn oath.” Dean ran a hand over his face, squeezing his grip on Her hand. “Shit, it took me like an hour to work out, but- You know how bat can mean like, baseball or bird-rat?”

She wrinkled Her nose at him. “Bird-rat?”

Dean grunted Her name—this was goddamn serious, he’d figured something out and She needed to appreciate that—and She only gave him a too-sweet smile in return.

“Yeah, De. I know what bat means.”

“Yeah, well, this word was like bat. It meant solemn oath, and soul. You- the freakin’ soul gods-“

Her eyes widened, and Dean saw the moment it hit Her. Felt it. Her fingers tangled in his, holding him like She was trying to strangle his hand, and all the blood seemed to drain from Her pretty face as she swallowed.

“Fuck. That’s-“ She looked to the Blade, then to Her own hand in Dean’s, and shook her head. “You’re right.”

Dean nodded, a something in his chest was glowing. She’d said he was right. She thought he was right. He’d figured something out, he’d been useful, he couldn’t hold Her attention a little longer because she might not look happy with the information, but She was holding his hand and staring at him with an open, almost awe-struck expression—and he was sure he was reading it wrong, and he didn’t really care—so he felt like nothing could ever be wrong again. As long as She kept looking at him like that, the contract would simply dissolve into the air, and Ruby would crumble to ash, and the ache in Dean’s shoulder from the demon attack would simply heal over in a heartbeat.

It didn’t. It had started to throb as rain fell outside, and his body tensed, and She noticed.

Of course She fucking noticed.

“Dean-“

“I’m fine.” He grunted, forcing himself to release Her hand. “Does Sammy know about all this?”

She shook Her head, still watching Dean with a small frown. “No. Not this.”

Dean frowned. “But Ruby-“

“He knows if I’m saying no to Ruby, I have a good reason.” She sighed, running Her thumb over her palm. “I don’t want to keep putting him in the middle of everything. It’s- You guys are still angry about the motel, and he had to hide the deal from me for months. He shouldn’t have to worry about this too.”

“Yeah, uh-“ Dean swallowed, something crawling over his skin and festering in his gut that was made of burden. He’d been making Sam keep secrets, and stressing Her out, and he might have been useful here but it was undercut by the worry he could see in Her eyes, focus on him as his shoulder throbbed again, and he tensed, and sickening, throat-wrapping burden-

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean spoke before She could mention his second wince.

“I’m not mad at Sammy ‘bout that anymore.” He muttered, watching his knuckles tap on the table as he avoided Her gaze. “I- uh- Bigger fish. And it’s not like it was that big a-“

Dean cut himself off, because he couldn’t even say it. It had been a big deal. He’d never stopped having nightmares where Her hand was wrapped around Her throat, and she was thrashing in his hold like a wild animal. But they had bigger issues. Worst things to deal with. He couldn’t fail Her and let himself die, just because Sam could be a secretive bitch sometimes.

And when he dared himself to glance up at Her, he didn’t recognize the expression on Her face. Her mouth was opening and closing as She kept Her thumb pressed to palm, and Her eyes were just as blinding as always but there was something guarded over Her features, something that made Her lean away from Dean in Her seat, even as Her eyes locked with his, and her voice came out in an oddly soft tone.

“Dean- I-“ She swallowed, Her whole body tensing as she continued. “I need to tell you-“

Her phone buzzed on the table, and She froze, giving Dean one last, strange look as she slowly moved to pick it up.

“It’s Sam.” She muttered, Her brow drawn in that wrinkle as she read over the text. “He and Ruby are going to look at another lead.”

Dean grunted, still frowning at Her. At Her thumb, scratching at the skin near Her nails as she spoke, because something was off. Not wrong. Son of a bitch, he hoped nothing was wrong. They didn’t have the energy or manpower for more things going wrong.

“He say what the lead is?”

She nodded, re-reading the message. “Something in Minnesota, multiple crossroads demons in one town. It’s only a few hours away, and he thinks they’ll be back by tomorrow. He, uh- You’re supposed to have the key.” She looked up to Dean with raised brows. “You got the key?”

He nodded, pulling it out of his jacket to show Her. “He’s going with Ruby.”

“Ruby and I.” She read from the phone, the little wrinkle appearing at Her brow. “Evidently, yeah. Let’s, uh-“ She glanced out the pile of books, and let out a long breath. “You ready to head back? I can check these out-“

Dean snorted, giving Her a pointed look. “You’re gonna steal them, Princess, let’s be honest here-“

“Shut up.” She muttered, glancing around the them as She shoved the unread books into Her bag, and returned the rest to their shelves. “I’ll bring them back.” The wrinkle on Her brow deepened as she looked back, and found Dean only smirking at Her. “I will.”

Dean raised his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything-“

“Shut up-“

“Bossy- Fuck.”

Dean grunted as She kicked his shin, the pain from doubling over somehow shooting right up his shoulder, into the wound from before. It felt like something twisting a blade into the already sore spot, and a lower, almost guttural noise escaped it before he could stop it.

“Shit-“ She was at his side in a second, letting Dean lean over Her body—too perfect of a fit against his, soft and strong, drowning him in the smell of sugar and fruit—as She pulled at his shirt, tracing Her fingers over the stitches. “You fucking idiot-“

“You kicked me, sweetheart.” His voice wasn’t as indignant or angry as he’d wanted. Her touch was sending shivers over his skin. If he angled his head and got away with not looking like a creep, he’d be able to place every single color hidden in Her eyes. “It’s just sore-“

She drew Her hand away with a scowl, and Her fingers were red.

“That’s- uh-“ His head was spinning slightly. She was so pretty. “Your nail polish is runnin’-“

“That’s not how nail polish works, dumbass.” She snapped, slinging Dean’s arm over Her shoulder and reaching into his pocket. He didn’t know how to do anything but let Her. “I’m driving.”

Dean frowned, mostly at the air. “’S my car-“

“I am not losing you because Sam has weird blind spots, and thought medkit expiration dates could be optional.” She snapped. “You get the keys out of my hand, Deano, you can drive.”

He couldn’t. He made an odd, half-stepping lunge to grab them, groaned like a little bitch, and gave up. She could drive. She was awesome, and She could probably move the sun to shine at night, so Dean trusted Her with the Impala.

Bonus, he got to watch Her drive.

He hoped he died here. In the passenger’s seat of his Baby, watching the most everything woman he’d ever seen drive in a more erotic way than all the nudie magazines he’d used to keep hidden in Sammy’s backpack—if Sammy had gotten caught with them, he’d have gotten a lecture, but Dad would’ve sent Dean to a freakin’ nunnery or something—and every single motel porn flick he’d ever seen.

Dean had to focus on how She drove—where Her careful fingers rested on the wheel, how She sat on the bench like a queen on a throne, how She’d angled the mirror and propped her elbow on the window—to keep himself from getting a full-blown hard-on. He’d use the information to help himself work on Her car. The images would not haunt his imagination, turning into very explicit and detailed movies, playing as he slept his limited remaining nights and took showers with Her just a room over.

She was his friend. His friend who didn’t deserve that—no matter how he’d fantasized about how She maybe saw him a fraction of the way he revered Her—and who was very worried about him, from the demon contract to his open stitches. She was letting Dean lean against Her like this because she didn’t want him to hurt himself more. She was taking off his shirt because that’s where the injury was. She was touch him because She had to. To make sure he didn’t bleed out before the hellhounds ever even touch him.

Dean cleared his throat, saying Her name with a weaker voice than he would’ve wanted, but She was so close, and touching him, and pretty.

She hummed in acknowledgment, and Dean almost choked nothing as Her nails scraped at his skin.

“You worried about the demons?”

“In general?” She gave him a dry, amused look. “Or with the contract?”

“Uh,” he swallowed. “Both? And the, those Hell’s Assassins sons of bitches, what’d you think they want?”

She paused, and let out a long breath that was warm on Dean’s skin. “I think,” Her words were slow. Almost careful. “That the Assassins are the least important things going on right now. This,” She looped another stitch into Dean’s wound. “Wasn’t them. It was Lilith. And I’m pretty sure she’s not controlling them.”

Dean frowned at Her. “Why? They seem like the type of shit she’d pull. Big assholes swinging weapons at us, trying to take something we know she wants.”

“I- I just know. And I’m not worried about the demons, I don’t think. You’re- We’re going to be fine.”

“Well-“ Dean flinched at another stitch, and She gave him an apologetic look as She stilled the jerk of his body with a hand.

“Sorry.” She mumbled, and he just nodded a little stupidly. Her palm had callouses, but they weren’t as rough as the ones on his. They made Her seem more real. “You need to stay still, De. It’s- You’ll be okay, but you need to stay still.”

He nodded, watching Her fingers resume their movement once more as the silence lingered. These stitches didn’t hurt than any of the others he’d had. He didn’t need entertainment or distraction.

He’d still really like to hear Her voice.

“You know-“ He gave a dry chuckle, watching Her carefully. “If this is the thing that brings me down, I dunno how I got out of that British douchebag’s mansion without a scratch.”

She swallowed, not meeting Dean’s gaze. “This isn’t going to bring you down. And it’s a hazard of the job.”

It was. Dean scanned over Her beautiful, slightly guarded features, and frowned, because it was. And he’d thought for so long that She didn’t understand that, but knowing that She did was somehow worse. It meant She’d really chosen to sit in the mud, and it would burn Her the same way it burned all of them. Bobby and Dad and Sammy, even Jo had been born here.

But She’d chosen to be here. In the mud.

With Dean.

“What would you do if this wasn’t the job.” Dean asked the question before he could think it through, and barely got a stumble of Her fingers, so he pushed on. “If this wasn’t your job?”

She frowned at his shoulder. “I’d be in Chicago, probably forbidden from leaving the house, definitely never allow outside unsupervised-“

“No, I meant-“ Dean stared at Her, the word fully registering. “Unsupervised?”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I hadn’t met Bobby.” She shrugged. “If I hadn’t met Bobby, my family would’ve found me. I was considered a flight risk at eight, before I’d even tried to flee. I don’t think all would’ve been forgiven and forgotten.”

She’d been doing that more, in the past month. Bringing up small, casual mentions of Her family Dean had to nod at, swallow down like a horse-pill, and let fuel his resolve to stay alive. If he died in two months, he wouldn’t be able to keep Her away from Her family for the rest of their lives.

“Yeah, uh,” he cleared his throat, shaking his head. “I know, Princess. I mean if we weren’t us. What you’d be doing then.”

She finally looked at him, obvious confusion painted over Her features and in Her brilliant eyes, so Dean continued.

“I wanted to be a firefighter.” He offered, giving Her a small grin. “You, uh, you ever thought about being an actress or something?”

“An actress?” She blinked at him, and he gave Her a pointed look.

“You lie a lot, sweetheart. And you’re pretty damn good at it.”

“Lying isn’t acting-“

“Yeah, but you’re good at that too-“

“Am I?” She looked back to Dean’s stitches, a small, pouting frown on Her face. “You always seem to know when I’m lying, Winchester.”

“I’m a genius, Princess. I don’t count.”

She rolled Her eyes, but a small giggle made its way into the air, and Dean took it as permission to continue.

“You gotta answer the actual question,” he drawled Her name, holding Her gaze as she glanced back up. “I showed you mine.”

“It’s- I’ve never, um,” She swallowed, something fragile flashing in Her eyes that Dean wanted to grab. Hold. Care for. “I’ve never thought about that. I just do this.”

Dean shook his head, his thumb itching to soothe the wrinkle in Her brow. “C’mon, there’s no way you’ve never even, I dunno, thought about doin’ something else. Something that wouldn’t get you fucking killed-“

“I haven’t.” She whispered, turning Her attention back to his shoulder. “Someone has to do this. Might as well be me.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, to tell Her that She, of all fucking people, did not have to be the one who had to do this. She should be protected and worshipped, not sent to fight with faceless, expendable troops in the endless war against the dark. She should be above it all. Somewhere bight and untouchable and safe.

“You’re done.” She stepped back before he could speak, rubbing Her palm with her thumb as she shifted on Her feet. “I- Yeah. Done.”

He grunted, sparing only a quick glance at his stitches before starting to push to his feet, only to be shoved right back down.

“Hey-“

“Those are fresh stitches, Winchester.” She snapped, keeping Her hands firmly planted on his shoulders. “You need to rest so I don’t have to do them again.”

He shook his head—they had work to do, and Dean was still physically stronger than She was—and tried to move only fall flat on his back with a groan.

“De-“ She sighed, dropping on the mattress at his side. “I told you.”

“I’m fine, Princess.” He grunted, squeezing his eyes closed. “Just taking a minute. Need five, then I’ll be up.”

“You are not getting up, Winchester, or I swear to god-“

“Said I’m fine.” He muttered. “Gotta get up-“

She sighed from somewhere very close to him. “You need to rest-“

“I’ll rest when I’m dead-“

“That’s not funny, Dean.”

He opened his eyes, and She was right above him. Blinding eyes narrowed on his, hair falling onto his face, beautiful and intoxicating and there.

“You’re not going to die.”

He chuckled, but it was more of a grunt. “I’ve heard, sweetheart-“

“I’m serious.” She snapped, holding his gaze. “You’re going to live, and right now you’re going to fucking rest, Dean Winchester, or I’ll kill you.”

Full name.

She was serious.

He still couldn’t stand to just lay there. To be useless while She worked to save him, while she did everything when Dean was supposed to be the one serving Her.

“You can’t make me.” He muttered, sounding a little child, but it was a dare. Trying to trap Her into staying right here, into touching him more, into being where Dean could live and drown in Her because he was a creep and pathetic and She could probably already see that-

“Come on, you big baby.” She muttered, moving out of his vision but keeping a hand in his hair. Like a tether. A lifeline. A silent promise that She was still there.

He made a weak, confused noise—he was going to blame it on the wound, still painful, draining his energy and fogging his brain and maybe She was right, maybe he did need to rest before he made another completely pathetic sound—and let Her tug him up to headboard, his head suddenly resting against Her stomach, Her fingers still in his hair, his body splayed out of their bed as She wrapped his arms around Her waist.

Dean was already dead. He had to already be dead, because there was no other logically explanation for Her touching him like this. Holding him like this. Holding Dean like he mattered, and if he weren’t to just bite the bullet and rest, it would be the worst thing in the entire world.

But She was. Dean could feel it in Her warm body, pressed right against him, that this mattered to Her. Dean, somehow—with a stroke of immeasurable luck or a debt to a god he’d never be able to repay—was really fucking critical to Her. Vital. Impossibly important to how Her heart was pounding in her chest, and finger were playing with his hair, and voice was impossibly soft.

“You’re not a machine, De.” She mumbled, and Dean didn’t know what he was.

Maybe Her’s.

More than Her weapon. Her shadow.

It was the silent longing he’d shoved down for years. The idea that he could be Her shadow, always a pace behind Her, always caring for Her as no one else could, pulling Her apart in the dark where no one but he could see, and spilling blood in Her name if anything dared to think they could possibly hurt Her.

“Can you please tell me you’re going to rest?” Her tone was pleading, but it didn’t need to be. She was a siren, and if She told Dean to drown himself, he would, just as long as it was in Her.

He rolled over to hold Her gaze and nodded, and something went loose in Her eyes.

“Thank you.”

Then She started to move, and Dean grabbed Her wrist on pure instinct.

“Where’re you-“

“I was- You need rest-“

Dean frowned. “I can rest with you here.”

“But-“

“Stay.” He squeezed his hold on Her wrist, his voice barely a breath, and She swallowed, glancing to back to Her bag, on the table, full of books that could be Dean’s salvation.

He didn’t need them.

She was here.

“I need to read-“

“I want you here. Please.” He let the words fall out of him, because if this finished and he was gone, he selfishly would need this. Just once. He needed to be fully folded into Her, to know She cared, to just know this could’ve been possible past the year. “Stay.”

She was staring at him. Only staring at him. Not leaving, but not saying she wouldn’t leave, and Dean was already all in.

“C’mon, Princess.” He grinned at Her, charming and lazy, and prayed it would be enough. “At least until I'm down.”

"Yeah. Okay." She mumbled, and Dean's smile probably looked dopey and stupid, and he didn't care.

"You'll-"

"I'll stay."

“Promise.” He raised his pinky, even as his body became heavy, and a soft smile lit up Her every feature.

“Promise.” Her finger's kept combing through Dean's hair—making him feel a little like a puppy—as Her free hand locked a pinky with his. Until you're down."

He nodded, and buried his face in Her chest, because right now he was allowed to. "All the way down?"

He barely heard Her whispered response before sleep overtook him.

"All the way down.”

——————

This is going to kill you. Before the demons find Dean, this is going to kill you.

You can’t let it break to the surface. How the pain and fury that’s been building in your gut might be just as dangerous as the Darkness. How it’s feels like you’re hanging by the same, frayed thread that’s wrapped around Dean’s neck, and if he goes down some part of you will go right down with him.

It might be the spiderweb. The iridescent light that’s running through you like blood, sings under Dean’s attention, and feels just as vital as an organ. It’s not strained at the knowledge that you’re running out of time—because no matter how you shape it, how you pretend that every day is a little longer than reality, you are running out of time—but it is white-hot and loud.

Dean is right here, all the time now, and it’s making the spiderweb impossibly loud. Colorful and filled with fireworks, glowing all the time because Dean is here, but that might not be forever. You can feel the spiderweb everywhere in your body, and it doesn’t feel thin or weak, but it’s made of every grin Dean offers you, every wink thrown in your direction, every touch of him under a table or in passing movement.

You can’t lose him. You’ve been stuck on that grinding, rough loop since the manor. You can’t lose Dean. You can’t. You only have two months and that’s time but it’s not enough because you can’t lose Dean.

And it still hurts. A little more than the usual pain that’s always lived in your body, because that’s infinite.

You’ve always been in that pain, and the Darkness has always bubbled and rioted in your body, and you’ve always gotten through it. You can dig your nails into your skin or bang your head on the wall for a moment of different pain, a second of control, a false promise or diversion from the sickness you’ve long accepted will never be cured.

But this pain is different. This is new. It’s temporary, and it hurts more. Because it’s either going to vanish into nothing when you fix this—Dean walking away in two months without a scratch—or it’s going to grow. The numb, hollow pain will grow over the spiderweb and burn a hole into the White, filling up the depressions where Dean was supposed to stay.

You need him to stay. You can’t lose him, and he’s not gone yet, but there’s not enough time and you can’t lose Dean-

You’re caught in the loop again.

You need to learn how to pull yourself out, before the end of this. If there’s any chance that you’re going to need to learn how to live with this new, unbearable pain, you have to learn how to not get stuck.

Hopefully you can learn it soon.

You can’t afford distractions, either.

But you’d wasted too much time. You want to be angry with Dean for hiding this from you—for maybe damning himself, because you’re starting with your hands tied behind your back, and this isn’t enough time—but you’re mostly just in pain. In pain and exhausted, but you can’t stop moving, and all the pain inside you is aimed at you.

You’d been gone, and he’d made the deal to save Sam. If you’d been there, he never would’ve needed to save Sam. You wouldn’t have allowed Sam dying to happen, and if he had, you would’ve found a better option where you’d got to keep Dean.

You’ve never gotten to keep him before.

But you would’ve fucking found a way. And you can’t blame Dean for not finding a way, because you can hear him and Sam tell you exactly what happened, and you know that—if it was you left alive, and Bobby was dead on the ground—you would’ve stopped thinking in favor of saving Bobby now. But that’s why Dean had needed you there, to keep him level and find another way.

You’ve always found another way. Everything has been impossibly hard, but you’ve found another way.

Yet you can’t even find one way. Not for this. You don’t need two. You don’t need a good, easy way. You just need a way. A light to follow out of this tunnel down, before Dean continues without you and you’re left, stranded and alone and sicker than you’ve ever been.

A way that won’t hurt him more than hell could, than you already have.

“I’m just pitchin’ it one last time.” Bobby had said in his kitchen last week, all of you gathered in with hushed voices while Dean was outside. “You know I don’t like it, kiddo, but your hocus pocus, you said it’s worked healin’ him before-“

“And the demons.” Sam had added, giving you a nervous look. “You said you- Uh, you took care of those demons that attacked you at the manor. You could-“

“No.” You’d snapped. They’d both already pitched this. Twice. The answer was always going to be no. “I- I’m not fucking doing that. I’m not risking it-“

Bobby had said your name slowly, cautiously. As if you were a wild animal. “But if we knew it would work-“

“We couldn’t know. There are no trial runs, no record of anything like me-“

“What if we found a trial run?” Sam had rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke, keeping an eye on the door in case Dean decided to come back in early. “I mean, people make deals with demons all the time, we’d just have to find someone-“

“No.” You’d hissed, twisting the rings on your fingers. “I- no. Just because I can see souls doesn’t mean I can change them-“

Bobby had frowned. “But you said you’d healed Dean before-“

“Physically. I’ve healed physical wounds, and even that-“ You choked on your own words, picking at the skin of your nails pure Gold, now laced with cool, silver light flashed over your vision.

You’d done something to him. You weren’t sure he could feel it—if it hurt or eased him or was simply unknowable to Dean as he moved through the day—but you know you’d changed something in his soul.

Because that had become painfully clear. All the colors were souls. You’d pitched that to Sam and Bobby on your first stop back home, and picked apart any reason that wouldn’t be the truth.

You could, when the Darkness got out of hand—or, rarely, the whole universe became harmonious and Silver—see souls. Or, for the demons, violent forms in the place of their corrupted, twisted souls. And this could mean a million different things about what you were, what you might be. How you needed to be handled or dealt with.

But that all had to be on hold, until Dean was safe. It was the biggest breakthrough you’ve had in your whole time searching for just a name, an idea of what you were, are, supposed to be, but it has to wait.

Until you’re through this—clawing to the end and pulling Dean out the other side with you, by almost any force necessary—what you are will have to wait.

And this feels a little like a cruel joke. Because you keep telling Bobby and Sam—over and over and over until it finally sticks—that you won’t use the Darkness to fix this. You can’t. That just because you know that it’s connected to souls doesn’t mean it will be useful.

And you’re lying through your teeth.

But Sam and Bobby aren’t Dean. So they don’t know that.

They don’t know that you’re painfully, achingly aware that—if you focused and drew blood on your skin with your teeth and choked all the air from your lungs—you could focus enough to simply wipe the brand on his soul. You don’t know how you’d do it, or why that would be something that’s possible, but you know you could do it. It’s an instinct, same as all the strange rituals that pop into your mind in the dead of night.

You just could.

But you won’t.

It’s too big a risk. It could hurt him, you could fuck it up and make it worse, you could fully infect him with the wrong of you, make him sick in a new, worse, incurable way. The one rule of saving Dean is that you have to save him. You don’t care if it kills you, if it sucks your own soul right out of your body, make your pain triple, turns you into barely a husk or trades you in his place. You won’t hurt him. You won’t let this hurt him, because it’s about saving him.

And you can’t give in to the Darkness. Soon—in the creeping, slightly shadowed future where Dean is still at your side, because he has to be—you’re going to have to tell him. He needs to know.

He’ll have to wait for this to be over. You need to tell him, but if he looks at you and sees something disgusting, you need it to be when you can leave and know he’ll be okay. That he’ll be better without you, and safe.

And if you want him to not care, you need to be able to prove that you’re a monster, but you can be muzzled. Tied down and tamed and controlled, not a threat or something that needs killing, because you’d fixed the deal without being the monster. Without being wrong. Without being the Darkness.

You’ve spent two years ripping yourself to shreds to keep the Darkness down. You can’t start using it now, just because if Dean goes—you won’t say or think where, because it hurts a little too much—you’ll die to. That’s not how this works. You can’t risk it, risk Dean, because you’re selfish and need him more than oxygen.

So you will tell him. After.

You’ll look him in the eyes and explain, and maybe he won’t leave you like he should. Maybe you’ll fall on your knees and beg him to stay, and he will. He’ll help you learn what you are, and everything will be Silver for a long, long time.

He’s already, somehow, managed to do that without knowing.

Your eyes keep drifting over to your jacket, where the Blade is tucked into your jacket. You’d spent the past month with your head spinning around it, any thoughts that weren’t reserved for Dean, can’t lose Dean, being dedicated to what the fuck is that thing.

It’s the arrowhead, but stronger. Almost too strong, making the Darkness all the more difficult to throttle and put down when your hand was wrapped around its hilt.

But it fits so perfectly in your hand. Like it’s made for you. That’s what the strange voice had said, when you’d found it. That the Blade had been waiting for you, and it was your right to have it.

You hadn’t been able to make sense of it.

And then you tell Dean one, limited and carefully chosen thing—just what he could know, without you losing him too soon by no hand but your own—and he’d worked it out.

Soul.

It was so obvious, you felt a little fucking stupid for not getting it yourself. You’d been seeing souls, when the Darkness got out of hand. The Blade almost shoved that piece of you forward, until you had to focus to see people instead of their color and light. Their souls. The Blade made it easier to see people’s souls, because it was soul weapon, and you were a fucking dumbass.

That was another thing that would be important to think about, once this was over.

It was another thing you couldn’t dwell on now.

Now had to be about Dean, sleeping in your arms, a comfortable weight over your body that made him seem permanent. He’s hold you like you’re the one that’s going to vanish. He keeps looking at you like you could pull his heart out of his chest, and he still wouldn’t kill you.

He’d worked that out so fast. He’s smarter than he gives himself credit for. Then almost anyone gives him credit for.

But you know. It’s why you’ve always trusted him on hunts, even when you wanted to rip his throat out and bite him until it left a faded scar.

He’s smart, and he’s handsome, and warm, and when you keep your fingers in his hair he skeeps making small, grunting noises like a happy dog.

You can’t lose him.

You’ve been here for hours. At some point you’d drifted off yourself, and woken up to find Dean still splayed over your lower body.

You’re not moving because he needs rest, and he’s comfortable here. With you. It doesn’t matter that you feel safe in the way he’s all around you, that you feel like more than just a monster in how he’s holding you, that the world is Silver and it’s because one of his hands has found its way a little under your shirt, and you don’t have the strength to move it.

This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean, and letting him rest. You need to text Jo about the whole Soul weapon thing, but right now you have Dean, here, and even you can’t bring yourself to ruin that.

And you don’t know why you did this. Why you pulled him into your lap, and held him like you had no right to, under the guise of helping him fall asleep. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself once the thought popped into your head, and he hadn’t found you, and you-

You can’t say it. Not now. Not when he’s right here, and might somehow see it on your face.

He’s asleep now, but his breath is starting to pick up, and you can’t even think it, or—when his eyes drift open and meet yours—you know he’ll see. You don’t know how to hide it, you haven’t had enough time to work out how to mask it and keep it from being written all over your face, so you won’t think it.

It’s another thing that will have to wait. There’s a daunting pile building up—women of the high, soul weapons, souls in general, the Blade, it—but none of it matters as much as Dean. As not letting him-

You won’t think that either. He’s not allowed to do that. Thinking that makes it an option. Thinking that means your brain starts to turn around what-ifs, and there’s no need for them because you won’t let that happen, so you don’t have to think about it.

All you have to do is save Dean. Stay here until he’s awake, because you’d said until he was down, but you really weren’t strong enough to move.

And the look on his face when he wakes up makes that worth it. His pretty eyes are a little clouded and glazed from sleep, and you don’t think he can really see you, but he grumbles something that sounds like your name as his arms squeeze around you. It’s better than anything else in the world.

You only hum, forcing your fingers not to stutter their movements when his second groan rolls through your body, and watch him blink and twist in your hold, pouting into the air as sleep slowly leaves his body.

“’S bright.” He mutters, moving a little further into your body like he’s trying to hide from the sun. “Fuckin’- bright-“

“It’s the sun, Deano.” Your voice is soft, and this might be the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen. “Being bright is kind of all it does.”

He grunts, and then goes rigid in your arms. When he rolls over to face you his eyes are wide, and you can’t even blink under his attention.

“You’re-“ He clears his throat, his words barely a rasp. “You’re still here.”

You swallow, every word suddenly jammed down your throat and blocking your lungs. Maybe you weren’t supposed to be here. Maybe he wanted you to go once he was asleep, and you’d pushed it too far because you weren’t in control, and of course Dean didn’t want you to stay, you’re you, nobody would see you and know you and want you to-

He mutters your name, and it takes almost everything in you to speak.

“I- You’re heavy.” You mumble. “And I- Uh- I fell asleep-“

Dean’s brows raise slightly, his hand drifting up to his face as he holds your gaze, when he wipes his cheek and glances at his fingers, you can see the gleam of something wet on his fingers.

“You drooled on me, Princess.”

You’re going to pass out. You just had some of the best sleep of your life, and you’re wide awake and sitting down, but you’re going to have to figure out a way to fall over and pass out.

He not helping. Dean is being a pretty, oddly smug asshole and smirking slightly, licking his lips and laying you lap and looking at you with sleepy eyes like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen, and you hate him but you can’t because you-

“Are you hungry?” You whisper, unable to break his gaze, your words still broken and stuttered as you fall impossible further into Dean. “I- The motel has a diner. You wanna- Uh, Get breakfast?”

A small grin cracks over his features, and you think you can hear the spiderweb moan in time with your heart.

“Always.”

It takes an immeasurable amount of strength to let Dean roll away from you. To leave him on the bed while you go to the bathroom and get dressed, and then take his suggestion to go ahead of him and find a table.

“I’ll meet you there.” He’s flat on his back, still under the sheets and making no effort to move out of bed as he speaks. “Just gotta, uh- Bathroom.”

You nod and wander down to the motel’s little breakfast diner, finding a corner booth—hidden from the rest of the world, where Dean might end up pressed right next to you as you ate—before pretending to read the menu as you waited for him to arrive.

And when someone sits across from you, you know it’s not Dean before you look up. Some part of you could recognize Dean a million feet underwater with every other sense numbed and stifled. He’s the only right thing in the universe—the only right part of you, the spiderweb, designed from his attention and touch and voice—and everything in the world goes Silver when he’s only near you.

But nothing is Silver right now. It’s still torn into the White, pounding a little to the right of your heart like it’s trying to move you to flee, and the Darkness, pushing up in a defense of something.

Against whoever just dropped into your booth.

When you look up—your jaw clenched and body tensed for a fight—you wish you hadn’t.

It’s a demon. You’d expected a demon. You could’ve gotten around a demon with ease, because all it would take is a drawled exorcism or splash of holy water in their face. Lately, you’ve been ready for demons to find you at any moment, and you’d developed a habit of blessing any water that was put in front of you.

You know how to be ready. You’d survived this long against the green-eyed demons, and your vigilance had only increased since Dean got stabbed, again, because the handsome dummy was apparently a knife magnet, and you weren’t going to let that happen a third time.

But the demon across you isn’t glinting black and rolling in their host’s body. They’re not solid and violent and a bloodthirsty, venomous green.

They’re dark gray smoke. Smooth like a machine in their vessel—a young, soft-featured blonde woman—and running and turning through her with a measured precision. They’re in complete control, they’re hideous, and they’re comfortable.

The vessel smiles at you, and you’re in danger.

That’s Lilith. Your hand tenses on your water but you don’t know how effective it will be, because that’s Lilith.

She can’t collect early. That’s against the rules, but demons don’t follow rules, and Dean’s right down the sidewalk, in the room, so she can’t be here to collect early. She would’ve just gone to kill him while you were busy, but she’s here, in your booth while Dean is busy, so she’s here for you.

