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thatonewriter15 · 9 days ago

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Heartbreaking and sweet all at once. <3

depression — dean winchester ݃⁺݄+

summary: it’s breaking dean’s heart to see you wilting away in his bed, suffering from a depressive episode.

warnings: depression (symptoms, behaviours, thoughts, etc.), non-sexual nudity, angsty fluff, angsty/sad dean, pure comfort, loverboy!dean, depressed!reader, set in the bunker/later seasons (bf!dean x gf!reader)

wc: 4.28k

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

dean winchester had never been a stranger to letting dark feelings consume him; he knew what it was like to feel like you’re drowning from the inside with thoughts that made your soul crumble piece by piece.

he knows.

he gets it.

but with you? it was different.

you weren’t like him—you allowed yourself to wallow in your sadness, letting it suffocate you like a weighted blanket until one day it magically lifts and you’re back to being yourself. it was routine at this point, something you just accepted as part of your life.

dean, however, spent his days existing alongside his depression, running through life like a bulldozer, never allowing himself to rot in the sadness—because deep down he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back out—but instead using it as a means to keep himself going through the challenges he faced.

his heart ached as he watched you spend day after day in his bed, withering away amongst the sheets, letting your unspoken thoughts and feelings eat at you, draining the usual light in your eyes into dull lifeless voids.

each morning was the same routine.

“you want some breakfast, baby?” dean asks, sitting on the side of the bed with his hand carefully threading through your greasy unkempt hair.

you shake your head. again.

and dean sighs. it’s like clockwork.

“you sure? i can bring you something.”

“just wanna sleep,” you mutter, your quiet croaky voice barely louder than a whisper.

dean’s heart breaks in his chest. you look so sad. so broken. so absent.

he looks away, not wanting you to see his frown. “alright. i’ll– uhh… i’ll leave you be then,” he sighs and wipes a hand down his face. “i’ll be in the library with sam if you need me, okay?”

and with a creak of the mattress and another soft sigh, he’s out of the room, and you’re back in the quiet solitude of his bunker bedroom, blanketed by the dull smell and thick air that seems all-consuming.

back in it.

back in the midst of your own tired brain, spewing out things you’d never dare say aloud.

things you’d never share with dean.

but dean’s not an idiot. he knows depression like the back of his hand, and he’s seen your episodes before—though it doesn’t make it any less painful whenever you enter one.

you spend your days in and out of consciousness, swimming in the dire thoughts that plague your mind and leave you feeling empty.

and you perhaps look even worse than you feel. you should be embarrassed, you think, letting dean see you like this—the unwashed hair, the unbrushed teeth, the crinkled pyjamas you’ve been wearing for days that are starting to smell.

but you don’t care.

it’s hard to care.

you’re so wrapped up in your own brain, trying to fight the onslaught of grim thoughts, that you don’t even see the impact you’re having on dean.

he’s tried everything.

he was gentle at first—the soft-spoken words and tender touches that just made you feel worse.

guilty… maybe.

and when his soft love didn’t help, he moved onto bringing you things, like a meal or your toothbrush, but every time he tried, he was met with a grunt or hum of disinterest.

and it broke his fucking heart.

even sam could see the stress that your dynamic was having on dean. he watched his brother wallow in despair, going days without a smile and the usual bite of confidence that he walked around with. he was losing himself in worry, but yet, the pair of them were clueless when it came to helping you; they didn’t know what to do.

they’d grown up just coexisting in their shared anguish, not letting their afflictions get in the way of life. they couldn’t afford to let it get in the way, no matter how much they were struggling.

but you were different.

and to them it was different.

so as the days of you rotting in his bed went by, dean’s own light began to fade. he walked around the bunker dejected and heavy-hearted, just existing with a sad level of apathy. he didn’t care for the cases sam would bring up; he couldn’t find it in himself to worry about the potential victims or the entities that were no doubt wreaking havoc.

not when he was worrying about you.

you were lying in his bed, half asleep, as you heard dean’s footsteps patter down the hallway. you pulled the blanket further up under your chin, almost shielding yourself from him and whatever he was going to say to you.

the door opened with a creak, the light from the hallway illuminating the dark room. dean popped his head in, letting his eyes land on you. “sweetheart?” he asked quietly, letting his gentle voice float through the stagnant air that reeked of you.

when you didn’t respond, he sighed, opening the door wider and stepping into the room. you felt his weight pull down the mattress as he sat, and his hand met your side over the blanket, gently rubbing, trying to coerce a response out of you.

“it’s 4 o’clock,” dean murmured, studying your face and the way you hid it in the pillow. “you don’t wanna get up? you’re not hungry?”

he knew his questions were redundant. he’d asked them every day since you’d first fallen into this depression.

you shook your head against the pillow. “m’tired,” you muttered.

“i know, sweetheart. i just–” dean sighed, “i’d just like you to eat something. it’s late… and i’m sure you’re hungry.”

he waited.

but you didn’t respond.

“i can make you a sandwich. some toast?” he offered, still rubbing your side over the sheets.

you shook your head again, silently pleading for him to give up like he usually does with these conversations.

“baby, please,” dean’s voice wavered, his usual gruff tone wobbling with emotion as he looked down at you. “please,” he begged again.

“not hungry,” you muttered, finally giving him a reply with words.

dean sighed. his hand moved up to your head, brushing some hair out of your face. his touch was gentle and reverent, like you were something that’d break if he wasn’t careful.

cause perhaps you were.

“i know you’re not, sweetheart, but i want you to eat something. you need to.”

the stale air around you felt thicker as the moments of silence grew, and you felt it suffocating you.

“please, dean,” you tried.

“no… i’m gonna make you something, and you’re gonna eat it for me, okay?”

your eyes finally fluttered open and hesitantly looked up to his. dean’s eyes immediately softened. there you were.

“baby…”

the look of hopelessness on his face made your chin tremble—it was beyond your control. the way his eyes looked sunken in was a reflection of your own misery.

he moved his hand to rest against your cheek. his touch was warm, and you found yourself swimming in the contact.

“c’mon, angel. please…” his voice was strained, tight with emotion that he was trying to keep from spilling out all over you; he didn’t need to make you feel any worse. “let me get you up. come sit in the kitchen. just you and me.”

he didn’t give you time to argue with his words. instead, he gently peeled the blanket away and slid his hands under your body.

a groan of protest left your throat, but your body melted into his as he pulled you up off the mattress.

“there we go,” dean muttered, letting you sit against him. your tired eyes blinked at him, conveying all the words you couldn’t find the energy to speak. “i know, sweetheart, i know. just for ten minutes, yeah?”

you blinked slowly, watching his face search yours. his expression was a mixture of concern and empathy, and you felt your heart lurch at the sight, knowing you were the cause.

his hand stroked your cheek as the silence grew once more. “you’re… you’re a bit ripe, baby,” dean finally spoke, his tone gentle and a little reluctant.

you swallowed. you knew those words should embarrass you, but… you couldn’t find the energy to care. “i know,” you whispered.

dean nodded. “c’mere…”

his big arms wrapped around you, caging you against his chest. his hand rubbed your back, attempting to soothe away the sadness he could feel emanating off you.

you melted into his embrace, his warmth alleviating some of the tension in your body.

“i love you, baby. let me look after you… please. it kills me to see you like this,” he whispered into your hair.

you let out a soft noise, one that left your throat without your permission.

“i know,” dean murmured. he pulled back and looked down at your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. his eyes softened as he met your tired gaze. “i’m gonna run you a bath, okay? i’m gonna help you.”

he nodded along with his words, almost reassuring you with his actions.

you wanted to argue. you wanted to tell him to go away, that you didn’t want a bath, that you just wanted to sleep.

but the pain in dean’s expression stopped you. the way the frown tugged down on his lips and the way his eyes silently pleaded with you had your chest tightening.

“okay.”

dean let out a shaky breath. “yeah, okay. good… that’s my girl.” he placed a tender kiss on your forehead, letting his lips stay against your skin for a few moments before pulling back. “you stay here. i’ll be right back.”

he pulled away from you, your body instantly feeling cold at the absence of his touch. he ducked out into the hallway and down to the bunker bathroom, ready to fill the tub for you and wash off your layer of grime.

you slumped back down into the mattress, your heart beating faster in resigned anticipation. you didn’t want to get up. you didn’t want a bath. you just wanted to fall back into sleep and avoid being awake, like you’d been doing all week.

but dean’s face appeared in your mind, and you knew how much this meant to him. your heart ached knowing you were the cause of his sadness, and so you sat back against the sheets, waiting with a heavy heart for him to return.

dean entered the room again only moments later. he stood beside the bed looking down at you, a cautious yet glum smile pulling at his lips. “bath’s running. you just– you just wait there.”

you watched him pull out the drawers of his dresser, grabbing an old shirt and a pair of his boxers, before dipping back out of the room in a rush.

a few minutes passed before dean returned again. he approached your sad state on the bed and loomed over you with a steady presence. “okay, sweetheart. bath’s full. c’mere.”

he bowed down and slipped his hands under your lifeless body, pulling you away from the warm sheets of the bed and into him. your head instinctively ducked into his neck, searching for closeness as he began carrying you out to the bathroom.

“it's gonna be okay, baby,” dean murmured into your hair. “i’m gonna look after you, okay?”

his gentle words made your heart flutter, the first sign of life in your chest in days. a warmth spread, and you sighed, nodding in response.

dean walked you into the bathroom, closing the door with his foot before setting you down in front of him. the tiles were cold against your feet, and the fresh air of the bathroom invaded your nose. it was a lot, after being surrounded by the stale air of his bedroom for so long, but dean’s presence somehow made it all feel okay.

you looked at him, waiting to see what he’d do, but his eyes were already on you—round and wide with that same glimmer of concern, but still full of so much love.

“let’s get you undressed,” he said softly, his hands already moving to the pyjama shirt you’d been marinating in for the past few days.

you nodded, wordlessly, and let him pull it over your head, your arms slipping out of the fabric and covering your bare chest. dean’s eyes flickered down to the covered skin, and a small smile grew on his lips. “s’nothing i haven’t seen before, baby. you’re alright.”

you felt a smile threaten to tug on your own lips at his small remark—another beat of life returning to you momentarily.

dean pulled down your pyjama shorts and underwear in another careful movement, gently lifting your feet to slip them out of the leg holes.

“there we go,” he huffed softly, throwing your soiled clothes into the laundry basket.

dean’s face softened as his gaze returned to you, and his eyes swept over your form reverently. “my beautiful girl,” he breathed out, the love seeping from his words. your sad heart soaked it up as he cupped your cheek with his palm, the contact almost electrifying for a moment, waking you up from your slightly hazy state.

“let’s get you in the tub, yeah?” he murmured once again, his green eyes flickering between yours in assurance.

you nodded.

and dean nodded in return before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “that’s my girl.”

he guided you to the bathtub. bubbles floated on top of the water, and steam plumed up into the air. the sweet scent of your body wash filled your nostrils as you stood in front of it.

dean watched your eyes take in the sight, a small smile gracing his face. “i did alright, didn’t i?” he let out a soft laugh.

you glanced up at him, your heart skipping a beat at his beautiful face. god, you loved him. “yeah,” you replied softly, your voice nothing more than a mere whisper.

but still, dean smiled.

he was pulling more words from you in fifteen minutes than he had been for the past week.

“hop in, baby. it’s nice and warm.”

you tentatively dipped a foot in, testing the temperature, before committing and taking a seat in the water.

the warm water surrounded you, gently lapping at your skin like gentle kisses on an ocean shore. it felt nice, and you were already feeling better than you had been all week.

“good?” dean asked as he lowered himself beside the tub, sitting on his knees.

you relaxed back against the porcelain. “good.”

dean smiled once more, taking in the sight of you. “i’m glad,” he murmured. he let his hand reach over the tub and dip under the water, meeting your knee. he gave it a gentle squeeze.

you let out a deep sigh, a long sound that seemed to escape your lungs without your consent. dean just nodded. “i know, baby,” he said, squeezing your knee again. “i'm gonna wash you and get you back to bed. i know you’re feeling rough, my baby. just let me do this for you.”

his tender words struck at your heart, your heartstrings tightening as a frown grew on your lips. as little as his words seemed at face value, they meant the world. he saw you. he saw the pain that existed within you, and yet, he was okay with it. he understood it, and you could see he was more than willing to help you shoulder it. that much was clear.

and so you nodded once more, words seeming too daunting for you to handle. dean hummed and picked up your shampoo bottle from beside the tub. “can you wet your hair for me?” he asked, his soft eyes falling over your face.

you swallowed and slipped down, dipping your head into the water.

you found yourself falling back into a hazy state as dean began washing your hair, his gentle hands massaging the suds into your scalp—the motion tender and careful, like he was touching you for the first time again, cautious that you’d pull away.

your eyes fluttered shut, your wet lashes draped over your warm cheeks as he rinsed and conditioned your hair. emotions bubbled in your chest at the feeling of being looked after, cared for like your soul had been aching for. dean took care of you with such love, and your fragile soul soaked it up, revelling in his presence for the first time in days instead of feeling repulsed by it.

the salty tears escaped your eyes while dean began scrubbing your body clean.

dean saw them.

“oh, sweetheart,” his voice wavered. his free hand came up and cupped your cheek, almost guiding your face to meet his gaze. “it’s okay. you’re okay.”

you looked at him through your blurry vision, the tears still spilling down your cheeks and your throat closing up from how much his touches were forcing up emotions that suffocated your airways.

you whimpered.

