#superhero!dean x reader

[thebiggerbear]

"Sleep. I'll keep you safe." - Soldier Boy Prompt Response

Summary: You're tired of running and you go to Soldier Boy for protection. He agrees to do it but not without a price.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Reader

A/N: Prompt from @thelonelyempath. The original character I wanted to respond to this prompt with before deciding to make it multi-character. This scenario immediately popped into my head reading the line and I just had to write it. Hope it's okay.

Thank you to my beta @rieleatiel for her services. You rock, girl!

Sequel

Warnings: violence/murder; implied assassination attempts; sexual propositioning; Soldier Boy being himself; starts out as a blackmail type dynamic that appears as if a little dubcon at first; language?

Word Count: 2528

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187

SB Taglist: @heartlessdelusions; @nancymcl; @brightlilith

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

This was recc'ed by @winchestergirl2 here.

"Sleep. I'll keep you safe."

Beau version ✨ Dean version ✨ Jenny version ✨ Tom version ✨ Jason version ✨ Anael version ✨ SDV Alex version

You never thought in a million years that you would be seeking out one of the most dangerous Supes in the world for protection. Then again, you never would have thought that a multi-billion dollar corporation would be after you, intent on seeing you torn apart and scattered to the four winds. You didn’t exactly blow the whistle on them, but you didn’t exactly tow the company line either—something Stan Edgar was less than thrilled with and now the evil son of a bitch wanted you dead.

It was no secret that Edgar and Soldier Boy had a falling out of sorts after the truth about his being handed to the Russians had come to light. His old team may have made it happen, but it was Edgar pulling the strings all along. Surprisingly, the Supe who had been so focused on revenge hadn’t hunted Edgar down after this revelation, which made you wary about going this route. However, after narrowly escaping the latest death squad sent after you, you decided you had no choice but to take the gamble. There was nowhere you could run that Vought wouldn’t find you and you just hoped this would be more of an ‘enemy of my enemy’ situation rather than a ‘handing you right over to your enemy’ situation.

Once you had managed to track him down in Hong Kong while you were busy running yourself, he had shockingly agreed to a meet, and even more shockingly agreed to help you. Not without certain stipulations, of course.

“Let me in that sweet pussy of yours and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

You should have known, especially from the way he had been eyeing you up ever since he caught sight of you. Screwing your face up in disgust, you flat out refused. “Not happening.”

He shrugged and began to walk away. “Then you must not need my protection that badly.”

You scoffed in disbelief. “You’re seriously turning me down because I won’t fuck you? Whatever happened to the ‘Soldier Boy is America’s son’ bullshit? The OG superhero who fought Nazis and protected people?”

Soldier Boy stopped and slowly turned back towards you. “I’d be putting myself on the line to protect you. For that, I deserve one hell of a payment.” 

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. “So now you’re blackmailing me into sleeping with you? Unbelievable.” You had heard he was more like America’s Asshole than its Son, but you still couldn’t believe your ears. You had even offered to help him take Vought down with what you knew, so long as he kept you safe. You knew he’d want that kind of information. Why else was he hopping from continent to continent in the last few months, trying to shake Vought just like you were? Instead, his dick was taking top priority. Typical. 

“It’s the least you can do, doll.” He faced you fully again, shield hanging off of his arm as if it weighed nothing. “Like you said, I fought for this country, fought the Nazis, and now you’re asking me to play bodyguard while taking on Vought for you. I deserve something worth all that trouble.”

You ran through all other options in your mind. You still had a contact that could possibly put you in touch with someone that wouldn’t mind tapping into Vought’s offshore accounts that weren’t supposed to exist. You were already on Vought’s kill list; what would a few hundred thousand dollars of theirs matter? “I could pay you,” you offered.

“I’m not interested in money.” His eyes roved over you as he approached. “Besides,” he murmured as he came to a stop in front of you. You tensed as he reached up to tuck a strand of your hair that had gotten loose from under your ball cap behind your ear. ”I haven’t had a looker as pretty as you in a long time. Been locked away.” He gently gripped your chin in between his thumb and index finger, his eyes intent on your mouth before lifting to meet yours. A hint of a smirk started to appear on his handsome face when he most likely heard your heart beat starting to increase.

He released you and even took a step back from you, allowing you physical and metaphorical space. “Your call.”

You bit your lip as thoughts chaotically swirled inside your head. On one hand, you refused to be manipulated or pushed into sex with this asshole. No matter how physically attractive he might be, you weren’t willing to get on your back just so he would help you. But on the other hand, the cold hard truth was that you were tired — tired of running, tired of little-to-no sleep, tired of the paranoia that came with such a flight. Hell, at present, you hadn’t slept in almost two days and you were running on fumes; there wasn’t enough caffeine or energy pills in the world to get you through another day with no rest. Your reaction time was already dragging if your last narrow escape was anything to go by. If you continued this way, you’d be dead before the sun started to warm the sky; you were certain of it.

Soldier Boy stared you down. “What’s it gonna be?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you glanced behind you at a small noise far off down the street. Thankfully, it was an old woman tossing something out onto the pavement, but you couldn’t deny it put you further on edge. You turned back to the Supe whose eyes stayed trained on you. You took a deep breath to steady your nerves and readied your response. His lips began to quirk upwards into a smile; he knew what your answer was going to be before you even said the words.

Vought Tower had been completely demolished. Luckily, it had been mostly evacuated before the destruction occurred. A fight between Soldier Boy and the now-dead Homelander had caused most of the damage, but the C4 that had been carefully lined throughout the infrastructure is what ended up bringing it down. 

Before it went boom, Soldier Boy had approached Stan Edgar, who refused to cower in a corner. The Supe respected that, but it didn’t change what he’d come here to do. He gripped Edgar by the throat and lifted him in the air, choking the older man and ignoring the fingers that desperately clawed at his hand.

“I thought we had an agreement,” Edgar rasped out.

Soldier Boy shrugged. “She made me a better one.” He then snapped the man’s neck and tossed his body aside like a rag doll. 

“Oi! We ought to get out of here,” Butcher warned after seeing Stan Edgar lifeless on the floor. “Frenchie’s about to blow this place to fucking hell.”

He glared over at the Brit and picked up his shield. He still didn’t trust him, not after what he and his merry band of assholes had tried to do the last time they’d teamed up, but he’d made a deal with you and he was intent on keeping his end of it. The only conditions Butcher and Captain Lesbo had given this time around was: no civilian casualties and Ryan was off limits. He did his best with the first and he could give less than a fuck on the other. As far as he was concerned, the kid was Butcher’s problem as long as the kid didn’t come looking for some payback once he got older, which Butcher assured he wouldn’t. That, and there better not be Novichok gas waiting at the end of this mission for him. They’d reluctantly agreed, knowing they had no other way to kill Homelander and take down Vought all in one swoop.

“After you.” Soldier Boy gestured for Butcher to leave first. The man scowled but obliged, keeping a wary eye out as he moved. Smirking, Soldier boy followed. The Supe might have enjoyed the reaction—or even tried to settle the score from Butcher’s previous betrayal—if he didn’t have you to get back to. He needed to let you know that you no longer had Stan Edgar or Vought to worry about. He’d kept up his end of the bargain you’d both made — now, finally, you were free.

You woke up to the sound of someone moving through the darkness in your room. You grabbed the gun from beneath your pillow and bolted upright as much as you could, trying to get your eyes to adjust so you could get a good shot.

“Relax, it’s just me,” Soldier Boy assured you. 

Recognizing his voice, you slowly lowered the gun and focused on his location. When your eyes finally adjusted, you realized he was near the foot of the bed, completely nude, his hair damp from a fresh shower. “Ben,” you breathed out in relief. “You scared me.”

Through the beams of moonlight shining into the room from the window, you saw him give you a smile and lay his shield down on the floor next to him. “Didn’t mean to.”

You slipped the safety back on the gun and stashed it into the drawer of your nightstand. You hated having it under your pillow at night; it was super uncomfortable and you only needed to do that when Soldier Boy — Ben, as he’d asked you to call him instead — wasn’t around. “Everything go okay?” 

“Better than okay.” You glanced back to see a smirk adorning that handsome face of his, with an all-too familiar gleam in those green eyes. You watched as he slipped on some sweats and then made his way to the opposite side of the bed. You moved onto your side to face him, smiling as he climbed in next to you and sat up against the headboard, turning to grin down at you. Within seconds, he had his arms wrapped around you, pulling you up against him, and he was kissing you a proper hello. He only pulled back when you needed air and tenderly rubbed his nose along yours, nuzzling you. “How about you, doll? Everything go okay while I was gone?”

You nodded and snuggled into his bare chest, letting out a relieved sigh when you felt his warm hands stroking your back. “Everything’s fine,” you assured him, closing your eyes. You’d never admit it aloud, but you felt so much better when he was around. Not only did you feel protected but you just felt better in general. You’d have to be under the pain of torture to admit to him (or yourself) that you actually missed him when he had to leave.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and let his lips linger there, continuing to rub your back just the way you liked. “Edgar and Vought are gone,” he murmured. “The Caped Cunt, too. You’ve got nothing more to worry about.”

Your eyes snapped open and you lifted yourself up to meet his gaze, your brows furrowed. “What?” You asked in shock.

“You heard me.” He stroked your cheek with his thumb, his grin now a smug smile. “You’re safe, baby.”    

Your eyes widened when the realization hit you. “That’s where you went?”

Your only answer was the lengthening of that smile. 

“Jesus, Ben.” So many thoughts and emotions swirled within you all at once. You were free, truly free. You no longer had to worry about Vought death squads hunting you down, Homelander coming for you, or Stan Edgar sending after you any ragtag Supes he could scrounge up. You were free. Although, Ben hadn’t told you that he was about to go on his most dangerous mission yet. He might be America’s original superhero and he might be tough to kill, but that didn’t mean he was completely invincible. He’d admitted as much to you over the last few months. “What if… What if you didn’t—”

He kissed you, effectively cutting you off. “I did,” he hummed against your lips. “Told you I would.”

You nodded, gently tracing his facial features with your hands before gliding down to his shoulders, dipping down the warm expanse of his back and then slowly returning to his chest. As always, he remained patient whenever you did this ritual of checking him for any wounds or injuries, knowing you wouldn’t find any but needing to assure yourself just the same. Truthfully, this man had come to mean more to you than you’d ever imagined would be possible. Hell, there had been a time when it wouldn’t have been possible at all.

When you were done, you met his gaze head on. “Do I want to know?”

Ben remained silent, but his eyes said it all: no, you didn’t want to know. You and Ben may have planned for the downfall of Vought and the ends of Homelander and Stan Edgar, the very same bastards that had put a target on your back in the first place, but that didn’t mean you wanted to hear the gory details of their deaths. You were just grateful Ben had come back to you alive and unharmed. 

You gave him a thin-lipped smile in understanding. “Thank you,” you whispered. 

Ben studied you for a moment, then pulled you in and kissed you again, his fingers slipping through your hair until he grabbed the back of your neck and urged you to meet him more fully. Just as you were getting into it, he broke away and chuckled. “You’re real eager for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?” You shot him a look and the smirk was suddenly back on his face. Without warning, he picked you up to rearrange you in the bed how he wanted you. “Too bad that you need to get some rest. We’re blowing the fuck out of here tomorrow and you’re gonna need to keep up.”

As if he would leave you behind if you couldn’t. “I thought you said Butcher would leave us alone after this.”

“I don’t trust that dicksucking Brit and I trust his bitch of a boss even less.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking when you felt him settle in behind you, knowing how much he enjoyed spooning you like this. “‘Kay,” you agreed. He had successfully protected you this far; you’d follow his lead on this one, too. You shut your eyes and snuggled into your pillow, content to feel his hands on your back caressing you once more. You were just about asleep when you heard him murmur in your ear, “Sleep. I’ll keep you safe.” You smiled when you heard the words he’d been saying to you every night now for many months and your heart lightened when you felt his hands trail from your back to cup protectively over your rounding stomach, rubbing gently. ‘Safe’ is exactly how you felt right in this moment, and the little girl moving to meet her father’s embrace—like she always did when she sensed he was near—only cemented the knowledge that this was the first night neither you nor she were in danger any longer. It gave you a sense of peace you hadn’t known in a long time.

Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for this character.

dividers by @firefly-graphics

banner by @cafekitsune

Main Masterlist

Main Tag List Submission Form

[syrma-sensei]

→ Hush Hush Behind The Shield.

gif credit.

pairing: soldier boy/ben x wife!reader.

rating: explicit.

warnings: vought's ungodly shenanigans, mentions of cheating, couple fighting, angst, misogyny, antiquated mentality, dub-con, power imbalance, fingering, forced orgasms, angry sex, cock riding...

word count: 3.4k

summary: being america's greatest hero's wife has its perks, but they don't come for free...

taglist: @zepskies, @deansbbyx, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deans-spinster-witch, @venus-haze, @thebiggerbear...

A/N: I'd like to thank my two pretty moots, @kaleldobrev who's been always there for me, listening to mental blurbs and chaotic spews of unhinged ideas and continuous mind dump ❤️ and @zepskies who bares my energy, which can be a bit much, each time I spam her dms with life cringing memes and awaful reacts ❤️

Kneeling down on one knee, your mitted hands hoisted the oven door close as you hummed a melody to yourself. Turning on your heels, you stood up and gave the dining table a once-over before allowing a proud grin slip on your lips.

“Perfect.”

Then your eyes glanced at your watch. It was half an hour past seven in the evening. Perfect. There'd be enough time to pamper yourself in a relaxing shower and spruce up with no rush before your husband was home.

You gave the dining room another glimpse to make sure everything was in place before you headed to the bathroom upstairs, walking through the living room where the T.V. displayed a Soldier Boy anti-drugs commercial.

A snore escaped your nose upon hearing the phrase: “Just say no.” Remembering how your husband threw a fit behind the scenes at how stupid it was, to the point of getting Stan Edgar himself on the line for him to find an alternative to it. Because no way he was saying that shit.

“God, I sounded like a fucking douchebag,” He'd told you in his dressing room, a smouldering reefer hanging between his lips — the irony, after they wrapped filming up.

You'd giggled, playfully plucking it from his lips to take a drag of your own, “No, baby, you did just fine.” You purred, and his mouth curled up into a small grin, “The public needs that y'know…” You tipped his chin up, your polished, long nails grazed lightly to his skin, “You're America's golden son, right? You're the man everyone should look up to.”

“Damn sure they should.” He'd chuckled, leaning down for a kiss which you gladly welcomed.

Being Soldier Boy's wife came with many many perks, but it also had its downsides, one of which was to have to deal with his short temper. But what could you say? You loved the man. Ardently so; you literally fought the world to have him all for yourself despite Vought's disapproval of your nuptial.

You savoured the victory when you married Ben in a small ceremony without Vought's blessing. It was like a slap to them when Ben imparted upon them the happy news, he delivered them a severe black eye, especially the vainglorious bastard Edgar. Who had once told you that you and Ben wouldn't work out, for it was simply "inconvenient" for a superhero like Soldier Boy to be involved in a serious relationship with a mere… human; it'd be a "disappointment" in the public eye, as he put it. Like he had a say in the matter.

But here you were, with a ring on your left hand to swagger about, and happily married to America's first hero, Edgar and Vought could say hello to your middle finger.

To nobody's surprise, you resented Vought, and held such abhorrence against them for not letting you and your husband live the life you wanted for yourselves. Despite your personal efforts, your proclaimed triumph was soon cut short because Vought declined to go public and endorse your marriage. Not that you and your husband gave two shits about their approval, but the rules were rules. And their lawyers affirmed that a public exposure of your marriage might damage Soldier Boy's rep, therefore, Vought's; given the fact that you were more than thirty years younger than him. They couldn't have it said that the hero of heroes was a creep even though they'd tried to conceal his age when he and Phoebe Cates starred in Love And War because it started to seem fishy. It was expected, though. But what you didn't see coming was Ben's response, or lack of response as to put it.

Despite being even more obdurate about this marriage than yourself. You felt terribly abjured by your husband. You'd thought he'd fight for you, for what you both had, and he'd want to let the world know about you. It'd broken your heart when it dawned upon you that Ben wouldn't risk his fame and glory for anyone, for you. Reluctantly, you bit the bullet, you had to, for him, because you loved him, and would do anything to keep this marriage intact. If you had to compromise for it, then so be it. You didn't care.

To your solace, Ben never changed after the frustrating incident; he was still the man you fell in love with. He might be smug, crass, and insufferable to everyone but you could still perceive the tender side he had though he'd never actually admit it, and you never pushed him too much. You were subtle enough to know when to stroke his ego and when to tease it. He was a man, after all. But it was obvious; he was a doting husband who cherished you in his own way. He showered you with gifts, and pampered you when he could. And he was eager to have babies with you. He never ceased to express how rapturous he would be if he were to have a son. A child with you.

Sure, you had your own qualms about that particular day, and there was more than a time you wanted to have a conversation with him about it. But you couldn't bring yourself to screw it up with stupid doubts. If Ben hadn't truly loved you, he wouldn't have treated you the way he did, he wouldn't have brought you to his workplace to have you at his side — and to poke Vought's eye every single time. He wouldn't have let you in and told you about his family and his dad, about his fucked-up childhood and how he became a hero.

No, your bond was bigger than any fleeting thoughts of incredulity.

You crooned softly as you wrapped a towel around your body after you finished your shower. Stepping out, you rubbed your hair with another towel and made your way down towards the kitchen to check on the pie.

Oh, Ben liked pies. You found it amusing how he'd swallow a whole pie alone and wouldn't affect him one bit; a supe sure required a lot of calories. Sometimes, you wished you had his great metabolism.

The moreish scent of baked dough and chocolate told you it was ready. You opened the oven door with a protected hand and placed the delicious pie by the window to let it cool down while you dressed up.

On your way back to your bedroom, you padded through the living room again. Your eyes glanced fleetingly at the screen only to stop abruptly in your tracks. A slight frown made it to your face as you saw a picture of Ben and Crimson Countess together. You never liked Countess. Something about her always disturbed you, and your guts were right.

Your eyes roamed the headline over and over, dilating in stupor.

Breaking News: Soldier Boy and Crimson Countess are officially together, Vought announced.

You shook your head in disbelief, hand grasping the remote control from the couch, shivering fingers shuffling through the channels.

Soldier Boy finally found the one!

Your heart paced up with each press.

A long awaited power couple is now here!

Vought just shocked the world by—

And here's Soldier Boy and Countess's statement…

It was hard to quell your simmering anger when you saw your husband smiling face with that bitch between his arms. Camera flashes and clicks swarmed around them with an entourage of reporters and interviewers.

“Hey, Soldier Boy, now you're together, what can you tell us about the first time you saw Countess? Was it love at first?” A reporter asked.

Ben scratched his beard with his gloved hand, drawling “First time I met Tess was when Vought concocted a hero collab years ago, remember that honey?”

You did remember that event very clearly. You were still Ben's secret girlfriend at the time, and it was exclusive to superheroes, yet Ben brought you there as his date.

Ben grinned as if dreamily reminiscing about the memory as he continued, “And lemme tell ya one thing, this one is a firecracker.”

Countess giggled playfully, gazing up at your husband in the most flirtatious way, it made you gag with disgust.

You scoffed bitterly at the blatant lies spurting right in your face. That specific night, Ben had childishly grumbled and complained about how much he wanted to be out of there. And to spice things up, he playfully dragged you from the pristine hall the event took place in, and fucked you raw against one of the wall of some other hall, keeping your panties as a souvenir for the rest of the soirée. He kept teasing you through the entire night, riling and messing you up. At the time, it was thrilling and venturous. Now, however, it knotted at the tip of your stomach. His focus that day was solely on you. He wasn't even aware of the bitch's presence for all you care.

“And when I first saw her… knew she was the one….”

You couldn't comprehend what Ben said after that point as a deafening buzz bolted through your ears. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and soon they were streaming from your eyes as you stood numb on your spot. Your tears splattered on the ground along with your heart.

“Honey, I'm home.” Ben announced once he stepped in the house. He sighed, putting his shield down and making his way to the kitchen where you usually would be, making his dinner. He didn't take his boots off though he knew you'd throw a fit about it, but let's just say that teasing and screwing with you was his favourite hobby. His anticipating grin soon dropped and a small scowl knitted his brows when an odd mixture of scents wafted into his nose. His eyes dilated at the unusual messy scene in the kitchen; the table was flipped over, glass splints scattered all over the floor, freshly-cooked food covering the carpet beneath the dining table, and a chocolate pie was squashed into the wall.

With a pacing heart, Ben cried your name, and hurriedly climbed up the stairs. His feet darted to the bedroom when he heard you sniffling and weeping.

An audible sigh of relief flouted out of chest when he saw you. Your hair was wet and a damp towel wrapped around your body, but his eyebrow quirked up when he noticed you packing a bag on the bed. The fuck?

“(Y/N), the fuck is going here?” You scared the shit outta me. He wanted to say, after the shitty day he had, he just wanted to have you in his arms and play with your hair.

You startled for a moment when you heard his southern accent. You used to be fond of it, but today you were certainly not.

“I'm leaving.” Your answer came out curt, your hands tugging your bag zippers close.

You heard his footsteps getting closer until you felt his hand on your bare shoulder, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

You pulled yourself away from his hold, hissing, “Don't you fucking touch me!”

He didn't seem to heed your warning as he reached a hand to your face. Gritting your teeth, you spun around with your hand ready to deliver a slap to his cheek. However, and no matter how fast and pissed you were, he was always quicker and alerter. Fucking supe.

“You don't get to touch me ever again you asshole!” You shrieked, yanking your wrist from his grasp, your wet hair stuck to your face, chest heaving with each breath. 

“The fuck is wrong with you, woman?!” He growled with a deep scowl, “Just left you all happy and giggling in the morning, is it here? Your time of the month again?”

“Fuck you!” You spat, clenched hands rising up to his chest, “You're my fucking problem,” You jabbed a fist to chest, though he didn't move an inch, but damn didn't it feel good! You blew another punch to his stupidly firm chest again and again.

“Fucking Christ!” He grumbled, and with one strong arm, Ben wrangled your back against his chest and caged you in his steel hold, one hand securing both of your wrists above your head, “Calm the fuck down!”

Legs kicking and hands tugging, you tried to wriggle out of his arms but to no avail, you felt so helpless against his raw strength. Your anger and frustration poured out of your mouth in a wailing, broken voice, “Leave. Me. Alone!” You bellowed, “Go to your fucking Crimson Bitch!” Two rivulets of tears drizzled from your eyes again, “Go to your fucking Tess and let her fire-crack your nuts, you fucking pussy!”

“Christ on a cross, do you hear yourself talk, woman?!”

His eyes widened before his eyebrows scrunched deeply. He took you off guard when he brought you down to the floor as he crouched on one knee. Your towel unwrapped at the sudden movement and you were naked beneath his eyes. His hands were still holding you in place.

Two green eyes regarded you softly, “You really took that marketing shit for real?” He thumbed your lower lip, and his free hand trailed down your naked form. “Fucking hell, thought you were way smarter than that, sweetheart.” You shivered from both the cold and his touch, his sinful reaching your mound, “You really think I'd fucking leave you for her?”

You couldn't suppress the moan when he stroked your throbbing clit. A shot of arousal seeped out of your opening much to Ben's satisfaction. Anger made the colour of your face rise, “Fuck you! Fuck your bitch! Fuck Vought!” You spat, your eyes burning holes into his as he proceeded toying with your flesh until your voice broke, “Y-You want me to buy your shit — Ah!” Two of his thick and expert digits entered your slit, massaging your love spots thoroughly. “After you didn't stand up for our marriage?!” You groaned, hips rolling to the rhythm of his fingers.

“Is that so?” His brow quirked up amusedly. Was this funny to this bastard? Was your marriage some kind of a joke to him?

You gasped as he deliberately hit your weak spot; sweet, delightful coils fluttered at the tip of your stomach, “I was under the fucking impression that you had your pretty, little head wrapped around how this fucking business worked!” He snarled.

“Fuck you! I hate you!” Your body snapped as you came abundantly on his fingers which made him grin slyly down at you.

You felt his grip on your wrists loosen, so you took your window and jerked yourself free. He was shocked when you pushed him down on the floor and straddled his hips, your dripping cunt was drenching his pants with your cum. He raised a playful brow at you but soon was replaced by a shocked frown when you slapped his irritatingly handsome face.

“Fucking hell, you fucking little ballbuster—”

You shushed him with a finger on his lips, “You're fucking mine, Benjamin, you hear me! You're fucking mine!” You hissed, having no idea where your vigour came from as you tore his shirt off of his chest. His length poked you when you gazed with searing fire in your eyes at his, “You. Belong. To. Me.” You furiously tucked his pants and boxers down, his cock springing out with life.

A wanton moan came off your lips as you sunk yourself down his cock, whereas he grumbled in pleasure as you hugged him tightly with your wet and warm insides.

You snapped your hips harshly and he growled, “Fuck, doll—!”