You’d left the Blade in the room. On the table. In your jacket. If she’s here for you and the blade, she’ll only get you. Dean knows not to touch it. Hopefully he won’t be stupid enough to go after you, if this goes the worst possible way, but you wouldn’t put it past him to forget that he only has two months and you’re not important enough to chase, so you’ll need to find a way to leave him a message-

“I can hear you thinking, little one.” Lilith smiles at you, tilting her head as she scans over your face. “I’m not here to hurt your Dean. Or you.”

Something recoils deep, deep in your gut, but the Darkness blooms. Just like with Sam, but stronger. Humming and spreading in time with the White until your nails dig into your skin and you draw blood on your inner cheek with your teeth.

“But you’re here.” You force your voice to remain neutral. Bored. Any electrified fear over your nerves and muscles can’t be shown. Not here. “Why?”

Lilith sighs. “Let’s call it morbid, weak curiosity. I wanted to see you. To meet you, before everything took off.”

“Before-“

“I’m not supposed to meet you. But- I needed to see. To know it was true.” The smile creeps back over her face, and you feel like She’s studying you. Looking right through your body into the White and the Darkness, and marveling in what she sees.

You feel too big. You feel too important.

You don’t have anywhere to run.

“And look at you.” Her smile grows. You might throw up. “You’re beautiful. Everything I’d hoped you’d be, when you arrived. And so angry. Although,” Lilith pauses, her brow knitting slightly. “How old are you, now?”

“I-“

“Do not lie.” She adds. “I’ll know.”

You swallow. She’s speaking in strange, mind-aching riddles. You don’t have any weapons, and you won’t let the Darkness out.

You can only play along, until you find a way out.

“Twenty-five.” You mutter, and Lilith frowns.

“You should have been brighter by now.” She mutters. “You should have been blinding, but you are only slightly stronger than I was, at your age.”

Something heavy lodges in your throat. “What- Than-“

“And you’re so… disgustingly dedicated to that little worm, thinking about you in the shower.” Lilith continues, seeming to mostly be speaking to herself. “I can see him, on you. I would’ve thought- Hm.”

“I don’t-“ You force yourself to sit a little taller, setting your features and making your voice harsh. “What the fuck do you want?”

Lilith gives you another small, soft smile. “I already said, little one-“

“Stop fucking calling me that-“

“I am able to call you whatever I want,” Lilith says your name, and it’s cold through your blood. It sounds too familiar in her voice, like she’s said it before. Like she likes saying it. “I am here to see you.”

“Why-”

She ignores you. “I didn’t believe it, for so long, when my master told me what I’d been made to bring about. But- Look at you. It hurts me, what he wants to do to you. You could be so much more than what you’re meant to be. You could be everything.”

“I’ve heard.” You risk a quick glance at the door. Still no Dean. “I- Your master? What is he going to-“

“He will never hurt you.” Lilith dismisses you with a bored hand. “He knows what it’s like to be… used.”

“And who-“

“You’re a smart girl. Work it out yourself.”

Your jaw clenches slightly. It’s an easy conclusion to draw. It’s just another thing you should’ve worked out months ago.

Other things to worry about.

“Who’s going to use me-“

“You know,” Lilith drawls, and you’re getting a little sick of her doing that. “You could kill me with half a thought if you wanted. But you’ve ripped yourself apart for all these measly, pathetic little humans. For Dean Winchester, who will be nothing but a pawn. It wounds me, little one, what you’ve made yourself become for such a pathetic man-“

“He’s not pathetic.” You spit, and Lilith only hums, shaking her head.

“He’s- These humans have done quite a number on you, haven’t they. You could be great, greater than anything, I could show you how. You need guidance, someone who understands-“

Your nails dig into your palm, and you might be drawing blood. “Are you here to offer me a fucking job-“

“No.” Lilith shrugs. “As I mentioned, I am not supposed to speak to you at all-“

“But you are.” You snap. Dean will be here soon. You need an answer now. “Why. And don’t say a cryptic fucking riddle or something-“

Lilith cuts you off with a soft laugh. “I have not said a single riddle. You would know what I’m speaking of, if you’d been taught right. If we hadn’t been allowed to die off, to grow so weak, you’d understand everything perfectly.”

You don’t really understand her last words. You can’t hear them, over the ringing in your ears as the word we sinks under your skin, right into your brain until it’s all you can even think.

We.

“I-“ Your voice is barely a breath, but you’re too big—the Darkness roaring in your body, and the White only pushing it further and further up—so it’s all you can manage. “Who- we?”

Lilith nods, and this smile is too sweet. Almost motherly, and the smoke inside the vessel looks like it’s swelling with something like joy.

“You are what I was, before. It’s part of why I was chosen, because I was the first of… More than this.” The smoke does a little turn, as if it’s showing off. “And you are… you are greater than I could’ve dreamed. So angry-“

“You’ve said that-“

“You will be everything I wanted to be. You’ll make him regret so much, when he comes for you. But-“ She sighs, looking out the window with a slight frown. “There is a weakness. It will… hinder you. Cloud your vision.”

“I-

“I am not supposed to interfere.” Lilith murmurs, shaking her head. “Yet I can’t just watch this, little one. I’m afraid it’s time we get rid of the… roadblock.”

The diner bell rings, and Dean walks inside with his hands in his pockets.

He’s in danger, but you can’t breathe. And Lilith is only smiling at you, almost daring you to open your mouth and scream from Dean to run, go, fucking leave you and find somewhere safe and call Sam, you’ll be fine but he’s in danger-

His eyes lock with yours, and a fall frown pulls at his lips as he scans over your face.

He’s in danger.

You blink twice, and he goes rigid. Standing taller, jaw clenched as he stares at you, his gaze to Lilith—still in your booth, still watching you with a grin—as his frown deepens.

He blinks once. Checking in.

Not safe. You repeat it, watching his eyes widen as you blink twice, in a rapid, desperate pattern. Not safe.

You’d don’t know why you thought he’d run. You know him better than that.

Dean grabs his gun out from behind his back, aims right at the back of Lilith’s head, and shoots.

The shot rings through the diner, and the blur begins right as the first scream breaks the air.

Lilith falls over the table, and you know it won’t be permanent.

But the knife you drive through her hand should slow her down, and the chaos in the diner should buy you time.

You’re at Dean’s side before you know what’s happening, pulling him outside by the wrist as you scan around the motel parking lot. No other demons. Sam had left you the Impala this time—lessons being learned after the whole Pennsylvania situation being, for once, properly learned—but you still have things in the motel room that you need. Not things like clothing or makeup. The Blade, that can’t be left when Lilith is here, and all your notes and theories for Dean’s contract, and your knife, the one that Dean gave that’s the only thing that’s kept you alive for years-

Dean grunts your name, jogging behind you as you drag him into the motel room and lock the door behind you. “What-“

“Lilith.” Your words are short. It’s all you have time for. “That was her.”

“What-“

“I’ll grab everything, you call Sam and tell him we’ll meet him in Minnesota-“

“Yeah, I got that, what the fuck is Lilith doing-“

You shake your head, the truth stuck somewhere in your chest like a bullet. “We don’t-“

The motel room bursts open, and your words turn to a strangled scream as Lilith slams Dean into a wall. You move to him without a thought, and low groan leave his mouth and aching against your heart as he sits up, but Lilith just walks right past you both to the table, to your-

Fuck-

You don’t even get to stand up before she’s pulling the Blade out of your jacket, smiling at it like it’s a long-lost friend.

Lilith says your name, a frighteningly sincere look of apology on her vessel’s face. “I’m going to need to borrow this, little one, just for a few minutes. And- there we go-“

Dean flies away from you in just another heartbeat, and this isn’t the blur anymore. It’s slow. Too slow. Just like in the manor, the same stasis, but infinite. Unyielding and unforgiving as Lilith drags Dean up from the floor, presses the blade to his throat, and raises her brows at you.

“Save him.”

You can’t breathe. Or think. Or speak. Everything is too much, you’re too much, too dangerous, the Darkness pressing up and bleeding out of you, but you can’t lose control, can’t let go, can’t lose Dean-

Lilith says you name, her voice almost stern. “I am going to kill him. Now. Save him.”

“I-“ Your voice is choked, and you shake your head, taking a lurching step forward with your hands curled into fist, ready to swing-

You’re thrown back in half a second, and Lilith lets out a long sigh as Dean roars your name.

“Don’t fucking touch her, you bitch-“

“Quiet.” Lilith snaps, and when you regain your balance, the Blade is angled just enough for a little bit of blood to leak down to the hilt. “And not like that.” She says your name like she’s disappointed. “You’re smarter than to think that would work, so try again.”

“I-“ You swallow, your hand creeping to your throat as you become everything, the strain of the pavement outside as people run and the dull pain of the wall where Dean had slammed into it and stained it gold and the Blade, calling for you to take it but you can’t fucking move, you’re barely even you-

“C’mon.” Lilith sneers, eyes narrowing. “I know you can do it, you know, you just have to show him. Let’s go!”

You shake your head, leaning against the wall as the pain starts to rip at your seam. “You- This is- We had time-“

Lilith shrugs. “This isn’t about the contract. This is about you. Kill me. Or I will kill him. Ready?”

“Please-“

“Three.”

Lilith more blood runs down the Blade. You can’t really see any other colors but red.

“Two.”

Your eyes move to Dean’s, and there’s a second color. Green. Shining, green eyes locked on your, filled with a million, glowing secondary colors and full of strange, beautiful thing, a whole world that might be bigger than you, because it’s Dean and he’s beautiful and you can’t lose him-

“One-“

The scream that rips out of your body isn’t human. You don’t feel human. You’d said you wouldn’t touch the Darkness, but you were supposed to have more time, and Lilith doesn’t get to fucking cheat.

It’s the same sheer, violent, blinding power from before. Blazing right past Dean—the spiderweb almost seeming to shield around him, making every bit of power bursting from your body move around him—and driving into Lilith, blending with the White until everything is Silver, and the world is vast and furious and yours.

Pressing into Lilith even after She stumbles back from Dean, strangling around the smoke as she laughs. She’s just laughing as you start to carves gashes into her to maul and raise every bit of her the Silver can reach, crushing her and stretching her at once but she’s just laughing-

She vanishes from sight, but there’s nowhere for her to hide. You’re everything, and you’re going to rip her to pieces if she flies to fucking Asia-

Dean roars your name, but you already know she’s behind you.

“Good job.” She hisses if your ear, and when you whip around, she’s gone again.

The Silver rips a chunk of her off. You just have a little further.

A hand wraps around your throat, and Lilith’s voice is back to that simpering, almost soft tone as she speaks in your ear once more.

“This was for your own good,” she hums your name, and Dean shouts something you can’t really hear when the Blade drives right into your gut, and everything rips back in two. “You’ll know that soon.”

She steps back, and Dean is roaring for you but this hurts, and you’re so tired, and everything is catching up with you too fast because what did you just do-

“That won’t kill her.” You hear Lilith say, even if it sounds a million miles away. “I just needed to stop your Princess from killing me. I’m sure you understand-“

Dean’s voice is hoarse, but he’s speaking. He’s okay. “You fucking bitch-“

“I know, I know.” Lilith pauses, and you make a weak sound that might be Dean’s name, or a plea to just be put down. You’re going to lose him, he had to know now and you’re going to lose him-

“Let me out-“ Dean hisses, something pleading in his tone you don’t understand. “Fuck- She’s- Let me fucking go-“

“Relax, Mr. Winchester. It’s just insurance until I’m far away. She’ll be fine.”

“She’s fucking bleeding out-“

“This,” Lilith pauses, and something clatters next to you on the floor. “Can’t kill her. And I’m sure you two have plenty to talk about, given that little show, so I’ll be heading out. I’ll see you soon, though, Dean Winchester. We have an appointment in two months.”

Dena might shout something, and something may slam, but you’ll never be sure. You can’t really feel everything but pain, the White screaming in pain as the Darkness rips and slashes through your organs, pain because your limb are trying to move to something good, something Golden, but everything hurts-

You’re lifted up into air by the Golden thing—warm and strong and certain around you—and a deep voice is saying something in your ear but you can’t hear.

There’s only one word, on a steady, looping replay through your brain. Over and over and over, an ache and stab that’s crafted from a knowledge of something you can’t name.

It’s made of lonely. Cold and lonely and dull, numb and empty, a blade driven right into your heart by your own hand, something carved out that you can live without, but feels more vital than any organ, the spiderweb seizing through your body because you’re going to be lonely.

And there’s the word. Three words. Two for a plea, and one for a prayer.

They’re poison.

You say them anyway.

“Dean.” You grab up, and get a hold on something smooth, and it’s right. It fits in your hand, and spurs you further. “Dean, I’m-“

“You’re gonna be fine, Princess.” The deep voice from before grunts, right in your ear. “You can’t fucking- You’ll be okay-“

“Dean.” You repeat it. Everything hurts but that sounds right, so you repeat it. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re-“

“I’m sorry.” Something stings at your eyes, even though they’re all but sown shut. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry-“

The voice grunts something else, but you can only here a rush like blood or a hurricane in your ear, only repeat those words over and over and over until you’re drowning in them.

“I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry-“

Warmth presses to your brow, and a low sound hums through your body.

It’s telling you that you’re going to be okay.

And everything hurts, and this feels like death—even if you know, somehow, that it won’t be, knowing has really done you any favors—but you believe it.

So you let the world fade to black.

Everything is dark for a very long time. Colorful, bruising dark, like you’re alone and adrift through places between stars, or you’ve closed your eyes and pressed on their lids to see what happens.

And then there’s light.

Red and gold and orange light, waning and flickering and building until it’s roaring and the world is hot.

Fire.

So much fucking fire.

Dean is next you. Right next to you. He’d somehow slipped right past you, in the blaze, but he hasn’t acknowledged you either, so you don’t feel that bad about it. The fire doesn’t hurt. There’s no smoke hoking at your lungs.

So if Dean wants to just stand in the fire with you, there are worse prices to pay for daring to be near him.

You waste an unknowable amount of time, swaying back and forth on your feet as you watch Dean. The gold isn’t in him, where you usually find it. It seems to be casting a halo over the whole room, until everything—from the flame to the peeling paint wall—is emitting a light that feels like Dean.

But he never looks around the room. He never looks at you, either.

He’s only looking up. Neck craned up, maybe more frozen that a statue as he stares at the ceiling.

You follow his gaze, a strange feeling of dread twisting in your stomach, a little alarm blaring across you mind and skull that’s telling you to turn back, look away, be anywhere but here that you ignore.

Dean is here.

And then you see what he’d been staring out, and whatever had rooted him in place takes hold over your body.

It’s you.

Almost.

It’s a mirror image, if the mirror was painted over and carved from marble to make you look better than you are. Your hair frames your face too well—no flyaways, shining like you’d just done a treatment, every lock perfectly in place—and your skin seems as if it’s glowing. Your eyes are brighter, as if they’d crushed and concentrated a million stars, and everything about you seems flawless.

Save for the fire, licking and scarring over your skin.

Your mouth is open in a silent scream, and the sound is echoing through the room like a haunting, horrid, high note of an opera. You’re entrancing.

It’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen.

And when you rip your gaze back to Dean, you can see it with more clarity. The broken, desperate, fury on his every feature as he stares at you, unable to look away. First clenched and mouth open in a silent shout, eyes moving rapidly over your body like trying to find a trigger to release you—the you on the ceiling, making a long noise that’s a little too close to his name—but never managing to do anything but look back your face, and break a little further.

You don’t know if he knows it’s possible to look away. That there’s anything else in the world but the you on the ceiling, even if everything else is only flame and wall.

“Dean?”

He shakes his head, and you swallow, making your voice softer.

“Dean. Please look at-“

Your words die in your throat as his eyes fly to yours, and he stumbles backwards.

“I- You-“ He looks back up to the ceiling, and shakes his head as he whispers your name. “How did you- You never-“

“Dean, I don’t-“

“You never come down.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something important, his eyes almost trapped on yours. “How did I- I don’t know how I- I need to know how to save you-“

You open your mouth to say anything that will ease him, make him stop looking like almost a frightened child. He doesn’t need to save you, because you’re really not worth saving. You don’t know how, or what’s happening either, but he’s here and that’s all that matters. You’ll aways come down, because down is back to him, and you-

Everything is yanked away from you in barely a second, and you’re back in the dark for only a second.

And then you’re home. Not your home at Bobby’s.

Your childhood home.

You’re the same height as always, but everything seems to have grown in order to keep you small. Every shadow is too long, and every shift of a light may mean you’d strayed somewhere you shouldn’t have been.

You’ve always been places you shouldn’t be. And you’d liked the darker corners and cabinets of this place, because they meant you were safe.

Nobody would find you if the light couldn’t find you.

And you know, deep down in your gut, that you’re not supposed to be here.

Knowing has never helped before.

So you push open the door, and freeze as you see the people crowded around the table before you.

You’re suddenly too big. Darkness seems to be leaking out of your body, and they’re all looking at you like you’re a monster. Lilith and Azazel are smiling, and million green demons shift around the corners of the room as your father—your real father—sneers at you, and John Winchester raises a gun, aimed right at your brow.

The gun goes off before you can do anything at all.

You wake up with a plea for forgiveness that dies in your throat, drenched in a cold sweat and tangled in thin sheets.

Sheets.

You’re in a bed.

Someone put you in a bed, and everything still hurts, but you don’t feel like death anymore. There’s only an ache in your gut, and a heavy feeling over your every muscle. You can’t bring yourself to move or open your eyes, but you can think again.

You’re in a bed, but it’s not your bed. Your bed at Bobby’s. It’s not the bed from the last motel either, because the mattress is softer, and Dean wouldn’t have just stayed there after-

Lilith.

Dean wouldn��t have stayed where they knew Lilith could find them. He’d taken you somewhere with a soft bed, but you can’t feel his weight across the mattress, or hear him shuffling or grumbling anywhere in the room.

And he knows.

He knows.

Maybe he’d left. He’d have every right to. Maybe he dropped you at the roadhouse and told Jo to deal with you, or you’re going to get up and find a note that tells not to find him or speak to him, that he’s gone and it’s because of you, because finally knows what you are and he’s disgusted by it, and he’s leaving you because he can, and you’ve lost him the same way you’d always been doomed to, just by being yourself-

“I know you’re up,” Sam says your name from somewhere to the side, and there’s exhaustion laced through his voice. “I can hear you having a panic attack.”

Sam’s here. You force your eyes open, squinting as they adjust to light, to the sight of Sam sitting at another, old motel table, looking at you with a small frown from over his laptop.

You don’t see Dean.

But his bag is on the floor, and Sam is here, and Dean wouldn’t leave Sam.

“Dean’s getting you Advil.” Sam hums, almost as if he’d been reading your mind. Maybe your obvious fear had just been written over your face. Maybe it had been leaking out of you like poison.

It didn’t really matter.

“Why-“

“You had a fever.” Sam mutters, looking back to the computer. “It went down, but he- Just in case.”

You nod, swallowing around a heavy lump lodged deep in your throat. Your voice had already been only a rasp. It might now be only a breath.

“Did he-“ You choke a little on spit. You push through. “What did he say-“

Sam sighs, running a hand over his face and sitting back in his chair. “I think it’s best if you talk to him. I don’t know what to-“

“Is he mad?” You blurt, before you can stop yourself. “I- I didn’t mean to tell him like this, I didn’t, Sam, I swear-“

“I know, but you know Dean, he-“

The motel door opens before Sam can finish, and you almost shrink down into the mattress. Dean won’t hurt you. He’d never hurt you.

But he can do far worse damage than any weapon ever could, and you’d deserve it.

“Got some Advil and cherry coke for like, five bucks. I fuckin’ love Iowa, Sammy, everythin’ is cheap as-“

Dean cuts himself off as he looks up, and your eyes meet.

You try to give him a smile.

It feels more like a grimace.

“I’m gonna- uh-“ Sam clears his throat, and neither you nor Dean look at him. “Yeah.”

Sam stands in your periphery, and you think he leaves the room, but you can’t see anything but Dean.

Not gone. Nothing hateful on his face.

Nothing at all on his face.

As he walks towards you, it’s almost like there’s a mask over his features. He stands at the foot of the bed with a small frown, scanning over you without a word, and moving to stand at the side of the mattress.

His side of the mattress.

“This is, uh- Got this for you.” He mutters, placing the coke bottle on the side table. “Gonna sit.”

You only nod, frozen as Dean drops to the bed, staring at his hands as the silence continues. You won’t be the one to break it.

This is all so fragile, and you’ll stab yourself again before you break something else today.

“Knife is in your jacket.” Dean grunts. “You’re looking better. Lilith was, uh- She seemed to get that right. Didn’t kill you.”

You nod again. This is a new type of broken record.

It’s worse.

“I-“ Dean’s voice is low, and you think it would be less painful if your bones and chest were stringed apart and crushed to pieces. “Sammy won’t tell me anything. Kept saying to talk to you.”

You take a shaking breath, forcing yourself to speak, just so he knows you’re listening. “Dean, I-“

“Did he know?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he still won’t look at you.

“Who else?”

“Bobby.” You watch his back and profile, and nothing else in the world seems real. “Rufus and Jo. Joh- Your dad.”

That makes him look up at you. “Dad? Dad knew?”

“He found out at the hospital.” You whisper, and the Darkness is oddly silent. The nails digging into your skin are more on instinct than anything else. “That’s how Sam found out.”

Dean’s jaw twitches. “But he didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell me.”

“I-“

“Why?”

You blink at him, your brow drawing together as he stares at you. He looks almost desperate. You don’t understand it.

“Why’d you never tell me,” he says your name, and it sounds more important than it is. “Everyone else gotta know that you’re- That you can- I don’t fuckin’ know, but-“

“I don’t know either.” You say, the words slipping out of you without thought, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, you don’t know-“

“I’ve- I’ve never known. I wanted to know.” You’re already falling. Might as well go all the way down. “I needed to know, before I told you.”

Dean looks like he’s going to say something, but the floodgates have opened. You don’t think you could stop if you tried.

“I- I wanted to tell you. I swear I wanted to- I tried to but it was never right, and I- I don’t know- I’m dangerous, Dean, I could hurt you, I- I’m not in control of it and I don’t even know what it is, and I couldn’t tell you- I couldn’t- Please-“ You choked on the air, and the world starts to blur. “I’m sorry- I didn’t- You- Don’t-“ Every word is fractured, and Dean needs to go. When the Darkness returns you won’t have a hold over it, and you’ll hurt him, and he should’ve left when he found out, should’ve euthanized you like a monster because he can, and he’s stronger, and why is he still here-

Dean mutters your name, moving to touch you, but you’ll infect him. Hurt him. Make him just as hideous as you are, just because you’d dared to try and sink deep enough into his gravity that nothing could ever pull you out.

“I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry-“ Your every word is barely a breath. You mean them more than anything. “Dean, I’m sorry-“

He reaches you again, faster than you can shove him away. Presses his thumb right to the bridge of your nose and stroke it down until your every breath isn’t a fight, then pulling you right into his arms.

Just holding you.

You don’t deserve this. You’d fucked everything up, and he should’ve have to save you here, he shouldn’t have to clean up the mess when you’re the one who took everything and fucked it up-

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whisper against him, your fingers digging into his shirt even as you force the words out of your mouth. “I’ll- I’ll go-“

He tenses around you. “Go?”

You nod, and his grip tightens. Like he’s trying to move you into his body.

“Don’t.”

He can’t say that. If he doesn’t mean it, he can’t say it.

“Dean-“

“You didn’t leave me.” He grunts, and you can feel every word in your chest. “Two-way road, Princess. You said I wasn’t getting rid of you that easy. Stay.”

“I-“

“Stay.” He repeats it, squeezing your body once. “Explain tomorrow. I can’t-“ His words falter, and he hold you a little tighter. “You said you’d fucking stay here. Please.”

“Dean-“

“Please,” he whispers your name, and you don’t think he knows that you’d put yourself in hell in his place, and he’d never even ask. “Stay.”

You nod, because there’s nothing else to do, and worm your hand further between your bodies until it’s poking out the other side, and your pinkies are linked.

“All the way down.” You mumble, and your words are muffled in his chest, but he understands.

Dean nods, letting out a long breath, and the only thing you’ve heard that’s better his is voice, deep and calm and right in your ear.

“All the way down.”

End Note: Hehehehehe many plans in the works.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @Zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378

@godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend

@lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney

@funkenniffler @laurakirsten0502 @deans-yn

132 notes · View notes

rubyvhs · 2 days ago

Text

bittersuite | d. winchester

synopsis. you & dean are having an argument, you use your powers to do something he doesn’t approve of tags. 1k words, slightly religious talk, angst, angry dean, talking about wanting a family series masterlist

"I don't know why it's wrong, Dean!" You're not shouting, you haven't ever actually raised your voice so it's not surprising, but Dean's is sure getting loud.

"Because the leviathans are on our ass every fuckin' day! If they sense angel activity and we're found out it'll be your fucking fault." He points at you, aggressively and you have a feeling in your chest you just don't understand. Well, you understand it but it feel horrible. How could anyone ever want to be human? Even interacting with them is detrimental to your intellect. Especially the way he’s swearing so much.

You should apologize, and you're about to, but he's even angrier now. "Every time I tell you to do something, you never goddamn listen—" You shut your eyes and you immediately think of heaven's gates. When you open your eyes, you're in… Kansas? Lawrence, Kansas to be specific. And infront of the Winchester's house, no less.

There's a woman inside, she's running after a child and you can't help but smile. You're not sure what's so amusing about it but it's almost like you can imagine that being Dean and his mother. Her running after him, this house being their own, him growing up not hunting.

You know that's not possible, you know he was chosen before he was even born, you know vessels are made before they're even human, but it's comforting you in some way. It comforting to think that there could be another universe where the Winchesters were just themselves.

You don't notice it but you're somehow in front of the door, knocking. A man opens the door, "Hi. I'm…" an Angel, is what you've learned to say when you, Sam, and Dean meet monsters. An FBI agent when you meet any type of authority. Just a Guardian Angel when you meet other Angels.

"I'm Cherry." You make up. "And I… I am a friend of the Winchesters. They used to live here." When you were assigned to come down to earth to kill Cass for disobeying Heaven, you had to study Dean fully. You watched his entire life, every single second he's been alive until you met is engrained into your memory.

It feels horrible, you know if he ever found out he'd be angry at you but you didn't know you'd grow to like the Winchesters as much as you did.

"Honey," he yells for his wife, you presume. The woman who dean and Sam helped when they came here years ago shows up with a smile. "Friend of the Winchesters."

Her eyes widen. "Of— why? Is something wrong? We haven't felt anything." You shake your head, looking down at the seven year old.

"Hey, little boy." He smiles at you and then hides behind his mother's leg. "I'm sorry, your son is just adorable. There's nothing wrong with the house,I only…" but you have nothing to say. You have no idea what you're doing or why you're ruining this couple's evening or why you're like this. You miss Dean.

It clicks that's you had left mid-argument just now, on their porch. And that if you close your eyes, your bound to get back to dean. So you don't blink, just look up at them and see them moving to make room for you. You smile and enter the house.

"We were just about to have dinner, wanna join us?" You nod eagerly, looking around. You remember all four years of Dean's life in this house so vividly, way more than even he does, and it's exhausting. Because in taking his memories, you absorbed his emotions too and they are painful. They're too strong for a man to bare.

You sit down on the table as they plate everything and when they sit down, they offer you their hands. The woman, Jenny, smiles. "We pray." You take her hand immediately, connecting your other one with her older Son Sari, and he does the same with his seven year old sister, Richie.

"Lord, thank you for the food we are about to eat." And then it ends. And then they eat and your hands are mostly still outstretched waiting for more. It takes a minute for Jenny to snap you out of your trance. "Cherry, you okay?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sorry, I— Dean needs me. I need to go see him." She doesn't say anything, just takes your hand before you run out of the room, closing your eyes once you reach the door.

"Did you find her? Well do it faster, Cass—" it's familiar. It's everything you've been craving ever since you left. It's only been a few hours but it's dark now, which is probably why they were having dinner. Right. They. Because you had dinner with a family.

A family that prays. Or pretends to, it’s only being gratefulness for being given something. But have they prayed as they make the food? Do they ask god to give them strength? Do they study the books? Why did you pray with them? Who would you pray to?

They’re the people you turned your life around for. You’ve been alive forever and these humans, who are only sometimes grateful, are who you’ve rejected order for. Especially this human.

"Dean?" He turns around, his gun automatically pointed at you and you can't help the smile on your face. He released a breath before talking two long steps to you and pulling you into his chest.

"God, Angel, where were you? Are you okay?" He lets go, taking a quick look. When he realizes your fine, his eyes become furious. "What were you fucking thinking? Don't you ever do that again," you're about to stand up to him, the same way Cass sometimes does, but then he says, "don't run away when you know I can't chase after you."

"You were shouting."

"We had a disagreement, it's normal." Is it? Are the loud voices and anger normal? "Please just talk to me before ever doing that again."

"Okay."

"Where did you go?" He asks, his voice still slightly tense. Maybe he doesn't trust you after all this time, thinking you're just waiting for the angels to rise after Cass's disappointment as their leader.

"Lawerence." He doesn't ask anything after that. But when he hugs you again, he hears your soft mumble. "They had a family." Yeah, they did. You never will, though.

&. notes !! guys I promise he’ll be nice next time (maybe)

join the taglist. @loverslantern @justwhisperingfantasies @saltcxrcle @blossomingorchids @darling-eos

@ltotheucyy @daylighted @clean-and-claire @1967barracuda

124 notes · View notes

littlesoulshine · 2 days ago

Text

───sneak peek at buffy!reader: mdni, language and light smut

the cemetery was eerily still, moonlight covering over weathered headstones. you've pinned dean against one of the many, your body pressed close, lips teasing his plump lips like you two have no where else to be. he tastes like whiskey and burgers, which sounds weird but makes you kiss him harder.

his hands grip your waist, but he’s stiff—distracted. his eyes flick around the dark. “babe, are you seriously turned on right now? we’re in a graveyard.”

you hum, trailing your lips down his throat. “mhm, yeah...kinda hot, right? feels forbidden but dirty.”

he huffs. “it’s creepy. and I think that statue just moved.”

you glance over at the angel statue, then back at him, amused. “aw, is big bad dean winchester scared?” you press closer, rolling your hips over his hard length just enough to make him groan.

his grip tightens. “not scared. just…aware.”

you smirk, fingers curling into his collar. “then be aware of this—” you kiss him deeply and slow, making sure he forgets everything but you.

something rustles nearby. dean freezes.

“…okay, that was definitely a zombie.”

you sigh against his lips. “fine. five minutes, then we kill it.”

he mutters something about priorities, but when you kiss him again, stopping him from complaining 𑁥౿

tags: @soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel @zepskies

#queued𒌩 #buffy!readerᕠ #dean x reader #dean x oc #dean x buffy!reader #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x buffy!reader

88 notes · View notes

my-stories-vault · 12 hours ago

Text

Just finished reading it, and I have a serious case of feels now 🤧.

I want Bobby John and all this to be real so bad 🫠.

“And, uh—” His voice wavered, betraying him. John caught it immediately, and his face softened in a way that Dean wasn’t used to.

