#here's the thing about sam he's a damn good hunter

[seanwinchester]

daily reminder that this is his life now. and he loves it. but he can't do it without his brother. he doesn't want to do it without his brother.

[apocalypseornaw]

Things Happen

Dean Winchester x Reader

When you and Dean get hit with a powder on a hunt you're not sure what's gonna happen until you get stuck in an elevator

It's smut yall

It all happened so fast. One minute you, Sam and Dean were chasing a witch through an old warehouse the next she'd turned, throwing an orange, fruity scented powder all over you and Dean just as Sam got the kill shot.

Your eyes met Dean's as both of you were struck with the realization something was wrong. You could hear your own heartbeat, every inch of your body felt like it was on fire and you were acutely aware of the green eyed hunter clenching his jaw tightly against his own pain to ask if you were ok.

“What the hell is this Sam?” You asked, turning to look at the younger Winchester who'd smartly stood a few feet away from the two of you. “I have no idea” the fire that had been contained on your skin chose that moment to rip through your stomach, nearly making you double over. Dean rushed to your side but the moment his hand touched your back it only made the fire worsen, a groan escaping his lips as well.

“You two go back to the hotel. I'll call Rowena in and we'll figure it out” you glanced over at Dean who nodded “Yeah, ok Sammy. Just watch your back until red gets here”

Every bump the impala hit shot straight through you. Every nerve ending was on fire and the heat between your thighs was getting worse with every passing moment. It took everything you had to concentrate on anything besides the movements of Dean's fingers on the steering wheel. The thought of those fingers on you, his hands splayed across your body, those damn lips of his tasting your skin. What the hell was going on with you?

You'd always been attracted to Dean, you had eyes. He was a gorgeous man, sweet, caring and no matter how he saw himself a truly good person at his core. You had feelings for him beyond friendship but had never once considered acting on them yet now the only thought you had was what would he feel like inside of you?

—-----------------

Dean was trying to concentrate on the road, clenching every muscle in his jaw hard enough there was a chance he'd cracked a tooth. The fruity scent of that powder still clung to the air but under it he could smell you. The shampoo you preferred, the scented lotion you loved. Every damn bump he hit a low moan would slip from you and his cock would twitch at the sound.

You were a beautiful woman, an amazing hunter and one of the most important people to him. He'd always wanted you, wanted more but wouldn't risk it yet now all he could imagine was having you underneath him.

You followed Dean into the hotel about the time a loud crack of thunder went through the sky and what seemed like hell itself unleashed. “Fucking tsunami” Dean muttered, heading for the elevator.

You stepped in behind him, shaking slightly. Your legs felt like they were made of jello at that point. Your heart rate was higher than it normally was on hunts and you were certain the slick from your core was dripping down your legs at that point. You fell back against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to ignore Dean's breathing.

You closed your eyes when the elevator began to move but it only went six floors then screeched to a halt. Your eyes flew open “Dean?” He shrugged “I'm trying sweetheart, I'm trying” he was hitting the emergency call button repeatedly.

You slid down to the floor, sitting with your knees drawn up to your chest in hopes to soothe the ache throbbing through you. You vaguely heard Dean curse something about a rolling blackout but couldn't care less. The fire, the heat, everything was starting to hurt. You had to get a release “Dean?”

You knew you sounded wrecked but you didn't care you needed it, you needed him. He knelt in front of you and one look in his eyes told you he was barely hanging on himself “I want you” you whispered and he groaned “Sweetheart, baby please don't say that”

You looked up at him and he swallowed hard “I'm barely hanging on here” you leaned forward “Then let go” the moment his lips crashed into yours the heat roared back to life.

Everything in you was screaming that this was Dean, your best friend, your best friend who had never shown interest in you but it didn't matter because if you didn't do something for relief you'd die here in this elevator.

—-----------------

Dean grabbed your ankle and gave a tug, pulling you down onto your back where he could move to be between your legs. Hovering over you he took a few deep breath “Sweetheart” you shook your head “Shut up” 

—-----------

When you pulled him back into another kiss, hooking your legs around his waist Dean felt what resolve he had crumple. Whatever was happening it demanded you. It craved you and he was powerless to fight it.  His hands went to the hem of your shirt and you broke the kiss long enough to snatch it off and throw it. His lips went from yours, down your neck then he started to kiss down your chest “I need more Dean, fuck it hurts and I need more”

He knew what you meant. He was hurting. His cock was harder than it'd ever been and the fire, fuck the fire nipping through his body. He had to help you first, had to get you somewhat level headed. He nodded then lowered his lips to your stomach.

He used one hand to unsnap your jeans and then slipped it inside, he moaned into your skin at the feeling of the warm moisture he found seeping from your pussy. You were soaked and responsive to the point that a barely there flicker of his fingers made your back arch off the floor. “Please”

He freed your body of your boots and jeans faster than he'd ever undressed himself even. He took a moment to sit back on his heels and look at you. A brief moment of clarity telling him to stop this, he could handle the pain but what if you regretted him when this was over? “Dean it hurts please help me” you begged and that was all it took. He licked into you in one fluid motion and your fingers tangled in his hair “Yes, fuck Dean”

—------------

Dean began to work you towards an orgasm, flicking his tongue against your clit while he added a finger, curling it up to hit that spot inside of you. The pleasure began to push back against the pain and you found yourself unashamed as you ground your hips down against Dean's face. Your moans urged him on and when he shifted just slightly that blinding heat gave way to pleasure. He worked you through the orgasm and you could feel the pain roll back a bit.

When you became too sensitive you weakly shoved at his head. He pulled away and smiled up at you “Feeling better?” You nodded “Wanna take those jeans off?” His smile slipped into a grin “Yes ma'am”

—--------------

Dean slipped his jeans, shirt and boots off before tucking his shirt under your head as a makeshift pillow. Even if this was something pushing you two to do this he was going to make you as comfortable as possible. His hand shook slightly and he wasn't sure of the cause of it but you underneath him, all spread out and begging made that heat roar to life. 

He held your eyes as he slipped into you, both of you groaning at the feeling. Once he was fully inside of you he stilled, his muscles shaking with the urge to take you hard and fast. He could fight this enough to be gentle, to make it amazing for you. It was the only hope he had for you to not hate him when you were both clear headed.

Your eyes focused on him and you smiled “Fuck me Dean, please” he caught your lips in a hungry kiss “Oh sweetheart you're gonna be the death of me” 

—----------------

Dean buried his face in your neck as his thrusts got harder and deeper. You were so close to that edge you just needed a little more. Without you having to say anything Dean slipped a hand between your bodies, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your back arched, pressing your breasts up into his chest as you came with a loud moan of his name. 

Once your vision cleared a bit you could feel Dean holding back. He needed to come, he needed that release from the heat, the pain. “Come for me Dean. Please” you begged, tightening your grip on his shoulders and spreading your legs further to give him deeper access.

You could feel his thrusts get harder and knew he was close. He pulled his face up to catch his lips in a kiss. You poured everything you'd always felt into the kiss, trying to tell him you'd wanted this for years that it wasn't just magical shit forcing the two of you to do this. You wanted Dean, you wanted to feel him come inside of you, you wanted to be his.

He groaned into your mouth as he slammed into you one final time and you felt him come filling you up.

—---------

You lay there for a few moments, Dean's now softening cock still inside of you as you both worked to get your breathing back to normal. Both of your heads were cleared now, the effects having worn off. 

“Dean I..” your words were cut off by Dean's phone ringing. He pulled out of you gently before retrieving his phone. You could only hear his end which consisted of “Yeah we figured that out….just what it sounds like Sam…..what?...That's not..yeah ok…. I know….I know”

He hung up then looked at you where you were now slowly slipping back into your clothes. He did the same but when you started to tie your boots he knelt down and tied them for you. Neither of you had spoken the last few minutes.

When he stood up he reached for your hand and you gave it to him. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you “Sweetheart” yet again the two of you were interrupted by the elevator choosing that moment to start working again.

You stayed in Dean's arms until you reached the tenth floor. You stepped off first and he watched you carefully. What was going through his head? What was going through yours? You'd figured out it was sex pollen. A few hunters had run across different variants but the cure was always to fuck it out your system. It was never meant to kill but would if you didn't give in.

You stepped off the elevator first and Dean walked off behind you. You headed for the conjoined rooms you, him and Sam had gotten. You could feel the heat from him at your back but this time it was a very human feeling.

—----------

You unlocked the door to your room and was about to step inside when Dean's hand grabbed your arm. You looked at him and he took a deep breath “That was..” “Sex pollen, I know. I know that's why that happened” 

He shook his head “No, sweetheart you don't. The pollen may have caused it but it wasn't just the pollen”

“What are you saying Dean?” You asked pulling your arm away from him to cross it over your other arm. “I'm saying I tried to hold off as long as I could because of how much I care about you, how long I've wanted to do that. I just, I hope you don't hate me now”

You shook your head “I couldn't hate you for us saving both our lives. I couldn't hate you for anything, I care about you way too much”  he half smiled “Care about me like you care about Sam or?” You cut him off by pressing a quick kiss to his lips. 

You stepped back and shrugged “Care about you like if you want to try this between us for real I wouldn't be opposed to it” a grin slipped onto his face “I want you for a lot longer than a day or two” you returned his grin “Good cause it's gonna take a long time for me to get sick of you” 

Before you could say anything else Dean stepped closer and picked you up, his hands bracing under your thighs. You gasped lightly and he grinned “Sometimes witches aren't too bad I guess, if they got me you”  you laughed "Oh shut up and take me inside"

[artyandink]

Five-Star

Summary: You’ve been dating Dean Winchester, which is nothing short of a fever dream. A brilliant fever dream. But when you decide to test him on how much he wants you, you don’t get the answer you expected to have.

A/N - Welcome to the Karak Chaii-verse! I had an idea to write Dean with an Indian POC, since I’m one myself. Creds to @zepskies and her brilliant Midnight Espresso-verse, and you should definitely check that out. This is a small drabble that I thought up.

Your family had moved to the US around a year after you were born. That’s because the monsters in India were far more dangerous than in America due to the origination of them from the depths of Indian mythology, such as a rakshasa or arunasura, but you found that here was far more escalated.

At least, you’d found out when you met the Winchesters.

You came from a long line of crazy good Indian hunters, so you were already a great one yourself. Back in India, your parents would pose as part of the CBI, but you had to resort to finding someone who could make you a believable FBI badge once you turned eighteen and got into hunting solo, which was around 1997. There you met Bobby Singer, who hooked you up with what he called the ‘All-American Hunting Kit’, which consisted of an array of fake IDs and a lore book. You were glad your training, done by your dad, was done by the intensity of monsters in India rather than here, otherwise it’d be harder to get by.

On a hunt for a vampire and wraith hybrid in Grant Pass, Oregon, you came across the Winchesters, the shorter of the two having dubbed the hybrid ‘Jefferson Starships’. That man was Dean, and you were taken by his charming, goofy attitude that switched to an attractive sort of intensity when faced with imminent danger. You just didn’t expect ‘imminent danger’ to be the mother of all monsters.

Once your parents had found out that you were hanging out with the Winchesters, who were at the centre of any and all supernatural trouble in America, they sent you a thousand calls telling you to get your ass out of there before you got killed. You being you, you didn’t listen. Not when you knew that you’d get withdrawal symptoms from not seeing the million dollar smile of Dean Winchester, which quickly won you over (and his lips too, which knew damn well what they were doing).

As for Sam, you quickly saw him as your little brother figure, who also helped you manage your unruly hair by recommending the right hair products that you now had stocked up. You’d both nerd over monsters, you’d tell him about all the ones you’d encountered in India while Sam told you stories about all that he and his brother had gone through.

Which was no less than a lot. And you thought India was a harder place to live, by what your parents told you. Here there’s the friggin’ Apocalypse.

Dean was obviously your favourite Winchester. He’d told you he really liked you about two years and a half after you met amid averting eyes and stammered words as he spewed compliment after compliment, standing there in the Bunker’s kitchen like a nervous melon in his grey robe, black shorts with hot dogs on them and black undershirt with fuzzy hair.

You’d cut his nervous ramblings off by pulling him in by the lapel of his robe, lips puckered in surprise as they met yours as the tangy taste of cherry and sweet, buttery pie crust flooded your taste buds and even more so when Dean quickly took control of the kiss, hands tangling in your hair and grabbing at soft curves like his life depended on it.

One thing Dean loved about you was your cooking. Your mom had taught you a wide array of Indian dishes that you could cook, and the moment the first bite of your rajma and rice graced Dean’s mouth, it was hook, line and sinker. You’d taught him how to eat chole bhature, roti and sabzi and which masala was which so he could know what the hell did you put to make him fall for you over and over again.

You were scrolling on your YouTube shorts one day when you came across a video of a woman asking her husband what his favourite snack was to see if he’d say her or not. You didn’t look like the definition of a snack right now, with your unwashed hair tied up in a bun that your mom taught you to do with no hair tie whatsoever in grey sweatpants, Dean’s undershirt and fuzzy mismatched socks, but you decided to try it out anyway as Dean came into the bunker’s living room, approaching you from behind with a delicate yet possessive cup of your chin and a kiss to your temple.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He greeted in that low voice of his that was effortlessly seductive even when he wasn’t trying, his hand sliding down to comfortingly rub over your chest and shoulder as he passed by. “Doin’ ok?” He sat down beside you, arm around your shoulder as his fingers began to play with your hair, warm green eyes trained on you.

You nodded, setting your phone aside. “Doing alright, yeah.” Then you decided to try out the question. “Dil, what’s your favourite snack?” You called Dean dil sometimes because it meant heart in Hindi, and he had yours.

The question got a chuckle out of him as he jerked his head to the right in amusement. “Awh, sweet girl, that’s hardly fair. I’d say beef jerky, but that new thing you, uh, introduced me to really raised the bar.” His brow furrowed in thought for a moment in contrast to the large grin on his face. “The aloo whatzitsname.”

“Aloo lachha.” You corrected with a giggle, barely holding back the urge to say what the answer was.

“Yeah, that. Or, uh, pie, but that’s a dessert and not a snack. Maybe that rajma stuff, but that’s a meal.” He continued rambling on any and all snacks he’d added to his palette since meeting you, until a bout of laughter from you slowed his roll. “What? What’s so funny, huh?”

“So… your favourite snack isn’t me.” You teased with a smirk, which got the cogs in his head turning. “You failed, sorry, honey.”

The words got a raise of his eyebrow and a slow and subtle roving of his eyes down your body and a bite of his lip. To him, you looked absolutely delicious. Like the best thing at a five star restaurant.

He stood up with a low grunt, facing you before grabbing you by your hips, hoisting you up so fast that you had to wrap your sweatpant-clad legs around his waist with a small shriek. “See, baby, that’s where you’re wrong.”

He leaned forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss that bordered on reverence and somehow the intention to devour at the same time, which had you moaning already. His tongue slipped into your mouth, briefly getting a taste and giving you the distinct flavour of the aloo chaat you had made for lunch mixed with beer before he pulled back and nipped your bottom lip, groaning at the feeling of your fingers now tugging at his hair.

“You…” Dean paused for a breath and a low chuckle, staring at you hungrily. “You are the whole damn buffet.”

TAGLIST:

@k-slla @hobby27 @supernatural-jackles

[morganwrites12672]

You Don't Have to Be Okay

Sam Winchester x Reader

Summary: Sam has trouble coping with his nightmares. She helps him.

Rating: PG-13

A/N: This made me cry while writing. Enjoy!

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It was gradual.

She noticed how tired Sam was all of the time. She blamed it on the usual stress of hunting. After a few months she begins to notice how it's every single time she sees him. It's almost like he never has the chance to sleep.

She mentions it to Dean, who tells her that Sam's handling things just fine. She doesn't agree.

During a hunt that Sam was doing with her, she noticed the nightmares. She would ask him about it the next day, or offer to grab coffee whenever he woke up in a cold sweat. The results were the same every single time. He would brush off her concern, just like Dean had.

She was a light sleeper, an occupational hazard. It was the last night at the piece of shit hotel with Sam. She awoke to the sound of mumbling and someone thrashing around. Her hand went to the hilt of the knife hidden between the bed and the dresser. Once her weapon was safely in her hands she flicked on the lamp.

Her eyes scanned the room. It had just been Sam. She sighed, dropping the knife on the little dresser. She stood and sat on the edge of Sam's bed. She didn't want to wake him but the pained mumbles slipping past his lips, and his horrified expression made her.

She was careful, knowing he would be frightened and disoriented whenever he woke up. She shook his shoulders, making sure to be ready for whenever he would wake up. He sat up, looking like he had seen a ghost. She gently grabbed his wrists whenever his fists went flying.

He blinked a few times, realizing where he was. And who he had almost punched.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Shit," He quickly apologized. His expression still held the same horrified look. It broke her heart to see him like this.

She gave him a soft smile and let go of his wrists. He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to fix all of the pieces sticking in every direction. She was patient, letting him wake up a bit more. She wouldn't start prying whenever he was this disoriented.

"It's okay," She said, placing a hand on his knee.

"No, it's not!" Sam replied, visibly distraught. He could have punched her. All for trying to help him.

"Is it about Jess?" She blurted. She wanted to help. Maybe if he talked about it, maybe she could help him. Seeing him suffer like this was painful. It hurt seeing such a close friend in pain.

Her father was a hunter too. She had grown up around the Winchester boys. She had always been good friends with both of, especially Sam. The two were close, well, as close as they could be with the lifestyle they led.

". . . Yeah, it is," Sam replied softly, looking down at his hands. He could not bring himself to meet her gaze. Not with the way he felt tears stinging his eyes. He didn't want her to see him like this.

"I'm here, and I'll listen. I'll do whatever you need me to do," She said.

Sam sniffled. He finally moved his gaze from his hands and looked at her as a tear finally spilled down his cheek. He didn't understand why she cared so much. Sure, they were friends. He didn't feel like he deserved this though.

"You can't bring her back. You can't stop her from getting burned on the god-damn ceiling just because I left her."

His words made her do a double take. She had known that his girlfriend's death had been horrific, and had involved a fire. She hadn't realized just how truly horrible it had been.

"No, I can't. But, I can help you," She said softly, brushing a tear off his cheek.

She wrapped her arms around him. He shuddered under her touch. He was too exhausted, in more than one way. He couldn't resist the comfort of her arms. He buried his head in her neck and let the tears fall.

She might not be able to save Jess from the horrible fate she had met, but she could help Sam. The poor boy needed it. The nightmares might only be about Jess, and that horrible night, but the scars hunting left on him went deeper than his skin. He felt them branded into his soul. Horrible memories waiting to punish him again.

He was more sensitive than Dean and his father. He never truly got over those things. He thought about them all of the time. It was like he couldn't escape. Walking down the street he would see someone who reminded him of a person he couldn't save. It was always something.

Maybe she really could help.

He clung to her even tighter, grateful for her silent comfort. Once the tears dried up, and he felt like he would never be able to cry again, he pulled away. He awkwardly rubbed at his tear stained cheeks.

"Thank you," He said softly, hating how weak his voice sounded.

"You don't need to thank me."

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A/N: Thank you for much for reading! My requests are currently open. Please leave a comment and reblog!

[zepskies]

Sharing Is Caring (II)

Pairing: Dean W. x Female Reader 

Summary: Navigating a new relationship means learning how to share a bed with Dean. [3-part series with Sam, Dean, and Castiel.]

Word Count: 900 Warnings: Fluff!~

Part 2: Dean

You expelled a tired sigh as you pulled back the covers and got into bed—Dean’s bed. It was new, and still a little strange to sleep in his room more consistently than your own in the bunker. 

But he’d cleared a drawer in the bathroom and a nightstand for some of your things. The thought made you smile, along with Dean himself as he stepped out of the bathroom freshly showered and shaved. He was dressed in a simple shirt and sleep pants, bare-footed. 

You liked that you got to see him this way: out of his hunter layers, softer, and comfortable with you. 

He approached the bed and tsked at you, crossing his arms. You raised a brow at him.

“What?” 

“First of all, you’re on my side,” Dean said.

He waggled a finger at you, gesturing to move over. You gave him a flat look.

“I cleared the nightstand on the left for you,” he added. 

“I appreciate that,” you replied, “but I like it over here on the right.”

“Well, so do I. And that happens to be my side.”

Dean could be stubborn about the most random things. You two hadn’t been together long (officially, that is). And though you thought you’d known him pretty well, you were starting to learn more and more about the little things that could hotwire his brain.  

“You didn’t have a side before,” you accused. “I’ve seen you twisted up and spread-eagled in the middle of the bed like a damn starfish.”

He gave you a look of annoyance crossed with denial. 

“Yeah, well. My bed my rules, sweetheart.” Dean moved in behind you and bodily rolled you over to what he deemed as your side. You yelped and shot him an incredulous look over your shoulder.

But you fought back and grappled with him, holding onto his arms and taking most of the blankets and sheets with you as he pushed you over. 

“Hey! This is basically our bed now. I think I should get some say,” you said through rounds of giggles. A smirk crossed Dean’s face. 

But he soon grunted as a pillow smacked him in the face. “Hey!” 

You laughed and tried wriggling out of his grip. It didn’t do much good; Dean was stronger than you even on your best day, but you were more flexible.

You curled your legs around his right thigh and managed to twist him onto his back. You gained the leverage, pushing down on his shoulders from above while you straddled his waist. 

“Ha!” You stared down at him with a mischievous smirk while catching your breath. Dean looked up at you with grinning eyes, his hands molding to your hips. The little shorts you wore to bed were driving him a bit crazy, and he bunched the material there on reflex. His thumbs grazed your skin underneath and made tingles run up your spine.  

“You realize this is a hollow victory, right?” he said. You tilted your head in question.

“Hmm?”

Then his grip on your hips tightened, and with a gasp, you were tumbling to the side and being rolled again. 

Dean literally came out on top, looking down on you. His grin was fond and amused as he brushed your hair away from your face. You couldn’t resist; you pulled him down by his shirt for a kiss. 

You caught the scent of his aftershave, tasted his minty freshness. His tongue slipped between your lips as he deepened the kiss. And he braced his hands on either side of you while you slid your fingers through his short hair. 

You almost sighed in contentment…but a curious thought was nagging at the back of your mind and wouldn’t let go. 

So you released his lower lip with a soft nip, and you pulled away enough to meet his confused (and heated) eyes. 

“But seriously, why do you want the right side so bad?” you asked, raising a hand to stroke the side of his face. You actually liked the way his stubble scratched your palm. 

Dean paused. His gaze shifted in a way that told you the reason went deeper than you’d thought.  

“It’s nothin’. I just wanna be closer to the door, that’s all,” he said. 

You blinked up at him in amusement. “We’re in the bunker. You think a burglar’s gonna come bursting in or something?”

“Or something,” Dean said. He wasn’t kidding around. 

Your smile softened. Something else you’d learned about Dean: he knew you could protect yourself just fine, but that didn’t stop him from putting himself between you and danger whenever he could help it. 

“Who says chivalry’s dead,” you teased. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay.” 

I’m done, said his tone.

But you could tell he was trying to stem off his embarrassment. He was a bigger softie than he was willing to admit. 

He started to shift off you to his side of the bed, but you followed him. You tucked yourself against him and slipped your leg between both of his, shimmying around to get comfortable. Dean nearly rolled his eyes again as your antics shook the bed. But he still wrapped an arm around your waist.

You then laid your head against his chest. His heart beat at a steady pace under your cheek, and you sighed. 

“Comfortable?” he asked wryly. His hand covered yours on his chest. You nodded. 

“With you, always,” you whispered. 

You couldn’t see it, but a smile curved Dean’s lips as your words inevitably warmed him inside.

AN: So a nice soft one for Dean in this little series! Castiel is up next (last but certainly not least).

To read Part 1: Sam

To read Part 3: Castiel

TAG LIST:

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @this-is-me19

Dean Winchester One-Shots

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[igotanidea]

Dating Sam Winchester headcanons.

Requested: I was wondering if you could write something supernatural with Sam Winchester, what kind of boyfriend would Sam be? Thank you anon, made that as expanded headcanons starting from meeting and going further in the relationship.

A little NSFW in point 16.

***

1.Bookshops dates

I mean come on, all things considered I am pretty sure you would meet him in the library rather than any place else. And even if you weren’t actually reaching for mythological monsters encyclopaedia or the yearbook of the city from 1456, you were bound to meet at the counter. It wasn’t that big bookshop after all and Sam, with his tall, muscular silhouette was definitely filling most of the space, forcing you to sneak under his arm to get what you were aiming for. Not that you complained, cause he does smell good.

2. Soul longing – as silly as that may sound. Ok listen up. He had women, that’s for sure. But one night stands is only good for so long. And unlike Dean he needed stability from the beginning. Sam is not a player nor a playboy. And as for you? You’re not just gonna jump into the bed of a very handsome, tall and broad shouldered man you met briefly while buying a book, right?