Another snap, your voice was laboured, “I own you. You're married not to that whore, not to Vought, but to me!”

Your skin slammed against his meat vehemently as you gritted your teeth when another orgasm was spiralling in your body. You paced up your movement, a hand banging demandingly on his chest, “Say it! You're fucking mine!”

“Holy shit!” You watched his eyes roll backwards as he rasped, “Yours, babe,”

“Holy fuck, Ben! Ben, I'm coming again!”

That was his cue to take control again. He sat up, cradling you in his warm hold, “Cum to me, babe, fucking soak my cock.” You wabled his name, clinging to his shoulders as your climax stormed out of your body like a mad hurricane. You whimpered pathetically when his two large hands on your hips kept making you ride him through your high.

“Fucking stupid girl,” He growled, shooting his seed up your insides.

With laboured breaths, you glared at each other. You felt his cock softening inside of you, “Fucking idiot man.” You scoffed.

He chuckled with a boyish grin on his sweaty face, “That was fucking hot, think I like this wild side of you, darlin'”

You snickered, “You bet, wait until you see what I'm gonna do with that little fuck, Edgar.”

Ben rumbled a deep chortle, much to your annoyance, would this man ever take you seriously? “I swear to fucking Christ, Ben, if they—you don't break off that stupid shit with Countess and go public about us, I'll fucking burn that fucking tower to the fucking ground, because I'm fucking done with this—mhmmm!”

He cut you off with a scorching kiss and its heat made you thaw against his lips. His cock twitched inside of you.

“Jealousy looks pretty on you though, sweetheart” He teased, his lips brushing to yours.

God, damn this man and his endless ego! “Ben!” You nudged him playfully.

“Can't wait to see you wanting to snatch some ladies' heads off when we go to balls together.”

You smiled at him, biting on your bottom lip. The idea of finally being acknowledged as Ben's wife warmed your heart, and his willingness to do so made your heart race. However, disturbing thoughts loomed in your head again, “Think Vought will let us be?” You asked with hesitation. Fuck, that shit really got too deep into you.

He rolled his eyes, “Try not to work your pretty head hard 'bout this, doll,” He tucked a tress of your hair behind your ear, “The man who fucking beat the Nazis can handle some sweaty fucknuts at Vought.” There was something warmly reassuring about his smugness.

“See? All that shit wouldn't happen if you didn't stay silent while they fucking tried to play their fucking game!”

Ben chuckled, “Well, the fucking was totally worth it.”

You groaned in frustration, “Ben… I thought you abandoned me.”

Your husband furrowed his brows at you, “You women hardly think sometimes, don't you?” You scowled at his remark but he sighed, cradling your cheeks in his warm hands, “I fucking fought to make you my wife. I fucking put my whole career and name at risk for you.” You blinked at him, “The day before we tied our knot, I fucking told the boardroom that I was marrying you, that I'd fucking walk off if they tried anything funny… they didn't, till fucking today.” He sighed, “They fucking announced that bullshit before I was even told.”

“Assholes,” You whispered.

“After that pathetic act, I fucking stormed to Edgar like I stormed Normandy. Let's say that he and I did a little bit of chatting,” He gave you a conceited smirk, giving you no detail of how he got scared shitless when he saw the mess in the kitchen. He thought Vought dared to fucking do something to you. And when he heard you cry he feared the worst. But of course, he wouldn't tell you anything about that. Because he was the fucking man of this house; if his feelings of fear appeared, the sense of security he provided to this house, to you, would crumble. And he wouldn't have that. Ever.

You, on the other hand, had a weird combination of pride and happiness sprouted within your chest.

“I'm so sorry, Ben…” You said, cupping his face in your hands, “I-I don't know what came over me when I saw you with her,” You couldn't even say her name.

“Couldn't have your man stolen away, could you?” He teased you.

“Never.” You answered, “And I'm sorry for what happened, husband.”

“I mean you did make it up for me, wife,” He flashed you a cheeky grin, “Though, I don't feel particularly in a forgiving mood… yet.”

Head tilting to the side, your raised an eyebrow, rolling your hips teasingly on his cock, “Don't push your luck…”

“Try me.”

[a-simple-imagine]

Help! My Girlfriend Just Fell Down The Alt-Right Supe Supremacist Pipeline

Synopsis: you, an empath, just watched cate, your girlfriend, murder dean shetty

Pairing: Cate Dunlap x fem!reader

Words: 1.2k+

A/N - obsessed with cate and will not apologise for it so I wrote a little something for her. a sweet little baby angel

WARNINGS - swearing, blood, mentions of violence and murder

the human body has so much blood. approximately 1.2-1.5 gallons. you've never really thought about it before but it kinda just pours out, the first chance it gets. and it's such a deep, unsettling, thick shade of crimson. really gross. human beings are such fragile things. it takes one little injury and you're down for the count. Dean Shetty had such a powerful presence. an influential woman. the head of a school for superheroes, no less when she had no special abilities. at least not in the Vought sense. but all it took to take her down was one touch from an adorable blonde girl. her lifeless body spread over the floor of her beautiful home; a pool of red forming below her neck. you can still hear the sound of the blade cutting through the flesh; it glides through her skin so easily. It was a memory you were sure would never leave you. all because of Cate. the person you least expected to become a cold-blooded murderer. Then again, maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought. you never would have guessed she was capable of being so manipulative but that turned out to be true. you still didn't quite understand it. how could she do that to your friends? to you? someone she apparently cared so much about.

the air was rich with the emotional weight of every single person in the room. it was so thick you could almost taste it. it was sour and harsh; so unbelievably suffocating. it spilt through your veins. you couldn't tell what belonged to whom. there was just so much of it. you hear your name slip from such gentle lips. it's hard to pull your eyes away from the horror scene before you even for cate. none of this seemed real. it couldn't be real. your girlfriend wasn't capable of murdering someone. she may not have held the knife but she did give the order.

cate takes a tentative step closer to you and with it, her individual emotions grow sharper. "you understand don't you," she expresses softly. your hands are shaking. it's just reflective of what happened with Shetty. the pain she felt. you felt. "I know you do." despite everything, you're not fearful of Cate. you know she wouldn't hurt you. all the mind fuckery was some misguided attempt to do the right thing. so you guess Cate was right, in some ways you did understand but not in the way she wanted. "it's us or them."

"oh Cate…" you sigh softly. there was so much panic in the room and yet so much expectation placed upon you. you were the closest to Cate. you knew they expected you to denounce her. they expected you to do… something. but you can't. she has been through so much. She was handling so much. Even if you tried, there was no changing her mind right now. the blonde moves even closer.

"she was trying to kill us all with her virus," she was desperate for understanding that you couldn't quite give her. Dean Shetty was an awful person. nobody would deny that and maybe she deserved to die but could you really forgive Cate for this? you wanted to. you wanted to help her. but this was all too much. your entire body alive with the weight of everyone else's emotions.

"I…" you trail off. you're not sure how to make this better. there was no bringing dean Shetty back to life. no way for Cate to come back from this. you like cate. you… love cate. you have never told her that. you didn't really realise until this very moment as you face your own reality. you wonder if she is in your head right now; reading your thoughts. there is a lot going on. her head is probably racing. wait. cate was no longer taking her meds. maybe this wasn't real. maybe this was like the time you got trapped in her head. god, you hoped it was like the time you found out Soldier Boy was her imaginary boyfriend. gross. "Cate, please. let's just wake up. this isn't real, right? tell me this isn't real."

"she's gone fucking crazy," someone yells but you can't tell who. it seems almost muffled. there is so much noise in her. your head feels like it's gonna explode. l

"Cate." you articulate more firmly this time. block it out. block them all out. "you didn't- this isn't happening."

"you heard her. you heard what she said. she wanted us all dead- they all do. I couldn't-" so much urgency in her voice. so much fear. "I'm protecting us-"

"Cate just stop please," you bark loudly. you didn't want to hear this. you couldn't handle this right now. you just wanted to wake up from this horrible dream

"you- you have to understand." the blonde grabs your hand and everything she is feeling crashes over you like a tsunami. heavy and dangerous. you buckle under the water. drowning beneath the waves. you can't do anything but let it crush you; a single tear spills down your cheek before the rest comes pouring out.

"don't fucking touch her." Jordan shoves her; hard. You tumble to the floor. a strong sense of loyalty radiates from them. a fierce sense of anger. so much red-hot fury. he wanted to protect you. they had always been that way. you never quite understood why. perhaps the nature of your powers made you seem weak or maybe it was how easily you became overwhelmed. One touch and you can sense every emotion and the meaning behind them. Cate can read minds but you could feel them. you experienced other people. to some extent, you could even manipulate them. Cate would tell you how powerful she knew you would be. it all came with practice. you believed her to be true but you never tried. you hated your abilities. people are just too much. they feel too much. you don't like it. you actually hate it. you spent all your time trying to block it out rather than learning to control it. because when emotions are high, you almost become incapacitated. you can't move. you can't speak. you can only feel. you can feel Cate's desperation. her drive. her desire for self-preservation. you can feel Jordan's hatred. how much he wants to hurt Cate. how much they're holding back to protect you. you can also feel Emma, Marie and even Sam. You bury your head in your hands. you want it to stop. you need it to stop. the tears were your own now.

"I couldn't let her hurt you." Cate urges once more. you know it's true. she has such strong convictions. she works so hard. and fights even harder. she has been mistreated all her life so it's no wonder that she works to protect whatever affection she can find. "I did this for all of you. I'm gonna protect us all"

"I- I need to leave," you mumble into your hands. a pressure against your back fills you with such intense energy that you bat it away. it was just Jordan trying to help. a reassuring hand. sometimes people forget you feel everything they're feeling. "I- sorry," you scramble to your feet. you hadn't meant to be so aggressive. it was their own anger anyway. "I just- I need to leave."

"I love you," Cate cries as you stumble for the exit. you couldn't be here anymore. you needed to get away from Cate. you need to get away from them all.

// NEXT

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Can we take a moment and talk about

Miguel, Hobie, and the Black!Reader

a.k.a Black Men aren't the only one who date black women so why are there only Black!Readers for black characters????

Don't think anyone has said it but I would like to see Miguel with some Black readers/Black OCs.

Like, I wanna see Miguel with a Boujee black woman, a loud one, a meek one, a stallion, a petite one-

I just wanna see Miguel x Black!Readers and Miguel x Black!OCs.

Black people are everywhere, in every fandom.

So black readers should be giving rep everywhere - not just with radical black characters like Hobie

Black women and black people in general IRL have our features demonized or looked down upon. In media, in the beauty industry, the fashion industry, hair industry, you name it. Our skin tones are 'too dark' to match well with makeup, our bodies too curvy or different, or hair too thick and hard to manage.

I think having characters openly express interest in them is radical - whether the character themselves are black or not.

The reason the Black Representation within Hobie romance fics stands out so much because every other character LACKS that.

In almost every other x reader fandom, black people and our features are ignored and erased for 'sweeter' things like blushing or 'running their fingers through your hair'

Like... Why can't there be a fic where Miguel compliments his Black partners hair. Or tries soul food?

You don't have to be a radical leftist like Hobie to find black people attractive.

So there's no reason for black!Reader to be confined to Hobie - or black characters at all.

You can write Dean Winchester with a Black!Reader. Or Sherlock Holmes, or Hobie Brown, or Miguel O'Hara.

Attraction to black people is so often seen as a fetish - that most white people and white characters never openly exhibit admiration or love towards black features and culture. They'd rather push us and our differences aside because acknowledging them and their beauty makes people uncomfortable. But those same characters will always 100% be implied to find white women attractive.

And in the Superhero Movie Sphere it's even worse.

ie. It's VERY VERY rare you will find Tony Stark with a Black woman.

The large majority of the women you see with Tony Stark early in the movies are WHITE. The ones he's taking to at galas and playing roulette in front of and kicking out after one night stands - White and blonde. If he sleeps with them - white and blonde.

And that's fine in the general population - a nonblack man who 'loves women' and loves sex just... not being seen with black women at all.

But if Tony Stark went two movies sleeping with only women that aren't white - uh-oh!! That draws attention!!

It's completely okay and not a fetish to be super attracted to white features in isolation, but if you take interest in non-white features without validating white women in the same breath then you're nasty and a fetishist and a racist.

Another example - Batman.

Zoe Kravitz was the first time we've seen Batman openly go after a black woman since maybe Eartha Kitt in 1967 - OVER 50 years apart

In the Christian Bale movies - he never flirts with black women. This classy, smooth Bruce Wayne isn't seen interacting with them. I mean... Why? Does he not like them? Or are the all the black people in Gotham just too poor to be around him to begin with?

????????? That don't add up. But that's how most characters are.

If a nonblack male character is shown in a relationship with a woman - the chances of that woman being cast as a black woman hits the FLOOR.

Their first choice is almost always white.

And the saddest thing is

Spider-Man is the biggest example of black erasure in romance and the effects it causes.

That's why when Zendaya got cast as MJ - it was a problem.

Because before then, during the 70 semi years of Peter Parker's existence - he was never shown on screen being attracted to black women in any capacity.

Betty, Gwen, Felicia, MJ - all white. In the cartoons, white. In the remake, white. Silk is probably one of - if not the - first POC we see Peter with. And they don't date, they've never been shown on screen, and over the past years Cindy has had a better written relationship with Felicia than she ever had with Peter.

For half a century we were conditioned to believe that Peter Parker dated white women with no representation or deviation.

Back in 2016 when TASM series was coming out, if you were a black reader who wanted to see yourself represented in any way or capacity on screen or in Fandom - good luck.

We're use to seeing these very romantically forward guys never flirting or fucking or dating black women. We're conditioned to accept this as normal.

It takes a genuine toll.

That's why when I was younger, I use to feel so insecure. Wondering if my favorite characters or celebrities would even find me slightly attractive. The idea that my favorite character wouldn't find me attractive because they've never been seen with a Black partner or interest ever not even once in passing hurts.

As a teen I just accepted that these characters 'Don't like black people' and can't find them attractive in that capacity. Because I mean, I have no reason to think they do - when most nonblack characters won't even look at a black female character for longer than 5 seconds.

Growing up I just accepted that these characters and the fandom as a whole did not see anything beautiful about me because of my race.

That's why Black readers should be more widespread.

We should be telling people that non-black men finding black women attractive is NORMAL.

I read SO many fics of black characters and go 'okay but they wrote reader as white.'

I have NEVER read a fic of a non-black character and gone 'okay they wrote the reader as Black'

Y'all.... You can write interracial relationships with characters that aren't black.

Interracial Relationships are not a special magic tool you can use to pair black characters up with non-black readers. Interracial Relationships go both ways.

If you're down for writing Hobie x NonBlack!Reader and writing an interracial relationship there - why are y'all not down for Miguel x Black!Reader?

Why are interracial relationships good when the black man experiences attraction outside his race towards nonblack people - but bad/unlikely when the nonblack man experiences attraction outside his race towards black people?

'Hobie loves everyone' Okay, Miguel would too. But I don't see the 'Hobie Loves' people rushing and pushing for inclusion in the Miguel tag. They don't care if fanwriters show Miguel 'loving everyone'.

They don't go -

'Miguel loves latinas, Miguel loves black women' in Miguel's tag.

Even though nonblack men experience attraction towards black people and black women everyday across the world.

Some are even married to us - can you believe it??

In conclusion - More Miguel x Black!Reader. More Miguel x Black!OC.

Give Miguel AfroLatino Babies!!!!

Give Miguel O'Hara a Nigerian Wife so help me God

Anyway - Big up @hrhmimieucliffe and their AMAZING Black OC Giselle, who has a ~thing~ ;) with Miguel (they are v cute!!)

More Miguel x Black!Reader. More Miguel with Black! OCs. I want a Miguel that likes his women like he likes his milkshakes - tall, sweet, thicc as fuck, and FULL OF CHOCOLATE

And once again, that's on WHAT!!!!

[corydora-writes]

Sunshine After a Storm

Summary: Dean has been away on a hunt for over a month. Despite putting on a strong front for Dean, you've been grappling with persistent grief stemming from the emotionally demanding nature of your work as a nurse and the suffocating anxiety that Dean might not return to you alive. When Dean notices, he wholeheartedly dedicates himself to reassuring you that being vulnerable is perfectly acceptable and tenderly encourages you to lean on him for support and share the emotional burden.

“My sweet, beautiful, sensitive girl,” Dean whispered, the words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, soothing the storm inside you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Size F Reader; Dean & Reader are engaged. No physical description of the reader, but I envision fat women when I write. 

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, anxiety.

Word Count: 3,807

A/N: Yeah, so if it wasn't obvious, I'm rewatching Supernatural! Admittedly, this piece is self-indulgent, much like most of my writing. I wrote it over the weekend to help me cope with the emotional demands of my new job (I'm not in the healthcare field). I share these writings, hoping they solace others as we envision our comfort characters providing what our hearts and souls yearn for. 

Each day blurred into the next, filled with the routines of caring for residents who looked to you for comfort and support, yet you often felt like an island in the sea of their struggles. At the senior assisted living facility, you were the steady hand, the kind smile, and the soft voice that reassured them through their fears and anxieties. But even the strongest of foundations can begin to crumble under the weight of fatigue and isolation. The numbness from years of caring for others was starting to give way to a torrent of feeling—everything you had kept at bay for so long was threatening to overwhelm you.

The fluorescent lights of the nursing station buzzed around you like a swarm of relentless bees, each patient's story echoing in your mind. You recalled Ms. Loveday, who had once played the piano beautifully, now silent in her final days. Or Mr. Jenkins, whose laughter had filled the room, now a faint memory cloaked in the sterile antiseptic scent. A soft beep echoed from the telemetry monitor, snapping you back to reality. You forced yourself to focus on the task — reviewing charts, administering medication, and comforting the residents you adored.

After your shift ended, you sat in the break room zoning out, staring blankly into your untouched coffee, the steam curling up and dissipating into the air like the souls you had held onto, if only for a little while. You couldn't shake the feeling that your days were also numbered, that someday, you would hold Dean’s hand for the last time and never quite recover from it.

"What are you doing after this shift?" Your colleague asked cheerfully, snapping you back to reality. 

"Just... going home, I suppose," you replied, your smile a facade that failed to reach your eyes. Returning to your own life, free from the weight of others' suffering, seemed like a distant dream. 

"Take care of yourself, okay? You know you can't help everyone. You're not a superhero." 

You nodded, but the words stung. You wanted to be the invincible partner that Dean deserved, someone who didn't crumble under the weight of sorrow. Yet here you were, feeling fragile and frayed like the worn-out scrubs you wore, each thread a reminder of your emotional turmoil.

The old rigid door creaked as you entered the bunker, filled with the comforting remnants of Dean’s presence: his jackets tossed over chairs, half-opened magazines stacked on the table, and the faint smell of gun oil lingering in the air. Despite the chaos of the Winchester’s hunting life, there was a warm stability in the bunker, one you clung to now more than ever.

After a quick shower, you washed away the remnants of your long shift—the scent of antiseptics and the occasional, overwhelming smell of anxiety vanishing down the drain.

Just as you settled onto the soft mattress, you reached for your phone, and your heart gushed at the thought of Dean. You flipped through the gallery, each photo a whisper of your shared moments. His bright and infectious smile glowed up at you from the screen, reminding you of carefree days spent together—adventurous getaways, lazy Sunday mornings, and spontaneous late-night drives. You held onto the phone tightly, feeling the phantom warmth of his presence.

Beside you, Dean's flannel shirt rested on the bed. You buried your face in the fabric, inhaling deeply, as his scent—woodsy and familiar—wrapped around you like a warm embrace. It was comforting, a piece of him that bridged the miles between, yet it heightened the pang of longing deep within you.

Just as you felt your eyelids grow heavy, your phone buzzed in your hand. The vibration startled you, causing your heart to race. You glanced at the screen, and your breath caught in your throat. The name that lit up the display sent a flood of warmth through your chest: "Dean."

It was surreal. Could he feel your longing, hear your silent prayers for connection? You answered with a quick swipe, the screen illuminating your face. You panicked momentarily and hoped he wouldn't sense something was wrong. 

You uttered a breathless, "Hello?" 

"Hey, babe," Dean's voice greeted you, full of warmth and a hint of fatigue.

"Hey," you replied, your voice wavering slightly. "How's the hunt?" 

“Same ol’, same ol’. Just another day in the family business.” He chuckled. "How's the old folks' home? Still wrangling all the cranky grandpas?"

You took a deep breath. You were torn. You wanted to share your burdens, but how could you do that without dragging him down?

 "It has been busy. You know how it is."

"Something's off. Tell me what's wrong," Dean asked as he picked up on the subtle unease in your tone.

The genuine concern in his voice made your heart swell, yet it hurt to think of burdening him with your struggles. You hesitated, grappling with the urge to be strong. You and Dean had always been each other's anchors, but now you worried you might tip the boat over.

"I'm fine, babe. I'm just sleep-deprived. Been taking extra shifts to keep busy, is all," you finally said, forcing an upbeat tone you didn't quite feel. "Just know I miss you."

"I miss you too, baby. We're going to get ready to wrap up this hunt. Can't wait to get back home. We'll do something fun, I promise." 

"Sounds good," you replied, but the words felt hollow. "Be careful, okay?"

"I will. I always do. I love you, sweetheart." 

You heard a faint sound of chatter, and then Jack's voice chimed in, "Hey, I love you too!"

Your smile widened as you responded, "Love you both, too!"

After you hung up, you closed your eyes, surrendering to the fatigue that weighed heavily on you.

--------

Communication between you and Dean had always been a source of strength, but the waning enthusiasm in your voice concerned him and gnawed at him. 

He sat on the edge of the motel bed and couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Dean frowned. He knew how to read you like a book. ‘Busy’ was your way of saying you were overwhelmed; he could sense the weight behind those words. He didn’t think it was just the usual stress of your job—it was deeper, darker like a cloud hovering over you. 

Sam observed his restless brother, noticing how Dean's fingers tapped anxiously on the leg. 

"Go to her, Dean," Sam advised softly, his eyes reflecting understanding. "We'll take care of everything here."

Dean hesitated, glancing at Sam, who was perched comfortably at the table, absorbed in his research. 

"You sure about this?" Dean questioned.

"We've got this covered," Sam affirmed, projecting confidence. 

Cas, Jack, and Eileen joined in with subtle nods, their collective solidarity a silent promise of support.

-----------------

As you finished your shift at the senior home, tending to one of the residents, Mrs. Flores, you noticed the rustle of a delivery person approaching the nurses' station. The familiar scent of flowers wafted through the air, and your heart raced excitedly. It was that time again—Dean's way of sending his love your way, telling you that he would be home in exactly two weeks. 

The delivery person handed you a beautifully arranged bouquet of vibrant sunflowers and tulips, their golden petals radiating warmth. You carefully took the flowers, your breath hitching slightly at the sight. Then, with anticipation, you spotted the small card nestled among the stems. 

"Hey, gorgeous. Just wanted you to know I'll be on my way home soon. Can't wait to wrap my arms around you and show you how much I love you. You’re a beacon of light in my life, and I hope these brightened your day as much as you brightened mine. I'm so damn proud of you. See you soon. - Dean.

You couldn't help but smile widely, your heart fluttering at the words. Mrs. Flores, who had been observing you closely, chuckled softly. 

"That man has a way of making your heart sing, doesn't he?" Mrs. Flores said wistfully, her gaze distant. 

“You have no idea," you replied softly, pondering how lucky you felt to have Dean in your life, even with the chaos that often surrounded you both.

You took a moment to breathe in their sweet fragrance. Dean always seemed to know just what you needed— love, woven through the chaos of your lives, was a constant source of strength. 

You turned your attention back to Mrs. Flores, who was already gathering her knitting supplies.

 "So, what do you think?" you asked, a playful glimmer in your eye. "Can I pull off shamefully gushing about my fiancé while we finish these clinics?"

Mrs. Flores grinned knowingly. "Oh, honey, you go right ahead. A little love story in a room full of memories is exactly what we need!" 

Mr. Thompson had wheeled himself to get a close look at the flowers. "Well, don't you look like you've been kissed by the sun, dear! Who's the lucky guy?" He asked.

You turned, your smile even wider. “That would be my fiancé, Dean. He’s away for work right now, but this is his way of letting me know he's thinking of me."

"That's a lovely gesture! You keep that glow; it makes my day brighter just seeing you happy," Mr. Thompson replied, his eyes twinkling with warmth.

Your work device vibrated with a message from the doctor: "Ms. Loveday requests your presence for one final meeting." 

As you strolled through the serene corridors of the hospice, reminiscences of previous encounters with Ms. Loveday inundated your thoughts. The soothing, rhythmic melody of the piano keys resounded in your mind—the way Ms. Loveday's smile would gently emerge, her eyes glimmering with memories as she recounted tales of her youth and the magnificent concerts she once graced with her presence.

There she was, lying peacefully in bed, surrounded by the soft glow of the sunset filtering through the window. The room held a stillness that contrasted sharply with the anxious flutter in your heart. 