“What?”

Dean swallowed hard. “I never meet Y/N,” he admitted, voice raw. “And, uh… Bobby is never born.”

This admission, the choices, the emotions, the sacrifice . . . Absolutely perfect. One of the most beautiful stories I've ever read 💘.

I also loved your portrayal of Bobby. Usually, people write Dean's daughter, but I've never seen such an awesome interpretation of how Dean would be with his son.

Lebanon

Paring: Dean x Reader

Summary: A wish gone wrong right brings back a familiar face. However, you all soon discover it's not as simple as it seems when what you’ve all accomplished, and your family, hangs in the balance.

Word Count: 7.4k (yikes 😬)

Warnings/tags: Major spoilers!! S14 Ep 13 especially, angst, fluff, canon (semi) divergence, episode rewrite (kinda).

AN: Okay so this was a lovely request from an anon which you can read here. The summary of it was John interacting with his grandson, fathered by either Sam or Dean. Ofc I went with Dean on this one. Personally I struggled finding a way to fit this in and be faithful to the boy's journey. The only thing that felt right to me was what I have written. I hope that is okay anon? ❤️

Main Masterlist

You sit at the library table with Bobby, your three-year-old son, surrounded by scattered crayons and sheets of paper filled with colourful scribbles. His tiny fingers clutch a crayon tightly as he drags it across the page, his little tongue peeking out in deep concentration. His brows furrow—just like Dean’s do when he’s focused—and the sight tugs at something deep inside you.

“Good job, baby,” you murmur, smoothing a hand over his soft, sandy hair.

Even now, three years later, you still found yourself in awe of him. Of the fact that he was yours. That despite everything—despite the life you’d lived, the battles you’d fought, the countless times you weren’t sure you’d even see another day—you had him.

You never thought you’d even be able to have a kid after all the knocks your body had taken over the years. But then Bobby happened—an accident, sure, but never a mistake. Not once. And Dean… Dean had loved him from the second he knew he existed. He loved him with everything in him.

A lot had happened since you first met Dean. You’d bumped into him and Sam on a case years ago, all of you unknowingly hunting the same thing. Sparks flew instantly—partly from attraction, but mostly from the sheer force of your clashing egos. Neither of you were the type to back down. He was cocky, you were stubborn, and together, you were like gasoline to his flame.

But somewhere between the banter and the bickering, a friendship formed. The three of you started meeting up more, sharing research, trading expertise. And then, one night, that tension between you and Dean finally broke.

After that… Well, life never stopped moving.

Losing Bobby Singer. Dean being dragged to Purgatory. Losing him for a year. Getting him back. Then the angels fell. Metatron. Almost losing Sam. Sam being possessed by Gadreel. Losing Kevin. Losing Charlie. The Mark of Cain. Losing Dean again—only to get him back as a demon. Getting rid of the Mark, but unleashing something worse—God’s sister, the Darkness. Oh and God was Chuck? Then Mary came back. Then Lucifer and he had a son, Jack—a Nephilim who, against all odds, had become family. And then there was the discovery of other earths, alternate realities bleeding into their own, which had led you here.

To Michael.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, you’d fell pregnant and raised a, now, three-year-old.

Bobby had been the one good, untouchable thing in all of it.

But since Michael… Everything was different, because of your son.

Dean had been in turmoil. He hid it well most days, but you saw it—in the clench of his jaw, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake off a weight he couldn’t see.

Michael was still there, buried deep, locked away—for now. And that terrified him. Not just for himself, but for you. For Bobby. Because no matter how strong his will was, no matter how hard he fought to keep control, there was always that lingering fear…

What if the lock didn’t hold?

So you did what you always did. You held everything together. For him. For Bobby. For all of you.

Because no matter how much the world took from you, you still had each other.

And maybe—just maybe—you were still holding out for another miracle.

The heavy bunker doors creaked open, and Bobby’s head snapped up. His green eyes went wide with excitement, his crayon slipping from his grasp.

“Daddy!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the library.

You barely manage to help him down from his chair before he bolts, little legs pumping as fast as they can across the cold bunker floor. His tousled hair bounces with each hurried step, arms swinging as he races toward the only person in the world who could make him forget everything else.

Dean barely has time to brace himself before Bobby collides with him, tiny hands grabbing at his flannel. A tired but genuine laugh escapes Dean as he scoops him up with ease, holding him close. The exhaustion lining his face softens, replaced by something warm and unshakable.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Bobby’s head. “You miss me?”

Bobby nods enthusiastically, burying his face into Dean’s shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

The sight pulls at something deep in your chest—Dean, looking worn from whatever they’d just faced, but still lighting up the second he has his son in his arms. His perfect little double. The same green eyes, the same cluster of freckles dusting his little nose.

Sam steps forward, offering you a tired smile before ruffling Bobby’s hair. “Hey, little man.”

Bobby grins, immediately stretching his arms toward his uncle. Sam chuckles, taking him with ease, and Bobby squeals as he’s lifted high, giggling when Sam playfully swings him in the air. Your son has them both wrapped around his tiny fingers, and they don’t even try to hide it.

But your gaze flickers back to Dean, and you immediately notice the weight in his stance. The way he rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to shake something off but can’t. The way his smile, as bright as it is for Bobby, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What happened?” you ask softly, stepping closer.

Dean and Sam exchange a look—silent, heavy, something unspoken passing between them. And then, after a beat, Dean finally meets your gaze.

“A Baozhu?” you echo, brows knitting together as you absorb everything Dean and Sam just told you. The day they’d had sounded like something straight out of a horror novel.

It started with them tracking down an old friend—well, former hunter—who had been murdered. His death led them to an antique shop owner who had a whole damn room full of occult objects. Dean had rattled off some of the inventory like a bad joke—dragon’s breath in a perfume bottle, a skull supposedly belonging to Sarah Good from the Salem witch trials.

And then, just when things couldn’t get crazier, a couple of idiot teenagers stole Baby, along with all the cursed artefacts they had loaded into the trunk. Dean’s jaw still ticked when he mentioned it, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing—because, yeah, it was serious, but the way he got so damn worked up about his car was just so him.

That would’ve been enough of a headache, but then came the kicker. One of the stolen objects contained a spirit. And not just any spirit—the ghost of John Wayne Gacy.

“Seriously?” you’d blurted when Sam told you. “Like, the John Wayne Gacy?”

“Yup,” Dean had muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Evil clown and all.”

Sam still looked a little queasy at the memory, and you knew why—his fear of clowns was legendary. But thankfully, the boys had handled it, no one got hurt, and the worst that came out of it was a couple of traumatised teenagers who now knew the truth about what lurked in the dark.

But out of everything, the most important discovery was the pearl.

Sam sits at the table now, flipping through an old lore book, his eyes scanning the pages. “It’s supposed to grant the user their heart’s greatest desire,” he explains. “Like a wish.”

You inhale sharply, the weight of those words pressing into your chest. “A wish? Like, an actual wish?”

Sam nods. “That’s what the lore says.”

Your mind starts racing. If it works… if Dean uses it…

You glance at him, and you can tell he’s already there, thinking the same thing. Michael. The archangel still locked inside his head, slowly eating away at him.

It hasn’t been easy. Not for him. Not for any of you. The sleepless nights, the migraines that leave him clutching his skull, the way his hands sometimes shake when he thinks no one’s looking. The moments where he just stares, zoning out, fighting a battle no one else can see. You’ve watched him struggle, pushing himself beyond his limits, trying to hold it together when you know he feels like he’s falling apart.

“Dean…” you murmur, reaching across the table, lacing your fingers through his. “You're sure?” You ask softly and his grip tightens, warm and solid. He exhales, steadying himself, his voice quiet but firm.

“Yeah,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “If this thing works—Michael’s gone. For good.”

All Dean had to do was hold the pearl and concentrate—wish Michael away for good. Simple.

But the moment he did, the bunker’s lights flickered violently, plunging the room into an eerie, stuttering darkness. Then, without warning, a deep, unnatural red glow pulsed around you, filling the air with a static charge that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

Your breath hitched as you clutched Bobby tighter against your chest. His little fingers fisted into your shirt, his small body trembling.

“Dean?” you called, alarmed, but his sharp, commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“Take Bobby to our room. Now.”

The authority in his tone left no room for argument. Your heart pounded, panic clawing at your ribs, but keeping Bobby safe was all that mattered.

You turned and bolted down the hall, his small arms locked around your neck as you ran. Behind you, the sounds of grunting and scuffling echoed—something was happening, something bad.

“Mommy?” Bobby’s voice was small, uncertain, his wide green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. His bottom lip trembled, and the sight of it nearly broke you.

You placed him gently into his cot, cupping his soft cheeks between your palms, forcing yourself to smile. “Mommy’s just gonna make sure Daddy and Uncle Sammy are okay, alright?” You kept your voice steady, though your pulse pounded erratically.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the bunker fell silent. The flickering lights steadied. The air no longer buzzed with electricity.

You swallowed hard.

“You’ll be my brave boy and stay here, yeah?”

Bobby hesitated, then gave you a small nod despite his fear. You kissed his forehead firmly, lingering just a second longer than usual, then forced yourself to pull away. You slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind you, willing your hands to stop shaking.

As you rounded the corner, your steps slowed, your breath catching in your throat.

Dean and Sam stood frozen in place, their expressions a mix of shock and something almost… reverent. But it wasn’t fear in their eyes. It was disbelief.

A man stood before them, his stance rigid, a gun poised tight in his grasp, not aiming, but gripped tight. He wasn’t Michael— you’d met that bastard before he possessed your boyfriend. No, this was someone else entirely.

“You boys better tell me what the hell is going on.” The stranger demanded, his voice deep, weary.

Your grip on your gun tightened as you raised it, the chamber clicking into place, shattering the heavy silence.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You demanded, voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

All six pairs of eyes flickered to you at the sound of your voice, and the moment the strangers gaze met yours, a chill ran down your spine. You knew that face.

It took another heartbeat before the realisation struck like a freight train.

You’d seen him before. In the small collection of worn photographs Dean kept tucked away—memories of a childhood long gone.

John Winchester.

After leaving Dean, Sam, and John to catch up, you had gone to check on Bobby. He was still curled up in his cot, clutching the stuffed moose Sam had gotten him for Christmas last year. You’d learned quickly that it was his comfort toy, and seeing him holding onto it so tightly made your heart clench.

His green eyes found you instantly, and he climbed to the edge, making grabby hands. His bottom lip jutted out, a clear sign of distress.

You scooped him into your arms without hesitation, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Hey, sweetheart.” Your voice was soft as you ran a soothing hand over his back. Truthfully, you needed the comfort just as much as he did. John was back. Just when you thought life couldn’t get any crazier…

“Where’s Daddy?” Bobby mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“He’s with Uncle Sammy and—” You hesitated. How exactly do you explain to a three-year-old that his grandfather—who’d been dead for over a decade in your timeline—was alive and plucked from another?

Bobby frowned. “I wanna see Daddy.”

His voice wobbled, and that was all it took for your hesitation to crumble. You weren’t sure if barging in with a toddler was the best timing, but Bobby didn’t understand that. Right now, he just wanted his dad.

“Alright.” You kissed his forehead. “Let’s go see him.”

He clung to you as you carried him down the hall, his little fingers curling into your shirt. As you neared the kitchen, low murmurs drifted through the doorway—John’s voice, rough and gravelly, eerily similar to your boyfriends.

“So, you’ve, um… been busy,” John said, amusement laced with something softer.

Before Dean could respond, Bobby stirred in your arms. The second he spotted his father, his whole face lit up.

“Daddy?”

The room fell silent.

Dean turned at the sound of his son’s voice, surprise flickering across his face before his eyes found yours. You mouthed a quick I’m sorry before setting Bobby down.

John’s gaze never left the toddler as he toddled toward Dean, arms reaching up without hesitation. Dean scooped him up with practiced ease, a small, uncertain smile tugging at his lips as Bobby buried his face in his neck.

John let out a slow breath, eyes flicking between you, Dean, and the boy in his son’s arms. His voice was quiet as he added.

“Really busy.”

There was no teasing in his tone. Just awe.

Dean swallowed, bracing himself. He wasn’t sure how John would take this—learning he was a grandfather, seeing a piece of Dean’s life he’d never expected to, but John’s eyes glistened with something unreadable, his throat working around words he couldn’t seem to find. Finally, his gaze softened.

“What’s his name?”

Dean hesitated for just a second before answering, shifting Bobby slightly. “Robert John Winchester.”

John inhaled sharply. His lips parted, but no words came. His gaze flickered between Dean and Bobby, something glassy and overwhelmed in his expression. Then, after a beat, he cleared his throat and reached out, hesitating.

His voice was quieter than before, rough but vulnerable.

“Can I?”

Dean held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

Carefully, he passed Bobby over. John took him like he was made of glass—almost reverently—his arms wrapping securely around his grandson. Bobby, unaware of the weight of the moment, gripped onto John’s shirt with tiny fingers, tilting his head curiously.

John let out a shaky breath, one hand settling on Bobby’s back, the other gently cupping the small boy’s head. A tearful huff escaped him as he whispered, “Hey, little man.”

Bobby blinked up at him, studying his face with quiet curiosity. Then, slowly, his tiny hand reached out, cupping John’s cheek. John froze for a moment, his breath hitching as Bobby assessed him with those big green eyes—the same shade Dean’s had been at that age.

Then, Bobby giggled at the prickle of John’s beard, the sound breaking the heavy air in the room. A small, watery smile pulled at John’s lips as he let out a quiet chuckle, his hold on Bobby tightening just slightly.

You, Dean, and Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

But after a moment, Bobby shifted, his little arms reaching back toward you. Instinctively, you stepped forward, and John, though reluctant, carefully handed him over.

His eyes lingered on you, then flickered to Dean and Bobby—his grandson, his son, this family he had never gotten the chance to know.

His voice was rough with emotion as he admitted, “I just… I just wish I’d been here to see it all.”

Dean’s throat tightened. He knew John wasn’t just talking about Bobby—he was talking about everything. The years they’d spent fighting, losing, surviving. The pain, the victories, all the impossible things that had led them here.

Dean met his father’s eyes, his voice steady when he said, “Dad, none of this would have happened without you.”

John looked at him then, really looked at him, his eyes flicking to you, to the boy in your arms, before landing back on Dean with a soft, knowing smile.

Then, as if needing to ground himself in something familiar, John let out a breathy chuckle. “Well, I went out taking out Yellow Eyes. I mean, that was the point, right? Get the thing that killed Mom.”

The shift was instant. You felt it in the way Dean’s grip on your hand tightened, in the way Sam tensed across the table. The air in the room seemed to still.

He didn’t know.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, the same realisation hitting them both at once.

And then, before anyone could figure out how to tell him, the bunker door creaked open.

“Boys? Y/N?” Mary called out and John’s face twisted in recognition and something deeper.

John turned as she approached, pausing in the doorway, eyes wide, breath catching the second she saw him.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stared. The kind of stare that cut through time, through decades, through life and death itself.

Then John stood and surged forward.

She barely had time to whisper his name before he was there, pulling her into his arms, kissing her like he’d never let her go.

It was raw, desperate, a reunion, decades in the making.

You felt Dean exhale beside you, his grip on your hand loosening as he watched his parents cling to each other like the world had stopped moving.

You met Sam’s gaze, then tipped your head toward the hall. A silent suggestion. He gave a small nod.

You turned back to Dean, giving him the same look, and he sighed before nudging his head toward the hallway.

Giving them this moment was the least you could do.

You followed Sam and Dean out of the kitchen, Bobby tucked securely in your arms. Dean let out a breathless chuckle, running a hand through his hair, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exhilaration.

“It’s Dad,” he murmured, like saying it out loud might make it feel real. His eyes flickered between you and Sam, wide with wonder. “This is amazing. I’m—I’m freaking out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, his own voice tinged with the same stunned disbelief. You met his gaze, both of you thinking the same thing.

Sam turned back to Dean, grounding him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “But Dean—Dean, listen.” His tone was steady, cautious. “How did this happen?”

Dean blinked, still reeling. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, stumbling over the words. He was overwhelmed, barely holding onto the moment, and as much as you loved seeing him like this, you couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your gut. When did anything this good happen without consequences?

“You said the pearl gives you what your heart desires, right?” He continued, looking to Sam for confirmation, who nodded pensively, “so my heart desired—“ He shook his head, trying to articulate it clearly, “I’ve wanted this. Man, I've wanted this since I was four years old.”

Your hold on Bobby tightened, the weight of Dean’s words settling deep in your chest. His gaze lingered on you, desperate and vulnerable, like you were the only one who could truly grasp what this meant to him.

And you did.

Dean had carried this ache his whole life, a longing so deep it had shaped the man he became. How many nights had he wished for just one more moment? One more chance to have his dad back—to have his family whole again?

“Okay, I know,” Sam began, voice softer now, careful. “And I—I love this too, Dean, really I do…” He sighed, not in frustration but in that way that said he knew better. “But messing with time… You know how this ends. Things change—”

“Yeah, great—we got our family back together. I’ll take that change,” Dean interrupted, voice sharp with defensiveness. You could see the way his shoulders tensed, how his jaw clenched like he was bracing for a fight. And damn it, you wanted so badly to agree with him. To ignore the reality Sam was trying to lay out.

“That’s not what I mean—”

“Stop. Just stop, okay?” Dean cut in, his voice tighter now, more upset. He looked between you and Sam, his expression pleading. You knew he wasn’t delusional—just desperate. Desperate to hold onto something that never should’ve been taken from him in the first place.

“Look, can—can we just have one family dinner?” Dean’s voice cracked slightly as he exhaled, his walls barely holding up against the weight of this moment. “Just one. Us—All of us together. That’s all I want. Can you just give me that?”

Before either of you could respond, Dean turned on his heel, walking off, his frustration radiating from every step. He didn’t want to hear the truth. Not now.

And your heart broke for him.

Because even knowing what Sam was saying was right… What was so wrong with just one dinner?

Sam sighed, exasperated, his expression torn. He turned to you, searching for some kind of understanding, and you squeezed his hand gently.

“This means everything to him, Sam,” you murmured, your voice quiet but certain. “Just one dinner can’t hurt, right?” You weren’t just pleading for Dean—you were pleading for both of them. Because you knew how much this meant to Sam, too. Even if he didn’t want to admit it. Even if it hurt to be the one pointing out the reality of it all.

Sam let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Yeah… maybe.” He gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before squeezing your hand back. Then, with a sigh, he kissed Bobby’s head and walked off, leaving you standing there, staring after them—standing in the wake of something you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

You found Dean in your shared room, shrugging on his jacket like he was heading out. He barely looked up at first, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“Hey,” you said quietly, not sure if he still needed space or if he was ready to talk.

Dean hesitated for a second, then glanced your way, his expression softening just a little.

Bobby had started dozing off on the way to the room, his small head resting against your shoulder, warm and heavy with sleep. You carefully lowered him into his cot, tucking the blanket around him. He barely stirred, his little chest rising and falling steadily, completely lost to the world.

A quiet sigh left you as you straightened, only to startle when you felt Dean’s hands slide around your waist from behind. He pulled you in against him, resting his chin on your shoulder as he looked down at Bobby. You felt the deep inhale he took, like he was trying to memorise this moment—like he was afraid to blink and lose it.

When he finally turned you in his arms, his hands found your hips, his forehead pressing to yours in that familiar way that made the world go quiet. You let out a slow breath, your fingers instinctively sliding up his arms before wrapping around his back, holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding onto you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion.

You shook your head, but he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hands tightening on you like he needed you to hear this.

“I really did wish for Michael to be gone,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “But I guess… this just won over that.” His lips pressed together like he still couldn’t believe it, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“My whole family—together again. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And after Bobby was born…” His voice broke just slightly, and he let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering to his sleeping son with something deeper, something that made your heart ache. “God, I wanted it even more.”

You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, bringing him back to you. His stubble scratched against your palm as he leaned into your touch, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment like he was grounding himself in it.

“Dean,” you whispered, aching for him.

He opened his eyes again, searching yours, something pleading in them. “I know the risks,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “But just for tonight… I just wanna pretend.” His fingers traced soft, absentminded circles against your lower back, his forehead still pressed to yours. “Pretend this is how it’s supposed to be.”

Your throat tightened, your chest aching with how much you understood. How could you not? You knew what it meant to him. Knew what it was like to want something so badly it hurt.

So instead of answering, you kissed him.

Soft, slow, tender.

Dean melted into it immediately, his hands gripping you tighter, like he was afraid you might slip away. His lips were warm, familiar, desperate in a way that made you feel like you were the only thing holding him together. You let yourself sink into it, let yourself pour every bit of understanding, every ounce of love into that kiss.

When you finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his forehead dropping against yours once more. His hands lingered at your waist, his thumbs brushing gently over your sides.

“I was just gonna grab a list of ingredients from Mom,” he murmured after a beat, his lips ghosting over yours. “She wants to make dinner.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, your fingers carding through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Then I guess you better go make sure she has everything.”

He smiled against you, but there was something fragile in it, something that made you brush your lips against his one last time before stepping back, your arms slipping from around him reluctantly.

Dean lingered a moment, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, before finally heading for the door.

For tonight, you’d let him have this.

For tonight, you’d pretend too.

After Dean left, you turned to one of your most reliable coping mechanisms—cleaning. If your hands were busy, your mind had less room to spiral.

You started small, straightening the blankets on the bed, smoothing out every wrinkle with practiced hands. You fluffed the pillows next, then folded Dean’s shirt—the one he’d tossed carelessly over the chair earlier. The fabric was warm from the heat of him, smelling like him, like home. You exhaled, a quiet ache settling in your chest.

Then there were Bobby’s tiny socks on the floor. You picked them up, rolling them together, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the weight pressing down on you. It was funny, really. You were standing in the middle of another damn apocalypse, juggling the chaos of archangels and time travel, but here you were, folding laundry like it could anchor you.

But no matter how much you focused on the small, mundane tasks in front of you, the worry still crept in. About what came next. Not just with John but Michael, too.

A sudden knock at the door shattered your thoughts. You flinched slightly, blinking as you turned.

And then you saw him.

John Winchester stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was the same man from the stories—the ones whispered among hunters, the ones Bobby had grumbled about over a glass of whiskey. And yet, he wasn’t.

You knew enough about him to form an opinion. Maybe more than an opinion. You resented him for what he put his boys through, for the way he shaped them into men who never got to just be. And yet... you understood grief. Knew how it could twist a person into something unrecognisable. You had lost Dean before—more than once—and each time, the world blurred at the edges, reality tilting until you weren’t sure how to stand up straight again.

John was staring at you now, his expression unreadable. But something in his eyes—something raw—made your breath hitch.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” His voice was rough, quieter than you expected. He raised a hand, almost apologetic.

You shook your head, straightening. “No, it’s fine.” You set a folded pair of Dean’s jeans on the bed and turned to give him your full attention.

His gaze lingered on the crib. You followed his line of sight, your lips twitching at the edges. You supposed it must be surreal—coming from a time when his sons were much younger, still in the thick of his mission, only to find himself here, where Dean was not just a man, not just a hunter, but a father.

John exhaled, shaking his head slightly. Then, with a small, almost hesitant smile, he looked at you. “You know, I owe you a thank you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For taking care of my boys.” His voice was steady, but you could hear the weight behind it. “For giving Dean something real.”

Your throat tightened.

John glanced at the crib again before meeting your gaze. “I know I should’ve been—could’ve been—a better father to ‘em.” His jaw clenched, his voice thick with something heavy. “But seeing Dean with Bobby... It’s proof of how much better he turned out than I ever could’ve hoped.”

He took a slow step forward, stopping just short of the crib. He didn’t reach for it, didn’t intrude, just stood there, watching his grandson sleep. His fingers curled into his palms at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to be here.

The hardened hunter was gone. In his place was a man who carried the weight of too many regrets.

“You weren’t always a good father,” you admitted, voice even but not unkind. “You did things that left scars. On both of them.”

John nodded, accepting it without argument. He didn’t try to justify himself. Didn’t try to fight you on it.

“But they’re still here,” you continued. “Despite everything, they’re still standing.” You huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “And knowing them, they’d probably say they’re proud to be your sons.”

John’s throat bobbed, his gaze flickering with something close to pain.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.” A beat of silence. “I’m proud to be their father, too.”

For the first time since you met him, you saw it. Not the soldier, not the myth—but the man.

And before either of you could say anything more, the bunker door creaked open.

The boys were back.

“A temporal paradox.”

John repeated the words slowly, almost like he was testing them out, rolling them around in his mind. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, like he couldn’t quite believe it. But that glimmer of amusement was fleeting. The weight of the situation pressed down, the reality of what it all meant sinking in fast.

During Dean and Sam’s trip into town, they were faced with all the reasons why you should never mess with time. It wasn’t just that things were different—it was that if they didn’t undo what Dean had unintentionally wished, they could lose a hell of a lot more.

“That’s what Sam’s calling it.” Dean shook his head, huffing out a small breath. “Egghead.”

John chuckled softly, a flicker of something warm in his expression. But then, as quickly as it came, the smile faded. The truth settled in. He’d suspected as much.

“Basically, uh,” Dean started, exhaling through his nose, like the words were heavier than he expected. “If you don’t go back, Sam never gets into the life, and Mom, she, uh…” He trailed off for a second, his throat tightening.

John’s expression shifted—something sad, something knowing.

“Well, without everything that we did, with God, the Darkness… she never comes back.”

Dean cast his gaze downward, the words pressing into his chest like a tone of bricks. He’d already told you, and you’d left him to have this moment with his father while you tended to a restless Bobby. But saying it now, out loud, made it all feel so much more real.

“And, uh—” His voice wavered, betraying him. John caught it immediately, and his face softened in a way that Dean wasn’t used to.

“What?”

Dean swallowed hard. “I never meet Y/N,” he admitted, voice raw. “And, uh… Bobby is never born.”

John let out a slow breath, nodding in understanding. “Sam thinks they’ll just fade away,” Dean added, his voice barely above a whisper, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

John then looked at him—really looked at him. His mind already made up. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

“Okay.”

Dean blinked, caught a little off guard. “Okay?”

John nodded again, firmer this time. “I mean, me versus your Mom? Your family?” He scoffed slightly, shaking his head. “That’s—That’s not even a choice.”

Dean looked away, but nodded in agreement. Despite how impossible of a choice this was, his heart and soul had already picked you and his son.

John studied him for a long moment, his sharp gaze flickering with understanding before he tilted his head slightly. “Does she know?”

Dean exhaled. “Sam’s telling her now.”

Before anything else could be said, the quiet moment was broken by the sound of tiny, excited babbling from the hall. Bobby.

Dean and John both instinctively turned toward the sound, and despite the weight of everything hanging over them, a small smile pulled at their lips.

“I think that’s your cue,” John chuckled, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

Dean let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

With that, Dean turned, already set on making a beeline for you—until John’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Dean.”

Dean hesitated, glancing back.

“I, uh…” John exhaled slowly. “I never meant for this.”

Dean shook his head immediately. “Dad, we pulled you here.”

“No, son.” John’s voice was steady, unshakable. “My fight. It was supposed to end with me, with Yellow Eyes. But now you—” He trailed off, eyes scanning Dean’s face like he was taking him in for the first time. Like he was seeing just how much his son had lived through, how much he had lost, how much he had become, and Dean held his breath.

“You’re a grown man,” John said, voice quieter now, but no less firm. A small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. “And I am incredibly proud of you.”

Dean swallowed hard.

For years—his whole damn life, really—he had chased those words, hunted them down in every action, every sacrifice, every order he had followed without question. He’d needed them more than he ever wanted to admit.

And now, hearing them…

He didn’t know what the hell to do with them.

John let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I guess I always hoped, eventually, you’d get yourself a normal life. A peaceful one.” His lips twitched in something between amusement and regret. “But you did get a family. And boy, what a wonderful one you got.”

Dean’s chest ached. Not in the painful way it usually did, but in something lighter, something warmer, and he nodded, voice thick. “I really do.”

John placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. His eyes were glassy, his expression proud, happy, even.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before they both let out small chuckles, both clearly not used to this kind of open emotion between them.

John cleared his throat, smiling. “Alright. What’s next?”

Dean patted his dad’s shoulder, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“We eat.”

The library was quiet—too quiet. The usual warmth of the bunker felt dimmed, weighed down by the unspoken grief hanging thick in the air. The large wooden table was set with plates of home-cooked food, a rare sight among the usual takeout containers and beer bottles. Dishes of mashed potatoes, roast chicken, green beans, and cornbread were carefully laid out, though none of it seemed as comforting as it should have been.

At the head of the table, Bobby sat in his high chair, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak surrounding him. He kicked his little feet, happily munching on soft baby carrots, babbling to himself between bites. The sound was a bright contrast to the silence of the adults, their appetites dulled by the weight of what was to come.

Mary sat beside John, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze downcast. Her expression was unreadable—except to those who knew her well. The tight set of her jaw, the slight furrow of her brow, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve—it was grief, raw and quiet. She was trying to hold herself together, but you could see the cracks forming. Your heart ached for her, for all of them.

Dean sat beside you, his posture tense, his grip on his fork loose. Sam sat next to him, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darting between his parents. No one knew what to say.

And then, John cleared his throat.

“Near as I can tell, we have two choices,” he announced, his voice steady but thick with meaning. He looked around the table, making sure each of you heard him. “All right, we can think about what’s coming, or we can be grateful for this time that we have together.”

A smile ghosted his lips as he reached for Mary’s hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The tenderness in his touch, the way she squeezed back with slightly trembling fingers—it was enough to make your throat tighten.

“Now me,” John went on, his voice quieter, but firm, “I choose grateful.”

He lifted Mary’s hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her skin. The small, simple act of love shattered something inside you, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You discreetly wiped it away, exhaling a shaky breath—until you felt Dean’s hand slip into yours under the table.

His grip was firm, grounding, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining—not just with unshed tears, but with love, with quiet adoration. His lips quirked into a barely-there smile, as if to say I’ve got you. And you squeezed his hand back, a silent I know.

John cleared his throat, straightening in his seat. “So, to whatever brought us together,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “We owe you one. Amen.”

You swallowed hard and echoed softly, “Amen.”

John’s gaze landed on you, warm and grateful, before Dean murmured his own amen, followed by Mary and Sam.

And then, as if on cue, Bobby lifted his sippy cup with both hands, grinning as he let out his own version of an, Amen, but without the A. The moment of it—so innocent, so sweet—broke the tension, and laughter rippled through the room, soft but genuine.

Dean chuckled, kissing his son's head, lingering a little before lifting his own beer bottle, and with a glance around the table, everyone followed suit, toasting together.

The warmth lingered long after the laughter had settled, weaving through the quiet moments that followed. Plates clinked softly as forks scraped up the last bites of dinner, the heavy weight of earlier conversations giving way to something lighter—something cherished.

Bobby remained in John’s lap for the rest of dinner, small hands grabbing at whatever was within reach. He giggled happily, his little voice rising and falling as he gestured animatedly, as if telling the most important story in the world. John listened intently, nodding along, his expression soft in a way rarely seen. Mary reached over, brushing Bobby’s soft, blonde hairs from his forehead, her smile tender, her eyes brimming with emotion as she watched her husband and grandson together.