“i know, baby, i know. i’m so sorry you feel like this,” dean murmured. he leaned forward and placed a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a few seconds longer than necessary, as if he was trying to kiss away some of the hurt from inside of you.

your lips trembled, and your chin quivered. it felt too much. it all felt too much.

you let out a sob—a quiet one, the sound broken and pained.

dean felt his heart rip. there was no other way to describe it. he felt your pain evaporate from your insides and expel itself into the air in the form of sobs.

maybe your tears were good, and maybe your sobs too.

he kept gently scrubbing your body clean, his heart twisting at every cruel sound that escaped you. “i know, angel, i know. i’m so sorry. i wish i could make it better.”

you cried.

for the first time in weeks.

you felt the floodgates open, and you had no way of closing them. the sounds were almost guttural, ravaging your insides and tearing out of your mouth.

but as painful as it all seemed, your sobs lightened it—lessened the load of what you were carrying inside, lightened the heavy feeling that had manifested itself into the dull ache in your chest.

you couldn’t see through your tears by the time dean had drained the bath and managed to wrap you in a towel and pull you into his arms.

“i wish i could take away your pain. i’d take all of it, every last drop, baby, just so you’d never have to feel like this again,” he whispered into your hairline. his voice was so soft, so raw, and so sincere. “i’m so sorry.”

he kept his strong arms around you, holding onto you like a vice, feeling like you’d shatter into a million pieces if he were to let go. you just collapsed into him, your body seeking his comfort after days of stubbornly rejecting it.

when really

it was all that you’d needed.

you couldn’t say how long you stood in the bathroom together, just letting him hold you. but it didn't matter. you felt your internal turmoil lessen with each second that passed, like dean alone was sucking out the oxygen that kept your pain’s flame alight.

your heart beat in your chest; a steady rhythm gently pounding under your skin. you could feel dean’s too, right under your ear as you rested your head against him, neither of you caring about soaking his shirt with your wet hair or the droplets of water that were landing on the floor.

it didn’t matter.

dean finally pulled his head back, a gentle sigh escaping his lips. his gaze flickered down to your face still buried in his chest, searching for solace in his touch, in his presence.

“i love you so much,” he muttered, his voice low and delicate, not wanting to break the moment. “i want you to get better… and i want you to talk to me, okay? i want to help with whatever’s going on in here.”

he gently poked at your temple.

you swallowed down the lump in your throat. it felt scratchy from how badly you’d sobbed your throat raw.

but you looked up at him, blinking. you nodded.

dean nodded back.

he was gentle as he pressed you against the counter, the back of your legs hitting the edge. and he was even gentler as he rubbed in your moisturiser and towel-dried your hair.

he was so beautiful. so patient. so understanding.

and though your insides were turning inside out, practically screaming at you to back away and hide in the comfort of his dark bedroom, you stayed put, allowing dean’s presence to mute the constant array of dark thoughts from bouncing around in your mind.

he soothed you. inside and out.

and part of you hated yourself for rejecting this for so long, denying yourself his comfort.

dean thought you looked vacant as he dressed you, pulling up his old boxers over your legs and covering you in one of his shirts. his chest hurt, but again, this was more from you than you’d given him in a week.

and that meant something.

he didn't let go of you the entire walk back to his bedroom. his hand was wrapped around yours, tight, almost like he was trying to remind you of the devotion he felt for you.

the smell of his bedroom air hit your nose as you walked back in. was it really this bad before? it was like your innermost thoughts were hung in the air, polluting the room with a foul stench that reeked of misery.

you frowned.

dean let his hand run up your arm, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into him again. you let him, melting into his warm embrace.

“you hungry? don’t say no.”

you glanced up at his face, taking in his softened expression. you allowed yourself to nod.

“okay, yeah. good,” he murmured. he pulled away, reaching over to his desk. you saw the plate in his hand. two pieces of toast sat on top of the ceramic dish.

“i texted sam…” he explained, trailing off as he passed you the plate.

you nodded again. “thank you,” you returned, a quiet muttering.

“i– i’m gonna change the sheets, sweetheart. i can’t– i can’t sleep another night in them… and that’s saying something… you know, coming from me,” he said, his humour lightening up the heavy mood of the room. he smiled gently. “you sit. eat.”

dean pulled out his desk chair and gestured for you to take a seat. you slumped down into it, letting out a soft sigh.

he kept his eyes on you as he pulled the dirty sheets off his bed, stripping it bare as he watched you take small hesitant bites of the toast that sam had made. you looked tired, practically fusing back into the chair, but at least you were up. that's what dean told himself.

“gonna grab some new sheets, okay? finish your toast, baby. i'll be back in a sec.” he spoke to you like how someone speaks to a toddler—gentle and soft like the wrong word or tone would send you spiralling back into bed for another week, but he couldn’t afford that, not when he had managed to get this far with you.

you nodded, and he left the room with the dirty sheets in hand, returning only moments later with the fresh linen that immediately lifted the room’s scent.

you had finished your toast by the time dean was done pulling the sheets onto the bed. you put the empty plate back onto his desk and looked up at him with wide tired eyes.

dean came over, standing in front of your legs. “all done?”

you nodded. “yeah.”

his hand made contact with your head, brushing some of your damp hair back and petting you. his movements were gentle, like he had to be extra delicate with you in your fragile state, but his touch sent a surge of love and affection through you—something that jolted you awake for what felt like the first time in days.

you looked up at his face, like really looked up.

“i love you,” you muttered out, no louder than a whisper.

dean’s hand paused in your hair. his face softened. “i know, baby. i love you too… more than anything in the world.”

his hand slipped down to your cheek, cupping it tenderly. his palm was warm, almost searing against your skin with unspoken words of affection. his thumb rubbed along your cheekbone.

“can i hold you?” he asked, his twinkling green eyes searching yours, rounded like he was bracing himself for you to say no.

but you nodded, leaning into his touch. “please.”

dean let out a breath. “mmkay, up you get then, angel.”

you stood up from the chair. he pulled the sheets back, helping guide you back into the warmth and safety of his bed. dean slipped in after you, the mattress dipping under his weight. his arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him.

you felt your body relax for the first time in days, releasing all the tension from your muscles and melting against him almost innately. you sighed, closing your eyes.

dean pulled you closer. “i got you, sweetheart. you know i’ve always got you.”

fig yaps: first time doing proper angst !!!!!! i hope it’s not cringe omf i’m hiding away after i post this !!!! BUT comfort fic ??? hopefully !!! i started writing this when i took my lil break bc i was sad as hell and all i wanted was for dean to look after me LMAOOO i hope u enjoyed <3

reblogs and feedback are appreciated :P

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#read with larrs

523 notes · View notes

thatonewriter15 · 10 days ago

Text

ahhhhhhhhhhhhh

This was so lovely. I read it very slowly, letting it all sink in.

So many show-stopping lines. Some of my favorites:

You knew what this meant to him. What it cost him to sit there and let someone else take care of the aftermath.

You smiled. Gentle. Reassuring. Telling him without words: You’re safe here. It’s okay to rest.

Gosh, he deserves this. Thank you for giving it to him through your beautiful words. =']

Let Me Help You

summary: You help Dean clean up after a hunt

pairing: Dean Winchester x reader (pure fluff)

wordcount: 697

Main Masterlist | Dean Winchester One-Shots Masterlists

“Sit,” you said firmly, nodding toward one of the chairs in the library.

Dean didn’t argue. He just dragged himself forward and dropped into the seat like his bones were heavier than usual.

He looked rough—worse than he ever let on. Dried blood clung to the side of his face in jagged streaks, mostly from the deep gash just above his brow. His skin was littered with smaller cuts and bruises—along his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Like a man who had gone three rounds with a monster and won, but barely.

You set the first aid kit down with a soft thump and placed the bowl of warm water next to it. As you rolled up your sleeves, Dean’s eyes followed you, silent. Not wary, exactly. But unsure. Like he didn’t know how to accept what was coming.

You soaked the cloth, wrung it out slowly, and stepped between his knees.

“You really don’t ha—” he began, voice low and gravelly, already trying to shrug it off.

“Just let me help you, okay?” you said softly, cutting him off.

Your fingers tilted his face toward you, thumb resting at the edge of his chin. With the damp cloth, you began wiping gently at the dried blood. You were slow, methodical—barely any pressure, just enough to cleanse the skin.

Dean winced once, but otherwise said nothing.

His eyes, however, never stopped watching you. Not the way most people looked. It wasn’t surface-level. It was like he was trying to read every thought behind your eyes, trace the patterns of your face, memorize the slope of your brow. Like he didn’t quite believe he deserved this moment of care, but he wanted to hold onto it anyway.

You kept your own gaze focused on the task. Looking at him—really looking—would’ve made it harder to stay steady. You knew what this meant to him. What it cost him to sit there and let someone else take care of the aftermath.

The cloth turned pink with each pass, and you rinsed it out again before tossing it into the bowl. The wound on his forehead had finally stopped bleeding. It wasn’t deep enough for stitches, but still raw and angry-looking.

You reached for the butterfly bandages, but before applying them, you unconsciously brought your hand up to cup his right cheek—just to steady yourself.

Dean froze. Then leaned into the touch.

His eyes fluttered shut, and his stubbled cheek pressed gently into your palm like it was instinct. No tension, no pretence. Just stillness. Surrender.

You stopped.

There was something about seeing Dean Winchester—hunter, warrior, protector—seek out comfort so quietly that made your heart ache. It was the kind of vulnerability he didn’t even realize he was showing.

Your thumb brushed over his cheek, slow and deliberate, feeling the warmth of his skin, the scrape of his stubble, the edge of the man underneath all that armour.

He opened his eyes again, heavy-lidded, soft in a way that made your chest tighten.

Then the awareness crept back in. The sharpness. His eyes widened slightly, like he’d only just realized what he’d done. That he’d let the mask slip.

You smiled. Gentle. Reassuring. Telling him without words: You’re safe here. It’s okay to rest.

With careful hands, you applied the suture strips to his forehead. You noticed the shift in his body—the way he subtly pulled back into himself, like he needed to reassemble the walls you’d managed to sneak past.

You let him.

A quick scan told you everything else would heal on its own. Bruises, shallow cuts—just time and rest.

You packed up the kit, rinsed out the bowl, and turned back to him.

“All good,” you said quietly, brushing your hands off on your jeans.

You paused. And then, before walking away, you bent down and pressed a soft kiss to the bandaged wound on his forehead.

It was feather-light. A whisper of affection against skin that had seen too much pain.

Dean didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat there, eyes closed again—like maybe this time, he let himself feel it.

#read with larrs

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thatonewriter15 · 13 days ago

Text

Whoo, this is off to a great start!

You've done a fantastic job of conveying writer's block and awkward tension. I was literally feeling them right along with the reader!

Very excited to see what awaits down Memory Lane!

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 1

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, tiny bit of angst, fluff, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜)

Word Count: 3.9k

Posted on Patreon April 2, 2025

A/N: I'm so excited to do a Dean series again! I missed him 😩💚 This one's super fluffy with a lot of screaming in the middle. I took the premise from the movie of the same name, but it changes drastically after the beginning. Happy reading, friends!

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 1: Old Regrets

The blinking little line on an empty page screams at you. The more you stare at it, the more it morphs into a middle finger, giving the biggest ‘fuck you.’ How to start? What to write? What words to choose?

Shit, shit, shit…

Where is this character? What do you even want to write about? Do you even have a genre? A hint of an idea?

No, fuck, fuck, no…

You glare at the seven words on your screen, five of them curses – repetitive, too. God, you can’t even be creative with your maledictions. And is ‘no’ even a word that counts? It feels more like a cry for help.

You blow a raspberry and slump your shoulders with a sigh. Fuck, you’re screwed, aren’t you?

Your publisher will drop you if you can’t deliver a raging new bestseller in six months. Your first draft is due in four weeks – and that was after you’ve begged Rowena to extend your deadline. You’ll lose your job, you’ll lose your nice apartment in SoHo, and you’ll have to move back home to Kansas and live with your mom till you die there.

Great. Maybe you should write about that. You’re certainly feeling dramatic right now.

Softly, you bang your head against the keyboard, your word count exploding. With a frustrated groan, you rise and shut the laptop a little too harshly, sauntering into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and feed your cat, who announces his hunger with a loud meow as he hops onto the counter.

As you place the bowl in front of Hemingway and scratch his fluffy, orange head, your lips suddenly rise to a smile as a memory pops up.

“You know, sweetheart, if you ever get a cat, you should name him Hemingway.”

“Why? ‘Cause I love books?”

“Yeah! ‘Sides, I like Hemingway’s work. That cat should be happy to have a cool name like that.”

Wow. You haven’t thought about him in a long time. Your heart still does that little sting, albeit it’s been ten years since you’ve even seen him. Since you’ve talked to him.

Dean Winchester is one of the reasons you barely ever visit home. Maybe even the biggest one.

It’s hard not to think about him, considering the first three books, all bestsellers, were essentially all him. They stemmed from ideas that blossomed in the five years you’d spent together. But now you are all tapped out. You’ve said what you needed to get out, spun your fantasies in every which way, and rid yourself of the what-ifs.

But what if?

No, this is crazy. Thinking about your high school sweetheart you dated all through college? Maybe you don’t need the wine tonight, after all.

Your gaze falls to the big window and the sparkling city skyline that sprawls out behind it. You recognize the grandeur, the beating metropolitan pulse, and the colorful facets of the people that call it home.

And still, you feel nothing. There used to be excitement in your veins. You felt lucky to be here, to live your dream, to do everything you ever wanted.

And yet, you feel empty. There’s an ache in your heart that keeps telling you you’re missing something.

Aside from your failing career, you haven’t seen your mother in a while. Maybe it’s good to go back home for a visit, flee the noises of the city, and touch grass.

You need a fresh perspective. So after finishing three glasses of wine, you open your laptop back up and book a flight.

“Mom?”

Your voice echoes through your childhood home, swinging the front door shut with your foot as soon as you’ve shuffled your bags into the foyer.

“Honey, hi! Oh, I didn’t know you were coming,” she says with a bright smile, embracing you in a tight hug.