You approached her, noting her labored breaths and the slightest tremors of her body. You took her hand in hers, squeezing gently, wishing her comfort.

Ms. Loveday's face softened with warmth, her eyes twinkling with affection as she summoned all her strength to speak in a gentle, trembling voice, "What a good man. Those flowers are lovely, dear. They remind me of sunshine after a storm." 

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. The reality of her impending goodbye was suffocating.

"Dear," Ms. Loveday said softly, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying the warmth of a thousand shared moments. "Life is a melody, and like any good piece of music, it has its crescendos and diminuendos. Remember to embrace the highs and get through the lows together."

"Ms. Loveday, I—"

"Let me finish," the elderly woman interrupted with a gentle smile, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "you have a good heart. Don't let it harden with the burdens of this world. Promise me you'll live fully. Dance if you must, laugh often, and never let doubt overshadow your love."

You couldn't help but smile through your sorrow. "I promise," you finally replied, your voice trembling. "I'll hold on to your words and cherish every moment."

"Good," Ms. Loveday said, her voice growing fainter. She closed her eyes, a peaceful smile still resting on her lips."Thank you for being my audience, y/n. I think my final encore is about to begin."

Ms. Loveday's trembling grasp finally loosened, and as her hand fell away, the once-vigorous monitor that had been beeping with life fell into an eerie silence. Your emotional dam collapsed as you finally opened the floodgates, your tears flowing freely. In that poignant moment of grief, you found yourself consumed by a deep yearning for Dean, wishing for his unwavering strength to envelop you, to remind you that you were a team—each other's support, no matter the distance or the danger he faced. 

-------

Dean's heart pounded with concern as he stepped out of your workplace. He had traveled a long way, eagerly looking forward to surprising you, only to be met with your absence. He couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't add up. The receptionist's words lingered in his mind: "She'll be off for the next few days." 

This conflicted with the excuse you gave him just a few hours ago about picking up extra shifts and being unable to communicate as much. His sense of unease grew as he pondered the inconsistencies in your story. Leaning against the sleek Impala, he felt the cool metal against his back as he fought to calm his racing thoughts, determined not to succumb to the impulse to jump to the worst possible conclusion.

His foot pressed hard on the accelerator as he sped towards the bunker, a surge of relief washing over him when he glimpsed your car parked outside. With anticipation and trepidation, he stepped inside the bunker, enveloped in an eerie silence, save for the buzzing of the lights. 

Dean made his way to your bedroom and heard the shower's distant sound. Knowing you were home brought him instant relief. 

Dean waited anxiously for you as you lingered in the shower. Usually, he'd enthusiastically join you, but this time, he wanted to approach you differently. 

Fidgeting nervously, he tapped his fingers on his lap. Finally, he heard the water cease, and after a few moments, your silhouette casted a soft glow in the room. You emerged from the shower, oblivious to Dean's presence as he sat back on a chair. You were adorned in a delicate silk chemise, the delicate fabric gracefully draping over her figure. Seeing you caused Dean's heart to swell with emotion. 

“Sleeping early now, are we?" Dean remarked, causing you to stop in your tracks, completely bewildered by his unexpected presence. 

"Dean," you uttered, "I-- I thought you'd be here in two weeks."

Dean's relaxed demeanor tightened as he replied, "Yeah, well, that was before I found out my soon-to-be wife was going through hell alone." His attempt at lightness couldn't mask the underlying concern. "Come on, sweetheart, I know you well." 

You averted your gaze, not wanting Dean to see your swollen eyes from hours of crying.

"I'm fine," you said with a forced smile. "Where's everyone?" you asked, shifting the focus. 

 "Okay, so we're going to have a conversation through questions. I’ll indulge you." Dean settled back and observed you, still standing in the alcove, your expression hidden.

 "They're wrapping up the case, so it's just you and me in this bunker. Why did you say you were working extra shifts when you were taking days off?"

You winced at the question, your heart racing as you searched for the most sensible lie. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you—intense and unwavering.

 "I'm just... very sleep-deprived, and I intended to sleep a lot these next few days." There was a moment of silence. "That must have been a long drive... Did you stop by some place to get yourself anything to eat?" 

Dean knew that was a lie, but he wouldn't press it. 

“No, I wanted to get here as fast as possible," he said before pausing and continuing, "Look, I get it. Sometimes, we all need a break. But why the cover-up?" His voice was steady, but an undertone of worry was simmering beneath the surface.

You bit your lip, the weight of his gaze making your chest tighten.

"It was wrong of me, Dean. I’m sorry,” you said, hoping that was enough for him to avoid attempting to discover your weakness. “I’ll be back. I'm going to fix you dinner."

But Dean's worry only intensified, brewing a storm within him. He had faced countless monsters and supernatural foes, yet here he was, feeling powerless against the unseen burdens that tormented you.

He stood up, his instincts kicking in. His concern was knife-edged, a gut feeling that something was really wrong. He grasped your wrist with swift decisiveness, his voice taking on a steely resolve. 

“We're not finished," he stated firmly, his grip gentle yet insistent.

You averted your gaze, a fleeting vulnerability flashing in your eyes as your carefully constructed defenses were seconds from crumbling. 

He reached for your hands, holding them firmly in his own. 

“Look at me, baby” he urged gently. 

"I didn't want to worry you," you confessed, your voice soft and tinged with regret, but you still avoided his gaze. 

“Worry me?” Dean let out a short laugh. “you’re doing it right now, babe. Look, you’re my world. I’d rather know you're struggling than think everything’s fine when it’s not.”

More silence.

"Sweetheart," Dean uttered gently, "I know this is hard for you to talk about, but you need to talk to me." His thumb brushed just below your chin to lift your gaze toward his. Your eyes were red, and your face was blotchy as you inhaled shakily. Dean's heart shattered at the sight.

That was the final push. The facade pulverized. Tears spilled down your cheeks, and he reached for you, pulling you into his arms as more tears flowed. He tucked your head under his chin, wrapping his arms around you tightly as if he could shield you from any lingering pain and grounding you in the comfort of his presence. 

“I just feel so helpless sometimes,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like every loss weighs down on me. And then I come home, and it’s like I can’t escape those moments. They follow me, haunting me… and I see you, and all I can think about is losing you too.”

Dean’s heart ached at your words. He wished he could take away your pain and fight off those ghosts that plagued your mind. 

“You’re not going to lose me, y/n. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he vowed, his voice steady and firm. 

You took a deep breath, the weight of your confession lifting slightly.  “It just hurts so much,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to bring that darkness into our life together.”

Dean's voice carried a tinge of sadness as he spoke, "This has been weighing on you for months, and you've been keeping it to yourself..."

His grip on you tightened as if he could absorb your pain through the closeness. He knew that being a nurse wasn’t just a job for you; it was an emotional battlefield that often took its toll on your heart and soul.

Dean let go to look into your eyes, a deep intensity and vulnerability reflected back at him. The weight of your pain was palpable, a burden you carried alone, and his heart ached for you. 

“We’re in this together, alright? Your pain, your joy—it’s all part of us now. And I’d take all the broken pieces if it meant keeping you whole," he murmured, his voice filled with compassion and unwavering devotion. “Let me be there for you. I’d take every scar, every sleepless night, just to keep a part of you with me. Because every moment we have together—every laugh, every fight, every kiss—it's worth everything to me.”

Your breath hitched and your heart raced as you locked eyes with him, desperately seeking any flicker of doubt in his unwavering gaze. Instead, you found an intensity of devotion that seemed to pierce into the depths of your soul.

Dean felt a natural, instinctive love for you, as effortless as drawing breath, as vital as his ongoing battle against the surrounding darkness.

“Dean, you can’t just—”

“I can,” he interrupted softly, his grip on your hands tightening. “I want to. You’ve been through so much, and I can’t stand to see you suffer alone. I’ll shoulder whatever you need me to. I want to be part of your healing, just like you’ve been a part of my redemption,” he confessed with profound sincerity.

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and for a moment, you felt the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. 

“But what if it breaks you?" you whispered, vulnerability spilling from your lips.

"Then I’ll mend myself," he replied with a fierce intensity. "I promise you, I’d rather be broken alongside you than whole without you."

He pressed a kiss on your forehead, warmth flooding between you two. 

“I’ve dealt with a lot of things in my life—hell, monsters, heartbreak, loss. But I’d fight a hundred more battles if it meant I could protect you from feeling even one more ounce of pain."

As Dean pulled you into his arms, you felt a sense of safety that promised you two would face whatever came next, hand in hand, pain and all. 

Dean’s fingers traced gentle patterns on your back as you nestled your face into the crook of his neck. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with his scent of leather, musk, and faint traces of campfire smoke that clung to him. Your warm exhale caressed his skin, and he could feel the subtle curve of your smile against him. He thought you were so beautiful, fitting in his arms perfectly and his heart so completely. 

“My sweet, beautiful, sensitive girl,” Dean whispered, the words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, soothing the storm inside you.

Dean held you tighter, pressing soft kisses into your hair, breathing in the comforting scent of your shampoo—the smell of home. 

Then Dean let go momentarily to look at you.

"Don't hide from me again, baby." He implored with firm conviction in his voice.

"I promise," you vowed sincerely.

The worry etched on your face disappeared as you made eye contact, and despite the exhaustion in his bones, Dean couldn't help but smile.

“God, I missed you,” he said earnestly. 

Dean delicately swept a stray strand of hair behind your ear, sending a shiver down your spine at the sensation of his touch.

Then, without another moment's hesitation, Dean wrapped you in his arms again, pulling you close as your lips met in a tender, yearning kiss. It was sweet and soft, a culmination of longing that had built up over the past month. You melted into him, feeling the familiar warmth of his embrace—how he held you as if you were his entire world. The kiss deepened, filled with an abundance of emotions—relief, love, and a touch of the bittersweet ache of all the days spent apart. 

Dean grinned as you pulled apart. "Now, why don't I order us some takeout? We can binge-watch something terrible together. I'm pretty sure you've missed my awful taste in TV."

You let out a chuckle and nodded. “I’d like that.”

[zepskies]

Hello hun! 😊

Okay, since I'm still on hold up here 🙈, I thought I send you a question.

How do you find a plot for your storys? What get's your inspiration going or what does spark you to make it a WIP?

So interested to hear how it works for you. 😁

Hey there, lovely!! 💜

Aww still waiting on Tracker to come out for you, huh? Almost there, right? 😅

But thank you for this question! The lovely @luci-in-trenchcoats asked me a similar one not too long ago in this ask, so my answer will be similar on some things.

⚡ Getting inspiration for stories:

Initially, my imagination always gets sparked by the "What If" question. Here are a few examples:

"What if Soldier Boy could be redeemed?" (Break Me Down - Soldier Boy x Reader)

"What if Dean Winchester had a Latina girlfriend?" (Midnight Espresso - Dean x Plus-sized Latina!Reader)

"What if Dean was a firefighter?" (Smoke Eater - Firefighter!Dean x Reader)

"What if Dean met his soulmate in season 1?" (Never Say Goodbye - Dean x Soulmate!Reader)

"What if Russell Shaw set his sights on his sister's best friend?" (Every Second Counts - Russell Shaw x Reader)

"What if you had a messy past you were running from, just like the new sheriff in town?" (Take Me Home - Beau Arlen x Reader)

You get the idea. 😂

✍🏽 Developing the plot:

After that, where I draw ideas for the plot depends on the kind of story I'm writing. And for that, I'm a big advocate of:

"Write what you know."

"Write what you can research."

"Write what you're interested in."

"Write what you've never tried to do before (but may secretly want to)."

Again, a couple of examples...

Break Me Down:

With BMD, I already had a loose concept in Checkerboard, with the reader working surveillance at Supe Affairs. It would paint her and Soldier Boy (Ben) as enemies from the start. "Enemies to lovers" was a trope I had never written before, but I thought it was a fun challenge, besides the obvious one of attempting to "redeem" Soldier Boy lol.

In general, I'm a sucker for the gruff, devil-may-care, rough exterior guy who only becomes soft for his girl. 😂

More practically though, I drew from the source material a bit for the Black Noir twist (the comics), and also from my love of Smallville for some of the superhero plot aspects. I also knew that if the reader was going to eventually give Ben a chance and see the humanity underneath, she would need time to do it. So what better way than with an accidental kidnapping? 😅

And somehow it became this quasi- Beauty & the Beast storyline that developed into Ben and the reader saving one another, in more ways than one. 💚

Smoke Eater:

With this story, I had several influences that helped me develop the plot. I have a deep and abiding love for cop and medical procedurals like Law & Order, House MD, and Chicago PD, but also for Chicago Fire in particular. (Also my uncle was a firefighter.) That helped me create Firehouse 25 and decide which canon characters I wanted to pull into the narrative.

It was my first ever full AU as well, so I drew a lot from the SPN canon S1-2 storyline to create the overarching murder mystery/the string of arsons. I was also very much impacted from stories my friends had told me of their experiences with sexual harassment, which is unfortunately where the Nick storyline came in.

And I actually drew a lot from my own experience with grief and loss in that story. Specifically in the challenges the reader faces with her family (with Dean's help). I wasn't conscious of it at the time, but after I wrote the initial drafts and started editing each chapter, I realized just where I was drawing from for that storyline. 💙

All that to say, that's a snapshot into my process from ideation to plotting! It's not always easy when you hit those difficult beats in a story, whether it's grief and loss, trauma and PSTD, or just the difficulties of making complex plot lines connect.

But overall, I do my best to have fun. If I'm not having fun, then why am I writing? 😘

Anyway. 😂 Thank you so much for this question, my friend! @jessjad I'm pretty sure this is way more than you wanted to hear, but I so appreciate you for asking about my writing process! 💗

[fangirlingfromdownunder]

request here! i love your writing and was wondering if you could write a story where the reader comforts dean when he’s feeling upset and just letting him know he’s loved and he can always tell the reader anything on his mind without being judged

On Her Doorstep

Summary - Based on the end of Swan Song when Dean goes to the person he can trust to be there for him on what feels like the worst night of his life. 

Pairing - Dean Winchester x Reader

Masterlist

A/N - Sorry for the wait on this one. Thanks for the request, I love writing for you guys. I’ve been sceptical of writing a Dean x Reader imagine as I’ve been writing so much for In-Air Comfort and I don’t want either to take away from the other. But it was fun to step up to the challenge. I hope this lives up to what you had in your mind when you requested it. 

It’s almost midnight when you hear a loud knock on your door. You cautiously pause your show, and get off the couch. Sceptical of who or what could possibly be at your door at this time of night you don’t turn on any lights, just relying on the TV and taking a look through the peephole. The face that you see is the last one you’d expect. You quickly unlock and open the door so you can see the tall, green-eyed hunter in his entirety. His flannel and jacket are blood-stained and his usually cheeky eyes are red-rimmed. Without saying a word you pull him into your arms. 

After a few moments, you pull away slightly and lead him inside and gesture for him to take a seat at your island bench. You round the island and take a bottle of cold water out of the fridge and offer it to him. 

As he takes the water you hop up onto the island beside him and say, “Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head and drinks half the bottle. Once he replaces the cap and sits it on the counter you take his hands in yours and pull them into your lap. He rests his head in your lap and you take one of your hands and run it through his short dirty blond hair. 

“I might not have wanted that life, but I still love you, you know. I never stopped, how could I? I’m glad you came here tonight. I know part of you would have considered hitting a bar instead and drinking these feelings away…or losing them in some random chick. But instead, you came here, so I also know that part of you wants to be held and to talk through whatever’s going on.” You feel his tears wetting your thighs through your pyjama pants. He’s never been this vulnerable with you in the past so you know it’s something big. You continue to play with his hair, occasionally running your hand further down his back to comfort him. “I’m here for you. You can talk to me about anything. I love you, Dean Winchester.”

“Sam’s gone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes start to burn at his words. Sam had always been like a brother to you when you used to hunt with them and you know how much he means to Dean. “I’m so sorry about Sam.”

He lifts his head briefly to meet your eyes. “Baby, I don’t know what to do. I promised I wouldn’t bring him back. But how do I do this without him?”

“I know. I got you. We’ll figure it out. I promise. You can stay here with me for a while and take a break.”

“I’m not good enough for you. I’m a mess. I don’t want to mess up your life. I shouldn’t have come here.” He tries to pull away but you hold him tight.

“Don’t ever think you’re not good enough. You’re a good man. Yes, you’re a mess but look at the life you’ve led and you’ve lost everyone you’ve ever called family. I’d never judge you for having feelings. I know you spend your time acting like a superhero, but you’re only human. What you’re feeling is completely normal.”

“You got out. You’re safe. You’re happy. I can’t ruin your life like this. I can’t bring you down with my grief”

You grab his chin softly and bring his face up to meet yours. You kiss him softly. “You wouldn’t be ruining anything. I’m out, yes. Safe? I guess so. Happy? I wouldn’t be so convinced. But tonight isn’t about me anyway, it’s about you. Do you wanna talk about what happened? You know it helps.”

He shakes his head and drops it back into your lap. You start rubbing your hand back through his hair and down his back again. “It’s okay. I’m here whenever you’re ready. Take your time to process it. I’m right here.” You both sit there in silence for a while before your buttcheeks and back start to hurt from sitting on the cold, hard benchtop. “Darling, why don’t we go upstairs and cuddle somewhere more comfortable?”

When he looks up he can see the discomfort in your expression. He immediately stands up and helps you down off the bench. You lead him up to your bedroom, but when you turn on the light your eyes land on the dirt and blood on his clothes. “Do you want to shower? Do you have a change of clothes?”

He just weakly nods. “Okay, well the bathroom’s through there,” you say pointing at the door in the corner of the room. You try to let go of his hand but his grip is tight. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. You know I won’t judge you.”

“Don’t wanna leave you. I’m scared of losing you…like Sam,” he mumbles out.

You nod and lead him into the bathroom. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. Can I help you?” you ask cautiously as you lift your hands up to his shoulders. When he nods you help him out of his jacket and flannel, throwing them into the laundry hamper. He watches as you move to fill the bathtub with warm water and soap. He’s not generally the bath type but tonight he’s willing to do whatever you guide him to, not having the heart, motivation or will to do anything else.

Once the tub is full you make your way back over to him, your fingers softly taking the hem of his black tee and lifting it over his head. Your breath hitches in your throat as his toned stomach and chest come into view, but you push it down. Tonight’s not the time, tonight’s all about comforting him and making him feel loved in other ways. You quickly compose yourself and motion for him to finish undressing as you turn around. After a few moments, you hear his jeans join the rest of his clothes and the water slosh as he steps into the bath. You turn around and kneel next to the tub. Taking the clean cloth from the edge you submerge it in the water before softly dabbing and wiping at the tear stains and dried blood speckled on his cheeks, neck and chest. Once you’re satisfied with his cleanliness you start on his hair which is filled with dirt and more dried blood. You lather up some of your shampoo on your hands and then massage it into his roots gently. 

“Why are you doing this for me? I don’t d-”

“Because you need it…because I want to…and because…because I love you.” You rinse out the shampoo being sure not to get any in his eyes. When you feel the water is starting to cool you stand and hold out a towel from him. He takes it and wraps it around his waist. That’s when you realise that despite him confirming he had clothes, he didn’t bring any inside. You rummage through your drawers and find a pair of sweats and a tee that you’d snuck out of his bag when you’d left him and Sam a year ago. “Here, change into these. I’ll be waiting right outside the door, okay?” you say as you hand him the clothes. Once he nods you make your way back into your bedroom and take a seat on the bed. It’s not long before Dean joins you. He lays down under the covers and you cuddle up closer, holding him tight. You lay on his chest in silence listening to his slightly elevated heartbeat.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “He made me promise I would try to live a normal life…That I would come to you and give us a proper chance.”

“Then let’s do it. And if you start to feel lost, tell me. It’s not easy getting out. But I’m here for you and I understand. I’ll never judge you. I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

You feel his arms squeeze you tight as his heart rate finally starts to even out. 

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Five-Finger Discount (Dean/Reader)

Title: Five-Finger Discount

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean x Female Reader

Summary: It's supposed to be a simple case. A little undercover. A little burglary. A little spell. Dash of salt and burn. No muss, no fuss. So, why the hell are you getting these uncontrollable thoughts about Dean's... hands?

Word Count: 10,300

Tags: Hand & Finger Kink, Dean Winchester is a Scoundrel, Dean gets a Manicure, Fluff and Humor, Shameless Smut of the Finger Variety, Dean Winchester Talks Dirty

Notes: Because Jensen just can’t keep his hands to himself. See notes on AO3 for the offender/crime in question.

A persistent tapping on your bedroom door awakens you. It could be late evening or early morning in the windowless bunker.

Before you can check your phone for the actual time, Dean’s voice calls your name from the other side of the door.

You groan. Whatever time it is, it’s not ‘wakey wakey eggs and bakey’ time. “What?”

“Got word from Sam. He’s figured out what’s been killing the inmates in NSP.”

You sit up and feel for the lamp switch. After a turn and snick , you mumble, “Let there be light.” Your voice raises in answer to Dean. “That’s great.”

“Well, not that great.” The conversation is still happening through the closed door. “Sam figures it’s a ghost of a prisoner that died behind bars in 1870.”

“Why not great? Did you want more of a challenge? Ghosts are a milk run.”

You can hear the dramatic sigh, picture the tilt back and forth of his head, and the way his mouth mimics either you or Sam when the sarcasm leans on the excessive. Which is kind of ironic coming from the King of Snark. “Can I come in? You decent?”

“Yes.”

It’s definitely the middle of the night when you get a look at him. Dean’s hair is mussed. There are cheek and chin creases from scuba pillow diving when he sleeps on his stomach. “You got something formal to wear?”

“Huh?”

“A gown, dress, something promish or wedding worthy?”

“Promish?” That question reply to his question earns you a broad stance with hands on hips like a superhero as Dean stares you down. You twirl both hands around to remind him of the non-existent storage space in the bunker. Which should not be a thing in such a huge fortress where men dressed in three piece suits on the daily. “Sure. I have a whole rack of them hanging in my walk-in closet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, smart ass. Well, we’re gonna have to go do this thing in less than twenty-four hours that needs you in a dress and me in a tux.”

You suck in your lips and try not to laugh at how pissed Dean appears at the thought.

“It’s a charity fundraiser in Lincoln,” he continues. “We have to act like a couple of out-of-state spenders with deep pockets to get our hands on the Hand of Glory that belonged to this ghost.”

“What about Sam? I bet he’d look much better in a dress than I would.”

Dean shrugs. “He’s got the hair for it. But we can’t risk somebody making him.”

Of course. The one time Sam goes investigating on his own. He posed as an FBI agent and poked around too many people. 

You and Dean are going to have to go shopping. The all-out kind. Max out a stolen credit card at the mall kind.

Dean is gonna be miserable. You can’t wait. Grumpy Dean, for some reason, is very entertaining.

“How about you in the dress and me in the tux?” you offer.

“I don’t have the legs for it.” Dean shakes his head. “Get a few more hours of sleep. Gonna be a busy day.”

You’ve been around Sam and Dean for a long time. Long enough to have gotten a little numb and even blase regarding certain things.

The dangers of a hunt. The stench of death. The amount of blood a beheaded vamp body can ooze.

As you tick the tasks off for the heist with a trip to a dress shop earlier and currently helping Dean pick out a tux, another thing you’ve become indifferent to smacks you right in the goddamn face.

The hotness of the Winchester brothers.

You were talking with the owner of the suit store when Dean parted the curtains of the fitting booth he’d been in for five minutes.

And there it was, dressed to the nines, cutting a fine figure in a black tuxedo. 

The plain as day fact of how unfucking-believably gorgeous Dean Winchester is.

Stephen, well-dressed and highly animated, claps hands in front of his face. “Oh. Wow, that is, it’s like you stepped right off the cover of GQ magazine,” he gushes at Dean. “Turn around, turn around.”

Dean blushes, spins on his heels, and averts your and Stephen’s gaze. You’re glad because you can feel the warmth racing over your own cheeks.

“Sir, that is screaming perfection. I don’t even think it needs to be taken in. It’s like a second skin.” You’d think Stephen was buttering him up for a sale if he was overexaggerating. But, he wasn’t.

“Well, good, cause it’s not like we’ve got time for a tailor,” Dean huffs. Then, you hear, “You’re awfully quiet. What do you think?”

“I-yeah-it’ll do.”

After Dean swipes the key card, he steps aside and lets you pass the threshold first.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

The suite is swanky. No motels for you on this trip. You’ve got to keep up appearances, after all.

Windows that meet the ceiling give you a sweet view of downtown Lincoln. It’s not the New York skyline, but everything looks impressive from a higher vantage.

Dean pushes the squeaky luggage cart. The door clicks closed solidly behind him. “Alright. We got a few hours to get ourselves presentable. Then we head on over to the Sheldon Museum of Art.” He hangs the garment bags containing his tux and your dress in the closet. The duffle bags each get a chuck onto the king-size bed.