Even if you can imagine so many things he could do with those hands….

Even if you can tell just by looking at him that he’s got enough experience and skills to keep you up all night and –

“Miss? Miss are you all right?”

Damn, seem like you just spaced out in front of the guy who’s been currently eyeing you with those deep eyes piercing right into your soul.

Impossible to forget and even more impossible to let go.

3. Cliché scenario – you actually became a part of team free will after getting into a demon related accident serving the part of a lady in distress perfectly. Got hurt so bad the boys Sam felt guilty enough to look for you for a couple weeks while getting too attached.

4. Obviously wanting to keep you out of the family business. Too bad he got himself a persistent badass, who refused to sit cases out. You may not be a hunter, but you’re a girl. And who’s better than a woman when it comes to making scenes and getting man to mansplain to the poor, innocent soul that knows nothing? The first time you faked cried he fell for it all the way and never questioned your skills again.

5. Probably making you get an anti-possession tattoo. Just for safety, of course. And holding your hand all time while getting it done, caressing your palm in that special reassuring way. And then kissing it better after, regardless of the place it was inked on.  

6. Funny thing he was hesitant to put a tag on your relationship. At first. Can’t blame him given all that happened to his mother and Jess. But his emotional side finally took over and he blurted something in the middle of an argument.

“You’re staying here tonight.”

“The hell I am, Sam.”

“I’m not asking.”

‘You’re not my boss.”

“Well I am your boyfriend!”

“Did you just-? Sam? Sam, did you just - ?”

You never got to finish that sentence. And just that one time you stayed behind.

Behind being on the backseat, no further.

7. Bantering over silly stuff while making Dean crazy, cause since you two got together there’s no one to bring him pie.  

8. Knowledge duels – as long as you pick the theme, cause no way you’re going against him in history or demonology.  It is however possible to beat him in popculture or modern cinematography.

“How am I supposed to know all those –“

“Educate yourself Sammy.”

“Oh I will educate you on something –“

9. Merciless teasing from Dean about stuff that should not ever be his business.

“Hey, whose underwear is that?”

“Brought you two some protection.”

“Hey maybe we can get a threesome?”

“Is that a hickey on your neck Y/N? God, girl, you are loud.”

(but we all know that’s the way Dean’s inner soft side is showing)

10. Doing research while laying head on his chest, tracing patterns on his skin. (making him distracted and locked up in another room until you start to behave.)

11. Doing research in the various libraries. You have no idea but he raises his gaze from the book way too often to actually comprehend any of the text. The way you are frowning, scrunching your nose and the way your eyes shine every time you come upon a clue or a helpful fact seem to be more interesting.

12. Fights – oh, damn, it was bound to happen right?

Arguing with Sam is impossible. He always keeps his cool, not letting the blood boil no matter how many needles you gives him. Sometimes it feels like he’s wearing that stupid armour turning into stone just to infuriate you.

But not for long, cause Sammy can’t stand to see you hurt or broken. That’s not him. It doesn’t matter if you started the fight (you’re being reckless, you’re gonna get killed, you need some rest) or he was the part to initiate it (you’re not the hunter, I know better, I’ll handle it) he’ll be all up for communication. Talking through.

Being a Winchester comes with toughness and roughness sometimes, but Sam doesn’t deny having feelings he want to work on. With you.

It’s not a perfect relationship but you’re patching it up with all the best and most resistant fabric.

13. Subtle hand holding while driving on a hunt. You may be in the backseat while both brothers take the front ones, but who cares. The blank between the driver and shotgun is for something, right? And who cares about the gearbox?

14. Forehead kisses and cuddling – you have actually seen Sam right? If that’s not a giant teddy bear than I don’t know who is. Definition of safety and warmth. Just imagine nuzzling into him with those strong arms around you keeping you safe from any demon, angel, witch, wendigo, shapeshifter or whatever else monster might come for you.

15. Steamy make out session in the impala just to get some privacy. Honestly I believe at some point this would be used as a threat for alone time.

"Get out Dean.”

“ Mmm. Nope. Not happening. I got stuff to do here.”

“I said get out.”

“Make me.”

“Well I think you should go and check on your car before I take care of the backseat.”

Wide eyes, rushing out and not getting back for hours.

Mission completed.

16. Getting intimate with Sam is indescribable. You don’t even need words and yet he seems to understand everything your body tries to convey. Soft, slow, sensual and tender love making while looking into your eyes, refusing to let your gaze drop? Tracing your body and kissing all over your soft skin? Making you feel fragile, small and delicate no matter your size?

All done.

I see Sam as a soft dom. He could break your boundaries easily and probably would, but never to the point of hurting you.

Rough play, BDSM, kinks, making love on any flat surface possible? Not exactly his style.

Stretching you out, wrapping your legs around his waist, pressing you into the mattress, marking you? Absolutely.

He’s fine with pleasuring you, getting to know what turns you on (hitting and finding all the sensitive spots that makes you mewl and rake nails down his body), never failing to make you see stars.

He may not be talking too much and not use a lot of dirty talk, but hey, a few thrusts, a few flicks of his tongue, his muscles flexing under your fingersand the feel of him so freaking deep and you forget something such as words exist.

17. Getting just the right amount of aftercare cuddles, kisses and hugs. Duties are calling and Sam may be a bit of a workaholic, but you’re on top of the “to-do-list.” Taking just the right amount of time to help you get back to reality, getting your floating soul back into your thoroughly loved out body by caresses, kisses, touches, strokes. Whatever you need.

He loves you.

[stargazedwinchester]

Begin Again | Sam

This one is part of my Taylor’s Version series! View the masterlist here <3

Summary: After leaving a toxic relationship, your facade of a white picket fence life can’t fool the eyes of your friendly neighbor Sam Winchester.

Warnings: Small flashback regarding toxic relationship

This one is a little different from the original Supernatural storyline at the start, Sam does have a white picket fence life and is still a hunter, just in case it's not clear enough in the story :) also part 2 maybe?? let me know!!

"I've been spending the last eight months Thinking all love ever does Is break and burn, and end But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again"

Word count: 1,082

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

“Fuck!” You shout, only just dodging his hit. You see the rage glow in his eyes, your cheeks are flushed maroon and your forehead sweating. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he states, his eyes fixated on you. He lunges forward with his fist clenched so hard his knuckles are white.

“No!” you shriek, taking the blow. You try your best to defend yourself but end up staggering into the china cabinet. You cower toward the floor, tensing your arms and legs hoping to be able to cover yourself from any more hurt.

It doesn’t help.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

A few days had gone by at this point and you’re finally allowed outside to go grocery shopping. Carrying the bags from your car, the sun shines lovingly on your face. Birds are chirping. There’s a couple of kids out playing fetch with their dog on the street. Sometimes days like this don’t make you feel any better than the Hell you’re living in. If anything, they help emphasise your insecurities that are made a hell of a lot worse because of that dipshit back home.

You don’t want to go home.

“Hey,” a voice startles you from behind. You turn to the left and see your new neighbour walk down the porch stairs. “Oh, hey Sam.” You greet him, a half-forced smile planted on your face as you squint from the sun.

“How you doing?” He asks, placing his hands on his hips, acting completely naturally. You nod hesitantly. “Yeah, I’m good. You?” Conversations with him are a little awkward for many reasons. He had just moved in last week. He had probably heard what happened the night before and he’s also extremely good-looking. You can’t look him in the eye. It’s too daunting.

“Yeah, uh, I’m sorry to bring it up—“He gets cut off and your boyfriend slams the front door and shouts something over at you. His face reveals that he’s mad and this time you have no idea why. “I’m sorry,” You whisper, “I need to go.” You finish, rushing off and leaving him standing there. His eyes never left you. Sam sighs and turns around to go back inside, keeping his gaze fixed on you to ensure that you make it inside without your boyfriend making a scene.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

It had been a couple of weeks and Sam had tried to talk to you about what he heard that night, but you never brought it up again. Maybe he had a change of heart and thought that if he brought it up, it could cause an issue, or even have upset you. Sometimes bringing things back up isn’t worth the hassle.

You haven’t seen him much, except for this 1967 Chevy Impala that parks outside every other day in the early hours of the morning where you can have a tiny bit of freedom from your everyday life. Window-watching and reading books in the moonlight has been your escape for as long as you can remember. But this time, instead of Sam, and you assume his brother, leaving toward the car, he makes his way over and attempts to peer through your window. Although he can’t see anything, he turns to his brother and says something, pointing back at your window.

Out of pure curiosity and some courage, you attempt to open the window without your boyfriend noticing. You slide it up, turning around to check on him each time. You’re damn lucky he’s a heavy sleeper.

“What are you doing?” You whisper-shout, confused as to what they’re talking about.

“What do you mean? Why are you awake?” He shouts back.

“You’re at my window, pointing at me with this strange man. So tell me, what the hell are you doing?”

The guy who’s with him huffs, shrugging his shoulders. He mutters something to himself and looks offended. “What’s his problem?” you reply, and Sam smirks.

“Strange guy?”

“Yeah?”

“What do I look like, a kidnapper?” He mentions, and it makes you chuckle quietly. “Listen, lady, are you coming down or what? Prince Charming here wants to rescue you from your... palace.” Sam looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. “What?” He questions, his mouth slightly agape, as he just cannot believe his brother outed him like that.

“Just come down, will you? Pack some things.”

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

You had practically moved across the country to live with Sam and his brother, Dean. Sam knew exactly what was happening back home and had made a deal with himself to get you out, even if it killed him.

This morning, the pair of you walk down to a cafe near a motel you’re currently residing in. Whilst ordering, Sam tells you to go find a seat and he’ll bring your drink over. You agree and find a booth in the corner. He brings your drink over and sits opposite you.

His demeanour is calm, yet like he needs to ask you something. You dismiss it though and assume it’s because he’s dealt with a lot within the past few weeks. And so have you.

“Y/N,” he starts, taking a sip of his black coffee. “Can I ask you something?”

“I feel like it’s gonna be a tough question.” You laugh, and Sam smirks. His dimple deepened into his cheek. “What made you want to leave your old life behind? And to just trust me after only knowing me for a month?” He asks, a genuine question you haven’t even thought of answering. You struggle to find an answer, because truly, there’s nothing that comes to mind.

“I mean... you want the truth?” You ask, and he nods. You update him what exactly what happened, who did it and why you thought to just say ‘fuck it’ and have the balls to finally have a chance to escape whether that meant losing your life for it. Sam has been concentrating on you telling your part so much that he looks emotional himself. His eyes are soft and understanding. They’re glossed over as if glazed with icing sugar. You can tell just from his aura he’s a sweet guy. Putting your trust in him seems like the right thing to do.

You both share your childhood trauma and as much as it hurts to bring it back up, you both poke jokes and find a little humour in all of it.

But at least in this little cafe on a random Wednesday morning, this place, this atmosphere, and Sam allows you to begin again.

[delulu4dean]

No Doctors (Sam and Dean Winchester x sibling!reader)

Warnings: needles I guess

Parings: sam Winchester X sibling!reader, Dean Winchester x sibling!reader

Prompt: you’re a hunter scared of needles idk I went to urgent care the other day and I hate needles.

Word Count: 1,044

Sam, Dean, and you, their younger, nineteen year old half sibling have seen a lot, obviously. Hunters? You see vampires, werewolves, ghosts. But as a Winchester you see so much more. The three of you have saved the world quite a few times. It is safe to say not much phases the Winchesters.

But you, Y/N Winchester has one big fear, needles. When Sam injected Demon Dean with human blood, you could not watch. It wasn’t because of your big brother’s yells of pain, but because you cannot even look at a needle. So when Sam and Dean told you that you HAD to see a doctor, you put it off until it was too late. Now your legs were covered in red spots. The spots were not inflamed or itching. They looked like bleeding under the skin, which means its less like a rash. Google did not help ease Sam and Dean’s worries about you.

“Y/N damn it, we have to rule out anything serious,” Dean told you.

“I am fine,” you insisted.

“Google says you have one week to live,” your older brother furrowed his eyebrows, showing you his google search on his smart phone.

“Google is not a doctor,” you rolled your eyes.

“That is why we have to take you to a doctor. Right Sam?”

Sam nods in agreement.

“Look, if Cas was here, he could figure it out, but he isn’t. We are going to urgent care,” Dean demanded. “Now get your ass to my car.”

You looked over to Sam and back to Dean, fear in your eyes. You knew what this meant, bloodwork. You could not do bloodwork. Just seeing a needle makes you sick to your stomach. The last time you had bloodwork done, you threw up. When you had to get your Covid vaccines, you took your brothers with you. It worked because they ended up getting theirs as well, but when it came to your turn, your brothers had to distract you so you didnt see the needle. You held Dean’s hands and almost broke his fingers as the needle went into your flesh.

“Dean, doctors are scary. All they do is poke at you with needles,” you frowned at your older brother.

“Sam and I will both be there by your side,” Dean insisted.

And so here you are now. The walking to the lab with your brothers at your side. You look for all possible exists to run out of here, but you know its no use. Dean would drag you back if he has to. The lab nurse sits you down in the chair and looks for a good vein. Shit. It’s going to happen. Your eyes follow her hands as she pulls out all the tubes that will be soon filled with your blood. The things is you’re not grossed out by the idea of seeing your own blood, its kind of cool actually. But knowing how it gets in there is too much.

You see her take out the needle and your instincts kick in. You jump out of your seat before your brothers push you back. Dean holds you down on the chair and you look at him with tears in your eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that kid,” Dean sighs, a guilty expression coming across his face. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am fine! And when we find out that nothing is wrong you’re going to be sorry,” you spit.

Sam holds the hand of the arm that the nurse will draw blood from, not just to keep it steady, but to calm you down.

“You are a fighter, you are strong, you got this,” Sam tells you. “Just don’t look, and then you won’t feel it, okay?” You nod at Sam. “Attagirl. Now don’t look at me, or else you’ll see the needle too. Look at Dean.”

“Yeah, look at me,” Dean cuts in. You look up at your eldest brother. “Good job.”

“I’m not a child,” you remind Dean.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a kid compared to Sam and I,” Dean chuckles.

“Well yeah, Sam is old and you’re ancient,” you tease.

“Ancient?” Dean fakes an offended expression.

“Yeah. So ancient that when the Egyptians built the pyramids, they looked at you and said ‘Wow that man is ancient.’”

Sam laughs but plays it off as a cough when Dean shoots a look at him. You feel a cotton ball on your arm as the nurse wraps the bandage on your arm.

“All done,” she smiles. “You can go to the waiting room and as soon as we get your results, you’ll be notified.”

You’re surprised and relieved to find out its done and over with. And you didn’t feel a thing.

“You did it kid,” Dean smiles at you.

“We are proud of you,” Sam ruffles your hair.

“I’m almost twenty don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” you get up and push past your brothers.

They follow you into the waiting room and sit by your side. Sam wraps an arm around you while you’re all pouty and embarrassed.

“We aren’t babying you or anything,” Sam sighs. “You have a genuine fear, and you faced it. We know you’re an adult. You are capable of doing a lot, you are a badass hunter. A Winchester.”

You nod, not so confidently. You and your brothers watch the TV in the waiting room where some old cowboy movie is playing. Dean is loving it, but you just want to get your results and go back home. After twenty minutes, a doctor comes out with a clipboard.

“You are fine, your blood came back clean. And over the counter rash cream should be able to help. You are free to go home,” she tells you.

Dean scoffs, and Sam looks confused. To be fair, you don’t understand either, you know its not a rash, it doesn’t look like a rash. But it can’t be what Dean looked up either if the bloodwork came back clean so its clearly nothing serious. As the doctor walks away, you glare at your older brothers.

“See, I knew bloodwork was a waste of time.”

Dean shrugs as Sam says, “Better safe than sorry.”

[profoundbondfanfic]

Dunno if y’all take requests but I’d love a list of vintage destiel reccs, like canon or canon divergent season 4/season 5.

We do take requests! I'm sorry it took a while to come up with this list but here are a few of our favorites from early seasons.

A Different Kind of Falling by Lyrial [Explicit, 72k words]

“I will do it then,” Castiel said with confidence that he did not truly possess. “I will pretend to be a hunter and gain the trust of Dean Winchester so that we may locate Michael’s grace and restore him. I might not be as familiar with humanity as Balthazar is, but I am still a master tactician. I am certain that deceiving a few humans will be well within my capabilities.” As the humans would say, famous last words. (Dean is the fallen archangel Michael. Castiel is sent on a mission to restore him to his angelic self. Things get complicated, however, when Castiel finds himself falling for Dean.)

A Different Kind of Monster by roadtonowhere (lastoryx), xfancyfranart [Explicit, 89k words]

Something in Bodie, California is luring truckers to their deaths and Dean’s on his way to take it out. It’s the first time Bobby’s given him a case and, with Sam at Stanford and his dad off chasing demons, he's finally hunting monsters on his own. When an accidental encounter puts an as-of-yet-unknown monster in the passenger seat of his car, Dean decides to ice him, taking his dad's old adage to heart: a monster is always a monster. Unfortunately, Dean can’t seem to figure out what kind of monster "Castiel" is and he certainly can’t shake him.

Faith Healer by punkascas (earlwyn) [Explicit, 75k words]

Dean hates faith healers. Scam artists and power-hungry dicks, all of them. But with Sam nearing the end of his rope and desperate for a way to keep their father’s last words from being true, Dean has no choice but to turn to the enigmatic and irascible Castiel, more tattooed junkie than spiritual leader, in hopes of finding a way to cure Sam. Yet Castiel hides dangerous secrets, and Dean soon learns they have more to worry about than just Yellow Eyes and Sam’s growing demonic abilities. War is coming. Canon divergent after 2.10.

Good One's Gonna Be by remmyme [Explicit, 37k words]

Castiel Novak receives a rather alarming text message from an unknown number, and what started as a simple misdial quickly turns into the greatest friendship Castiel has ever known. But Dean has many secrets, dangerous truths about the life he lives, and would like to tell Castiel exactly none of them. A (slightly) AU, (mostly) text fic, S3 fix-it romance (of sorts).

Holy!Dean verse by bunnymaccool [Explicit, 120k words]

Dean Winchester has grown used to God dicking around in his life the last couple years. But this crap? This takes the CAKE ... or pie, rather. Now he's been thrown a whole new curve-ball. The kind that has ended the Civil War in Heaven ... but resulted in Raphael taking over, and hunting for Dean's ass on a silver platter. Not to mention dealing with Balthazar acting like a self-righteous prick, Sam having some big damn epiphany on his big brother's sexuality, and Cas eying him up like he's the world's juiciest cheeseburger. All that mixed with the chance to fix it all and set everything to rights ... but only if Dean is willing to sacrifice himself. Again. Seriously, if he ever meets that bastard God he's gonna- ... oh hey, Chuck! What are you doing here?

On Falling by kettleknight [Mature, 34k words]

After saving Dean from Hell, Castiel is tasked with convincing him to say "yes" to Michael should the apocalypse come to pass. But the time to complete this mission is quickly running out, and his superiors are expecting an answer soon. Desperate for a solution, Castiel asks his vessel for help and is forced to make a decision: help the apocalypse follow through, or crash head-first into humanity and damn the consequences.

Profoundly Different by amireal, tiamatv [Explicit, 190k words]

"Castiel?" Sam calls out, carefully. Both of them lower their guns but don’t put them away, yet: there’s no sign of a struggle, but the guy did just break out of an insane asylum by squishing an orderly. With a bureau that he shouldn't have been able to move. "We're not gonna hurt you. We're here to help. My name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean." There's a loud silence. Dean can hear the wind rustling through the structure. A deep voice suddenly speaks up. It’s coarse and raspy and sounds like it hurts coming out; he’s never heard anything like it. It sends shivers down Dean's spine. "Dean?” the man asks. “Dean Winchester?" (A Season 4 AU: what if the fallen angel Dean and Sam ran into was Castiel, not Anna?)

See the World in Green and Blue by parenthetical [Explicit, 8k words]

Castiel spends a day learning what it's like to be human.

So Says The Sword by komodobits [Explicit, 85k words]

The briefing was simple: ‘Stand guard over the Michael Sword until the battle is ready to commence. Await further instructions.’ Castiel doesn’t mind working security duty; he was briefed shortly after the initial salvation of the Sword from the pit, and again before taking up his position. He knows what to do. However, it’s easy to forget that the green room isn’t real. Time moves differently there, the space ever-changing to make a prison of mountains, cathedrals, salt flats, orchards, and whatever Castiel was led to believe about Heaven’s greatest weapon—Dean Winchester is something entirely unexpected.

Strandlines by aeli_kindara [Explicit, 40k words]

It’s September 18, 2008. Castiel is being deployed to rescue Dean Winchester from Hell. He lands in Dean Winchester’s motel room in 2003. Things go from there.

The Girlfriend Experience by rageprufrock [Explicit, 15k words]

While it's not like Dean hasn't had a couple of truly regrettable hit-and-runs in his sexual history, this is probably the saddest fucking thing that has ever happened to him.

Thursday’s Child by strangeandcharm [Explicit, 114k words]

Thursday's child has far to go.

You can also check our time travel tag. We've reviewed some fics that play around with them going back in time. Here are a few:

a turn of the earth by microcomets [Mature, 95k words]

adam bites the apple by sicsempertyrannis [Teen, 11k words]

Crazy Diamonds by pantheon_of_discord [Explicit, 25k words]

Face to Face with the Skies by quiddative [Explicit,42k words]

Like a Comet in the Sky, I'll Follow You Across the Universe by super_skam310 [Explicit, 107k words]

the weight of water by eddiegirl [Explicit, 46k words]

[dianawinchester03]

First Hunt

Series Masterlist

Summary: It was the trio’s first hunt, F/N and John thought it would be a marvelous idea to send their teenage kids on their first solo/group hunt by themselves. Because what could possibly go wrong right?

(Y/N and Sam are 14 years old, Dean is 18 years old)

BASED ON:

The Old Testament Series.

Genesis Primis: A Supernatural Rewrite (Dean Winchester x Reader) by @dianawinchester03

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Third Person POV

Minnesota

•Sometime in 1997

Dean drove Baby down the road while Sam and Y/N sat in the backseat, both anxious and scared for the hunt they had ahead of them. They were used to sticking to the research, on the rare occasion their dads would bring them along for a ghost hunt but they’ve never ventured off on their own. It was the requests of their fathers to, quote on quote, “pop their hunting cherries”

It was the disappearance of a few people over a course of 50 years, the veteran hunters themselves went into Minnesota State Forest and stumbled upon weird familiar scratches on trees. They knew exactly what they were dealing with, deciding to hand the hunt over to their kids.

They were very dangerous creatures but they'd have to be smart to catch one. They believe their kids were ready and put Dean incharge of the hunt.

Y/N sat in the backseat, sitting beside Sam. her eyes dart around the windows as they drove down the interstate. "Remind me why our dads thought this was a good idea." Sam mumbled. "Beats me." Dean muttered, keeping his eyes on the road. "Because they’re ducks. Apparently, we were being "over protected" and they thought it was time to "pop our hunting cherries".." Y/N replied with a scoff.

“Yeah, they’re insane for sending us on a Wendigo hunt of all things.” Sam mumbled, he and Y/N had been doing research and knew how dangerous they were.

“Agreed” Y/N moped as Dean tried to cheer them up. "Come on, you guys." Dean spoke, "This could be fun. How bad could it be? We’re just here to kill one monster, not a bunch of ’em" Sam and Y/N looked at him in disbelief.

“We’re talking about Wendigo’s, Dean. They aren’t exactly the easiest things to kill” Sam said, he was getting extremely anxious on the thought of going against one.

“I’ve got the lighter fluid and Ms. Nicotine in the back there has got her lighter. We’ll be fine” He assured them, holding up the lighter fluid, pointing to Y/N. Y/N narrowed her eyes at the nickname, giving him a dirty look but chuckled under her breath. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Don't call me that" Y/N muttered. "You smoke like a damn chimney, you can't get mad when I'm stating facts.” He chuckled, looking at her through the rear-view mirror. She knew he was just joking and would never judge her, but that didn’t stop Y/N from rolling her eyes and flipping him off with a playful scoff.

Dean chuckled, looking back at the road. Sam had silently gone quiet, looking concerned. "You're overthinking things, Sammy" Dean spoke, seeing the worried expression on his brother's face. “He’s not. I don’t have a good feeling about this” Y/N defended their worries, a sinking feeling in her chest about this hunt.

Dean sighed, seeing the look of fear in her eyes. He didn’t want her to be afraid but deep down he was scared as well. They all were.

"Look, I get it, I’m worried too but we can’t back out now. Not when we’re halfway there. It’s just one monster. We’ve got this." He reassured them. "You two just need to relax.” Dean added, “It'll be fine. We'll gank the thing and move on to the next hunt"

“Living the life” Y/N grumbled sarcastically, flicking her lighter in her hand. Sam chuckled nervously beside her, amused by her sarcasm. Dean rolled his eyes, knowing she had a witty attitude at times but never held it against her.