“What d’you mean? I called you and said I was coming,” you point out, chuckling uncomfortably. Your relationship with your mother is complicated. You love her, but she’s a ‘free spirit,’ which is code for your mother being a bit promiscuous.

The men she dates are never bad or have treated you with unkindness, but it was hard to go to school when your mother gave cunnilingus to half your teachers. Judging by the silky robe wrapped around her and her tits pressing against you, you assume she’s also having company today.

“Oh, I thought you were pranking me, honey.” She snorts a laugh and brushes a few strands of loose hair behind your ear.

“Y/N, hi! Good to see you, kid.”

You narrow your eyes at the half-naked man who appears behind your mother in the doorframe, only a flimsy bedsheet wrapped around his waist.

“Mr. Edlund?”

“Oh, honey, do you remember Chuck? He was your high school English teacher,” your mother reminds you as if your gasp and agape mouth didn’t already give that fact away.

“I know, Mom!”

“We’re very proud of you, kid,” Mr. Edlund says, smiling, and wraps an arm around your mother’s shoulders. He then slaps her ass, making her yelp and giggle. “You ready to get back in there, Connie?”

“Oh God…” You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head vigorously to get rid of the vivid image in your mind.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t raise you to be such a prude.” Your mother tuts and gently pats your cheeks. “Sex is a very natural thing.” She then begins to knead the knotted muscles in your shoulders. “Maybe that’s why you’re so stiff. Did you not read the article I sent you? When’s the last you had an orgasm, huh?”

“Oh my God, Mom!” Your cheeks are burning hot, your heart is hammering wildly, and no matter how sexually liberated someone claims to be, you can’t imagine they’d be normal about a conversation like this with a parent. “Okay, you know what? You guys just-… finish here–” Ew, ew, ew! “–and I’ll just-… Yeah, I’ll come back.”

You’re so fast out that front door again you can barely hear your mother’s “Thank you, honey!”

Strolling aimlessly around your old neighborhood, you walk till you reach the town center. On first glance, it seems like nothing much has changed in Lawrence. Sure, there’s new shops, a house façade here or there in a different paint color than it used to be, or fresh foliage and flowers blooming in the park, but the core of your hometown remains untouched.

It’s still the town you couldn’t wait to leave when you were younger. Only one person had almost made you stay a lifetime.

Your eyes then land on an all too familiar flickering neon sign – Rocky’s Bar & Grill. A smile creeps to your face as a string of memories floods your mind. God, you had more than one wild night in there – laughing with your friends, playing pool, drinking your own body weight, and even do some sexually liberated things in the public restroom your mother would certainly be proud of.

Curiosity and nostalgia drag your feet into the establishment, and you instantly feel the familiarity of this place rushing back to you. It seems like the bar has been frozen in time, not even the tacky decoration changed, which has already been outdated when you were a child.

“Y/N? Is that really you? Oh my God!”

Your head turns to the chipper voice behind the bar counter, your smile rising immediately as you recognize the redhead. Charlie hasn’t changed a bit, either.

“Yup, it’s me,” you say with an awkward little laugh and hug your friend.

Charlie and you used to be inseparable in school. Even after your move to New York, the two of you stayed in touch – until you got busier and busier and busier, eventually settling into your new life as you tried to forget about the old one.

“It’s really good to see you.” Charlie grins, and her welcoming warms your heart.

You swallow down the guilt bubbling in your throat. Are you actually an ass for ditching your friends? But that’s normal, right? People evolve and move on to different things. It’s just how life works. No need to feel guilty about anything.

“It’s good to see you, too.” You try to form a smile, but your heart only keeps beating faster. Maybe this is a bad idea. What are you even doing here? “I-, uh, thank you for all your newsletters, Charlie. Really. You know, I-, uh, I try to respond, but then my editor calls and, you know, book tours…”

God, you sound like an idiot.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I get it. You’re a best-selling author. I’m sure you’re super busy. I can’t even imagine,” Charlie brushes your concerns away with her usual sunny smile, and you can tell she means it. It’s rare to find that in New York – people who still show honest kindness. “Just happy you’re reading them and haven’t forgotten about us.”

Well, you might have missed a few of them recently… You really are an ass, aren’t you?

“No, are you kidding? Of course I haven’t forgotten about you guys,” you lie with a forced laugh. Shit. “So, uh, how’s the gang?”

“Well, uh, as you know, Benny broke up with Andrea–“

“Uh-huh, yeah… How-, uh, how is he?” Needless to say, you had no clue they broke up.

“It was hard in the beginning, you know? I mean, after she cheated on him and everything…”

“Oh, yeah. So tough.” You nod your feigned agreement.

“Right? I mean, can you imagine? Anyways, he’s doing better now. He actually started seeing Donna,” Charlie tells you with a conspiratorial grin.

“No!” You gasp loudly, eyes wide. “Donna Hanscum? Sweet, little Donna is dating Benny Lafitte, high school quarterback?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm, you know what? They actually make a great couple,” you note musingly. You’ve never met two people with purer hearts.

“Right?! That’s what everyone’s been saying, too!” Charlie’s grin broadens, and you notice how easily you fall back into old habits once the initial awkwardness and shame subside. “Oh, uh, Cas and Meg are still going strong. Expecting their second kid.”

“Wow. That’s… surprising,” you joke, giggling.

“Yeah,” Charlie laughs her agreement, but then silence takes a hold. You know why. She doesn’t want to tell you about Dean, and you don’t exactly want to ask about him, either.

From Charlie’s newsletters, you always knew when Dean was out of town – every summer for the past ten years he had taken a road trip to California with his little brother. Considering it’s July, you feel relatively safe being here without the risk of running into your ex.

“So, uh, you work at Rocky’s now?” you ask to break the ice.

“No, uh, I’m still with Roman Tech,” Charlie says and holds up the tablet in her hand. “The bar’s just finally getting some Wi-Fi.”

“Oh, yeah, of course! About time Lawrence made it to the 21st century, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, that’s what I’ve been saying since school. The only internet we used to have was in the public library. Remember that virus we accidentally downloaded when we tried to get that pirated version of the new N*SYNC album?”

“God, yeah, we crashed the whole system. Mr. Metarson was so mad,” you recall, laughing. “Well, uh, I should probably let you get back to work.”

Charlie nods, smiling. “It was good to see you, Y/N. You should come home more often.”

With a deep sigh, you then order a whiskey from the bar and settle down in a quiet corner booth at the far end. God knows you don’t want to run into more blasts from the past. You should’ve never come here. What did you think it would accomplish?

You surely haven’t come up with an idea for a new book so far and have only been reminded of old regrets instead. This hasn’t been your home for the last ten years. You have no place here anymore.

Finishing your drink, you jot down ideas on a small napkin – all of them terrible. You huff a sigh and crumple the useless notes. Curling your lips, you pick up your empty tumbler. Maybe another one is fine? You’re sure it’s past noon somewhere, just as you’re sure your mom and her new lover are nowhere near done yet.

You glance up when the door of the bar swings open, hearing the first few notes of his voice. It’s deeper than you remember, but you recognize it all the same.

Fuck. He’s not supposed to be in town! What the fuck is he doing here?

Your eyes widen and take everything in before you. Ten years have done nothing to Dean Winchester. In fact, he looks even more handsome than the last time you’ve seen him. His jaw is more defined, there’s scruff on his cheeks and throat that make him look more rugged, and there are soft, kind crinkles around his green eyes.

Why does your ex have to look so downright fuckable?

Shit! You’ve just gotten off a plane this morning! You didn’t exactly have time to check a mirror when you fled your mother’s house.

What should you do?

As Dean greets Pamela at the counter, you decide to slide under the table and hide there. This is a nightmare. You cannot face your unfairly hot ex-boyfriend like this.

“Y/N?”

Fuck! Why the hell is he coming over to you? Doesn’t he know about the unspoken rule to avoid your ex at all costs when you see them in public?

“Dean! Oh my God, hey!” You shuffle back onto the bench with as much nonchalance as you can find.

“Were you just hiding under the table?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous.” You snort awkwardly, your cheeks heating in fluster. Your hand desperately forages for something on the sticky floor till it grabs the first thing it can find. “I was just looking for my–,” you glimpse at the semi-hard and semi-wet item between your fingers, “–gum.”

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew! You’re holding someone’s used gum. God knows what diseases you’ll contract after this, feeling the germs already soak into your skin.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Were you gonna put it back into your mouth or–“

“No, no…“ You shake your head, swallowing thickly. Your hand fumbles for the crumpled napkin before you discard the gross gum in there. “I was just picking it up. I didn’t wanna leave it there, you know? I heard it’s, uhm, bad for the, uh, bar floor environment.”

God, he probably thinks you’re an idiot.

“Right, yeah.” Dean chuckles politely at your bad attempt at a joke, scratching the nape of his neck.

Is he nervous? You remember he used to do that whenever he was anxious. He also still seems to have a preference for wearing flannels, the material perfectly hugging his broad shoulders and barely hiding the muscles on his arms.

“So, uh, what are you doing here?” you ask with the friendliest smile, trying to push all the uncomfortableness and embarrassment down.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Dean replies and crosses his oh-so muscular arms over his aforementioned broad chest, the corners of his lips quirking with a curious smile. Is he flexing? “You barely ever come home. I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen you since… welp, the break-up, I guess. What’s it been? Ten years?”

“Really? Ten? Wow, crazy,” you say and ignore your thundering heart as best as possible. You either are close to throwing up or passing out. “Well, you know, I’m just here visiting my mom. I’m currently writing my fourth book. Just figured it’d be nice to get out of the city for a few days, clear my head…”

“Right, yeah, uhm, congratulations! New York Times bestselling author, huh? You really made it,” Dean says and smiles, but you can tell it’s forced, and you think you know why. “Proud of you,” he still adds.

“Yeah, uh, thanks.” You clear your throat and shake your head a little. Why is there such a weird feeling in your stomach? “But, uh, what about you? What have you been up to? Did you become a firefighter like you wanted to?”

“Uh, no, actually,” he replies, pursing his damn plush, kissable lips. “I-, uh, I stayed on with my dad. Family business. He’s not getting younger, you know? Kinda needs my help.”

“Yeah, no, totally get it. As long as you’re happy, it’s good, right?” Your heart hurts a little at the thought of Dean giving up his dreams to please his father. But you’re sadly not that surprised, either. He’s always been one of the most righteous, loyal, and dutiful people you know.

“Yeah, uh, I’m-… I’m happy. Business is going good, you know? And the old man actually lets me make decisions now,” Dean shares, chuckling.

“Wow, John Winchester letting go of control, huh? Thought I’d never see that,” you joke, earning you a warm laugh.

“Trust me, me neither, sweetheart,” Dean says with a chuckle but then notices how your brow raises at the old nickname. He scratches the back of his neck again, subtly clearing his throat. “I-, uh, I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Oh, uh, no worries. It’s fine,” you brush it off but can’t deny the way your heart is fluttering with butterflies you thought had perished ten years ago. He still seems like the same sweet guy, and you could just fall right back in love with him.

But that’s crazy, right? You can’t just start something up with an ex from ten years ago, can you? Besides, like the rest of your friends here, Dean’s probably already mated for life and has procreated by the multiple, succumbing to the charmed small-town destiny. Still, you can’t help your gaze from drifting to his massive hands and thick, long fingers, noticing there’s no ring there.

“Well, uh, anyways, we just opened our fifth location down in Wichita,” Dean tells you proudly.

“Wow, that’s great, Dean. I’m glad you’re doing well.” You send him a warm smile, nodding, and then recognize the strange silence sneaking back in. “Well, uh, it was good to see you. Take care, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, you too.” Dean turns halfway, licking his lips. He hasn’t even managed a full step yet before spinning back on his heel to you. “Hey, uh, I was gonna grab take-out, but do you want some company? C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink. You drink beer too or just whiskey before noon?”

You snort a laugh at the teasing grin on his face. How can he be so charming and easy to talk to? Just like in high school, you fall victim once again to Dean Winchester’s irresistibility.

“No, uh, I’ll take a beer, too,” you agree with a wide smile.

“Took two years to build, but I’m really happy how it turned out,” Dean tells you as he swipes through pictures on his phone, showing you his life.

“Wow, building your dream home on the plot next to your parents. You really double-downed on staying in Lawrence, huh?” you tease, although there’s pain in your heart you try to conceal.

Dean chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, well, someone has to take over, right? Sam decided to stay in California when he married Jess, so…”

“Wait, little Sammy got married?” You gape at Dean, involuntarily leaning closer. You playfully touch his forearm that rests on the counter, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he coolly nurses his beer.

Is history repeating itself? Maybe this time, you could change the outcome, though.

“Yeah, uh, they’re actually expecting their first kid this fall,” Dean shares, and you can see the pride in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve almost forgotten their vibrancy over the years. They’ve always been one of your favorite features about him.

“No way! Wow, we’re getting old,” you say, giggling. You still remember meeting Jess when you and Dean drove down to California and visited Sam during his freshman year at Stanford. It had been one of your last road trips together before the two of you broke up.

“Yeah, I know.” Dean laughs and takes another gulp of beer. “So, when was the last time you actually came home, huh?”

“Hey, I come home almost every summer. And Christmas. Sometimes…” You begin to rethink under his scrutinizing look. “Well, maybe not the last few years. Guess it’s been a while.” You give a shrug of your shoulders, but Dean’s brow only raises higher. “What? New York is pretty irresistible around Christmas, okay?”

Dean chuckles triumphantly, shaking his head. “But you don’t have to live there, right? You could write anywhere,” he points out, and you know that particular topic is a sore point for him.

“Yeah, I guess now I could,” you admit and meet his forest-green eyes, seeing a million questions in them he doesn’t dare to ask. “But there’s nothing here for me anymore, you know? I mean, my mom, sure. But she visits me three times in New York every year. I don’t really have a reason to come back here.”