You nod at the reminder. Sam will be at the fundraiser as well. Between the ruse of you and Dean as the wealthy Mitchums from Kansas and Sam’s Agent Dion, you’re confident the case will be resolved before another not-so-innocent victim dies. “Too bad we can’t really enjoy a stay at a place like this.”

“Eh, overpriced. I can’t wait to get home to the bunker. It’s a lot nicer.” He rolls the cart back toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before you can quibble with Dean over your and his idea of luxury. But yours does have windows, excessive amounts of pillows, and room service.

Dean returns to find you’ve commandeered the entire vanity counter with makeup. He chuckles. “Never seen you put any of this crap on before. Do you even know how?”

“Asshole.” You thwack his tummy, but clenched stomach muscles anticipated the retaliation. “I’ll wear makeup for this case out of necessity. I don’t believe in going into debt to keep up with the latest beauty trend. This stuff costs a fortune.”

Dean picks up a packet of press-on nails and looks at the price tag. “Well, hopefully, it’s all worth it.”

As Dean inspects your haul, you notice the dirt under his own nails. “Your hands,” you state.

“Huh?” Dean’s brow furrows. He puts down the box and stares at his fingers.

“Those aren’t the hands of a millionaire.”

He smiles. “I’ve got a great rags to riches story I can use. You see, one day I was shootin’ at some food, and up for the ground came a bubblin’...”

“Ooor, you can look the part.” You cut off his recounting of how the Beverly Hillbillies came to be and sweep a hand in his direction. “Hurry up and shower. I’ll do your nails.”

His eyes bug out. “Do my nails?”

“Relax. Just gonna tidy them up. No polish. Although there’s nothing wrong with a little color on a guy’s nails. But maybe not for this event. We don’t need you to stand out too much.” You think about how he looked in that tux and realize how much he will stand out already at least in your mind. He’s still blinking at you, processing what’s about to happen. “Well, hurry up, Jeb. That oil ain’t gonna find itself.”

You gulp at the sight of a freshly scrubbed, washed, towel-dried Dean. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. You’ve seen him just out of a shower with his white t-shirt and sweatpants when you’ve been hunting on the road.

Maybe it’s the change of scenery. No motel. No mildew smells. No obnoxiously loud wallpaper to mask the soot and stains. No revving engines or wheels peeling right outside the door. None of the things that usually overwhelm and distract your senses.

His entire face is scrunched up in confused awe. Tools are neatly lined atop a towel on the small island by the kitchenette. Not the usual gun-cleaning ones, though. You clear your throat and pat the breakfast stool beside your seated frame.

“Is this gonna hurt?” he asks.

“Just a little detailing is all.”

He sits and eyes you warily.

A gimme gesture requests his left hand. He provides it, resting his fingers over the bridge of support yours creates. You try not to flinch in surprise at the warmth and weight. It’s not like you’ve never touched him before. But, you’ve never had the opportunity for contact to linger.

You lean down and in, lifting his fingers in inspection and deciding your plan of attack. Damn. They’re, well, you wonder how you haven’t noticed how big they are. His entire hand dwarfs yours in comparison. Dean’s a big dude. He is not as tall as Sam, but considering they’re both over six feet, you shouldn’t be surprised that his digits are substantial. You picture Sam’s hands in your mind’s eye in the usual situations. Tapping away on a keyboard. Flipping through their dad’s journal pages or some gigantic volume of lore in the bunker. Those fingers are long, but their slender and taut, proportionate to Sam’s body type and size. Jolly Green Giant size.

Dean’s? Well, it’s not that they don’t match Dean. They’re beefy, thick, and solid. All the things Dean is. But they’re more like a jumbo sausage sandwich than a hot dog that’s a little too big for the bun. Even the width of his palm seems way above average.

“What’s wrong?” Dean’s question calls out and you wonder how long you’ve been staring at his freaking hands.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

You get to work, using a nail brush that’s been soaking in a bowl of warm, sudsy water. A sturdy grip wraps around two of Dean’s fingers - it’s all you can comfortably manage - and the bristles scrub back and forth in quick passes.

Dean chortles. His fingers pull back slightly. The look on his face is one of surprise. You grin and ask, “Did that tickle?”

He snorts. “What? No. I’m not ticklish.”

“Mm-hmm.” You tug his fingers toward the brush. “Hold still then.” You continue the process. Dip the brush in the water bowl. Play Dean’s fingers like a washboard. And you delight in how his jaw clenches and body squirms. He does an adorable shimmy shake that starts at the shoulders and ends with an ass cha-cha. But you only let the torture go on for a minute or two. “Okay. Give them another wash. Then we’ll clip ‘em, file and buff, and these nails will scream private prep school and ivy league polo.”

He rises. “As long as there’s no more brushing.” He punctuates how serious he is about that with one of those fingers right at your mouth.

You swallow the urge to bite that finger.

For someone who was uncertain about the thought of a manicure earlier, Dean is back in a hurry to continue the process. You exaggeratedly shake the nail brush out of the soapy water bowl and softball it into the stainless steel sink a yard away. It clangs about like a noon bell. You raise both hands, “I’m unarmed.”

He snickers, “Not so sure.” He skirts his gaze over the remaining items. “Sharp and stabby things.”

“You have used clippers before. You’re not an actual Cro-Magnon that drags knuckles on the ground and runs nails along some flint.” You grab one stool and carry it to the other side of the island, settling into position for the next step. “Sit and stop acting like a baby.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, following orders and taking his seat from before.

“Hands,” you request.

He harrumphs and splays his fingers atop the terry towel, like a cat stretching and digging in with their claws. His hands are creamy colored and speckled pink from the washing and scrubbing. Ten digits tap along the cloth in wait. And you stare, longer than you should.

What in the holy hell is going on? They’re fingers for chrissakes. The same fingers you’ve seen on Dean all the time, day after day in the bunker or in the car or on a hunt. It’s not like he got a hand transplant or something.

“Come on, Madge.” Dean snaps two of those fingers together. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me I was soaking in it.”

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes. “Softens hands while you do the dishes?” He adds to the dramatics and unhinges his jaw. “Come on, we’re the same age. You gotta remember that commercial? Palmolive?”

“Oh, right.” You feign recollection, inhale to steady yourself and grab his left hand. It’s down to business time. “I’ve only lost five of my last six clients. Nothing to worry about.”

“Quite the comedian,” he razzes back.

“I am. Apparently you could learn a thing or two from me. The first? A punchline isn’t funny if you have to explain it.”

“Yeah, well…” He begins.

“Maybe come at me with ‘your face is a punchline’?” you suggest.

His lids blink in confusion. “It’s not, though.”

For some reason that shuts you both up.

You spend the next minutes manipulating each of Dean’s fingers, one by one in your palm as you clip. Tick, tick, tick. You give the nails a nice straight edge and round out the sides. His nails are stumpy, boxy and twice the width of yours. His skin is calloused, toughened in the spots you expect. From the thousands of hours he’s gripped Baby’s steering wheel, handled a shotgun, cranked a wrench, slid into the trigger of his Colt. But they are soft in other spots. The patterns of lines criss crossing and connecting like a terrain map enthrall you.

He’s quiet. Watching you work. You’ve forgotten to be mouthy for this bit. It’s hard to focus on anything but this and his breathing. You’ve forgotten the basic steps of inhaling and exhaling.

It’s when you’ve moved on to filing that Dean remembers how to word. “You’re good at this.”

“I should be,” you croak out then clear your throat. “I did my older sister’s nails all the time growing up.”

“Hm, I guess Sammy didn’t get the little brother memo about doing my nails.”

I grin up at him. “Maybe you should have had him watch that Palmolive commercial.”

His laugh is soft. His eyes gleam with that hint of mischief he dons when there is no imminent threat. When life is as close to normal as possible. You wonder what it would be like to take those hands and place them around your waist. Guide him to hold you steady, secure.

He opens his mouth, stops to lick his top lip.

It’s taking everything in your power to not catapult over the island and slam your lips against his.

He finally speaks. “We should get ready.”

And your daydreaming dissipates just like that.   

Two hours later, you and Sam wait outside the St. Charbel Chapel in Calvary Catholic Cemetery. It’s the closest church and holy ground from the museum Sam had found in his research.

A fire truck zooms down a nearby street, siren wailing.

You wait for Dean. 

Things had not gone according to plan.

At the fundraiser, Sam got cornered near the crudités by a Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office deputy. From what you overheard, Sam’s cover had been blown. He was in imminent danger of being arrested by Deputy Dickens for impersonating a federal agent. Dean was off in one of the acquisition storage rooms searching for the Hand of Glory.

You all were SOL.

You did what any hunter interested in self-preservation would do. Walked over to the nearest fire alarm and inconspicuously pulled the lever. Alarms went off. In the chaos of disgruntled partygoers filing out of the building, Sam dropped the deputy to the ground with a combo shoulder check and leg sweep. You were down on the floor in a flash, asking the lawman if he was alright. Before he could reply, you held a handkerchief doused with your travel-size bottle of chloroform to his mouth and nose. A clutch could only hold so much—such an inconvenience.

Sam pushed the passed-out deputy under the appetizer station’s floor-length tablecloth. You both did a hurried power walk past the crowd gathered in front of the museum. Sam tried his best to slow down his stride enough for you to keep up wearing heels. At least you only had four blocks to cover to end up at the cemetery, the agreed-upon meetup location.

You pace in wait. “He’ll be here,” Sam states with conviction.

You never want to leave a man behind. Especially not Dean.

Sure enough, Dean’s shadowed figure jogs up the cemetery walk in the dark minutes later. You recognize his panting first.

Sam shines a light in Dean’s direction. He’s a bit disheveled from whatever he had to do to skip out of the museum undetected. The hair, styled in a neat part earlier, is now askew.

“Guessing I have you two to thank for having to hop out a bathroom window and into thorny rose bushes.”

You shrug. “Sam was about to get handcuffed.”

Dean ponders for a moment. “Context is important to determine whether that’s good or bad for Sam.”

“Dean, come on, did you get it?” Sam asks with an impatient wave of his hand.

Dean pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and flaps it open with a wrist snap. He pulls out a gnarled, desiccated object under his jacket's lapel. “I did get it, using my five-finger discount.”

The burning ritual had at least gone smoother than the rest of the evening. Sam dropped the two of you around the back of the hotel in his rental car. You both had left Baby in the connected garage and taken a cab to the museum. 

“See you all at the bunker.” He smiles, energized, and pumped from a successful hunt. He’s glowing and adorable. You realize you have gotta dial back the internal ogling of your hunting partners and quick or it’s gonna get all kinds of uncomfortable in your head.

“See ya, Sammy.” Dean grins and salutes.

“Don’t take too long to get out of town.” Sam advises, flicks his bangs out of his eye line with a shampoo commercial head whip, then peels off with a wave.

The key card lets you sneak in through the poolside.

The ride up the elevator starts quiet. You spend the time zoning out and staring at the tapered triangle of shoulder and back that makes up Dean’s tuxedo jacket.

So, dialing back the ogling is going great.

“You looked really good tonight,” Dean murmurs. You catch his gaze in the door’s reflective surface. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “you still look really good. I never got the chance to tell ya earlier.”

The attention straightens your posture. You adjust the spaghetti strap of your little black dress. “Thanks.” It’s all you can think of to respond. You tear your focus away from the eye crinkles, now the newest sexy thing you’ve failed to notice. It’s safer to inspect the corners of the floor for dust. The small enclosed space heats due to Dean Winchester occupying it.

The elevator dings and you hold in a sigh of relief. You exit first, then halt so he leads. You trail behind him in silence to the room. He opens the door. Your steps scoot past his body.

“Got time to change?” Hopeful, you’re already rifling through your duffel for your jeans and flannel.

“Sam’s right. We should probably bolt.”

You groan.

“Let’s put some miles between us and Lincoln.” It’s not really a suggestion.

“Fine.” You give in, knowing he’s right.

You aren’t tired on the drive back. The sense of accomplishment after a successful case turns most hunters into live wires, you included. 

You and Dean have been chatting about the hunt. The lackluster food at the fundraiser. Sam’s impressive Latin skills. An apparent millionaire whose breath stunk like a month old convenience store burrito. And you knew what one of those smelled like from unfortunate firsthand experience. The conversation switches to some repairs that need to be done around the bunker. A casserole recipe on Pinterest you want to try. Who’s going to get the treat of washing all the MOL classic cars in the garage. The topics pogo all over the place. You love these moments with the brothers. 

You’re an hour and some change out from Lincoln, halfway to Lebanon, when Dean has an idea.

His finger wags at a mile marker. “There’s a decent bar in Bruning. Wanna grab a drink to celebrate?”

You stare at his unbuttoned tux jacket, then your dress. “Like this?”

“Sure. Why not?” It’s not really a question as he takes the exit.

You drew the line at wearing heels in the bar. Dean grabbed your worn cowboy boots from Baby’s trunk. He leaned against the car beside your open passenger door. You tugged on boots, leaned forward, giving any passersby a free show down the front of your dress. Arms folded, Dean scowled and puffed out his chest to any male who dared to glance in your direction.

A minute later you both entered the bar and did the usual routine without speaking. Head to respective bathrooms. Clean up and make yourselves respectable looking. But as you blotted your foundation and appreciated the staying power of your makeup in the mirror - okay, maybe that setting spray was worth the price - you considered who you were making yourself respectable for?

It’s not like either one of you were expecting to get lucky tonight. The bunker was less than two hours away. No one was gonna pick up a local and take them back to their motel room.

You applied a fresh coat of red berry lipstick.

So, that left only you and Dean freshening up for… each other?

You scoffed at the ridiculous idea, ran fingers through your hair.

A drink. One drink. To celebrate a job well done.

“That’s all it is,” you mumble.

You’ve played darts for an hour. Dean’s on his third whiskey. You’ve downed four fruity rum concoctions, mainly because you loved hearing Dean order the drink. 

Entertainment was the least he could do after beating you for the sixth time.

The waitress stops at your high top and grabs the empty plates and glasses. “What else can I get you two?”

Dean clutches a dart, deep in focus, squinting at the target board. “You wanna nother Bahama Mama?”

You suppress a giggle and smile at the waitress. “Just more water. Thanks.”

“We should probably load up on the grease before we head home.” Dean peers at the waitress over a shoulder. “Maybe some fries, darlin’, to go along with one last shot of whiskey?”

“Sure thing, sugar.” She smiles, then waits for Dean to turn around before eyeing his backside in approval. With a grin, she taps your bare forearm. “Lucky you,” she whispers.

You are lucky. But not for the reason the waitress thinks. Being around Sam and Dean means safety and security. The eye candy is merely a bonus. One you are debating if you should indulge in more often or continue to restrict your caloric intake.

After all, there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a work of art.

Dean had flung his necktie in Baby’s backseat and unbuttoned his collar during the drive. The casual way he now wore the tux was even more attractive. “Probably a good idea if you lay off the alcohol. It’s definitely affecting your game tonight.” He grins.

You lean your heavy weighted head against a palm for support. “Yeah, must b’it,” you slur, more than you like. Your gaze zones in on his fingers gripping the dart. Those damn fingers have been a distraction all night. He has to be unaware he’s sabotaging any ability to focus. Dean is an outright flirt with his targets. You’ve seen him lay on the charm thick and sticky the same way he slaps peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Subtlety has never been his thing.

Speaking of targets. The dart launches out of his hand and lands dead center. “That’s what I’m talkin’ bout.” Dean performs the ka-ching motion for what feels like the hundredth time that night. Normally, it’s annoying, but you battle your lids open to stare at his clenched fist in awe. Again. He slides onto the bar stool and inspects you with a concerned smile. “You usually drink me under the table. Sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” You hum. 

The waitress whizzes by and deposits Dean’s shot and a basket of fries. Dean’s voice floats in the air expressing his thanks to, you think he says, Linda. Then a pointed order hits you right in the face. “Hey, eat something. I ain’t carrying you to the car like some swoony duchess on those shows you binge.”

“They’ve got carriages, not cars.” You blink over and over and straighten up. A handful of fries fill your mouth. Your brain hasn’t caught up in time to tell you to shut up and chew. “Yud make a ghood ake.”

“What?” Dean smiles at you like he’s happened across his favorite Scooby-Doo episode while channel surfing.

You gulp down the gluey mashed goodness. “You’d make a good rake.”

“What’s that? Some kind of man servant? I was a handmaiden once.” He indulges in some of the fries before you eat them all. Those fingers push them past his lips.

“No. A rake’s-” You huff at the gall when he attentively licks the grease off his thumb. His tongue is quite, um, “Nimble.”

He frowns, obviously confused. “A rake’s nimble?”

You shake out the cobwebs in your brain, tripping you up with a collision of thoughts. “A rake’s a ladies’ man,” you mutter.

His spine stiffens, shoulders pop back in pride. “I do try to please the ladies every chance I get.”

“We are all well aware.” More fries thankfully save you from saying anything that may humiliate.

“Guess those aren’t your favorite characters. You probably like the stuffy types that are all serious, with their noses up in the air or stuck in a book.”

You shrug. “Nah, I go for the rogues.”

One of Dean’s brows quirk up. “The dangerous type?” One side of his mouth lifts as well.

“Yeah, a scoundrel. You know, the one you can’t quite figure out. They’ve got this bad reputation or some sordid past. But, they go after what they want. Take what they want.” You hum again and close your eyes. You can still see Dean’s grin in your mind’s eye.

“Too bad I don’t fit the bill.”

You freeze. Eyes still closed. He didn’t just… did he?

“I mean. It’d be all kinds of wrong. Me going for something I wanted, damn the consequences.”

You inhale and grip the curve of the table top. You open your eyes to find him sipping at his whiskey. “Don’t fuck with me,” you whisper.

He gives you a toe curling smile now. The glass clinks onto the table. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m not your type.”

“I-wh-” It’s too late. You’ve never been on the receiving end of what is most definitely Dean Winchester flirting. “What makes you think that?”

He leans in. His breath meets your inhale and you take in all the spice and warmth. “I wouldn’t do a thing to mess this up. Not unless, you know, I knew.”

You nod, dumbstruck. “Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, yeah.” A whoosh of fatigue makes your head spin.

Dean smiles. “We live together, hunt together. Packed like sardines together twenty-four seven sometimes. Wouldn’t want to mess any of that up. Unless I knew, you know?”

“Knew what?” Your chin drops to your chest despite your best efforts. The weight of your body gets ready to do a face plant on the table top. You squish your lids shut tight and groan in horror at the inevitable.

But, Dean is there to save you. Again. His fingers swoop in to cradle your jaw and lift up your head. The embarrassment and alcohol finally overtake you. As you fade, you hear, “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’ll remember the answer.”

You woke up in your bed, back at the bunker. Again, with no idea if it was morning or night. No idea how much time had passed since…

You spring upright to sit. And, yeah, that was a mistake. Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry and tacky. Your stomach feels like it got turned upside down. Not that much time has passed since…

You groan and lay back down, slow and gentle. You piece the last snippets of memory together.

You stare up at the ceiling, grateful for the darkness. You want it to suck you up whole.

Did you pass out in the middle of Dean hitting on you? Did Dean end up swooping you up and putting you in the Impala? Driving you home passed out in the back seat - or God forbid the front passenger seat with you lolling about, mouth probably open and drooling - then carrying you throughout the bunker to your bedroom? Did he…?

You pat your chest and feel the spaghetti straps and silky fabric of your little black dress. You sigh. He had taken pity on you and only stripped you of your cowboy boots.

There’s a soft tap on your bedroom door.

“Oh no.” You pull the blanket over your head, mortified. You don’t think you can face him.

But it’s not Dean that says your name. It’s Sam.

“You alright? I heard you… uh… moaning.”

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Hungover.”

You think you hear Sam snicker. “Dean said you outpaced him by a mile. In darts and drinks.”

That makes you pause to recall. No, you definitely don’t think any of that’s accurate.

“He made some breakfast before he went out, if you’re hungry.”

Great, he can’t bear to face you, either. “Thanks, Sam.”

“If you’re up for it later, I could use some assistance researching.”

You take a measured breath to quell the nausea. “I’ll let you know.”

You’d chewed some aspirin and drank glass after glass of water from the sink in your room and somehow passed out for a few more hours.

You drag yourself out of bed around noon and shower in an effort to resemble something close to human. The stomach growls lead you to the bunker kitchen. At first, you smile at the plate of pancakes Dean covered with a clean kitchen towel for you. A frown follows at the odd shape of them. They aren’t his usual silver dollar pancakes stacked six high.

You tilt your head, attempting to figure out what Buttermilk Banksy was trying to create. The two pancakes, side by side on a large plate, obviously started out as circles. But then, four long tendrils were added along the top of each and a little offshoot one on the side. A turkey? Why the hell would Dean make turkeys? It wasn’t anywhere near Thanksgiving time.

“‘Bout time, sleepy head.” Dean’s voice wafts in from the doorway. He strolls in without a care in the world. There’s no hesitancy to lock eyes with you. Which is good. That has to mean you didn’t make more of a fool of yourself than you remember. He tugs on the fridge door. “Do you want something else or those pancakes enough?” He’s asking the interior of the refrigerator more than you, his head circling the shelves. “Was gonna pile on the grease but thought you might need to take it easy after last night.”

“No, this is great. Thank you.” You keep your voice low, hoping he’ll get the hint and not make too much noise.

He seems to, clicking the door shut softly after grabbing a cold slice of pizza. “Oh, I thought we’d do a movie night in the Dean cave. I bought angus ground beef for burgers. I’ll make some potato wedges. Grabbed your favorite microwave popcorn, movie theater butter.”

The menu, miraculously, doesn’t make your stomach lurch into panicked somersaults. “None of that sounds Sam approved.”

“He’s got that author signing book store thing in Stockton tonight.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten for a moment how excited Sam was to listen to some guy read a chapter from his book on the evils of the Federalist Society.

“Think you’ll be up for it?” Dean asks, brows raised hopeful.

You smile. “I think I will.”

“Good.” He captures a third of the pizza slice in one bite. After four chews and a swallow he finishes with, “I’ll go easy on you.” The grin he flashes catches you off guard. It’s that one that if Sam saw it, he’d suspect you and Dean had a secret.

Problem was, you didn’t know what the secret was.

“We got weapons to clean in an hour. No matter what Sam says about research.” Dean taps the door sill on the way out of the kitchen. “Meet you in the library. Don’t be late.” He disappears.

You stare down at your breakfast, which is now technically lunch, and a queasy feeling erupts. But not from the hangover or the thought of eating.

The pancakes Dean made. You think you know what the shapes are now.

A pair of hands.

Time in the library with Sam and Dean is pure torture. 

You’re sat equidistant between the two of them, in the middle of one of the long massive wooden tables. Sam is on one end, flipping through page after page of a volume on corporal punishment. He’s trying to work out an easy cheat sheet - a work flow chart - that you all can use in the future. If you can identify what crime someone was charged with committing way back when, you’d have a better idea of the dismembered mummified appendage to track.

Dean occupies the other head of the table. A worn cloth laid out in front of him, all manner of weapons lined in a neat row atop it, awaiting his hands.

His hands. God, you hope the pancakes were merely a cheeky, inside joke on Dean’s part. Maybe it was a reminder about your insistence on the manicure. Or the friggin’ Palmolive commercial that, thanks Dean, you can’t get out of your head either. Because now all you can think about is Dean’s massive fingers dipped in a teeny tiny glass bowl filled with sudsy dish detergent. 

Between Sam’s page turns and Dean’s clink of weapons your brain can’t settle or calm down. You’re also trying to appease both hunters. You’re reading through a book on your right and sharpening a machete on your left. 

“That jugglin’ act might leave you with more than a paper cut if you aren’t careful,” Dean chides.

You swallow down the urge to quip something back. It’s only when the whetstone clears the curve of the machete and halts at the tip that you tear your gaze from the task and stare at Dean. “I can handle it.”

He smirks. “Oh, I’m sure you can HANDle it.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t want you to lose a FINGER.”

“How about you quit distracting her? She’s doing you a favor.” Sam’s brows lift pointedly at Dean. “And besides, why do you insist on cleaning weapons here when you could literally be doing it anywhere else in the bunker?”

Dean curls up the fakest smile at Sam. “Cause I love your company.” 

The boys settle after a few more grunts and scoffs at each other. You plunge nose deep into lore and wish the pages were waves pulling you out to sea. 

There’s no way Dean’s emphasis on “hand” and “finger” were accidental. Dean’s pretty intuitive. But you are a pretty good actor in your own right when you need to be. However, there’s still a chance that you said or did something when you were too intoxicated to remember.

It’s not helping that Dean’s performing his weapon cleaning like a goddamn seduction. Mr. Hand Model takes apart the sawed off, cleans the inside of and around the barrel, reassembles, and clicks all the pieces back into place. His nails look perfect, shiny and slick with the gun oil. His beefy fingers curl around the wood and steel in a way that makes you want to trade places with the firearm.