Across the table, you and Dean sat close, his arm draped around you, his thumb moving in slow, absentminded strokes against your shoulder. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he exhaled deeply, soaking it all in. When Bobby let out a bright burst of laughter—pure, unfiltered joy—your heart clenched.

Dean must have felt it too because he pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your temple. When you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes were already on you—shining, full of something deep and unspoken. He didn’t need to say anything. It was all there.

The moment stretched, the low hum of conversation, the occasional bursts of laughter, the soft clatter of dishes—it all melted together into something perfect. Sam leaned back in his chair, watching with quiet amusement as Bobby shoved a piece of bread into John's mouth, earning a chuckle from the older man. Mary shook her head fondly, her fingers tracing small circles on John's forearm.

It was a picture of something rare.

A family—whole, just for now.

The air felt impossibly heavy, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to happen. The time they had borrowed was running out.

John turned to Mary, his eyes soft, glassy with unshed tears. He reached for her, brushing a strand of golden hair behind her ear before cradling her face in his rough hands. "My girl," he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

A choked sound left Mary's throat as she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. They kissed—slow, lingering, as if they could hold back time just a little longer. Your heart clenched as you clutched Bobby closer, rocking him slightly as if to soothe both him and yourself.

When John turned to you, his expression was unreadable for a moment, but then, with a tremble in his voice, he asked, "May I?" He gestured toward Bobby, and your throat tightened as you nodded, tears spilling over. Carefully, you passed your son to him, watching as John pulled Bobby close, pressing his lips to the little boy’s hair.

"I'm so grateful I got to meet you, buddy," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Bobby blinked up at him, small hands reaching out to cup John's scruffy cheeks. The gesture made everyone smile through their tears, the sheer innocence of it grounding them all in the moment. John closed his eyes, pressing another lingering kiss to the top of Bobby's head before exhaling shakily.

When he looked back at you, his expression was serious, but not heavy. There was something lighter in his gaze now, something settled. "You watch out for these boys, yeah?"

You swallowed past the lump in your throat and nodded. "Always."

John lingered, giving Bobby one last kiss before handing him back to you. As you stepped away, Dean's hands found yours, holding tight, grounding you as you passed.

Then, John turned to his sons.

"I'm so proud of you boys," he said, voice breaking, eyes shining as he looked between them. The words hung in the air, sinking in deep, and neither Sam nor Dean could stop the tears from spilling over as they stepped into their father’s embrace. He held them tight, arms wrapped fiercely around them, as if trying to memorise the feeling, as if trying to make up for lost time in a single moment.

You couldn't hold back your own tears as Bobby nuzzled into you, his small arms wrapping around your neck. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he sensed your sadness, and in his own little way, he was comforting you.

John stepped back, his fingers intertwining with Mary’s as he took one last look at his family. His gaze swept over all of you—his boys, his grandson, you—before he nodded, a final acceptance settling in his features.

"Okay," he murmured, squeezing Mary’s hand. "Okay. I'm ready."

Sam hesitated for only a moment before he laid the pearl on the table and then the sharp crack of breaking glass echoed through the quiet space.

Everyone watched in wonder and sadness as John Winchester faded into nothingness.

A heavy silence followed, the air still trembling with his absence. But as the initial grief settled, something else remained—a sense of peace, fragile but real.

And yeah, maybe this wasn’t how things were meant to be. Dean’s wish had rewritten fate. But if it gave them this—a chance to say what had been left unsaid, to mend wounds that had ached for too long—then maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

AN: Okay so this one was a long boi 😅. But I would love to know everyone's thoughts? Did you think this fit well for the request? Also I know John Winchester is a bit of a sensitive topic, not everyone likes him and it's understandable, but I feel I catered more to his human side a little here. Plus this episode was pretty heartbreaking. Anywho I hope you guys enjoyed and thank you anon for the request! 💕

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

Dean Winchester Tag List:

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

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

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

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

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

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

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

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

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

#dean winchester #supernatural #lovely mutuals #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #writing #write on #fellow writers #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester angst #dean winchester's son #dean winchester's child #dean winchester fluff

189 notes · View notes

keoriwnch · 3 days ago

Text

( 🧸 ) — NOT SO: FAST, COWBOY — DEAN WINCHESTER

summary! ── After a grueling hunt, Dean convinces you to take a “quick” break at a roadside motel. What was supposed to be a brief pit stop turns into a day of lounging around, eating junk food, and avoiding the next case. Dean, ever the laid-back guy when he gets the chance, uses the opportunity to slow down and take a much-needed break from hunting. As the hours pass, you find yourself giving in to the comfort of doing absolutely nothing—aside from teasing Dean, of course. What was once a practical decision turns into a day of unexpected relaxation and stolen moments of peace amidst the chaos of life on the road.

notes! ─ Focuses on the quieter moments in Dean’s life, highlighting his need for a break from the endless hunting. The story will explore the playful, teasing dynamic between the reader and Dean. The chemistry between the reader and Dean will be more lighthearted and fun, without the pressure of saving the world. Can include moments of light-hearted banter, cuddling, and quiet bonding over simple pleasures like junk food and a movie marathon.

warnings! ─ Mild language and suggestive content (but no explicit scenes). Lighthearted teasing and playful romance. Some fluff and banter, but no heavy angst.

( 🧸 ) — WORD COUNT: 649

The Impala hummed softly as it cruised down the highway, the only light from the moon reflecting off the chrome as you both drove through the quiet night. After a long, exhausting hunt, the last thing Dean wanted was to jump straight into another one. But the next town was still a few hours away, and the exhaustion on his face was enough to make you agree when he suggested a stop.

A run-down motel with a flickering neon sign appeared ahead, and Dean pulled into the parking lot, his tired eyes glancing over to you.

“Quick stop,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I need some sleep.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sleep? You’ve been saying that all week.”

“Yeah, well, today’s different. I’m taking a break, whether the world likes it or not,” he grinned, half-heartedly as he parked the Impala. You knew better than to argue with Dean when he had his mind made up, so you followed him inside the motel, both of you barely even unpacking before flopping onto the bed.

Dean stretched out dramatically, groaning as his muscles protested. “I swear, hunting’s taking years off my life.”

You flopped beside him, propping your head on your hand. “You make it sound like you’ve been through a warzone.”

He looked over at you with a lazy smirk, his green eyes twinkling in the dim light. “Well, when you’re constantly fighting monsters and saving the world, it starts to feel that way.”

You chuckled, but the humor faded as you saw the exhaustion on his face. It wasn’t often you got to see him this vulnerable, and it made you soften. The tough exterior Dean carried with him every day was cracking now, revealing a man who was just… tired. Tired of the hunting, the constant moving, and the never-ending battle against the supernatural.

“We’re staying here, huh?” you asked, trying to shift the mood.

“Yeah, unless you’ve got some grand plans for a new hunt?” Dean’s tone was playful, but you could tell he wasn’t interested.

You stretched lazily and rolled over, pulling the covers up to your chin. “I think a nap sounds like the best idea right now.”

Dean gave a mock gasp. “A nap? That’s your big idea? How about some pizza and a movie marathon?”

“You’re really making this a vacation, huh?”

Dean shot you a half-smile, already digging around for his phone. “Why not? We’ve earned it. Plus, who needs sleep when you’ve got junk food and a classic John Wayne film marathon?”

A playful laugh escaped you. “Alright, fine, we can have our own little vacation. But if we’re doing this, you’re staying awake long enough to watch at least one movie.”

Dean flopped back onto the bed dramatically, sighing. “One movie. After that, I’m out.”

You shook your head, chuckling as he began ordering pizza, never one to miss an opportunity for food. As the evening passed, the two of you sank into the lazy routine you both needed. Dean finally let his guard down, relaxing enough to joke, tease, and even fall asleep halfway through a western.

When the pizza arrived, the two of you settled in front of the TV, food in hand, neither of you saying much. The quiet comfort of being together was enough. Dean had the rare opportunity to be just a man and not a hunter, and you relished in it—because, for once, you weren’t rushing to save anyone or fight monsters. You were simply enjoying the silence, with Dean’s soft snores in the background.

You glanced over at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. His exhaustion had turned into contentment, the weight of the world temporarily lifted off his shoulders. You couldn’t help but feel grateful for this small, quiet moment between the chaos.

And maybe, just maybe, this would become more than just a “quick stop.”

Thank you for reading! ─── I hope this story brought a little light and warmth to your day. If you enjoyed it, feel free to leave a note, reblog, or share your thoughts. Your feedback means the world to me and helps keep the magic of storytelling alive. Stay safe, be kind, and see you in the next tale. <3 - keori

#✽ sfw !#supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural aesthetic #spn aesthetic #spn #spn fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #castiel x you #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester fanfiction #spn fic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester aesthetic #dean winchester fluff #camera roll fanfiction #camera roll fic

100 notes · View notes

impala-dreamer · 3 days ago

Text

Take A Break - Dean x Reader 🔥

A Supernatural Story

~Laundry can be annoying and overwhelming, so it's important to take breaks now and then...~

Dean Winchester x F!Reader

1502 Words

Warnings: NSFW ... just smut. PWP. Fun times in the laundry room | originally published to patron July 2023

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

You hear footsteps but don’t turn around. There’s work to be done, chores to be completed, socks to be sorted and paired.

How two men could have so many damned white socks was beyond your comprehension. Worse, they all looked the same. Sure, Sam’s were a little bigger, but mostly they were identical. At least Dean had a few novelty pairs- a shamrock-covered set, one with hearts and puppies, and one with noodles all over them. Those were easy to pick out of the massive white pile on the table, but the rest? It all gave you a headache.

The footsteps come closer and the heavy scent of an afternoon spent with a six-pack floods your system. Sweat and beer and just a little lingering smoke wash over you and you close your eyes, savoring it.

Still, you refuse to turn around.

The buzzer for the dryer sounds and with your back to him, you pivot to attend to the machine. Bending over at the waist, you wiggle your ass just a bit, showing off your ample backside in the tight shorts as you pull a mess of undershirts from the dryer.

You hear his breath catch as you straighten up and heap the warm cotton onto the table. Just to be a brat, you lean all the way over, stretching your naked calves and thighs as you spread the clothing out.

He growls behind you and slips in close. Big hands slide around your waist and in an instant, he’s right up against you, pulling you back. His left hand snakes up to your breast, squeezing hard. You gasp and straighten up, falling back a bit against his firm chest.

“You been workin’ hard in here,” he whispers, breath hot on your neck, lips even hotter as they land beneath your ear. “Wanna take a quick break?”

As always, Dean’s deep, raspy voice shoots through your head and down to your pussy, setting every nerve on fire. A little arch of your back presses your ass against his cock and you can feel it twitch, growing harder and harder.

“With you?” you tease, rolling your hips back over him. “I guess I could spare five minutes…”

His tongue darts out to trace the shell of your ear. “Gonna need more than five, princess.”

Letting go against him, you lift a hand to cradle the back of his head, holding him to you. “I guess I could give you ten.” Your nails scrape over his scalp and he moans.

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing both your tits and thrusting his hips into your ass. “I can work with that.”

He doesn’t turn you around, doesn’t change his speed, still humping your ass while his fingers sneak down the front of your top and into your bra. Your nipples harden under his touch and your head rolls back against his shoulder.

“Fuck, Dean…”

He grins against your cheek and pulls the fabric down off your tits, exposing them to the open air. “That’s the plan.” His left hand stays there, toying with each nipple in turn while the right falls down your body, tucking into your shorts. “No panties today, huh?” His middle finger brushes over your cunt and you shudder.

“It’s… laundry day… Fuck!”

He’s knuckle deep, swirling inside, gathering up your slick. Every pump makes your body twitch, your temperature rise. You can feel him rock hard against your cheeks, and you grip the back of his neck hard, wanting him inside of you.

“Please, Dean… need you.”

He hums, hungry and focused. “Want you to cum for me first.” He presses two wet fingers aside your clit and the colors burst brighter in your vision. “Get you all nice and wet and needy before I fuck you.”

A pathetic moan pushes out from your lips and you grind down on his thick fingers. “Think I’m already there.”

His teeth scrape at your pulse. “Not yet…”

A quick flick of his wrist changes his positioning just so and your hands fly down to clasp his wrist. He drives his fingers into you and slams his palm against your clit, rubbing, teasing, driving you wild. Your neck gives out and your head falls forward, eyes closed and rolling, mouth dropping with a silent cry. He takes advantage, kissing and sucking and biting at your shoulders and neck, stirring up even more arousal within you.

Dean’s breath quickens; he can feel you getting closer to climax as your body tightens on his fingers. He chuckles deeply. “That’s it, pretty girl… gonna cum so hard for me aren’t you?”

A nod is all you can manage and it’s almost as if the movement sends you over. Just as soon as you agree to it, you’re cumming, trembling against him and leaking all over his hand.

“Good girl…”

His approval vibrates through you, but there’s no time to relish it. In a flash, he’s got you in his arms, spinning you around and yanking the shorts down your legs. Strong arms prop you up on the table edge, the wood digging into your ass with just a bite of discomfort. Dean drops down to lick into your mouth, moaning lustfully while you fumble with his jeans.

You can taste the beer on his tongue, the salt on his lips; his heat flows into you and you feel your pussy clench again, begging for him.

“Need you so bad, Dean- fuck-”

He pushes back and smirks while tugging the denim off his hips. It falls down to his knees and stays there, just gone enough to do some damage.

You lay back against the warm laundry and watch as he strokes himself, using your slick wetness as lubricant. He sucks his teeth, narrows his gaze; dark green eyes settling on your body.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” His lip curls into a possessive sneer and you can’t help but melt a little more. “Fucking stunning.”

Your teeth sink shly into your bottom lip and your cheeks flush with heat. “You don’t have to sweet talk me, Winchester. I’m all ready to go-”

His hands grip under your thighs and spread them wide, opening you up as he fits his hips in between. “Damn right, you are.” He holds his breath as he sinks inside. His eyelids flutter as your body squeezes around him, locking him in. “Fucking hell, baby- you’re so tight.”

Sitting up a bit, you fist his flannel and tug him down closer. “Always for you, Dean,” you whisper, breath close to a pant as the pleasure rises through your body. You lick at his lips and draw in into a deep kiss. “Fuck me… hard…”

Sliding a hand around the nape of his neck, you hold his lips against yours while he pulls out slowly. You whimper and kiss him again, nails digging into the velvet-soft hairs at the back of his head.

“Do it,” you beg, “please-”

A snap of his hips forces a clipped moan from you and you hold on, one hand on his neck, the other on his shoulder. He grips your hips and grinds into you, thrusting and churning and making you tremble.

It doesn’t take long before he’s shuddering against you; his brow tense, shoulders tight. He jerks into you at an ever-quickening pace and lets out a grunt with each thrust. You lock your legs around his waist and squeeze, drawing him in even deeper.

His jaw drops, eyes shut tight. Everything stops for a brief moment as he hits his orgasm. You feel him pulse inside, and then he moves again, jerking slowly a few more times, emptying into you.

Dean falls forward, head landing in the crook of your neck. He’s damp with sweat, panting and half laughing at the last pings of pleasure that shoot through him.

“That was awesome,” he grins, full weight crushing you into the table.

You squirm beneath him and give his shoulder a push. “It was, but you’re smushing me…”

Dean laughs and cuddles closer. “Don’t care… need you.”

You pet his head, smoothing his hair down, and kiss his forehead. “Yes, but I can’t move… or breathe,” you whisper.

Again, he laughs gently and sits up, leaving a kiss on your cheek before standing. Another wave of arousal hits you as he pulls out and you wonder if he’ll be ready for more after dinner.

Dean’s already tugging up his jeans before you can clear your head enough to stand upright. He flashes a smile and licks his lips.

“Thanks for the sex,” he quips, cock eyebrow lift making you roll your eyes.

Playfully, you toss a balled-up pair of socks at him, hitting him in the chest. “You jerk.”

He winks, tosses it right back, and slinks away back down the hall, just as quiet as he came.

Annoyed, you gasp at his departure and pout at the pile of messed up laundry on the table. “You could have at least helped me sort!”

2025 Tag List:

@1313diana @alwaystiredandconfused @caplanbuckybarnes @cevenasdove-baby @cosicas-cuquis

@deans-spinster-witch @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @illicithallways

@impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @jtink27 @justwhisperingfantasies @k-slla

@luvr4miya @lyarr24 @mariekoukie6661 @mistressofallthingsgeeky @mxtansy

@nightxcreature @peytongoose @shadyloveobject @somebrokeartstudent @the-wounded-healer05

@zepskies

Add Yourself To The List

#dean winchester x you #dean/you #dean winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #one shot

126 notes · View notes

lila-lou · 2 days ago

Text

✨The smarter choice - 8/8✨

Summary: The pull was undeniable—every glance, every touch, a spark. Dean was everything you shouldn’t want, yet resistance was futile.

Pairing: Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 9482

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

The door creaked open, and there you were, standing in the doorway in tiny shorts that left little to the imagination and a snug little top that clung to your figure. True to form, you weren’t wearing a bra, and the sight of you standing there, looking so effortlessly gorgeous, sent a bolt of heat through Dean’s already frayed nerves.

You crossed your arms over your chest, an unintentional motion that only emphasized the curves beneath your snug top. Dean’s resolve to keep his eyes on your face faltered, and for a brief moment, his gaze dropped before snapping back up. But the damage was done. His cheeks flushed faintly, and the confident words he’d rehearsed in the Impala dissolved like smoke.

His mouth opened, then closed, his usual charm and swagger completely failing him. For a man who faced monsters without flinching, standing in front of you, looking as effortlessly stunning as you did, left him utterly speechless.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in your eyes despite the uncertainty still lingering there. “Dean?”, you prompted, your voice tinged with curiosity and a touch of impatience. “You planning on saying something, or are you just going to stare all night?”.

Dean blinked, snapping out of his daze, though his tongue felt tied in knots. “Uh—yeah, I…”. He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a shaky breath. “I had this whole speech planned. You know, something smooth. But now…”.

“Now?”, you pressed, your tone softening just slightly.

Dean sighed, his green eyes locking onto yours, and for once, there was no smirk, no teasing grin. Just raw honesty. “Now I’m standing here like an idiot because everything I wanted to say feels like it’s not enough”.

"You’re balls grew too heavy, huh?”, you grumbled, your voice sharp with hurt as you crossed your arms even tighter over your chest. “I mean, you ghosted me for what? A week? After leaving right after you fucked me, not responding to my text? Even if it’s just something casual, Dean, a little heads up wouldn’t have killed you”.

Dean flinched at your words, his green eyes darting away briefly as guilt washed over his face. He shifted his weight, looking like he’d rather be facing down a pack of vampires than having this conversation. “I didn’t mean to—”, he started, but his voice faltered when he saw the look on your face.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to try to explain himself. He sighed heavily, awkwardly gesturing with his broken arm with a slight wince. “I had a case”, he mumbled, his voice strained. “Things… got messy”.

“Oh, really?”, you shot back, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you gestured at his arm. “And I guess the case also broke your ability to send a single text, huh? Something like, ‘Hey, I’m alive, but busy?’ Would that have been so hard?”.

Dean winced again, this time not just from the pain in his arm. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I screwed up”, he admitted finally, his voice low and rough. “I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you space”.

“Space?”, you repeated, incredulous. “Dean, I didn’t ask for space. I asked for some goddamn respect. You don’t just vanish on someone you’re… whatever this is with”.

“I know”, he said, his voice softening as he took a tentative step closer to you. “You’re right. I screwed up. And I’m sorry”.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head as you looked away from him. “You can’t just waltz in here, say sorry, and expect everything to be okay”.

Dean sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he looked at you, clearly at a loss for words. His hand moved instinctively, gently sliding around your waist. His touch was tentative, almost hesitant, but the size of his hand against you made you feel smaller, softer, despite the fire still burning in your chest.

“C´mon, sweetheart”, he mumbled, his voice low and coaxing as his thumb brushed against your side. “Don’t be like this”.

You glared up at him, your lips parting to snap back, but the vulnerability in his green eyes gave you pause. He wasn’t just trying to smooth things over—he was trying to save something he thought he’d already lost.

Dean pulled you a little closer, his grip still gentle, as if giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to. His face was inches from yours now, and the warmth of him, the familiar scent of leather and aftershave, was intoxicating. “I missed you”, he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the sincerity in it hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your breath hitched, your resolve wavering as his words lingered in the air. You wanted to hold onto your anger, to make him understand how much he’d hurt you, but the way he looked at you—with a mix of guilt, longing, and something deeper—made it so damn hard.

“Dean…”, you started, your voice trembling, but he cut you off, his hand moving to cup your cheek.

“I mean it”, he said, his tone firm but soft. His thumb brushed against your skin, his green eyes locking onto yours. “I screwed up. I know I did. But don’t think for a second that I didn’t miss you. Every damn day”.

Your chest tightened, your anger melting under the weight of his confession. You searched his face, looking for any hint of dishonesty, but all you saw was raw, unfiltered emotion. It made your heart ache, even as a small part of you tried to resist.

“Then why didn’t you just say something?”, you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, his forehead leaning closer to yours, as if the weight of his own thoughts was too much to bear. He took a shaky breath, his hand still cradling your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I’m just an idiot”, he whispered, his voice low and rough. “An idiot that can’t get you out of his head".

The rawness in his words struck something deep inside you, unraveling the anger you’d held onto like a shield. You could see the conflict in his green eyes when they finally opened again—the struggle between wanting to tell you everything and the fear that it wouldn’t be enough.

You sighed deeply, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket. The vulnerability in his voice, the way his green eyes searched yours for any sign of forgiveness—it all made your chest ache. But you couldn’t keep standing there, tangled in emotions without an outlet.

You took a small step back, gently pulling away from his touch. His hand lingered in the air for a moment before dropping to his side, his expression shifting to something unreadable. Without saying a word, you turned and pulled the door open wide, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“You’re paying for pizza”, you grumbled, your tone half-annoyed, half-teasing.

Dean blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion before a small, relieved smile crept onto his lips. He let out a soft chuckle, scratching the back of his neck as he stepped inside. “Yeah, alright”, he said, his voice lighter than it had been all night. “Fair enough”.

You closed the door behind him, shaking your head as you tried to ignore the flutter in your chest. It wasn’t forgiveness—not entirely—but it was something. A start. And right now, that was enough.

Dean glanced around your apartment, his hands in his pockets as he tried to act casual, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “You want the usual?”, he asked, shooting you a sideways look.

“Extra cheese”, you replied, heading toward the kitchen to grab a couple of beers. You didn’t look back at him, but you could feel his gaze on you, warm and steady.

When you returned with the beers, Dean had already grabbed his phone, dialing the number for your favorite pizza place. As he placed the order, you sat down on the couch, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your knees. You weren’t sure what the rest of the night would bring, but for now, you’d take this small, fragile peace.

The pizza barely had time to cool down before the inevitable happened.

What started as a playful exchange—a teasing comment here, a sly look there—quickly spiraled into something far more intense. Dean’s hands, calloused but oh-so-gentle, found their way to your waist as you passed him a beer. A smirk tugged at his lips, his green eyes darkening as he leaned closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. That was all it took.

Moments later, you found yourself pressed against the wall, Dean’s lips devouring yours with a hunger that sent a thrill racing down your spine. His hands roamed your body, exploring every inch as if memorizing the way you felt beneath him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as a soft moan escaped your lips, spurring him on.

The next thing you knew, he had you on the couch, your back arching as he kissed his way down your neck, his name tumbling from your lips. Every touch, every kiss, every rough and whispered "Fuck, I missed you", set your skin on fire.

When he flipped you onto your stomach, his body pressing into yours as he trailed kisses along your shoulder, you felt yourself trembling beneath him. "You drive me crazy," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with need. And as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him, you gasped his name again, breathless.

But Dean wasn’t done. The living room was just the beginning.

By the time you made it to the bedroom, your body was spent, yet every touch reignited that burning desire. He had you on top of him, his hands guiding your movements, his low groans of pleasure mixing with your breathless cries. "That’s it, sweetheart", he rasped, his voice strained but full of praise. "Just like that".

Every position, every moment, was a dance of passion and desperation, neither of you able to get enough. By the time you were lying in front of him on your knees, his hands on your waist as he pulled you back into him with each thrust, your legs were trembling, and your voice was hoarse from crying out his name.

"Dean", you moaned, your head falling back as you gave yourself completely to him, every nerve alight and every ounce of tension replaced by pure, unfiltered pleasure. He groaned in response, his grip tightening as his pace quickened, chasing both of you toward the edge.

When you finally collapsed onto the bed, your chest heaving and your body trembling in the aftermath, Dean fell beside you, his own breathing ragged. His hand reached for yours, lacing your fingers together as the quiet settled around you.

"Still mad at me?", he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

You laughed softly, too spent to argue. "Ask me tomorrow".

Dean smirked at your breathless response, his green eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Well”, he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, “that means I didn’t do my job good enough”.

Before you could process his words, Dean was already shifting, trailing kisses down your stomach as he moved lower. His strong hands gently nudged your thighs apart, spreading them wide despite your soft whine of protest.

“Dean”, you whimpered, your voice tinged with exhaustion and the dull ache of overstimulation. “I’m so—”.

“Shh”, he cut you off, his hands gripping your thighs firmly but tenderly. “I’ll be gentle. Promise”. His voice was a soothing rasp, but the hungry look in his eyes betrayed his restraint. “Just let me take care of you, sweetheart”.

His lips pressed soft kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, making you shiver despite the soreness radiating through your body. He didn’t rush, didn’t push you too far, instead letting his tongue and lips work their magic with slow, deliberate care. The heat of his mouth, combined with the pressure of his hands keeping you steady, made your head spin.

“Dean…”, you gasped, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he pressed a kiss right where you were most sensitive. The tenderness in his movements made you ache in a different way—not just physically but emotionally, as if he were pouring everything he couldn’t say into every touch.

“You’re so damn perfect”, he muttered against your skin, his voice reverent as he buried his face between your thighs. His tongue moved languidly, teasing you with soft, featherlight strokes before he pressed a little harder, making you whimper as the tension built again, slow and steady.

Despite your soreness, your body responded to him almost instantly, your hips twitching involuntarily as his mouth worked wonders. He hummed softly, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through you. “Let me hear you, sweetheart”, he murmured, his words muffled against you.

You couldn’t stop the moans slipping from your lips, your hands gripping the sheets tighter as he coaxed you closer and closer to the edge, his pace never faltering. Every stroke of his tongue, every gentle squeeze of his hands, was designed to drive you wild, to show you just how much he cared without needing words.

When your body finally gave in, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave, Dean didn’t stop. He stayed with you, his lips and tongue working you through every last tremor, his hands holding you steady as you fell apart beneath him.

As your breathing slowed and the haze of pleasure began to clear, Dean pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening and his green eyes full of satisfaction. “Better?”, he asked, his smirk softening into a tender smile.

You could only nod, too spent to speak, but the look in your eyes said it all. Dean leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before collapsing beside you on the bed.

Dean pulled you close, his arm wrapping securely around you while you instinctively shifted, careful not to press against his broken arm. He winced slightly as he adjusted, but his grip on you didn’t falter. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions he’d been holding back all week.

You nestled against him, your fingers brushing lightly over the uninjured side of his chest, the quiet between you soothing. But as you tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes flicked to his bruised and bandaged arm. Concern clouded your expression, and you whispered softly, “You should go to the hospital with that, Dean”.

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he tightened his grip on you slightly. “I’ll be fine”, he muttered, his voice warm but dismissive. “Just need a little time, that’s all”.

You frowned, your hand resting gently on his chest. “Dean, a broken arm isn’t something you just shake off”.

He tilted his head down to meet your gaze, his green eyes filled with affection and a hint of amusement. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”, he teased, though his voice carried more tenderness than usual.

You rolled your eyes, giving him a pointed look as your fingers traced lightly over his uninjured chest. “Of course I’m worried about you”, you said, your tone a mix of exasperation and genuine concern. “Do you have any idea how stubborn you are?”.

Dean smirked, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. “I’ve heard rumors”, he quipped, though the slight wince that followed gave away the pain he was trying to downplay.

You huffed, shaking your head as you pushed yourself up slightly, your gaze flicking back to his bandaged arm. “This isn’t funny, Dean. You need to take care of yourself. What happens if it gets worse?”.

Dean reached up with his good hand, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek as his smirk softened into something more affectionate. “Then I’ll have you to yell at me some more”, he said, his voice low and teasing. “Pretty good deal, if you ask me”.

You narrowed your eyes at him, though you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible”.

“And yet, here you are”, Dean shot back, his grin widening as he tugged you back down against his chest. “Guess I’m doing something right”.

You sighed, resting your head against him again, though the worry in your chest didn’t ease. “Fine”, you muttered, your voice muffled against his skin. “But if I have to drag your ass to the hospital myself, I will”.

Dean chuckled, the sound rumbling beneath your ear. “Noted”, he murmured, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “But for now, can we just stay like this? Just for a little while?”.

You smiled softly, letting yourself relax into his warmth despite the lingering worry. “Alright”, you whispered. “Just for a little while”.

And as you lay there, wrapped in his arms, you felt the weight of the world slip away, if only for a moment.

For the next two weeks, Dean stayed every night, a constant presence that both surprised and comforted you. He didn’t vanish in the morning anymore, didn’t leave you guessing or questioning what you were to him. Instead, he was there when you woke up, holding you close, his warmth and touch a quiet reassurance of something unspoken between you.

This morning was no different—except it was Dean who woke first.

It was just after eight, though you were still deeply asleep after he’d worn you out completely until four in the morning. Dean, however, was wide awake, his green eyes watching you with a mixture of affection and desire. He couldn’t help himself as he leaned in, his lips finding the soft skin of your neck, pressing open-mouthed, lingering kisses along the curve. His tongue flicked out gently, tasting your skin, his stubble adding a delicious roughness that had you stirring beneath him.

He didn’t stop there. His kisses trailed lower, down to your shoulder, his hands already moving to cup your bare breasts. His palms were warm and firm, his thumbs brushing over your nipples with just enough pressure to draw a soft, sleepy moan from your lips.

You stirred, your breath hitching as you slowly woke to the heat of his mouth and the teasing movements of his hands. “Dean…”, you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep, your body instinctively arching toward his touch.

“Morning, sweetheart”, he rumbled against your skin, his voice low and gravelly, sending a shiver through you. His lips continued their journey, trailing lower as his hands kneaded gently, coaxing you further out of your sleepy haze.

You let out a breathy laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair as you shifted beneath him. “Didn’t we just…?”, you whispered, your words trailing off into a soft gasp as his mouth found a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone.

Dean chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Guess I didn’t wear you out enough”, he teased, his hands sliding lower, over the curve of your waist and hips. “But don’t worry—I plan on fixing that”.

Before you could respond, he shifted, his body pressing closer to yours as his lips captured yours in a heated kiss. His touch was unrelenting, his movements deliberate, and any lingering traces of sleep quickly dissolved under the intensity of his attention.

“Dean”, you breathed again, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and surrender as his hand slid between your thighs, already coaxing you back to the edge of bliss.

“Yeah, sweetheart”, he murmured against your lips, his green eyes dark with desire as he grinned down at you. “I’m not done with you yet”.