“Wow, really hard to see you from that high horse,” Dean wisecracks, chuckling.

“Wha-, c’mon!” You scoff a laugh. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Lawrence is great. I just have more opportunities in New York.”

Dean suddenly rises from the barstool, finishes his drink, and holds out a hand to you, nodding toward the door. “Alright, c’mon.”

“Where are we going?” you ask but still take his warm hand, your own feeling small in his, as he leads you back into the bright daylight.

And there, you see it – the classic, sleek black beauty he calls his Baby, parked meticulously by the curb of the sidewalk, untouched paint coat shining in the sun.

“Can’t believe you still got the Impala,” you breathe, an entranced gleam in your eyes.

Dean lifts a brow. “‘Scuse me? The day she leaves my side is the day I die.”

You press your lips into a tight line, but the teasing grin slips through. You still remember where to poke the bear. Turns out it’s like riding a bike – you never truly forget.

“Wow, so I guess the obsession with the car hasn’t changed, either.”

“What d’you mean?” Dean furrows his brow, close to offended, and you stifle the bubble of laughter that wants to erupt. “Look, aside from you, she’s my first love, okay?”

Bobbing your head, your brows hitch before you smirk at him.

Dean huffs a sigh, rolling his eyes. He rounds the front of the car to the driver’s side, opening the door. “Alright, get in and shut up.”

Giggling, you accept his invitation, your fingertips feeling the familiar, worn leather of the seat as a flood of memories crashes right back at you. God, you can’t even remember how many hours you’ve spent in this car with him, but they did feel like they were endless.

Until they ended.

“Can I pick the music?” you ask with a teasing grin, although you know the answer too damn well.

“Rules haven’t changed, either. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole,” Dean says, chuckling, and starts the engine.

“So, where are we going?”

Dean smirks. “Down memory fucking lane, sweetheart.”

▶️ Chapter 2: Old Haunts – JUNE 18

This series might start cute and fluffy, but don't let that fool you. I promise you you'll curse me soon enough 😂 Reader's mom also might be one of my favorite parents ever. She was based halfway on the mother in the movie and the mother from Friends With Benefits. Love me a good hippie mom 😜

Coming Up:

“Okay, stay here. Don’t you dare move.” Dean grins victoriously and rushes past you to the far end of the diner, and it suddenly dawns on you what his plan is.

On cue, the diner fills with music from Bobby’s old jukebox, playing a song Dean just picked. You recognize it immediately and send him a raised look, partially amused by his choice as Can’t Fight this Feeling starts.

“Really? REO?”

“C’mon, it’s our song,” Dean argues goofily and joins you again in a few strides.

“Yeah, and like I told you back then a million times, I refuse to accept that,” you retort, laughing.

“Welp, don’t care,” Dean quips. He then holds out his palm, smirking. “Will you do me the honor and accept this dance, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You chortle but hesitantly agree to his offer, placing your hand in his before he pulls you flush against his body in one suave motion. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back while yours lands on his shoulder, feeling the dips of his muscles under your pads.

“It’s the song that played the first time I asked you to dance during our junior prom. Remember that?” Dean’s eyes find yours as you get lost in his embrace.

Goddammit, you’ve missed those arms around you. They make you feel safe and loved. They always have, and now you’re sure they always will.

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

#read with larrs

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thatonewriter15 · 15 days ago

Text

Oh, wow, this was just so... meaningful.

I love a fic with Dean getting the comfort and understanding he deserves, but I have never read one that included an intimacy of non-verbal communication. It was beautiful. <3

Tap Once For ...

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x fem!Reader [platonic, best friends]

WARNINGS Heavy Angst, Implication of depression (if you squint), Implication of suicidal thoughts, Rainy Night Drive (it’s a mood, I swear), Dean being unusually quiet, Lots of nonverbal communication, Reader and Dean have their own language, Dean finally gets a hug !! , sorta fluff in the end?, Season 7 spoilers, is set at the end of 11x7, No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Bobby's dead. And now Dean's dying his own, silent death. Sam sees it. You see it. But he brushes it off, forces on his mask as usual. But you know a different way to make it crack; One without words.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 3k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE Still thinking of this scene and the many things that were left unsaid. Consider it a sort of 'fix-fic' for this ep. ending. And perhaps overall for Dean's 'I don't talk about my crap'-problem.

If you want to feel the full vibe (recommended 💗): The songs played in the background are Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic (as in the canon scene) and Both Sides Now [1969!] by Joni Mitchell.

Dean smiles to himself.

First time ever since Bobby's death.

Cracks it in silence. In the safety of a rainy night. With no one to witness it. He glances to the right and up to the rearview mirror; Sam's snoring in the passenger seat and you're knocked out in the backseat.

It's just him behind the wheel and Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic playing in the background.

But that's alright. Because the smile that's stretched across his face is hollow.

A forceful attempt at following the advice he'd gotten from Frank.

"Do it with a smile or don't do it at all."

The corners of his lips curl up - twitch - dip down. He presses them into a thin line, before he tries again.

Every muscle's fighting him. Every emotion disagreeing with the new mask he forces onto his face, the one which is supposed to keep him from breaking down. Help him to pretend that it doesn't matter, that it doesn't eat him up inside that no matter how hard he tries, people just keep dying.

John, Ellen, Jo, Pamela - almost Lisa and Ben - then Cas and now… Bobby.

Just another one to add to the pile, right?

Who am I kiddin'…

It's not just the losses. It's the goddamn waiting. The never knowing when the next hit is gonna come. It's just a matter of time until you or Sam join the others. He knows, because it will be his damn fault.

But he can’t just quit and leave you and Sammy alone with all of this crap.

Like hell will I.

So he keeps pushing. Manages a smirk that does nothing to his eyes.

Until the darkness suddenly swallows him.

Drowns him in the void of the night, in what's left in the wake of bright orange beams which ripple through the interior of the car in a flash of a blur.

The sight has your chest tighten.

You're awake now, watching his occasionally lit-up expression through the rearview mirror without him realizing it.

Your heart twists. Face scrunches up. Damn… it's truly painful to witness. After a long beat, you cannot take it anymore.

"Dean?" you speak up softly, voice still raspy from the last hunt gone sideways. Dean's expression drops the same moment. Switches to his stoic one like a soldier summoned.

"Hm? Can't sleep?" he asks, voice gravelly but with that nonchalant tone he always likes to make use of. He lets his wrist rest casually on the steering wheel while his eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror to check on you before they return to the street ahead.

"Mhm..."

You swallow. Suck in a silent breath.

"Are you… okay?"

"Yeah. 'M fine," he answers quickly. His voice firm and exhausted as it cuts through the music like a blunt knife.

You have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

The relevance of those all too familiar three damn words is sapped by now. In fact, it makes you wonder whether he even remembers their original meaning.

Dean's silent for a moment. Then his focus shifts to you as he searches your eyes through the small mirror ahead.

"What about you? How are ya holding up?" he inquires, his voice softened now.

Your eyes lock with his over the reflection. Both trying to read each other's emotions. But it's hard with the stark contours cast across both of your faces from the passing by streaks of light and the occasional shadows that eat your features whenever they roll across you.

You ponder for a moment. Then decide to go with the truth.

"Honestly? Not all too well," you admit quietly. You watch Dean's eyebrows pinch together, eyes fixed to the street – but it's obvious that he's fighting the urge to turn to look at you in concern. Instead he avoids your gaze altogether.

"You've been through the wringer. You should try'n get some shuteye," he mutters, fully aware that you weren't refering to the previous hunt.

You shift in the backseat. Pull your hoodie closer, clinging to the little warmth it provides while the distance between you two is stretching. In the way which always makes you feel like he's slowly walking away from you even though he's physically close enough to touch if you'd wanted to.

You hope he might say something more. Anything.

But he doesn't.

He's drifting further away from you and you can feel it.

Not just now.

But ever since Sam had gone Beautiful Mind and Cas had betrayed you all and died. It's like every time something happens, another piece of him is lost to the void.

And Bobby's death was just the thing to tip him over the edge.

"Can I pick a different song?" you finally pipe up again while sitting up straight, afraid of losing him completely if you were to let the silence stretch any longer.

Dean's attention snaps back to you, eyebrows raised. He hesitates, then nods.

"What d'you wanna listen to?"

"Um," you scoot to the middle of the bench, lean forward, chest hanging over the front's backrest as you fumble for the box still on the leather seat next to Dean. Your fingers rifle through the many bands and mix-tapes. Careful not to wake Sam, who's fast asleep with his long body folded into the corner of the passenger seat.

"This one," you hum satisfied as you pull one out and push it into the recorder.

Not even the first accord of the song fills the inside of the car when Dean's hand shoots out.

"Nope," he cuts in and hits the eject button with a little too much force, "We're not doing that therapy crap."

You startle at his quick reaction. Yet, you're not surprised, as you expected something along the line when you'd pick one of Bobby's tapes. The one Dean had saved from the many boxes which held Bobby's entire library and at least a few personal belongings here and there. Like the flask of his, which Dean's been carrying close to his heart for the past 5 weeks. And been making use of for at least two dozen times a day, sleepless nights not included.

"Whatever you're trying – don't," he adds annoyed.

Propped up on your forearms, next to his shoulder, you blink at his profile. He stubbornly keeps his focus on the road ahead, refusing to look your way. Once again.

You drop back into your seat with a heavy exhale. But stay quiet.

"What? Gonna give me the silent treatment now?"

Another beat of silence, then;

"I miss Bobby," you mutter in response.

Quiet. Honest and sad. Dean instantly picks up on it and his annoyance dissipates at once, frown wrinkles softened.

He lets out a quiet sigh. Then adds. "Yeah. Me too."

Heavy drops begin to rattle the hood. The sky seems to be able to do what he can't; emptying itself shamelessly. The unspoken conversation is taken over by the squeaking sounds of the wipers relentless battle against the flood that's trying to wash you off the streets.

The repetitive tac-tac-tac above you, along Sam's soft zzz-zzzz's has something calming. Soothing even. It drowns out the rest of the world, while the darkness swallows any reminder of civilization that passes by. And for a fleeting moment, the reality of you three is reduced to this.

All of your problems, all of your fears, losses, emotions, every thought unspoken; right here, right now, cooped up inside Dean's only safe haven.

He sighs. You sigh.

You sense the room to open up. It's small, it's fragile and you have no idea how much you can put into it until Dean decides to step outside again.

But you want to try.

"Sometimes… I think it's just all a nightmare, and when I wake up from it, he's still here… y'know? But… the nightmare never stops. And worst is… the world just keeps spinning," you confess in a weak voice. Vulnerable and broken. And for Dean it's just enough to make out amongst the noise of the car's engine and the heavy rain crashing down on its shell.

"Like nothing has changed. Like no one cares," you continue.

Dean doesn't move. He listens. Takes it all in.

Your focus flickers now, eyes glued to the raindrops racing against each other as they slide down the window. Its glass cold and damp under your shoulder which is pushed into the corner of the passenger door, temple dropped against it with a soft thud.

"And it pisses me off," you add in a bitter voice, "Everyone else just gets to live on. It's just not fucking fair."

You angle your head against the window, eyes darted past his shoulder to study his reaction.

Dean's jaw's set. His fingers tightening around the wheel ever so slightly, eyes refusing to lift and meet your pained expression.

For a moment it seems like he's going to open his mouth – but his voice dies down before his lips even part.

Perhaps because he's torn between letting the silence do the talking, or asking more and deal with the fear of not being able to carry the weight of your grief on top of his own right now.

You let out a soft huff at his lack of reaction. Which does not go unnoticed by Dean.

"Life ain't fair, sweetheart," he scoff-chuckles. The sound of it rough and bitter. His entire body is coiled tight. Clearly struggling to hold himself together. "And if you can't deal with that, chances are that you're in the wrong biz."

Your eyebrows furrow at his biting comment. And for a moment you have to bite your tongue to not fire something hurtful back. Instead you swallow the words back down, way too used to this defensive tactic of his by now to fall for it.

Even though Dean's putting up the same facade he's used for the past decades, you know that he cares. Deeply. Can see how his face does that pained scrunch whenever his heart twists. It's brief, but it's definitely there and you never miss it. Even if he won't admit it.

You both let your confession hanging in the air until it's lost in the heavy silence once more.

You turn your head to watch the world race past you. Pull a knee up to your chest to rest your arm on it. Forehead dropped against the damp glass. Resigned.

Out of your view, Dean keeps checking on your curled up form through the rearview mirror.

After a while, he suddenly reaches over and shoves the same cassette back into the player. Hits play without looking. And your head instantly whips up in surprise as he lets Bobby's favourite song, Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell, fill the room between you.

Dean's focus is back on the blurry road with the two beams of light that guide him. The slow and familiar guitar tunes make his index finger tap on the wheel along the beats. But you can tell that his mind is still somewhere else entirely.

You sit up straight and decide to try a different approach.

Leaning forward slightly, you place a hand onto his shoulder. Dean startles from the unexpected contact, but doesn't pull away. Instead lets your touch ground him. You rub your hand along his jacket, inching up to the exposed skin of his neck, where the tips of your fingers brush across it. Slow and soothing.

A soft exhale's huffed from his nose. Eyes flutter closed before they return their focus to the road.

His mask slips, just for a split second.

And you cannot help but feel a surge of hope. Hope to finally reach that stubborn ass who happened to become your best friend years ago and one of the most important people in your life.

"You know, I'm a damn mess. So is Sam," you begin in a slow voice and lean in closer to him, lips right behind his ear, "And we don't expect you to be doing well either. In fact, I'd feel better knowing that we can share that pain."

Dean sucks in a sharp breath before you even get to finish your sentence. But you cut him short with his protests stuck on his lips.

"Dean-" your fingers dig into his shoulder as a warning, "I'm serious. Can I ask you to be honest with me for two goddamn seconds?"