You somehow endure for 45 minutes. Last night’s indulgences are blamed in an excuse to head back to your bedroom. As you preemptively wish Sam an enjoyable outing later, Dean reminds you to rest up for dinner and a movie.

Ugh. You know how Dean gets when he won’t let something go that he finds hilarious. This could go on for a while.

It’s a trap. It’s gotta be.

Dean’s lowering your defenses with good food and good company.

It all started in the kitchen where dinner was served. He wasn’t kidding about the burgers. He made quarter pound medium rare works of art with cheese and all the toppings. The bun was Texas Toasted out. The guy even used the air fryer to produce ridiculously addicting potato wedges with a spicy paprika and chili powder coating.

Then, it was Dean cave time. No beer in sight, you were given pop to drink, with an offhanded “no repeat performance of last night” remark. You slid down the couch, groaning, pulling the hoodie over your face for dramatic effect. He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting between you on the couch and added, “You know, so you don’t pass out midway through the movie.”

You inhale the buttery goodness beside you and relax, popping back up in your seat. A swig of sugar wakes up your lethargic post-meal brain and settles the nerves that Dean is up to something. “So, what masterpiece do you have for us tonight?” you query.

He presses a button on one remote and the lights dim. Another remote in hand, another button press, and the television screen blares with an all too familiar soundtrack.

“The Empire Strikes Back.” You nod. “Good choice.”

“It’s your favorite one,” Dean reminds you.

“Yeah. Yoda. Duh.”

Dean chuckles.

Things fall into that easy going movie commentary that you and Dean are so fond of doing. It drives Sam crazy when he's watching stuff with the two of you. You’re spouting behind the scenes facts you know you’ve told Dean a half a dozen times already (like how the puppeteer who’s voicing Yoda also voices your favorite muppet, Fozzie Bear). Dean adds his own sound effects when the AT-ATs are firing, points out every Wilhelm scream, and helps Harrison Ford out by quoting all of Solo’s lines.

Leia is fixing some equipment on the Falcon and you comment, “I like the braid updo more than the cinnamon rolls.”

“Eh, I don’t know. The combo of beauty and baked goods is pretty hard to beat.”

Solo walks in and tries to help. Leia pushes him away. You sigh. “Here they go.”

Dean turns to you and raises an eyebrow. In perfect sync with Solo’s dialogue he utters, “Hey Your Worship, I’m only trying to help.”

You eye roll. “Would you please stop calling me that?” If it's a quote battle Dean wants, it’s on. If Sam were here, he’d be so done with the both of you right now.

“Sure, Leia.”

A huff for good measure. “You make it so difficult sometimes.”

Dean leans in. “I do, I really do. You could be a little nicer, though. Come on, admit it. Sometimes you think I’m all right.”

Wait. Wait. Oh no. You don’t have to be looking at the screen to know what happens next. Leia hurts her HAND trying to turn a lever. You clam up at all the fucking context this scene now holds for you and Dean. You can’t say the next lines. Because you know that Solo grabs Leia’s HAND as she says, “Occasionally, maybe… when you aren’t acting like a scoundrel.”

That’s when last night’s rum-infested confessions cut to the front of the memory queue. You adore scoundrels, rogues.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, though. He even gazes down at one of your HANDS. He continues the performance. “Scoundrel?” Face half cast in shadow, his lids widen, irises still manage to catch the light and entrance you. “Scoundrel?” A huge grin emerges. “I like the sound of that.”

Solo is massaging Leia’s HAND the whole time.

Leia whispers, “Stop that.”

Dean replies, “Stop what?” Though he’s not questioning the screen. He’s locked eyes with you. Daring you to break away first.

Leia answers, even softer. “Stop that. My hands are dirty.”

Dean tilts his head, uncaring. “My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?”

“Afraid?” Oh, Leia, Don’t egg him on.

“You’re trembling,” Dean’s voice is softer. He’s edging closer, but there’s only so much distance he can cover with the popcorn bowl in the way.

You decide now’s as good a time as any to try and act your way out of a paper bag. “I’m not trembling.” You coat your response with steel.

Dean is only encouraged by your participation. “You like me because I’m a scoundrel. There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

You ponder for a moment. “I happen to like nice men.”

“I’m nice men.” Dean offers with complete sincerity.

You scoff. “No, you’re not. You’re…”

The music swells. Solo and Leia kiss.

But, you and Dean just stare at each other, for what feels like an eternity. You know C3PO is gonna interrupt the lovebirds at any moment. It’s the only lifeline you have, so you wait for the robot with the worst timing in history to save you from embarrassment.

“Guys?” Sam’s voice calls from the hallway.

You snap, stick straight, your back pressed against the seat. Sam must have come in through the garage.

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Sammy. Come on in. Back so soon?”

The door flings open. Warm ceiling lights from the hall halo Sam’s figure. “You know how they say, never meet your heroes? Totally valid advice tonight.” Sam stumbles into the room, all lanky limbs, and sinks into the cushy side chair. He runs fingers through his hair, his profile scrutinizing the screen. “Jedi?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously, dude, how are we related?”

The three of you watch the rest of the movie without much commentary.

And you and Dean do not quote any other lines.

You cleaned up the dinner mess, alone, in the kitchen. You insisted it was the least you could do and Dean didn’t put up much resistance.

You find Dean’s bedroom door open on your way to your own for the night. You stop in the doorway to thank him again.

He’s putting away some shirts in his dresser, back turned. He looks comfy, cozy, showered, and perfect. You compose yourself in a split second when he senses you and cocks his head to the door. “Hey, everything okay?”

It’s his usual question, always assuming something needs fixing or solving. But, you sense extra concern in the tone this time.

You nod, wanting to ease the tide of Dean Winchester’s worry. “Thank you. Tonight was fun.”

“Yeah, even with Chewbacca?”

You chuckle. “Be nice.”

He waves you in as he wraps up his laundry. You oblige and sit by the tiny corner table. “Yeah, you’re right. Solo actually wouldn’t mind Chewy hanging out with him and Leia.”

You smile. Apparently, it’s Star Wars character dissection time. “So, if Sam’s not Chewbacca…”

The drawer squeaks closed. “Luke.”

“Han doesn’t mind Luke. Annoyed, sometimes. But, everyone annoys Han at one point or another.”

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, facing you. He stretches, hands entwined and arms raised overhead. A white t-shirt hugs his form here and there. You get a glimpse of perky nipples pressing against fabric. “Luke was competition. Before the brother-sister bombshell,” Dean states.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“But, the three of them, they made a good team,” Dean continues.

You nod, deliberate and slow.

“It only takes one person to start getting feelings for another one in the trio and then the whole galaxy is in jeopardy.” Dean taps the pads of his fingers together.

You sigh. You didn’t want to have to rat yourself out. But, Dean’s got a point. So, how do you go about telling him you’re finding him unbelievably attractive all of a sudden? And how do you ease his apparent worry? What, you’ll do your best to keep it in check? It won’t interfere with the work you do?

“We’re a good team, right? You, me, Sammy?” Dean cuts through the silence with the questions. He scrubs at the nape of his neck.

“I-I’d like to think so. But, you’re right, Dean. It can throw the whole balance off in a good working relationship if someone starts to catch feelings that aren’t reciprocated.”

His eyebrows form a distraught mountain peak. “So, it’s true?”

He looks so unhappy at the possibility, but you’ve gotta be an adult about it. “It just started happening during the last case.” You shrug. “But, I don’t have any intention of acting on them.” A hand raises. “Don’t worry.”

His lips purse tight. Nostrils flare. He’s deep in thought. Finally, he says, “But, you won’t know if you don’t act on it.” He nods more to convince himself now. “You should talk to Sam about how you feel.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Hey, I gave it a ‘good ole high school dropout that earned his GED’ try. We have established that I am not your type.”

“Wha-?”

“I’ll be fine with the two of you being a thing. I want to see you and Sam happy. If that means you both, together, that’s great.”

Your hands circle in front of you. “Whoa, whoa. Back up a minute.” Suddenly, your heart is racing.

“What?” He’s got that vacant puppy dog expression, every muscle in his face relaxed, wide open eyes.

You steady your breathing. “What made you think you were my type?” You can’t help the question. You only hope it doesn’t sound belittling or sarcastic. Right now, it’s your last defense of self-protection and attempt at fact finding. You gotta know if you are misinterpreting the revelation that Dean may in fact be upset if you and Sam were an item. Because… he wants you two to be an item?!

“You were acting… weird… ever since Lincoln and the manicure.” He twiddles his fingers. “I was picking up signals that weren’t there, I guess.” He shakes his head and mumbles. “Or, I probably was looking too hard to find something that wasn’t there. Like those times you tell me I’m sniffing around the wrong dog’s butt.”

You squish your lids at how crass you can be. It’s giving you less reasons to think he could find you attractive in any capacity. “Okay, but why was that so important to know?”

His arms extend from side to side. He’s getting riled up and more than a little miffed. But, you know that might work in your favor. His mouth tends to run on autopilot and the truth comes flying out. “Our, I don’t know, petri dish of co-existing in this jack-in-the-box wouldn’t get fucked up. I wouldn’t go off half-cocked and do something I’ve been wanting to do for a while unless I knew, for sure, that you felt the same way I did.” His hands retract and fall in his lap. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at his socked feet. “But, you don’t.”

You’ve got actual fucking butterflies beating their wings like bongo drums in your stomach. “What have you wanted to do for a while?”

His eyes track up to you. He’s inspecting you, hard. That’s doing nothing to quell the excitement inside. “What’s the point in telling you that now?”

“Because, maybe… you’re wrong and… you are my type.”

Dean’s lids lift a quarter of an inch. It’s a minute, micro reaction. But you catch it.

“Maybe I’ve been ignoring it for a while, because, like you. I didn’t want to mess things up. I love Sam.” You swallow, ready to bare all. “But, I haven’t been thinking about what his hands could do to me,” you whisper.

Dean inhales, sharp and quick through his nose at that confession. He exhales, adding, “Don’t fuck with me.”

You can’t do anything but grin in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a goddamn idiot. “I should have said that to you numerous times today. The pancakes. The gun cleaning. Freakin’ Han massaging Leia’s HAND!”

His lids widen. “Hey, it was me testing my theory. Like when we gotta douse someone with holy water to make sure they aren’t possessed. All but the movie, though. Swear I did not remember that scene until a few seconds before it started happening.” He sits up, rubs palms on his sweatpant clad thighs. “Well, okay, I didn’t remember the hand thing, but I wanted to see how you reacted to like THE best scoundrel ever.” Now, he’s grinning. “Been thinkin’ about my hands, huh?”

You roll your eyes merely to play along. “Alright, don’t get a big head.”

He cocks his head like a devilish rogue. “No need for a big head when I’ve got big hands.”

The giggle escapes before you can lasso it.

Dean slides his gaze up your seated frame. It’s a filthy, seedy expression. And hot as fuck. He stops to stare at your mouth, then licks his own. When his eyes meet yours, he commands, “Come on over and show me what you’ve been thinking of.” He pats his thighs. “I’ve got a nice warm seat for ya.”

He’s kidding, right? He wants you to sit on his lap. As if you’d even consider it.

And, yeah, you aren’t considering it. There’s no time for consideration when your legs have already propelled you out of the seat. You give his bedroom door a swing in a passing thought about closing it for privacy.

You can see the look of surprise on Dean’s face as you march over to the bed. But it’s mixed with want and eagerness. He opens his arms in welcome.

Warmth prickles your cheeks at the forwardness you display in accepting the invitation. One knee props up on the bed beside him. You anchor hands onto his shoulders, feel those fingers fan and lock onto your waist, and you bring the rest of your body up to straddle his lap.

You sigh, staring down at that kid in a candy store grin of his, and marvel at how very right it all feels. You settle, your ass firmly atop his thighs. The heat of him is immediate.

“Been wanting you like this,” he whispers, his nose brushing the skin exposed around your collar. A hand molds to the side of your neck, holding you in place. You shiver at the lips skirting upwards along the channel of your throat. “Now who’s ticklish?” It’s meant to tease, but his voice has lost that hint of mirth. It’s deeper, daring you to deny his observation as anything other than fact. “Maybe you aren’t ready for my hands. All.” A kiss at the juncture where your lobe meets your jaw. “Over.” A peck at the tip of your chin. He threads his fingers into the base of your hairline. He eases your head with a smooth tilt down. You lock eyes with his green ones once again. “You.”

The only response you can give is to connect your lips to his. Feeling the pliant, soft give of his mouth against yours. Then his insistent lean up and forward, forcing you to stand your ground while seated on his lap. You have to demonstrate your want is equal to his.

And you want. You so want.

Whatever you’re doing, his approving moan eggs you to continue. With each swipe and dip and dive of your lips, your mouth opens a bit more. The access encourages Dean’s tongue to taste. He laps at you gently, swirls around just enough that your core begins to ache. He pulls away and you groan. You’re drunk with desire, heavy and heady. 

Your lids blink open slow and sleepy. Thankfully you find Dean’s looking as blissed out as you feel. He’s inspecting your reaction through a hazy gaze. His hand captures the side of your face. Five pressure points sink into your skin. His eyes flicker to your mouth to watch his thumb outline the curve of your lip. The pad tugs and drags at your skin.

It’s only a second of wordless communication between the two of you. He asks with a lifting of his lids. You agree with an affirmative blink.

His thumb delves into your mouth, up to the first knuckle. You wrap your lips around. Suck with the gentlest of pressure.

His mouth lifts into a slight smile. “Good girl,” he whispers.

And, fuck if that doesn’t open your floodgates. You’re slick and ready.

Dean’s other hand runs along the waistband of your yoga pants. “You been thinking about my hands all over you…” His thumb glides under the fabric of your panties. “Taking you apart, piece by piece.” He delves farther down, until he taps the top of your mound. His jaw clenches at your gasp of anticipation. His thumb hooks under your tongue against the floor of your mouth to express just how in command he is right now. “You gonna do what I say, Your Worship?”

You nod. You’ll don a pair of cinnamon buns if he tells you to right now.

He smirks, cocky and full of confidence. “The better I make you feel down here...” He works his thumb between your folds and presses against your clit. You squirm in his lap. “The better you suck with that beautiful mouth, yeah?”

You nod again. He releases the pressure in your mouth, circles your bundle of nerves. He slips and slides while his fingers splay over your stomach to anchor in place. You latch onto his thumb again and suck on it like a straw

“Pretty sure this isn’t as wet as you’re gonna get,” he comments like a fucking weatherman. After only a few seconds, he sighs and shakes his head. “Too many fucking clothes.”

You’ve only sparred with Dean a handful of times. Every time, he’s bested you with graceful movements and quick action. He disengages from you for what must have only been seconds, spinning you around in his grasp and pinning your back to the mattress. He’s whipping off your t-shirt, pants, and underwear. Leaving you in only your bra.

He leers over you, hands running up the underside of your thighs. He kneels onto the bed, all of his clothes still on, to wedge against your ass. All of you is on proper display for him. And he takes it all in.

“Right, Gorgeous. Where were we?” One hand rides its way up your chest back to your mouth. You accept his index finger between your lips this time. His other hand resumes playing with your clit. “Hm. Much better.” 

A gasp escapes from your mouth. Your tongue ejects his finger so you can point out, “Who’s the one with too many fucking clothes on now?”

“All good things come to those who wait, darlin’.” He settles further, criss crossing over top of your flesh. His legs sandwich your right thigh while he strums your pussy. The hope of what else is to come pokes into your side through his sweatpants. He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, slipping his finger into your mouth again. The pull of his left hand guides you to lean your head toward the right. He settles his beefy forearm onto the mattress above your shoulder.

His chest pins you down in a kinky wrestling move. Teeth snag your ear lobe. He applies pressure to the swollen flesh over a ridge of bone, then uses a flicking motion that makes your thigh twitch in delight.

You're sloppy with your technique of licks and sucks as he feeds you another digit. But, really, how is any gal supposed to mind their manners with Dean Winchester fingering her? You groan, helpless, as he explores your folds, finds your entrance with two tips. “I know you got a thing for my hands,” his hot breath tunnels into your ear canal, “but, if you want, I can fill you up real good with something else.”

You can’t reply with any actual words, only moans of agreement. The erection pressing into your hip bone sure does feel substantial. If it’s anything like his fingers - two fingers are currently surfing around your tongue and rubbing against your palate - he’ll have no problem filling you up.

To ground yourself in the reality of the situation, you snatch at the hem of his shirt and tug. Your pelvis tilts up at the slow insertion of one of his other fingers down below. “Damn,” he pants into your ear. “How long’s it been since someone took care of you, all nice and proper? So- so tight and wet.” He hums. “And warm.” A languid slide out with one finger, only to be accompanied with another when he pushes back inside. “Feel so good. Gonna feel even better around my cock after I make you come… Princess.”

You will not ever admit to the fact that you squealed with Dean’s fingers in your mouth. That you convulsed after only seconds of him playing with your clit and stretching open your hole.

Fireworks continue to skyrocket in your head. Your body tipped into the oversensitive zone. You’re aware of every bit of him plastered against you. He’s made you slick with arousal and sweat. Layers of fabric cling to skin. You should be suffocating with him laying atop you, but he feels like a weighted blanket. Warm, secure. Dean’s fingers don’t retract from your mouth or pussy. They are frozen in place. Your teeth nibble one set. Your muscles spasm around the other. 

He hasn’t moved. Hot breath huffs hard into the crook of your neck with an occasional sharp inhale and hold. You close your eyes. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that you could fall asleep like this.

“Was that… too much?” He deep-throat whispers in your ear now. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“N-mph-,” you chortle around his fingers.

“Shit, sorry.” He pulls his hand away from your mouth, the other slowly out of your hot core. Matching sighs release from you both.

“No,” you heave, and his chest rises up and off. “It was… awesome.”

He’s in your face now, all green eyes and pink lips, a veil of freckles along the bridge of his nose and forehead. “Yeah?”

You squint, trying to focus on all the glorious aspects. He’s studying you. You get the feeling he’s really not sure. “Why is the ladies man doubting himself all of sudden?” you tease, rocking to shuffle him out of the daze.

A shrug. “It’s you. I don’t always read you right.”

You lean your head back into his memory foam in an attempt to make full eye contact. “I don’t know how many ways you can misread giving me a mindblowing orgasm.”

He blinks, cautious. “Is what I did going to… you know… change things between us?”

“Oh.” You stop, dart your gaze to the ceiling past his shoulder for dramatic effect. “Oh, absolutely. I mean,” you pause, “how could it not?” You shake your head and feel his entire body go rigid. “It’s gonna be so awkward and uncomfortable around here.” 

When you dare to look at him, there’s a hint of something you don’t see often on Dean’s face. You think it might be fear.

You can’t bear it any longer. “I mean, I can already imagine the disgusted look on Sam’s face when we start making out right in front of him.”

Within seconds, the expression turns to one of relief and amusement, accompanied by the charming cockiness that’s gonna turn you to goo at the most inopportune moments from here on out. “Well, we don’t have to tell him right away. It might be fun to, you know, sneak around right under his nose.” He relaxes, sinks into you again. “I could have you all sorts of ways, in all sorts of places, doing our best not to get caught.”

You smile. “Don’t want to tell your brother you’ve stolen my heart with that five-finger discount of yours?”

He chuckles, rolls his eyes, then cups the heat of your folds again. “I mean, I sucked at Biology, but pretty sure this ain’t your heart, darlin’.”

“You’re wrong, you know?”

He blinks, all sass and spectacle, “This IS your heart?” He squeezes.

You peck his lips, roll your eyes, and curl arms around his waist. “No. Solo’s got nothing on you. YOU are the best scoundrel.”

A breathtaking kiss makes you all lightheaded. When he finally pulls away and allows you to exhale, he lifts one side of his mouth into a confident grin. “I know.”

THE END

[trash-gobby]

Ultimate Masterlist

Here is where you will find all the stories I've written along with each fandom as a header. If there are any new or old stories they can be found here. The old inventory system I had is dead. This will be the home of all content I've written or created from now on.

Fandoms

Action/Adventure

🔫 James Bond 🔫

Happiness Is a Warm Gun 🔞

All The Time In The World - *NTTD SPOILERS* 

Dario X GN!Reader - Yandere Headcanons 🔞

Dario X SadisticFem!Reader Headcanons 🔞

Drama

🏏 Heather's 🏏

Jason Dean - Yandere Headcanons 

Veronica Sawyer - Yandere Headcanons 

Horror

👽 Alien Franchise 👽

Bishop Headcanons

Bishop Headcanons - His friendship with the Colonial Marines 

First Snow on Earth 

How They Would Play Sims 2 & 4

Lance Bishop Fluff Alphabet

Dallas & J.M. Lambert Dating Headcanons

Colonial Marines W/ Virgin Reader 🔞

Scott Gorman NSFW Alphabet 🔞

William Hudson NSFW Alphabet 🔞

🎭 Behind The Mask 🎭

Leslie Vernon X GN!S/O who’s Jealous of Taylor

🎄🩸 Black Christmas 🩸🎄

Billy Lenz X Short Gothic GN! S/O

Harry Warden & Billy Lenz X GN!Reader with Short Coiled Hair

Billy Lenz X GN!S/O - Who Hides Gifts Around The House For Him To Find!

Jess Bradford - Fluffy Dating Headcanons w/ Trans Masc!S/O

🚶The Boy 🚶

Brahms X AFAB!Reader who is overly protective of him P1

Brahms X AFAB!Reader who is overly protective of him P2

Dating Brahms Headcanons (Possessive Brahms)

Brahms X GN!Reader - Trying to Leave The House 🔞

🚀 Farscape 🚀

Moya Crew w/ Artistic S/O

🪱 The Faculty 🪱

Zeke Tyler Dating Headcanons

🚑 Flatliners 🚑

Nelson Wright X AFAB!Reader Meet at a House Party

Nelson X GN!Reader - Cuddling For The First Time

🐺 Ginger Snaps 🐺

Ginger X Fem!Reader SFW & NSFW Headcanons 🔞

Ginger Fitzgerald Headcanons 👋

🎃 Halloween 🎃

Michael with a physically & verbally affectionate s/o

Michael Myers GN!S/O with Separation Anxiety

🔥 Hellboy 🔥

Poly!Hellboy & Liz Sherman X GN!Reader Headcanons

A Long Hard Day

Nuada X Agent!Reader Headcanons

⛓️ Hellraiser ⛓️

Pinhead - Hellraiser: Headcanons

💄Jennifer's Body 💄

Jennifer Check X Male!Reader

🦇🩸Lost Boys 🩸🦇

∞ When You’re a Stranger ∞ - Chpt. 1, Chpt. 2

When did Max get Thorn???

David - General Headcanons

David - Fluff Alphabet

Dwayne - Headcanons

Dwayne - Fluff Alphabet

Laddie - Headcanons

Marko - Headcanons

Paul - Headcanons

Descending Angel - part one, part two

♊ Malignant ♊

Gabriel May X GN!S/O - Who Writes Him Gothic Love Poems

🥀⚰️ Mortuary ⚰️🥀

Flowers For a Grave - Paul Andrews X Fem!Reader

❣️My Bloody Valentine ❣️

Harry Warden & Billy Lenz X GN!Reader with Short Coiled Hair

Harry Warden W/ Pregnant S/O

🦇🕶️ Near Dark 🕶️🦇

Severen Van Sickle X Pinup!Reader

Severen Van Sickle NSFW Alphabet🔞

👹 Nightbreed 👹

Dr. Decker X POC Plus Size!Reader Headcanons 🔞

Decker X Plus Size POC!Reader - Darkness Is A Stitch Away

📸 🔪 Scream 🔪 📸

Billy Loomis X Fem!Reader - Comforting her after losing someone close to her

Poly!Ghostface Finding Out Their Girlfriend is Pregnant

🚲 Stranger Things 🚲

Wipe Out

Eddie Munson - Fluff Alphabet

🥩🪝 Texas Chainsaw Massacre 🪝🥩

Christmas dinner with the Sawyer's

🌌 The Thing 🌌

R.J. MacReady NSFW Alphabet 🔞

Assimilation - Palmer X GN!Reader

Palmer - Headcanons

Science Fiction

👽💅 Earth Girls Are Easy 💅👽

Mac - Fluffy Dating Headcanons

🦖 Jurassic Park 🦖

Dating Ian Malcolm Would Include

🌠 Star Wars: The Old Republic 🌠

Two Bounty Hunters Walk Into a Guild Meeting

Superhero

☔ Umbrella Academy ☔

Luther Hargreeves X Fem!Reader - NSFW & Dating Headcanons 🔞

Fantasy

✨ Legend ✨

Wicked Game 🔞

🌊 Legend of Korra 🌊

Korra Dating Kuvira's Sibling Headcanon's

[bit-dodgy-innit]

Cuff(ed) It

Part of my 500 Follower Celebration set in The Shape of Youniverse

The Prompt: You and Steven attend his department holiday party 

Requested by: a lovely nonnie!!