After the shower, you sat cross-legged on your bed, a towel wrapped around you as you texted your best friend. She’d been your confidant through everything, from the day you met Dean to the rollercoaster of emotions that followed. You blushed softly as you typed, recounting the past two weeks—the way Dean had been staying, holding you, and how different it felt compared to anything you’d experienced before.

A soft smirk crossed your lips as you sent the message, but you quickly dropped your phone when Dean emerged from the bathroom. His towel hung low on his hips, the droplets of water trailing down his chest making your blush deepen.

“Who you texting that’s got you all flustered like that?”, Dean asked, his voice low and teasing as he ran a hand through his damp hair. His green eyes sparkled with curiosity, and his smirk hinted at just how much he enjoyed catching you off guard.

Your cheeks burned, and you quickly flipped your phone face-down on the bed. “No one”, you mumbled, your voice a little too quick, betraying your attempt to sound casual. Before he could press further, you stood and stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his lips to distract him. “I’m making coffee”, you whispered against his mouth before slipping out of his grasp and heading toward the door.

Dean stayed back, shaking his head slightly as he watched you go, a grin playing on his lips. He moved to grab his clothes, pulling on his boxers and jeans. As he reached for his shirt, though, the soft ping of your phone caught his attention.

He hesitated, glancing at the door to make sure you weren’t about to walk back in. Curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up your phone, the screen lighting up to show the notification.

A text from your best friend: “Yeah, the dumb ones always fucking you raw“.

Dean stared at your phone, the words on the screen glaring back at him like a slap to the face. The phrase “the dumb ones always fucking you raw” played over and over in his mind, and for a moment, he just stood there, his jaw tightening as he processed it.

Dumb.

Was that really how you saw him? The word felt heavier than it should, loaded with every insecurity he’d buried deep down for weeks now. Sure, you’d said it before…Sam being the smarter one, and yeah, he wasn’t exactly a walking encyclopedia like his brother, but dumb? That stung. Badly.

Dean set the phone back on the bed with an almost deliberate care, his mind spinning. He wasn’t a genius, sure. But he wasn’t stupid either. He could piece together cases, track supernatural threats, keep himself and Sam alive through sheer grit and experience. Hell, he’d practically raised his brother while hunting monsters. But this? This made him feel like all of that didn’t matter.

He ran a hand down his face, muttering under his breath as he tried to shake off the feeling. “It’s just a joke”, he said to himself, though the words felt hollow. But no matter how much he tried to brush it off, the weight of the word lingered.

When you came back into the room with two steaming mugs of coffee, your smile faltered slightly as you saw the tightness in his jaw and the way his shoulders were squared, like he was bracing himself for something.

“You okay?”, you asked, setting the mugs down on the nightstand and moving closer to him.

Dean glanced at you, his green eyes dark and unreadable, before forcing a faint smirk onto his lips. “Yeah, peachy”, he said, though his tone didn’t carry its usual charm.

You frowned, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”, you pressed, your voice soft. "Something happend?".

Dean watched you for a long second, his green eyes searching your face as if trying to decide whether to say something or let it go. Finally, he shook his head, forcing a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah”, he mumbled, his voice gruff. “Everything’s fine”.

Before you could press him further, he leaned down and kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for just a moment too long. Then he straightened up, grabbing his shirt from the back of the chair and tugging it over his head. He reached for one of the mugs of coffee you’d set down, wrapping his hands around it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You frowned, watching him carefully. Something was off—you could feel it in the tension radiating from him—but Dean had always been good at deflecting, at hiding what was really going on beneath the surface. You wanted to push, but you also didn’t want to risk making things worse.

“I’ll see you tonight?”, you asked softly, searching his face for any sign of what was bothering him.

Dean nodded, his smirk softening just slightly. “Yeah”, he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll be around”.

You hesitated, but eventually nodded, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before grabbing your bag and heading out the door for work. The sound of the door closing echoed through the quiet apartment, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

He sat there for a moment, staring into the black surface of the coffee in his mug. The words from your phone flashed in his mind again, and the knot in his chest tightened. Letting out a sharp breath, he set the mug down on the counter and grabbed his jacket.

Dean didn’t waste any time as he left your apartment, heading straight for the Impala. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he gripped the steering wheel tightly, the leather creaking under his fingers. He didn’t know exactly what he was feeling—hurt, anger, frustration.

With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, he started the engine and pulled out onto the road, heading back to the bunker. The drive was quiet, the rumble of Baby’s engine the only sound as Dean tried to push the thoughts out of his head.

But they wouldn’t go away. Not this time. Not when it felt like all those old insecurities he’d buried over the last few weeks were bubbling back to the surface.

By the time he reached the bunker, his jaw was tight and his hands ached from gripping the wheel. He parked Baby in the garage and sat there for a moment, his heart pounding as he tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.

He didn’t have an answer. But he knew he couldn’t face you until he did.

As the evening settled in, you found yourself in the kitchen, carefully stirring the pot of pasta sauce you’d decided to make. Cooking wasn’t usually your thing, but tonight, you wanted to do something special—something Dean might appreciate. The idea of him walking through your door, teasing you about your newfound domestic streak before digging into a meal you’d actually made, brought a small smile to your face.

But as the minutes ticked by, your smile faded. The clock on the wall showed that Dean was already running late. He’d never been the punctual type, but he was consistent—always showing up within a certain window. You tried not to let the unease creeping into your chest take hold. Maybe he was just stuck on something or running errands.

Finally, you grabbed your phone and sent a quick text: “Hey, when are you coming over? Food’s ready”.

You set the phone down on the counter, your heart sinking as the seconds stretched into minutes with no reply. You busied yourself with the finishing touches on the meal, checking your phone every few moments until, finally, it pinged with a response.

Dean’s message was short and to the point: “Can’t make it tonight. Got an important case in Texas”.

Your stomach sank as you stared at the screen, reading and rereading the message. It was so unlike him, so abrupt. He hadn’t even mentioned he was leaving town, let alone for a case.

You typed back, trying to keep your tone light despite the growing weight in your chest: “Texas? Since when? Thought you’d give me a heads-up”.

A few minutes passed before his reply came in: “Sorry. Came up last minute. I’ll call you when I can”.

The disappointment hit you hard, though you told yourself it shouldn’t. You weren’t his girlfriend, not officially. Dean wasn’t the kind of guy who made promises or stuck to plans. But after the last two weeks, after how he’d been showing up for you—staying the night, holding you close—it felt like you’d turned a corner. Like maybe this was something more.

You set your phone down and sighed, staring at the meal you’d prepared with care. The table was set, candles lit, everything perfect. But now, the apartment felt achingly empty.

“It’s fine”, you muttered to yourself, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “It’s not like you had expectations”.

Still, the sting of his absence lingered, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the unsettling ache of being alone.

The evening dragged on as you sat in your quiet kitchen, the food on the table growing cold. You picked at your plate, but every bite felt heavy, tasteless. The glow of the candles, which had once seemed warm and inviting, now felt hollow and out of place.

Your phone sat beside you, screen dark and unyielding. Dean hadn’t texted again, and the last message—“I’ll call you when I can”—played in your mind like a cruel echo. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal. He’d been clear from the beginning that this thing between you was casual, undefined. But the way he’d held you, kissed you, whispered how much he missed you—it felt like so much more. And now? Now it felt like he’d pulled back again, retreating into the walls he’d always kept so tightly around himself.

After an hour of sitting in silence, you blew out the candles and cleared the table, shoving the untouched leftovers into the fridge. The apartment felt stifling, so you grabbed your jacket and went for a walk, hoping the cool night air would clear your head. But even as you wandered the quiet streets, your thoughts kept circling back to Dean.

Why had he been so short, so abrupt? Something didn’t sit right, but you didn’t know if it was your insecurities talking or if there really was something he wasn’t telling you.

By the time you got home, the ache in your chest had dulled into a numb kind of sadness. You showered, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, replaying every moment of the past two weeks in your mind.

Meanwhile, Dean sat in the bunker’s library, nursing a glass of whiskey as he stared at his phone. The screen was dark, but your name sat at the top of his messages, the text you’d sent still unanswered. He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting as the silence stretched on.

“Texas”, he muttered to himself, the lie tasting bitter even now. He wasn’t in Texas. There was no case. But what was he supposed to do? Tell you the truth? That he’d read the text from your friend, let his insecurities spiral, and now didn’t know how to face you without feeling like an idiot?

He took another sip of whiskey, the burn doing little to chase away the hollow feeling in his chest. He wanted to see you, wanted to tell you that he missed you more than he could put into words, but the fear of not being enough—of screwing this up—kept him rooted to the spot.

Sam walked into the room, glancing at Dean with a raised eyebrow. “Still drinking?”, he asked, his tone light but curious. “Thought you’d be halfway to her place by now”.

Dean shot him a look, his green eyes sharp. “Not in the mood, Sammy”.

Sam didn’t press, but the knowing glance he gave Dean said enough. “Whatever you’re running from, you’re only making it worse… Again”, he said before walking off, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

Dean sighed, setting the glass down and rubbing a hand over his face. He hated this—hated the distance he was putting between you, hated the way his own doubts were winning. But for now, he couldn’t seem to find a way out of his own head.

And so the night passed, both of you lying in your separate beds, each feeling the absence of the other in a way that was impossible to ignore.

The fifth night of silence was the breaking point.

You sat on your couch, staring at your phone, the cursor blinking at the edge of the text you’d typed and erased a dozen times. The past few days had been unbearable—Dean’s responses had been short, almost dismissive, and he hadn’t shown up once. Whatever spark had been keeping the two of you connected now felt like a dying ember, and you couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore.

You took a deep breath, your fingers trembling as you typed the words you’d been too afraid to admit, even to yourself, until now.

I think I fell in love with you.

You stared at the message, your heart pounding in your chest as you hovered over the send button.

What was the worst that could happen? He didn’t feel the same? He was already pulling away, so what did you really have to lose?

Before you could second-guess yourself, you hit send, the message disappearing into the ether. The instant it was gone, panic set in. You stared at your phone, the silence in the room amplifying your racing thoughts.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then five. No reply.

The knot in your stomach tightened, and you set your phone down, trying to convince yourself you’d done the right thing. At least now, you knew you’d said what you needed to. The ball was in his court.

Dean’s phone buzzed on the workbench in the bunker’s garage, where he’d been elbow-deep in tinkering with the Impala’s engine. He wiped his hands on a rag, grabbing the phone with a sigh. Another text, probably from Sam reminding him about some supply run, or maybe Jodie—

The message stopped him cold.

I think I fell in love with you.

Dean stared at the words, his heart slamming against his ribs as if the engine in front of him had roared to life. His hand tightened around the phone, and for a moment, he just stood there, the world narrowing to that single line of text.

You’d fallen for him. Him. Dean Winchester.

His first instinct was disbelief—how could you, of all people, feel that way about him?

Dean stared at the message, his mind racing in a million different directions, each one darker than the last. For a moment, the sheer disbelief was almost comforting—how could someone like you, with your spark, your kindness, fall for someone like him? But as the seconds ticked by, a gnawing doubt crept in, whispering insidious thoughts he couldn’t shake.

What if this wasn’t real?

His second guess was like a punch to the gut. What if you were messing with him? Hell, what if this was just a game, something to laugh about later with your friend? He could practically hear it now: “Guess what I told Dean Winchester? Yeah, that dumb guy”.

The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and painful, leaving him paralyzed. It was stupid, he knew that. You weren’t cruel. You weren’t that kind of person. But the voice in his head didn’t care about logic—it was the same voice that told him he wasn’t enough, that he never would be.

Dean leaned against the Impala, the cool metal grounding him as he clenched his phone in his hand. The words on the screen felt heavier now, suffocating. He wanted to believe you meant it, wanted it more than he’d let himself admit. But trusting that—trusting anyone—had never come easy to him.

He typed out a response, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard before deleting it. Then he tried again, this time settling on something simple, something that wouldn’t give too much away.

"Why?".

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t clever. But it was the only thing he could manage without letting his doubts spill out completely. He hit send, his heart pounding as the message disappeared, and he tossed the phone onto the bench like it had burned him.

Now all he could do was wait.

You stared at Dean’s reply on your phone: “Why?”.

Your brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and anxiety tightening your chest. Why? What was that supposed to mean? Why did you feel this way? Why were you telling him? Why… what?

Fingers trembling, you typed back quickly, the raw emotion behind your words bleeding through: “Why? What do you mean why?”.

You hit send, staring at the screen as your heart raced, every second feeling like an eternity.

Meanwhile, Dean sat on the bench in the garage, your message lighting up his screen. He stared at it, his jaw tightening as the doubts that had consumed him for days came roaring back to life. It wasn’t just the distance he’d put between the two of you—it was the text. That damn text from your friend: “Yeah, the dumb ones always fucking you raw”.

The words had seared themselves into his brain, gnawing at every insecurity he’d ever had. He could almost hear the implied laughter behind it, like he was some sort of joke. Like all he was good for was the physical—like he wasn’t worth anything more.

Dean leaned forward, rubbing his hand over his face as he tried to push the thoughts away. He didn’t want to believe you saw him that way. Hell, he knew you weren’t the type to mock someone behind their back. But the fear lingered. Maybe it wasn’t about you being cruel—maybe it was just the truth. Maybe he really was the dumb one in your eyes, good enough for a roll in the sheets but not enough to be the kind of man you’d fall for.

The buzzing of his phone jolted him from his thoughts. He picked it up reluctantly, your message staring back at him: “Why? What do you mean why?”.

Dean clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the phone. He could imagine you, sitting there, confused and probably hurt, wondering why the hell he couldn’t just give you a straight answer. He hated this. Hated himself for dragging it out instead of facing it head-on.

Dean hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as a thousand thoughts warred in his mind. He wanted to be honest, but the weight of his insecurities pressed down on him, making it nearly impossible to put what he felt into words.

Finally, he started typing, his thumbs moving slowly, each word feeling like a gamble:

“I mean, why would you fall for someone like me?”.

He stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send, the knot in his stomach tightening even further. Dean knew he sounded pathetic, but the words felt real—raw and unfiltered. It was the best he could manage, even if it left him exposed.

Back at your apartment, your phone buzzed, and your breath hitched as you read his response. Your brow furrowed in confusion and disbelief. Why would you fall for him? What kind of question was that? Did he really not see how much he meant to you?

You typed back almost immediately, your heart pounding as the words spilled out:

“Dean, are you seriously asking that?”.

Dean leaned back against the Impala, his broken arm resting gingerly in his lap as his phone buzzed with your response. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed heavily, his thumbs moving across the keyboard with the weight of every doubt and insecurity that had been eating at him for days.

“Sure do”, he typed back, the words bitter even in text. “Since when are you falling for the dumb ones? Thought I´m only good for a nice fuck”.

He hit send before he could overthink it, his heart sinking as he stared at the screen. He hated himself for saying it, but the words reflected every fear he couldn’t shake.

Back at your apartment, you read his reply, and the meaning behind it hit you like a bolt of lightning. It clicked. The text from your friend—the one Dean must’ve seen. Your heart sank, your fingers trembling as you thought about how that stupid comment might have twisted everything.

You quickly opened the chat with your friend, scrolling back to the message that started it all. You’d replied to her then, hadn’t you? Something about how wrong she was, about how Dean wasn’t dumb, not even close. You found your response, your words glaring back at you:

“Dean’s not dumb. Sure, he’s not into books like I am, but he’s life smart. He’s caring, passionate, funny, and real. He makes me laugh when I need it, makes me feel safe, makes me feel… loved. Even without saying it. He makes me happy. And I think I´m in love with him”.

The memory of typing those words made your chest ache, and now, you realized just how much they still rang true. You’d seen the best of Dean Winchester, the man who could brighten your darkest days and make you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered. He wasn’t dumb—he was everything.

Without wasting another second, you grabbed your keys and slipped on your shoes, your mind racing as you headed to your car.

The drive to the bunker felt like an eternity, every second weighed down by the things you needed to say, the things you hoped Dean would finally hear.

When you pulled into the familiar driveway, you barely registered the rumble of your engine shutting off. You hurried to the door, your heart pounding in your chest as you knocked with more urgency than you intended.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and it wasn’t Dean who stood there—it was Sam. His expression shifted from mild curiosity to surprise when he saw you, his brows raising slightly. “Y/N”, he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Wasn’t expecting you”.

“Is Dean here?”, you asked, your voice breathless but determined.

Sam studied you for a moment, his sharp eyes catching the tension in your posture, the flush in your cheeks. He nodded, tilting his head toward the garage. “Yeah, he’s working on Baby. Again”.

You murmured a quick thanks, brushing past him as you made your way through the bunker, your footsteps echoing against the walls. The sound of tools clinking and the low hum of music reached you as you approached the garage, your heart racing faster with every step.

When you reached the doorway, you saw him. Dean was bent over the Impala, his focus on whatever part of her he was tinkering with. His bandaged arm rested at his side, a clear sign he wasn’t pushing it too hard, though the tension in his shoulders was impossible to miss.

“Dean”, you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet like a knife.

He froze, his hand tightening on the wrench before he slowly straightened up and turned to face you. His green eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The weight of everything unspoken between you hung heavy in the air.

“You shouldn’t be here”, he said finally, his voice rough and guarded. “I thought I made that clear”.

You took a deep breath, stepping closer, your voice soft but steady. “So that’s what you’ve been doing?”, you asked quietly, meeting his green eyes. “Being all distant and cold to… what? End things?”.

Dean’s jaw clenched, and he set the wrench down with more force than necessary. “There’s nothing to end”, he grumbled, his voice low and defensive, but the flicker of hurt in his eyes betrayed him. “Not if there wasn’t anything there to begin with”.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you refused to back down. “Don’t do that”, you said, your tone firmer now. “Don’t stand there and act like none of this mattered. Like I didn’t matter”.

Dean let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair as he turned away, his back to you. “You don’t get it”, he muttered, shaking his head. “You think you know me, but you don’t”.

“Then tell me”, you pressed, stepping closer to him. “Tell me what I don’t know, Dean”.

He turned back to you abruptly, his green eyes blazing with frustration and something deeper—something raw. “You think you fell for me, huh?”, he snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. “What happens when the shiny, exciting part of this wears off? When you wake up one day and realize I’m not the guy you want?”.

You stared at him, taken aback by the vulnerability bleeding through his words. “Dean…”.

“No, let me finish”, he interrupted, his voice rough. “You think I don’t know how this ends? I’m the dumb one, remember? I’m good for a good time, maybe a distraction, but that’s it. That’s all I’ve ever been to anyone”.

You hesitated, your chest tightening at the pain behind Dean’s words. His self-doubt was laid bare, raw and vulnerable, and you couldn’t let him believe that about himself—not when you’d seen the truth. You stepped closer, your voice soft but steady as you spoke.

“Dean”, you said, your hands reaching out to gently touch his arms, “I won’t lie. I had my reservations at first. I mean, you came across like… like someone who’d promise a good time and then leave before sunrise”.

He flinched slightly, the truth of your words cutting deeper than you intended. But before he could pull away, you tightened your grip, grounding him.

“But you’re not just that”, you continued, your voice firmer now. “You’re so much more. You care so deeply about the people around you—even when you try to hide it. You’re the guy who fights for people, who carries more weight on his shoulders than anyone should have to. You make me feel safe. You make me laugh when I need it the most. And you… you make me feel seen, Dean. Like I’m not just someone passing through your life”.

Dean kept looking away, his jaw tightening and loosening as if he was trying to process what you were saying but didn’t quite believe it. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, and you could see the war in his mind playing out in the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You sighed softly, stepping closer, your voice quieter but firm. “And you’re absolutely not dumb, Dean”, you said, the words carrying a weight you hoped he’d feel. “Yeah, you’re a fucking dork sometimes. You say ridiculous stuff, make more jokes than anything, but that doesn’t make you dumb”.

He flinched again, his eyes still not meeting yours. You hesitated for a moment, then reached up, your hand brushing against his scruffy jaw. It took effort, especially given how much taller he was, but you gently guided his face to look at you, searching his eyes for some sign that he was listening.

“Look at you”, you murmured, your thumb grazing his cheek, the rough texture grounding you. “You’re the guy who figures out how to save people when no one else can. You can walk into a room and know exactly what’s wrong, who’s hiding what, and how to fix it. You think that’s not smart?”.

Dean’s green eyes flicked to yours, uncertain and guarded, but you could tell he was listening now. You smiled softly, your heart aching as you continued. “I don’t care if you don’t know useless stuff like advanced math or politics or whatever other crap people think makes someone smart. That stuff doesn’t matter to me”.

You stepped even closer, your other hand resting lightly on his chest. “What matters to me is that you know how to keep people safe. That you know how to make me laugh when I feel like the world’s falling apart. That you care more than you let anyone see, even when it’s eating you alive. That’s where you’re smart, Dean. And that’s what makes you… you”.

Dean’s gaze softened, the hard lines of his face easing as your words reached him. His hands, which had been hanging tensely at his sides, slowly moved, one brushing against your waist as though he needed to anchor himself. You stepped even closer, your voice dropping to a whisper, your heart pounding as you laid everything bare.

“You’re passionate”, you murmured, your fingers gently brushing his cheek. “About everything you love. Baby, the job, the people you care about—you throw yourself into all of it, even when it costs you”.

Dean swallowed hard, his green eyes locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as you continued.

“And that’s why I fell for you”, you admitted, the words trembling slightly as they left your lips. “You’re not like everyone else, Dean. You’re not just some guy who passes through someone’s life. You make people feel safe, feel seen. You make me feel seen”.

His hand tightened slightly on your waist, his jaw working as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

You smiled faintly, your cheeks flushing as you added, “And yeah, sure, you’ve given me the most and best orgasms I’ve ever had in my life”. That earned a faint, shaky laugh from him, his lips twitching upward despite the storm in his eyes.

“But that’s not why I fell for you”, you said, your tone softening again. “It’s the quiet moments, Dean. The way you handle me when it’s just us. The way you hold me like I’m the only thing keeping you grounded. The way you look at me like I matter”.

His breath hitched, and he looked away for a moment, his fingers flexing on your waist before his green eyes flicked back to yours. “You do matter”, he said, his voice low and rough, thick with emotion he could barely contain. “More than I can even—”.

He cut himself off, his free hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. “You deserve better than me”, he whispered, but his voice wavered, and you could see the fear and doubt warring with the undeniable truth of his feelings.

“Let me decide that”, you whispered back, leaning into his touch. “You’ve already shown me everything I need to know”.

Dean stared at you for a long moment, his emotions laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. Then, without another word, he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and filled with all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say. It wasn’t about passion or heat—it was about connection, about finally letting himself believe he was worthy of what you were offering.

And in that moment, you knew he was.

Dean’s hands slid to your hips, his grip firm but gentle as he lifted you effortlessly onto the workbench. You let out a small gasp, your hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders as he stepped between your legs.

The move wasn’t rushed or hungry—it was deliberate, practical. You tilted your head, confusion flashing in your eyes, and he smirked faintly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Relax”, he murmured, his green eyes warm as they met yours. “I’m not trying to jump you right now”.

Your brow furrowed, a blush creeping up your neck. “Then… what are you doing?”.

Dean let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. “You’re so damn small, sweetheart”, he muttered, his voice filled with a mix of exasperation and affection. “My back’s been killing me for weeks ‘cause I’m always leaning down to talk to you, kiss you, or just—”. He paused, giving you a meaningful look, “—exist in your general vicinity”.

You blinked, and then a laugh bubbled up, soft and genuine. “Seriously?”.

“Dead serious”, he said with a playful scoff. “You’re tiny. Adorable, but tiny. You should come with a warning label: May cause chronic back pain”.

Your laughter softened into a smile, and you reached up, your fingers tracing the edges of his stubbled jaw. “You could’ve just said something, you know”.

Dean smirked, his hands settling on your thighs, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “Yeah, well”, he said, leaning in slightly so his forehead brushed yours, “figured it was worth the pain. Still is”.

Your heart swelled at his words, and you tilted your head, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You’re impossible, you know that?”.

Dean’s hands tightened on your thighs as he pulled you closer, the movement effortless yet deliberate. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, and before you could say another word, his lips were on yours. This kiss was different—not rushed or rough, but deep and unhurried, his passion tempered by a surprising tenderness.

His stubble brushed against your skin, grounding you as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips moved against yours, pouring everything he couldn’t say out loud into the kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, an apology, a promise.

Dean’s hands slid from your thighs to your waist, his thumbs brushing over your sides in slow, soothing circles as if he couldn’t get enough of feeling you beneath his hands. You melted into him, the soft pressure of his lips and the way he tilted his head to deepen the kiss making your heart race.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his green eyes meeting yours with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. “I’m impossible, huh?”, he murmured, his voice low and warm, his breath mingling with yours.

You smiled, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest. “Completely”, you teased softly, though your tone was laced with affection. “But I guess I can live with it”.

Dean chuckled, his grip on you tightening just slightly. “You’d better”, he said, brushing his nose against yours. “’Cause I don’t think I’m letting you go anytime soon”.

-The End-

———————————

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

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @stellamagicmoon @lunaleah @deansimpalababy @livingdeadblondequeen @sehyojae @magnificientgirl @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78

#jensen ackles #dean and sam #sam and dean #deanwinchester #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #spn fanfic #spn #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural

101 notes · View notes

silksandcravats · 3 days ago

Text

Touching What's Mine - DeanxReader

obviously this is not my usual work, trying out something new

Dean's girl really should've known that touching herself would have consequences.

Content: overstimulation, bondage (hands tied), fem reader, dom/sub dynamic, oral (f receiving), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t do that), established relationship, dom!dean, sub!reader, rules broken, brief reference to but no actual spanking (what a shame), subspace, aftercare, your pussy? nah that's Dean's pussy

friendly reminder in case this attracts new reader that my blog is intended for 18+ please

You let out a yelp in response to the harsh slap that came down on the soft skin of your inner thigh. A reprimand for trying to close your legs on him, trying to move away from the overwhelming sensation.

"Try that again and I'm starting over, understand me?" Dean growled from his spot between your legs.

You nodded quickly, taking in big gulps of air as you tried to make the most of the small break you'd been granted. Unfortunately, that wasn't good enough.

His callous hand roughly gripped the sensitive spot he had just swatted.

"Do you understand me?" He gritted out cruelly.

"Yessir," you amended quickly, hoping to avoid irritating him further. Your response satisfied him but resulted in him returning to his assault, sucking your puffy clit back into his hot mouth, eliciting another whine from you. At the same time, two thick fingers began thrusting in and out of you, curling up and pressing at the soft, sensitive spot inside you.

And sure, you shouldn't have touched yourself, you know that. But you were desperate, and you were so sure you wouldn't be caught. After all, he wasn't due home for another few days, and it was so rare for him to turn up early.

You should've known.

Nothing ever gets passed Dean.

When he walked in on you red-handed, you weren't sure what to expect. At first, you thought he'd drag you over his lap and spank your ass raw. He loved your ass.

But, as he cornered you on the bed he warned you, punishment's gotta fit the crime. And since you were so eager to come he made sure you did.

Again.

And again.

At first, it didn't feel like much of a punishment at all. You were practically giddy as he tied your wrists to the headboard with one of his belts and sank between your thighs.

As a hunter, Dean had stamina and usually, a lot of pent-up energy, as a result, you'd built up quite a tolerance to his attentions.

But after your third orgasm in rapid succession, you found yourself yanking at the worn leather belt around your wrists, whining for him to let up.

Now, as number five washed over you, you saw white. Fatigue stretched through your entire body, your thighs shook and your lower lip wobbled as he worked you through it. He came up for air just in time to watch a fat tear roll down your cheek, followed by another.

"Don't know what you're pouting for sweetheart, brought this on yourself," He tsked.

"Please," you groaned hoarsely. "Said I was sorry."

He chucked, raising himself to lean over you while his other hand lazily continued rubbing slow circles against your sensitive clit.

"I don't think so, baby." he paused to kiss your cheek, now wet from salty tears. "I think you're sorry you got caught."

"No!" You protested, yanking against his belt again, wishing you could touch him. Maybe then you could win him over?

"Gotta teach you a lesson, we're gonna make sure this doesn't happen again." He looked determined, his fingers picking up the pace again.

"I learned! I learned! I promise!" You squealed desperately.

"You gonna touch this pretty little pussy again after I tell you not to?" He was bringing you up to the edge again, not that it took much at this point.

"No, never again!"

"No? Cause it's not your pussy to touch, is it?"

"No! No, it's your pussy Dean, won't touch it!" You whined, the coil inside winding tighter, you were ready to burst.

"Atta girl," He grinned, egging you on, "Come on then, wanna see my pussy come again."

Dean's touch had you close, but ultimately it was his words that pushed you over once again.

You let out a cry as you came, closing your eyes and curling your toes as the sensation washed over you yet again.

"Please, please," you'd started begging before you even opened your eyes again. You felt yourself slipping into that familiar headspace. You weren't sure you had another one left in you, yet you knew Dean wouldn't consider the lesson learned till he took you himself.

"Eyes on me babygirl," his hand, now soaked thanks to you, came up slapping against your cheek lightly trying to catch your attention. You whimpered softly but your fuzzy brain was eager to obey the familiar voice, so you forced your heavy eyelids open.

Deep green eyes were focused on you as Dean wore a shit-eating grin.

"All fucked out now, aren't you pretty girl?" He gripped your jaw, turning your face slightly to the left and then the right just to relish in how pliant you were for him right now. You'd always had a fire in you, and he loved it, more than anything. In fact, your quick thinking and smart mouth was what finally convinced him to get down on one knee for you.

But he loved you like this just as much. So completely innocent and vulnerable and open for him. You were always so tough, which is exactly why he loved it when you'd finally let go and give in to him. Submit to him. Hand over control and let him take care of you. The trust and love swimming in your eyes as you looked up at him made him feel high. He was practically dizzy with adoration when you got like this, and he took protecting you, caring for you especially seriously when you let go for him.

"Gonna be my good girl now aren't you?" He was practically cooing, boderline mocking you now but in your hazy state you are it up. His hand left your face to tend to himself, freeing his length from his jeans.

"Yessir, I promise," you wriggled beneath him. He fixed you with a hard look.

"Be still," he warned, stroking his hardening cock once, then twice, before lining up against you. You complied instantly, absolutely desperate to be good for him.

"Brace yourself baby," he warned before pushing home in one fluid thrust. The noise you made in response was barely human. Your walls instinctively clenched and released around him as you tried to adjust to his size.

Dean groaned as he felt you get used to him, head falling back and mouth opening in bliss.

He was a patient man, remarkably so. But he'd been watching you fall apart for him for over an hour now, and he was ready to have you. He gave you all the time he could manage to adjust to his size before he began pistoning in and out of your sopping cunt.

"Oh my God!" You exclaimed.

You'd already finished so many times that night, but nothing could compare to the feeling of him inside you.

The fullness was overwhelming.

"Shit baby, still so tight for me. How are you so tight?" He praised, gripping your hip so he could rock you into him in time with his thrusts. He knew neither of you were going to last long, not after the night you'd had.

"Taking it like such a good girl now," He groaned as he glanced down, watching where he plunged in and out of you again and again.

"Wanna be good," you cried out, "learned my lesson I promise!"

"Yeah? Learned who's pussy this is?" He growled.

"Yours! It's your pussy, Dean! All yours," you babbled quickly.