He huffs. Rolls his eyes as he dramatically lifts and drops his hands down onto the wheel, muttering something about 'stubborn woman'.

You squeeze his shoulder and he scoffs, acting annoyed as he always does when he's being called out on his bullshit.

"Fine," he finally relents. Your grip softens at his answer. Even if it's obviously reluctant.

You take a moment to sort your mind. Planning your path through a damn minefield of words right now.

Then you soften your voice, as if you were talking to a cornered animal.

"You're not really okay, are you…?" - his muscles tense under your palm like you'd just pushed the muzzle of a gun into his back - "You don't have to answer that," you quickly interrupt his thoughts as you could practically see his throat grow tight, mind struggling to form an answer.

Dean frowns. Eyes glued to the road. Expression still guarded, but there's just the tiniest hint of... disappointment. A silent cry of desperation. Desperate for being exposed. For someone else to drag his emotions into the open.

"Then why'd you even ask'?" He snaps back at you without looking.

Slowly you move the hand on his shoulder, across his collarbone and down to rest your palm on his chest, leaving him the chance to protest. When he doesn't, you bring up your other arm and wrap them both around him from behind. You pull yourself closer until your chest's flush against his backrest, then hook your chin over his right shoulder.

Dean stiffens at first. Stunned by your unexpected action. But then his body begins to relax in the safety of your familiar embrace. You feel his chest heave and fall beneath you as a long exhale leaves his lips.

"Talk to me," you murmur. He blinks in confusion, eyebrows quirked.

Then you tap your finger once.

Right on top of his left chest side. Dean doesn't comment on it, but you can tell by the way his eyes flickered sideways to meet yours for just a moment, that he registered it.

And he instantly understands.

How could he forget the night he had opened up to you for the first time. That night he'd shown up on your porch out of nowhere. Drenched and shaking. Two weeks away from being torn to pieces and dragged downstairs. How you'd held him the entire night. Cradled his tear streaked cheeks. Listened, even though the words had failed him.

The warmth of your palms against his chest calms the storm that's churning in his mind. He's sure you can feel the way his heart is pounding underneath your tender fingertips. Just like that night you'd told him this thing you'd like to try.

You never spoke about it again.

But you didn't need to, because Dean and you had been using it ever since like second nature. Your own little language. Secret. Safe. Innocent in its own way. It harboured no judgment, no walls, no fear of being vulnerable. And most importantly;

No words. Just touch.

"I'm here for you. You know that, right?" you ask softly. His left hand tightens its grip around the steering wheel, refusing to slow down Baby, while his other slips to his knee. There his forefinger arches then…

Tap.

Your chest tightens as you watch the crack in his wall grow bigger.

"You holding up?"

Silence. Then a hesitant;

Tap... Tap.

Somewhere at the corner of your peripheral vision you sense how his green eyes are stinging from unshed tears.

His right hand comes up to cover yours on his chest, searching your connection. No words. Just his fingers intertwining with yours. Heavy hand pressed down onto your tender one. He squeezes it. Holding onto you like you're the only thing to keep him from drowning… or from doing something real stupid.

You swallow, a thought forming in your head which you'd tried to ignore for so long.

"Dean... you ever…" you hesitate. The murmured words next to his ear momentarily die down as they become heavy and cling to your tongue like tar.

Your arms unconsciously tighten around him, like you're scared of his answer, afraid he might disappear the moment the question leaves your mouth. And frankly, you were unsure whether you even wanted to know.

Then his thumb presses into your palm. A silent permission for you to go on. Maybe some voice inside him even begging you to.

You swallow. Start again. This time your voice comes out in a mere hush, just to make sure Sam wouldn't hear it.

"You ever think of… ending it all?"

Dean stiffens. Throat going tight. His grip painful as he clings to you. You feel him lift his finger, slow, shaky…

…

Tap.

Your stomach drops and your heart feels like a dagger just twisted it inside out. The single tap, so soft but clear against the knuckle of your middle finger.

Dean's face scrunches up as he's holding his breath without realizing it. Secretly regretting it all already. You're gonna panic. Judge him. Pity him. Yell at him, scold him even, for just as much as considering the thought.

How could I be so goddamn selfish and worry her like this?

"Damnit," he curses in silence, his free hand dragged down across his mouth briefly before it returned to the steering wheel.

You say his name softly as you feel the guilt building inside him. His jaw clenches. Shoulders shifting under your weight. Dean had picked up on how your breath hitched next to his ear when he confirmed your fears. How your hands tightened under his.

"Sorry," he suddenly chokes out.

The voice so raw, so small, so unbelievably vulnerable as the apology slipped him, that you decide to close the little gap that was left between you.

You lean in, nose nuzzled into his short, dark blond ruffled hair. Forehead gently pressed against the back of his head with your eyes closed. He swallows thickly at the unfamiliar feeling of your warm breath on his neck, lips tingling the short hair there.

"It's okay. I got you," you murmur in a low voice.

Dean's eyes widen in surprise. Stunned at the way your words came out so… calm, understanding, reassuring.

"You don't need to fake a smile for me."

Dean lets out a heavy breath. A bit shaky.

You squeeze your interlocked hands and he subtly leans his head back against yours. The smell of his hair fills your nose as you allow him to rest against you, face nuzzled into the warmth of the nape of his neck, your arms slung over his shoulders and hooked around his rising and falling chest, nothing but the familiar sound of Baby's engines carrying you through the storm, the melodic pitter-patter of the rain on the hood and the voice of Joni Mitchell in your ears.

"Can I stay like this for a bit..?" you ask in a sleepy murmur.

Dean shifts slightly under your weight as he feels you grow heavier against his back. He's not used to this kind of... intimacy. The knowledge that you need no words to understand each other. How the warmth of your body is enveloping him from behind, or your face is burried in his hair like its the safest place. The oddly comfortable feeling of... just being held.

And deep down it scares him how he's absuletly craving for more.

After a moment, his forefinger wiggles free from your grip, his palm still covering yours. While out of your sight, the corner of his lips tug into a hesitant, genuine smile... and he taps once.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE I'm still alive! Sorry for being so inactive lately... Writing is going very slow. And I'm one click away from throwing my laptop out the window (not really, I depend on Thanos. That's his name. 'Cause he loves to make things disappear lmao 🫰) ANYWAY. I've got so so many fics of y'all I want to catch up on. Promise I'll check them asap - so much I want to comment on and reblog but my tbr list just keeps growing?? Anyway, thanks to my lovely moots who keep me motivated to keep writing, I love you 💗 And a special shout to @the-potato-is-lonely for listening to my struggles with this fic 😭🧡

Dean Tag List:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005 @Ms-kayla-readinglover @youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort @lamentationsofalonelypotato @my-stories-vault

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @nesnejwritings @carliebear23 @alexxavicry

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

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thatonewriter15 · 17 days ago

Text

Dean Winchester in SUPERNATURAL 7.12

#just going insane over these again #don't mind me

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thatonewriter15 · 18 days ago

Note

You blink. “You’re magic.” He chuckles, dropping beside you. “Just good at reading the woman I love.”

Come onnnn. <3 I could truly feel the love throughout this whole fic.

hello hello!! 🔆 anon is back! :]

so work’s been rough lately and what i would GIVE to be comforted by one of the boys after one of the really hard days :[

if it’s possible, could i request an established relationship w sammy (just ‘cause i think this is more of a him type thing) comforting reader after a really rough day? love ya lots! 🫶🫶🫶

-🔆

⋆˚✿˖° all the time in the world,

summary. sam's always there to comfort you when you need most.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. comfort, fluff

wordcount. 484

notes / warnings. emotional exhaustion,

You don’t cry often. Not the ugly, exhausted kind of crying. Not the bone-deep, heart-heavy kind that sneaks up on you after you’ve been pretending to be fine for far too long.

But today? Today wins.

You don’t even make it through the front door. You open it, drop your bag on the floor, and Sam is there—standing in the hallway with that crease between his brows, already reading you like a map. His whole body softens the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, voice a gentle thrum. “Rough day?”

That’s all it takes. Two words, and suddenly your chest tightens and your throat burns.

You nod. Barely. And then you’re shaking your head instead. Both. Neither. You don’t even know.

Sam doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions. He just crosses the space between you in two strides and wraps his arms around you, strong and solid and safe. His hand curves against the back of your head, pulling you into his chest, and that’s when the tears come.

Quiet at first. Then a little harder. Then you're just crying—fingers curled into his shirt, face tucked beneath his jaw, all the weight you’ve been carrying spilling out.

He just holds you.

No rush. No pressure. Just his heartbeat against your ear and the soft, repetitive hush of his voice.

“I got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long you stand like that, but eventually the tears slow. Your breathing steadies. The tension in your shoulders finally starts to melt.

Sam pulls back just enough to look down at you, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Wanna talk about it?”

You sniff and give him a tiny, crooked smile. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay. Later.”

Then he kisses your forehead—slow and warm and grounding—and leads you to the couch like you’re made of porcelain. He throws the softest blanket over your lap, the one you always steal, and hands you a mug of tea you didn’t even realize he made.

You blink. “You’re magic.”

He chuckles, dropping beside you. “Just good at reading the woman I love.”

You lean into his side with a sigh, resting your head on his shoulder.

For a while, there’s no talking. Just the quiet hum of the TV in the background, his fingers stroking lazy patterns over your thigh, your breathing syncing with his.

Eventually, you whisper, “I think I’m just tired of pretending everything’s okay.”

Sam nods, pulling you closer. “Then don’t. Not with me.”

You melt against him, heart swelling. “What did I do to deserve you?”

He grins, kissing the top of your head. “Clearly committed a few past-life heroic acts to land you, so I think we’re even.”

You snort. “That was cheesy.”

“Still true.”

And yeah—your day sucked. But Sam? Sam makes it better just by being there. Just by loving you exactly how you need it.

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thatonewriter15 · 19 days ago

Text

So cute and loving.

And I liked that the reader's an author! =]

The Story Can Wait

Pairing: Dean x you // Established relationship

Warnings: None! Pure fluff. No use of y/n. Author!reader, soft caretaker!Dean

A/N: Honestly this drabble was mostly for me—and, well, my fellow writers. It turned out—in my humble opinion—too cute not to post. Stay awesome. 🫶

The bunker was quiet at this hour, still and warm in the way only the late-night hush could bring. You were curled up at the kitchen table, legs tucked beneath you, the glow of your laptop lighting your face. The clack of your fingers had slowed to soft, wandering taps, each word taking a little longer to land. You didn’t want to stop. The scene was almost there. Almost perfect.

Your head dipped once. Twice.

The third time, you didn’t catch yourself.

You didn’t hear Dean’s footsteps.

Didn’t notice the faint scuff of his boots on the tile or the soft sigh he let out when he saw you, curled over your laptop at the kitchen table, eyes fluttering shut between keystrokes.

He crossed the room in that quiet, steady way of his, arms folded, lips twitching into something between a smile and a fond shake of his head.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said gently, voice low and rough with the sleep you hadn’t taken for yourself. “Burnin’ the midnight oil, huh?”

Your eyes fluttered open, your body startled just enough to blink at the screen. “Mmh—just finishing this scene,” you mumbled, your fingers still hovering over the keys. “Almost done.”

A warm hand slid gently over your shoulder.

Dean stood behind you, sleepy-eyed in his henley and sweats, hair mussed like he’d just climbed out of bed. There was something incredibly tender in the way he looked at you, half-smiling, half-concerned.

“You fallin’ asleep mid-sentence?” he murmured, brushing your hair back.

You let out a breathy little laugh. “Maybe.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the top of your head. “Baby, you’ve been out here for hours.”

“I was writing,” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion. “It was actually going somewhere.”

He crouched beside you, his palm warm against your thigh now. “You’ve got tomorrow for that,” he said, voice dipping into that low, coaxing drawl that always made your chest flutter. “What you don’t got is a reason to be fallin’ asleep at a damn kitchen table when you could be in bed—with me.”

Your breath hitched at how softly he said it.

Dean didn’t wait for you to argue. He eased the laptop from your lap with gentle fingers, saved your document, closed it, and placed it on the counter like it was fragile. Then, without even asking, he slipped an arm under your knees and the other around your back.

You melted against him immediately, arms around his neck as he lifted you.

“Dean…” you murmured sleepily.

“Yeah, baby. I got you.”

He carried you down the hallway slow and steady, like you weighed nothing, like this was his favorite thing—because it was. You, heavy with sleep, tucked against him, trusting him with all of it.

By the time he set you down in bed and tugged the blankets up around you, your body had gone pliant, lulled by his scent, the sound of him breathing, the low rustle of his clothes as he climbed in behind you.

When tugged the covers over both your bodies, you reached out—wordless—fingertips brushing his arm.

He smiled and climbed in behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you close.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “I love you.”

“I know,” he breathed, lips brushing your shoulder. “Sleep now, sweetheart. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And with that promise wrapped around you tighter than the blanket, you finally let go, drifting off with Dean’s warmth at your back and his breath brushing your skin like a lullaby. Safe, loved, and home.

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thatonewriter15 · 19 days ago

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Oh, my fragile little heart...

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ if this is a dream,

summary. dean wakes up to the perfect life.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. kinda bittersweet

wordcount. 697

notes / warnings. based off s20e02, dean under a djinn's spell, illusion/dream reality

Dean doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he opens his eyes, there’s a softness that shouldn’t be there. Morning sun bleeding through gauzy curtains. The scent of something warm and sweet in the air. A weight against his chest.

You.

He freezes.

You’re tucked into him like you’ve always belonged there—head on his shoulder, arm splayed over his chest, bare leg curled around his. His first thought is: this is wrong.

His second thought is: don’t move.

Your breath flutters against his skin as you stir, face scrunching like a cat roused too early. Then you nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, pressing a soft kiss just beneath his jaw.