"Yeah, we're living the dream” He shot back, giving her a little smirk over his shoulder. One hand on the wheel. Y/N felt her heart flutter in her chest, a little heat rising to her cheeks but she quickly swallowed it before rolling down the window, pulling out a cigarette from her duffel and lighting it.

-

Dean pulled Baby into the parking lot of the Minnesota State Forest, taking a deep breath as he parked the car. The lot was almost empty, only a few cars and RV’s in sight.

Y/N put her cigarette out when they parked, looking out the window at the woods. The nervous feeling in her chest grew as she and Sam unbuckled their seatbelts. Dean turned around in his seat, his expression showing he was just as nervous.

"Okay, do we have everything?" He asked, looking at them both with a serious expression. Y/N held up her lighter, Sam with his book of Anasazi symbols, incase they were cornered, they could draw it and keep the Wendigo away but fire was the real killer. While Dean held up his lighter fluid.

He nodded in reassurance, taking a deep breath to try and calm his own nerves. "Alright, let's fucking do this." he said firmly to them both before getting out of the car.

-

The trio had hiked deep into the woods, being cautious of their surroundings. Y/N stayed somewhat close to Sam while Dean was walking up ahead of them, holding their flashlights while he looked for the cave they read about during their research.

The feeling of dread in Y/N’s chest worsened as she swallowed the tight knot in her throat, gripping her lighter. "You two alright back there?" Dean called, keeping his eyes straight as they kept walking.

"A-Alright" Y/N managed to mumble out, cursing herself for sounding so nervous. "Yeah, we’re good" Sam said but Dean could feel the shakiness in his voice. It was dead silent in the forest as they kept walking, the occasional sound of twigs breaking making Y/N and Sam jump.

Dean suddenly stopped in his tracks. Y/N and Sam looked up at him, confused why he stopped. "I think I found it." he murmured, keeping his eyes on a dark cave in front of them. It was deep and very dark but that was no surprise considering what they were hunting for. The three slowly approached the cave, looking in. There was nothing but pure darkness.

He looked down at the map their dads had given them, turning on his flashlight to get a better look before handing it to Sam to make sure that it was the exact spot. Sam nodded once, looking down at the map. “Yep, here it is.” He whispered, looking up at the cave.

Dean sighed and turned to them, knowing the next part of the hunt would be the most dangerous thing they’ve ever done. "Remember the plan?" Dean asked them firmly but quietly, looking over at them.

Y/N nodded, shoving down the dread she was feeling in her chest to try and seem braver than she really was. This was a nightmare. She was a teen girl, her biggest concerns should be what flavor lip gloss to wear and Spring Formal. Not hunting a literal flesh eating monster.

Sam nodded as well, holding onto his flashlight tightly. His heart was pounding in his chest, he was scared but he wasn't going to let himself show it. "Let's do this" he mumbled firmly. Dean flashed his light into the cave as Sam and Y/N flash their own lights, handing them the lighter fluid before running in to be bait.

“Wait” Y/N stopped Dean. He turned to look at her. “What is it?” he asked urgently under his breath. “Be safe” She said gently, offering him a small smile. Her tone filled with concern. His expression softened as he looked at her, seeing the worry in her eyes. A small frown pulled at his lips as he nodded reluctantly. "Ditto” he murmured.

“Come on out you nasty son of a bitch!! I taste gooodddd! Don’t you want some white meat, baby?!” He shouted as he pranced into the dark cave, stumbling over human bones as he went deeper into the Wendigos lair. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the cave mixed with his voice, the faint sound of Sam and Y/N's footsteps followed close behind. If the feeling in Y/N’s chest was bad before, it was getting worse.

Her heart pounded hard and loud, her palms sweaty and she had to take a few deep breaths to keep herself semi calm. Dean kept going through the cave, shouting insults over his shoulder at the creature. Sam and Y/N followed close behind, staying close as they got themselves through the dark cave.

The smell of rotting flesh and mold hit Y/N’s nostrils hard as they made their way through, nearly making her nauseous. She forced back the nauseous feeling and kept moving forward. Sam had to swallow back the lump in his throat, seeing the bones on the floor and old blood stains on the caved walls. There was no way back now, they had to continue forward and kill this thing.

An animalistic roar echoed directly behind the two younger hunters. Y/N felt every muscle in her body go rigid. Her heart was practically coming out of her chest. She froze in terror, the roar making Sam freeze as well. It was an awful, terrifying sound, nothing like anything a person could make.

Sam dropped his book, fumbling to open the lighter fluid as swiftly turned to face the Wendigo to drench it with the fluid. The thing was absolutely hideous. It's skin was grey and stretched tightly over it's bones, giving it a bony, zombie like appearance. It's nails were more like claws and the sharp pointed teeth that were in it's mouth only made it that much more terrifying.

Sam's hands were shaking so badly it took him a few attempts to open the fluid. He gave up when the Wendigo came charging at them and just tugged the plastic lid off with his teeth, ripping it away from the bottle. “Sam!!!” Y/N screamed, pushing Sam out of the way. Her lighter falling out of her grips.

Sam tumbled to the ground, quickly rolling back up on his feet as he looked up to see the creature pouncing on Y/N. He had dropped the lighter fluid so all he could do was stand there helplessly, frozen in terror as Y/N struggled to fight the thing off of her.

-

Dean's blood went cold when he heard Y/N's scream, he knew instantly that something was wrong. "Sammy!! Y/N/N!!" He shouted, spinning around and running as fast as he could towards the sound.

-

Y/N gasped at the force it pinned her down with, feeling it's weight on her torso. It's hands were clenched around her shoulders, it's nails digging into her skin and making her cry out in pain. It's face hovered right over her own and she could feel its hot, putrid breath on her skin.

The thing, the Wendigo, had its face right over hers. Y/N's eyes were squeezed shut as she trembled with terror, too scared to move. Its nails were digging into her shoulders, drawing blood as the nails cut through her skin. "G-Get off me you b-bastard!" Y/N choked out in an attempt to speak, fear clear in her voice.

“No! Y/N!!!!” Sam cried out, his eyes were wide with terror, scrambling to retrieve the bottle of lighter fluid. He drenched the Wendigo with the fluid while onto of top. The creature let out another animalistic roar but it was too late. It had already sent Y/N’s head driving into the hard cave ground with its claws, the blunt force trauma caving in the back of her skull, knocking her unconscious.

Sam grabbed the lighter frantically, lighting it with shaky hands before holding it over the creature. Dean came running from further in the cave, shouting at the thing as Sam lit the flame, kicking it off of Y/N. It let out another loud, animalistic screech before going up in flames.

Sam let out a ragged breath, dropping the lighter and letting the thing burn before turning to Y/N. A lump formed in his throat, his heart fell out of his chest when he saw her unconscious and bloodied face. He quickly dropped to his knees beside her, gently shaking her shoulder. "Y/N/N- Hey." Sam said firmly but gently, "Wake up"

Dean's heart plummeted when he saw her motionless body on the ground. Blood and dirt on her face from the blow to her head and her eyes were closed. He rushed over to her other side, quickly knelt down across from Sam, looking at her in horror.

"Y/N!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking with panic. He immediately began gently shaking her shoulder. "Oh, no no no no. Y/N, wake up. C’mon princess, please wake up." Dean pleaded, shaking her unconscious body.

Sam placed his fingers to her neck, trying to feel a pulse. A lump rose in his own throat when he felt her pulse, it was faint but still there. Slowing down each second. "She's alive but her pulse is slowing" Sam said firmly, checking her over for any other signs of injury.

Dean's eyes widened even more when he heard this, he could feel the panic rise in his chest. "No no no, c’mon sweetheart. Wake up." He pleaded, gently cradling her face with his hand as he continued shaking her.

Sam’s hand went to the back of her head, a dampness coating his hand. He froze, his heart plummeting out of his chest, mortified to look as blood soaked hand. “No-” He choked out, bringing his hand out that was soaked in Y/N blood to show Dean.

-

Y/N took in a deep breath, feeling her eyes slowly flutter open. She looked around, her surroundings nothing but a beautiful, blinding white light. She stood up straight, rubbing her head gently. Where the hell was she?

She looked around, seeing nothing but the bright white lights. Was this Heaven? "What the fuck…." she mumbled gently, looking around in confusion. No, she couldn't be. She was just knocked out by a Wendigo.

“Y/N!” A woman’s gentle voice called out to her .Y/N looked in around to see a woman standing in the middle of the light. She was beautiful, and looked oddly familiar. Realization dawned on her, she had only ever seen this woman’s face in pictures.

“Mom?” She croaked out, tears stinging at her eyes. The woman smiled sweetly at Y/N. “Hey baby” she said gently, her expression soft and her eyes full of love and happiness. Y/N’s lip quivered as tears started welling up in her eyes. The woman - her mother - opening her arms as an invitation for a hug.

Y/N practically jumped into her mother's arms, throwing her own arms around her. The tears were already flowing down her cheeks as she buried her face in the crook of her mother's neck. “Mommy” Y/N cried, her heart beating out of her chest.

M/N held her close, gently rubbing a hand up and down her back. "Shhh shh. I'm here, baby. Mommy's right here." She murmured, her voice soft and filled with love. “But you aren’t supposed to be here” M/N said gently, pushing away strands of hair from her beautiful babygirl's face.

Y/N's lip quivered as looked up at her mother with confused eyes. "What- What do you mean?" she asked softly, looking up at her mom with glossy, teary eyes. “You aren't supposed to be here yet. You have a long life ahead of you, baby. You're still needed on earth. Sam and Dean need you. Those boys….they need you”

Y/N's brow furrowed as she listened to her mother's words, her heart ached as the realization hit her. Was she saying that she had to leave now? "W-what? Mom…no...I can't- I can't leave. Not yet, please" She pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion as she clutched at her mother's top. “Your mothers right, Y/N” A deep rugged male voice said behind her.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat at the sound of the voice. She slowly turned her head, her eyes widening when she say an unfamiliar man. He was a handsome man of average height in his thirties, his blue eyes piercing hers, a bright light shining behind him. He sported a pair of dress shoes, a black suit, a buttoned white-striped dress shirt, and loosened blue necktie accentuated by a beige trench coat.

Her eyes narrowed in a little light that shone right at the base of his throat for a couple of seconds before disappearing.

"Who...Who are you?" She asked in confusion, her eyes taking in his appearance. He looked like he had just walked out of a business meeting. Did he even belong here?

“My name is Castiel. I’m an Angel of the Lord” he said in his deep, gruff monotone voice as he looked at her with his intense blue eyes. Y/N's heart began to pound against her chest, her eyes widening in surprise. An angel. This guy was an actual real angel?

“Yep….I’m going insane” Y/N muttered to herself, her heart rate accelerating. Y/N’s mother giggled besides her, "You are not going insane" The angel - Castiel- said firmly, his expression unchanging. "I really am an angel". Y/N swallowed down the lump in her throat, her eyes wide as she stared at the angel.

She didn't know what was even happening anymore. This was all insane. She pinched herself, trying to wake up from whatever dream she was imagining. Angels were real. And there was one standing right infront of her. M/N chuckled beside her again, watching the realization wash over her daughter's face. "He's real, sweetie. He's here to bring you back"

Y/N's heart pounded furiously inside her chest, her mind trying to comprehend any of this. Her eyes darted between her mother and the angel. This was too much. It was impossible. But her mother was nodding, a soft smile on her face as she gently rubbed a hand on Y/N's back.

"But...But I don't understand...W-Why me? I'm nothing special" Y/N mumbled out, a slight shake in her voice. “Why can’t I stay here? With my mom? Please Mr. Castiel” Y/N begged.

"Because your fate is not yet decided" Castiel said firmly, his eyes locked onto Y/N's. "You still have a purpose to fulfill" Her mother spoke gently, looking at Castiel and then back to her daughter.

Y/N felt her head spin. This was insane. She was talking to her mother who was dead and an actual real life angel was standing in front of her. "A-A purpose? My fate?" She whimpered in bewilderment.

Her mother gently took her hand, the look in her eyes pleading. "You're still needed on earth. You still have a lot of good to do. And those two Winchester boys need you." Y/N felt her heart skip a beat when she heard the mention of the Winchester brothers. Sam and Dean. Her breath caught in her throat.

Castiel spoke, his deep voice echoing in the bright light. "Your fate is deeply intertwined with theirs, Y/N. You have a purpose to fulfill and your time on earth is not finished yet".

“Please. Listen to them” Another female voice said. Y/N's ears perked up at the sound of another voice. She turned her head, her breath hitched at the sight of a beautiful familiar blonde woman who had appeared beside Castiel. “Mrs. Winchester?” Y/N choked out when her gaze fixated on Mary.

Despite her death 14 years ago, Mary looked exactly as Y/N had only seen pictures of her like her mother. She looked gorgeous, her soft blonde hair cut just above her shoulders. She was wearing an old faded red blouse with a pair of jeans, her soft eyes fixed on Y/N. While M/N wore a beautiful white dress sundress.

Mary smiled at Y/N, her expression tender and caring. "Sweetie, listen to them. You're not done yet." Y/N felt her heart clench, feeling overwhelmed at the amount of emotions running through her. Her mother with Mary Winchester, and a fucking angel all standing infront of her?

Y/N's mind was reeling, trying to make sense of everything. All three staring intently at her, waiting for her answer. Castiel stepped forward, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Y/N. "Are you ready, Y/N?” Putting his hand out.

Y/N's breath hitched in her throat at his words, gazing at his outstretched hand. Mary and her mother both nodded, encouraging her to go. She stared at Castiel, feeling tears welling in her eyes again. Was she really ready to leave her mother behind?

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat as she heard her mother's words. She nodded, blinking away tears as she took a shaky breath. Her eyes darted between her mother, Mary and the angel's outstretched hand. She reached out, her trembling hand slowly taking the angel's. His grip was firm but gentle around her hand.

“I love you, mommy. And I love you too Mrs. Winchester” The tears rolled down Y/N's cheeks, her mother smiled gently "I love you too baby."

Mary smiled back at her, holding back tears of her own. “I love you sweetie. Don't worry, you’ll be back with us one day. Just keep fighting okay?”. Y/N nodded firmly, “Yes ma’am”

Y/N took one last look at her mother and Mary. Part of her didn't want to do this, part of her wanted to stay. But the pull towards the hand of the angel was pulling her back. Castiel gently squeezed her hand. "Are you ready?" He asked one last time.

“You bet, Cassy” Y/N said firmly. Castiel's eyes widened at the nickname. "Cassy?" He repeated, an almost confused note in his voice. But before he had the chance to respond, Y/N chuckled a little through the tears. “Just get on with it, Feathers”

A small almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of Castiel's lips. "Very well." The angel said, his grip on her hand firm and unwavering. With a final look at her mother, Y/N felt herself being yanked harshly into the bright white light. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

Y/N could feel herself being pulled in different directions, her body twisted and stretched in ways she had never felt before. It was like her insides were being shredded while being glued together at the same time. A mixture of both pain and relief.

Finally, when the feeling of being pulled in all different directions stopped, she felt her body slam onto a concrete ground. Cold, hard concrete.

-

Y/N gasped loudly, breath filling her empty lungs, her eyes shooting open to see the Winchester boys, both clutching onto her in the middle of the cave sobbing. A burnt to crisp Wendigo besides her.

"Y/N!" Sam and Dean exclaimed in unison as they clutched onto her. Sam had his hands gripping her arms, while Dean had her upper body cradled against his chest. Dean's head was buried into her hair, his body shaking and tears streaming down. "Oh my god" he panted, his voice cracking with emotion.

Sam and Dean both clutched onto her, holding her tightly against their chests. Sam was wretchedly sobbing, his face also buried in her neck as he held her close.

She gasped in breaths, trying to stabilize her breathing. She could feel heavy weight on her, looking down, she saw Sam and Dean clinging onto her, their bodies shaking with sobs.

Y/N felt disoriented and confused. Her whole body ached, she had no idea what was happening. Taking in her surroundings. Last thing she remembered was getting knocked out by that Wendigo…and a bright light? She remembered a man’s face and that’s when it all came rushing back to her.

What a weird dream.

Sam's voice echoed in her ears, his words slurred through his sobs “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. We almost lost you. I’m so so sorry”

Y/N's eyes widened, her mind registering Sam's words. She could hear the guilt and pain in his voice, his own body shaking against her as he sobbed. She felt her heart clench, hating to hear the heartbreak in his voice.

She groaned softly, her head aching from the impact. She reached up, weakly placing a hand on the back of his head. “Sammy, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault” she mumbled gently.

“It’s mine. I should’ve stayed with you guys” Dean croaked, blaming himself for not properly looking out for them. He could already hear the putrid yells of his dad and F/N for what went down here. They almost lost her because they weren’t ready to hunt.

Y/N's heart ached at the desperation and guilt in Dean's voice as he spoke. She wanted him to know that she was okay, that it wasn't either of the Winchester boys' fault. Her voice was weak but she spoke firmly. “No charming, don’t say that. It's not your fault either”

She could feel both Sam’s and Dean’s bodies shaking against her, their grip on her almost too tight. “Uh…fellas..” She groaned. “If that Wendigo didn’t kill me. You two might” She chuckled weakly, gasping for breath.

Both Sam and Dean's gasped, their eyes snapping up to meet hers. They had been too distracted in their own guilt and panic that they had forgotten she was squished between them. They both loosened their grip, giving her a bit of room to breathe. Sam's eyes widened, his own breath shallow as he spoke in a raspy voice.

Sam's face was tear stained with puffy red eyes as he looked down at her. Relief washed over him. She was alive, she was safe. “Sorry, sorry” Sam said quickly, his eyes red and puffy as he sat back slowly.

Dean loosened his grip on her reluctantly, but he didn’t pull away. His hand moved gently to the side of her neck, his eyes fixed on her as he checked her over for any damage. He was desperate to make sure she was okay. His eyes scanned over her face, his breathing starting to regulate.

When he finally finished his examination, concluding she just had a few scratches on her body and a bump to the back of her head, he let go of her gently, allowing her to push herself up. Y/N sat up, her body aches in multiple different places. She winced a bit, her hand moving up to the back of her head where she was certain she had a nasty bump.

Sam and Dean were both sitting back, watching her intently. Their faces were tear stained and their eyes were still red and puffy. The relief was washed over the both of them knowing that they hadn’t lost her.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, the reality of what had almost happened setting in. Her heart was still beating rapidly against her chest, her body still aching and her mind still spinning from all that happened. She looked over at the burned corpse of the Wendigo just a few feet away and closed her eyes for a moment.

Sam and Dean were still sitting on either side of her, their eyes focused on her every move. They were both silent, watching her closely to make sure she was okay.

“Well. That was a whole load of fun” Y/N joked, her voice raspy. Shook their heads her words, letting out a small chuckles of their own. “We are so not telling our dads what happened” Y/N stated with a groan, now fully sitting up as she held her head, the dampness of her blood coating her hand.

“What the-“ She muttered. Y/N tried to push herself up to her feet but almost fell back down again because of her legs still being very wobbly from her time unconscious. Her head was spinning and aching, making her feel dizzy.

As she stumbled, both Sam and Dean quickly shot up, quickly grabbing onto her arms, keeping her stable on her feet. “Whoa, whoa whoa” Sam said as Dean gripped her right arm, as Sam put his hand on her lower back. “Careful. You need to take it slow” Dean said gently.

“How long was I even out?” Sam and Dean exchanged a quick glance, both still on high alert and worried for her well-being. Dean answered her, his voice a little shaky. “Almost two minutes. That Wendigo hit you pretty hard”

Y/N felt her heart clench at the thought of being unconscious for that amount of time, and the fact that she wasn’t breathing for almost two minutes either, freaked her out as well. "Two minutes?" she repeated, her eyes going wide.

“I must be immortal” She covered up her worry with humor, gulping a bit. Now wondering if that ‘dream’ she had was really a dream. Y/N tried to push down the memory still fresh in her mind from her “dream”. There was no way her dream had been real, right?

Sam and Dean both chuckled at her attempt to joke, clearly they were too relieved she was alive to really call her out on it. Dean kept her steady, his hand tight on her arm, his eyes roaming over her form. He could still see the blood on the back of her head.

“You’re not an immortal, y/n/n. Just stubborn as hell” Dean said with a grin, but his voice betrayed his worry. Y/N smiled back at this, “Let get the fuck outta here, I need some cocoa for this damn cold” She shivered, wrapping her one of her arm around Deans waist and the other around Sam’s shoulder.

Sam and Dean wrapped their own arms around Y/N, Sam wrapping his arm around her waist and Dean wrapping his around her shoulders, acting as her support as they helped her limp out of the dark, damp cave they were stuck in. Their eyes were still fixed on her, careful to make sure that her legs didn’t give out.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Authors Note: Ouuuu the suspense lol. Hope everyone liked this one!

I’m gonna be posting again soon, so look out for that🫶

Taglist: @hjgdhghoe @rach5ive @tiggytaylor @star-yawnznn @quarterhorse19

@deangirl96 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @mrsjjkwinchester

@juwu-theliciosa @magiccliopleurodon @nesnejwritings @karrah89 @whattheduckisupkyle

@iloveyou2mia @thelittlelightinthedarkness

Xoxo

[swiftlymoniquesblog]

One Call Away - Sam Winchester x Reader

Loosely inspired by One Call Away by Charlie Puth in which the Reader calls on Sam as she’s going through a rough time. 

Listen to the song here

A/N: Hello! So this is once again one of those fanfictions that is based on what I’m really going through. I can’t get into details about what actually happened but I am a bit inspired and I wish I had someone like Sam (outside of my family) to turn to in times like this. I've been working on this one for maybe 6 months or so? It's been a long time coming so I hope you enjoy it!

As always, Supernatural masterlist | Masterlist of all Masterlists

Warnings: Mean people, crying, swearing, fluff, angst, language

Word Count: 3992

“You are a bitch!” The words of Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club rang through my ears every time I looked at her. If I had to deal with her mistreatment one more time……

Okay, so it wasn’t always like this, in fact, it used to be really good but then again, it all seemed like a phase. It didn’t make any sense, all of a sudden I was out and looking in and it was not okay. The environment around me was so toxic, that I dreaded going there every day. I didn’t know what to do or who to go to so I went to the one person I always knew would be there for me. Stepping outside, I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. 

“Sam? Hey, can we talk?” I ask, hoping he isn’t busy.

“(Y/N) of course, what’s going on?” He said I can tell the concern in his voice.

“Work is just becoming too much for me and I don’t know what to do. I feel like no one likes me, people are trying to get rid of me, and I feel like I don’t have any ideas on how to fix the problem.” 

“(Y/N) I’m sorry, that’s awful. What happened?”

“I don’t know what happened or what changed, I just all of a sudden was kicked out of the crowd and it feels horrible. I work hard and I try to do everything that is required of me. I love my job and the people I work with but something changed for the worse.” I say, starting to cry. I couldn’t help but let all the feelings out because this was going on for months. 

“Hang on, I’ll be right there,” He says, the line goes slightly as the tears keep falling. A few moments went by and there was a knock at my door. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Sam says, pushing the door closed behind him and wrapping his large arms around me. Sobs just wracked through my body as the stress of the last few months boiled over. 

Right before I started this job, I met the Winchesters. I didn’t even mean to meet them but I’m glad to have them. They were in town working a case and I had assisted them in pulling information on what may have killed the person they were after. Don’t worry, I’ve known that monsters are real before I met them. My great-grandfather was a hunter, my grandfather, my father, and it would’ve gone to my brother but the tradition is, it goes to the oldest child. So I’ve grown up in the life and have seen everything. Of course, the guys were thrilled to know I knew so much about monsters and some best practices to destroy them but I wasn’t allowed to actually hunt at all. I was just used to giving information but I was damn good. So I was asked to move into the Bunker for easier access but I ended up having to get a job because my assistance wasn’t being requested as often. Things were great at first but everything changed and it was awful. Of course, the Winchesters were overprotective because they said they saw me as a sister, and they wished they could do something to help me. 

“They’re doing what to you?” Dean had yelled, not at me but at the situation. “I’m going to make them pay for treating you like that.” 

“I appreciate that Dean, but I don’t want you to do anything,” I explained to him and Sam. They both frowned when they couldn’t help me but it was something I needed to handle myself.

“But (Y/N) you’re being treated unfairly. You do see that right?” Sam asked, more concern showing up in his features. 

“Yes Sam, I know, but let me handle this first and if that doesn’t work, I’ll ask you guys,” I say and make sure they both understand before I go back to my room.

Authors POV

“Why is she being treated so badly? She really enjoyed her job and then all of a sudden, everyone turned on her?” Sam stated, not fully grasping what happened. 