"My sweet little pussy. And you're going to give me one more," He coaxed reaching down to flick at your clit once more. You nodded quickly, the overwhelming fatigue in your body was being overruled by your desire to please him.

"Come on then, come for me baby. Now." His hips began to stutter, a telltale sign he was close. Your orgasm came just in time to meet his. He cursed loudly as he came inside of you, working you both through your climaxes. Your mouth had fallen open but no sound came out, your throat too worn and sore from all the yelling you'd done earlier in the night.

You didn't think you had blacked out, and yet you don't remember him leaning over you to catch his breath, nor him unbuckling his belt to release your wrists, or the weight of him leaving the bed and coming back with a wet washcloth cleaning off the visible sweat and juices between your thighs.

The next time you're aware it's dark, you're tucked into his chest. Your bare skin against his as the hand that wasn't gripping you to him slowly trailed up and down your spine.

"Back with me, sweetheart?" He asked softly, lips brushing against your forehead. You hummed, pressing your face into his chest, giving away that you were still feeling floaty.

The first time you'd dropped into this headspace, he'd panicked, thinking he broke you. But now, he was practically an expert at aftercare. Offering gentle words of love, and firm, grounding touches to coax you back to earth. Diligently cleaning you up and getting you to drink water despite your weak protests.

He whispered soft praises to you, but when it became clear you were too far gone to listen, he settled for just holding you in silence.

Lately he'd used nights like this to soak in your presence, the feeling of your body resting against his, sometimes he’d even reminisce. He'd smile to himself as he'd remember the little things, like the borderline breakdown you had the first time he'd tried dressing you in your own clothes after fucking you roughly.

During the next few sessions, he pulled one of his own white undershirts over your head before eventually forgoing clothes afterwards altogether, learning that skin-to-skin contact brought you the most comfort.

Before you drifted off you had just enough sense to string together enough words to ask about the fate of the fancy new toy that had gotten you into this mess.

"You're gonna take away my new vibe aren't you?" you mumbled, sounding petulant.

"Damn straight I'm taking it away," he grunted, tucking you in even tighter. "Go to sleep."

And you were still feeling too submissive, and far too tired to decline.

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #dean x reader #dom!dean #sub!reader #supernatural #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fic #spnfandom #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x reader

63 notes · View notes

maddie0101 · 3 days ago

Text

about damn time pt.1

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it @anbernen ! ❤︎

summary: you had a normal life, up until an encounter with the impossible nearly killed you. now, your best friend, dean winchester, has pulled back the curtain on what really goes bump in the night. when you finally convince him to take you on a hunt, he gives in. what could possibly go wrong?

warnings: reader had a normal life, protective!dean, worried!dean, best friends to lovers, cute shit, cussing, underlying sexual tension, smut ish? (contains reader & dean taking care of themselves) , pinning, fluff?, nicknames bc it’s dean, lots of tension, probably way more but i suck at tags.

word count: 6.6k

note: this was supposed to be a short little oneshot but if you guys know me then you know how insane I am. yeaah…now it’s a three part mini series :) enjoy!

series masterlist next part

Dean had never been good at making friends.

Sam was always the social one, the kid who could walk into a new school and have a lunch table full of friends by the end of the week.

But Dean? He had people he joked around with, kids he’d nod to in the hallway, maybe the occasional drinking buddy once he got older, but real friends? The kind that stuck? He never let himself have those.

Until you.

He met you in some small town, one of the many places he and Sam passed through, another forgettable stop on their never-ending road trip.

But you weren’t forgettable. Not even close. You were the first girl he ever looked at and thought, Damn. And then, almost immediately thought, Don’t even think about it.

Because somehow, despite all the walls he kept up, despite knowing he’d be gone sooner rather than later, you wormed your way in. You didn’t just laugh at his jokes, you made him laugh, really laugh, the kind that made his ribs ache. You didn’t just tolerate his music, you argued about which Zeppelin song was best. And you didn’t just exist in his world, you carved out a space in it, one that felt so natural, he forgot it hadn’t always been there.

For the first time, Dean had someone who wasn’t family but felt damn close. And he wasn’t about to screw that up.

So yeah, you were drop dead gorgeous and yeah, maybe sometimes he let his eyes linger too long when you weren’t looking. Maybe sometimes his mind wandered into dangerous territory late at night when it was just him and his thoughts.

But friendship? That was something real.

Something he didn’t have to leave behind. And Dean didn’t get to have nice things, but he’d be damned if he let himself ruin this one.

Dean didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, you became his best friend.

It started off slow, stolen afternoons in diners, late-night phone calls, the kind of bond that built itself brick by brick. He couldn’t remember exactly when it had happened, when you’d become his person, but looking back, it felt inevitable. Like gravity.

Whenever he was anywhere remotely close to your small town, he made excuses to swing by. A refuel, a food stop, needing a place to crash—any reason to see you, even if it was just for a few hours.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a friendship. Just a little bit of normalcy in the middle of his chaotic life, but he knew better.

Dean didn’t do normal. And yet somehow, with you, it felt easy.

It was late nights in that little diner off Main Street, the one with the shitty coffee and the old jukebox that never worked right. You’d sit across from him, stirring too much sugar into your cup while he ate a piece of pie, and you’d talk for hours.

You’d tell him about your day, about the things you wanted out of life. Sometimes he’d tell you about his too—leaving out the monsters, of course. He told you about the road, the places he’d been, the things he’d seen. He spun half-truths, made his life sound like some endless road trip instead of the bloody war it really was.

Because you weren’t supposed to know that part of him. He wanted to keep you separate from it, untangled from the darkness that followed him. So he never told you the truth. Never let you too close.

But the thing was—You already were close.

It was the late-night phone calls when he was too wired to sleep after a hunt. He’d call just to hear your voice, just to feel something real on the other end of the line. You’d answer every time, no matter how late, your voice groggy but warm.

“Dean? You okay?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Just… wanted to talk.”

And you would. About everything and nothing. Until his pulse settled, until the world didn’t feel so heavy. It was the way you always knew when something was off.

“Where are you?” you’d ask, suspicion laced in your voice when he was being too vague about where he’d been.

“Oh, you know. Here. There. The usual.”

“Uh-huh. That’s not an answer, Winchester.”

You were relentless, prying without even knowing it, but he loved that about you. It meant you cared. And god help him, he liked being cared about. It was the fact that, without even trying, you’d become the one person he couldn’t stay away from.

And maybe, just maybe—he didn’t want to stay away.

So he kept coming back. Kept sneaking away to see you, calling when he couldn’t. You had no idea how deep he was in it, how badly he wanted to tell you the truth—how many times he almost had. But every time he thought about it, all he saw was you getting hurt.

So he kept lying, pretending. Because with you, he didn’t have to be Dean Winchester, the hunter.

He could just be Dean.

But not all good things last forever. Especially not for Dean.

For a while, it had almost felt too easy—sneaking into your little town, slipping into your life like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t just a drifter passing through. He let himself believe, even if just for a little while, that this could last. That you were safe. That the world he lived in, the nightmares he fought, wouldn’t touch you. But monsters didn’t give a damn about what he wanted. And one night, everything changed.

It started with a phone call. His phone buzzed against the cheap motel nightstand, the sound barely cutting through the quiet hum of late-night TV. Dean almost ignored it—he was tired, had been driving for hours, and the last thing he wanted was another case dropping in his lap.

But when he saw your name flashing on the screen, something in his chest tightened.

You never called this late.

The second he answered, he knew something was wrong. There was no teasing remark, no easy “Hey, Winchester” to greet him. Just heavy breathing and the faintest shake in your voice when you said, “Dean?”

He sat up immediately, muscles tensing. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”

Then, in a panicked rush, you told him. About the thing that had broken into your apartment. How it had your face. How it moved like you, talked like you—how for a split second, you thought you were losing your damn mind.

Dean was already yanking on his boots, keys clutched tight in his fist. “It’s a shifter,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. He needed you calm. Needed you alive. “Listen to me. Do you have anything silver?”

A rustling noise sounded from the phone's speaker. Then, “I—I think. There’s a necklace in my dresser—”

“Not good enough. You need a weapon.”

“Dean, it’s coming.” He heard it then—a noise in the background, the sound of something moving, the faintest creak of floorboards. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “Get a knife, anything,” he ordered. “Aim for the heart, go for the kill shot. Don’t hesitate.”

“Dean, I—”

The line went dead and Dean's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. “Shit.”

Dean was out the door before he could think, speeding through the dark streets, his heart hammering against his ribs. The entire drive, all he could think about was getting to you in time.

But when he got there—He was too late.

Not too late, not in the way that mattered most, but—The door to your apartment was wide open.

Dean barely registered the sound of his own boots pounding against the floor as he rushed inside, gun drawn, instincts screaming. He had played out worst-case scenarios the entire drive over—found you dead, found you gone, found whatever thing had come for you still standing over your body, smirking in the way only monsters could.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

You stood in the middle of your living room, drenched in blood.

It was everywhere—splattered across your face, streaked down your arms, soaking into the fabric of your shirt. The knife in your trembling grip dripped with something dark and wet, forming a thick pool on the hardwood floor beneath you.

And at your feet was the body—the fucking body.

It was wrong. Twisted. A half-shifted mockery of you. Your own face, but not. The features warped and melting, frozen mid-transition as if the thing had died trying to wear you like a second skin.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

You weren’t just shaking. You were trembling. Your breath came in short, erratic gasps—eyes blown wide, wild, as if you couldn’t quite process what you were looking at. Or maybe, more terrifyingly, that you could.

You swallowed thickly, eyes locking onto his. Your voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and broken “What the fuck was that thing?”

Dean’s grip on his gun tightened. He had been too late. Not too late, not in the way that mattered most, but—fuck. You weren’t supposed to see this. You weren’t supposed to live this.

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you stared down at the body like if you looked long enough, maybe it would make sense. Like if you blinked, it would disappear, and you could wake up from this nightmare.

But it didn’t. And you wouldn’t.

Dean took a careful step closer. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low, steady, the way he would talk someone off a ledge. Because that’s where you were right now, teetering at the edge of something dark and sharp and permanent. “You with me?”

You let out a shuddering breath, barely nodding.

But you weren’t, not really. He could see it now—the thousand-yard stare, the way your fingers clenched and unclenched around the knife like you still weren’t sure if you needed to fight for your life. The way you stood, knees locked, barely breathing, as if one wrong move might break you.

It had been self-defense. It had to be.

But that didn’t mean it hadn’t fucked you up. Killing something was one thing. Killing something that wore your face? That was a whole different kind of horror.

You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself, but when you lifted your hands, your gaze snagged on the blood. Not the shifter’s. Your own.

A jagged gash ran along your forearm—shallow, but deep enough that the crimson dripped in slow, fat droplets down to your fingertips. You flexed your fingers, watching them move like they weren’t even yours. Like you weren’t sure if you were still real.

Then, barely above a whisper, your voice cracked “It said something about how I’m connected to the Winchesters now.” You swallowed hard. “What does that mean?” Your voice wavered, still raw, still shell-shocked. “And how did you know how to kill it?”

Dean froze. The words settled like lead in his chest, heavier than they should’ve been. He didn’t let things get personal. He didn’t let people get close.

But you? You had slipped past every wall he had without even trying. And now, something had noticed.

His jaw clenched, a slow, creeping anger coiling under his skin like something toxic. Not at you. Never at you.

At them. At whatever son of a bitch had set its sights on you. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn't let you become another name to carve into his ribs, another ghost to carry.

Which meant you only had one option. Dean exhaled, voice tight. “Pack a bag.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re coming with me.”

Your brows furrowed. “Dean—”

“No arguments.” The words came sharper than he intended, but he needed you to listen. Needed you to understand that this wasn’t up for debate. “If something out there knows your name—knows me—you’re not staying here.”

You hesitated, glancing around—at the blood, the wreckage, the body still caught between stolen faces. The realization settled in your expression, something raw and shaken but understanding.

Your life, as you knew it, was over.

There was no going back.

And when you finally nodded, Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Because from this moment on, whether you liked it or not—You were in this life.

And he wasn’t about to let anything take you from it.

The bunker was a freaking labyrinth.

From the moment Dean led you inside, duffel slung over his shoulder, exhaustion written all over his face, you felt like you’d stepped into another world. The place was massive—high-arched ceilings, endless hallways, dim overhead lighting that flickered just enough to make the shadows stretch long. It smelled like old books and gun oil, metal and dust.

And it was quiet. Unnervingly so.

Dean tossed his bag onto a table in what he called the war room—a massive space with an old map of the world lit up across the table, covered in notes, scribbles, and markings you didn’t understand.

“Sit,” he said, pulling out a chair for you. He didn’t sound tired anymore. If anything, his voice had that clipped, serious edge you weren’t used to, like he was preparing to lay something heavy on you. Which, as you were quickly learning, was exactly what was about to happen.

And so, for the next two hours, you got the crash course on what the hell Dean Winchester really did for a living. He didn’t sugarcoat it at all. He told you everything. The good, the bad, the ugly.

That monsters were real, actually, fucking real. That the thing you killed in your apartment? A shapeshifter. That there were demons, ghosts, werewolves, vampires, witches, things that went bump in the night that you weren’t supposed to know about. And angels. That was the one that almost made you laugh. “You’re shitting me.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Wish I was.”

Your head spun. You wanted to call bullshit, wanted to believe that this was some sick prank or a fever dream or something that would make sense in the morning.

But it wasn’t. Because you had already seen it. You had watched a creature with your your face shift try to kill you. You had stabbed a fucking thing in the heart with a silver knife and watched it die, twitching at your feet like a broken machine.

And now, you were sitting in a secret underground bunker, hearing about how this was Dean’s life.

It took a while for it to sink in, honestly. But once it did, you realized something else—this was your life now, too.

At first, you kept busy. You had to, or your own thoughts would eat you alive.

Sam was more than happy to dump research on you, burying you in lore books, faded manuscripts, and half-legible scribbles from old hunters long dead. He taught you how to read Latin, how to dig through old archives for the weirdest shit imaginable, how to trace supernatural patterns in a way you never would’ve noticed before.

But Dean? Dean was different. He had other plans.

“You’re not just gonna sit around playing librarian all day,” he told you one afternoon, his voice casual, but his expression anything but. Before you could ask what he meant, something came flying toward you.

Your hands shot up on instinct, fingers fumbling around the object before you finally got a grip on it. A second passed before you looked down, realization settling in.

A wooden practice knife. You raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he echoed, arms crossed over his chest. “If something comes after you again, I want you to be able to defend yourself properly.”

There was no arguing with that look—the one that told you he had already made up his mind.

And so, Dean trained you. You hated him for it at first because he didn’t go easy on you. Not even for a damn second.

The first time you squared up with him, he didn’t even hesitate. One moment, you were gripping the knife, determined to prove yourself, and the next—you were flat on your back, the wind knocked clean out of you.

Dean towered over you, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I’m not a real monster. You’d be dead already.”

You groaned, staring up at the ceiling. “Maybe just kill me now.”

But he didn’t let you quit. He made you throw punches until your knuckles ached, made you dodge and block until your muscles burned, made you repeat the same damn moves over and over again until you got them right.

“You’re thinking too much,” he told you after you failed to land a hit for the third time in a row.

“No shit, Sherlock,” you snapped, breathing hard, sweat sticking to your skin.

Dean smirked. “Cute.”

God, that look he gave you—the cocky, infuriating, hot as hell smirk that made you want to punch him in the face just to wipe it off. He was all rough hands and sharp words, pushing you harder every day.

You weren’t the worst student he’d ever had, but still, he had no idea how the hell you’d managed to take down that shifter on your own. Luck? Instinct?

Either way, it wasn’t good enough.

And you could feel it—the tension thickening between you both with every training session. The way your bodies moved around each other, the way your breath mixed as you dodged each blow, the way he would grab your wrist, pulling you flush against him when you got too sloppy.

One afternoon, he had you pinned against the wall, his forearm pressed against your collarbone, holding you still. Your chest rose and fell against his, breathless, your skin burning where he touched you. “You keep dropping your left side,” he murmured, voice low, rough.

You swallowed hard, staring up at him. “I know.”

His eyes flickered to your lips—so fast you almost missed it, almost. But then, just as quickly, he was gone, stepping back, that damn smirk back in place. “Then stop doing it.”

That night, you spent an embarrassing amount of time lying awake, thinking about the way he had looked at you.

The boredom was killing you. And at first, it wasn’t so bad.

The bunker was massive, filled with books older than your grandparents, weapons you weren’t even allowed to touch without supervision, and endless hallways that you swore led to nowhere. You had training to focus on, bruises to ice, whiskey to steal from Dean’s stash when he wasn’t looking.

But ready or not, boredom came creeping in like a goddamn sickness. Because every time Sam and Dean left for a hunt, you were stuck. Alone.

The first few times, you didn’t mind. It was kind of nice, actually. Peaceful. You could sprawl out on the war room table, pick up one of those dusty old lore books, and pretend you weren’t completely out of your depth in this life. You started teaching yourself different languages, then flipping through pages of exorcisms just to pass the time. You memorized sigils and symbols, even started picking up bits and pieces of other languages such as Enochian, ancient Sumerian, shit you’d probably never even use.

But after a while, the silence got to you. The bunker was too big, too still. With no goddamn windows, no way to tell if it was day or night without checking the old clock on the wall. You used to love having all this space to yourself, but now? Now it felt like the walls were closing in. Like you were rotting down here, waiting for something to happen.

So you cleaned-- And cleaned--And cleaned some more. Until every single room in the bunker was spotless. Until you’d done all the laundry—yours, Sam’s, and Dean’s, just for something to do. You even took the time to fold their clothes because, let’s be honest, those two were a freaking mess.

You weren’t looking for them, honestly.

It wasn’t like you set out to dig through Dean’s stuff with the intent of uncovering his most embarrassing secrets. You were just trying to be nice—helpful even. Laundry was one of the only things keeping you sane while the guys were gone. It gave you a purpose, something to do.

But this? This was a fucking goldmine.

You held up the offending fabric, eyes widening in absolute horror before the laughter burst out of you, uncontrollable and borderline manic.

Dean Winchester, the badass hunter, feared by demons, monsters, and even some angels—owned underwear covered with hot dogs.

Your stomach hurt from how hard you were laughing, tears actually pricking at your eyes. And just when you thought you could breathe again, you reached back into the laundry pile and—Oh, oh, it got better.

Bright red socks, obnoxious and ridiculous, with the words 'SEND NOODS' printed across them in bold white letters. And the kicker? They had little cartoon ramen noodles on them.

You actually had to sit down on Dean’s bed to take a second and regain your breath.

Because of course this was Dean. Tough, rugged, walks-like-he-owns-the-room Dean, the man who could kill a monster without breaking a sweat, but who also shoved extra packets of hot sauce into his pockets every time you got takeout because he might need them later.

The same Dean who grumbled about bad movie plots but still secretly loved them, the same Dean who would throw a flirty wink at a waitress and then turn around and give his leftovers to a stray dog outside.

He was a contradiction. A mess of sharp edges and soft spots, of cocky grins and stupid jokes mixed with genuine, heart-wrenching moments of kindness.

And you loved him for it.

The realization had hit you like a truck. Dean wasn’t just your best friend. He wasn’t just the guy who had saved you, who had trained you, who had made sure you weren’t alone in this life.

He was the man you wanted.

And not just in the sweet, romantic, oh, let’s go on a date and hold hands kind of way.

No. It was the kind of want that made your skin burn, that kept you up at night with images of him pressed against you, mouth hot and claiming, hands gripping your waist like he needed you.

And it wasn’t just a one-time thing either.

It was constant.

Like when he walked around in nothing but a towel, fresh from the shower, water still dripping down his broad shoulders, the scent of his soap—god, that soap, clinging to the air.

Or when he leaned over you at the library table, arm brushing yours, voice low and gruff in your ear as he pointed something out in the lore book, and you had to physically stop yourself from turning your head just to get a whiff of his damn cologne.

And then there were the moments that really tested your willpower.

Like when Dean was working on the Impala. God help you, when Dean was working on Baby.

It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing, shouldn’t have made your mouth go dry or your stomach twist into knots. But damn if it didn’t.

There he was, under the hood, sleeves pushed up, exposing those strong forearms—the ones you’d stared at countless times and never got tired of. The muscles in his back flexed beneath his Henley as he leaned over, hands expertly twisting a wrench, brows furrowed in concentration.

And then there was the grease. Smudged across his forearm, streaked along his jaw, a little bit on his cheek. It shouldn’t have been hot, but it was.

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck as you watched him, completely entranced. You tried to be subtle about it, really, you did. But your thighs pressed together on instinct, trying, failing to find some kind of relief.

Dean had always been a gorgeous man. That was just a fact. His sharp jawline, the freckles dusting his nose, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. And that voice—gravelly and rough, especially in the mornings or when he was pissed off.

You’d always been attracted to him, but it had been manageable. A quiet, buried thing. At least, it had been. Because lately? Lately, it was getting bad. Like the time he caught you blushing—really blushing.

It was nothing, just a stupid little moment in the kitchen. You were making coffee, minding your own business, when Dean strolled in, half-awake, wearing nothing but his boxers. He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, his abs tightening, that faint happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband.

Your eyes snapped away, cheeks on fire, and you could feel his smirk before he even said a word.

“Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?” His voice was still thick with sleep, rougher than usual.

“Nope.” You turned your attention back to the coffee pot, praying to whoever that he wouldn’t press it.

But of course, this was Dean. He stepped up beside you, close enough that his body heat was noticeable, close enough that his scent—leather, whiskey, and oil wrapped around you like a goddamn trap.

“You sure? ‘Cause you’re lookin’ a little pink there.”

You scowled, keeping your eyes firmly on the coffee. “It’s warm in here.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Stupid smug bastard. You rolled your eyes.

But that was nothing compared to the other time. The time he really, really pushed you over the edge.

It was late. You were both in the library, going over lore books. Nothing exciting, just another normal night. And then—he did it. Completely unintentional, completely innocent.

He was leaning back in his chair, flipping through a book, and at some point, he rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms behind his head, muscles shifting beneath his Henley. And then he let out this low, satisfied groan.

And that was it. Game over. A pulse of heat shot straight to your core so fast it actually took your breath away. You squeezed your thighs together hard, trying to curb the ache, trying to breathe, but it didn’t help. It didn’t do anything.

Thankfully, Dean didn't notice. He just kept reading, oblivious to the fact that he had just wrecked you.

You barely made it to your room before you lost it.

The second the door shut behind you, you pressed your back against it, heart hammering, breath shallow. The heat pooling in your belly was impossible to ignore, the ache between your thighs maddening.

Jesus Christ. Dean Winchester was going to ruin you.

You swallowed, chest rising and falling as you tried to steady yourself. But it was useless. The second you closed your eyes, all you saw was him from that time you watched him work on Baby.

The grease smudged across his fingers, the way his biceps flexed as he worked on Baby, the sweat rolling down his neck in the heat of the garage. That sharp, smug smirk when he caught you staring too long. The way his voice roughened when he was exhausted, dropping into a low, gravelly drawl that sent a shiver down your spine.

If he ever figured it out, he’d destroy you.

A quiet, frustrated sigh left your lips as you squeezed your thighs together, but it wasn’t enough. The pressure only made it worse.

Your fingers moved before you could think, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweats. The first touch sent a shudder through you, an exhale leaving your lips as your body immediately reacted. But it wasn’t your own hand you were imagining.

It was his.

Calloused fingers skimming over your skin, teasing you, dragging over your sensitive flesh like he had all the time in the world. “Look at you,” his voice rasped in your head, the deep, husky tone laced with something dark, something possessive. “Knew you’d be sweet for me.”

Your breath hitched as your fingers moved faster, chasing the phantom sensation of his touch.

Dean, pressing you up against the Impala, his hands gripping your hips, pinning you there. His breath ghosting against your neck before his teeth scraped against your pulse. Your other hand clutched the fabric of your shirt, nails digging in as the pleasure built.

“Tell me how bad you want it, sweetheart.”

A quiet whimper slipped from your lips as you imagined him, imagined those same rough hands holding you down, spreading you open, teasing you until you were trembling, begging—And God, you would beg.

Your back arched, the pleasure coiling tighter, your body wound so tight you thought you might snap—

“Dean—” His name left your lips in a ragged gasp as you unraveled, waves of heat crashing over you. Your muscles tensed, thighs shaking, your own hand barely enough, because fuck, you knew nothing would ever compare to the real thing.

You stood there for a moment, skin flushed, heart still pounding. But as the high faded, another thought settled heavily in your chest.

This wasn’t just lust. Wasn’t just some reckless attraction. You didn’t just want Dean Winchester.

You were in love with him. Hopelessly, dangerously, in love with him. And if you weren’t careful? You were going to get burned.

But even that wasn’t enough to keep the boredom away. After all the cleaning, the laundry, the books, the languages—you had nothing left.

And it wasn’t just boredom anymore. It was loneliness. The bunker was too damn quiet without them. No sarcastic remarks from Dean, no long-winded research rants from Sam, no arguments over what food to order.

Just you. You wanted out. Wanted more.

And so, one night, as Dean was packing up his duffel, getting ready for another job, you finally snapped “I’m coming with you.”

Dean didn’t even look up. “No, you’re not.”

Your hands curled into fists. “Dean.”

He sighed, zipping his bag before finally turning to face you. “Look, I get it. You’re sick of being cooped up. You want to do something. But hunting isn’t a goddamn road trip, sweetheart.”

“I know that,” you shot back. “You think I haven’t been paying attention? I’ve trained. I know how to handle myself.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “It’s not the same.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “How the hell would you know? You never let me come.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a second, something flickered across his face, annoyance, maybe? or something deeper, something more hesitant. “Because it’s dangerous.”

“So is staying in the bunker and losing my mind,” you shot back. “I’ve been stuck down here for months, Dean. I research, I train, I do everything you ask—but I have no idea what it’s actually like out there. I want to see what you do. I want to understand it. And I want to understand you.”

That made him freeze.

It wasn’t the argument he was expecting. He was used to hearing, I can handle myself, or I just want to be useful, but this? You weren’t just asking to hunt. You were asking to know him.

And that scared the shit out of him.

Dean swallowed hard, running a hand over his jaw as he turned away, pretending to busy himself with his duffel bag. He needed to shut this down, fast. You had no idea what you were asking for.

“Look, I get it,” he muttered. “The bunker’s boring. But this life? It’s not what you think it is.”

You shook your head. “I don’t think it’s glamorous, Dean. I know it’s brutal. I’ve seen the aftermath, I’ve seen you come back with bruises and stitches and that dead look in your eyes. But that’s exactly why I want to go. Because I feel like I only know part of you. I see the guy who fixes cars and drinks shitty beer and argues with Sam about movie references—but I don’t know the hunter. And if I’m going to be part of this world now, I want to understand all of you.”

His stomach twisted. Because you already did know him. You knew him better than almost anyone. And maybe that was the real problem.

Dean had spent years forcing himself to keep his distance, making sure he never let anything slip.

But it was getting harder.

Every damn day, it got harder. Because the real truth? He didn’t just love you. He was in love with you.

It had started as something small—just admiration, just attraction. But then it grew, creeping into every part of him, sinking its claws deep. You were the only person, besides Sam, who made him feel like he wasn’t just some soldier marching toward an inevitable end.

And the worst part? You had no fucking clue.

Dean couldn’t risk telling you. Couldn’t risk ruining what you had. So instead, he locked it down, buried it beneath sarcasm and forced nonchalance, kept his hands to himself even when he ached to pull you close.

Sure, hunting was hell. Dean had been through it all—bloody fights with creatures that could tear him apart, near-death experiences more times than he could count, nights spent in shitty motel rooms with nothing but whiskey and nightmares for company.

But the bunker? Christ, it was torture now.

There was nowhere to hide from you. No distance to put between himself and the way you unknowingly drove him out of his goddamn mind. You had no clue. No fucking idea what you did to him.

It was the little things, the casual, effortless way you existed in his space, like you belonged there. Like you’d always belonged there.

The way you walked around in his shirts sometimes—shit you probably didn’t even think twice about. But Dean did, he thought about it constantly.

Because his shirts swallowed you up, the fabric hanging loose off your shoulders, barely covering your ass, and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to stare. Not to imagine what it would be like if you were wearing nothing underneath, if he could just slide his hands up those bare thighs and fuck you senseless.

Fuck.

And then there was the stretching. It wasn’t even intentional, wasn’t like you were trying to kill him, but fuck if it didn’t wreck him. Like when you’d wander into the kitchen first thing in the morning, hair a mess, still sleepy-eyed, and reach your arms over your head in a slow, lazy stretch that had your back arching just right.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst was when you’d yawn, soft and content, lips parted slightly, making these little noises that sent Dean’s brain straight into the gutter. Because all he could think about was how you’d sound if he had you underneath him—if he was pulling those sounds from your lips himself.

And if that weren't enough, thats when the heat would settle low in his stomach, spreading like wildfire, and before he could even think about stopping it—bam. Instant boner.

But then came the real problem, hiding it. Which was a hell of a lot harder than it should’ve been.

Like the time you flopped down next to him at the kitchen table, stretching with a soft groan, and he nearly choked on his coffee because holy shit, that sound went straight to his dick. He’d had to shift in his seat, subtly adjust himself under the table, and pray to every goddamn angel in existence that you didn’t notice.

Or the time you asked him to pass you something from the top shelf, and when you reached up to grab it, your body brushed against his, just barely, but fuck—he had to back up so fast he nearly knocked over a chair.

And then there was the absolute worst moment.

The time you hugged him. You’d been in a good mood about something, probably after kicking his ass at poker and you just threw your arms around him, squeezing tight, your body pressed right up against his.

And Dean? He fucking froze. Because all he could think about was how warm you were, how you fit against him perfectly, how easy it would be to slide his hands down, grip your hips, pull you in even closer—

And then it happened again. Another traitorous, fucking boner. Dean had never panicked so hard in his life. He patted your back stiffly, pulled away before you could notice, and immediately sat down at the nearest table, praying you wouldn’t ask why he suddenly had to stay seated.

Jesus Christ, he was a mess.

And it wasn’t just the physical frustration—it was you. It was the way you felt like home. The way you didn’t even realize you’d completely wrecked him.

And the worst part? He didn’t think he’d ever stop wanting you. He’d have to force himself to look away, think about something else, anything else, but it never worked.

And that’s how he found himself here. In the shower, water scalding hot, one hand braced against the tile while the other wrapped around his painfully hard cock. He bit down on his lip, squeezed his eyes shut, and let the images take over.

You, sprawled out on his bed, looking up at him with those wide, teasing eyes. You, wearing his damn shirt, nothing underneath, your skin soft and warm as he slid his hands underneath the fabric.

You, gasping his name as he finally got his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting—

A deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat as he came, pleasure crashing through him so hard his knees nearly buckled. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, forehead pressed against the cool tile.

And then, like always, came the guilt. Because you weren’t his and you had no idea how fucking badly he wanted you to be.

But then there was Sam. And Sam, Dean's annoying little brother? He saw everything.

“Dude,” he’d said once, shaking his head as they packed up for a hunt. “You’re pathetic.”

Dean scowled. “Excuse me?”

Sam just grinned, tossing a knife into his bag. “You gonna tell her, or you just gonna keep sighing longingly every time she walks by?”