“Mornin’, baby,” you mumble, voice still tangled in dreams.

Dean swears the world tilts.

You’ve never called him that.

He doesn’t get to respond. You’re already drifting again, letting out the softest little sigh before your hand slides over his heart like you’re checking that he’s still there.

And god—he wants to stay here.

There’s no hunt. No blood. No screaming. No weight between his shoulder blades.

Just you.

A moment.

Peace.

He lays there, trying to breathe normal. Your fingers twitch, tracing shapes on his chest. His skin burns with every movement.

He’s dreamed about this. You, tangled in his sheets. Looking at him like he matters. Like he’s more than the wreckage he drags around.

But it’s never been this real.

He smells your shampoo, feels the heat of your thigh flush against his hip, hears the creak of the mattress as you shift. You hum a low, sleepy tune as your thumb strokes his ribs.

It should unsettle him.

Instead, it buries into the hollow parts of his chest like a balm.

You groan dramatically beside him.

“I don’t wanna get up,” you whine. “Can’t we just stay here? Screw brunch.”

You roll on top of him, arms pinning him down, lips ghosting over his. “Tell me to stay.”

Dean stares up at you. He wants to say yes. Wants to say please don’t go. Wants to say God, I wish this was real.

But something’s off.

You’re here.

You’ve never been his.

So why now?

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “You okay?”

He nods automatically, mouth too dry for words. You smile, leaning in again. “Then kiss me.”

And he does.

It’s sweet. It’s slow. It’s a goddamn miracle.

The kind of kiss people write about. The kind that tastes like love and maybe-always and everything he’s never let himself hope for.

You kiss like you mean it. Like you know him. Like there’s history here. Sunday mornings, nights on the couch watching old horror movies. Like you’ve been loving him this whole damn time.

He sinks into it.

Your hands slip into his hair, his jaw, your body flush against him, warm and trusting. The room spins, but in a way that feels like flying, not falling.

He wants to drown in it.

Wants to believe.

But somewhere, a dull throb starts in his head. A whisper that grows louder every second he holds you.

This isn’t real.

You shouldn’t be here.

He pulls back. Not far—just enough to search your face. You tilt your head, brows furrowing.

“Dean?” you ask, quiet now. Like you’re afraid of the answer.

He looks around. Too perfect. The room. The smells. The way you look at him.

This is everything he wants.

Which means it’s a lie.

You reach for him again, confused. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because if he does, if he lets himself say it out loud—

He’ll have to wake up.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice barely there. “I think I’m dreaming.”

You smile softly. “So what if you are?”

And maybe that’s the cruelest part. Because this—your voice, your touch, your easy affection—it feels like a lullaby.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Let’s dream a little longer.”

He closes his eyes, and for a second, he lets himself pretend.

That the world is kind.

That he’s worthy of love.

That you’re his.

If this is a dream, he thinks, as you run your fingers through his hair, Let me stay just a little longer.

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thatonewriter15 · 21 days ago

Text

This was so good!

you look like trouble

Russell Shaw x Dental Hygienist!Reader

mild smut

dividers @saradika-graphics

The motel’s hot tub sputtered steam into the night, the hum of jets barely masking the constant buzz of a flickering neon vacancy sign overhead. You were sunk low in the water, one arm draped over the edge, the other holding a half-warm canned cocktail that you nursed with the kind of slow dedication reserved for the end of a long, punishing day. Your back ached from twelve hours on your feet, bent over mouths that didn’t brush enough and talked too much, and all you wanted was silence and heat. The last thing you expected was company.

He stepped in without a word.

Russell Shaw.

That was the name you caught when he checked in a week ago. Low profile. Quiet but not shy. Broad shoulders under a worn jacket, a jaw you couldn’t help but notice more than once, and a mouth that looked like it belonged to someone who rarely smiled but knew exactly what to do when he did. Green eyes always watching but never lingering too long. Until now.

He eased into the water across from you, moving like someone who knew how to conserve effort, like he’d done this a thousand times before. The heat hit him and he let out a quiet breath that somehow made your skin prickle. You didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. But the silence between you wasn’t empty, it was thick with something else. Coiled tension. Slow curiosity. A quiet dare.

"You always come out this late?" he asked eventually, his voice a smooth scrape that cut through the rising steam.

"Only when I need it," you said, tilting your head just enough to catch his eye. "Rough day."

He gave a short nod, gaze steady. "That makes two of us."

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push. The way he watched you now was different, no longer sidelong or fleeting. It had weight to it. Heat. The kind that made your pulse tick a little faster in your throat. You shifted slightly, and he noticed. Of course he did.

"You a local?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

You shook your head. "Dental hygienist. Finished a contract in town early. Figured I’d stick around a couple nights before heading back. Motel’s cheap. And I hate wasting gas."

He gave you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You don’t strike me as the type to settle for cheap."

You arched a brow, letting a slow smirk tug at your lips. "You think you’ve got me figured out already?"

He shrugged, lazy and unbothered. "Not completely. But I’ve got a good read on people."

You leaned in just a little, letting your knee brush against his beneath the water. It was a light touch, accidental on purpose, and the way his eyes dropped to the ripple between you made your breath catch.

"Then what do you read on me?"

He didn’t look away.

"Trouble," he said, low and certain.

You didn’t flinch. If anything, you leaned in a little closer, heat curling at the edge of your smile. “Then I’d say you’re right,” you murmured. “You’ve definitely got a good read on people.”

You barely made it to your door before his mouth found yours.

It was clumsy at first, full of heat and hands and months of want neither of you would admit to. The hallway was silent except for the thud of your back against the door and the low grunt he gave when you fisted the front of his damp swim shorts and tugged him closer. He kissed like someone who didn’t bluff, firm, focused, hungry. You let him.

Inside your room, the darkness pressed close, but the quiet didn’t last. The door shut with a click. The walls were thin. You both knew it. But neither of you cared.

Clothes came off in bursts, your shirt over your head, his swim shorts sliding down to the floor, your back hitting the mattress with a bounce that made the bed groan. You were in your underwear by the time he reached you, hands wide at your hips, pulling you to the edge of the bed like he’d been waiting all damn week for permission.

He peeled his shirt off slowly, deliberately, eyes fixed on you the entire time. In the low motel light, you could make out the hard lines of his torso, the tension in his frame, the restraint pulsing just under his skin.

"You always this bossy?" he murmured, catching your wrist just as your hand drifted lower, fingers brushing the skin just above where a trail of dark hair began.

You lifted your chin, challenging. "You always this slow?"

That did it.

He came down on you like gravity, mouth hot on your neck, his breath crashing against your skin in low, broken waves. He bit lightly at your collarbone, dragged his fingers down your ribs, gripped your thigh with a roughness that made you whimper.

Your back arched when his mouth found the edge of your breast, the tip of his tongue teasing a response from your body so fast it made your head spin. He pulled a sound from your throat that you hadn’t made in months. Maybe longer.

He worked you open with a confidence that didn’t ask for direction, just listened to every breath, every shift of your hips, every catch in your voice. When he finally slid into you, it was deep and slow, like he was staking a claim he had no right to make.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. But God, it was good.

You came apart hard, clinging to him with your mouth at his neck, your nails dragging red lines down his back. He cursed low against your shoulder as he followed, voice breaking on your name like it meant something.

And afterward, when the high faded and the air cooled around your sweat-damp skin, he didn’t reach for his clothes.

Not yet.

You lay side by side in the tangle of sheets, the motel air conditioner rattling in the window. His hand found your stomach, fingertips brushing slowly over the dip of your navel. You closed your eyes, too warm to move, too aware to sleep. You could feel his gaze on you, even now.

"You gonna regret this tomorrow?" he asked, voice low and rough, barely more than a whisper.

You smiled, lazy and slow, but didn’t open your eyes. "Maybe."

There was a beat of silence, like he was letting the word settle.

"You?"

He didn’t answer right away. His hand slid higher, just beneath your breast, and rested there.

"Ask me in the morning."

And that was how it ended, not with a promise, not with goodbye.

Just the quiet hum of neon bleeding through the thin walls and the steady rhythm of his breath beside you, something unspoken still hanging between you in the dark.

#read with larrs #content 18+

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thatonewriter15 · 23 days ago

Text

Oh, the tender intimacy!! My heart can barely take it.

This part, specifically, had me tearing up. Gosh. <3

You lean in and press a kiss to his temple. Then another, a little lower. His brow. His cheekbone. The tip of his nose. His other cheek. Each one light, slow, and full of everything in your chest. “I love you,” you whisper, between kisses. “I love you so much, Dean.”

Hey, Pretty Girl

Pairing: Dean x you

Summary: A quiet night in the bunker with Dean.

Warnings: None. Pure fluff & sweetness.

The bunker is quiet, the kind of stillness that only settles when the world outside finally stops spinning for a night. Low lamplight glows from the library, golden and warm, and you follow it like a beacon. You know exactly where he is.

Dean’s sitting at the table, one of those old lore books open in front of him, fingers absently tracing a line of text he’s already read twice. You can see the slight crease in his brow, that faraway look in his eyes that says his mind is anywhere but the page.

You pad toward him on bare feet, slow and quiet, until you’re close enough to lean in.

Your arms slip around his broad shoulders from behind, and you feel him exhale—just a soft breath, like you released something held too long in his chest. You press a kiss to the stubble of his cheek, lingering there for a second longer than you have to.

Dean’s hand lifts to rest on your arm, warm and solid. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to brush his cheek into your kiss before he turns to look up at you.

His eyes find yours, soft and shining with that quiet kind of affection that says you’re home.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, low and gentle. Like a secret just for you. Like he’s been waiting all day to say it.

You smile, nose brushing his temple as you murmur, “Missed you.”

“Yeah?” His hand tightens on your arm, thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “Was just sittin’ here hopin’ you’d find me.”

“I always do,” you whisper, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek against his.

And for a moment, there’s nothing else in the world but that—your arms around him, the soft creak of old wood, and the way his voice wraps around you like a warm blanket.

His hand slides from your arm down to your fingers, lacing them gently before he tugs.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

You don’t hesitate. You move around the chair and let him guide you, settling sideways across his lap, your legs draped over his and your arms instinctively circling his shoulders again. His hand finds your thigh, grounding and slow, and the other settles at the small of your back like he never wants to let go.

Dean leans back just a little, eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing every inch. “You okay?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your hip through the soft fabric of your tee.

“Yeah,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. “Better now.”

He smiles, that soft little grin that barely pulls at his mouth but lights up his whole face. “Been sittin’ in here tryin’ to focus, but… kept thinkin’ about you.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I always know where to find you, you know.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, eyes still locked on yours. “Guess part of me’s always waitin’ for your footsteps. It’s like I breathe easier when you walk in.”

Your heart clenches, and you lean in to kiss him—just a soft press to his mouth, slow and unrushed. He kisses you back with the same tenderness, fingers tightening on your waist like he needs to feel every inch of you.

When you pull back, he exhales against your lips and murmurs, “God, you’re somethin’ else.”

You curl against his chest, letting the weight of the world melt away as he holds you. His chin rests on your head, and his hand strokes slow, lazy circles over your back.

No monsters tonight. No hunts, no danger, no noise.

Just the soft hush of the bunker’s library and Dean Winchester whispering sweet nothings into your hair like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

You don’t realize you’ve started to drift until the pages of the open book blur behind your eyelids. Dean’s warmth, the rhythm of his hand on your back, the low hum of his voice when he mumbles something soft—all of it wraps around you like a lullaby.

You shift slightly in his lap, and he feels it immediately. His arm tightens around you, and he glances down, brushing his lips to your hair.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice a quiet murmur against your temple. “You fallin’ asleep on me, pretty girl?”

You hum, half-smiling as you tuck your face into the curve of his neck. “Mm… maybe a little.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, that sound deep in his chest, and it rumbles right through you. “Knew I was too damn comfy,” he teases softly. “You curled up on me like this, no wonder.”

He strokes your back one more time, then shifts—careful and gentle, like he doesn’t want to wake you fully. One arm hooks under your legs, the other steady around your shoulders.

You blink sleepily as he stands, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flannel, and you whisper, “You don’t have to carry me…”

Dean presses a kiss to your forehead, already walking you out of the library. “Yeah, I do,” he murmurs. “You think I’m gonna let my girl stumble to bed half-asleep when I’ve got arms made for this?”

You smile against his collarbone, heart fluttering. “Your girl, huh?”

He glances down at you, eyes soft and green and glowing even in the dim light of the hallway. “Damn right. Been mine since the first day you walked into my life.”

You don’t say anything—don’t have to. You just hold him tighter, letting yourself melt into him as he carries you down the hallway. Every step is steady, protective. Every breath from him is calm and sure.

He nudges open the bedroom door with his foot and brings you to the bed, sitting down with you still in his arms before gently laying you back against the pillows. You reach for him as he moves to pull away, and he catches your hand immediately.

“I’m not goin’ far, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Just grabbin’ the blanket.”

You watch him in the low light, the strong line of his shoulders, the way his expression softens as he pulls the blanket up and tucks it around you. He climbs in beside you a second later, sliding in close and wrapping his arm around your waist like he’s afraid the night might take you from him.

You settle into his chest, his heart steady against your cheek.

Dean breathes in slow, kisses the top of your head, and murmurs against your hair, “Sleep, pretty girl. I got you.”

And you do. Wrapped in his arms, held safe in the bunker and safer still in his love… you let go of the day and fall asleep with Dean beside you, exactly where you’re meant to be.

You wake slowly, drifting up from sleep like surfacing through warmth. The room is dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp Dean must’ve left on. It’s quiet—no clanking pipes, no humming ventilation. Just the quiet, steady sound of breathing.

Dean’s breathing.