Pairing: Steven x afab!reader, background Jake x afab!reader, and Marc x afab!reader, Reader is married to the system

Spice-O-Meter: 🌶🌶🌶 (Rated Explicit, Minors DNI!)

Word Count: 3.8k 

CW/TW: Tonight we’re pleased to offer Steven’s students being thirsty for him, talk of meddling in one’s marriage (nothing serious though), tipsy (but still very consensual) sex, exhibitionism, f!receiving fingering, mirror!sex, doggy!style, mentions of pregnancy and conceiving, breeding kink, lactation kink and breastplay, dirty talk, tooth-rotting sappiness over little bebes at the end 

A/N: THE FINAL PROMPT FILL! WOOOOO ONLY TOOK ME A SHORT QUICK THREE-ODD MONTHS TO GET THROUGH THEM ALL 😝 This fic? Gonna be honest, she’s a bit chaotic, but in the best way I hope. I started writing it, felt stuck, opened a new document and this poured out. Translations at the bottom of the post! 

“You know, I never noticed it until tonight, but you know who’s actually quite fit?”

“Who?”

“Doctor Grant.”

“Oh girl I knowwwwwww. At school he slouches and wears those dorky shirts, but at stuff like this, when he’s in a suit and his wife’s with him, I always remember how sneaky-hot he is.”

“Oh my god, exactly!”

“It’s like a department rite-of-passage to fancy Doctor Grant a bit, if I’m honest, especially after the holiday party or a fundraiser for the school or something when we all remember how bloody handsome he is.”

“I thought it was just me!” the first girl (a graduate student was your educated guess) giggled.

“No, it’s definitely a thing,” her friend confirmed.

You stood paralyzed in the restroom stall as the conversation unfolded on the other side. You’d already peed, should you leave the little cubicle and inevitably interrupt them?

Would they recognize you? You didn’t want to embarrass them. They were right after all, Doctor Grant was really quite fit, though you were admittedly biased.

Plus a craven, vain, possessive part of you wanted to hear more. With a six-month-old at home, your husband in the midst of three careers, and just the sheer amount of time you’d been together, sometimes the melee of life could make you forget just how well you’d done in the spouse department. It was nice to be reminded.

“What’s the tea on his wife, hm? How did Mrs. Grant cuff that?” The first girl prodded.

Her question was a sentence to stay in the stall. They definitely would recognize you if you emerged now.

“No idea honestly,” her companion answered, “I mean, she’s definitely pretty. They told Dean they met through a friend, and on their first date he took her to an exhibit of her favorite artist and like did all this research to impress her.”

“He had to impress her?” she echoed, her tone tinged with disbelief. Your brow furrowed. Yes, your husband was a fox, but you weren’t totally out of his league, were you? You were certainly worthy of being courted a bit, even if you did jump into bed with Marc on the first date. “I’d be on my knees every night for a guy who looked like Doctor G and was so romantic.”

They both burst more giggles. To be fair, you did spend a fair amount of time on your knees. Especially since you’d started dating Marc first, who unlike Steven, had his fair share of bedmates and exuded more inherent confidence. It intimidated you. So when you started sleeping together, you’d concocted a self-imposed need to prove to Marc that you were up to par, if not capable of exceeding, his former lovers. It was why when you learned his ex-wife was The (stupidly stunning) Scarlet Scarab, you wholly lost your shit. How does one compete with a gorgeous superhero?

“I bet she’s on them a fair bit,” Miss Know-It-All divulged, “Doctor Burke did her doctorate along with him and they didn’t start seeing each other until his last year of the course. And now they’re married and just had a baby. Bitch worked quick.”

“Honestly, can’t knock it,” the first girl conceded.

Thank you, you thought. A part of you wanted to interject that Nyla had been unexpectedly conceived on your honeymoon and you’d dated Marc for a year, then him and his alters for another year after that before getting engaged. The pair of you also weren’t literal babies like these girls currently gossiping a meter away from you. You were both adults, your husband was in his forties for heaven's sake.

“I bet the baby’s cute,” she mused further.

“Oh my goodness, he hasn’t showed you? All Doctor G does is bang on about Nyla. It’s literally either coursework or his kid if you talk to him.”

Your heart swelled. This wasn’t the first time you’d heard from Steven’s colleagues what a proud papa he was to your little girl. Hearing it from strangers, and completely unprompted, was extra special though.

“I’ve never really had a reason to talk to him, and now I don’t know if I can actually without looking like a total idiot.”

“No, he’s really sweet, he’s the type of fit guy who doesn’t know he’s fit. And he’s like scary clever. You can ask him literally anything about ancient Egypt and he knows it. But he’s also not an arsehole about it you know? I’m applying to be his TA next semester.”

“Are you?” she gasped. “Really?”

“Ummm yeah, why wouldn’t I want a dishy, brilliant thesis advisor?” Miss Know-It-All countered. “He should be at Oxford or Cambridge really. You know Sam Miller babysits for them?”

“They do?!” Her friend exclaimed. “Don’t know if I’d want that gig for the inside scoop or if it’d be too much pressure. Their kid is still a baby right?”

“Yeah, I’d say it’s worth it to suss out if Doctor G and her are open to…let’s say, ‘featured players’ in the bedroom.”

“Stop Emma, you’re terrible!”

“She came to one of his lectures once with the baby and Dean thought he heard them fucking in his office.”

Fuck, you swore internally. Steven had sworn the offices would be empty! You’d kept quiet!

“Noooo! Doctor G is hot I’ll give you that, but he dresses like my grandpa. There’s no way he’s that kinky.”

“Maybe he’s not, but she could be,” Emma pointed out. “Only one way to find out.”

“You are such a slag,” Emma’s friend accused her playfully. “Come on, we need to get back, I want another drink.”

You heard two pairs of heels shuffle to the door, then it open and close behind them, and at last the coast was clear. Finally exiting the stall, you robotically washed your hands and touched up your lipstick, moving to check that your hair still looked decent afterwards.

Your gaze lingered in the mirror to give yourself a once-over. You’d chosen a flattering, but pretty conservative dress for Steven’s UCL holiday party. Sure, there wasn’t much you could do about the size your tits had swollen up to while you were breastfeeding, but they weren’t necessarily on display tonight either. Your currently huge boobs were for your husband’s eyes (plus hands, mouth, and sometimes cock) only.

Despite your attempts to leave the eavesdropped chat between Emma and her friend in the loo where it belonged, it became obvious fairly quickly that you failed spectacularly at doing so.

“You alright?” Steven inquired, his features creased with concern. “You were in the toilets for ten minutes and have barely said a word since. Something wrong?”

“I’m fine, sorry honey,” you dispelled the worry from his face. “Just overheard an interesting conversation in there that I haven’t been able to shake.”

You grabbed a fresh glass of wine from a passing server while Steven asked “What about?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Mmmhmm,” you confirmed, taking a swig of cabernet. “It’s apparently a UCL Ancient Civ rite-of-passage to have a crush on you.”

Your husband looked at you like you’d sprouted another head. His incredulity made you burst into laughter.

“What? I’m not surprised! You’re a very good-looking, intelligent, kind man! I’ve been telling you this since we first met, after all this time—“ you leaned in and lowered your voice to add “—and all the ways I’ve let you fuck me, do you really believe that us getting married and having Nyla was just some cosmic fluke?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

“Baby—“

Steven averted his gaze and shrugged, offering “Marc was always the handsome one…” as his explanation.

That line. It made you want to whip your wine glass across the room. You restrained yourself and instead growled through gritted teeth, “It feels silly for me to have to remind you as much as I do that you two share the exact same face and body.”

“But still—“

“No more buts anymore Steven! You have co-eds hot for you, you’re officially sexy independent of Marc,” you teased. “And you ought to feel lucky that we’re secure enough in our marriage that I’m not bothered by it. Especially since one of them wants to be your TA and replace Sam as our sitter to see if we’re into threesomes. Which I guess is better than trying to steal you from me outright, to be fair.”

Another gaping incredulous stare from Steven. “Who?”

“I didn’t get her name,” you lied. Truth was, Emma didn’t have a popsicle’s chance in hell at interfering in your marriage. Never mind that you and Steven were deeply in love and had a child together, she hadn’t a clue about the D.I.D, Marc’s past life as a mercenary, his ex-wife, not to mention the service to the Egyptian god of the moon which led to a stint as a superhero. You two had shared and been through too much for a horny twenty-something to impact what you had. “But apparently Dean heard us when we…um, had ‘parental time’ in your office a couple months ago.”

“Bollocks.”

“We knew we were being naughty,” you shrugged.

“Because it was your idea,” he muttered.

“Oh don’t start with me, Doctor Grant. You’re the one who told me not to use the nursing apron,” you fired back. “Didn’t you want to say hi to the department’s Director of Education? There he is.”

***

The rest of the evening unfolded uneventfully, though Emma and her friend, who you learned was named Marnie, did stop by for a quick chat. You were content to clam up and just watch the interaction unfold. They were perfectly polite, unlike their prattling in the bathroom, though they very much fit the trope of a pair of giggling schoolgirls. Steven, of course, was oblivious.

Blame it on the wine, the rare baby-less outing, and being emboldened by strangers raving about how hot your husband was, but when Dean insisted that you and Steven come to the after-party at a pub nearby, you insisted on going. Steven was only one of the professors in attendance, because he was one of the younger, cooler ones, therefore the vibe was much more relaxed and festive than the one at the official university get-together.

You’d had Dean over for dinner (a takeaway dinner that you had to constantly get up from the table because Nyla had started teething that week, but dinner still) so spending time with him was easy and delightful while Steven mingled with his other colleagues.

You also liked to privately touch base with him about Steven’s professional wellbeing. Your husband was tight-lipped about any office woes, and while Dean wasn’t privy to your husband’s D.I.D., you knew that sometimes aspects of it could manifest in your husband’s workplace. The last thing you wanted to do was interfere, but Steven truly loved what he did, and as his wife with a tendency to fret, you liked to keep a tab or two to ensure nothing jeopardized his passion.

“I’m impressed,” Dean remarked as you two huddled outside the pub while he had smoke. “You haven’t batted an eye at all the little first-year masters students throwing themselves at him.”

You laughed. Steven’s hot professor status was really department-wide thing it seemed. “I can’t blame them. He’s very dreamy, but I baby-trapped him so…”

Dean cackled when you punctuated your response with a shrug. “No flies on you, darling. Cheers.”

You and your husband gracefully bowed out when mentions of moving to a club began to take hold. Too tipsy and tired for the Tube, Steven flagged a cab for the both of you, even though it meant that he’d have Jake backseat-driving in his head the whole ride back to Brixton.

Once inside, you rested your head on your husband’s shoulder, hoping to maybe doze off for a few minutes in case Nyla was up when you got home. Steven automatically pressed a kiss to your temple. He was so solid and warm, so safe, you couldn’t help but snuggle closer to him and place a hand over his knee.

“In case I haven’t told you yet, you look pretty as a present tonight,” he murmured into your ear.

You don't know what it was about his compliment, perhaps it was the way he said it, or the way you’d had four glasses of wine, but Steven's soft words of adoration set your body alight.

“Hmm, thank you darling,” The hand that was on his knee traveled towards his inseam to squeeze the meat of his thigh. “Wanna unwrap me? Or maybe just take off the bow? I’d let you slip my knickers aside and play with your present right now if you wanted.”

“Bloody hell,” he groaned, both at your filthy offer and the fact that you’d dragged your hand to cup him through his trousers. “Babe, he’ll see.”

The cabbie had airbuds in (a personal pet peeve of Jake’s) and eyes trained on the road. You shook your head imperceptibly. “Not if we’re careful about it.”

To prove your point, you subtly shifted to drape your thigh over Steven’s leg so he could do just as you suggested. It seemed that your fondling of your husband’s package, steadily but insistently coaxing him to hardness, was able to convince him to follow suit. He tucked his hand under your skirt, mimicking your approach, dragging his palm slowly up your leg. Next, his nimble fingers nudged the dampened crotch of your knickers aside and delved between your folds.

You could feel Steven’s length jump and swell when he made contact with your pussy. It prompted you to rub at him a little harder, biting your lip when one of his digits penetrated you.

“My saucy exhibitionist minx,” he purred into your ear.

“Says the man who screws me in cafe loos,” you shot back without any real heat. How could you be snarky when Steven was slowly, torturously finger-fucking you and his hot, hard manhood was pulsing under your palm?

“Mmmm, I always get a stiffy when we eat there now,” Steven confessed in a whisper about your neighborhood cafe. “That was insane, sucking at your titties and riding my cock like that in the middle of the day.”

“I know daddy,” you sighed, clenching around his digit at the thought. “So naughty, but so good.”

The remainder of the ride home passed in a labored silence between you two, both trying to enjoy each other’s ministrations, but not so much that you clued in the driver. There was one close call when Steven had the gall to sneak another finger inside of you. You nearly drew blood biting your lip to stifle moaning at the intrusion, since it meant you could get straight to fucking once you arrived home.

Tonight wasn’t the first date night you’d come chomping at the bit to make love, so thankfully you two had a pre-established routine. Steven used his coat to cover his groin and went straight to the nursery to check on Nyla while you paid and said goodnight to Sam (your desire was easier to conceal after all). Once Nyla was confirmed to be asleep and Sam had left, you met in your bedroom and tore each other’s clothes off.

The wine warped the edges of your perception, making the clash of teeth and tongues between you and Steven blur into a buzz of arousal, until next thing you knew you were naked, on your hands and knees and your husband was pushing his thick erection inside of you in one determined, smooth shove. You almost moaned the wrong name, nearly keening “Jake” when he entered you, because the position wasn’t one in Steven’s usual rotation. He much preferred for you to ride him, or for you to be on your back - any position where he could sink into your cunt and suckle at your nipples simultaneously.

You weren’t complaining however, and happily pushed back into his thrusts. It wasn’t until Steven angled his hips just right to hit your g-spot, and you threw your head back that you realized it. “We’re in front of the mirror.”

“Mmmhmm,” Steven confirmed, “like to see your tits swing and…ungh, they’ve been watching since you started groping me in the taxi.”

The revelation that Marc and Jake were privy to your coupling had a fresh wave of heat racing down your spine and pooling in your core as Steven continued to rail you.

“Was just so horny for you baby,” you explained, “everyone was eyeing you, but you’re mine and you know you’re mine and I know you’re mine, but I just wanted to feel it. I…I couldn't wait. ”

“You have us now,” he assured you. “Can’t count how many times we’ve seen people checking you out and you’re none the wiser. They can look, but you belong to us, don't you?”

“Yesssss daddy,” you mewled, now equally drunk off the alcohol and your arousal. “Keep giving me your big prick, feels so good.”

“Vamos, Steven, let’s give her more of this big prick she wants so badly,” Jake’s voice growled from behind you. His broad arms moved from your hips to encase your waist and pulled you upright, “Te gusta nena? Like being impaled on our cock like this?”

Your answer was non-verbal, but unmistakably emphatic.

“I think she likes it,” Marc’s American accent chuckled darkly from behind you.  

You whined the increase in fullness the change in position brought about, paired with the image you all made in the mirror together. You were first drawn to your husband’s determined expression, so set on his objective to make you see stars that his face was twisted into a snarl. Next, you glimpsed your large breasts heaving with every snap of his hips, and your cunt speared open on his massive erection. The sheer depravity of your reflection made you tilt your head back onto your husband’s broad shoulder and screw your eyes shut.

You knew Steven had wrestled back control of the body when his two large hands found your tits and began to pluck at your nipples. “Love you so much darling, want more kids together. Want Nyla to be just the first.”

His words made your channel flutter around his length at the thought.

“Would you let me? Maybe not tonight, but I want to fill you up with every last drop of my cum, keep these titties big and leaking for me, watch your belly grow again with another gorgeous child.”

“Ohhh fuck Steven,” you gasped, “I want that too.”

“Yeah? You want me to pump you full again?” He urged you, one hand leaving your nipple to suck his soaked fingertip into his mouth for a taste of your milk.

“Please, please, please,” you chanted. You didn’t want another kid right away, but seeing what excellent fathers your husband made definitely meant you wanted more babies eventually. “For now though, will you just make me cum?”

“‘Course darling,” he rumbled, his hand dropping to your clit to push you over the edge. You’d been simmering with yearning all night, so it didn’t take much more than Steven’s hand on your clit, his other on your breast, and his length hammering into you from behind to drown you in ecstasy.

You crumpled back against Steven’s chest while your orgasm coursed through you, too overwhelmed with pleasure to support yourself. Your husband buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent deeply and reveling in the beauty of your release that was unfolding in his arms.

You’d barely floated back down to earth before Steven manhandled you back onto your elbows while he chased his respective climax. The relentless pistoning of his cock into your spent hole emptied every thought from your head that wasn’t “yes”, “good” , or “full”. It wasn’t long before you felt your husband’s seed painting your inner walls and collapsing on top of you.

The late hour and the alcohol made you both slower in extracting yourselves from one another, and after exchanging some sated, passionate kisses, you made a beeline to relieve yourself and wash off your makeup. Steven joined you a moment later in the en-suite to begin his respective nighttime regimen. You two readied for bed in companionable silence. Then:

“It was Emma and Marnie, wasn’t it?”

“Yup,” you replied, popping the p as you dotted on moisturizer, “Don’t hold it against them though, I think Emma’s going to apply to be your TA. It was all harmless in the loo, I promise.”

“Alright,” he surrendered. Despite still feeling buzzed, you clocked a momentary conversation between Steven and an alter in the mirror above the sink. Whatever they said to one another, it prompted Steven to add, “You’re very confident about having us all wrapped around your little finger, aren't you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you parried, meeting your husband’s gaze in the mirror. “Especially when I still probably have some of your cum inside me.”

“Esposita está tan descarada esta noche,” Jake pushed forward to remark.

“Soy--no...estoy un poco borracha todavía,” you confessed. As if your husband needed more proof the wine continued to affect you, you announced out of seemingly nowhere, “I need to say night-night to Ny-Ny.”

Steven intervened, catching you when you tried to bolt from the bathroom. “Darling, you can see her on the monitor. Don't wake her up.”

“Don’t tell me when I can see my baby,” you countered with sudden defensiveness that only surfaces when one’s a bit blitzed. You wriggled out of his grasp, “I’ll be quiet.”

You tipsily tip-toed down the hall to Nyla’s nursery, making good on your promise and not causing your daughter to stir at all as you crept to watch her slumber.

It wasn’t as if you wanted to pick her up or play with her, you just couldn’t fathom going to bed without bidding Nyla goodnight. Your eyes studied the little miracle before you. Her plump little feet that you could never pepper with enough kisses, the curve of her lips that must have been painted on her face by a Renaissance master, those insanely long, dark eyelashes she inherited from her father. There were no words, and never would be, to accurately describe the love you had for your daughter.

You silently blew a kiss in her direction, and found Steven in the doorway when you turned to retreat. While you were kind of peeved that he felt the need to supervise you, you weren't that drunk (you were), you pressed yourself into his warm, sturdy side as you both returned to your bedroom.

“She’s just more beautiful than I ever dreamed she’d be,” you whispered reverently.

“I know,” Steven agreed in a murmur as he guided you back to bed. “We’re the two luckiest people alive. Now let’s go to sleep, love.”

A/N: Yayyy we made it! True life: I’m Emma and Marnie IRL. Also are long, sappy afterglows my thing now? Can’t thank everyone enough for getting me to 500, playing with me and requesting these fics, waiting the approximately 98 years it took for me to fill them!! 

ESPECIALLY since in the meantime, I now have over 900 followers which is just bonkers!!!!! BONKERS I TELL YOU! I don’t think I’ll do another prompt celebration like I did for 500 if I reach 1k, but something special will come down the pipeline for sure! Love you all so much and again, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU! 

Translations: 

Vamos - Let’s go/Come on  

Te gusta nena? - You like it babe? 

Esposita está tan descarada esta noche - Wifey is so cheeky tonight 

Estoy un poco borracha todavía - I’m still a little drunk 

Taglist: @twwcs​, @rmoonstoner​, @hot-mess-express1​, @murdickdocked, @toracainz​, @saahmi​, @unspokenmoon​, @winterbiipp​, @avatarofseshat​ @ilikeoldermenhelp, @losers-club6​, @harrys-tittie​, @ninebluehearts​, @lucianadraven32​, @dawnsutopia​, @strawberry1042-blog @nikitawolfxo​, @weirdo125 @damnzelsoul​ @missmarmaladeth @welcometostayingawake​

[talesmaniac89]

Halloween Surprise

Pairing :  (Former) Dean x reader

Summary: You're out trick or treating with your son when you run into someone from your past. Someone with the same green eyes as your son.

Warnings: Feelings of betrayal, secrets, breakup and heartbreak.

Word Count: 5081

Y/N = Your Name | Y/L/N = Your Last Name

“Lucas! Are you ready to go?” You called up the stairs as you frowned down at your wristwatch. It was already getting a bit late, and you didn’t want to be out when it was dark outside. You’d long since learned what was lurking in the darkness, but ever since you had your son you’d grown even more wary of the lengthening shadows that came with twilight. 

Yet, though you were on a pretty tight trick or treating schedule, the little rascal upstairs remained nearly suspiciously quiet as you tapped the boot of your Wonder Woman costume impatiently. 

“Lucas (Y/L/N)!” You called up again, channeling every ounce of strict motherly love you could into your voice as you debated going up to check what the cheeky little five year old was up to. The beginning of fear and panic rearing its ugly head as your carefully developed hunter’s instincts always went to the worst possible outcome.  Yet, the little giggle that easily reached you from the top of the stairs quickly calmed your frayed nerves and reminded you that you were no longer a hunter. You’d left that life behind you nearly six years ago. The moment you realized you were pregnant. 

“No Lucas up here mommy!” Your son’s cheeky little voice called back, the poorly concealed giggles drawing a smile out of you as you rolled your eyes at the little guy. His love for the dramatic was clearly something he’d gotten from his father. Though the man in question would probably disagree and say it was a trait your son had gotten from you. Swallowing down the bittersweet feeling that always followed any thought of the man you’d loved and lost, you took a deep breath before calling back up to your little man.

“Really? Oh, that’s too bad, but… Does Batman wanna come trick or treating with mommy then?” You called back with a small smile. One that only grew from the happy squeal leaving your little vigilante as he bounced into view. Before carefully taking the stairs the moment you reminded him not to run down the carpeted staircase. 

“Yes! Batman wants candy!” His young voice was still high pitched and innocent. But Lucas still tried to mimic the deep, whispered voice of Batman as he hurried down the stairs. His Batman mask was slightly crooked on his freckled nose as he came to a full stop in front of you with green eyes looking up at you in anticipation. 

“Alright then Batman. It’s just you and me today then. We’ll have to bring some candy back for Lucas too,” You said with a soft laugh as you kneeled down to fix his crooked mask and smooth his slightly tousled nest of hair. 

“It’s me mommy!” Your little guy whispered as he lifted the mask, showing you his best conspiratory look as he gently placed the mask back on, just as crooked as it had been before you initially fixed it. 

“It’s a secret, hussssh” He continued as he let you fix his mask for him once more. 

“Mommy won’t tell anyone. Promise. Now, are you ready to go trick or treating pumpkin? Remember, we have to be back before it gets dark,” You asked your little superhero as you reached out for his Batman windbreaker and helped him put it on. 

“Yes! Trick or Treat!” He called out loudly and cheerfully, just like you’d practiced. Giving him a warm smile, you grabbed his little bucket in one hand, before reaching out to put his small hand in your free one. Ready to go door to door in search of treats, and hopefully no tricks. 

--- 

Halloween had never been your favorite time of year. Which was understandable, given how you’d grown up. But Lucas had given you a newfound appreciation for the day. And though you were still slightly on edge as you scanned the busy crowds out in your little, safe, cul de sac, you were much more at ease than you’d been when you first left the hunting life behind you. 

Which was probably how you missed the two men mingling with the crowds dressed in suits, stopping parents to show off fake FBI badges as you focused on getting your son from one house to the next. Along with a few of the other neighborhood moms. 

Hell, you even missed the clearly lustful looks thrown their way by Sharon, your neighbor three houses down from yours. Even though she was barely watching her own little monsters as they tried to steal an extra chocolate bar from the bowl, choosing instead to oogle the two agents as they quietly questioned parents a bit further down the road, making their way up towards you. 

Honestly, even if you had noticed him before Tara had leaned over to you to whisper some not so child friendly words into your ear, you weren’t sure what you would’ve done. Would you have ran away? Maybe… Frozen in place? Probably. 

Considering that was exactly what you ended up doing. Your hand squeezed Lucas’ a little as you gently pulled your little superhero behind you and let your eyes follow Tara’s down the street, just a little past the next house your route would take you to. Where a face you thought you’d never see again was looking back at you, green eyes wide and FBI badge lowered from where he’d just raised it to interrogate yet another thirsty soccer mom. 

“Dean,” The name that once had tasted sweeter than pie on your lips came out as a broken whisper as you tried, and failed, to tear your eyes off of the devastatingly handsome man. 