“Shut up.”

But Sam didn’t shut up. Ever. Especially not when Dean constantly checked his phone on hunts. The moment he and Sam rolled into a new town, Dean was texting you, calling you, making sure you were okay.

Sam would tease him relentlessly. “You just talked to her an hour ago.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re like a clingy boyfriend.”

“Eat a dick, Sammy.”

But Sam wasn’t wrong. And now you were standing in front of him, looking at him like he was some goddamn puzzle you were trying to solve, and it was taking everything in him not to crack.

Because you wouldn’t let this go. You were relentless, you'd bring it up every damn day, and the more you would push, the weaker his resolve would get.

But the worst part about it all? You were right. You should see all aspects of him. If you were really going to be part of this life, you needed to understand it.

That didn’t make it any easier but Dean let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine.”

You blinked. “What?”

“One hunt,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Just one. No arguments.”

A triumphant grin spread across your face as Dean groaned. “I already regret this.” But so did his gut because something about this felt wrong, and it was too late now.

series masterlist next part

author’s note:

let’s say it in unison now, maddie is fucking insane! lmfaooooo. I honestly just kept thinking of more stuff to write and before I knew it I had an 11k fic sitting right infront of my face. I didn’t want to make the ‘oneshot’ too long so I decided to split it up into three parts, hence the ‘mini series’ :)

also, special thanks to @aylacavebear for helping me with this little mini series. I don’t know what I’d do without you!

I really hope you like it @anbernen ! if you don’t like smut you can always skip the third part :) I just felt like this story needed a little smut so I went ahead and wrote it lmfao. hehe, enjoy! ❤︎

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

141 notes · View notes

wvffles · 2 days ago

Text

ahh, alex this is amazing !!<3 i'm so in love with this ♥️

lots of incoming thoughts lol, sorry in advance :')💘

Biting the inside of your lip, you can’t help but take him in, here in the raw light of day as he lays peacefully on his back. His head lolls to the side on your usual pillow. Your eyes roam over the bow of his lips, the dark eyebrows, lightish brown hair that's softer than it should be between your fingers.

I wish he was real at least once a day, I wanna give him a bunch of little kisses all over his face so bad 😩💗

It starts at Sam Winchester’s joint bachelor-bachelorette party at a nice hotel downtown.

I loveee this. <33 honestly the concept of traditional bachelor/bachelorette parties make zero sense to me, like wdym last night of freedom??? i'd simply cancel the wedding, go be free lmaoo 🙂‍↔️🤚🏽

They look beautiful in their lithe, strapless little cocktail dresses. You’ve had to give up chocolate, bread, and cheese for three months straight to fit into this dress, something slinky and red that drapes over your thicker, curvy figure. But you’re proud of the fact that you’re letting yourself eat cake tonight, even though you’ve often felt like Mrs. Doubtfire while standing for pictures next to Lisa and Jo.

ohhh I felt this to my coreeeee 😭 ( those 'fake nice' mean girls are the worst like it gets to a point you'd just prefer them to be straight up lol)

He can almost imagine that he’s coming free inside you, that you’re milking his cock for every drop, until there’s nothing left for him to give.

now I understand that this is probably a wild thing to highlight, however, it's making me giggle so bad after knowing how the rest of the chapter goes 🤣 his intuition is on point lmfaooo

with that being said, I truly adore their connection. 💓 it's so genuine and comfortable <33 and that spiceeee, it had me blushing ❤️‍🔥🫠 so good 🫶🏽

“And you didn’t even fucking call her. See? This is why I don’t set you up with any of my friends anymore,” Sam bitches at him from his side of the small two-seater dinner table.

you tell him sammy !! I completely understand focusing on training but a simple text message could have sufficed dean ._.

“You know, Dean, I’m pretty busy with my job right now. I just started here a couple of months ago, and I think I just need to focus on that right now,” you say. Part of it isn’t a lie, even though your soft heart is stinging.

I understand why she did this but still, aagh ☹️ my hopeless hearttt lol

Two months later, Dean has taken Sam’s dating advice to heart. A week or so after you turned him down, he ran into Lisa Braeden, Eileen’s Maid of Honor, while he was at the grocery store buying beer and Twizzlers. She was a smart, sharp, sexy brunette. A yoga instructor, he soon found out. So he took a chance on asking her out. They’ve been going slow and steady ever since.

deeeep sigh 😔 (nothing against canon lisa lol)

“Dean, I’m pregnant,” you confess.

considering the lovely story banner I should have guessed, but this really did surprise me somehow lollll 😭 (perhaps the gif distracted me 🤣)

“What did he say when you told him?” Sam asks. His gaze is firmer. You get the idea that if he doesn’t like what you tell him, then he’s about to go grab his brother by the ear himself.

aww sammy 🥺 he's such a sweetheart, I love him. also I can totally picture that 💀

Dean can tell that he knows, just in his Big Bird body language. He’d also recognize that accompanying Bitch Face anywhere.

lmfaoooooo dean pls 🤣 gotta love that sibling analysis

Lisa greets you with a “polite” smile at best, but she does offer you water at least. You really can’t blame her for not liking you though. She found out her boyfriend got another woman pregnant right before he started dating her. Really, she has more balls than you for staying with him.

i'd be blaming her for sure because how is she gonna be mad at something that happened before she was in the picture, then continue to be mad as if she's not actively choosing to stay, which is wild to me considering it's only been two months 💀 (she low-key reminds me of mona from friends 😩)

“So, you’re what, six months pregnant?” she asks.

this could just be my anger issues talking but the urge to bitch slap her has appeared and it only intensified the more she talked 🤠 nothing more irritating than thinly veiled insults and backhanded comments. and how dare she do this, not just to another woman, but a pregnant woman? i'd cuss her out so quick like ho is you cool?? pack it up and put it away nobody asked for your projections negative nelly 🤚🏽

She gets up quicker from the couch than you, greeting her boyfriend with a kiss. You avert your gaze while you begin to get up yourself. Dean reaches out to help you, grasping your arm in support.

oh god my patience could neverrr 😭 it may be a bit irrational, but I would be so upset like you just kissed your gf, do not touch me sir. 🤠more importantly though, how are you going to juggle a new relationship with another woman and be truly committed to all the responsibilities of a new baby? :/ oh dean

“Bye, hun. Hope you have a good appointment,” Lisa says, giving your shoulder a pat. You give her the most genuine smile you can muster as you thank her. It's possibly that she's one of those women who don't realize when they're being cunty, but you find it highly unlikely. She's too smart for that.

oooo I woulda smacked her hand away, like don't touch me you sneaky wench 🤺

“And after the birth, I’m just going to be an even fatter slob who can’t take care of her baby,” you sniffle and weep, trying in vain to wipe your eyes and get ahold of yourself.

awww, i wanna give her a huuuuuug :((

His jade green eyes are firmly set on yours, and he gestures between you and him with a pointed finger. “The reason you and I are here right now, is because the minute I saw you, I wanted you.”

honestly he's so real for this lolll

this was a great first chapter! the preview for the next part has me intrigued, and a bit confused 😅 i’m really looking forward to seeing how this plays out <333

IF I STAY - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized!Reader

Summary: Your dream is to work with kids as an elementary school teacher. Dean is well on his way to becoming a firefighter, keeping things light and “strings unattached” as he goes. After a one-night stand you never saw coming, you and Dean are forced to deal with the consequences…and figure out if the connection between you is worth fighting for.

AN: Yes, here’s another firefighter AU! Based on a request from one of my lovely Patreon members: @redhoodieone. She requested pretty much all the major beats of this story, so hopefully I did her request justice! This is also partially inspired by Fools Rush In, a beautiful movie with Salma Hayek and Matthew Perry (Rest in Peace, King).

Song Inspo: “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis

Word Count: 8.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, thick thirty, hints of body insecurity, but also body appreciation, angst, and hurt/comfort.

❤️‍🔥 If I Stay Masterlist

Part 1: Fools Rush In

Slowly, your eyes slide open into the waking world. Your head is resting on something warm, firm…and a little sweaty. You pick your head up, despite the disorienting, muddy feeling of a slight hangover.

A groan bubbles in your throat. Your gaze travels downward, and you realize that what you’re looking at is more of a who.

Your eyes widen. Oh…my…God…

Not only are you very naked, but your firm pillow is too. It happens to be your best friend’s brother.

Yes, holy fucking shit! You slept with your best friend’s brother.

He’s painfully handsome. There’s a slight hesitation in your touch, but you softly trace the cut of his jaw and the stubble spread across it. That roughness feels familiar, and not just under the pads of your fingers, though the thought makes you blush. You begin to remember the night before, almost like a movie reel through your mind…

Ooooh, right. That’s what happened.

It starts at Sam Winchester’s joint bachelor-bachelorette party at a nice hotel downtown. He and Eileen aren't the "strippers and coke" kind of party couple. They're more the "wine and brie en croute with pickled olives" on the expensive crackers you can't afford—kind of couple.

They look perfectly in love, if a bit long-suffering while Dean gives a hilarious, somewhat inappropriate, but still ultimately heartwarming toast to their happiness. After lowering the glass of champagne from his lips, his gaze catches on yours in the crowd. You suck in a subtle breath.

Technically you’ve met him already, being one of Eileen’s bridesmaids, but there’s something about his green eyes that pin you to the floor. When he hands over the mic to Lisa Braeden, Eileen’s Maid of Honor, his head turning away from you to offer her a smile breaks the spell. It allows you to breathe.

Dean later finds you by the bar. You’re drinking a rum and coke with your slice of cake, trying not to get a single crumb on your dress. You've put a lot of work into affording it, let alone fitting in it. He leans his elbows casually on the counter and looks over at you.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he nods at you with a smile, subtly taking you in first. Then, his eyes go to your plate. “Ooh, red velvet. Gotta get me some of that.”

You smile back at him. “It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, looks good in your hand,” he says, adding a teasing wink for good measure.

You don't know why that does it for you, but a half-flattered, half-nervous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Sam has warned you before about Dean. Apparently his older brother is a bit of a flirt; a ladies’ man.

A man whore, are the words Eileen used.

You’re honestly surprised he’s talking to you when Eileen’s other bridesmaids, Lisa and Jo, are sipping martinis together down at the other end of the bar. Guess they didn’t want cake.

They’re Eileen’s friends, not so much your crowd. No matter how much you’ve tried to get to know them while helping the wedding planning in whatever way you can, you still get a high school clique vibe from the women, if with more “polite smiles.” Then they’ll typically go back to talking about crystal centerpieces—or whatever in-depth conversation they were having before you were there.

But right now, Dean’s focus is on you. When he asks you more about yourself, you tell him about recently earning an elementary education degree.

“Ah, but you already knew that, because Sam told you we graduated college together,” you realize, with warmth tingeing your cheeks. That subject came up pretty quickly when he introduced you to his brother.

Dean’s smile confirms your suspicions, so you just keep filling the silence on reflex.

“Well, I actually just started teaching my first ever semester of second graders. They’re a bit of a handful, but overall, they’re really sweet.” Your smile falters. “Except for this one kid who likes to put little tacks on my chair. He’s kind of a menace, but I think if I bribe him with enough lollipops, he’ll give it a rest. I mean, it’s a behavioral issue and I should probably call his parents. But it's kind of hard to tell them their son is trying to make my ass into a pincushion."

Dean's laugh comes out in a sharp burst, like he wasn't expecting what just came out of your mouth. You didn't either, honestly. You giggle more out of embarrassment, ducking your head.

"He’s in second grade, you know?" you say, in between laughter. "I don't think that little footnote needs to end up on his permanent record. But then there's Micah. He's so friggin' smart. He can read at the fifth grade level already. Can you believe that? And I know I'm not supposed to have favorites, but his grades on his spelling tests get him a spot in the comfy bean bag chair pretty much every Friday. Honestly, I think that's what I like about working with kids. I get to see that spark on their face when something just finally clicks for them. Their little faces get all bright and happy and…ugh. God, I'm sorry. I'm rambling, right?”

You stop yourself with a hand sliding over your mouth, not quite covering your smile of embarrassment.

Dean’s grin just widens, making the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"It's okay. I kinda like it," he teases.

You duck your head, biting your lip against a groan. He chuckles and reaches out for your hand, earning your nervous glance. He quirks his head.

“Hey, you're passionate about what you do, helping kids. That's nothin' to be ashamed of,” he says, brushing his thumb over your hand. “But sweetheart, I gotta ask. Am I making you nervous or something?”

God, yes, you think, especially at that sweetheart thing. It’s making your heartbeat tick up a syncopated rhythm, but you shake your head, biting the straw of your rum and coke.

“No, not at all,” you say, in a hopefully “breezy” kind of way. You touch your fingers to his wrist. “Tell me about you though. Sam mentioned that you’re a firefighter?”

“Ah, yeah. Firefighter in training,” he says, with a more genuine smile.

He just started at the Fire Academy, and he tells you about all the drills he’s had to learn and all the training he’s had to do to be able to keep up with his classes. You subtly eye him while you sip at your drink, and you notice the crisp cut of his buttoned-down shirt and leather jacket, the definition of muscle across his thighs under the slacks, even while he casually sits.

Your gaze subtly travels down his long bowed legs, smart dress shoes. His cologne is woody and masculine, but not overpowering; maybe bergemot and sandalwood. It pleasantly wafts under your nose every time he gestures with his hands while he talks.

“Aw man, I can’t hold out anymore. I think I need to get me some of that cake before it’s gone,” he says, getting up from his chair.

You’re a bit disappointed that he’s leaving, until he stops short.

“You want another piece?” he offers, gesturing at your empty plate that’s been resting on the counter.

You blink in surprise, but you shake your head. “Oh, no. I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why not? It’s a party,” Dean reasons. His grin is too damn infectious. It has you smiling, and begrudgingly agreeing.

Not only does he bring you more cake, but you watch him eat three whole slices before he asks you to dance.

The rest of it flashes through your mind like strobe lights—the way he’d started small and respectful with his larger hand closed over yours and the other along the curve of your waist. He guided you closer and closer, until you were turned around into his arms, and you could feel his warm breath on your neck.

You felt his lips teasing your skin. Then those hands tantalizingly drifted down your every soft curve, as if showing you a preview of everything he could do to you, and every way he’d make you come apart. You believed him.

And when he whispered in your ear, asking if he could take you home, you let him.

You let him drive you in that big black piece of history he drives. Used to be my dad’s car, he said. A Chevy something. You couldn’t really remember much when his hand was drifting up and down your thigh like that.

His presence burned hot at your back when you two eventually got to the front door of your apartment, your hands just barely shaking as you got the key in. Twist and click—

He waited until you flipped the lights on. Then he turned you around slowly in his arms and pulled you in close, all the while asking you with his eyes and raised brows. This okay? You want this?

“Do I still make you nervous?” he asked, his lips twitching at a smile when yours do.

You nodded, uttering a small giggle. “In a good way.”

That was when he finally kissed you, hot and slow, like he meant to devour you whole. He moaned at the taste of you, at the feel of your ass squeezed in his hands. You clung onto him strong, breathing into his kiss and trying to meet every single demand of his lips.

It soon became a fiery tear to your bedroom, one lamp flicked on, hot breaths and nice clothes crumpled to the floor. You didn’t feel self-conscious even once when he guided you under him on the bed, because he wasted no time in taking you apart, inch by inch.

His lips kissed and licked and sucked a burning trail down your neck, over your collarbone and between your breasts. You felt his hardened length trapped between your bodies while his hands explored you, teasing your breasts and sensitive nipples, and he mapped his way down with his lips.

You explored every part of him you could—every dip of muscle, firm shoulders and the slopes of his back, and then back up to tangle in his hair. Your heated gasps and whimpers filled the room when his sinful mouth found what it was looking for between your legs.

It wasn’t often that you had a strong pair of shoulders to rest your thighs on, but Dean’s grip was hard enough to leave deep fingerprints of pressure on each thigh while he slipped his tongue through your folds and feasted on you.

“D-Dean, oh God,” you gasped. Every sound you made was a sensuous symphony in his ears, washing over his skin and making the well of his desire churn hot in his lower belly. He had to roll his hips into the mattress for some relief for his aching cock, even while he moved his mouth up to your clit, circling the swollen bud with his tongue. He had enough room to slip two fingers deep inside your sopping wet channel, exploring you deeply, stroking and twisting to find what you needed.

Your thighs trembled and squeezed tight on either side of his head. When he sucked your clit tight between his lips, you uttered as gasping moan as that coil snapped its release. Your inner walls fluttered around his fingers. Yours clenched tightly in his hair, threatening to rip out a few strands.

Dean stroked you all through your first orgasm, giving slower licks to your clit. He seemed to sense when you couldn’t handle anymore though. You tugged more sharply on his hair, and he finally pulled away, moving back up your body to gauge your reaction.

You’d collapsed boneless against the bed, but you still managed to smile up at him as you caught your breath.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked. But his self-satisfied grin almost made you laugh. You took his glistening face between your hands and pulled him down for a grateful kiss.

After a moment to savor your lips, he broke away for a second to catch his breath himself. You stroked his back all the while.

“You know, for a minute down there, I thought you might not let me come back up,” he teased.

You choked on a laugh, covering your face in embarrassment.

“Honestly wouldn’t have minded if you did suffocate me,” he chuckled, accompanied by a slap to your left ass cheek. You squealed, and blushed hotly at the way he was grinning down at you.

“Ready for more, baby? Or you want to call it a night?” he asked. His tone was playful, but it was actually a serious question. You blinked in surprise. You’d never had a guy be this, well…generous, and not expect anything in return, especially not for just a hookup.

But you shook your head and sat up, slipping a hand behind Dean’s neck. After a beat of hesitation, you guided him down to you for a slow, sensuous kiss.

“No, I don’t want to call it a night,” you whispered. Your hand drifted down his bare chest, and lower still. You showed him just how well you could return the favor.

And now, come the morning, you’re blushing down to your neck as each scene flashes through your mind. You feel the ghost of his hands all over your body, and how you’d never quite felt quite as bold and sexy and beautiful with a near stranger as you had with Dean effing Winchester. Your best friend’s brother.

You begin to worry your bottom lip with your teeth. How the hell are you going to tell Sam? Especially after he warned you about exactly this. Plus, there’s a reason you don’t typically do the one-night stand thing, and this has the potential to become something very complicated.

You know what, it’s fine! you think. We’re two consenting adults. We’re both single. And maybe…maybe it could be more than a hookup. Maybe we can see each other again, see where it goes.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Dean says, his voice croaking with sleep.

You look down at him in surprise. His eyes have cracked open and he has your hand captive, stopping you from continuing to idly trace patterns on his bare chest. You smile in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you say. Again, you bite your lower lip. “Um, good morning.”

“Morning, sweetheart,” he grins lazily. “You sure wore me out last night.”

Your smile becomes more genuine, even if you turn your face away somewhat shyly.

“Aw, don’t do that,” Dean says. He slides his hand up your arm and behind your neck, tangling into your already tangled hair when he guides you down to his lips for a kiss. “You were awesome.”

You giggle against his lips. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah,” he says, kissing you again.

You shake your head a little. “You were…”

Amazing. Unbelievable. Probably the best night I’ve ever had.

“Perfect,” you decide. Because it’s the truth. The word comes out of your mouth before you can filter yourself though, making you pause. Dean does too, but after a beat, he slowly smiles.

“Oh yeah?” he asks.

You lick your lips, and you nod. “Definitely.”

“Well, then,” he says. His hand moves down to squeeze your hip. “You down for a repeat performance?”

You smile. “Only if I get a turn.”

Bracing your hands on his chest, you slide your thigh across his lap so you can straddle his hips. Dean grins and goes along with your idea. He gets a nice healthy handful of your thighs and helps settle you on top of him. But first, he reaches over into your nightstand drawer and finds another condom, ripping it open with his teeth.

Just like you did for him last night, you take the packet, as well as his generous length in your hands. You gently stroke him to full mast, smiling pleased at his groan of pleasure. Then you carefully fit the condom over him.

“You’re so gentle with me,” he teases.

“Just returning the favor,” you quip, just before you position him at your wet entrance. Slowly, you sink down over his cock.

You both moan at the feeling of him stretching you again, warm and thick and fitting perfectly nestled deep inside. There had been moments last night where he wasn’t all that gentle, actually, but his passion had only spurred yours on more. You know you’ll probably find fingerprint marks on your thighs and ass, but it’s fucking worth it, you think, as you begin to bob a rocking rhythm that serves you both.

Dean arches his back underneath you, his knees coming up to press against your ass.

“Goddamn, baby. Givin’ me quite a show,” he says, in a panting voice that’s deep as sin.

You utter a breathy laugh.

Dean means it though. He’s enjoying the way you brush your hair out of your face, your beautiful tits in his face while you truly let loose for him. He guides you by the stronghold he has on your hips, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh as he ruts up into you, meeting your thrusts.

Your breath quickens, your nails digging into his chest on reflex, and your heart races as that delicious pleasure builds. But when Dean snakes a hand between you and further parts your folds to massage tight circles over your clit, your vision flashes white. You utter a scream of pleasure on his name, your inner walls choking him tight as you throb around his cock. His release hits him like a goddamn freight train.

“Aw, fuck,” he grunts.

He slams your hips down hard, making your thighs slap against his. A ragged groan escapes him in a rush. His hands move to your thighs just under your ass, where his fingers press into flesh hard enough to leave forensic ID, giving him leverage to bury himself deep into your pussy as he spills a hot release into the condom.

Goddamn…

He can almost imagine that he’s coming free inside you, that you’re milking his cock for every drop, until there’s nothing left for him to give.

The thought surprises him. It almost takes him out of the moment, honestly. That’s not a thought he’s ever had before—not with a woman he barely knows (which is most of his hookups, if he’s honest).

In that delicious, fractious moment just after it hits, it’s like those few seconds are suspended in zero gravity. Your arms are shaking, and your forced to collapse against his chest. Dean welcomes you there for a little while, letting you come down while he smooths a hand over your hair.

Though he can't help the urge to let his big hand drift down over your dewy skin, down the gentle slope of your back and over the curve of your generous ass. He gives one cheek a teasing slap. The sound echoes in the room.

"Goddamn perfect ass," he says roughly, smirking at your squeal. You end up grinning hard against his neck.

"'S that my new nickname?" you quip.

He chuckles deeply, moving you along with his chest. "Hell, sweetheart, if you want it to be."

Eventually, you lean back to give him a smile and one last kiss before you pull away from him. You slip off his lap to find your robe, at least. You definitely need a shower.

“So I’m thinking, after we get cleaned up, I could make us some breakfast,” you offer. “Or if you want, maybe we could go somewhere. I know a little diner down the block.”

“I like the sound of food,” Dean agrees with a smile. Ge reaches over for his phone on the nightstand, to check the time. His eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”

He has to get his ass over to the Fire Academy. He has class in barely twenty minutes.

He tears out of bed and nearly trips on the coiled sheets.

“Sorry. Gonna need to take a raincheck,” he says. He hurries to find his clothes strewn all over your bedside floor.

“What’s the matter?” you ask with wide eyes. You cross your arms under your breasts, but it’s more like you’re hugging yourself over your robe. You watch him tear through your bedroom in a tempest of movement.

Dean spares you a glance, but not much else as he yanks up his slacks and belt and dress shirt.

“Gotta get to class,” he confesses. Thank God he has his uniform in the trunk of his car for exactly these kinds of emergencies. He grabs his phone, wallet, and keys, and quickly kisses you on the cheek. He gazes down at you apologetically. “Sorry I gotta cut and run, sweetheart, but it’s been fun.”

Your smile barely reaches your eyes. He’s pressed for time, but he still notices.

He slows himself down and cups your cheek. “Hey.”

He gets your pretty eyes looking up at him, and he gives you a real kiss, nice and slow. He cradles your cheek and brushes his thumb across your skin.

“Thanks,” he says. His now familiar grin manages to make you smile. “And I mean that.”

You shake your head at him. “Okay go, Mr. Future Fireman. Be safe out there, okay?”

He gives you a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

You can’t help but laugh. This guy’s too much. But you don't think you've had this much fun having sex in...

All right, let's not put a timeframe on it.

You watch him leave your apartment, even though you have a sinking feeling in your chest. You knew this was just a hookup for him, for both of you. Part of you just couldn’t help hoping that it could’ve led to something more.

Dean means to call you.

He really does.

After that truly awesome, you shook me all night long, kind of a night, he thinks about you more than he’d like to admit over the next few weeks. However, he finds himself locked into his training. He’s so close to finishing strong and earning his badge, he just can’t afford any more distractions.

Still, he should’ve known that Sam would find out—either through Eileen, or through you directly. He also should’ve expected the way his brother let him have it.

“And you didn’t even fucking call her. See? This is why I don’t set you up with any of my friends anymore,” Sam bitches at him from his side of the small two-seater dinner table. They still share an apartment, though in just a month and a half, Sam’s going to be moving out. He and Eileen already found a house that they’re moving into after the wedding.

“Look, I was going to call her, man. They’ve just been bustin’ my ass at the Academy!” Dean argues.

“Bullshit.” Sam levels him with the same finger that holds his beer.

Dean’s brows raise, high and annoyed. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. Because if you really liked her, respected her, and respected me, you would’ve made the time,” Sam says.

That falls heavy between the brothers for a moment while they eat their pizza.

“Look, I know her. She doesn’t do hookups that often, which means…she probably liked you,” Sam adds. “And honestly, when are you going to give it a real try with someone? You can only visit that free clinic so many times.”

Dean shoots him a glare. He’s had a clean bill of health from said clinic for six months straight.

“Jesus Christ. Enough, all right?” he grouses. “What’re you, Mom?”

“I’m just saying,” Sam says, lowering his crust to the plate. He levels his brother with a more earnest look, lightening up from his anger. “Look, if it’s about what happened to Dad—”

“What, you mean the way he drank himself to death after Mom died?” Dean says. His voice cuts through whatever softball glove Sam is trying to handle him with. “You think that’s the kind of thing I should be looking for in my life?”

“Oh, and what, do you think I’m making a mistake marrying Eileen?” Sam counters.

Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Damn it, don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I’m saying, it’s just…I don’t know. Maybe that kind of life—the house, the wife, the 2.5 kids and the dog. Maybe that’s just not my life, okay?”

Sam gives him a long look. He lets go of a deep breath, and he shrugs.

“Okay,” he says. “If you think hooking up night after night for the rest of your life is going to make you happy, then fine.”

Dean nods, glad that they can put an end to this little After School Special.

“Okay.”

Still, he can’t finish his third slice of pizza. He keeps picturing your face when he left you that morning. No matter how you tried to hide it, he still saw the tinge of disappointment in your eyes. It brews something uncomfortable in his stomach, and a sting in his chest.

You’re eating lunch alone in your classroom, finally on your break, when an unfamiliar number flashes across your phone screen. You look down at it in confusion, but with all the caterers and florists and things you’ve helped Eileen with on the wedding, you figure it could be important. You pick up the call and greet whoever’s on the line.

“Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”

You drop your ham and cheese on your keyboard, gaping in surprise.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he chuckles slightly. “Sorry, I know it’s been a minute.”

You frown, because you’re confused more than anything.

“Yeah, like almost a month,” you reply. You put the call on speaker so you can grab up your sandwich and quickly brush off the crumbs from your keyboard. You struggle to say something cool, clever, sexy even. “I’m okay. Just, um…what’s up?”

Smooth, real smooth. You cover your eyes with your hand.

“Nothin’, I was just thinking of that night,” he says. “I had a good time.”

Your frown deepens, despite the beginning of a blush warming your cheeks. If he’s calling you just for another hookup…

“So I just thought maybe you and I could do something again. Maybe you wanna come over my place this time.”

And there it is. You deflate at his words, shoulders sagging. The "convenient booty call" proposition.

“I could make us some burgers, toss in a couple of beers and a movie night,” he adds.

That part throws you though, you’re not going to lie. What, is this a Netflix and chill situation—with a side of fries?

You consider it. You weigh pros and cons at a frightening speed in your mind, almost like Sherlock Holmes contemplating the layout of a dead body and deducing within moments that his wife committed the murder, despite the man no longer wearing a ring.

You want to let yourself be bold and spontaneous and carefree...but it's just not who you are at your core. You're a planner, a cautious person who looks three ways before crossing the street. Letting Dean take you home that night was certainly one of the most spontaneous, wild things you've done since your friends took you out to a strip club after you aced your final round of exams back in college.

(Sam hadn't been there that night, but he did get an embarrassing drunken text from you at 3:00 a.m., along with a few shame-ridden pictures fueled by questionable substances. Yes, he still had the evidence.)

You just don't know if it's smart to let yourself hookup with Dean again. Mostly because you know your heart has the tendency to get attached, no matter how much you warn it not to.

“Ah, okay. Yeah. I get that,” he says. You hear his disappointment too. “But I just need to say, I really am sorry for not calling you sooner.”

Your lips tug at a smile. “It’s okay, Dean. Look, you’re Sam’s brother. I just feel like, maybe it’s better if you and I stay friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Dean says wryly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t have three rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends.”

Your blush comes swiftly again, burning in your cheeks.

“Be that as it may,” you say, “I just don’t want to do anything that will distract from Sam and Eileen’s wedding.”

“Oh, I’m a distraction, huh?” Dean says flirtatiously.

You begin to smile in earnest. “I think you know damn well what you are, Dean Winchester.”

His deep chuckle practically resonates through the phone and into your chest, going straight down to your pussy. You clench on nothing just at the sound of his voice, making you cross your legs under your skirt. Dear God…

How are you supposed to be even remotely normal around this man now?

But for Sam’s sake (and your own), you’ll have to try.

Dean hasn’t heard from you since the rehearsal dinner, but he sees you again at his brother’s wedding. All the bridesmaids are wearing long, royal blue dresses that drape off the shoulders and hug the bust and waist, flaring gently at the skirt. Lisa and Jo wear it beautifully, their hair perfectly smooth and coiled.

But when you step out into the hall outside the church ballroom to join them, Dean actually pauses in what he’s saying to his brother. He nearly double takes when you enter his line of vision—mostly because he hasn’t seen you in a dress since that night. You were sexy as hell then, a lady in red.

Today, you’re absolutely stunning.

After greeting Sam with a warm hug, you turn to him with a nervous kind of smile. “H-Hey, Dean.”

With that, he snaps out of it. Dean smiles, eyes crinkling, and goes over to give you a hug as well.

“Good to see you,” he says, trying not to inhale too much of your nice perfume. It’s even in your hair.

“You too,” you reply. Your smile is a little brighter, more genuine. Though there’s something behind your eyes that he can’t quite place.

What he doesn’t notice is the way Lisa is watching you and her boyfriend, a hint of suspicion on her face.

You do though. You pull away from Dean and assemble into a line with Lisa at the helm. As the Best Man, Dean stands with her, followed by Jo and Brady, another one of Sam’s buddies. You and Benny bring up the rear. Benny’s dad used to work with John, Sam and Dean’s father, on the police force.

According to Sam, John Winchester worked a beat for twenty-six years before his liver finally gave out on him. Dean almost went to the Police Academy to follow in his dad’s footsteps, but Benny, already working his way up to Lieutenant, suggested Dean become a smoke eater instead. The suggestion stuck.