You’re wrapped in him—his arm heavy around your waist, legs tangled with yours, chest pressed to your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep. His hand is splayed just under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your bare skin, his thumb resting over your ribs like a promise.

You shift slightly, and he stirs.

A low, sleepy hum vibrates through his chest. He tightens his hold around you automatically, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His scruff grazes your skin, and you feel him breathe you in like he needs it just to stay grounded.

“Mm… what time is it?” you murmur, voice still scratchy from sleep.

Dean grunts softly, his lips brushing your skin. “Hell if I know,” he mumbles. “Too early for anything but this.”

You smile as you roll in his arms to face him. He adjusts without hesitation, pulling you even closer until your foreheads nearly touch. His eyes are barely open—green and heavy-lidded, his lashes still tangled from sleep.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispers, voice gravelly and low. “Mornin’.”

You tuck your hand under his jaw and kiss his cheek, just like last night, only slower now. Like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“Hey,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb over the edge of his stubble. “You sleep okay?”

“With you next to me?” He smirks, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Like a damn baby.”

You laugh softly, your nose bumping his. “You’re a sap in the mornings.”

Dean doesn’t even deny it. He leans in, lips brushing yours, lazy and unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything—just gives. Warmth. Affection. The quiet kind of love that doesn’t need words to be known.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close. “We don’t gotta get up yet,” he says, voice soft like a secret. “Just wanna hold you a little longer.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Okay.”

So he does. His hand runs slow down your back, your legs stay tangled, and the world outside stays forgotten for a while longer.

Wrapped up in Dean, the bunker quiet and still, it’s just you and him in the glow of the morning—no sun, no noise, just love.

You shift a little closer, your hand cupping Dean’s cheek as your thumb traces the faint line of stubble along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed under your touch, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That look he gets when he’s letting himself feel safe. Letting himself be loved.

You lean in and press a kiss to his temple.

Then another, a little lower. His brow. His cheekbone. The tip of his nose. His other cheek. Each one light, slow, and full of everything in your chest.

“I love you,” you whisper, between kisses. “I love you so much, Dean.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tense or flinch, doesn’t shy away—but he doesn’t speak, either. You didn’t expect him to.

Dean’s always been more action than words. But you feel it in the way he exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy. In the way his hand slips up your back, fingers weaving into your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll lose the only good thing that’s ever felt real.

Your lips find his again, one more soft kiss to his mouth. Not asking, not taking. Just giving. Just being there.

His fingers press lightly against the back of your neck, holding you in place for a second longer as he kisses you back—deeper this time, still slow, but more certain. Like he needs you to feel it.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours again. Still silent.

But then he nudges his nose against yours, eyes locked on you, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

He doesn’t say I love you.

But he doesn’t have to.

Because he’s looking at you like he’d burn down the world to keep you safe. Because his arms are wrapped around you like they’re built for it. Because the only thing he’s holding tighter than your body… is your heart.

And you know.

You’ve always known.

A/N: And with that, I bid you good night. Thanks for reading! 🥰

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thatonewriter15 · 24 days ago

Text

The softness in this nearly brought tears to my eyes. <3 But I really enjoyed the humor, too; the ending literally made me laugh out loud.

What a treat to get a new fic from you. =]

Softy

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Words: 1,302

Summary: A storm is rolling in and the reader can feel it in their bones.

Warnings: Fluff, light h/c, the reader character was born without a right hand (which is something I personally don't have experience with but I do have experience with changes in barometric pressure causing joint/muscle pain, so I pulled from that)

Written for a Patron request

---

You wake to an ache at the end of your right arm. It's not a stabbing pain and honestly, it's pretty tolerable, but you still groan and stretch your arm out as far as you can in a feeble attempt to relieve the throbbing.

"Everything okay?" Dean asks, words soft and muffled against your shoulder.

"Hurts," you mumble into the scratchy fabric of the motel pillow as you lift your arm to indicate the smooth nub of your right arm, where most people would have a hand.

"Shit. Sorry, sweetheart."

Dean lifts the arm he's draped over your waist and curls his fingers around your forearm. Very, very gently, he massages where it aches from skin to bone. His hand is warm, his touch the just-right level of firm, and the relief may be temporary but you're no less grateful. You let out a low moan before you can stop it and feel Dean smile, pleased with himself.

"You should take something," he suggests.

You shake your head. The Winchesters' stock of meds is running low and you don’t want to take something when you can get by without it just fine. "I'll be okay. It's just a bad dag. I probably slept funny. This mattress sucks." You stretch as you speak and your spine pops, emphasizing your words.

Dean seems skeptical but he just presses a kiss to the top of your spine. "Let me know if you change your mind."

You twist in the sheets to face Dean, nuzzling into the warm curve of his neck. Just then, there's a loud knock on the motel room door that makes you jerk back even though you weren't doing anything naughty.

"You two better be decent," Sam says, announcing his presence as he opens the door and warily peeks inside. You hadn't even realized he wasn't in his bed. "I got breakfast."

Sure enough, the smell of coffee and greasy fast food breakfast follows him into the room. You push yourself upright, ignoring Dean's pout, and reach for the tray of cups with a grabby hand.

"Caffeine," you coo, cradling the warm cup. The heat of it through the thin cardboard sleeve feels heavenly on the ache at the end of your arm. "Thanks, Sam."

"No problem." Sam digs wrapped sandwiches from the paper bag and tosses two to Dean. "Seen the sky? Looks like there's a nasty storm coming in."

And that explains it. You grimace, trying to pass the expression off as your coffee being too hot, and stretch your arm. Stupid changing air pressure. No wonder you're in pain.

"It better not rain before we get out to the cemetery," Dean says, unfolding one wrapper and tucking it around the sandwich to make a little pocket to hold it with. "I hate digging in mud."

"Unless you wanna dig a grave by daylight, we might not have a choice."

Your brow furrows. "We don't even know what grave we're looking for," you say, setting your coffee on the bedside table to accept the sandwich Dean passes to you.

"Hopefully we don't figure it out until after the storm passes," Dean grumbles and Sam pelts him with a ketchup packet. Dean quickly adds, "as long as the ghost doesn't kill anyone else, of course."

You roll your eyes and focus on your breakfast as the boys bicker. You keep finding yourself stretching your arm, pressing it against your knee or the mattress in an attempt to bring some relief. Now that you're more awake, the pain seems to have intensified. That or maybe you're just more aware of it. The throbbing goes bone deep, spreading up your arm to your elbow, and nothing you do is helping much. This isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with changing weather causing pain, though, and it certainly won’t be the last. It’s one of the worst bouts you’ve had in a while, though, and a small wave of panic rises in your chest when you can’t seem to get the pain to abate.

"Hey, hey." A calloused hand catches your arm and you look up from your breakfast to find both brothers looking at you with concerned expressions. Dean rubs his thumb against the soft skin of your inner elbow and asks, “You okay?”

You nod, trying to ignore the way the ache burrows persistently beneath your skin and up your arm. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… the storm.” You suddenly feel a bit ridiculous that this is even something you’re complaining about, despite how very real the pain is, and a laugh escapes you. “I sound like an old man. ‘There’s a storm comin’. I can feel it in my bones.’” you put on an imitation of a gruff old person but Dean doesn’t look any less worried.

“The weather guy on the radio said to expect a pretty big pressure change,” Sam says, wiping his face and balling up his napkin to toss across the room. He nails the trashcan and throws his hands up in success. Dean, embolden, gives it his own shot and huffs dramatically when he misses. “You should take something.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, rubbing the heel of your left hand against your sternum to try and relieve the tightness there. “Really. It’s not a big deal.”

“Y/N.” Dean fixes you with a serious expression. “Take some Advil and I’ll… I don’t know. Run you a bath while we do some more digging on our dead guy. Heat helps, right?”

You make a face even as warmth floods you at his words. “Yeah, heat helps. Please don’t call the ghost a dead guy.”

“He’s a guy and he’s dead.” Dean gets up and digs through his duffle for the basic med kit they keep on hand. “Here.”

He tosses the bottle into your lap. It makes a pitfully quiet rattle and you open it to find only a handful of pills. “Dean, I can’t. What if you need these?”

“We’ll raid the pharmacy before we skip town. Plus, we’ve still got some of the heavy duty stuff in the car.”

“We’ll be fine,” Sam pipes up. He’s cleared his breakfast trash off the motel table and is unwinding his laptop cord. “Seriously.”

Sighing, you wash a couple of pills down with a mouthful of coffee. Pleased, Dean ducks into the bathroom and you hear water running. Your aching arm has you feeling testy and more than a little grumpy, but your heart swells at the sound. Dean puts on a macho tough guy front, killing monsters and hustling pool and listening to Led Zeppelin, and then he tears all that down doing stuff like this.

Coffee in hand, you grab some clean clothes from your bag and join Dean in the bathroom. You find him bent over the tub, testing the water with one hand while it fills.

“Here, check this,” he says, beckoning you over.

You set your stuff down and test the water, deeming it an agreeable temperature. Dean nods and straightens.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” he asks, looping an arm around your waist to draw you close. His body is warm against your own and you lean into him.

“This is perfect,” you assure him. “Can you…” you hesitate, unsure if you want to ask and bother him with more. “Could you come sit in here with me?”

Dean’s expression is soft. “Of course, sweetheart. You get comfy. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks Dean,” you sigh, feeling better already. The tightness in your chest ebbs. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone what a softy you are.”

He chuckles. “You better not.”

You mime zipping your lips before kissing him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“It’s not safe with me!” Sam calls from the other room and Dean groans.

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thatonewriter15 · 25 days ago

Text

⋆˚✿˖° prettier than heaven,

summary. to castiel, you're as pretty as flowers, as pretty than the universe itself.

pairing. castiel x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 473

He stares at you like you hung the stars.

You’re not even doing anything special—just sitting cross-legged on the hood of the Impala, biting into a gas station snack with more chemicals than actual food in it, eyes turned lazily up to the sky. Your hair’s a little messy, there's smudged eyeliner at the corners of your eyes, and you’ve got mustard on your thumb.

And Castiel is looking at you like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You glance at him, eyebrow raised. “You’re staring again.”

“I know,” he says simply.

He doesn’t look away.

You let out a breath, somewhere between flattered and flustered. “Seriously. Do I have something on my face?”

“Yes,” he says, leaning closer.

You blink.

“There,” he says softly, reaching out. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, careful and reverent, like he thinks you’ll shatter if he touches you wrong.

You freeze. His hand lingers, just barely.

“...Mustard,” he explains, voice quieter now. “You had a bit on your—on your face.”

“Oh.” You laugh awkwardly, pulling back slightly, suddenly hyperaware of your entire existence. “Right. That’s glamorous.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t understand.”

You sigh, cheeks warm. “I mean, I’m a mess right now. And you’re just… staring. Like I’m not.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Then: “To me, you’re as beautiful as flowers.”

You pause mid-snort.

“What?”

He nods, serious as ever. “Or perhaps more so. Flowers fade quickly. You are constant.”

Your throat goes a little dry.

“And the stars,” he continues, softly now. “I’ve seen them up close. I've walked between planets, witnessed the dust of galaxies being born. But even with all of that... I have never been compelled the way I am when I look at you.”

You blink at him. Hard.

“I—” you start, but it comes out choked. “Cas. You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” you breathe, heartbeat climbing, “normal people don’t compare other people to galaxies.”

“I’m not normal,” he says. Matter-of-fact. Like that’s the whole point. “I’m an angel. And you are the most beautiful part of my experience on Earth.”

Your hands curl against the metal of the Impala. The world feels too quiet all of a sudden. Too still. Like everything’s holding its breath around his words.

You swallow, trying to laugh it off, but it comes out soft. Fragile.

“Okay, well. You’re not too bad yourself, angel boy.”

Castiel looks almost confused. “You think I’m… attractive?”

You nod. “Devastatingly.”

“Oh,” he says, blinking. Then—he smiles. Just a little. Barely there. But real.

And when he looks up at the stars beside you, it’s different now.

He isn’t looking for wonder.

He’s sharing it.

And you? You let yourself lean just a bit closer.

Just in case he wants to keep comparing you to the universe.

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thatonewriter15 · 25 days ago

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"You know, salt bags, lore books, demon knives—basic girl stuff.”

This made me crack a grin.

Then—soft as a breath—he leans in. And presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

And this turned me into a liquid.

Hii, may I request a Sam x reader where maybe reader has shoulder pains sometimes bc she often carries heavy stuff and maybe he sooths her a bit?

.ೃ࿔*:･ heavy liftin,

summary. your shoulder's been killing you and sam's there to help.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. slow-burn-ish

wordcount. 537

notes / warnings. mild suggestiveness, massage 'bout to turn steamy

“You okay?”

You try not to wince when you twist your shoulder to shut the fridge door, but of course Sam notices. Sam always notices.

“Fine,” you lie, only half-committed.

“Uh-huh,” he says, skeptical. He leans against the counter, arms crossed over that unfairly broad chest, looking like he’s about to therapist you.

You don’t meet his eyes as you grab the bottle of water and nudge the door shut with your hip. “It’s nothing. Just… been carrying heavy crap around too much lately. You know, salt bags, lore books, demon knives—basic girl stuff.”

He frowns. “You should’ve said something.”

“It’s not that bad.”

He still doesn’t budge.

You sigh. “It’s just my shoulder, Sam. It'll ease up.”

“Sit down.”

You blink. “What?”

“Couch. Sit.” His tone is soft, but that no-nonsense Winchester edge is there, and you suddenly feel like arguing would be more exhausting than worth it.

So you obey, plopping down on the couch in the war room, muttering something under your breath about mother hens and nagging.

Sam doesn’t laugh. He kneels behind the couch instead, palms already rubbing together like he’s prepping for a mission.

You freeze. “Sam?”