“I don’t know Sammy, but we gotta figure out how we’re going to help her,” Dean said.

“Dean, you know what she said, she doesn’t want our help.”

“The hell she doesn’t. She’s too nice to start something like this. She needs to be protected.”

“Look I think she can be too nice too sometimes but she’s also tough as nails in certain aspects. She doesn’t let anyone push her around so we just have to trust her and believe she will find a way to come out on top,” Sam says but he doesn’t trust those words himself. No, Sam is extremely protective of her and will do anything he can to make sure she is okay. He could never tell her why he feels that way, maybe because he doesn’t know himself, but when it comes to her, everything is different. 

He paced the length of his bedroom, which was rather small for his long strides, and that made him frustrated because he would have to stop, turn, then go back to pacing, only to have to start all over again a few seconds later. The cell phone that sat on his bed taunted him, telling him she wouldn’t call to say she needed him. He would get flustered, running his large hands through his hair, slightly tugging on the ends of his neck as he would groan. He hated waiting and hated that she wasn’t calling sooner for his help. It irritated him that anyone was treating her poorly because she didn’t deserve that. She was smart, brave, funny, beautiful, strong, resilient; nothing standing in her way but this? This was more than she could handle, he thought. This would upset even him and he was used to this kind of crap but as long as he’s known her, she didn’t deal with things where she was being used or people didn’t like her. Okay, so she’s only been a part of the team for six months, but she became family as soon as she decided to move in with them. 

A few hours passed and Sam had fallen asleep waiting around. He refused to help Dean with a case that had come up because he was so concerned with (y/n) and he knew he needed to be around in case she needed him. He would’ve slept longer if it wasn’t for his phone waking him up with a rather annoying buzzing sound.

“Hello?” He answers the phone, trying his best not to sound as though he was just asleep. 

“Sam?” A small voice came through from the other end. She sounded timid almost; something was wrong.

“(Y/N) what's wrong?” 

“Something happened and I need your help; I’ve lost control. 

"Okay, where are you?"

"Down by the lake, about two miles from the Bunker. I'm in my car." 

"Stay there, I'm coming to find you."

Luckily, Dean had come back from his hunt and it ended successfully.

"Dean, I need to borrow Baby. (Y/N) got into a bit of a situation and she really needs help," the younger brother says to his older brother, in a way he hasn't seen his baby brother for several years.

"Dude, of course. Is she okay?" Dean asks.

It took Sam a few minutes for him to find the words to answer. He looked like a fish gasping for air on the land; he truly did not know.

"I don't know. She sounded so scared and fragile…." A single tear fell from his eye, knowing the person he cared for most in the world was in great need of someone to be there for her.

Dean had only seen this behavior in Sam one other time and that was when he was sent to Purgatory. This must've been serious. 

"Take whatever you need. Just make sure you're good before you drive; you don't want to get hurt yourself. Call me if you need me."

"Thank you, Dean." Sam grabbed the keys to the Impala from the table a jacket and his phone before speeding away to try and get to his friend, in her weakest moment. 

The drive seemed endless but it only lasted ten minutes. He saw her small vehicle parked under a tree, close to the lake but still a good distance from the shoreline. It was dark, with only a few street lights a few yards away. Sam had the idea of turning the Impala's headlights on, hoping to illuminate the view around (Y/N)'s car and as a way to make himself known. 

"Sam?" Her voice rang out into the night.

"I'm here," he answers her.

The sound of a car door opening and shutting came and went and the next thing Sam knew, (Y/N) was running into his arms as she let all her pent-up emotions fully go. With her still in his embrace, he bent down so he was sitting on his knees, with her head resting in his jacket. He held her close, afraid to say anything, for fear it was too soon for her to speak. So, he sat with her, rocked her, and occasionally wiped the tears from her now puffy eyes. Even at this moment, his heart swelled. See, Sam finally figured out why (Y/N) was different; he was in love with her. Yes, he had fallen madly in love with her yet could never find the right time to tell her. Now was definitely not the time but when she would look up at him, tears brimming her big (y/e/c) eyes, he felt it in his soul; he adored her. He knew he would do anything for that girl and he ached to help her when she was this hurt. 

How dare anyone treat such a beautiful and kindhearted person like her? He had thought to himself. He couldn't fathom why anyone would be so cruel to her but he pledged to himself in that very moment, he was always going to be there for her; Superman had nothing on him.

Sam's POV

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, wanting to know what happened since she seemed more calm.

"I was called in by my boss and had a meeting with human resources. It was so stupid and I felt like I was being targeted. I threw up because it's just been too much and I've been so stressed. I'm gaining weight and I'm eating more crap; I hate this," she answers and my heart breaks further

"(Y/N) you need to get out of there. It's not healthy for you to be in that environment."

"I know but I don't want to quit; it wouldn't look good for future jobs."

"Fuck getting another job! Just stay with us and we'll have work for you to do. You don't have to worry about anything; we've got you." I say, reassuring her that we will always have her best interest at heart. 

She looked back at me with these big, wet, puppy dog eyes and I felt my heartbreak further for her. "I wish I could but I just can't."

"Well, I'm not stopping until we figure something out that would be much better for you and I'm not giving up until we think of something because goddammit (Y/N) I care about you."

The air in the room felt very thick and everything was quiet, (Y/N) not saying a word, not looking at me and Dean, well Dean had shot me a look and a grin, knowing what was behind this sudden statement. I gave him a mental plea of 'please leave.' I was relieved when he just smiled and left the room.

"(Y/N) are you okay?" Again, she remained quiet for a moment before finding the words to say. 

"What do you mean you care about me?" She asks.

"Well, I've always cared about you, since we've met," I answer, trying to put off the true answer.

"But when you've said this before, Dean has stayed in the room; he just left." I took a big sigh and then I decided it was time.

"Sam, what are you saying?" She asks, her head slightly turned to the side, much like Cass does when he's confused.

"I'm saying I care about you, as more than just a friend. I've been crazy about you since you came to stay with us and with all this shit happening at your work, all I wanna do is wrap you up in my arms and protect you from all the mean people," I finish my statement, my eyes never leaving her face. 

There's an agonizing silence as I try to read how she's processing all this but then she finally speaks up.

"What are you waiting for?

I take that as an okay and I grab one of her arms, tugging her into my body. She's safe and she's warm in the protection of me. My arms snake around her and I feel her taking a big breath in and out; her whole body relaxing. Time had passed and I wasn't sure how much of it had but I savored every moment of it. I slowly untangled her from my arms as she looked up to me. Not a single word was spoken but I took the lead and pressed my lips to hers. She reciprocated, pressing her smaller frame to mine by stepping on her tiptoes to reach me. We stayed together for a short while, but it meant everything to me.

Two days later Sam was on my side through everything but it was time to go to human resources to find out what they could do for me. 

“Sam, I'm scared.” 

“I know you are baby, but I’m here and I’ll be with you as long as you allow me to be.” He takes my hand and drives me down to the department where we would be meeting with a representative of human resources. We arrive and as he parks the car, he brings my hand up to his lips and leaves them there for a bit. 

“You ready?” He asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, gripping his hand a little tighter. We walked in and were met by the specialist. 

An hour or so passed and it was determined I would be going on a leave. A few weeks away from my workplace I could not be more relieved to be out of that situation. In fact, so much pressure had built up inside me that it exploded in tears from my eyes. Sam just held me tight and made sure I knew he was there. I was going to be spending every day with Sam and Dean and I felt a bit odd about it, knowing I wasn’t going to be able to help too much.

“Nonsense sweetheart, you can help us research our cases,” Dean stated.

“Could I come with you guys?” I ask.

Sam and Dean shared a concerned look but Sam spoke up first. 

“It wouldn’t be fair to leave you alone while you’re on leave but you have to promise us, you’ll listen to everything we tell you. We care a whole lot about you and these cases can get pretty dangerous. Stay close, don’t wander off, and shoot when we say.”

“Wait, you guys trust me to shoot someone? I’ve never done that before,” I state.

“We’ll teach you. We have more time now so we can get you ready,” Dean said. “Sammy, you got this?” 

Sam glanced at me and looked to read my face, waiting to see if I would object. “If she’s up for it.” 

I sucked in a hard breath and nodded. 

“Then I will take her on.” Now it was my turn to read his face. It wasn’t as easy but I managed; he looked slightly uncomfortable. 

“Sam, can I talk to you for a minute, in private?” He nodded and followed me out of the room. 

“You don’t have to teach me to shoot. You looked uncomfortable; I can ask Dean,” I say.

“No I want to,” he says.

“Then why do you look so annoyed by it?” 

“I’m not annoyed, I’m worried. Our line of work can be really dangerous; I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Well I’ll be fine, you’re going to train with me; I’ll be a hunter.”

“That’s not something to be excited about, (Y/N). We kill people and creatures.” 

“Sam, I know, I’m not excited per se but I am interested in learning more about you and what you go through every day.”

“But you can do that without doing what I do,” he says.

“Look, I really appreciate your concern and you’re right, I don’t have to do this to get to know you better but I don’t want to be alone for twelve weeks and I can’t ask you to give up hunting just for me so if this is what it takes, then teach me. Show me what I need to do to stay safe,” I said going over to him and wrapping my arms around him. He holds me close, his head resting on my head. 

“I care about you a lot, you know that, right?” 

“I know, I do too.”  

A few weeks later, Readers’s POV

Time seemed to have gone by rather quickly. The more hunts I went on, the easier it became. I took it as not killing people as much as killing creatures who may have been human at one point but aren’t anymore. I was continuing to stay busy with the boys, hunting, traveling, researching, and staying in more crappy motels than I could count. The job was taking a toll on me, on all of us, but we all grew closer and the boys treated me like I was their sister, well that was until Sam started distancing himself from me. It began as small ways for him to separate himself; not interjecting in conversations about hunts, simple nods or shakes of his head, answering with “hmm” instead of actual words. Then it grew into staying behind during hunts, not eating food with Dean and me, and overall just not acting like himself. 

“Hey Dean, have you noticed a change in Sammy lately?” I asked one day while he was driving us home from a hunt. 

“You mean any more than usual?” He jokes, always having to pick on his younger brother. 

“I’m serious, Dean, I’m worried about him!” I say, slightly swatting the elder Winchester. 

“I don’t know (y/n), maybe you should go talk to him, see what's bothering him,” Dean suggested.

I figured that was the best idea so I decided to do just that. I was a bit infuriated and when I walked, I added more pressure to each step, making sure Sam knew I meant business. I finally found him in his room, lying across his bed, as if we weren't worried about where he was.

“You better have a damn good reason for acting so off, Sam,” I say, making myself known.

“(Y/N)” he says, suddenly sitting up to look at me. 

“Well Winchester, what's your problem? You've been acting weird, especially around me. Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me? What is it?” I asked, both hands on my hips, staring down at him.

“No, it's not that,” he says.

“Then what? I mean I thought everything was fine between us but you've been acting so differently towards me! You can't look at me for long, be around, or talk to me. It's almost as if I annoy you or something. Is that what it is Sam? Am I annoying? Do I bother you? What?!” I practically yell at him.

“I love you,” he says, calmly and not initially meeting my eyes. I go to say something else but just stare at him when his words sink in.

“You what?” I said, not immediately grasping what he was saying. 

“You’ve been through hell lately, with how everyone treated you at your job and you felt like the whole world was against you, you turned to me and I was always there for you. No matter what time of day, if I was out on a hunt or preoccupied with something else; I stopped for you. And in the midst of it all, I fell in love with you. Never in all my life have I connected with someone the way I have with you and all I want to do is protect you and make sure no one hurts you ever. I just hope you feel the same about me because I haven’t had much in this life but I hope to have you because you are who I am proud of, who I want to wake up to every morning, start a family with, maybe even retire from the hunt.” He said, looking at the tears that were steadily falling from my eyes. 

“I love you too Sam. I couldn’t have expected you to be the person I would turn to amid my darkest time but you were always there and you helped me realize there’s more to life than just working a job where I wasn’t appreciated or even valued for that matter. You’ve shown me what it means to love someone more than just myself and to be fully open and raw to someone else and I cannot thank you enough for that. You are my Superman; always there to save my day and my life. You are my heart's desire, my perfect man, the one I hope to spend the rest of my life with. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone else.” I admitted and the smile on his face was pure, unbridled joy. He took a few strides and took my face in his hands, just gently but enough for me to feel that he was in control. He took his time, watching my eyes the entire time except for the few times his gaze dropped to my lips and back. Making sure I had given silent permission, he finally brought his lips down to mine, just a small, chaste kiss to test the waters then when he saw my response, he brought our lips back together with a passion and urgency I wasn’t expecting from him. His hands moved from my face to my hips, bringing our bodies flush against one other, fear in both of us that this moment would end. I grabbed ahold of his shirt in both my hands, holding onto him with every ounce of strength I had. When we finally pulled away, there was a sparkle in his eye, one that solidified the next step.

“You know, now that we’re together, we can mess with Dean.” He suggested. 

“Oh yeah? Like kicking him out the room or make-out sessions in the backseat of the Impala?” I suggest. 

“Ah, now that’s my girl, exactly what I was thinking.” We both laugh before going back in for another kiss. In the end, Sam was who I needed. The person who was always there for me to run to when I just grew too frustrated with life. He was my biggest supporter and always made sure I had everything I needed or ever wanted. And all he ever was, was one call away.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

one of these nights - Dean Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader (vaguely post-s3) with some Sam Winchester & Reader.

Tags/Warnings: friends-to-lovers, Fluff then Angst then Smut, Sex on/in the Impala, implied/technical cheating, drinking, Reader is a Hunter.

Words: 20k.

Notes: a lovely little commission for the lovely lacilou on tumblr. this was my first shot at writing a dean-insert (as a hardcore samgirl), which was an absolute blast!! hope u enjoy!!

Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

All your life, you’d never been keen on cliques. But there’s a certain magic in rolling up to a small-town Massachusett dive with yours.

It’s a little funny, calling Sam and Dean your clique. You know that, yet it’s true. You breeze inside the bar like the most popular kids in school, slow-mo strutting down the hall in the movies. Even with them behind you, you can picture it in your head on film: Dean’s jacket swinging with his saunter, Sam’s hair falling in his face, your jewelry swishing at your neckline. Tonight is already a movie. The thud of your boots together makes this pleasant rhythm, parting the Friday night crowd around the three of you, and you lead the boys to the counter with a sense that today has been perfect. The hunt you’d just spent three weeks on had been tied up with the prettiest, cleanest bow. No casualties. No scrapes that couldn’t be fixed with some whiskey and a bandage. Dean is snickering at his joke, and you and Sam are pretending it’s not as funny as it actually is. Things are perfect-perfect.

Even with your two gigantoids as buffers, the bar you’d picked to commemorate a hunt well done is packed to the brim. You gather around the only empty stool at the bar to get the bartender’s attention, and as you wait, you manage to worm your wallet free from your pockets with only a little elbowing. After so long the boys have zero mind for personal space. It’s kind of cute.

“I’ll cover the tab tonight, boys. Call it an early Halloween present,” you beam, and over your shoulder Dean whistles.

“Damn,” he says, “you really are in a good mood.”

You turn your grin on Dean, wiggling your wallet at him so the coins inside rattle like a tambourine. “We’re celebrating! And you wanna know how I know?”

Another group of people squeezes through the crowd behind you, bumping Dean even further into your personal bubble. He tries to be subtle about it, gliding in like an air-hockey puck, but you can tell that he lets the momentum carry him a little further than it needs to. If you brought it up he’d just explain it away as a product of how damn loud it is in here, _____, you can’t fault a guy for having shit hearing! But you know it’s on purpose. Tonight is good for so many reasons, but the first is Dean being relaxed enough to do that. To walk that line with you.

“How do you know?” He asks below the roaring bar chatter. Dean does have shit hearing, since he’s spent so many years behind a pistol, so he tips his face toward your cheek to make out your voice. A wave of gasoline and aftershave floods your senses.

You share a conspiratory look with him, side-eyeing Sam and hiding your smirk behind your hand. “‘Kid told me he plans to have two beers instead of one.”

Dean lights up, because while teasing Sam is fun, it’s ten times funnier when you both gang up on him. “Two? Break out the balloons,” he snickers, and drops a hand on your back to lean past you. There, he drawls at his brother, “You sure you can handle partying with the big kids, Sam? Me and _____ are kind of professional post-hunt drinkers…”

You pump your fist in solidarity because, hell yeah, what a healthy coping mechanism. Over a decade of training has made you a master of the Winchester sense of humor, so just this kills Sam a little—he’s in a ridiculously good mood too, and you can tell because he’s being even more of a tight-ass than usual.

“Cut that ‘kid’ shit out and maybe I’ll throw in some jäger,” Sam grumbles. Or, he tries to, but he’s still smiling to himself.

Again, you share a look with Dean that goes over Sam’s head (metaphorically, of course). Two beers and some jäger in him could end in only one way: you and Dean dragging over two hundred pounds of giggly man-boy the three blocks to your motel. Dean makes a face like that’s the last way he wants to end tonight, but you know from experience that being carried home piss-drunk is way more fun than it sounds. For you, at least.

Last time, you’d been laughing too hard for either brother to keep you on your feet. It was great. Whenever you complained about something, one of your best friends in the whole world appeared to magic the problem away. You were laughing too hard to walk? Dean scooped you up and carried you all the way to the Impala. Your heels were murdering your ankles? Sam wiggled them off you, trailing behind you and Dean with them slung over his shoulder. You fell asleep to the soft jostle of Dean’s walk and the low timbre of his voice humming Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes you still caught yourself singing it when you got ready for bed.

“Hold on—that table’s opening up. I’m gonna steal it for us,” Sam notices. He slaps Dean on the shoulder as he goes, “Order for me.” Realizing the troublemaker he’d just handed that responsibility to, Sam wheels back, and asks you instead. “Actually, _____, can you—?”

You raise a hand before he can finish. “The cheapest pale ale they have, I know. Now, go, before we’re forced to sit on the pavement outside all night.”

Sam gives you this trusting nod that’s just golden, because the second he’s gone you twist to Dean, your partner in crime, and squint in thought. “...So. You think he’ll hate the peach daiquiris or the malibu cocktails more?”

The smile that hasn’t left Dean’s face once since you walked in only grows. You feel the hand on your back loop around to your waist, squeezing you against his warm side in appraisal. “God,” he sighs, wistful, “you’re my brand of evil genius, you know that?”

You sputter out a laugh instead of something clever, because, well. When Sam is in a good mood, he digs his heels in and sasses back to everything you say. When Dean is in a good mood, he squeezes the bare skin where your jeans meet your shirt, carries you home, and gazes at you with big glittery eyes and rumbles, I hear the train a-comin', it's rolling 'round the bend…

Apparently, you do about the same thing on your good days too. Gliding into him with that same air-hockey puck subtlety, you squeeze him around the back, asking in your sweetest voice, “Can you go see how many songs are in the jukebox’s play queue for me? I wanna dance to—”

“I know what song you want to dance to,” Dean smugly finishes your thought, so certain of your preferences that your heart does a little jig. “You know what d—?”

“—yeah, I know what drink you want,” you finish for him, just like he had for you.

Dean’s face glitters with open fondness for just an instant, then disappears into the constant flux of people, leaving you to suck down the gasoline-aftershave-leather fog that follows him. You can still feel the friendly pinch he’d given your waist by the time your drinks arrive, the ache of it fading into your skin. The leftover adrenaline from your accomplished hunt was still pounding through your system, so the haze of Dean's affection layered on top has you skipping back to your table.

You can taste it mingling with the cigar smoke in the air—something’s different with Dean tonight. Him and you. Sam had noticed, too, because after he accepts his peach daiquiri with an unphased huff, he waits to speak until he’s safely hidden behind his laptop’s screen.

“That was a lot of touching up there,” he says, as if he’s talking about the weather.

You take the same tone, shrugging like he’s pointed out it’s gonna rain later. “S’ been a good week, Sammy.”

Any attempt to come across as tame is useless. You’re an open book. A part of you wishes you were less obvious, but Dean’s pinch still tingles in your side and the left side of your body is alive with phantom leather jacket sensations. Shit.

“Your hands are shaking.” His brows bounce once at you over the article he’s reading.

You have nothing smart to say at this, and instead choose to scoop up your own daiquiri and clink it against his. Distraction tactic. Sam cheerses with you, but doesn’t drink from his glass, clunking it down next to him and simmering with you in your crush-pumped silence. He gets this particular look on his face when it comes to you and Dean. It’s squinty, knowing, and not an inch different from when he was a little kid. You remember the cool girlfriend that your own older brother had had in high school, and what your relationship with her had looked like. She was awesome, and every day you prayed she never left. Sam has always had that same quiet hope in his eyes—please stick around forever and take care of my dumbass brother. I’ll pay you.

Many, many times, too many times to count, the swirling threads of your feelings and Dean’s had crossed, but not once had they ever knotted together permanently. He would swing into your life and then swing out. You would live in his for a little while, threads looping and weaving, but nothing ever came of it. Putting it into terms more complicated than that usually made your chest ache like a rail spike had been driven through it. Tonight is one of those nights where the ache feels good, where loving Dean is a special secret you can whisper behind your hand to anyone you want.

Words swim in your head. There is no easy way to explain to Dean’s kid brother that Dean is the best man in this room and this world, that he bleeds goodness like other men bleed mud, that he’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Sam would probably roll his eyes. You are rolling your eyes at yourself. But on the up-and-down rollercoaster of your relationship, these last few months have been the strongest climb to the top yet. Maybe that means you’re going to hit a big drop. You’re a hopeful person, though, so you can’t help but read Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror differently. This is it. He’s not looking at the lonely girls by the bar or the pretty ones on the dancefloor. His eyes are on you.

Blinking yourself out of your head, you putter out the lamest version of your buzzing thoughts.

“I get the feeling tonight’s different,” you say, talking into your glass and avoiding Sam’s laser-focused gaze. On instinct, you stare at the vague clump in the crowd where Dean should be. “All these months of…” you gesture broadly, “I think… something could happen.”

Sam pulls a face. “Ew.”

You kick him under the table. “Shut up,” you laugh, “I’m being serious, dude. Dean—”

…appears right beside you. In your mind’s eye, he emerges from the crowd bleeding with easy cheer, glistening gold at the edges in the bar light. “You rang?” he says. “Got your song going for you. Should be the next one.”

Dean slinks out of his jacket like a tomcat, all casual slyness, and hip-checks you when he slides into your half of the booth. It’s practical—he would have to squeeze, sitting by Sam. With you, Dean has all the room in the world to manspread his thigh against yours and toss his arm over the back of the seat behind you. The flesh of his arm never actually makes contact with the back of your neck, but it could. He survived off those little almosts.

Just as the three of you get settled into conversation, the last song dies out, swaying into the first bluesy chords of One of These Nights by the Eagles. The second that first brassy note plucks off the lead guitar, a match sparks in your chest. Dean spins to catch your eye, gleaming with excitement. The old urge to get up and conquer the dancefloor becomes irresistible. You can still feel your last case in your weary bones a bit, but there’s a certain grime to hunting that can only be scrubbed off by a good time. Dean knows this, too, so you’re led by the wrist out of the booth before the lyrics even start. He steals a sip of peach daiquiri and then you’re off for the open space between the tables. You’re laughing so hard your cheeks ache.

You’re chased by Sam’s playful shout. “Don’t have too much fun out there!”

The race to the lyrics is literal. You know there’s only a few seconds of interlude before they start, and Dean, after decades of being your one and only dance partner, knows precisely when they kick in. One of you decides that you must be in the middle of the sparse crowd the second Don Henley starts singing, and the other accepts this without question. You end up laughing, scrambling, and shoving a couple of people to get there, but god—the supporting piano lands and the bass struts and the lead guitar just stings. Like always. You break through into a clearing at the heart of the bar’s dancefloor, and for a second all you can see is Dean. He skids to a stop in his boots and laughs his ass off the whole time, stumbling inwards and making a mad dash to get your hands in his. His grin shines and his eyes crinkle with glee. The fire and anguish from your earlier hunt is gone. Now it’s just him, as you’ve always remembered him.

“One of these nights…” you laugh to each other. With your hands scooped in his, Dean starts funnily salsaing you back and forth with him to the beat, which instantly splits your sides. You’re laughing too hard to sing with him, “One of these crazy old nights…”

Through giggles, you dryly comment, “Excellent starting move.”

“Why thank you,” Dean replies.

You shift his salsa dancing around in a circle, then follow the spin all the way out, wing-span wide and only one hand tethered to Dean’s. With the ease of practice, he whirls you back in. Each move is unrehearsed and mostly random, but you and Dean have listened to this song in particular at least a hundred times, and danced to it just as much. Some beats of it you can’t help repeating from other nights spent dancing in bars. For example:

You’re wrapped in one of his arms, hand still held, while Dean’s other seamlessly lands on your waist on time with the next line. “We’re gonna find out, pretty mama,” he drawls with purpose, leaning in close enough to make your neck tickle, “what turns onnn your lights…”

He does this every time. Every time, it makes your chest tight with this shivery warmth you just can’t shake.