“Wait, you know him? When did you meet an FBI agent (Y/N)? And can you introduce me to his partner?” Tara asked, a little too loudly for your liking, next to you as her excited eyes went from you and over to Dean before coming right back to you again. 

“I… Yeah, I know him. Look, Tara. Could you take Lucas to the next house? I should… Say hi?” You managed to push the words out as you fought against the nearly nostalgic cotton mouthed feeling Dean Winchester always left you with. Though you were still not sure you had what it took to speak to him after… What had happened. You really had no choice. Not only because he’d spotted you. But because he was there. On your street. 

And when a Winchester came to your street, it was usually not just for a friendly visit. 

But still, you couldn’t bring Lucas with you. Not when the bright green eyes and dusting of freckles over a button nose easily betrayed whose son he was. A son Dean had no clue you’d been raising for the last five years ever since he pushed you away. 

“Only if you get me the number of that tall drink of water over there,” She shot back, already undressing Sam with her best bedroom eyes as you rolled your eyes at her. 

“Tara, you’re married. Happily at that,” You reminded your best ‘mom friend’ as she grinned back at you. 

“A girl can dream (Y/N),” She laughed, before shooting you a small cheeky wink, and dropping down to speak to Lucas instead. 

“Lucas…” She started, before your little guy shook his head quickly, still hidden from Dean’s view behind you. 

“Batman,” Lucas corrected as he clutched his bucket of sweets. As if he was afraid his aunty Tara was planning to steal his hard earned loot. 

“Alright Batman. Do you wanna come with aunty and Robbie to the next house? Your mommy needs to go talk to someone,” Tara said as she reached out her free hand, patiently pretending she couldn’t feel her own one year younger kid pulling at her other hand for her to hurry. As if the little ninja turtle next to her thought the houses would run out of candy if they didn’t hurry. 

“Can I mommy?” Lucas looked up at you through his little Batman mask. Puppy eyes fully engaged as he looked from his bucket of treats and back up at you, as if to stay he still didn’t have enough sugar to last him till next Halloween. 

Even though he already had plenty. 

“Go ahead, pumpkin. Mommy will be right there,” You nodded as you let go of his little hand and let Tara grab it instead. Somewhat reluctantly, as your hunting instincts always worried when the apple pie of your eye was out of reach. 

Giving your friend a grateful smile, you watched the three of them for a second as they walked up the path to the next house. Smiling slightly at Batman’s happy bounce up the footpath, before you turned back to look at Dean again. 

Only to realize he was no longer there. 

“(Y/N),” Just as you were about to scan the crowd for him, the sound of his voice to the left of you made you jump slightly as you cursed your rusty reflexes and pivoted to face him. Doing your absolute damndest to pretend his deep voice didn’t still send pleasurable shockwaves through your body. 

“Dean,” You whispered back as you tried to find your voice under the breathless vertigo that always took over whenever Dean Winchester was anywhere nearby. 

“Thank God. When we didn’t hear anything I thought you…” He said, relief evident in his voice, though you could also hear the early warning signs of worried anger brewing just under the surface. Though he had no right to be angry at you. Not since… 

Not after what happened that night. 

“I’m fine. I just… I quit the business,” You shot back, biting back the words you actually wanted to tack on to the end of your sentence… After you broke my heart. But by the way Dean’s shoulders fell, and the way his worried anger retreated behind a veil of sadness and regret in green eyes, you knew he’d still caught the silent addition to your sentence in your slightly narrowed eyes. 

“Oh…” Was all he managed to push out as he dug his hands into his suit pockets. Fidgeting in front of you in the same way Lucas always did whenever you caught him doing something naughty. 

Like father, like son. 

“Yeah,” You sighed, keeping back the many words you wanted to say as you threw a wary glance over to where Tara and the boys had just reached the next house. Though Dean’s next words forced your eyes back on him. 

“I missed you…” He started, before a quick shake of your head stopped him from continuing. 

“Dean… It was your choice,” You shot back, a small grimace of pain following your words as you remembered that fateful night when Dean Winchester broke your heart. For your own good, he’d said. But it had been anything but. 

You’d loved him, with every damn cell in your body. Hell, you still did. But according to him, six years ago, the two of you had been a liability. You were a weak spot he couldn’t protect. And that scared him. Enough to let you go. Even when you begged him not to.

“I know, and I’ve been regretting it ever since,” Dean broke through your trip down memory lane as he reached out to you in that achingly familiar way he’s done so many times before, to brush some stray hairs out of your eyes. Yet, before those slightly calloused fingers could reach you and burn against your skin, you sidestepped him and crossed your arms. Hugging yourself close as you suddenly felt very underdressed in your Wonder Woman costume. 

“It’s too late for regrets,” You whispered, unable and unwilling to meet his eyes as you instead looked around at the crowds or trick or treaters. More specifically their parents, your neighbors. Many of whom were looking your way. Or more like Dean’s way. Since his FBI outfit stood out among the costumes. 

“I…” Dean started, but you simply shook your head before cutting off whatever he was trying to say.

“Why are you here? Is there a… Anything I should be wary of?” You hesitated over your words. Keeping them vague enough to not arouse the suspicion or attention of one of your nosier neighbors as you felt your muscles tense. Still strong and lithe enough, even six years after your retirement. As you refused to rest on your laurels and kept up your training. Just in case your past caught up to you. If only to protect Lucas. 

“No,” Dean said as you eyed him warily. Not buying the single syllable answer. 

“I promise, there’s nothing here. We’re just looking for someone living nearby who can help us out on a… Case,” He explained, keeping his words equally vague as he let his eyes travel across the crowds that were all inexplicably slowing down when they got close to where the two of you were standing. Looking for the latest piece of juicy cul de sac gossip most likely.

“Alright, that’s good,” You said, a relieved sigh leaving you as your tense shoulders relaxed. Lucas was still safe. You both were. Which was all that mattered. It was all that could matter. Dean couldn’t. Not anymore.

“(Y/N)...” Dean tried. Though you knew what he wanted to say. And you couldn’t have that conversation. Not in the middle of the street with Mr. Brown, your neighborhood gossip, dressed as Frankenstein casting not-so-hidden curious glances in your direction. 

“Look Dean. I’ve gotta go,” You rushed out, avoiding his pleading eyes as you busied yourself with fixing the already perfect whip of truth replica on your hip.

“But…” Dean kept pushing, his hand once more reaching out for you, as if to stop you from slipping through his fingers. 

Yet, before he could continue, or you could think up any excuse, an excited little voice loudly called out to you from your right. A small little streak of black and yellow wobbling up towards you with one hand lifted high in victory. 

“Mommy! Look! They gave me a big chocolate!”

As you refocused your attention towards your little superhero, you barely caught how Dean’s eyes opened wide as they went from you over to the little Batman hurrying up towards you as fast as his little feet could carry him. Cringing internally, you still pretended you didn’t notice the look he threw you as you instead kept your eyes on Lucas.

“Is he…” Dean started, but you missed the question as you wiped the heartbreak from your eyes and focused your attention back on your son. Dropping down to his level, you let him run into your arms waving the chocolate bar in his little hand. 

“Wow! That’s great, pumpkin! Did you say thank you?” You said, adding a layer of fake cheer into your voice as you squeezed your little treasure closer.

“I did! And I said Trick or Treat too!” Lucas said as he wiggled slightly out of your arms without actually leaving the hug to look up at you with a proud beaming smile. Clearly wanting to show you how he was a big boy now. 

“You did great! Such a big boy!” You praised as you ruffled the little nest of messy dark blonde hair on top of his head. 

“Hey there Batman,” Next to you Dean had also crouched down to be at Lucas’ height as he shot him a small smile. Before looking over at you out of the corner of his eyes, making you freeze up as you held your son closer. 

“Who are you?” Lucas asked, suddenly shy as he half hid behind you, still clutching the chocolate bar in his small hand.  

“I’m a friend of your mother’s,” Dean said with a soft smile as he looked down at the full bucket of halloween treats. His eyes wide in admiration, though you could still see the hint of heartbreak and loss behind those green orbs as he clearly came to the wrong conclusion regarding your son. Imagining another man where there wasn’t one, and probably never would be. Yet he didn’t let it show to Lucas as he beamed at him. “Wow! You’ve gotten loads today, haven’t you?”

“Yeah! Mommy taught me how!” Lucas said proudly as he wiggled fully out of your arms now that he knew the man wasn’t one of the scary strangers you’d cautioned him of. Gingerly putting down his bucket, Lucas lifted his mask to properly take in his haul and show his new friend all his treats. 

Without the mask, there was no denying whose son he was. And as recognition flashed in Dean’s eyes, you knew he hadn’t missed the similarities between your child and him as he looked back up at you. An endless amount of questions painting his green eyes a deeper shade as he looked between Lucas and you. 

Wetting dry lips, you took a shaky breath as you gave Lucas a strained smile. Avoiding Dean’s eyes as you focused all your attention on your little superhero instead. 

“Mommy still needs to talk to her friend. Why don’t you go with Aunty Tara to the next house, alright Batman?” You finally managed to push out as you gently fixed your son’s mask and tried to soften the edges of your smile as you gave him a little nod towards where Tara was waiting when he seemed to hesitate.

“Will you come soon too Mommy?” He asked, his young little voice seeming a little dejected as he looked from his candy haul and up at you. 

“I will baby,” You softened as you placed a feather light kiss on his crown of messy hair.

“Promise?” The mini Batman asked as he set those big green puppy eyes in you. Eyes you could never resist. From neither of the two men to either side of you. 

“Pinky promise,” You swore, crossing your heart before stretching out your pinky and linking it with your son’s.

Giving you a sloppy kiss on your cheek, Lucas finally seemed happy with your answer as he grabbed his little pumpkin shaped bucket again as hurried back over to Robbie and Tara while loudly telling them both that “mommy said she’s coming soon”. 

For a second, Dean stayed silent next to you as you both got up from where you’d been crouched to speak to Lucas. The sounds of children’s laughter and hushed conversations between nosy neighbors filled the space between the two of you as you looked for a place to have the conversation you’d never thought you’d actually have to have. But as Dean grabbed your wrist, you were left stuck in place in the middle of the busy sidewalk. 

“Is he…” Dean started, not letting you move away from the crowd before he asked the question that had been shining out behind green eyes since he put two and two together. 

“Let’s go somewhere else…” You hesitated, throwing cautious glances at the crowds around you. Though most of them had seemingly grown bored of your conversation once they realized nothing juicy was being said.

“Is he my son (Y/N)?” Dean insisted, though he kept his voice low and his words barely a whisper. Keeping them between just the two of you. 

“... Dean,” You sighed, still not meeting his eyes as you looked around you. Making sure no one had heard his question. But Dean didn’t let you shift the topic as he shook his head and kept his hand circled securely around your wrist. 

“(Y/N), please,” He nearly begged, squeezing your wrist softly to make you look up at him. The fractured light hitting green eyes nearly took your breath away as you saw the desperate need to know shining back at you.

“Yes. He…” Swallowing heavily you took a shaky breath, before once more looking down the street to find your little Batman in the crowds together with Tara. 

“Lucas is your son,” You finally continued as you found him. Happily talking Tara’s ear off like the little ladies’ man he was. 

“Lucas,” Dean said carefully. Rolling the name around on his tongue as he followed your gaze down to look, awestruck, at his son. 

“Yeah, he’s just turned five not long ago,” You added with a soft smile. Remembering the late September birthday party. Which, no surprise, had been fully Batman themed. Just like everything had been lately. 

“Five… Not long ago?” Dean questioned. Brows furrowed as he did the mental math. Counting backwards to the cold January night when he broke your heart. 

“I found out I was pregnant shortly after you told me to leave,” Your words came out a bit more bitter than you meant for them to be. The sour taste of heartbreak still made it hard to sweeten the words.

“I never told you to leave,” Dean shot in, arguing semantics as his hand tightened slightly around the wrist he was still holding onto. Tugging your hand gently towards you, you shook your head at him when he still refused to let go. Biting back a bitter laugh and unwanted tears as you took a shaky breath. 

“You told me we’d never work out. Did you really think I’d stick around after that?” You whispered, still managing to keep your voice low, though your emotions were causing havoc within your chest. Making it hard to even hear your own barely even there words.

“I just wanted you to be safe! You kept…” Dean’s voice was loud enough to draw a few more curious glances  as you shot him a wide eyed, panicked look before shaking your head imperceptibly. Wordlessly reminding him to be quiet. Taking a deep breath, Dean shot your nosy neighbors a shaky smile before leaning in closer and lowering his voice.

“Look, I know I fucked up. But, even if I did, how could you not tell me I had a son?” His whispered voice muted the incredulity and slight sadness at the betrayal in his tone, but it was still painfully clear to you as you grimaced. You knew you should’ve told him. But your wounds had just been so damn fresh. So instead you’d relied on excuses. The same you leaned on as you finally looked back up to meet his green eyes.

“I tried… Your number was disconnected. The only number I had for you. And… Hell, I just didn’t want to hurt anymore,” You sighed. Some of the truth slipping out together with your practiced excuse from nearly six years ago. 

“It was? Shit… Damn it. I lost a phone during a hunt. And I would’ve done anything to have you back (Y/N). There’s no way I would’ve hurt you. Not when every day without you was hell. Still, you could’ve called Sammy. Or just driven up to the bunker. Or…” Dean was ranting as his hand finally slipped from your wrist to card through his hair in frustration. Though, from the way his eyes fell to the forgotten badge in his own hand, you knew he was mainly blaming himself as he cut off his words with a tired sigh. 

“Maybe I could have, but I just… Fuck. I just couldn’t. You hurt me and..” Cutting yourself off with a shake of your head you wrapped your arms back around yourself as if to protect your barely patched up heart and wet dry lips. Before squeezing your eyes shut, in a foolish effort to shut the world out. 

For a few seconds, you let the silence settle between you as you tried to find the words. Knowing Dean was doing the same in front of you. Though you couldn’t see him as you kept your eyes closed and let the bright dots floating in your cut off vision hypnotize you believing none of it had happened. That you were still just next to your son. Not being confronted with the ghosts of your own messy past. 

“Look Dean… I can’t do this. Not tonight. Not while I’m dressed as fucking Wonder Woman,” You finally said with a tired shrug of your shoulders as you finally opened your eyes and met Dean’s head on. You knew you couldn’t hide from your past anymore. Not when it had come nearly all the way to your front porch. But Lucas was waiting for you, and you needed privacy for the long overdue conversation with Dean. Something that was in short supply on the small cul de sac. 

“You look good in that…” Dean cut in, a small hint of his boyish grin and that trademark charm as he took you in, as if for the first time while you rolled your eyes at him. Though his attempt at lightening the mood still fell flat when weighed up against the heavy weight in your stomach from the many broken pieces of your heart that had dislodged from seeing him again. 

“I know I do. But that’s not the point. I can’t. Not now,”  You still let a small smile slip before you shook it, and the nostalgic emotions it was painted in, away and replaced them with tired resignation. As your own small smile that had temporarily brightened Dean’s fell away, so did his. Though his green eyes had softened slightly as he seemed to resign himself to not having all his questions answered by interrogating you on the sidewalk of your own street. 

“Just tell me one thing. Are you happy? Is Lucas happy?” Dean’s quiet voice asked after a beat or two of silence. His eyes slightly shrouded by enviably thick lashes as he kept them downcast and focused on the polished shoes of his FBI outfit. His words made you look towards the houses again, easily spotting your little man a few homes down as you smiled and waved in his direction where he was busy waving your way.

“We are and he is. We have a good life here. A safe home. He’s the smartest little boy ever. Just like his dad,” You finally said as you let your hand drop. Glancing Dean’s way, you caught him looking towards Lucas as well. His eyes watching the small boy wistfully as he once more stuffed his hands into his pockets. 

Wetting his lips, Dean seemed to hesitate for a second as he opened and closed his mouth wordlessly before finally tearing his eyes off of the son he hadn’t known he had to look at you instead. 

“Can I… Is it alright if I see him again? See you again?”

For a second, you hesitated. Your heart was stuck in your throat as you mulled over your answer. Thinking up and throwing away a million what ifs and reasons not to. But in the end, your heart won the battle. You could never forget Dean Winchester. And, no matter how he felt about you, and you about him, Lucas was his son. He deserved the chance to get to know the coolest kid you knew. 

“... Bring Sam over after 7 pm tonight. Bring candy. And change out of those stuffy suits. We’ll… Talk over dinner,” You finally sighed, losing the battle with your heart as you hesitated over every word, even as you’d made up your mind to invite him over and already started planning the night’s dinner in your head now that you’d have two more mouths to feed. 

“Yeah? Alright, yeah… Ok. Seven.  I’ll be there,” Dean was already walking backwards away from you, looking slightly hopeful and clearly itching to fill his little brother in to let Sam know he was an uncle. That bright boyish spark that you’d fallen in love with many years ago back in green eyes as he smiled cautiously at you. A slightly crooked smile that slowly grew warmer as your words sank in. 

Throwing you a little wave, he turned around, ready to hurry back to his brother and call off the search so he could go raid some stores for candy and change. Yet, before he could take another step, your exasperated laughter made him stop as you rolled your eyes at his broad back. 

“Dean!” You called out after him, a raised eyebrow paired with a small knowing smirk as you watched him turn around to look at you. HIs green eyes wide and looking more than a little frazzled as you melted at the sight of the gorgeous man you’d fallen in love with many years ago. The man you never stopped loving. Even if he broke your heart.  

“You need to know where I live first,” You called out to him. No longer caring about nosy neighbors as you warmed your words with a small laugh that only grew louder as the ‘FBI agent’ stumbled over his own feet in his hurry to come back over to you. 

“I’m just down the street, look for the white house with the green door. Down there,” You said, pointing in the direction of your small home. Next to you, Dean leaned in to see things from your viewpoint, carefully following your pointer finger as you felt your temperature rise from his proximity. Swallowing the cotton mouthed feeling, you found your lost voice between one heartbeat and the next as you let your hand fall and took a step back away from him to relearn how to breathe again. 

“7 pm,” You repeated. 

“7 pm,” He confirmed. 

Before quickly throwing you another small, hopeful smile. And hurrying away with a mumbled promise of talking later and bringing candy. 

As he walked down the street, looking slightly unsteady on his feet. You couldn’t help the soft smile that played on your lips. Though you didn’t know what would come from it. You couldn't help but feel slightly happy that he’d ran into you. 

Like your own special Halloween treat. One that definitely didn’t fit into Lucas’ plastic pumpkin bucket. 

And though only time would tell what would happen. You couldn’t wait to introduce the two bravest men you knew to the bravest, smartest little boy you knew. Casting one last glance at Dean, you quickly hurried after Tara and the boys. 

Now you had another reason to make sure Batman and you were back home before the sun fully set. At a distance, you swore you could hear Dean’s excited voice as you smiled to yourself. 

“SAMMY! You’ll never guess…”

Dean Winchester Tags: @woodworthti666 @defenderrosetyler  @akshi8278 @justanotherwinchester @lyarr24 @torn-and-frayed @all-will-be-well-love @wearesuchstuff1 @thefridgeismybestie @adoptdontshoppets @starsandmidnightblue @screechingartisancashbailiff @septixtrash @punof-agun  @deandreamernp @justagirlinafandomworld @sexyvixen7 @justrealizedimmascifygurl @globetrotter28 @siospins2 @iprobablyshipit91 @mrsjenniferwinchester 

Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons @winchest09 @hobby27  @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @sea040561 @donnaintx @alwaysdreamingforthebest  @thatmotleygirl @chocolateheart @superfanficnatural @flamencodiva @starryeyeseunbyul @waywardbeanie @supernaturalenchanted @ellewritesfix05 @emoryhemsworth @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart @the-lost-wanderer-of-the-night @strangersstranger @tatted-trina6 @jensengirl83 @whatareyousearchingfordean @jackandthesoulmates  @gh0stgurl @samsgirl93 @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @dainrumnaheim @440mxs-wife

[wildgirllz]

hi hello!!! i hope you're having a good day today! <3

i hope this isn't too specific, but can i request a dean winchester x male reader where they were childhood bEsT friends (they had the biggest crushes on each other but they could never admit it), but reader ran away from home when he was a teen and never got the chance to say goodbye to dean, and now dean and reader accidentally run into each other years later after they're both adults and on a case, and they have a mixed feeling reuinion because dean is OVERJOYED to see reader again, but also he is upset that reader never told dean where he was going, or even said goodbye? tysm <3

Ofc!! Here you go <3

Runaway

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Angst, but a happy ending :)

It was just another day on the job for Dean Winchester, the hunter with the rugged good looks and the devil-may-care attitude. He had been hunting monsters with his brother, Sam, for years now, and while the work was dangerous, it was the only life he knew. He was good at it, and he liked the thrill of the hunt.

As he walked through the crowded city street, Dean felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in years, not since he was a teenager. He glanced around, trying to figure out what was causing the sensation, and then he saw him.

(Y/n).

Dean's childhood best friend. They had grown up together, spending countless hours exploring the woods and getting into all sorts of trouble. They had been inseparable, until (Y/n) had disappeared one day, without a word.

Dean had never been able to forget (Y/n). They had had a crush on each other when they were teenagers, but they had never been able to admit it. And now, here he was, standing in the middle of the street, looking just as handsome as ever.

Dean walked up to him, feeling a mix of emotions. He was overjoyed to see (Y/n) again, but at the same time, he was upset that (Y/n) had disappeared without a word.

"(Y/n)?" Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper.

(Y/n) turned around, and when he saw Dean, his face lit up with a smile. "Dean!" he said, his voice filled with surprise and delight.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, lost in memories of their childhood. Then, Dean spoke again. "Where the hell have you been, man? You disappeared without a word."

(Y/n)'s smile faded slightly, and he looked down at the ground. "I know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just leave like that. I just... I had to get away, you know? Things were tough at home, and I needed to figure some things out."

Dean frowned. "What kind of things?"

(Y/n) shrugged. "Just... stuff. Family stuff. I don't really want to talk about it."

Dean nodded, understanding that some things were best left unsaid. "Well, it's good to see you again," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "What are you doing here?"

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to answer. "I'm a hunter," he finally said. "I've been working on my own for a few years now."

Dean raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Really? You're a hunter?"

(Y/n) nodded. "Yeah. It's not easy, but I like it. It's... it's kind of like being a superhero, you know? Saving people, hunting things. It's a rush."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I've been doing it for years."

They chatted for a few more minutes, catching up on old times and exchanging stories about their hunting experiences. Dean was glad to see that (Y/n) was doing well, but at the same time, he couldn't help feeling a twinge of hurt that (Y/n) had never reached out to him.

After a while, they parted ways, with (Y/n) promising to keep in touch. Dean watched him go, feeling a mix of emotions. He was happy to have seen (Y/n) again, but at the same time, he was hurt that (Y/n) had never told him where he was going, or even said goodbye.

As Dean walked back to his hotel, his thoughts were consumed by (Y/n). He couldn't believe that after all these years, they had run into each other again. It was like fate had brought them back together.

But at the same time, he couldn't help feeling angry and hurt. He had spent years wondering what had happened to (Y/n), worrying about him, and missing him. And (Y/n) had just disappeared without a word.

When he got back to the hotel, Sam could tell something was bothering him. "What's wrong, Dean?" he asked.

Dean sighed heavily. "I ran into (Y/n) today," he said.

Sam's eyes widened. "Really? How is he?"

"He's... he's good," Dean said, still lost in thought. "He's a hunter now, apparently. He's been on his own for a while."

Sam looked at him quizzically. "And that's a bad thing?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. It's just... it's weird, you know? We were best friends, and then he just disappeared without a word. And now he's a hunter, and I had no idea."

Sam nodded sympathetically. "I can see why that would bother you," he said. "But hey, at least you got to see him again. Maybe you can reconnect."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, right. Like he's just going to waltz back into my life like nothing happened."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, maybe he will. Or maybe he won't. But either way, you should try to make peace with it. Life's too short to hold grudges."

Dean nodded, knowing his brother was right. But it was easier said than done.

The next few days were a blur of hunting and killing, and Dean didn't have much time to think about (Y/n). But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed between them. They had been such close friends as kids, and now they were practically strangers.

It wasn't until they finished the hunt and were packing up to leave that (Y/n) showed up again. He was standing outside the hotel, looking nervous.

"Hey," he said, his eyes darting around nervously. "Can we talk?"

Dean hesitated, unsure. "I don't know if there's anything left to say," he said finally.

(Y/n) looked at him pleadingly. "Please, Dean. I need to explain."

Dean sighed heavily. "Fine," he said. "Let's talk."

They walked to a nearby park and sat down on a bench. (Y/n) took a deep breath and started talking.

"I know I disappeared without a word," he said. "And I'm sorry. But you have to understand, things were really bad at home. My parents were fighting all the time, and my brother was getting into trouble. I didn't know what to do, so I just... I ran away."