Benny Lafitte is slightly shorter than Dean, but just as broad-shouldered, his auburn beard neatly trimmed. Even though you might’ve thought he was rough around the edges at first, his kind blue eyes spoke the contrary. He offers you his arm like a gentleman.

“Well aren't I lucky, getting the prettiest girl on my arm,” he says, with a charming smile.

You smile, and even begin to blush at the way he subtly takes note of you from head to toe.

“Well, thank you. You’re very handsome yourself. Although, hold on.” You slip your arm out of his for a moment so that you can fix his tie. It’s slightly crooked. You make sure that it lays flat under his collar, smoothing down all the edges and picking off any small dust particles that landed on his collar. Benny watches you with an indulgent smile.

“Am I good?” he asks.

“Very,” you reply.

“I appreciate it, thank you,” he says. You don’t know if he means to sound flirtatious, but his voice is a deep drawl that washes over you pleasantly. You find yourself blushing down to your neck as you slip your arm back around his.

You also don’t notice how Dean glances at you and Benny over his shoulder.

As much as you love Sam and Eileen, it’s difficult for you to keep your mind from spinning into fractals as the ceremony goes on. You can’t help but glance at Dean. He stands there behind Sam dutifully, but you see brotherly pride in Dean’s eyes, in his smile. It makes you smile too. You too love Sam like a brother, and it brings a well of happy tears to your eyes to watch him have his moment with his new wife.

It just also reminds you of what you need to do.

After the ceremony ends and the bridal party files out behind the bride and groom, you excuse yourself from Benny apologetically. You wait until Lisa and Jo go off to take pictures with Sam and Eileen, and you grab Dean’s wrist, pulling him aside.

“I need to talk to you,” you whisper.

Dean gives you a confused look. “They’re gonna need us for the pictures.”

“I know, but this is important,” you say. Your voice trembles with nerves, and so do your hands. Dean notices, frowning in concern. He grasps your arm to try and steady you.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Just come with me,” you implore him. You take his hand and lead him into the women’s dressing room attached to the church sanctuary you all just came out of.

Dean raises his brows at the mess you and the rest of the bridesmaids have made of the room—pantyhose and makeup and clothing litter the floor and most available surfaces, while leftover breakfast sandwiches, grapes, salami, and cheddar cheese cubes are splayed out across one of the vanity counters. Dean is tempted to steal a morsel, but he focuses on you first.

You close and lock the door, which makes his brows raise high again. You know he has a girlfriend now, right?

“Uhh, look, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but—”

You heave a sigh. Again, you take his hand and guide him to sit with you at the vanity. The old stools squeak, the overhead lights a bit too bright. This is not where you want to do this, but you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Dean, I’m pregnant,” you confess.

He freezes. His breath stills in his lungs. His eyes slowly widen as the words click in his brain.

“What?” His head tilts, as if he didn’t hear you right.

You squeeze his hand; to ground him or yourself, you’re not sure.

“I’m about two months pregnant. I found out last week.”

Dean swipes his free hand over his mouth while he tries to compute. He squeezes your hand, tighter and tighter. He points to himself.

“It’s…it’s me? It’s mine?”

You give him a weary smile. “You’re the only one I’ve been with in the last few months. It could only be you.”

Oh fuck. The man’s face begins to pale as he descends into shock.

“But we…I used a condom,” he reasons. “All the—all the times!”

You bite your lip. If you weren’t freaking the fuck out yourself, you’d probably be laughing right now. Granted, you’ve had a bit more time to process this than Dean.

“I know, I was there,” you reply, releasing yet another sigh. “One of them probably broke. That’s all I can think of… Honestly, Dean, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I just didn’t want to disrupt the ceremony or cause a scene before the wedding. But now you know.”

Dean falls silent then. He hasn’t let go of your hand, which you think is a decent sign. He’s likely forgotten that you’re still holding it as he stares off into the middle distance for several seconds.

Eventually, he shakes his head and returns his gaze to yours. He looks uncertain, his handsome face the true epitome of holy fucking shit.

You know the feeling.

But he asks the most important question.

“What do you want to do?”

Briefly you close your eyes as you take a breath. You squeeze his hand before you let go of him.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, and…I’m keeping the baby,” you tell him, though you raise placating hands. “I don’t want money, or anything like that. I just wanted you to know that it’s yours. How much you want to be in his or—or her life, that’s up to you.”

Dean takes a beat before he answers, but you don’t have to wait so long holding your breath.

“Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ll help you. Don’t worry,” he says.

And just like that, all the time you spent giving yourself pep talks for this, telling yourself that you’ll need to be strong no matter what he says, all of it crumbles into relief. Your lower lip trembles, and your body shudders as you break into tears. You try covering your face to hide your shame, but Dean grasps your shoulders.

“Hey, hey. It’s all right,” he says. He tentatively pulls you into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You nod into his dress shirt, probably staining him with your running makeup.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you so much.”

He holds you a bit tighter in response.

You and Dean agree to keep this to yourselves for now, at least until Sam and Eileen get back from their honeymoon. It’s difficult to explain why your eyes are all red and your makeup is smudged, but you promise Sam that you’ll tell him later. You know it’s pointless to lie to him though. As a lawyer, his bullshit meter is far too high.

However, you also know that he’s half guessed it by the time you all make it to the reception. When you and Dean came out of that dressing room to join the bridal party for pictures, you're sure that you looked emotionally wrecked. Dean had looked pale as a sheet, his body coiled and tense, as willing himself to seem normal. Sam had clocked both of you with a raise of his brow, but he didn't say anything then, especially after you gave him a pleading look.

While Eileen greets her family without him for a moment, Sam pulls you aside. He notes your glass of diet coke, in a moderate sea of guests drinking champagne and cocktails.

“Are you okay?” he asks knowingly.

Tears well up in your eyes again. You don’t know if it’s your damn hormones going haywire, or just the way Sam asks you, with the love of a friend in his eyes. He squeezes your shoulder gently, prompting you with your name.

“Yeah, I think I will be,” you say.

"Is it the same reason you're not drinking?" he asks. "You and Dean earlier..."

You hesitantly confirm with a nod. Sam blows out a harsh sigh, raising folded hands to his mouth as he processes. You begin to look around on reflex, trying to see if anyone's watching you and Sam have this conversation in the middle of the reception. To your relief, everyone around you seems occupied with drinks, hours d'oeuvres and conversation.

“What did he say when you told him?” Sam asks. His gaze is firmer. You get the idea that if he doesn’t like what you tell him, then he’s about to go grab his brother by the ear himself.

You grab his wrist and give a placating squeeze. “He said he's going to help me, be there for me.”

“Damn right. So will I,” Sam nods, and glances back at Eileen, his new bride, with a smile. “We both will.”

“I know,” you nod as well. “I’ll be okay, Sam. You don’t have to worry so much. Just enjoy your wedding day. It’s the only one you’re gonna get. Well, you know…hopefully.”

You tease him with a wink.

Sam laughs, cupping your cheek. He kisses your other cheek.

“I love you, you know that right?” he says.

You give him a trembling smile through your tears.

Meanwhile, Dean has a beautiful woman in his arms. He turns Lisa on the dancefloor, trying not to trip on his own dress shoes, all the while knowing that his brain isn’t here in his body. It’s across the ballroom, watching you talk to Sam. Dean can tell that he knows, just in his Big Bird body language. He’d also recognize that accompanying Bitch Face anywhere.

“Dean, what’s wrong,” Lisa asks him, and not for the first time. She’s getting annoyed, he can tell. She finally looks over to where he keeps glancing, and she notices you with a frown. It’s also not the first time she’s caught him staring at you tonight.

“What was that earlier in the dressing room? She didn’t really get food poisoning, did she?” she asks pointedly. “What, did you two used to date or something?”

He gives a wan smile. “Yeah, kinda. We…had a thing once.”

“What kind of thing?”

Dean closes his eyes and tries to keep himself calm. He’s pretty sure if he tells her the truth right now, she’s going to find the nearest cocktail and dump it over his head.

But shit, here it goes.

“Well…”

After a long day at school, you drive over to Dean’s apartment. You’d agreed to meet there and wait for him to get off his shift at Firehouse 83, where he just started as a full-fledged firefighter on probation. When he gets home, he’s supposed to go with you to an important appointment with your OB-GYN.

You were hoping he’d already be done with work by the time you got to his place, but Lisa's there to open the door for you. Apparently, he’d already given her a key.

Moving kind of fast, but okay, you think. A second later, you could’ve rolled your eyes at yourself. Pot, kettle, me. Got it.

Or she really loves him. The thought sobers you as you lower yourself down to the couch beside her. Both of you sit there in silence for a moment, trying to figure out something to talk about.

“So, you’re what, six months pregnant?” she asks.

You correct her in thinly veiled annoyance. “Three months, actually.”

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I thought it was six.”

You have a feeling her awkward chuckle is fake, however. She knew good and damn well that you’re not six months pregnant. In her eyes, you must be the size of a parade float.

“If you want, I can recommend a holistic diet to help you get your body back after the baby’s born,” Lisa offers. “No pills, no chemicals. Just good clean weight loss.”

You feign interest. Honestly, you’d like her to cram that offer right up her hooch.

“I can even give you a discount if you want to try out yoga,” she says. “It’s low impact, but you burn plenty of calories. I have a beginner’s class, not too strenuous. Even my least flexible clients manage to do the poses.”

Is that why Dean likes you? Because you’re bendy? Bet if I sat on you, you’d pop like a fucking balloon.

You hide all of these thoughts behind a “polite” smile of your own.

“That’s really nice of you, thanks,” you reply. It’s non-committal enough, but hopefully it’ll get her off your back.

No such luck.

“You know, maintaining a healthy diet is really important for the baby’s health too,” Lisa adds. “It’s not just about avoided raw fish and dairy products. Oh, and processed food is obviously a no-go. Like, I’m sure you haven’t been hitting Taco Bell and all that stuff, right?”

As a matter of fact, you’ve been eating clean since long before you got pregnant. Not that it’s any business of hers whether you enjoy the occasional quesadilla or not.

Your temper snaps at its leash. You open your mouth to reply, when the front door unlocks and opens to Dean, stepping in through the threshold.

Thank God, you and Lisa both think. She gets up quicker from the couch than you, greeting her boyfriend with a kiss. You avert your gaze while you begin to get up yourself.

Dean reaches out to help you, grasping your arm in support. You shoot him a smile.

“I can still get up by myself,” you snip.

“Yeah, all right. Just in case,” he says with a smile. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s rock and roll,” you say, trying to hide your worsening mood. You’re exhausted, and irritated, and probably more than a little hangry. Except now, the idea of food just has you feeling guilty for even being hungry.

You follow Dean out the door and over to his car, big and black and sleek as you remember. You settle into the passenger seat with your arms crossed in silence. Dean switches the cassette to one of his favorite Led Zeppelin albums, though he notices your grumpy face.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

You give him some side-eye, but you’re reluctant to say anything. You just shake your head. As irritated as you are, you don’t want to be the friend who badmouths his girlfriend.

God, are we even friends? You wonder. Or am I just his knocked-up baby momma?

And again, you realize that this whole situation is probably hard for Lisa. You just don’t know if she’s jealous, or if she just…doesn’t like you.

“I’m okay,” you tell Dean.

He raises a skeptical brow. Looks like Sam isn’t the only one with a finely tuned bullshit meter.

“All right, how about this,” Dean says. “Let’s grab some burgers after this, huh? From your favorite spot. Shake Shack, right? Side of fries, frozen yogurt. I think I’ll get chocolate this time… Hmm, I doubt Lisa will want anything. She’s gone on an all-vegan kick or something.”

For one shining moment, you were happy and touched at his consideration. But now your body stills in your seat when you remember Lisa’s words. Tears well up in your eyes with a hot sting, and a sob escapes your throat.

Dean is cut off from thinking about getting extra bacon on his burger. He looks over at you in alarm. “H-Hey, what’s the matter?”

You scoff at him through your tears. “Are you kidding me? I can’t eat burgers anymore, Dean. I was already fucking fat. Now it’s just gonna get ridiculous.”

“What?” Dean’s brows knit together in confusion, along with his deepening frown. It gets worse as he tries to watch the road ahead, while at the same time, watching you continue to crumble.

“And after the birth, I’m just going to be an even fatter slob who can’t take care of her baby,” you sniffle and weep, trying in vain to wipe your eyes and get ahold of yourself.

Dean grits his teeth, his jaw twitching. Fuck it.

He turns the steering wheel sharp enough to startle a gasp out of you.

“Dean!”

He pulls the car over onto the side of the road, ignoring the honking SUV behind him. He shifts into Park and shuts off the radio—a big red flag, in your opinion. He’s upset too, and fucking serious, more so than you’ve ever seen him. You stare back at him with wide eyes.

“I’ve never once heard you say that you’re fat,” he says.

You blink at that, but eventually, you’re able to get your tongue to unstick from the roof of your mouth. You wipe the remnants of tears from your cheeks. Your face is already hot from your upset, now tinged with embarrassment.

“You haven’t known me very long,” you say quietly.

It doesn’t help. Dean’s jaw ticks again.

“Well, I’ve never thought it. Not even once,” he says. His jade green eyes are firmly set on yours, and he gestures between you and him with a pointed finger. “The reason you and I are here right now, is because the minute I saw you, I wanted you.”

One corner of his lips kicks upwards. “And that night, you didn’t disappoint.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. You don’t know how to respond, but you do know that a full blush is warming your face and neck. His words have power, and unbidden, they bloom a similar warmth between your legs. You swallow a bit nervously as you bite your bottom lip.

Dean glances down at your mouth when you do. He can remember what your pretty mouth did for him that night. Oh, he remembers all too well. He even had the shade of your lipstick streaked across his skin until he showered up at the firehouse.

He locks that all away when shifts the car back into Drive. If you’re going to make it to this appointment on time, he needs to get going.

And you both have to leave whatever that was right here by the side of the road.

AN: Woo! 😮‍💨 Yep, this is only Part 1, friends. Lisa is a bit different in this. My take was that without Ben in her life, she might be less mature and a bit more catty. As we get into Part 2 I'll leave it up to you to decide why she decides to stay with Dean, and perhaps more importantly, where the reader and Dean can go from here as co-parents. 🤔

If you enjoyed Part 1, please let me know!~

Next Time in Part 2:

“Hey, you okay?” you say, resting a gentle hand on his arm.

Dean shakes his head. “Look, I…I’m sorry for tossing a giant friggin’ monkey wrench into your life. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

If possible, your heart softens even more. You slide your hand down to grasp his.

“Dean, this baby wasn’t planned, but he’s not a mistake,” you say. “I don’t regret anything.”

Dean stares back at you incredulously. He can’t believe you could really say that to him. He doesn’t know what to say. He only knows what’s in his mind, and what he feels compelled to do in that moment.

He leans over and kisses you. It’s a firm meeting of his lips to yours, and achingly familiar.

⋆˙⟡ Read Part 2 on Patreon now!

⋆˙⟡ Coming to Tumblr/Ao3 on 3/23

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaleldobrev

@globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdeanwrites @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @kayleighwinchester

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @cheynovak @jollyhunter

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #firefighter!dean winchester #supernatural #spn #—⋆˙⟡ fic rec

431 notes · View notes

studiogrimm810 · 3 days ago

Text

Work Out

pairings/characters: dean winchester x afab!you

summary: after a hunt proves you cant handle yourself in a fight to deans standard, he takes you the bunkers gym to get you some proper training

warnings: a joke about domestic violence, hand-to-hand combat, spicy scenarios ;)

word count: 3,625

A/N: this was a request!! @aryaharmon ilysm and i love seeing your requests tehe ^.^,, i may or may not have gone a bit too spicy w this one tho…

———————

Dean storms down the stairs in the bunker with purposeful footsteps and a slight huff. As he lands on the tile of the war room, he slings his jacket on the back of one of the chairs and heads straight to the kitchen. You roll your eyes slightly at his attitude and plant yourself in one of the free chairs, bringing a hand up to rest your forehead in.

He returns with two beers in hand and slams yours down beside you, popping his open and taking a gulp like it’s fresh air.

“Dean-,” you start but Dean unlatches his lips from the bottle and hisses back any stray drops.

“No,” it’s followed by a small gulp and a hand wiped over his lips. “You got your ass handed to you. You suck at one-on-one and you need proper training,” he scolds, looking down at you from his standing position. You meet his gaze without moving your head up much and simply glaring through your brows.

“Okay, dick,” you scoff, removing your hand from your forehead and grabbing your beer. You line it up with the edge of the table and snap off the cap. Sam would get on you about that if he were here- thank god he wasn’t.

“Call me whatever names you will, I’m right. And once your face doesn’t look like you made your husband’s dinner wrong in the 50s then it’s you and me in the gym downstairs until you learn to defend yourself right,” he declares, taking a calming swig of his beer that doesn’t show a residual effect of such. You flinch at his poor choice of comparison in the form of a really shitty joke and you stare at him knowingly until he caves. “Bad joke, sorry,” he mumbles, slumping in the chair across from you. “I just can't keep worrying about you on hunts like this. You look like shit.”

“Flattering,” you squint with your lips ticked up in a weak excuse for a display of amusement. He only stares down at his beer. There's a pitiful softness in his eyes- melting like crying emeralds but stuck behind the glass casing of his eyes. You know he blames himself for your lack of combat skill and you don't want him to. You want to fix the ache he's feeling everytime he takes a look at your blackened eye and busted lip, but the only way you can ease that pit of dread in his stomach is to agree and follow his orders.

As much as you hate shutting up and listening, this time you agree to stuff away your stubborn attitude and sarcastic remarks and nod with a simple ‘okay’.

———

The chilly air of the bunker nibbles at your exposed skin as you navigate through the halls and down to the gym that you've only glanced in once or twice. Usually, you prefer training in the form of simple eating and morning runs with Sam, so all you had to wear for your sparring session with Dean was a sports bra in a flattering color against your chilled skin and cropped leggings. Tighter clothes always helped you let loose and enjoy your morning runs but you wondered how practical they may or may not be for the next couple hours of your life.

As you round the corner and dip into the doorway to the gym, you spot Dean across the room with a simple pair of sweats and an old t-shirt of his that's form-fitting and damn flattering. He’s rustling through a locker and pulls out some fist tape and a few towels but he drops one of the towels. As he reaches down to pick it up, his shirt- as tight as it is- rides up and you spot two sweet dimples decorating his lower back. Your mouth goes instantly dry at the sight and you mindlessly take down your hair to fix it right back up again to act like you didn't just have a jaw-drop moment as you eyed Dean like a piece of meat.

A deep breath makes its way into your lungs as you set down a water bottle you snatched from the kitchen on one of the benches by the lockers. Dean looks over his shoulder as he notices your presence.

“Hey, you feelin’ okay?” He turns to face you while he wraps some tape around his flexing fist.

“As good as ever,” you shrug, watching his hands move around themselves. The tape hugs his hands like the sleeves of his shrunken shirt do his biceps. You wet your lips to cover the smile creeping across them.

“You sure you’re up for this today? We can always push it off a couple more days,” he says, eyes not meeting yours yet but instead staring down your puffy red lip that just won't seem to heal.

“C’mon, I’m sick of delaying me kicking your ass,” you cross your arms and tilt your head at him with a mix of feigned concern and mockery. He rolls his eyes and reaches for an item in the locker- a knife.

“Yeah, you keep up that confidence,” he deadpans sarcastically, sawing off an end to the tape and tucking the stray piece into a slip in his palm. “Gimme,” he murmurs, reaching out for your hand and you obey thoughtlessly.

“What does this do?” You ask, watching his hands maneuver around yours with significant differences of how he had done his own. His hands wound slower around yours and he uses his free hand to run along the slack as it lay against your palm.

He’s gentle.

“It’s like a cushion. Gives some extra ‘umph’ to absorb the punch, and it holds everything together so less chance of damage or whatever. I don’t know, Sam knows the sciency reasons,” Dean shrugs, retrieving the knife again and snipping the end a few more inches away from your hand than he had done on his own.

And so sweet.

“Okay, ya’ ready?” He asks, looking up at you from his dropped head as he rewraps the roll of tape back onto itself.

“As I’ll ever be,” you shrug, following him out to the main mat after he settles the loose items back into his locker.

“First things first- stretching,” he grumbles with an attitude so dull you could miss it if you weren’t watching his every move. “Practically, you couldn’t take a time-out to warm-up for a fist fight but we can today so we will,” he widens his stance and lifts his arms. The look of embarrassment plagued his face. “Sammy insisted we start with this,” he blames sheepishly.

Dean positions both arms as if he's pretending to ride a motorcycle and pulls them back.

“We’re trying to squeeze between our shoulder blades and pump out,” he explains as he mimics the motion a few times. You follow. “The idea is to loosen up your muscles so that when you throw a punch, you don’t pull anything,” he defends lightly, mimicking a slow motion punch as he speaks with alternating hands.

“You also wanna make sure you have a good range of motion. You’re smaller than me and a bit lankier,” he teases with a smirk. “You can really use that to your advantage.” You roll your eyes at the comment but nod at the advice.

He continues to lead you through a small set of stretching your legs back and also instructs you to roll your head to work out your neck. The warm-up is quick and just enough to feel that slight rush of blood under your skin.

“Now, I’m gonna come at you in a few different ways at first. Ya’ gotta keep up and try to learn my patterns and tells. I’ll go slow but at anytime you need a break, just shout,” he directs, waiting for a verbal response before starting.

“Shout- got it,” you nod curtly, stanced a few feet away from him. He looks hesitant but it's quickly morphed into determination as he throws his first punch before you’re even ready. His fist collides with your jaw just enough to force your head to spin and he uses your ragdoll response to twist your torso and put you in a headlock.

You grunt in frustration and slap at his arms locked around your head. He lets go and you stumble a few feet before standing up straight.

“The hell? No warning?” You huff, tossing away some flyaway baby hairs from your forehead. Dean chuckles and shakes his head like you’re being irrational.

“About as good of a warning as any,” he shrugs, “besides, you always need to expect a hit in any tense scenario. Keep your guard up or else-.” He swings again and you move both hands to block it but he ducks down and snakes around the opposite side of his punch so he’s behind you again. He hooks your arms behind you and you're stuck again.

“Asshole,” you insult, trying to jerk out of his grasp. He sighs this time, stiffening his hold.

“You’re too relaxed,” Dean points out, “you need to focus.”

“Now how am I expected to not be so relaxed in the presence of such a big, strong man?” You rest your head back into his shoulder, looking up at him with wide and curious eyes. You’re positioned so that when he meets your eyes, the next thing he can see is your exposed collarbone that trails along with the flushed skin of your breasts. You don’t mean to be so on display in that sense, but your initial plan of flustering the fucker works as he immediately turns red and stutters. You take the chance to snap out of his hold and grab his wrist in a light twist. Next, you kick your leg out to hook around the back of his knee, bringing him down with an unexpected gasp that chokes him up a bit.

A smile spreads across your lips as you look down at him, on his knees, and looking right back up at you.

“What's that about focus?” You ask, twisting his writs a little tighter which earns a lip-curling hiss from him and an annoyed glare.

“You seriously expect to use flirting as a defense?” He grumbles, flicking his wrist out of your hold and climbing up to his feet again.

“Worked on you, didn't it?” You quip with a smirk, folding your arms across your chest. His gaze darts down to your tits again and you realize your arms are placed more so under your chest and almost lift them more. Deciding that's a bit much and was initially unintentional, you drop your arms and walk over to your water bottle.

“Did not,” he scoffs.

“Right,” you draw out with squinted skepticism.

“Whatever, just-. Let’s keep going,” he sighs again.

A few more failed rounds- on your end- later and you're both breathless and flushed. A gleam of sweat sparkles his forehead and his gaped mouth as he wipes it away captures a moment or two of your attention.

“You’re getting better,” Dean nods, slinging the towel over his shoulder.

“And you’re lying,” you scoff, sitting on the edge of the bench, downing a few gulps of water.

“No, really. I can tell you’re picking up on my tells. Even if you’re still getting taken down, you’re improving,” he explains genuinely. You nod along, screwing the cap back onto your water and standing straight again.

“Okay, pick it up,” you challenge, readying your stance. He raises a brow and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. “More, give me some more. I can take it,” you nod confidently even if you’re all but.

Dean widens his eyes to himself with a small shrug but stances back up and resumes. This time, you have a different type of approach. You wonder if you could throw him off again and prove that your dashing good looks can really come in handy in a pinch. Besides, it was damn nice to have him gawk at you like that.

So, as Dean lunges at you again, you duck down and go in the direction you know he's aiming for next. He mixes it up a bit though, as now he's pinning you against one of the mirrors with your face smooshed in the glass. You can work with this, you reckon.

You make eye contact with him in the mirror, scowling up at him but as you try to squirm out of the hold, you let your body buck flush against him. Now, Dean was being quite the gentleman, you’ll give him that much, so when he pinned you or grabbed you, he never let his body match the forcefulness of his hands. As you feel the stiffness of his body radiating heat onto your back, you feel a bubble of butterflies in your stomach. It churns your insides like sweet cream fluffing up into rich foam that entices your nerves for more.

His eyes haze over slightly as you make full contact, you can see such in detail at the grace of the mirror.

As his heaved breaths pass his lips, you can feel the vapor settle over your skin. The warm breeze tingles your already flushed skin and you start to wonder how good that breath would feel in other places rather than your slick neck.

You have to remember the main focus here, so you blink a few times and use his drunken halt to your advantage. You buck back fully into his groin- aiming to avoid the more sensitive areas that you’d rather please another time- and he stumbles back. You whip around, attacking him and leading him to stumble on the floor on his back.

It isn’t meant to land this way, but you aren’t complaining as the successful takedown by you leads to your knees on either side of his hips as you straddle him, pinning his wrists in an ‘X’ formation over his chest. You smirk as he struggles to move from the small but focused pin you have on the center of his sternum.

“What now, pretty boy?” You tilt your head with a feigned look of surprise. He just stares back up at you with a dumbfounded look plastered on his face and a mouth that seems to be out of commission word-wise. “I’m telling ya,” you lean down, causing your chest to sandwich yours and his combined mess of wrists and hands between you two. “Being this hot has its advantages. I mean, what-, you took down Lucifer, right? The Horsemen? God? But under the sweet sway of my charm you're a mess on the floor,” you tease, pushing back up with an amused chuckle as you roll off of him. “Man up, geez. You’re supposed to be teaching me self-defense,” you poke lightly, taking the towel that's fallen off his shoulder in the fall and using it to dap away beads of sweat.

Dean’s heart is racing and he's thankful for the rush of red swirling just below his skin to not give way to the fluster you’ve stirred in him. He just hopes that the blood will keep swimming as it was and not focus on a certain part of him that he’s thinking with at the moment. He sits up, trying to shake off the way you rattled him like a 2-year-old soda can with a disappointing lack of fizz, and looks over just in time to see you use his towel to run over your salty skin. God, if he could just-.

“Again,” you jump to your feet, swiping back a hand to unstick the baby hairs on your neck drowning in sweat.

“Ya’ gonna actually fight me or just keep sabotaging your training?” Dean scoffs, leveling up to his feet as well and snatching back his towel from your hands.

“You’re just upset that my advantage is your lack,” you roll your eyes with a toothy smirk and a slight shake to your head that swings your ponytail and makes him wanna reach out and grab it at its base.

“Oh is that so?” He squints at you, tossing his towel aside and starting towards you. He fakes a left hook that you’re not expecting and trips you up to try and gain access to your wrists. Your reaction is delayed, but you make up for it as the slick sweat on your arms gives you a bit of an out from his latch on your arm.

With two free arms, you skip back a few paces, eyeing his fists and lips as he often snarls slightly before a dramatic hit.

As soon as his lip lifts, you duck and tackle his waist, landing him into the padded wall with a hard grunt. He somehow manages to slither his arms under your latch and break your hold, snapping his wrists to grab your own and spinning to pin them above your head so that you take his place on the wall.

“Ugh!” You huff, writhing beneath him with determination but he stares right down at you.

“You’re saying I can’t charm my way to a win?” He leans in, mere inches from your face. Exhaled breaths mix in the shared space between you and his head covers the main source of light in the room, dampening the loudness of anything but him as you lock into his eyes. He fixes both of your wrists under one hand as he brings down his now free hand to tilt up your chin, exposing a fresh stretch of neck to him. You instinctively arch your back at the motion.

He flashes a canine in a victory smirk at the reaction from you and you know you've done it now. You bite back the smile of a devious plan with a sharp tooth locking your lip in place.

Just as he wets his lips to speak again, you whip your wrists from his hold and shove him. He stumbles back, completely caught off guard.

“I’m saying I can tell that you’re faking,” you emphasize, pushing off of the mat.

“Oh, who said I was faking?” He says, reaching for your wrist to stop you from walking past him. You meet his eyes with a raised brow. You turn to face him completely, looking up at him but knowing that you have the upper hand at the way his eyes sparkle with unknown.

“I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You like getting taken down by a woman half your size,” you sound it out as if he's a 4-year-old. “You dominate a fight because you can but I know that you prefer the unexpected moves of a woman in charge. You like not knowing what's coming next and I bet you’re just itching to see what way I take you down next,” your lips twitch into a satisfied smile at the way his face melts exactly as you expected it to.

“That!” You point, “that’s your lack and that’s proof of your fake out,” you giggle with pride as he rolls his eyes but a piece of submission remains.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he shakes his head, looking away as if trying to find a way out of the conversation.

“And you’re being ignorant,” you direct his face back to you with a single finger- so malleable.

His eyes lock with yours and this time, he lets himself sink into the warm and all-encompassing pool of your venom that he swears has been transmitted through sweat.

You look between his eyes and then down at his lips, leaning in just a bit and looking back up at him. He looks so needy and so ready for the delicate press of your soft skin on his mouth decorated with a halo of stubble. You lean in a tad bit more, eyes locking onto his lips and softening your gaze as he gulps.

Just as you’re close enough to pucker and meet his lips, you hiss in sudden disappointment and pull back completely with a shake of your head.

“Can’t. My lip still stings like a bitch,” you shrug dismissively but with a playfully knowing smirk. His jaw drops slightly with pinched brows like you just kicked ihis puppy and he reaches out to hold your hands and bring you close.

“Don’t do me like that,” he shakes his head, completely giving up on masking this side you’ve coaxed out of him. You giggle and lean back in, knowing you don't have the heart to deny him like that.

His hands move with trained motion as they snake to your waist and hold your hips, lifting you up to him. You settle your hands on his shoulders and lift up with him to plant a gentle kiss to his lips.

He soft and slow- mindful of your your healing split- and he has funneled the aching need he wants to put into the kiss through his hands that grip your hips so tightly that you expect him to pin you back against that mirror and have his way with you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stiffens towards the end of the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, loosening his grip on your hips.

“I can’t wait for that lip to heal,” he scoffs a light chuckle. You match his breathy laugh and drape your forearms around his neck.

“You and me both,” you lick your lips, looking right into his eyes with feigned innocence. “I’ve got some ideas that go past the physical exertion worked out in this gym.” His fingertips dig into your hips as a forced breath rubs a small, nearly indecipherable, whimper from his throat.

Pathetic.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest)

>>check out my other works here

all tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler

#supernatural #fanfiction #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural one shot #supernatural fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you #supernatural x you #supernatural x reader #dean winchester fluff

56 notes · View notes