Dean used to be pretty shit at dancing, but after a hundred bars with a hundred names you’ve forgotten, it’s the one piece of him that you’ve pried loose from John’s influence. Sam isn’t looking and nobody knows who the two of you are. For once, Dean lets loose. He slides his hands down your arms and hooks your fingers in his, calloused and thick, rocking you back and forth with the rhythm. You think to yourself that Dean would make a great musician. He keeps time with ease, falling into a relaxed four-step (you’re pretty sure that’s what it’s called) and losing himself in the words. The swinging openness of it makes him look just gorgeous. Dean’s cheeks are rosy with exertion, the hollow of his throat shines with sweat, and he never looks away from you even once.

Every other day of hunting season, Dean… compartmentalizes. He takes the fever the two of you feel now and packs it down where nobody can find it. You see those feelings shake loose from their reigns every once in a while, but there’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over them out in the open: here, cupping your lower back and crooning lyrics.

“...been searchin’ for the daughter of the devil himself,” he murmurs, throwing you a playful eye-roll at the symbolism you’re both tired of living. “I’ve been searchin’ for an angel in white…”

You drop a wrist over Dean’s shoulder and he rocks in close, tilting back and forth on his feet. Together, you mumble along with Don Henley and sway in a cozy circle. You take the rare opportunity to relish how he feels pressed against you. Saying anything will spoil the magic, so you just let it wash over you, purposefully coasting away from the few rational thoughts your brain is producing.

It’s unfair that he feels the way he does—and you know Dean does, he’s told you and you’ve told him and it’s all been laid out before—and still strings you along like this. You know. You should be pissed at him every time you think about it. But it’s Dean, and having a piece of him you don’t see is better than having none of him at all.

“...One of these nightssss…”

The Eagles eventually seep into another band’s song, which you assume is your signal to quit. Your vision loses its luster and the glittering lights of the world dim back to normal. Dean will have his one lucky dance with you, then, since you’re a bunch of old people, you’ll retire to your table and shoot the breeze until someone calls it a night. That’s how this always goes.

You pull your cheek from where you’d laid it against his shirt. It takes you a bit to put your thoughts into words, so you’re slow to assume, “Wanna get back to our drinks?”

When you meet eyes, Dean’s are soft, and he smiles with this quiet pleasure roving all over his face. Dimly, you register that Burnin’ For You by Blue Oyster Cult is chiming through the bar now, but. He runs his hands down your arms—sort of planting you in place, like he wants to keep you here with him. Your whole body zings with millions of little electric pulses that pump into your head like a fog too thick to see through. More than anything, you want to stay too.

Around you, the dancefloor is alive with people. But Dean has a habit of making you feel cinematic, so you can almost see how the extras fizz into the background as the camera settles on you and him alone. The bar lights hang overhead, hazy and warm. Your soundtrack is lively and familiar. The moment hangs… neither of you wants to give it up.

“Yeah. Why don’t we, uh,” he clears his throat, “grab a few sips and then head back here, huh?”

Suspended in place by the pound of your own heart, you slide your palms off his chest and put on your slyest grin. “Dancing is way more fun when you’re tipsy.”

Dean slips on a smile of his own, then turns to lead the way out of the crowd. For just an instant you feel like you can’t get your feet off the floor, and you watch him go, head spinning. Deep down, you worried that you might’ve been pushing your enthusiasm to its limit thinking tonight was the night. For the last decade of your life, you’d been waiting on Dean. But something really is different now, because, true to his word, Dean snags a few sips of his drink with you and then you’re back out on the dance floor.

The next few songs fly by. Everything is Dean. The heavy thump of boots on the worn-smooth floor, the growing buzz of alcohol in your system. You’re at the center of his stage, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. If anybody but you came up and waved a hand in his face, you doubted Dean would even notice. You talk about your favorite albums and he laughs at every joke you make, giving you that big-eyed, pirate-smile Dean Winchester look that melts your insides. His eyes are on you.

You swim your way through Double Vision by Foreigner, you on lead air-guitar and Dean supporting with some seriously impressive air-drums. Neither of you consider yourselves professional singers or anything, but there’s a moment in the chorus underneath all the noise where you swear you and Dean harmonize. All the rowdy guitar and drum-playing smooths into The Police’s Roxanne. Your face is immediately sizzling hot the second you hear the starting chords, since every time, without fail, Dean pulls out all the stops to dramatically croon the song to you. The last time it’d come on the radio, he’d chased you all over Bobby’s house, serenading you with a beer bottle microphone. He does it this time too. When you laugh and squirm away, he finds your wrists and guides you back into him, palms everywhere, making kissy faces and everything.

You suppress the urge to seek revenge and huff, “You don’t even know what this song is about, do you?”

Dean snorts, but his eye contact with you is purposeful. “Course’ I do. S’ about a guy who’s so into his girl that he doesn’t want to share her with anybody else.”

Instead of having an apt response for that, you internally shrivel up into a ball and lose any fire left in you. Dean, satisfied he’s shut you up, noses your ear and sings, “...Wouldn’t talk down to ya… I have t’ tell ya just how I feel, I won’t share you with another boy…”

The mushy impression he’s doing of Sting fails pretty quickly, so Dean softens into his own voice. For the millionth time tonight, you’ve found yourself with your arms around his neck and his face hovering around yours. If you mention it, Dean will drop everything and run. You know that. So you don’t sing that particular song with him. Allowing him to sing it to you is much sweeter, anyway, and the slower the music gets the closer you’re allowed to be.

And boy, every guy in the room must be aiming to get a slow dance with his girl, because soon the steady flow of rock n’ roll on the jukebox drizzles into Elvis and The Temptations. You joke about this to Dean, giving him a small out. Just in case.

“You hate mushy music,” you tell him, even if you both know that’s not exactly true.

Dean’s warm palms coast over your waist and you draw your nails across the flannel on his back, soaking each other up. A memory pierces your train of thought in a hot flash. You’d seen Dean dance with other girls like this, hands all over, seeking. But tonight they rest on your hips or hook through your belt loops without intention. Dean’s just here, and he wants you here too. For now, you’re his first choice for who he’s spending his time with tonight.

He doesn’t take the out you gave him.

“S’ not all bad,” Dean shrugs under your hands. “...I like this song.”

It’s Elvis’s Love Me, which effectively scrubs the dancefloor of any non-couples. Besides you and Dean, that is. This fact hangs in the air, supercharged, but neither of you mentions it. Dean draws you into him and you slide eagerly into his hold, your head under his chin. A few other pairs skip out onto the floor and take up space beside you. Soon, the molecule of space left between you and Dean disappears. You’re pretty sure if a few atoms went missing from the universe something crazy would happen, like a nuclear explosion, and that’s exactly what occurs in your belly. Dean sways with you like he’s in love with you, like it’s a secret everyone can see. If anyone in the bar glanced over at the two of you now, you know exactly what they’d think.

The best part of this was that Dean doesn’t end it after two dances, three dances, or four. You go all night like that, shittily waltzing to love songs and grooving along to faster ones. He had an opportunity to escape every time you took a trip to throw back your drinks. But if it crosses Dean’s mind at all, he never, ever takes it. One of you starts talking then neither of you can stop. Almost three hours later, you’re halfway through Just What I Needed and a street racing story that never fails to blow Dean’s mind, when your hundredth round of drinks runs dry. Since you’re both past tipsy now, it’s unanimously decided that there’s more work to be done.

“S’ a good night,” Dean tells you, beaming, “we can do another round, right?”

“Hell yeah,” you shrug, and raise your empty glass, “Here’s to alcohol poisoning, baby.”

“Yeah,” Dean echoes, almost slurring. “Baby.”

You take his empty glass, too, and Dean tips back toward your table to bother his brother. Both times you glance back Dean is following you with his eyes. It’s like hearing scratching in your attic and walking through cold spots for months, then suddenly seeing a full apparition right in your living room. Bobby claimed Dean had perfected the art of admiring you from afar, but you’d always figured he was exaggerating. Instead of chasing the ghost of one of his big-eyed stares, you actually see it first-hand—the big-eyed stare. Dean blinks prettily at you over his shoulder, then sways back toward Sam, unembarrassed and flushed a happy drinker’s red. In the flesh. Wow.

You’re so distracted you almost skip into two patrons, so you start watching where you’re going and add a few more drinks to your tab. While you’re waiting on them, you rock on your heels, brimming with buzzing energy. Years and years of buildup and something might finally happen. The prospect is so sweet that you giddily dance in place, bobbing to your own content music. The bartender gives you a funny, amused look and so do the people you squeeze past to reach him, but you ignore them all, scooping up your drinks and floating back to the table. Your grin is so bright that it makes your cheeks ache.

“Alright, gentlemen, I crossed two deserts to get these drinks, so you better—”

It’s just Sam at your table, looking sheepish.

You squint at him. Sheepish. Why is he sheepish? You set down your glass and Sam’s, then awkwardly release Dean’s beer from where it’d been trapped between your elbow and your ribs. The corner where Sam has shoved all your empty drinks has since expanded—there are at least five more new drinks there, completely outside the realm of anything you know Sam or Dean would order.

You stand. “Damn. Who ordered these?”

Sam stiffly brushed the hair from his face. “Um… a table in the corner sent em’ over. As a gift.”

“Free drinks? Really? That rocks,” you brighten.

Sam was avoiding the eyes of someone at said table, so you turn to intercept the stares and instantly feel the cloud nine you’re floating on drop out from under you.

“...Dean’s over there thanking them,” he clarified.

It’s a big group of women. Your reasonable-self could follow the logic: Dean and Sam were pretty, the women had noticed they were pretty, and then bought them drinks for being pretty. Your reasonable self would pull up a chair and toast to those women. The Winchester spell made everyone want to give them stuff for just being gorgeous and alive, and though you weren’t a Winchester, you reaped the rewards just as often. Sam’s puppy look paid the rent, and more than once Dean’s dazzling smile had won your way into concerts and r-rated movies. You should’ve been stoked.

If you were completely sober you’d probably put together that it was a bachelorette party, but all you see is your Dean, center stage among them and putting on a show. Even drunk he does a convincing performance of a “modeling agent” passing out his card. Cards. To all of them. The booth of girls giggle and lean closer, all swaying in the direction of Dean’s sly grin like snakes to a snake-charmer. A swath of mothy bitterness starts to eat holes into your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mourns. He says it with so much genuine remorse that you realize how crushed you must look—and wow, isn’t that an embarrassing cherry to top this sundae off. They’re just girls. It’s just talking. Still, Sam tells you, “I tried to stop him.”

“So have I,” you answer, bitterly.

The hours of dancing suddenly burn in your legs. You steady a hand on the table to slide into your seat, but there are so many glasses that it feels too full to occupy, and Sam noisily scuffling them out of your way doesn’t help your raw ears. Resigned, you shove into your side of the booth and tell yourself that you’re overreacting. Thanking people (a group of women) for sending over free drinks (because Dean’s too pretty for his own good) is perfectly normal (to non-jealous people, at least). Because you’re not at all a resentful person, you slide over the closest glass and choke it down.

Sam raises both brows. “Maybe you should slow down a bit. Unless you want one of us to carry you home—?”

You pull your glare away from the other side of the bar and focus it on the table, answering Sam’s question for him.

“Right,” he realizes, “I can go and—”

You’re already shaking your head. “Don’t. Let’s see how long it takes ‘im.”

As it turns out, drunk Dean is an incredibly social butterfly. For the first ten minutes he’s engrossed in his conversation, you aimlessly stir your drink and dodge Sam’s glances. Fifteen and you’re glued to your seat. Twenty and Dean still isn’t back, a handful of songs you know he’d kill to dance to coming and going. Past that you’re spaced out too far to care, and have failed to not let your mood be killed. The neon electricity that’d been pumping through your system all night is cold and lifeless. On top of that, you’re furious with yourself for staking all your hopes and feelings on a premise so stupid, for trusting Dean. Again. You know you’re drunker than you want to admit, but this nasty swirling bitterness burning in your stomach isn’t alcohol. You sigh into your half-finished drink. This was exactly what happened last time.

Since you’re already feeling sorry for yourself, you punish your naivety by stealing glances at Dean’s table. In the half an hour he’s been gone, he’s taken a seat at their booth, cozied up to the woman closest to him, and captivated each of them with a story. You can tell which one from across the bar. With five sets of happy eyes feasting on him, he puts on his best smolder and gestures suavely with his hands—recounting the time he heroically pulled some civilians from a burning building last year. You know he doesn’t tell them it was for a hunt. You wonder if he mentions you being there at all, or leaves out the part about you hauling him from the fire in the end.

Against your better judgment, you lift your eyes from the hole you’d bored into the table and stare at Dean’s profile until your vision blurs. Please, please just look at me again, you pray with all the faith you have left.

…It looks like you’ve misplaced it. Dean stays at their table for another insufferable ten minutes. After all, pushing you away has always come easier to him than dancing.

Ready for Love by Bad Company plays next. Your mind apparently has a bone to pick with you too, because just hearing the song drops you back into the motel room you and Dean had shared in Tulsa years ago. Jim—your father—had passed that summer, speared by the same thing you’d been hunting. Sam was at school. It’d just been Dean and whatever feeble parts of you that’d survived losing your dad. For weeks, you tortured yourself chasing his killer and tortured Dean as stress relief. You were truly rotten to him then. He should’ve left you in Tulsa, but he’d kept you standing and fed til’ the hunt was long over. He endured every fight you picked and every apathetic apology. Nothing could kill his instinct to nurture, not even your grief, and you came out of the ordeal with Dean’s warm hand brushing your hair from your face. You loved Sam, but you missed the days when he was at school sometimes. Only then could Dean open his stitches and let his inner sweetness bleed out. The night you killed the thing that’d taken your dad from you, Dean had carried you home, washed the blood from your hair, and sang that song until you were safe and half-asleep in his arms.

You’re strong, he’d told you. Stronger than me. Stronger than your dad. You’ll get through this, easy.

Paul Rodgers starts to sing. The woman closest to Dean snuggles in to ask him a question, brushing her nails down the back of his neck. He tilts his head toward hers to listen, and whatever she says makes him turn the blatant flirtiness in his grin to 100%. Her shiny dark hair rolls down her back in perfect spirals, and the swish of it around her neck as she stands from her chair, blushing giddily, brands behind your eyes. Dean stands too.

Your stomach drops. She wiggles her fingers for him to take, and Dean, the lottery winner, follows her onto the dancefloor.

That’s about when you should force yourself to stop watching. But you’ve never had the keenest sense of self-preservation, so you keep stealing glances until your stomach is in knots—until this very lucky girl wraps her arms around Dean’s neck and summons enough liquid courage to kiss him.

Dean kisses back.

You sit there until your throat burns with stifled tears. It doesn’t take long for you to notice Sam looking at you, and when you do your whole body instantly flares with dark embarrassment that writhes up your legs like snakes. You barely have to guess what he’ll do next. He stews on the pitiful sight of you alone on the other side of the bench for another beat, then shoves himself to his feet and slams his laptop shut—and it’s nice, having somebody go through all these motions of defending you, but you don’t need it from Sam. You don’t need it from anybody.

“Don’t,” you warn him. “Don’t. ‘Only make it worse.”

“I know what he’s doing,” Sam starts, lip curled in disbelief. He’s disappointed in his brother. “Dean’s—testing you. Seeing if you’ll stick around. But you’ve more than proved you will, even when he pulls this shit, so I don’t see why you’ve gotta—”

“He’s drunk and stupid,” you cut him off. “We both are. I’m gonna let it go, n’ so are you.”

Sam stills, one unsatisfied hand on the tabletop. “...If I just talk to him—”

“Fucking don’t,” you tell him, and wow, you’re a mean drunk all of a sudden, huh? Pressing your fingertips against your eyelids does nothing to make the world stop tilting. Wilting, you pull your hands from your face and try not to burst into tears. “Sorry. Sorry. M’ not upset with you. M’ not upset with anybody.” Pathetically, you beg, “C’n we just go home?”

Sam gives you an uneasy nod. “Sure thing. I’ll grab Dean and pay our tab.”

Well, shit. Miserable as you are, you did promise to pay for drinks. A night of fun celebratory drinks, to be exact, which had gone completely sideways instead. Great. Sam hastily packs up his bag like he can escape before you remember, but you send him off with a wad of your own bills so he doesn’t go broke feeling bad for you.

Since waiting for him and Dean out on the curb sounds stupid, you choke out, “Bathroom,” and go hide there to dust off your pride.

God, does a thin, shitty motel mattress sound gorgeous right now. On shaking fawn legs, you bruise your way out of the booth and through the crowd, silently hoping that a loose elbow from a rowdy passerby knocks you out cold. Unfortunately, you barrel into the women’s restroom still conscious. It’s mostly empty too, so you’re free to meet your reflection without courage.

When Dean had given his yes for your second dance, you’d imagined this moment. After dancing the night away, you’d complain about your aching heels and Dean would scoop you up, all gentleman-like. He’d joke and hum all the way home—and what a funny word that was, since the only thing in your life permanent enough to call home was him. You’d kiss him goodnight and Dean’s gaze would follow you all the way to the bathroom. And there, once the door was shut and you were alone, the magic of the night would glow in your reflection. You’d sink into your happy, exhausted feet. The heat of his fingertips would be all over your waist and neck and chin. Best of all, when you’d slink into bed and pull the covers up to your face, Dean’s stomach would slot against your back and he’d spill it all to you in a whisper. I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight, he’d say. I never could, sweetheart. Didn’t want to.

But the truth was that Dean could take his eyes off you so damn easily. These days it felt like you lost his attention the second you got it. Again and again you gave him these chances, and every time he wasted them. Tonight you had sworn something was going to be different, felt it ringing in your soul like a promise, and the second your back is turned he’s found a better dance partner. Was this a sign? Now, you glared at the mirror you’d chosen, feeling the familiar needles of self-loathing start to creep between your ribs. When was it going to happen? When were things going to change? Every time you’d hit this point in the past, Dean had cut those threads before they could tie. I’m not good for you, he’d say. He’d remind you of what had happened to Jess, which had always scared you straight—but that fear came with a finish line. Hunting wasn’t the end of the road for you. With you and Dean, there’d always been a vague idea of something “after,” something over the horizon too far away to see.

You’d held fast to that “after” for so long. Even on the third, fourth, or fiftieth round of Dean’s eyes landing on someone else, you took in a breath and reassured yourself of that “after.” After everything was over and there were no worlds left to save, Dean would look at you and never stop looking.

But this was the hundredth time you’d saved the world. The road to that horizon was endless, and you’d waited so, so fucking long.

Staring at your puffy eyes and spinning reflection in the low flickering light, a dull realization started to connect inside you. You couldn’t care anymore. You were so tired of waiting. One of these days, Dean was going to glance away and never look back. Maybe…

Maybe it would be better for you to pull away first.

The bathroom door banged inwards, startling you into a moment of sobriety. You were whirling around and palming the pistol handle in your waistband before you could think, only to relax. It was just Dean. In the women’s restroom. Fucking hell.

“Dean! What the hell are you—?”

“M’ savin’ our party,” Dean clarifies, and woah, he cannot hold his liquor like he used to. Without a hint of shyness, he saunters into your bubble and dares—fucking dares—to power on his doe-eyes. “Why’d’ya wanna go?” He pouts. Sam must’ve told him. “S’ not even midnight yet.”

“Jesus, you’re lucky s’ just me in here. Could’ve scared the pants off some poor girl,” you curse.

Everything after that is a tightrope act to keep hold of your restraint. Taking his elbow, you pluck the beer out of his hand and toss it into the nearest bin. Dean, of course, squawks in protest, but doesn’t fight when you push him into the narrow hall outside.

“Why on earth did you just stroll in? Just wait for me next time!”

“Maybe you were the girl whose pants I scared off,” Dean chuckles, sounding dizzy. He’s not steady enough to stand in place for too long.

Any other night you’d happily let him lean on you, but just seeing him makes your chest feel split open. The second he’s propped against one wall of the little hall, you’re on the other side, twisting around him and making a beeline for the exit. But Dean is still the guy you were on the dancefloor with an hour ago, so you’re not a step away before two big arms catch you around the middle. Giggling, Dean lassos you back in, and all at once he’s draped across your back with his cheek smushed into yours from behind. The happy little snickers seeping out of him rumble warmly through your back. You’re cozily squeezed around the middle with all the love in the world, and the worst part is that you revel in it. Dean sways a bit with you in his arms, big warm hands folding across your belly, and every stupid cell in your body melts into the contact. He’s only ever like this when he’s drunk.

“If you even get scared,” he hums into your ear, amused. “You’re s’ tough I dunno if you even can. And y’know what? I think…” he turns his lips into your cheek, his stubble rubbing the skin there just right, “I think you’re tough enough to get back out there with me n’ show em’ how it’s done.”

You should resist. You honestly should. But you’re drunk and hollowed out and lonely, so you compromise with yourself and stand dead still. You don’t touch him or lean into it. Yet you don’t squirm away, either.

At your silence, Dean wuffs out a breath down your neck and pouts into your shoulder. “C’monnn,” he urges, “dance with me more. Party! We’re celebratin’. N’ you’re such a great dancer, I wanna take you out there n’ brag ‘bout you. Everybody was lookin’ at us before. You and me. Didja notice that?”

“I did,” you swallow. “But I think m’ all partied out. I just wanna go home, kay? Sam’s out there waiting for us…”

Dean hears this and shifts his face into your neck, pretending to search for a comfortable place to rest his cheek when really he’s just nuzzling. “Boring. What? Pretty princess too tuckered out?” Dean teases. “I’ll tell the kid t’ walk back without us, he’ll be fine. C’mon. I’ll even say please.”

You remain silent. Anxious, Dean fills it. “Just a lil’ while longer, _____. Y’know I can only flirt with you when m’ like this.”

The ache in your chest hits a searing point, and the breath you’re holding breaks. He always, always has to hide.

You squirm out of Dean’s bubble. He makes a gentle attempt at fishing you back in, whining in the back of his throat, but you rip your hand free and peel around the corner before he can react. The mental picture of Dean left hurt and confused in your wake is satisfying, but you know it’s not a faithful image. Instead, he and his words chase you all the way to the curb outside. C’mon! Don’t be lame, ______! The yelling is embarrassing, but what really stings is how he does this in front of everyone. Sam. The bachelorette party, who make your skin crawl with mixed stares of jealousy and sympathy. The woman he kissed. And worst of all, everyone else in the bar, who only recognize you from the hours of slow-dancing you’d done with Dean.

You burst out into the chilly amber night, scrambling for any sense of backbone. A hot flash of unwelcome tears locks your throat shut. Like the unshakable hunter you’re supposed to be, you grit your teeth despite them and ignore Dean’s shouts.

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he calls. The hurt in his voice surprises you. Dean’s voice is thready with genuine, mounting panic, flooding your brainpan with oily pleasure. Good. “Didn’t want this t’ go this way. We wer’ havin’ fun, weren’t we? M’ sorry. Come back inside. Whatever I did—”

You feel your resolve snap next, splitting apart like a guitar string under scissors.

Then you’re whirling toward him at collision speed, a mangled mess of snarling teeth and tear-caked cheeks. Yelling feels fucking great. You bare your fists, flying at him in a rage.

“Come on come on come on—you know what you did! You know! You have to know!”

Dean skids to a stop. By the street lamp light, he’s still golden as ever, looking soft and beaten. His expression crumples. His visible pain feels good for one glorious breath, then it all shatters as you realize what taboo you’ve brushed up against—and why. Over a few girls. Over a little talking. Some dancing. A silly tipsy kiss. You know everything gets heavier when you’re drunk, but god, this burden weighs more than the fucking sky sometimes. You’re so tired of carrying it. You want an out.

He drags a calloused hand down his face. “...I was just messing around, talking to them… dancing with her. Needlin’ you.”

“Well,” your breath rattles unprettily between words. “I’m needled. Are you fucking happy? Are you? Does it—does it—” you have to talk through harsh, sudden sobs, “—do you like playing with my feelings? Hanging that bone over my head, over and over and over again, just to rip it away?”

You don’t get to see how your desperation lands on Dean, since it’s then that Sam comes between you. “It’s okay,” he soothes, “you’re okay—just—” and lays your jacket over your back.

Then, Sam gets his hands on your arms to steer you the opposite way. You thrash away from him and his brother, furious. But you’re coherent enough to know that this is a bad time to wield the contempt you’ve kept stored. Roiling with fresh horror, you stifle your sobs into your sleeve and dart fast out of the parking lot, toward your motel.