Dean listened, his anger slowly melting away. He could hear the pain and desperation in (Y/n)'s voice, and he knew that he had been through a lot.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," (Y/n) continued. "But I was scared, and I didn't know what else to do. And then, after a while, I was too ashamed to come back. I didn't know how to face you.”

Dean nodded, understanding. "I get it," he said. "But you could have at least told me you were leaving. I spent years wondering what had happened to you, worrying about you. And you didn't even say goodbye."

(Y/n) looked down at his feet. "I know,"

There was a moment of silence between them, and Dean couldn't help but feel conflicted. On one hand, he was glad to finally have some closure and hear (Y/n)'s side of the story. On the other hand, he was still hurt that (Y/n) had left without a word.

"I'm sorry," (Y/n) said softly. "I should have told you. I should have said goodbye."

Dean took a deep breath and looked over at his old friend. He could see the sincerity in (Y/n)'s eyes and knew that he meant what he said.

"It's okay," Dean finally said. "I forgive you."

(Y/n) looked up at him, relief flooding his face. "Thank you," he said.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before (Y/n) spoke up again. "I missed you," he said softly. "A lot."

Dean felt his heart skip a beat at the words. He had missed (Y/n) too, more than he had ever let himself admit. They had been each other's confidants, each other's first crushes. But things had changed, and they had both gone down different paths.

"I missed you too," Dean finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was a moment of silence between them before (Y/n) spoke up again. "I know we can't go back to how things were," he said. "But... maybe we could try to be friends again?"

Dean thought about it for a moment before nodding. "Yeah," he said. "I'd like that."

(Y/n) smiled, and they sat in comfortable silence for a while longer. Dean couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over him as he sat there with his old friend.

As they got up to leave, (Y/n) turned to him. "Hey, Dean?" he said.

"Yeah?" Dean asked.

"Thank you for forgiving me," (Y/n) said. "It means a lot."

Dean smiled at him. "Of course," he said. "We were always meant to find each other again."

(Y/n) smiled back at him, and they walked back to the hotel together. It wasn't a perfect reunion, but it was a start. Dean knew that there was still a lot of healing to be done, but he was willing to try. He had missed (Y/n) too much to let him go again.

[jawritter]

Yes Sir Kinktober 2022, ep. 3

Summary: A little alone time with your boss...

Warnings: 18 + Only, NSFW, Sir Kink, Oral (Male receiving), P & V, light hairpulling, Rough Smut. (It’s pretty much p*rn with a plot, so Mature audiences only.)

Word Count: 404

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Reader

A/N: This is completely unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine! Please do not copy my work! Feedback is golden. Sorry this one is posted a day behind schedule; work doesn’t like me lmao. 

Kinktober Masterlist

“Fucking Beautiful,” Beau praised, and Y/N hummed happily around his cock as he trusts deep into her mouth and down her throat, causing her to gag slightly and for him to groan as her throat contracted around his swollen head. 

“You like that don’t,” he continued, gripping her hair tightly, holding it back out of her face for her. “Choking on my cock like that.”

She hummed again and he groaned as his hips stammered before he pulled himself away from her harshly, and she whined at the loss. 

“On your feet,” he growled as he stood sharply and kicked the chair out of the way. 

She scrambled to her feet, and Beau roughly manhandled her around, before learning her over the desk and ripping her dress up to her waist and her panties to the side, rubbing his throbbing length against her dripping cunt, and she moaned pathetically as he grabbed a handful of her hair again, turning her face to the side. 

“Want me to fuck you sweetheart, right here, on this desk, where anyone could walk in and see you stretched out all pretty and needy on my cock like this?” Beau questioned, and all she could do was moan in response as he slapped her ass hard enough to echo through the small office. 

“Use your words baby girl,” he demanded, “or else I’m gonna leave you all wet and horny to go out there and finish the book, only one of us is gonna cum if you don’t learn to use your words, and it ain’t gonna be you.”

“Yes,” she squeaked as his fingers round her swollen clit, rubbing harshly before he slapped her pussy, sending a wet swatting sound throughout the room, and her pussy contracting and releasing around nothing. 

“Excuse me? Yes, what? Where are your manners Darlin’?”

“Yes Sir,” she corrected, knowing exactly what he wanted to hear, and knowing he would absolutely send her back out there a mess without fucking her, and God, she needed him to fuck her. 

“Good girl,” he growled, slamming his full length into her clinching heat in one swift thrust, his hand coming over to cover her mouth to stop the scream from echoing through the room as she damn near fell apart on just his intrusion. “Now, be a good girl and be quiet for me. It'd be a shame if we got caught in here.”

Forever:

@as-lost-as-sams-shoe​​​​​​​​​

@jensenslady79​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@wittysunflower

@spnwoman​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@stoneyggirl2​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men​

@deanssliceofcherrypie

@stixnstripesworld​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@fullwattpadmusictree​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@nancymcl​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@christycreature​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@whiskey-infused-dreams​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@supernatural79impala​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@deandreamernp​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@forgetthisbull​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@miraclesoflove​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@slamminmine​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@deanwanddamons​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@rvgrsbrns​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@chevyharvelle​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@i-love-superhero-movies​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@lyss-dw79​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@magssteenkamp​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@lemondropirwin​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@squirrelnotsam​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@hobby27​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@spnbaby-67​​​​​​​​​​​​​​  

@mrsjenniferwinchester​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@defenderrosetyler​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@thecreatiivecorner​​​​​​​​​​​​​​  

@vicmc624​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@busy-bee-angel-misska​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@justanotherwinchester​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@brilovesdeanwinchester​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@idksupernatural​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@lyarr24​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@emoryhemsworth​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@dean-winchesters-gardian-angel​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@flamencodiva​

@itmejado​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@supernatural3002​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@teresa-67​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@thoughts-and-funnies​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@hearteyes-j2​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@peaches007​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@bobbie3939​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@lunarmoon8361​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@vulgar-library​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@writercole​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@fairlyspnfanfic​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@sexyvixen7​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@spngi​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@b3autyfuldisast3r​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@donnaintx​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@maliburenee​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@the-family-business67​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@agirlwithdemonblood​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@captainsoldiergirl​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Jensen and Dean’s Babes

@impalaslytherin​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@perpetualabsurdity​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@msmarvelouswinchester​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@akshi8278​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@love-jackles​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@irmcpar​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@pink-sparkly-witch​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@siospins2​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@herstarburststories​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@mimaria420​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@deanwinchesterswitch​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@shawnie74​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@charred-angelwings​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@pascal-rascal424​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@myloversgone​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@fortheloveof-jackles​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@eevvvaa​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@bts-spnlvr12​​​​​​​​​​​

@jxackles​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@lassie-bird​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@samsgirl93​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@slytherinlyn314​​​​​​​​​​​​​​  

@kaz11283​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

@mlovesstories​

[samsexualdeancurious]

Candy and Whiskey

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Words: 1,101

Summary: Dean brought a little adult treat for trick or treating with the twins.

Warnings: Drinking, some kinda dirty flirting between adults.

Written for an Angel Patron request

---

“Abby! Stay with your sister!”

The youngest of your twins slows her pace but only a bit. Dean chuckles softly. He’s already holding both of their candy buckets, pink and purple pumpkins swinging from the hand that’s not curled around your own.

“Abby,” you call again and she comes to a halt at the end of the front walk of the next house. She taps one little princess slipper-clad foot while she waits for the rest of your to catch up.

“You walk too fast,” Maggie complains.

Abby mumbles an apology and snatches her purple bucket from her dad. Together, the twins make their way up to the front door of the house where various little superheroes are receiving their shares of candy from an older woman in a pointed witch hat.

“I swear,” you sigh. “Those two.”

“They’ll slow down when they get tired,” Dean assures you.

“Yeah, and we’ll end up carrying them the rest of the way home.”

Dean laughs, digging in the inner pocket of his coat for something. He’s dressed like a cowboy, right down to a leather vest and sheriff’s star under his long dark coat. It’s a damn good look, especially with the dark hat completing the outfit. You can’t help but admire him for a moment before you realize what he has in his hand.

“You did not.”

He smirks and gives the flask a little shake. “Want some?”

You hesitate a moment and then grab the flask. It’s straight whiskey inside and burns going down but the warmth is welcome in the chilly Halloween night. You pass the flask back to Dean, who takes a sip of his own and tucks it away. You shake your head fondly.

“You’re a terrible influence,” you murmur as the girls skip back down the front walk to you.

“You love me.”

Apparently, the girls are okay with carrying their own buckets again, because they immediately start leading the way down the sidewalk to the next house. You lean into Dean and follow them.

You don’t drink a lot but the few sips you get as your little family makes its way around the neighborhood definitely have you leaning more towards tipsy as you get closer to home. The girls are still going strong, surprisingly. You suspect they’ve been sneaking candy when you weren’t looking. Just like their father, of course. You wouldn’t expect anything less.

“Have I told you yet how fucking hot you look tonight?” Dean murmurs, low for your ears only as the girls run, squealing, past some homemade ghosts hanging from a tree.

Your cheeks burn. Your costume isn’t anything particularly complicated, just something you threw together last minute - a black dress that’s a little reminiscent of Morticia Addams with a less extreme plunge to the neckline, paired with some kick-ass boots and a long blue cloak. You’d already felt good about yourself when you twirled in front of the bathroom mirror but something about Dean telling you how good he thinks you look always sparks warmth in your belly.

“You’re sweet,” you reply, giving him a little shove. You’re feeling all warm and fuzzy but you can’t tell if it’s from the whiskey or Dean pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“Mommy! Look at how big this candy bar is!”

Maggie is bounding down the steps, a king-sized Hershey’s bar clutched proudly in one fist. Abby is hot on her sister’s heels, her own Hershey’s bar held above her head for you to see.

“Wow! Those are big ones!” You crouch down to look at both candy bars. “Good job! Put them in your buckets so they don’t get lost.”

Both girls tuck their candy bars in their buckets with a reverence that has Dean muffling a snort.

“A few more houses and then we’re gonna head home,” he tells them. Both immediately start whining but a firm look silences their complaints. “Look how much candy you have! That’s enough to last you until next Halloween.”

“Not to mention, Dad’s going to stock up on more when it goes on sale tomorrow,” you tell the girls conspiratorially.

They giggle and Dean pouts but there’s no real heat to it. You shoot him a wink as the girls scurry off towards the next house.

“You’re trouble.”

His tone is low and a little dangerous. You can’t help a shiver of arousal at his words and your mouth goes dry but you somehow manage to muster a response.

“What’re you gonna do about it?”

Dean yanks you close, mouth pressed to the sensitive spot behind your ear when he says in a low growl, “You’ll find out when we get home.”

He releases you abruptly and calls for the girls to wait for him at the end of the next driveway. You’re left standing in the middle of the sidewalk, probably looking a bit stunned.

When you’ve shaken yourself back to reality and caught up with your family, Dean’s chatting amicably with your neighbor Cindy while the girls compare candy with her son, Hunter. You plaster on a smile that you really hope doesn’t show any of the absolutely filthy thoughts you’re struggling to push from your mind.

“Hi, Y/N!” Cindy is dressed as a cat to match Hunter’s dog costume. “Looks like the girls are having a successful night.”

“They got king-size Hersheys at the last house,” you tell her.

“Oh, those are always the best houses. I’m surprised neither of you stayed home to give out candy.”

“We-ell,” you say slowly, drawing the word out as you shoot your husband a pointed look. “Someone at the whole bowl of candy in secret, so we didn’t have any candy to give out.”

Dean blushes, adorable pink spots high on his cheeks as he rubs the back of his neck. Cindy laughs. When he’s distracted by Abby tugging on his coat and bends down to listen to what she’s saying, Cindy turns a knowing smile on you. She doesn’t say anything but you know exactly what she’s thinking. Every woman in the neighborhood has a massive crush on Dean.

After you say goodnight to Cindy and continue on your way, Dean loops his arm around your waist and tugs you in close.

“Want some more whiskey?” he asks and you shake your head.

“No.” You lean into his side. You should probably eat something when you get back to the house but the buzz you’re feeling is pleasant and warm in combination with the low-level arousal still burning in your belly. “No, I want to make sure I remember tonight.”

Dean groans.

—

Like this fic? Support me longterm on Patreon HERE or make a one-time donation on Ko-Fi HERE.

—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @manawhaat @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @emoryhemsworth @imsuperawkward

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Paper Moon: Final Part

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: A case brings you back to someone you let go once before. Now, you have a decision to make: let her go again or kill her. Whatever option that will piss the Winchesters off, right?

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

You enter the cabin first and motion for them to go their separate ways. You walk up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms where Tasha is sitting on the bed holding a doll.

"I can't believe my own sister betrayed me."

"She didn't. We did."

"You're not gonna shoot me."

"You wanna bet?" you ask and cock your gun.

"Y/N?"

You turn to see Sam and Dean with two more werewolves behind them. They've disarmed the brothers so you're the only one who has a gun.

"Drop the gun or Dreamboats here get their minds blown."

"You really think they mean anything to me?" You laugh. "Turn them, kill them, I really don't give a damn."

"Shut up and shoot her!" Dean yells at you.

One of the men hits Dean's head with the end of his own gun, and the older brother falls to his knees in pain.

"What's it gonna be?"

You look at Dean with a smirk.

"Do you really want me to kill her?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

You turn back to Tasha, uncock the gun, and drop it. Dean sighs in frustration as you kick it away from you. Seconds later, Kate walks into the bedroom with yet another man. He is gripping her arm tightly as drags her along.

"Tasha! Who are these people?"

"Brandon. Travis. Elijah. I turned them. They're our new family."

"Yeah, you're a regular psycho Brady Bunch," Dean scoffs.

Brandon lurches at Dean with his werewolf teeth, and Sam tries to stop the track.

"Hey! Stop!"

Tasha grabs Sam and throws him onto the bed where she straddles him and wraps her hands around his throat.

"No!" Kate gasps.

"You've always had shitty taste in guys."

"Tasha, we can talk about this."

Tasha lets go of Sam who coughs from her attack. She whirls to face her sister with an angry face. Sam sits up in bed while you stand off to the side and watch.

"They were gonna kill me. Now you're protecting them?"

"No, I'm protecting you."

"I'm good, thanks."

"I like this girl," you smile.

"Shut up," Dean glares.

"Come on, let the girl have her fun. What's Earth without a few more people in it?"

"Yes, thank you. You get it," Tasha agrees with you. "So, here's how it's gonna be. You can walk away or you can join my pack."

"I'm not walking away," Kate says and shakes off her captor.

"Then prove you got what it takes." Tasha looks at Sam and grins. "Eat his heart out."

"Kate. You don't have to do this," Sam pleads.

"No one is talking to you, Paul Bunyan!" Tasha yells. "So?"

"No," Kate says in disgust.

"Take them away," Tasha orders her friends. "Have some fun. Oh, and I want a heart to go. Put it in a doggie bag. Keep her. I like her."

You smirk and sit on the bed as you watch Sam and Dean get dragged away from the bedroom.

"Make sure it hurts," you grin at the glare Dean gives you.

"T, I can help you get better," Kate says.

"Oh, I am better, smarter, stronger, and awesome. I'm a fucking superhero."

"Who kills innocent people? No, that's not you. You were a good kid."

"I was weak and scared. I let people walk all over me like mom, dad, friends, boyfriends, and you. I'm not weak anymore, and I'm not scared. I'm scary."

"She's got a point. Before, I used to be so worried about everyone around me. I would put their lives before my own. Fuck that. I love my life now. I love the power I hold. I get it, Tasha."

"You should join my pack."

"I'm not turning into a werewolf. If you want to kill, that's fine by me, but I'm no bitch."

"I was trying to give you a second chance," Kate steers the conversation back on topic. "You wouldn't have been normal, but we would've had each other."

"We still can, but I'm not gonna spend my life on the run from people like Mary-Kate and Ashley out there. We're strong, Kate. We can go anywhere we want. We can do anything we want. If anyone gets in our way..." She moves toward her sister. "You don't have to be alone anymore. We can do this together." Kate's face softens at her proposition but you know it's all an act. You've done this hundreds of times. You know a facade when you see it. "Kate, we're gonna be good, okay? We're gonna be great."

"I love you," Kate says.

"I love you, too."

Okay, now you're bored. You grab your discarded gun without either of the girls seeing you, and you aim it at Tasha's back. You shoot her where her heart would be, and Kate jumps back from shock. Tasha coughs up blood and falls to the floor, dead. Kate looks at you with tears in her eyes in fear you're going to kill her.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Normally, yes. I don't give a damn about you. However, killing you is exactly what Sam and Dean want. Letting you go will only piss them off, and I'm all for that these days." You aim the gun at her before lowering it. "Get the hell out of here before I change my mind."

Kate doesn't hesitate to escape through the window. The bedroom is empty except for you and Tasha's corpse. The door crashes open and Sam and Dean enter with guns drawn. They look at Tasha's body, then you, then the open window.

"You let her go?!"

"I killed Tasha. You get one or the other, and I'm pretty sure you want Tasha more than Kate."

You leave the house knowing there are four dead bodies inside. They start the day's drive back to the Bunker in silence. A cell phone ringing is what disrupts the silence, and Dean picks up the phone he took from Kate earlier. He looks at you through the rearview mirror before putting her on speakerphone.

"Despite my wife allowing you to live, you're pretty damn good at getaways."

"I decided that living was better than being dead."

"For what it's worth, thank you. At the end of the day, she was your sister," Sam sighs.

"No, she wasn't."

"Listen to me, Kate. You keep moving, keep your nose clean, and we can stop meeting like this."

"I hear ya. I will, but I'm not going to make that promise."

"See you around, kid."

"I sure as hell hope not," she says and hangs up the phone.

"So, are we going after her?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam sighs.

"You gotta admit, when push came to kill, she did good."

"Maybe. Maybe it's a good thing Y/N didn't shoot her. Listen, we both jumped on this case. I agree. Equal parts of blame there, but the whole idea behind laying low was to rest, to try and deal with everything you went through. Maybe we jumped back in too fast. Dean, you were a demon. You and Y/N still have the Mark. Don't you ever wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about it? Talk about it, how?" Dean asks, irritated.

"I can answer any questions you have. I was there, remember?" you smirk.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Shut the hell up. I know what happened, Sam, okay? I was there. I'm not trying to get by it. That's not what this was about. It's about getting back in the saddle. Doing something good and not stewing in my own shit."

"What if you're not ready?"

"Let's say you're right about everything. Maybe I'm not ready to hunt, but I am trying to do the right thing, man, because I am so sick and tired of doing the wrong one," Dean says in a broken tone."

"I know where you can start," you smirk.

"I'm not in the mood to deal with your shit, right now."

"Aw, poor baby. Did I hurt your feelings earlier?" you giggle. Sam looks at you as if he's judging your behavior and your smile is lost. "Don't think you're any better than him. You're both pathetic and weak, and it's honestly refreshing to see you both for what you two truly are."

The rest of the ride is spent in silence. As soon as you get back to the Bunker, you leave it to go to some bar. Now that the brothers are alone, Dean calls Cas to meet them at the Bunker. It takes two hours since Cas still lives in the house you gifted him. When he gets his wings back, he won't have a need for a house, but it's nice to have a home base for a while.

"I'm sorry. I came as fast as I could," Cas apologizes.

"Okay, what the hell happened to my wife? Seriously, I need some sort of answers."

"Sam, what happened in that warehouse?" Cas asks.

Sam sits down at the war table in thought. He remembers every detail like it was yesterday.

"I remember running inside and seeing you on the floor by Metatron. He beat you pretty good. I saw Y/N on the floor. As she was getting up, she turned to me and reminded me of my promise to look after the kids. She made me promise to take care of them if anything were to happen to you or her. I think on some level, she knew something bad was going to happen.

"She used every once of magic she had to try and beat Metatron, but as soon as that blade went inside of you, her magic disappeared. It explodes out of her along with something white. She fell to the ground and wouldn't wake up. After I put both of them in separate rooms, I went to check on them. They were both gone."

"May I take a look inside you?" Cas asks Dean. "Whatever happened to her happened when you died."

"Yeah, whatever you gotta do."

Cas raises his hand and lets white light protrude from his palm. He hovers his hand in front of Dean's face as he looks deep inside Dean's soul. Dean and Sam exchange glances but don't say a thing. Cas lowers his hand in thought and raises it again to do the same exact thing.

"What do you see?" Dean asks.

"I think I know why Y/N is acting the way she is."

"Why?"

"Her soul is in your body."

Dean and Sam are shocked into silence for a few moments.

"Come again?"

"Her soul is in your body," the angel repeats.

"How the hell did that happen?"

"I don't know but based on what Sam described, when you died, you pulled her soul from her body. You trapped it inside of your own."

"I didn't know you could do that," Sam says to his brother.

"I didn't know I could do that." Dean turns to Cas. "Why the hell am I able to do that?"

"Your soul has been tethered to her since you two were born. You're soulmates. When you died, your soul pulled at hers until it left her body."

"Put it back!"

"It's not that simple. Her soul is tainted from your time as a demon. From the second you died, your soul started tainting hers to become as black as yours. The longer you went as a demon, the worse it got. When Sam cured you, he started the process of purifying your soul which is why you were able to become human again.

"Your soul became pure, but hers stayed tainted. If I were to put it in her body now, the power of the Mark along with her corrupted soul would completely destroy her from the inside. There would be no saving her at that point. Her soul would not be able to be purified after that. If we wait too long to put it in, then she will corrupt her own soul."

Dean has no idea what to do with this information. He raises his arms and lets them slam down back to his sides in frustration.

"Okay," Sam stutters, "how long does something like that take?"

"Considering we're in uncharted territory, I don't know. Though, the longer she is without her soul, the more the Mark will corrupt her."

"Let me get this straight," Dean says and walks closer to Cas, "if you shove her soul back in now, she becomes so corrupted that there is no hope in saving her, thus she dies. If we wait too long to put it in, the power of the Mark will corrupt her so much that she will start to taint her now-purified soul to the point where she dies. Am I missing anything?"

"There is a very small window in which we need to act, but I don't know when that window will come. You two need to keep an eye on her so she doesn't become worse than she is. The Mark feeds off power, and the more you give it to her, the quicker it will corrupt her."

"Okay, I need you both to promise me you won't tell her a word of this. If she knows her soul is in me, then she will do whatever it takes to prevent her reconnecting with it. That means killing me. She can't know."

"Yeah, agreed," Sam nods.

"I promise," Cas says.

Dean isn't confident that things will work out in the end, but he will damn sure try.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[threadsun]

Snaccpop - Masterlist

Something's Wrong With Sunny Day Jack - Headcanons

Dachabo - Headcanons

The Groom of Gallagher Mansion

sdj x lads - tag for all my sdj stuff involving Nik and Zander

The Memory of My Angel (Could Never Cause Me Pain) - SDJ fic

Jack

Jack x reader Jack x reader x Rory Dilf Jack - Jack as a dad

Ian

Ian x reader Nick x Ian Dilf Ian - Ian as a dad

Shaun

Shaun x reader Shaun x reader x Nick Dilf Shaun - Shaun as a dad

Nick

Nick x reader Shaun x reader x Nick Nick x Ian Dilf Nick - Nick as a dad

Joseph

Joseph x reader Joseph x reader x Jean Joseph x Jean Beanjo x reader (Bo, Jean, and Joseph) Dilf Joseph - Joseph as a dad

Jean

Jean x reader Joseph x reader x Jean Joseph x Jean Beanjo x reader (Bo, Jean, and Joseph) Dilf Jean - Jean as a dad

Rory

Rory x reader Jack x reader x Rory Dilf Rory - Rory as a dad

Barry

Barry x reader

Bo

Bo x reader Dilf Bo - posts about Bo as a father

Elias Gallagher

Taylor Potts

Elias Gallagher x reader Taylor Potts x reader Elias Gallagher x reader x Taylor Potts

AUs:

Dear Director AU - Reader is the resentful creator/director of the SunnyTime Crew Show The Wolf Den - werewolf AU Bloodbag AU - vampire AU Ian's Dad AU - Jean is blackmailing Ian and reader into fucking him while Ian and reader are dating Tapping the Admiral - Reader winds up on a pirate ship, with the boys as crewmates Heir Apparent - Reader is the heir to their kingdom's throne, and they have to make a harem before they inherit

Dilfs AU - Joseph and Jean raising Ian Teen Hooligans - Ian, Nick, Shaun, and MC as teenage friends Teen Hooligans become Teen Heroes - Teen Hooligans superhero AU Teacher Triad - Reader is a teacher in the 80s who meets the sdj crew Ghost!reader AU - Reader is the one who died on the sdj set and is a ghost The Gang go Girl Mode - genderbent stuff Firehouse Puppy AU - Reader is the dedicated petplay puppy for a firehouse full of firemen

Cult Town AU - Reader is the child of a cult leader, written by my beloved friend Evan (@panie-wanie-dean-bean) Incubus AU - Reader lives with a house full of incubi, written by Evan <3 Hybrid AU - Reader adopted the hybrid boys and is their owner, written by Evan <3