“That didn’t involve you, Sam,” Dean barks over your shoulder, but it comes out more feeble than he intends. Your words were so much so suddenly that it sounds like he’s been shocked sober. Hoarsely, Dean pleads, “_____, wait. Hold on a second. Think about this—!”

…And you’re thrown back in. Supercharged with all the ferocity of a whirlwind, you twist around again. Sam’s already intercepting you, hands up and calm, but after years and years of second chances, you’re sick of waiting for something that’s never going to happen. You love Dean. It aches in your chest and bleeds out your ears, chewing away at your survival instincts.

You’d been right. Something was going to change tonight.

“You have no fucking idea how much I’ve thought about it,” you snarl. “Every day I think about it! Every night! So, no, I’m done thinking and—an’ watching and—”

The tank of crazed energy you’re running on immediately saps. Your voice cuts off with it, so you’re forced to gasp for breath and broil in your bone-deep exhaustion. Though this isn’t the first time the boys have seen you this hurt, they stand frozen on coltish legs, wide-eyed. Your effect on them lands hard: Sam’s mouth is drawn into a firm guilty line, and Dean, who usually fills whole continents with his authority, shrinks miserably into his jacket until his hands are lost in the sleeves. Finally, he takes me seriously.

You give Sam a look. Shell-shocked and unsure, Sam shuffles aside to face his back to you both.

With no one between you, it’s clear in Dean’s eyes that there’s another element to this for him. He’d known this was coming. Having his brother as a barrier was just one more way Dean had softened the blow. Between the awful, sinking guilt seeping out of him at the seams, there was resignation too. On one of those slow nights in your motel in Tulsa, he’d told you himself.

Everyone leaves, Dean had shrugged. Sam. My dad. Some day, you’ll leave too. And I won’t even blame you.

Back then, you’d laid your cheek against Dean’s sweat-tacky arm, the two of you trying to stay cool on a boiling Oklahoma night. You’d wondered to yourself how anyone could do that to the man you loved. Dean’s instinct was to give, to point both fans in that boiling room at you instead of him. How could anyone look at all the things he’d sacrificed and not give the same in return?

Well, you’d smiled at him, I’m not moving an inch, cowboy. You’re stuck with me.

Now, after years and years of sacrificing to no end, you knew that Dean’s prediction had come true. He had been waiting for the other boot to drop for so long that he’d already decided what it would sound like. A part of you wanted to cling to him and the promise you’d made him until your nails bled. But that dead limb was the one that’d been killing you, and tonight was the final proof you needed to amputate it.

You had to leave.

“I love you so much, Dean,” you hiccuped. “But I can’t wait for you anymore.”

You knew you were breaking a promise, no matter how good your intentions were. For that, you weren’t going to allow yourself an easy exit. Instead of whipping around and running for it like you wanted to, you let the slow, ugly acceptance in Dean’s silhouette brand your memory.

Statue-still, all Dean could manage was a tight nod.

He just stared and stared at you, gutted and appalled. You waited for him to say something, to fight this even a little, to make any of this easier on you both. Hating him wouldn’t be so impossible if he screamed you off the street or started throwing your stuff in the gutter. Instead Dean just hung there, frozen in that heart-stopping moment where the blade sinks in to the hilt.

Wielding that knife, you turned on your heel and left.

_

By the time you’ve frozen your ass off getting to your motel room, you’ve lost much of your steam. All the anger has washed out of you in one surging flush of misery. You get to the door almost gagging on your own tears, and pathetically slump down on the curb when you realize Sam has your room key.

Sam, who’s two blocks back helping Dean get home.

The cement stings your legs through your jeans. Betrayal throbs through your whole body, and unable to go anywhere, its barbs turn inward. You try to scrape up any backbone leftover from your tantrum, which is about as easy as splitting atoms. Since that didn’t work, you try to fold in on yourself for some warmth instead, and shiver stupidly on the sidewalk. A pair of late-night road-trippers give you sad stares as they pass. The soft heat of their room as they shuffle inside gushes out onto the stoop, calling your name.

Suddenly, the seething need to be as far from here as possible disappears. You want Sam to get back with Dean. You wish this night could’ve gone any other way, so the three of you could fumble into your room and straight into warm, cozy beds, too lazy to change into pajamas or to kiss goodnight like usual. Sam would check the salt lines and Dean would shuck off his jacket. With the last of your strength, you’d stretch a hand out from under your comforter and Sam would do the same to squeeze yours over the beds’ gap. Goodnight, Sam. G’night. Dean, close enough to kiss in your bed, would tilt you toward him by a gentle hand on your shoulder. He’d smush a kiss into your temple. Night, he’d hum. Together you’d snuggle down into your blankets and crash, content. If this was any other night. Maybe it still could be. Maybe you’d been overthinking this.

You’d had so much to drink. It was you who’d created these imaginary stakes for Dean to follow, and you who wigged out, blew up on him, snarling in his face and breaking a promise in the same breath. No matter how much you wanted it, you had no claim on him. If Dean wanted to dance with more than one person on a night meant to be fun for him… If he… wanted to kiss someone else…

Two tall shadows appear at the end of the parking lot. It’s too late to stand up and look put together, so you pull your knees to your chest and make an attempt at silencing your sobs. You press your lips together, watching Sam help a sniffling Dean across the lot and toward your room. Dean doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t tell you he’s sorry, he doesn’t pick you up off the pavement, and he doesn’t tell you that he loves you even though you both know it. It makes all of your lashing anger bubble up to the surface again, and you sit with it until long after the boys are inside.

These feelings feel petulant at first, then simmer into righteous ones. The hunt had robbed you of so much—your parents, your normalcy, your childhood, and more than once, the love of your life. There was no reason it had to take Dean from you this way, too. Those sticky-sweet nights in boiling Tulsa could be every night for you and him.

You could still taste him, and the syrup of old blues songs on his lip. You’d told him back then, you’re stuck with me, cowboy, and Dean had believed you, really believed you, because he’d rolled sideways in your bed and touched his fingers to your chin. Just the rough tips of them, burning hot. There’d been this irresistible magic in his eyes, like he was learning it was possible to break his own rules as long as he kept them later. His breath was sweet with ice cream when he kissed you. Just one kiss had him shakily sighing through his nose, and with his same trembling hand, he’d cupped your face—in the weird sort of way Dean did affection, the slope of his palm around your jaw and his thumb turning up your chin. It’d felt so special, like a promise to hold out. You’d savored each one with your nails tickling the nape of his neck, your dose of love potion refilled. The two of you had passed out curled nose to nose, Dean’s grin hidden in your pillow.

You could be living every night like you’d lived that one. But there was one barrier in the middle of that road: Dean. I’m not good for you, he’d say, even if you’d never had enough of him to tell.

After years and years of holding out and dosing on your love potion, it occurred to you, pathetically curled up outside a random motel room, that Dean would never be with you. Even if the monsters had been hunted and the world had been saved, he just didn’t have it in him to believe in something so good. Deep down, you’d known this. You were a naive optimist hoping for a different future, but the truth was that Dean hated himself too much to see that future too.

Slowly, you unfurled your hands on your knees, staring at them without taking anything in. All you could feel was the uncomfortable, surging ache in your chest, which choked your throat shut and burned stinging tears around the curves of your nose. The last few hours felt weirdly layered in your memory, like film cells from different strips laid over each other. This had been going on for so long that it’d officially crossed into deja vu. Years and years of moments just like these pressed upon you in the ringing silence of the parking lot. But you could only hold up the sky for so long, and tonight your grip had finally slipped. You were sure of it: if these circular, pathetic dives for an answer were the only thing in your future, it’d kill you. It had been killing you.

What else could you do but leave?

The question itself felt rash, but you were struggling to breathe past your tears and you wanted out—away from the constant want, away from Dean. He could bang whatever girls he stumbled upon, so why couldn’t you do whatever the hell you wanted, too? What the fuck was stopping you? Freedom—from years and years and years of that ugly stirring weight you’d once loved—was only a bus ride and one boosted car away. It’d be easy.

The door creaked open behind you. You held your breath at the sound of footsteps, praying it wasn’t who you wanted to see.

“Come on inside. Don’t like you being out here by yourself,” Sam called.

The breath you let go of didn’t make you any more relieved. It hadn’t felt good to yell at him, either. You opened your mouth to respond, but a thought slammed on top of you with all the malice of a blow to the head. The next words out of your mouth could be some of the last you ever speak to him for a long time. Instead, you scuffed your running tears on your sleeve one last time, then hauled yourself onto your feet.

The plan was to dart past him fast enough to avoid the look you were sure Sam was giving you, but it fell on the whole lot bright as stadium lights. You made the stupid mistake of catching eyes with him, and the intensity there was enough to root you to the spot. You froze. Sam’s face was solemn, but when he finally got a good look at you it shifted into calm, haunted understanding, since you weren’t the only one who’d cried on a curb like this. He knew exactly what leaving looked like.

After a pregnant pause, Sam stole a glance into the safe darkness of your motel room. Whatever he saw inside bolstered his nerve, and before you could argue he’d swiped his coat and stepped out into the cold with you. Here we go, you braced yourself.

“...I need to punch something,” you confessed, just to have something to say.

Sam stopped awkwardly hovering around the sidewalk to spread his arms wide, and how he had the energy to smile, you had no clue. “I’m open,” he offered, only half-joking.

You sputtered out a laugh. It trailed off where you couldn’t follow it, and unfortunately, neither could he, leaving you both shivering side-by-side in silence. You started to stutter out something intelligent, but the open sympathy in his eyes took all the nuance out of you. Renewed tears squeezed down your face. Instantly, he was there, a big warm hand coming down to rub your shivering back.

“I know you already know this, but it’s worth saying,” Sam murmured. “Everybody leaves him. It’s all he’s used to.” (...I know, you breathed between sobs). “Dean doesn’t… hang these other girls in front of you because he’s, y’know. Trying to play with your feelings. He’s scared. It’s wrong, but it’s his messed-up way of testing if you’ll stick around.”

You want to listen. Sam’s tone makes this all sound reasonable and easy, but that bitter crawling thing eating away at your conscience reminds you, Of course it’s his brother out here trying to fix this. Of course he can’t pick up his own mess.

“It sucks. Trust me, I’ve taken a good chunk of it myself,” Sam chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “I dunno what it is that makes em’ think he deserves it, but… he’s so used to everyone leaving that he rushes to push em’ away first.”

Swallowing around the bitter taste in your mouth, you tell him, “Well. I think it worked.”

That weighs on Sam for longer than you expect, strangling the lot with a heavy silence. Compelled to fill it, you wrap your arms around yourself and spit out your confession.

“I-I think I,” you managed. “I think I gotta go, Sammy.”

As soon as you say it, the reality of your decision hits you. This isn’t a light move to make. Leaving wouldn’t just shred things between you and Dean, but your friendship with Sam, too—it would mean turning all of your memories with them into kindling. In all your time on the Winchester family road trip, you’d seen all sorts of people take up the space in the back of the Impala. Psychics. Some angels and some demons. Good, good friends. Alive or dead, they all got off at their own stop eventually. You’d been riding in the backseat for so long, not once had you thought there’d be a stop for you, too. But here it was; Dean had hit the breaks himself, and Sam was readying himself to open the door for you.

You thought of the girl you’d been when you’d first met them. She’d still had room in her for friendship bracelets and brown sugar, for mystery novels that never ended, always chasing the next adventure. At the end of all this, that’s what Dean was: your next grand adventure.

Being hunter-born had put you in the strange middle-ground between sheltered and grotesquely exposed; you’d seen how purple and putrid a corpse could get before you were fifteen, but were more than acquaintances with a sum total of five people at the same age. Dean was your worldly opposite. He’d find the towns you landed in like you were his homing beacon, fresh out of the thick of it with a fantastical story to match. He’d hang half-out of your bedroom window, fierce-eyed, and singing, and you’d roll right out of the monotony of your life and into the magic of his. You’d mention him to friends in high school like a made-up boyfriend—Dean lives out of town, but he swears he’s gonna visit next month—because even you weren’t sure he was real. He was this untethered cowboy you’d somehow lassoed in, swinging into your life with all the colors and life of the wild west. Not so much a knight in shining armor, but. Dean, your Dean.

You would miss that. You would always miss him.

Sam tamped down his panic. “Are—are you sure?” He turned you by your shoulder to look at him, and Jesus, those kicked-puppy eyes should be considered a weapon of war. “You don’t wanna talk to Dean about this…?”

You were already shaking your head. “For the hundredth time?”

Sam pressed his lips together. You knew he thought this was a cowardly, drunken decision, but in the middle of it all, you felt like you’d earned the right to be cowardly and stupid. The last decade of your life had been wasted being reasonable. When Dean kicked you out of your motel room to share it with a stranger, you found another place to crash without complaint. When he’d told you he loved you, you gave him the space he asked for, neither of you sure how to handle something so big so young. You waited. When you sat him down and spilled your guts about the future you wanted him in, you’d respected his answer. I’m not good for you had translated to I’m not ready yet. You waited. When Dean was ready for other girls, though, Julie, Ava, Cassie—you started to press back. Since then, your feelings had become the ugly “it” that lingered in every room you shared with Dean. Every argument you’d ever had orbited around it somehow, along with every relationship. Spats turned into arguments, and arguments became second chances and third chances. It really had been the hundredth time Dean had played with you like this.

And even if he’d had nothing to do with it, it was killing you anyway. Being around him, good or bad, had sapped your adventurer’s spirit.

Sam goes still, conflicted. “This is your life. You know that I of all people understand that. But… but just… please. Please just give it one more shot. A month. Or a few weeks, if you need it. Please.”

“You think I’m overreacting,” you assumed, swallowing against the drying film of alcohol on your teeth.

“No, no, I think you’re drunk,” Sam answered, instead, and as blunt as it was it still came out soft. “And tired. But you’re not overreacting, ______. Dean’s done this and worse a dozen times before,” he sighed. Realizing that wasn’t exactly convincing, Sam scrambled for a foothold. “...He really does love you. Just needs to see reason.”

Reason, he says, like that had anything to do with this. Sam starts to clam up, desperate to glue the situation back together.

You feel the need to explain, “...Me leavin’ would have nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Sam said, thickly. “But I’m pretty sure it’d break my heart if you did, so I can’t imagine what it’d do to him.”

At that, you couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of the door to your motel room. It waited over your shoulder with all the gravity of a neutron star, dragging you to face it and wonder at the man on the other side. Knowing Dean, he might’ve managed to kick off his shoes before crashing into bed. Knowing the love of your life, he’d probably roll onto his back and sink like a rock, the hard lines of his face softened by sleep. His was probably puffy from crying. After long nights out, there’d be times when he’d accidentally wake you up by slipping under the covers. Dean would curse and hush apologies, clumsily pawing in next to you, but the intrusion was always welcome. You remembered him always having to pat around for your face in the dark, just so he knew where to place his goodnight kiss. Sometimes he’d miss on purpose and playfully pinch your cheek or lay a gross, sloppy kiss on your eye, which never failed to make you squirm away giggling. Good night, pretty girl. What would it do to him, to watch you go?

Your chest flared with ugly guilt. You weren’t sure. But you knew what would happen if you stayed, and Dean, in the long run, would be proud of you for looking out for yourself for once. He’d always said you put yourself last too often.

You imagined him asleep on the other side of that door, muffling his tears into his pillow, and the last of your hope and optimism just shatters. Swallowing your own cowardice, you steel yourself. “I’m sorry,” you tell Sam.

Sam laid a hand on your back. “Look at me a minute.”

Somehow, you did. Seeing Sam’s devastation hurts even more than you thought it would, but nothing compares to knowing that you’ll be leaving him behind. “C’mon,” he steps off the curb and toward the street, trying and failing to smile. “Let’s walk to the gas station or somethin’.”

You shook your head, heaving for breath, and confessed: “I really gotta go, Sammy. At least for a little while.”

Sam set his jaw. He teetered back toward you, thinking fast, and padded down his pockets for his wallet. “Okay. Okay. I know. But, but make a deal with me—let’s take a walk, get you sober. Then when you have some food in your system, you’ll tell me if—i-if this is still what you want. Kay?”

“Sam,” you grimaced.

“Please,” he begged, full-voiced, then snapped his mouth shut. When Sam was sure he could keep his feelings in check, he held up his wallet. “My treat. C’mon.”

Without hesitating, Sam started walking backward to the nearest corner store. Just the thought of eating made you nauseous, but not only did Sam have the keys to your room, but he’d also taken his stubbornness with him on this walk too. Thawing yourself off the stoop, you took one last look at your door and started after Sam. You knew that he was going to use this time to rally, to convince you, and that it would definitely work—so you steeled yourself. Sam couldn’t win. You had to leave.

It was just one dance. One kiss. You knew that. But you were stupid, drunk, in love, and weighed down by years of Dean’s reminder: I’m not good for you.

You hate that he’d been right.

_

Dean woke up sometime after dawn, but his body was so thoroughly glued to the mattress that he didn’t physically move for at least another hour. Even his routine where am I panic set in later than usual, and Dean was sluggish to answer it:

He was in a motel. That rarely changed. This time it was in… Springfield? Right? Yeah—they’d had fun little town postcards at the front desk, Dean remembered. _____ had studied them while Sam had got them the room, making that funny little hum sound she did when she thought something was quaint. It’d taken Sam only a minute to get their key, and Dean managed to fill that whole minute with nothing but spiraling. She loves kitschy crap like that. Maybe I should swipe one for her. Start a collection or something, make all this back-and-forth driving fun for her. She’s been so patient with us lately, deserves somethin’ to perk her up. Would she like it? Or was that too weird?

Dean groaned at himself—not only was he dealing with a hangover for the record books, but a heavy dose of embarrassment too. God. That woman. Nobody twisted him up like she could.

He kicked at the blankets, wiggling backward onto her side of the bed where the sheets were nice and cold. Usually the two of them cooked under the covers together, but she must’ve been hanging off the other end of the bed to leave so much cool space between them. He reached around with a foot. Nothing.

Huh. He hoped the gut rush of shittiness seeing her side empty was from whatever he’d been drinking last night, not something serious he was forgetting. Since getting up was so, so much uglier than being smushed comfortably in bed, Dean closed his eyes and thought. Counted back. The three of you had just wrapped up for a hunt… gone out for drinks to celebrate… and past that things start to fuzz. There might’a been a screaming match. Dean really wants to lean toward no, but he distinctly remembers being inside while Sam comforted you outside and sort of hating that. It was definitely Dean’s fault. But still, he remembered bitterly stuffing his face in his pillow hearing the soft lilt of your voice through the door—he should’ve been the one to fix things.

He would. Today. Dean laid in bed for a little while longer, but the guilt clawing around in his gut was making it impossible to do anything but overthink. How’d he fuck things over this time, huh? As sucky as it was, his best shot was to get the story from Sam, then figure out where to go from there. With how patient you’d been with him when he’d snapped his collarbone in Illinois, Dean was willing to grovel for forgiveness. This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt your feelings being coarse, but… c’mon. This was you. The only person who knew Dean better was Sam, and his forgiveness was the price of family. Yours was untethered, free, and lovingly given, so Dean tried to cool his mounting panic. You’d talk it out. You’d forgive him, because Dean was stupid lucky to have such a fucking saint in his life.

You loved him, Dean reminded himself, and forced himself to sit up.

The second he’s up and looking at everything, he’s pinched by this sense of wrongness. His duffle’s where he left it at the foot of the bed, the salt lines are clean and uninterrupted, but it’s like everything’s been moved an inch to the left. The pinch turns into a pang. Dean trudges out of bed, suspended in the limbo between his bedside and the open bathroom door. Something is wrong.

Some of your things have been moved, Dean rationalizes. You must be out grabbing breakfast. On stiff legs, Dean moves into the bathroom because, obviously, that’s where your shit would be if he’s not seeing it. Ignoring the bile that rises in him the second he’s moving, Dean purposefully avoids the mirror and hangs in the doorway. All three of you occupied the motels you lived in like you were ready to bolt any second, so there isn’t exactly any toiletries to take note of or clothes to notice… Until Dean circles back to his duffle at the foot of the bed. There’s a set of clothes thrown on top that he hasn’t seen since high school—some ratty sweats, holey winter socks, and two or three tees and shirts lost to time. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they used to belong to him, and just as long to connect them back to you.

These, Dean realized, were your most prized war trophies. Over the years you’d borrowed so many clothes from them that you’d probably modeled the entire Winchester closet. At first just the sleep shirts, but that graduated into tees for casual days and layers to add in wintertime.

By junior year, the half you’d pilfered from Sam was all too big to wear practically. That left Dean’s half, which you essentially lived in. A few of his shirts in particular had become main stays, so Dean had neglected to ask for them back and you’d comfortably forgotten to return them. You had a thing about wearing them around his flings, too, which Dean figured was your cute girl-way of reminding them who’d still be there when they were gone. True to form, they’d always left and you’d always stayed. Dean liked things that way, too.

A real pang of panic rang in his chest. Were you so pissed at him that you’d returned everything you’d borrowed? Or was this something worse?

His panic finds its legs. Not only had your pilfered clothes been returned, but Dean couldn’t find your travel bag. If his duffle is thrown at the end of the bed, and Sam’s is zipped up on the table, then yours had to be in the Impala. It had to be. He picks through the backseat and then graduates to tearing apart the trunk, both of which are void of your things. Your phone isn’t plugged into the wall. Your shoes aren’t by the door. Even the pistol you’d duck-taped under the coffee table was gone, along with the knife behind the headboard. Dean still can’t find your bag. Maybe it’s out in the open and I missed it, he tells himself, but the bathroom and the dressers and under the beds and the front lobby carry no sign of your stuff. Of you ever being there.

His last resort is that you have to be with Sam, who usually goes for a run this early—Sam, who walks in alone, twenty minutes into Dean’s full-body meltdown.

He should assume that you left. Logically, that is what missing keys, phones, toothbrushes and wallets mean, but this is Dean Winchester.

Instead, he assumes: “______’s been taken.”

Right away, Sam deflates. Which is impressive, since he walked in looking pretty wilted already. There are dark smears of purple under his eyes, which are puffy from crying. But that’s not exactly the reaction you want from your brother when you share this kind of thing with him, so the lack of response just spurs Dean into tearing their room apart even more, stone-faced.

“...Dean,” Sam manages.

Dean starts ripping the drawers out of the dresser, like finding one of your socks will be proof that you’re still here.

“She was fucking taken, Sam,” his throat feels tight. “I woke up and all of her shit was packed up and gone—somebody good had to do this, s’mbody who knows what the hell they’re doing, cause’ they knew to make it look like she’d left on her own. May—maybe she went out by herself after we went to sleep? N’ that’s how they took er’?”

His hands are shaking, fighting to get the next drawer off its track. Looking at Sam will just make him fucking implode, so he ignores him, shredding through the room inch by inch. The wheel on the dresser’s track snaps so hard that Sam flinches where Dean can’t see. Somehow, the urge to find expands into something an inch more logical, and he rolls seamlessly into escape mode, tossing his duffle on his bed and shoving the returned clothes inside. In a never-slowing storm, Dean flies around the room and hunts down what isn’t already ready to go in their bags. The adrenaline was starting to cut into his nausea, and the two mixed uncomfortably inside him, each knowing in their own way that something was terribly wrong.

After a long silence, Sam collapses onto the end of his bed and confesses in a small voice, “She left a couple’a hours ago, Dean. On her own.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Dean snorted.

Something patted Dean’s shoulder, and it was a miracle that anything in his bubble didn’t immediately dissolve into molten lava; reining himself in, he turned. Sam was holding a letter.

He shrugged, swallowing thickly. “She said she, uh, needed some time. Not forever, just… time. Wrote you this.”

Dean hung in place. Too quickly, he recovered, and managed the gentleness to take the letter from Sam instead of yanking it away. There was no envelope. Just your tri-fold notebook paper and the bubbly curve of your handwriting on both sides. In the clean white space at the top of the page, you’d written Dean’s name. If he flipped it over and opened it, there would be more bubbly letters strung together in words. Words Dean didn’t have the strength for, right now.

It was easier, much easier, to succumb to the sudden slosh of sickness in him and follow his hangover into the bathroom.

After he empties his stomach and Sam gets some water into him, the crazed packing continues. Your letter goes straight into Dean’s duffle, unread, because Sam asks him what he’s doing, and Dean curtly interrupts him, “What else? We’re gonna go find her.”

Sam avoids his eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Reasonably, Dean knew that Sam had helped you. He’d felt it, seeing him walk in late, seeing him pass off the letter. But it only starts to press on him now, with the alcohol sickness becoming a different kind of sickness within him, the full weight of what exactly Sam has done.

“You fucking didn’t,” Dean snarls. “Tell me you didn’t.”

There’s a flicker of rebellion on Sam’s face, but he subdues it for Dean’s sake. He shrugs, “...She wanted to leave.”

The nearest lamp on the bedside table shatters against the wall with a fierce pop. Dean’s close to tears, he’s so upset, sucking down anguished breaths. This is his worst nightmare. It roars off him all at once, and Sam, the nearest target, takes the brunt of it.

“How could you do this to me? How could you do that to her? She—she can’t survive on her own—!” he lies to himself, “—she needs us—and-and I need her! Why would you just let her walk away? What the fuck, Sam?”

“What was I supposed to do? Handcuff her to the radiator?!” Sam snaps, spreading his arms wide, “It’s her life!”

“With us!” Dean roars. His throat grates with acid and tears.

“With whoever the hell she wants! You should’ve—” Sam argues. He realizes how fruitless all the yelling is, especially with tears smeared in the creases of Dean’s face. “...I can’t speak for her. Read the damn letter.”

“No,” Dean grates. He gets his duffle over his shoulder, his whole body coiling with betrayal. “Get your shit and get in the fucking car. We’re finding her. Where’d you drop her off?”

Of course, Sam refuses to answer. He gives Dean this quiet, desperate look neither of them is good at processing. Dean’s not exactly in the mood to process much of anything, nevermind this, nevermind the mountain of shit he’s messed up between last night and today.

He snarls. “Where, Sam?”

Sam still doesn’t answer. His stubbornness forces an old ugliness out of Dean that he’ll regret later, but, what’s one more thing for the pile, right?

“What?” Dean whips on his brother. “You give that little of a shit about her? You pick up brunch and a smoothie after you left her to fuckin’ rot?” Baring his teeth, he spits, “She’s not running off to Stanford, kid. This is different and you know it.”

The blow lands so hard that Sam bristles, but if you left a couple of hours ago, then he’s had plenty of time to brace himself for the grave Dean had planned to dig himself. After a long, treacherous silence, Sam finds an answer:

“Train station,” Sam’s lip curls. “But she made sure I drove off before I could see if she even walked in. She’s just like you n’ me, so she’s probably two states over by now—”

Dean slams the front door before he can finish.

-

It takes Dean four miserable hours to chase the specific bus you’d taken over the border to Connecticut, two days to pinpoint the lousy 83’ Mercury Capri you’d bought, in cash, from a dentist in New Hartford, and another to find it trunk-first in the Connecticut river, stripped entirely of your things. Sam fights him all the way to Brooklyn, which turns out to be a last-ditch distraction tactic. Dean had figured you’d head somewhere busy to shake them, but instead, you’d turned West, to Tulsa.

At the end of the week he finds you waitressing in a little dive just outside town. It’s a long chase, by their standards. As anguished as Dean felt, he couldn’t help nursing a warped sense of pride: his girl was good. Lesser hunters would’ve never caught up with you.

The Impala coasted along the buckling sidewalk framing the lot and stilled, idling on anxious wheels. Dean left sometime after Sam fell asleep. A whole week of non-stop pursuit had almost burned the spirit out of him. Sam’s moral needling never stopped, not until the silence burning up between them was as light as a slab of concrete. Twice now Dean was tempted to cut and leave without him, but the dark swimming part of Dean’s mind knew he deserved the constant backlash. She doesn’t want to see you, Sam had spit once, she needs time.

But the thing was that you’d never needed time before. The only time you’d needed in the past was the minutes it took for you to say, you’ve hurt my feelings, Dean, and the time it took for him to drop into your lap and bemoan his apologies until you were in stitches. He’d clutch your pantleg in his fists and fake-sob, Oh, baby, I’ll never forgive myself fer hurtin’ you! There was a familiar dance to it. At first, you’d stifle your smile and shove at him, all tough n’ girly-like. Dean would hunt down your nearest ticklish spot until your anger was a funny thing you’d both forgotten about, then sink into an apology he really meant. It worked every time and you knew it worked every time, but. Dean would drop his head into your lap and the first thing he’d feel was your hand on his back, keeping him there.

You’d never needed time before. You’d never needed space, because Dean was your space, with no room for anyone else to squirm in between.

It’s been days, man, Sam had said, endlessly. Just read her letter. Just read it.

He’d tried. More than once, he’d steeled himself enough to find it at the bottom of his bag and open it up, but beyond those steps was a whole new hell. He gets three words in and is immediately split open like a deer carcass in the sun. I’m sorry, Dean. Just that is enough to make him carefully re-fold the letter back on its seams.

There, in the parking lot of your bar in Tulsa, Dean finally finds the endurance to shovel past that first line. Originally, his plan isn’t really a plan at all—he’ll swing inside, convince you to come home, get some dinner in you and give “making things right” his best shot. But those are just ideas with no ground to stand on beyond what Sam has told him. And what Sam has told him sounds like, l-like horseshit, something Dean would hunt one of your shitty ex-boyfriends down for. To him, it sounds like something irreparable. That feeling is starting to find its roots.

By the flaxen street light, he spreads the thin notebook paper out on his thigh, careful not to smudge the hurried pen with his fingers. He reads it once and only once, unable to stomach any more.

The Impala pulls out of the lot and slinks back to their motel.

-

The next day, Dean loads his brother into the Impala, picks a direction, and drives.

His instincts settle back onto their monotonous track, and within a week he and Sam are cutting down vamps in Montana. Only once does Sam ask about what happened, and Dean only shuts him down once for the two of them to return to the Winchester default: not talking about it. Sam clearly wants to, squirming with unspoken questions when they find your spare boots kicked under Baby’s front seat or dodge hunters who’d ask around for you. Dean feels like ripping out his own entrails every time Sam itches to bring you up, but draws blood from his lip instead. When Sam’s out of resolve and Dean’s alone, he presses his face into the shirts you’d borrowed, soaked all the way through with your perfume, choking down tears that don’t do nothin’ for nobody. Especially Dean, who hasn’t cried in front of anyone but you since he was nine.

It’s like he’s lost a limb, left only with the phantom grasping feel of it. Dean definitely copes like a man who’s lost a leg. Sam leaves the issue alone, for the most part, trying to trick himself into being content with you being where you want to be. Meanwhile, Dean’s flask graduates from his duffle to his jacket. Hunting stops being a distraction and gradually opens up into a dangerous sinkhole.

The following weeks reek with deja vu. Silences stretched, gaps in their routine yawned wider, every inch of their never-ending road trip scrubbed raw with impressions of you. Dean must’ve checked the rear-view a thousand times, running on that same old instinct to steal looks at you in the backseat. The whole universe had been kicked off its axis by the aftermath, causing a run of bad luck worthy of a horror movie. Dean’s gun started jamming inexplicably; they’re caught by cops in Indiana and have to circle back two weeks later for the car, which is stripped of everything they’ve got; he almost loses Sam getting their arsenal back from an evidence lockup in Fort Wayne. Scrubbing his brother’s caked blood out of the steering wheel one afternoon, Dean knows that it’s more than luck he’s lost.

When you were stressed or feeling stuck, you’d lay out all their weapons on the bedspread—reminding Dean not to plop his ass down without looking first—and clean them each meticulously. The way you did it sort of reminded him of sewing. You’d count under your breath, so versed in the steps you’d created that you didn’t even have to watch your hands. Sometimes this ritual collided with the nights you polished up your poker skills together, and if Dean listened between hands, there was your counting. Four. Take off the slide. Five. Scrub the frame. If Dean’s pistol landed in the pile, you’d forget you were winning altogether and sink into deeper focus, pretty brows furrowed and your lips in a soft line. Dean’s gun never jammed if you’d been the one to clean it.

You were stealthier, more unassuming, with the kind of easy smile that policemen looking for fugitives glossed over. The cops in Indiana would’ve glossed over you, too. You were the third support beam that kept them sturdy—with you at Dean’s six, he and Sam would’ve smuggled back the arsenal with no problem. And even if there’d been trouble… well. This was you. Lose-a-car-in-the-river-on-purpose you, who Dean could always rely on to back his play.

When Sam has to drive him home from the bar one night, Dean slurs, Everythin’. Everythin’ goes to shit without ‘er.

Those thoughts crept up on him again and again, preying on him in low moments. He buried them under everything close enough to grab, keep the salt lines clean, call Jody, fix the car, but everything thrown on top of his memories of you swayed and shuddered, demanding to be dug up. Dean knew that he’d betrayed you. Already that was unforgivable, but by hurting you he’d broken a blood oath as old as your friendship. At fifteen Dean had sworn to protect you, only to turn around now and wound you so viciously that you couldn’t even bring yourself to say goodbye to him. Not in person. Not in the letter.

It was the one detail his heart couldn’t stop fixating on, no matter how deep Dean buried you. He knew you better than anyone, and you never said goodbye unless things were truly over.

He’d heard you sob it into Sam’s shoulder before he left for school. When the hellhounds came for him in New Harmony, you’d resisted, clutching Dean’s jacket in both hands and weeping instead, “I’ll see you.”

You’d never said goodbye to him.

This turns into a notion, then a stupid idea, then a plan that Dean rolls around in the bottom of his glass, considering. He could get that goodbye from you. He could knock on your window like he’d done when you were kids, say his piece, and then let the grass eat his boots as he waits for you to truly finish this.

He could get that goodbye from you. It’d kill him, but Dean wasn’t sure he could go on without it.

-

Five minutes into his drive to DeLancey’s Pub and Bar, the slimy dive you waitressed in around the dicier ends of Tulsa, Dean realizes that he’s not even sure if you’re working tonight.

The drive was long—long enough to swerve Dean’s confidence in every single direction possible, until the revving toughness he’d gathered had swan-dived into gut-clenching fear. Two hours ago he’d been combing through articles for a case. Something had compelled him into the car, something bone-deep and inescapable, and if Dean was being truthful with himself it had everything to do with the strange adrenaline he got just being in the same state as you. Twice, he swore he’d seen your face among the officers at the station and blending into the diner crowd at breakfast. He knew that you were a whole town away and intent on not seeing him, but. Dean could sense the divide between you like the childhood home he’d never known. It was a distance he could close and map in his sleep, and after another night jolting out of a nightmare and into a bed empty of you, Dean was exhausted. He missed you so much he was sick, choking back mouthfuls of guilt just thinking of you. He missed you so much that the drive to you could’ve been measured in inches, and the walk to the Impala was even smaller, calling to him.

Waking up, he’d sensed it. Tonight was gonna be different.

Things had started off strong. The second Dean had turned the key and pointed the Impala toward Tulsa, his hands on the wheel were sure as all hell. I’m gonna tell her all my cruddy fuckin’ feelings and get all this cruddy fuckin’ honesty out of the way, then either we make up or she gives me the boot. Simple as that. Nothin’ to it. That was as far as his planning went, since that’s as far as Dean could handle thinking into your future. By the time Dean was off the highway his plan had started eating itself, circling constantly back to your letter to him. But he was already halfway there, then over halfway, and giving up became an increasingly spineless option.

Along the way, I’m gonna give it to her straight, slowly, bloodily evolved into, I’m bringing her the fuck home.

Dean’s propelled himself forward so hard just to get here, so the Impala’s still rolling into park when he clambers out and onto the gravel. His heart is pounding like thunder in his ears but it’s nothing compares to the screaming silence that stands between where the Impala’s sitting and where you must be. DeLancey’s is the only kind of place Dean could picture you working; somewhere low and unglamorous, like any other bar you and Dean had skulked around in your twenties. You lived for skeevy places like this, the shabbier the better, and privately Dean had always thought you were too pretty to exist in places like those. But he’d seen you under neon beer lights so often that you’d sort of claimed it for yourself, this strange brand of cigar-smoke beauty that made Dean’s ears warm.

He thinks of that image and can’t help but need himself to be there, to be with you like he always has, and that’s what gets him across the gravel and through the door.

Either this is a hunter’s bar or the place is packed full of demons, because the second Dean bangs inside, making a few heads jerk up with the noise of it, those heads immediately swivel to whisper to each other. What’s that Winchester boy doing here? Anyone who knows you knows there’s only one answer. The bartender looks up from the drink he was making. The host awkwardly shrinks behind her podium, freezing like everyone else in the room. For just an instant he has the whole saloon itching toward their pistols, and Dean lives off the warped satisfaction he gets from that until the kitchen door swings open for a huge tray of drinks.

Hefting it over one shoulder, you slip easily out from behind the bar and pass the drinks over to a table of hunters. There’s a resonating shock that sizzles through Dean’s system, seeing you. It’s the strange pleasure of confirmation, of knowing that you’re real, that you’re someone he can lay eyes on instead of a slow-fading memory. In your element, you’re… Dean swallows. You’re still you. One of the hunters says something to you, and you snap back in a way that has them all roaring with laughter. All doubt left Dean’s body, and standing there, he’s winded by the single-minded purpose that got him there in the first place. He’s getting you home.

At full tilt, Dean bee-lines for you.

The harsh sound of boot steps makes you glance up, and with it the chatter of the hunters dies away. Your expression doesn’t shift from your usual calm, arrow-eyed look, empty of anger or loneliness or happiness. Just calm, like you knew he’d find you, you’re just surprised it took him this long. You take a cool step away from the table to stand at your full height, and an old shivery warmth flutters down his spine. Yeah. There was his girl, tough as a fuckin’ tank.

“Dean,” you murmured, a greeting.

He wants to murmur your name with the same sweetness. He wants to scoop his arm around your waist like he used to and shove his face in your neck like he used to, spilling his guts in ways he’d only spilled to you. He wants to do this the easy way, but that’s not exactly his default.

Dean swings in, snapping, “Get outside. I’m telling you something whether you like it or not, n’ don’t think I won’t drag you if I have to.”

Your brows fly up your forehead. “Wow.”

Right along with you, the hunters with the front-row seats to the scene Dean’s making bristle in tandem. Some of the guys at the bar twist around on their stools to throw Dean barbed looks, and really, he shouldn’t have underestimated your ability to assemble so many minions like this, since he and Sam had been your minions from day one. The guy closest to Dean makes a big show of scraping his chair back and growling, which Dean pities him for. Get in line, pal.

“That’s my friend you’re talkin’ to, chisel chest. If you know what’s good for you, I’d get the fuck outta’ here,” says Asshole #1 of 4, and the threat hasn’t even landed before you’re neatly cutting through him, “—mind your damn business, Tommy, he has just as much a right to be here as anyone else.”

At your request the other hunters simmer down, and, ignoring Dean, you scoop up your empty tray and deliver it to the bar. All the energy he’d rationed in the car starts to seep out of him, since. Well. Still, after all this time, you didn’t hesitate to bare your teeth for him. With the wind successfully taken out of Dean’s sails, he tries not to twitch in place as you round’ the bar, brush past him and gesture for him to follow you out a side exit.

Your silence terrifies the hell out of him, so adding the hanging quiet of the parking lot to the equation makes Dean’s nerves crawl. He hadn’t realized how loud it’d been in there until you were isolated outside, the rowdy Friday night chatter softened behind the door. Swaying next to you on legs he’s forgotten how to use, a dart of something mean and cold hits Dean in the chest. On the other side of the door, where the lights are dim but warm and the air sings with the tang of alcohol, Don Henley floats into the first lyrics of One of These Nights.

Even now, your magic sways over him. Across from him on the gravel, you stuff your hands under your arms and huff a strand of hair out of your face, glowing gold by the creamy moonlight. If this was any other night of the year that the two of you had fallen out of a bar together, Dean would ask you to dance with him right here by the dumpsters. You’d say yes. He knew you would’ve said yes, then.

“You worried me sick,” is the first thing Dean manages to say. “Wakin’ up, finding you gone—I thought someone had fuckin’ took you, y’know that?”

This is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the coolness in your expression coasts straight into bitterness. Regardless, Dean rolls right past it and right into nervous, emotional ranting.

“I know what I did. I know I don’t deserve shit for it,” he chokes out, “but you could’ve at least said goodbye t’ me! I deserved to know you’d be safe! If you couldn’t… If I was hurtin’ you too much, and if I wasn’t listenin’, you had every right to get the fuck out of there and make your own life somewhere else. But after—after bein’ with me for so, so damn long, so long I don’t even remember how we met, you couldn’t even say goodbye? Nothing? I just have to live with the fact that I don’t even ‘member the last time we fuckin’ talked to each other? Don’t even get to see my best fuckin’ friend one last time?”

“No,” you scowled. “No, you fuckin’ don’t. Because we’ve never been just friends, Dean, and even if you knew that you still played with my feelings. Why the hell would I even want to look at you again? Why do you deserve that?”

Dean flinched. He sputtered on his answer, of course, because he’d never been able to keep his head straight around you. Not now, not ever. “...I guess I don’t. But, um… I know this doesn’t mean much anymore, but…” He closed his hand into a fist, like it was possible to draw in raw courage from the air. “You’re right. We’ve never really been… just plain friends, and—”

“We’ve said I love you,” you scoffed, “We’ve kissed! We’ve spent four whole years on the road together, with nobody but each other, and even years after that you still can’t even admit it to my face! Can’t even say it!”

Dean’s hands are shaking, and in a rush he says, “Yeah? And you wanna know why? Cause’ the second I do, the second it’s out of my mouth, you’re dead. You hear me? A target drops on your back so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Honest to God, you start laughing, the scary hunter’s laugh that only bled out of you in the thick of a chase. “I’m already dead!” You budge him with your fists, almost pushing him back a foot, “We’re both already dead! None of that bullshit matters! Wouldn’t you rather we use the fucking time we’ve got instead of sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? Dean, come on!”

“Of course I do!” He roars. You’re close enough to grab, so he does, ripping you toward him by the wrists, “That’s all I’ve wanted!” He sucks down the cool night air and the little breaths puffing out of you, panting, “You’re all I’ve fucking wanted. Since the last time we were here. Since way before then. But the minute—the second they know that, Hell or—o-or whoever’s after us now, they’re gonna take advantage of that.”

The look on your face is frozen still with mute shock. Choking down another dose of guilt, Dean drops your wrists and suppresses the urge to pull you back in, to squeeze you against him, to kiss you stupid like he’d done years ago.

“Don’t think for one second that I don’t want you,” Dean rasped. “But I’d rather have you livin’ than be with you dead, you get me?”

You closed your eyes. Tears squeezed down your face, rolling around the curve of your cheeks. You grit, “I’m sick of having this argument, Dean.”

Then, the pull to reach out for you grew too great, and Dean couldn’t help but cup one side of your neck. He swallowed, thickly. “I know, baby girl.”

Starved for contact, you dug your nails into the material of his sleeve and did your best to speak. “If I go back with you,” you rattled out. “If I go back w’ you, sittin’ with this is gonna kill me. Can’t wait anymore. Can’t sit in the damn car while you run off with other people. I have t’ go. I love you, but I gotta go.”

Dean was sick of having this argument too. After years and years of it weighing on the two of you like a black hole, of this same old story returning every so often to throw a fresh gap between you both, Dean had hit his limit. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do to keep you living and happy. But this pressure on his heart was heavier than the damn sky, and now more than ever he wanted to let it go. Find another way. Choose you.

He overspills.

“I love you too,” Dean gushed, and from there, poured the rest of his heart out onto the wet asphalt. “Love you so much it makes me damn sick. Makes me all stupid and mushy on the inside, which is probably half the reason I’ve made it this far. Having you gone has just made it worse—the road’s too quiet and the backseat’s always cold, like everything else’s sick too. S’ made me realize that I—I-I can’t do this without you. Everythin’. Livin’ like this. I tried for your sake, I honestly did, but god, baby, I need you home. I need you to come home.”

“Dean—”

“Let me finish!” Dean barked, and the sloping misery on your face paused. “I know why you left. Shit, I’d leave too if the one person I… if that one person kept treating me the way I was treatin’ you. Fuck, _____, if this was some other guy? Doing this to you? I’d kill him. Acid bath, hit him with my car, something. I’d kill him. And I’d—”

Dean stops himself, realizing the spiral he’s throwing himself down. “You’re everything t’ me,” he gasped. “So get in the damn car and just come home.”

In the thousand-foot-drop-silence that follows, the only sound capable of puncturing the space between the two of you is, as always, One of These Nights. Inside DeLancey’s, there are a few couples swinging along to the beat, but all of the real fever is out here, thundering in Dean’s chest. There’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over his feelings out in the open: here, as the Eagles sing your signature song. Dean’s eyes are only on you.

“C’mon, _____,” he pleads, one last time. Again, he’s compelled by something beyond himself, and with nothing left to lose he starts to sing, smiling without feeling. “Oooh,” Dean croons, “loneliness will blind you, in between th’ wrong and th’ right…”

Here it is. You drag in a breath with all the weight of the world on it, and Dean knows what will follow. The goodbye.

Despite yourself, an amused little smile presses through the seams of your composure. You sober yourself. “... Things are gonna have to change, Dean.”

He’s not sure what that means. But it sounds good, and there’s still an optimist swirling around in him somewhere. “Yeah. Of-of course, anything. We can talk about it more, but… I’m willing to put you before anything. I should’ve put you before anything, before.”

You nod. “...Okay. Lemme go tell the other girls on shift.”

That’s good. That’s good, Dean realizes, and without meaning to he beams, blinking hard. You’re coming back with him. That’s what that means, right? Relief rushes through him so fast that he almost faints. Not so prepared to trust it, Dean’s eyes roam across your face for hesitation or displeasure or anger—and some of it’s there. There are still things to fix, still changes to be made, but. On top of all that is beautiful, sweet-tasting relief that Dean feels like collapsing under. You’re coming home.

“Just like that?” Dean asks, and he really shouldn’t be grinning, not until he’s sure and you’ve said it, but he can’t help it.

The tears still beading in your eyes slip into the pressed line of your lips, where a guarded smile is growing. You start nodding and then you don’t stop nodding, sobbing in earnest, and since it hasn’t screwed him over yet Dean follows his instinct to scoop you into a deep hug. You’re a little chilly and you smell a bit like pub food, making Dean’s heart squeeze with nostalgia. God, he fucking missed his girl. You grope around his back for something to cling to and fist both hands in his jacket til’ your fingers ache, and Dean explodes with gratefulness so pure he sways in place with you, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You’re here and you’re alive and you don’t fucking hate him. Dean would take that and this stilted happiness over anything.

“This is all I wanted, D,” you hiccup. “You never say it, n’ I-I just need to hear it, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for,” Dean soothes, but you interrupt him.

“I was too much of an idiot to say goodbye,” you shook your head, smooshing your face into his jacket. “Too scared,” you confessed, and your voice was even scratchy from crying. “I didn’t want it to be over for real. Didn’t wanna close that door forever.”

Dean sloped his palm down your hair, your back, your arm, soaking you in every way he could. “M’ glad you didn’t. I’m sorry I pushed you to any of this, darlin’. I’m sorry too.”

You peel yourself off him just far enough to flash him a wolfish, tear-streaked grin. “Oh, I know you are. Are you ready to be makin’ it up to me for the rest of your life, Winchester?”

Dean makes the mistake of indulging your taunts with a chuckle, which puts this light in your eyes that he never wants to let go of. You swish in real close to his face, threatening with a big, 1000-watt smile, “Pucker up, cowboy, because you’ve got a lot of ass-kissing to do.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, wetting his lips. His belly warmed at the nickname. “So come here, ass.”

It’s not often that Dean has the pleasure of making you so flustered your face steams. He never gets to see it this close, either, so he leans further in to put it all to memory, which just makes your cheeks hotter. Your eyes dart across his face, wild and nervous. Dean’s smile sinks into a nasty smirk because, there you are, tough as nails and melting into your shoes at the thought of kissing him. It’s a lucky thing you’re so distracted. Maybe if you weren’t you’d notice how Dean’s hands are trembling, how his mouth’s watering. His whole nervous system flips when you reign him in by a fist in his collar, and he’s pretty sure his soul levitates out of his body when you kiss him.

One kiss turns into two, then three. Your lips are smooth with vanilla chapstick, and it only takes a minute for it to be all over Dean’s face—his mouth most of all, but the corners of his lips and his chin, too. You’ve always been the sweet one, but something about finally being subject to it melts the iron ball of anxiety in his gut. He kisses back like it’s his damn job, pouring his confession, his apologies into you, cupping your face, dimpling your cheeks with his thumbs. You’re softer than he remembers, and the fact that he could be forgetting anything at all about the last night you spent in Tulsa together makes him starved to remember this.

By some twist of fate, Bad Company’s Ready For Love plays next on the cue inside. With you cozy in his arms, his body works on muscle memory, and soon you’re swaying back and forth as you kiss, dipping in close for sweet pecks of each other.

“I love you,” he thinks he hears you say.

Playfully, Dean budges your nose with his and sing-songs, “Can’t hear you!”

“I said,” you took in a big breath, “I LOVE YOU TOO, asshole.”

Dean dissolves into chuckles, which are happily interrupted by more insistent kisses. You’re almost ten whole feet from where you started, and scooping up your hand, Dean starts the trek backward to where the Impala is parked. It’s your home as much as it’s his, so you barely need him to take the lead to find it among the other cars.

“Hm,” you say, “Maybe the girls will just figure out for themselves why I’m gone, yeah?”

“They’ll survive without you,” Dean shrugs. “You got other people who need you.”

“Need me,” you say, just rolling the unfamiliar words around in your mouth. Dean feels another pang of guilt; he could’ve sworn he’d told you that more, could’ve sworn he showed his love to you every day. Another thing to change.

“Yeah, need you,” Dean mutters, and he doesn’t mean to expose the desire rolling around in his belly, but there it is. He wants to take it back as soon as it leaves his mouth, but the second you get a taste of it, you’re hooked. A beat later he’s being pushed up against the driver’s door of the car and kissed stupid, warm and wet and so much of what he remembers. Fantasizes about.

In the next kiss a gentle hand grabs at the clasp to his belt buckle. Instantly, Dean pulls back to speak.

“Sweet pea,” he manages, trying so hard to be reasonable and good and everything that you deserve. You laugh at the nickname, which eases his mind a bit. “...You sure you don’t wanna wait? I think I got other things to prove t’ you, first.”

You draw him into a deep, lingering siren’s kiss that leaves his knees threatening to lock and his common sense threatening to bend.

“Can’t wait any longer,” your eyes burn like cigarettes, all heat. Quietly, you ask him, “Prove to me I’m your favorite. That m’ the only girl you’re looking at.”

There’s the underlying desperation to your voice that goes beyond just wanting to have sex with him. This is confirmation of something to you, something you need to hear, to feel. So Dean guides you into the backseat and proves it to you.

This is not at all where he expected this night to go, and he’s grateful that he’d lost the opportunity to overthink himself into his grave. There’s no room for Dean to worry if he was really good enough for you, if he deserved this, because these things are proven to him too. You slot so perfectly into his lap that he knows the moment you’re out of it he’ll be battered with homesickness. For long breaths there’s no kissing at all, just Dean nuzzling his face into your neck and committing each second to memory. When you do kiss him it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, this grand, surging happiness that ripples through him head-to-toe. Each kiss has a new kind of gentleness, and before either one of you starts to strip Dean knows that you want more than what he’s about to give you—you want him, and that feeling is an old comfort.

Knowing your famous attitude, Dean would’ve bet money on you taking control, but for whatever reason you step back and let him make the first move. Again, it tells him that this is his chance to tell you something, to make it clear that he wants you and he’s going to show it. So he does. Your fingers in his hair are all the invitation he needs.

Dean scrapes his palms up your back as you kiss, soaking up every naked inch of skin he’s allowed. You’re making all these soft little noises that make the pressure in his jeans unbearable, so with the next drag of his hands he’s intent on seeing what you’ll feel like naked in his lap. When your uniform is nothing but a memory and your throat’s slick with hickeys, you try out a new way of teasing him, murmuring in that caramel voice how long you’ve wanted to feel him inside you. After that he doesn’t even care about being fully naked—but you clearly do. He puts your roaming hands on his belt. I want you to do this part, I want it to be you who opens me up. You kiss him so intensely that Dean doesn’t even remember when or how his belt comes off. Or his shirt, or his jeans, or his boots, gulping down your love potion by the gallon.

All he knows is pretty girl, his pretty girl, and swaths of hot sweat-tacky skin on top of him. You hesitate to close that final gap between you once the condom’s on, so Dean whispers whiskey-warm assurances in your ear as he cups the curve of your ass and slides you onto him. The moan that presses out of you pours right into your next kiss, then the next, and the next. It takes everything in him to start slow; Dean gives you two deep, fulfilling grinds across his lap. The rippling squeeze of you around him is too good to be real. You press your lips into his, then his nosebridge, his forehead, urging him on, and that’s all Dean needs to let go. He cups the dip of your back, shoves his face in your neck and just loses it.

Dean rocks you across his lap at a vicious, pounding tempo, giving you his all. The whole time his head bumps against the height of the seat, craning to watch the perfect little shifts in your expression. You’ve got your eyes squeezed shut and your lips parted. His lap is slick with you, making the grind, the chase, the rush to the finish come faster and faster. He could’ve gotten off on the sounds you were making alone. They turn into full-on squeals when Dean slides his fingers between your legs, and a flush of I love you I love you I love you bursts out of him when the hot silk wrapped around him clamps even tighter. You cum almost sobbing his name, and Dean coos you through it, his thighs cramping with effort. But it’s all worth it—you’ve always been worth it.

He finishes with your hands combing through his sweat-damp hair, echoing back to him the three words he’d been chanting the entire time.

-

It’s a few hours before dawn when you land in Sam and Dean’s motel a town over. Dean had wanted to get back earlier, intent on having you back as soon as possible, but it’d taken a bit to pack your stuff into the Impala and drive home. You’d commented on being hungry on the way back too, which ended with Dean pouring an entire gas station’s worth of snacks into your lap at three in the morning.

By then it’d gotten too cold out to be comfortable, so it was tempting to succumb to sleep in front of the Impala’s heaters. But robbing yourself of any time with Dean wasn’t an option, so you pushed through, feet aching after an eight-hour shift and body glowing with Dean’s affection. You nibbled on twinkies in the passenger’s seat, happy that he was happy. He kept the radio off to hear you, but hummed when the conversation peacefully faded. I can hear the train a’ comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend…

Sam was waiting for you on the stoop outside the room when you pulled up, and did an impressively poor job at containing himself. He’d gotten his arms around you before your door was fully shut, and when you were back on your feet his brother took up your other side. Together, you herded each other into the cozy darkness of the motel. Someone said something about unpacking your things; but all three of you were tired, so that thought was saved for tomorrow.

Dean tossed his jacket on the back of a chair. Sam rearranged the salt lines on the window sills with a careful hand. You fumbled into the first pajamas you could find (aka, the hoodies in Dean’s duffle that rightfully belonged to you), and crash straight into bed, too lazy to kiss goodnight like usual. When the lights were off and the boys were down too, you stretched a hand out from under your comforter and reached across the bed’s gap.

“Goodnight, Sam,” you told him, wiggling your fingers.

His whole hand engulfed yours in a warm, I missed you squeeze, and then he was rolling onto his stomach and sinking like a rock into sleep.

When you twisted onto your other side, Dean was already there, propped up on an elbow. His broad hand on your shoulder smoothed across your belly to pull you into him. Once you were close enough to kiss, he disregarded your cheek and your forehead entirely, dipping in for a real kiss that tingled all the way down to your toes.

“G’night,” Dean whispered.

Welling with too much emotion to put into words, you willed it all into a simple and loving, “Goodnight, cowboy.”

Together, you snuggled down into your blankets and crashed, content.

-

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

[swordofsun]

@scoobydoodean had been posting about 4x17 It's A Terrible Life and it's reminded me of one of my favorite overlooked bits in the episode and how it shows that Zachariah is just wrong about Dean.

Zachariah's whole theory with this little experiment is that Dean will choose hunting.

ZACHARIAH To prove to you that the path you're on is truly in your blood. You're a hunter. Not because your dad made you, not because God called you back from hell, but because it is what you are. And you love it. You'll find your way to it in the dark every single time and you're miserable without it. Dean, let's be real here. You're good at this. You'll be successful. You will stop it.

But Dean has expressly denied hunting already at the end of the last act:

SAM Look, all I know is this isn't who we're supposed to be. DEAN No. I'm Dean Smith, okay? Director of Sales and Marketing. I went to Stanford. My father's name is Bob, my mother's name is Ellen, and my sister's name is Jo. SAM When was the last time you talked to them? To any of them? DEAN Okay, you're upset. You're upset, you're confused— SAM Yeah, 'cause I only moved here 'cause I just broke up with my fiancée, Madison. But I called her number and I got a damn animal hospital. DEAN Okay. What are you saying? Are you trying to say that my family isn't real? Huh? That we've been injected with fake memories? Come on. SAM All I know is, I got this feeling in my gut. And I know—I know that deep down, you gotta be feeling it too. We're supposed to be something else. You're not just some corporate douchebag. This isn't you. I know you. DEAN Know me? You don't know me, pal. You should go. SAM leaves.

Sam tried to get Dean to drop everything and go hunting. They stopped a ghost! It was fun! They could do this, but Dean's not going to give up his life for it. Dean has no intention of turning his life upside down to start hunting and it's not until Zachariah lays out one of the most depressing 10 year plan ever:

ADLER Positive. You are Sandover material, son. Real go-getter. Carving your own way. DEAN Well, thanks. I try. ADLER I see big things in your future. Maybe even senior VP, Eastern Great Lakes Division. Don't get me wrong, you'll have to work for it. Seven days a week, lunch at your desk, but in eight to ten short years, that could be you. DEAN takes off his headset. DEAN Uh, well, thank you. Thank you, sir. It's, um...but... DEAN passes the paper back. DEAN I am giving my notice.

He's already the director of marketing and sales and his career plan is 10 years of nothing but work to make VP of a division? Probably a small division? Everyone would quit with that laid out. Maybe not as directly as Dean does, but yeah, they'd be going home and revamping the resume. That's a dead end career path you'd have to bust your ass and give up your life for.

Hearing that and going "hmm, maybe I take some time and check out that hunting thing with that Wesson guy. He was less creepy once we started working on the haunting, for the most part" is actually a pretty normal thing to do.

And really Zachariah doesn't even give him the chance to go find Sam. Because there's actually a good chance Dean gets home and after thinking about it he just updates his resume and LinkedIn. He had to give Dean back his memories in that exact moment in order to try and leverage the situation to his advantage.

Zachariah stacked the deck and still barely managed to get Dean to quit his job. Dean wasn't running to hunting with open arms. He was, at best, looking at it as a more viable option than the shitty 10 year plan Mr. Adler just laid out. And Zachariah couldn't wait for him to actually choose hunting, he had to strike before Dean could second guess himself.

(Even Sam is making the choice between IT support call center or ghost hunting. This isn't hard.)

4x17 Transcript

[howsdeanshole]

cas and dean vs. clothes shopping small fic

after they get cas out of the empty there’s a lot of mundane shit to do. he’s human again, and it’s permanent this time, or as permanent as things ever are for a winchester, but that’s a terrifying thought so it gets locked up in the for later box in deans head. but cas needs food and toiletries and clothes and he’s decided he hates the bedding in the bunker so he has to get new sheets too.

most of this is easy enough. last time cas was human he learned the basics—digestion, hygiene, money—and when he was sick on stolen grace he learned a bit more about preferences. they get him set up with 3-in-1 shampoo and a tooth brush and when dean makes the trip out to the city to do their monthly bulk shopping, he drags cas with him to get some sheets he won’t bitch about. on the way back, dean stops at a secondhand store run by a local church.

cas doesn’t seem to like shopping. he was pleasant on the ride to the city and effusive about the cheap hotdogs they ate for lunch, but about 20 minutes into hauling cases of water and table salt into their cart he got surly. he got even surlier when dean suggested he could go wait with baby. by the time they checked out, dean had written him off and decided to wait out his silence.

the thrift store smells like every thrift store he’s ever been in, dusty and a little bit like cats. the clothes selection isn’t huge, but it’ll do for getting cas started. thats deans hope, anyway, but when he told cas to grab whatever catches his eye and wanders off to a rack of casettes, he hoped cas would get a few days worth of shirts, maybe even find some serviceable jeans. instead, cas dumps an XL shirt with “FALLSTON COUNTY MIDDLE SCHOOL TURKEY TROT 2013” across the front in orange bubble text and a faded grey bucket hat into deans basket.

“that’s all?”

cas shrugs. apparently still not talking. dean knows from experience that forcing the issue right now will, at best, start a fistfight, and at worst, cause cas to fuck off for who knows how long. maybe if he was still an angel dean would go for it, press his luck, but with cas freshly back and freshly human and apparently here to stay, dean swallows the impulse. he buys the admittedly very soft turkey trot shirt and the hat.

after two weeks, it becomes apparent that cas is uninterested in obtaining possessions. he’s content to wear his wholesale underwear and deans shirts and a pair of shorts abandoned by one of the apocalypse world hunters. there are infinite good things about cas coming back, and there are infinite terrifying things about him being human now, and there are infinite things about his return that dean has been trying to stuff in the For Later box, and unfortunately that leaves him kind of pissed off about how he can never find the shirt he wants to wear when he wants to wear it, and also the way his own wardrobe is dwindling due to cas never fucking returning anything. not that he minds sharing! but that would require cas to bring anything back.

not that dean plans to confront him about it. which is maybe cas’s play here? damn. well. deans done great at not bringing up anything heavier than meal planning for over a month already. no need to ruin his streak now.

there’s still hunts. sam and eileen have been out on a few since cas got back. now that dean is better, sam hasn’t been hovering so much. but cas brings the job to dean in the dean cave, pulled up on his phone to show him. it ends up being easy to wrap up, just a matter of destroying a cursed 35mm camera properly and getting the formerly cursed women to the nearest hospital. they don’t even need to put on the fed suits for it, which is good, because dean forgot that cas’s old suit got ruined in his rescue. in deans defense, he wasn’t really thinking that hard about clothes that day, or about anything besides cas heaving himself upright on the other side of that rift, alive and back.

when dean brings up the need for a new fed suit, cas just hums like it’s inconsequential. and because dean is still practicing non confrontation, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

the suit is easy. he goes with the same cut jimmy novaks suit was, in black, and a few dress shirts. ties seem to be one of the few things cas likes to shop for, so dean only grabs one—boring, professional blue and white stripes. it comes in handy days after he hangs it up in cas’s closet, when they have to haul ass out to tennessee to deal with a werewolf pack and have to play fed to get access to the bodies.

after that, it’s a blue fleece-lined hoodie he picks up while he’s canvassing for witnesses hunting what turns out to be a shifter. cas wears it the whole time they’re in the motel looking over the facts of the case, and he wears it in the car on the way back, his strong squared fingers catching deans eye in the rear view mirror whenever he fidgets with the hoods drawstring. there’s a stack of weird novelty tee shirts he picks up in the city the next time he does the bulk restock, this time alone. cas wears them all in a rotation, mostly under his hoodie or one of deans flannels.

when cas asks him to grab a jacket for him, dean cracks on his non confrontational policy. “you should choose it yourself,” he says. cas just hums.

“i like wearing what you’ve chosen,” he says after a minute. “i trust your judgement.”

which, leave it to cas to turn this into—something.

dean buys him a jacket.

he buys him socks, and pajama pants, and new boots and some henleys and a few thrifted flannels, soft from wear. he buys a scarf. house shoes. and cas wears them all, and never returns deans clothes before dean asks for them.

[yinorathedragontamer]

HIII BABES i saw u write for spn so here's a req if ur willing !!

can i have a sam x genderfluid reader (or nonbinary is fine !) where reader saves sam from a monster attack and ends up tagging along w him and dean, during which sam kind of follows them around and admires them a lot ??

thanksss xx and hope ur enjoying the show

a/n: SURE THING BABE!! im actually so excited because this is my very first supernatural request, so thats really cool! i love the username btw, and the banner thing on your profile, really mixing my hyperfixations there! (dead boy detectives + supernatural) if you want another part, or another prompt whatsoever just request!

pairing: Sam Winchester x genderfluid!hunter!reader, platonic!Dean Winchester x reader, set with season 2 in mind (Dean doesn't have a deal yet)

note: i am not personally genderfluid, so im sorry if there are any inaccuracies, i tried my best with the knowledge i have. reader rides a purple motorcycle, Dean and reader are little shits to eachother but we love it here. reader is a badass because i said so. reader knows about Dean and Sam because of Bobby. reader is mentioned to wear eyeliner once. reader likes metallica (same)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

it started with a simple case, it was a quick vamp nest, in and out.

what they hadn't thought of, was the fact that maybe, maybe, the kind woman who was hitting on both of them at the bar at an ungodly hour might've been a vamp too, and perhaps wanted to get rid of them, keep them away from her oh-so-lovely nest.

so here they are, tied up, gagged with a cloth, vamps practically circling them.

Sam could count 4 in sight, and atleast three taking naps a few feet away.

while Sam racks his mind for a solution, Dean can't help but shoot a wink to the vampire who hit on them at the bar a few hours ago, trying to act as chill as he can.

suddenly, all four of the circling vampires look up at the sound of a motercycle, and before they know it one comes crashing through the wooden wall, a guy with a helmet, you, being on top of it.

you jump off the motorcycle, letting it crash right into two vampires and lodging them against the opposite wall while you take out your machete, slashing at the other two, cutting their heads off with great skill.

next, the three napping vampires wake up, and immediately fling themselves at you.

you avoid them, dodging as if its a walk in the park, and cut off their head too.

for a second, you forget about the last two vamps, who are now free from your motorcycle, and charging at you.

one of them manages to knick your arm, leaving a small cut, and the other just completely misses, her leg having been crushed from the crash.

you handle them both pretty well, slashing at them and effectively killing them.

you take off your helmet, letting out a relieved sigh.

"damn, it better not be broken too bad" you mumble as you walk over and set your motorcycle upright again.

you hear muffled... something, coming from one of the guys tied to the pole, and see them both looking at you.

"oh, right, people" you mumble, taking a few long strides to get to them, first removing the cloth from their mouth and then the rope from their hands.

"you two good?" you ask, helping them up.

"how the fuck did you do that?" the shorter one asks, running a hand through his short hair.

"lets see, training, training, practice, did i mention training?" you say sarcastically, earning a chuckle from the tall one.

"hey, that was pretty cool, im taking it you're a hunter? we are too, im Sam and this is my brother Dean" he says with a smile, it reminds you of a golden retriever.

"wait, your last name doesn't happen to be Winchester, right?" you reply with a small smile of your own.

"its nice to meet you, i'm [name], i heard of you two from Bobby"

"well, your motorcycle seems pretty fucked, one of its tires is going empty and there's a piece hanging loose" Dean comments, dusting off his hands.

"oh for fuck's sake, i just got it fixed!" you groan in annoyance.

"oh, you can tag along with us if you want, we got a motel nearby" Sam offers sweetly, earning an elbow in the ribs from Dean.

"thanks, but i'm good, i got a motel room nearby too, infact, it wouldn't surprise me if we got the same one. Sunshine's Seashell Motel?" Sam looks surprised, Dean just looks annoyed.

"right, great, we'll see you tomorrow, maybe" Dean comments, before grabbing Sam's arm and practically dragging him away.

you smile to yourself, shaking your head before walking out aswell, going back to the motel.

the next morning, you put on a tanktop and some comfy jeans, matched with a flannel. you walk out, hair loose and some eyeliner on.

you walk out front to bring back your key, a duffelbag over your shoulder. you thank the worker behind the desk, and hear mumbling behind you.

you turn to the sound, and see Sam and Dean standing there, Dean making a face while Sam seems to talk wide eyed.

"im telling you Dean, that's the guy who saved our asses last night!"

"bullshit! thats just some girl in a flannel who looks like him, im sure of it!"

you smile, and decide to walk over to them. "hey boys! rested up from the whole thing yesterday?" you can't help but grin at Dean's flabbergasted face.

"im sorry, but i could swear you were a guy last night" Dean says, looking very confused.

"i was" you say cassually, walking along with them as they exit the motel and walk to their car, which you can't help but admire.

"what?" Dean looks even more confused, and Sam speaks up.

"genderfluid, Dean, she's genderfluid" Sam looks almost interested in you, but you shrug it off for admiration or something.

"atleast, i think thats it, right?" you nod, coming to a stop as Dean just shakes his head in disbelief and gets into the drivers seat, dumping his bag in the back, and Sam is about to go into the passengers seat before he looks at you.

"you wanna come with us? we're going to Bobby's, and im guessing your motorcycle isnt in a driving state." he smiles kindly at you, and you can swear he checks you out with his eyes before you shake it off.

"yeah, that'd be great, actually, thanks" you get in the back of the car, a grumbled scoff coming from Dean.

the moment he turns on the car, metallica 'sad but true' comes blasting throught the speakers, and you bob your head along the beat.

"ah, i see you actually have style! you know what, you can drive with us whenever you want" Dean says with a shit eating grin, earning and eyeroll from Sam.

"right, so she likes your music, and suddenly its all fine?" he scoffs and looks out of the window.

you can't stop the fluttering feeling in your chest.

maybe, for once, hunting can bring you something good, something better than just saving people.

maybe it can bring you your best ally you'll ever gain.

maybe it'll grant you a lover.

little do you know, that Sam is looking at you through the mirror, admiration apparent in his gaze, and he looks away again. he looks at Dean, who gives him a knowing look.

his brother is down bad already.

[alexsoenomel]

Amorevolous (Sam Winchester x Reader smut and fluff)

Request: 

Sammy aftercare one shot? Like him and reader got really down and dirty but once the sex is over, he turns into soft boy, cuddling with reader, stroking her skin and bringing her back down from her high…?

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Warnings: sexy times nothing special and a little bit of a praising kink 

Word count: 859

Note: I LOVED WRITING THIS! Like/ reblog or both if you like it :)    

“Are you mine, (Y/N)?” Sam whispered in your ear while fucking you senseless.

You pull on his hair feeling every inch of him, not wanting him to stop. “Y-yes.” Was all that came from your mouth. 

“I wanna hear you say it!” He ordered.

“I am yours Sam! Only...yours!” Your breathing became heavier and more erratic since he was only making things harder. His pace was getting faster, his trusts stronger and the only thing you couldn’t do was....cum. Not until he tells you to. 

“Good girl.” He praised you knowing how much it turned you on.

He loved being in control, making you come undone and watching you not being able to stand up after. He was indeed a perfect pleasure dom. If you obeyed, you would get a reward and what you craved right now was a fucking orgasm. 

“Sam! I wanna cum!” You whined not knowing how much you can last. “Please!”

“You really wanna cum, huh?” Sam smirked speeding up the pace a little bit. 

“Yes, please!” You moaned. “Fuck!” 

He was torturing you and you were a spoiled brat, desperately wanting to orgasm.  You could feel your body curling up as the pleasure was building up with his every thrust. He was impossible. 

“Please Sammy!” 

“Only because you were so good! Cum!” He ordered. Fucking finally. 

You could finally let go. Gripping his back on both sides, digging your nails into his flesh you could finally let go. Sam flinched for a second feeling the pressure but didn’t say anything. He wanted you to enjoy every second of your orgasm. 

And you did. Arching your back as you screamed his name over and over again. His pace became slower until he finally stopped, kissed your lips and collapsed right next to you. 

“But what about you?” You asked him panting, trying to catch your breath. 

“Not about me today.” He said as he kissed your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I’m.....shaking.” You laughed. “You really like to torture me Sammy.”

“Torturing you is for me, but everything else is for you. I get off on you in that state.” He explained.  “Cheeky.” 

Sam got off the bed and went to the bathroom. He came back few seconds later with a glass of water. “Here you go!” 

“You read my mind. I’m parched.” You said and chugged every drop of water in a matter of seconds. 

“I know.” He gave you a smile. “You always are afterwards.” 

Sam was big on aftercare, from the very beginning. He would tease the shit out you, make you lose your damn mind BUT always take care of you after. He never did anything you didn’t like and always respected your boundaries. He would play within those boundaries but never cross them. 

He laid next to you as you placed your head on his bare chest. You made sure you were both covered since it was pretty chilly in the bunker. 

“Was it good?” He asked you as he was stroking your hair. 

“Amazing.” You simply said. “It has been a while I really missed you.”

“I know.....4 long weeks.” 

Life of a hunter is not easy. Sometimes you would have to split up since monsters never sleep. That’s exactly what happened. Dean went to Lincoln, Nebraska to locate and kill a nasty vampire who was targeting young girls and got himself in trouble. You and Sam figured something wasn’t right when he didn’t pick up his phone for 10 hours, so naturally he had to go to Nebraska and find him. You on the other hand had to find and kill a ghost who was killing people in Lebanon. 4 longest weeks of your life.....

“I love you Sammy.” 

“I love you too.” He said and kissed your head. You moved right next to him as he moved on his side facing you before wrapping his hands around your waist and intertwining his legs with yours. He touched your nose with his, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. 

“I love when you do that.” You said and placed a kiss on the tip of his perfect nose. 

“Do what?” He asked and kissed your nose returning the same innocent kiss to you. 

“I love when you take care of me after sex. It makes me feel safe and loved.”

“I can make you lose your mind, call you my whore and not let you cum but once sex is over and you are satisfied you are my (Y/N) and my (Y/N) deserves love and cuddles.” 

His words never seem to be just words. What he said was what he delivered. It made your heart skip a beat like you were a teenager again. “My (Y/N)” - made you blush instantly.  Being his... every part of you was Sam’s, forever and always. 

“I love being yours.”

“I’m yours too, you know?” 

“I know.”

“Do you wanna take a shower and  then sleep? It’s kinda late.” 

You look at the clock...it was almost 3am. 

“Shower together?” You asked giving him puppy dog eyes. 

He just smiled and nodded. 

“Perfect! I want to wash your hair.”

“It’s all yours (Y/N).”