“Trust me,” he says, voice low. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His hands come down on your shoulders—gently at first. Warm. Big. He moves slowly, thumbs gliding over tight knots with practiced pressure, like he’s mapped out your muscles already, like he wants to undo every bit of tension you’ve ever carried.

You hiss through your teeth when he finds a particularly nasty knot on your left side.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice suddenly close to your ear. “That one’s really bad.”

“No, no—don’t stop.”

He doesn't.

And it feels good.

Like, toe-curling good. Heat spreads up your neck and down your spine, your muscles melting into the couch like butter under his touch.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “God, your hands should be illegal.”

He chuckles—low and sweet. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not when his thumbs are tracing slow, deliberate circles over your shoulder blades. Not when the pads of his fingers drift up, featherlight, brushing the nape of your neck.

You shiver.

“Cold?” he asks, voice even lower now. Closer.

You shake your head slowly, pulse quickening. “No. Just…”

Just you. Just this. Just how long have we been dancing around this, Sam?

Then—soft as a breath—he leans in.

And presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

You go completely still. Eyes wide. Heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.

Another kiss, just below the first.

A third, on the curve of your neck. Lingering.

“You should let people take care of you more,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin.

You finally turn your head, just enough to look at him.

And yeah, the look in his eyes? It says he’s been waiting to touch you like this for a long time.

You smirk, nervous and bold all at once. “So this your new secret weapon? Soothing shoulder rubs to win a girl over?”

He laughs, and it’s so soft. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You lean back into him—just slightly. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

Not for a while.

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thatonewriter15 · 26 days ago

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The elation I get from checking Tumblr and seeing a new Riz fic at the top of my dash--I'm tellin' ya...

Uh... ma'am?!

This was insanely hot, and it just kept going and going and giving and giving.

And I have to ask! Was this a little nod to A Little Wild? (Yes, I have re-read that fic enough times for it to jump into my head...)

“Remember that job in Oklahoma, the stormy weather? That was a good night,” he says, his voice warm with the memory. “I’ve always loved how storms make you a little crazy.”

Ride the Storm

This is just an excuse for smutty smut with Dean in a thunderstorm, because storms just send me to that headspace. Bringing all of you to smut jail with me. Hope you enjoy the ride! 😏😉

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2678

Warnings: SMUT. Oral (male and female receiving), tit-fucking, did I mention there's smut?

Beautiful storm dividers by @firefly-graphics

You walk into the library, tossing your still-damp hair over your shoulder. You’re fresh from the shower, dressed in just a thin, clingy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, since Sam is gone, chasing down a vengeful spirit in Des Moines with Eileen.

Dean is focused on his laptop, and you slide up next to him, his arm reaching out the circle your hips as you stand beside him. “Whatcha doing?”

“Just waiting for you,” he says, glancing up at you, then really looking, his eyes roaming over your barely-there clothing. He lets out a low hum, hugging you close as he snuggles his face into your side. “God, you smell good,” he says, his voice muffled, and you grin, your fingers scratching gently through his hair.

You look at his laptop, nothing there but the weather forecast. “Storms tonight?”

He sits back up, nodding. “Yeah, no warnings or anything, just thunderstorms pretty much all night.” He closes the laptop and pulls you close as he looks into your eyes. “Remember that job in Oklahoma, the stormy weather? That was a good night,” he says, his voice warm with the memory. “I’ve always loved how storms make you a little crazy.”

You slip your arms around his neck. “Unfortunately, you can barely hear them down here in the bunker.” You shrug, bending down to kiss him. Your kiss is slow, gentle, his hands drifting down to cup your ass. Then he tilts his head, slanting his lips against yours, the kiss deepening as he kneads at your soft flesh and pulls you closer. When he stops, he meets your smile with one of his own as you speak softly. “I have an idea. How about we take Baby out. Park out in the open, in the middle of the storm. I’m in the mood to be a little crazy.”

“Mmmmmm,” he hums as he leans in to nibble at your neck, sending goosebumps skittering over your skin. “Let’s do it.”

A few minutes later, you’ve slipped into your Nikes, and Dean comes back into the room with a couple of blankets, topped off with two bath towels. “In case things get messy,” he grins when you look up at him, and you laugh. “I’m gonna grab some beers, meet you at the car.”

“And some water. In case we get messy,” you reply, and he flashes a grin at you over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

In no time you’re on the road, a six-pack cooler loaded with beer and ice (and two bottles of water) on the passenger side floor, next to the shoes you’ve already kicked off. You sit next to Dean, your legs curled up on the seat beside you, his arm around your shoulders. It hasn’t started raining yet, but there is a dazzling light show already beginning in the skies around you.

Dean knows exactly where he’s going – a wide-open field a couple of miles from the bunker, a fenced-off pasture nearby with cattle off in the distance. He pulls up in the middle of the wide-open space, sky visible on all sides, and parks just as the first raindrops begin to fall.

He shuts off the engine, then turns to you and leans in close, his lips barely brushing over yours. You hold your breath, your eyes drifting closed as he kisses you for real, his tongue teasing at the seam of your lips, and you grip handfuls of his shirt as you respond with a sigh.

Dean manhandles you over to the middle of the seat and pulls you over to straddle his lap, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you flush against his rapidly hardening cock. Your hands caress his face before moving down to rest on his broad shoulders, giving you leverage as you grind against him.

You lift your head and look down at him, watching his jaw clench at the pleasurable friction. “Baby?”

“Yeah,” he growls back, teeth clenched.

“Turn around, lean back on the door for me.”

He looks into your eyes, his tongue darting out over his lips as he realizes your intent. You move off his lap and let him move to pull one leg up to lay straight against the back of the seat, the other foot braced on the floor. You bite your lip and then smile at him before unlacing his boots, helping him take off the one on the seat as he pries off the other one. Then you crawl up between his legs and reach for his zipper, easing it down and popping the button, pulling down his jeans and boxers as he lifts up to help you.

The lightning is almost constant now, the thunder low and rumbling. Thunderstorms have always touched something almost primal within you, made you feel wild, unchained. You want to take him with you, make him feel the same way.

You lean in to give him a hungry kiss before lowering yourself down to slowly lick the tip of his cock. He lets out a harsh breath, one hand flying to grip the steering wheel and the other clutching at the back of the seat as you drag your tongue up the length of his shaft, then take him into your mouth.

His head thumps against the window as he rears back, his hips rising as you take him in deeper, sucking and laving at the slit as you pull back. You gently tease at the head of his cock with your teeth, then suck him down again, reaching between his thighs to fondle his balls. You hum with satisfaction as you begin a slow rhythm, taking him deeper with each bob of your head, reveling in the sounds forcing their way from his lips.

He breeches your throat, and you fight the urge to gag, swallowing around him. He swears, a string of broken, incoherent words as his hand flies to your head, fingers tangling in your hair. His grip tightens as you bring him closer to the edge, until he’s finally unable to keep from bucking up into your mouth.

His fist tightens in your hair until it stings as he loses control, plunging in deep and causing tears to leak from your eyes. You brace a hand on his thigh, trailing a fingernail lightly over his perineum, startling a strangled cry from him as he comes, spurting hot and thick into your throat and mouth.

You clean him off gently, moving back as he removes his hand from your hair, breathing hard as he recovers. You reach down for a bottle of water from the cooler, taking several swallows before replacing the lid. When you put the bottle down, Dean moves to pull you close, kissing you as he crushes you to his chest. You finally break apart, both of you needing to breathe. “Fuck, I love when you get like this,” he says, his hand cradling your face as you smile. “How about we get in the back so I can return the favor?”

Dean grins at the needy noise you are unable to suppress. You pull back from his arms, turning to lean over the back of the seat. As you can slide your way over, he hooks his fingers into the waist of your shorts and yanks them down, leaving you to land bare-assed on the back seat. “Very smooth, Winchester,” you laugh, shaking your head at the proud smirk on his face.

“I thought so.” You spread one of the blankets over the seat, placing the other near the door as a pillow. Dean does an awkward dive over the front seat, grunting in pain as his knee hits the floor.

“That was graceful,” you laugh at his landing. He groans as he rights himself, then smirks at you as he grabs your hips and pulls you towards him.

“Smartass,” he responds, dropping a kiss to the inside of your knee before propping your leg up on the back of the seat and arranging the other with your foot planted on the floor, legs spread wide. He glides his fingertips up the inside of your thigh, his lips parted as he stares down at you. “This wet just from sucking me off? So fucking hot, baby,” he mutters, then settles himself, somehow, into the space remaining and begins to place warm, open-mouthed kisses on your pussy before his tongue darts out to taste you.

A rumble of thunder all but drowns out your moan as he goes to work on you, hands holding you open to him when your legs fight to close around his head. He drives you to a shuddering orgasm quickly with his tongue and lips, then begins to fuck you with his fingers, twisting and stroking over your sweet spot with his usual unerring accuracy until you’re on the edge again. He sucks on your clit and you come hard, pulling at his hair and shouting his name, finally pushing him away when you grow too sensitive. He drops kisses to the soft skin of your thighs and stomach, then pushes back and strips off his shirts, then his pants. You watch, your eyes roaming over his body, letting out a breathy sigh of appreciation.

He’s hard again, and there is heat in his eyes as he moves back over you, pushing your shirt up and pulling it over your head as you raise your arms to help. “God, I love these,” he whispers, then bends to tongue a nipple between his lips.

He’s so good with his mouth, the way he flicks his tongue over your nipples, sucks with just the perfect amount of pressure, nips and tugs with his teeth just enough to add a sharp edge to the pleasure. He has you writhing underneath him as he moves from one breast to the other, teasing you until you whimper his name. “Dean, need you, now.”

He latches on to your soft flesh, sucking a mark onto the upper curve of your right breast before he lifts his head and moves up to kiss your lips, hungry and demanding. “Want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” he mumbles against your lips, nipping at your bottom lip. You whine and nod, and he sucks on your lips one last time. “Roll over for me, on your knees.”

His callused hands smooth over your ass as you adjust your position, and you push yourself back as you feel the head of his cock prodding at your entrance. Dean torments you, dragging the tip through your folds, nudging at your clit as you make an impatient noise. “So demanding,” he teases, then lines himself up and presses forward, bottoming out with some help from you. You let out a pornographic moan as he fills you to the limit, gasping for air as your body adjusts itself to his girth.

He rocks his hips, barely moving, a low groan in his throat as he basks in the feeling of being inside you. “God, you feel good, baby.”

“Mmmmmm. Yeah,” you answer. “But if you don’t move, Winchester – I’m gonna…” He chuckles softly, then draws out and slides back in, slowly at first, then harder as you say his name again in a warning tone. He hooks an arm around your hips, one hand pressed against your lower belly, the other hand pawing at your bouncing, swaying breasts as he begins to drive into you hard and fast.

You stare out the window, eyes unfocused with pleasure, the lightning flashes in the raindrops on the windows glittering like jewels, the thunder vibrating deep inside you. Dean is fucking into you deep, and the combined sensations of the storm raging outside and his cock slamming into you are mind-blowing in the best possible way, incoherent sounds forced from you both with every powerful thrust. He’s hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and he’s nailing it hard, the tension building inside you steadily until it’s almost frightening, but you welcome the inevitable explosion. He shifts his hand lower so he can rub at your clit, and it ends you.

You wail out his name as you come hard, your head spinning as every nerve ending fires, as white hot as the constant lightning in the sky surrounding you. Dean slows, grunting at the vise-like grip you have around his cock, easing back the friction on your clit as you buck and whimper your way through your climax.

When you finally take a deep breath and blow it out, he pulls back, ready to rail into you again, but you shake your head, your voice rasping and breathless. “No. Wait.” You put your hand over top of his, the one that has a grip on your breast, your nipple caught between his knuckles. You turn your head slightly, still panting. “I want you to fuck my tits. I want to watch you come.”

“Uhhhhhh, fuck.” The words are punched from his gut, and he moves his hand quickly from between your thighs. You can feel him wrapping it around the base of his cock, clamping tight as he pulls himself free from your still-pulsing cunt. “Jesus, baby.” He doesn’t loosen his grip as you move slowly, adjusting your position until you are lying flat on the seat beneath him, looking up at his face as he fights back the urge to come. It’s so fucking hot that your clit throbs almost painfully again, and you let out a soft whine.

He looks down at you, his chest heaving as he blows out breaths between his lips. When the urge finally releases its grip on him, he shifts himself into position, and you snug your breasts up on either side of his throbbing cock, cradling it in the valley between them. He’s hot and velvety smooth against your skin, and the look on his face is worth everything.

“Go ahead, baby – come for me,” you say, and he begins to move, the slick from being inside you letting him glide smoothly between your tits. His hands are braced, white-knuckled, on the door and the back of the seat, and he groans long and low as you tilt your head up and tongue at the head of his cock on every upstroke.

You keep your eyes on him, your cunt pulsing, on the edge again at Dean’s expression, a cross between desperation and bliss. His teeth clench hard as the first wave hits him, and you manage to catch most of it on your tongue as he growls your name, and you shudder as another mild orgasm washes through you. Three, four more thrusts between your breasts and he is finished, both of you messy and sticky, spent and sated.

After a few exhausted seconds, he straightens up, sitting back on his haunches as he looks down at you, a weak smirk curving his lips. “You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he mutters, and you answer with a weary grin.

“Definitely more fun alive, Winchester,” you quip as he reaches into the front seat for your bottle of water, then for a towel from the back window well. He wets it and leans up to gently clean a bit of come from your eyelashes, then the rest from your neck and chest.

“That was hot as fuck,” he says. “And now I need to sleep for about 4 days.”

You laugh softly, turning to your side on the seat and patting the area behind you. “Well, c’mere.” You hand him the other blanket from under your head, and he spreads it out, then crawls underneath and tucks himself behind you, pulling you into his arms. He nabs the other towel and jams it under his head, and you use his arm as a pillow, breathing a contented sigh as you rest back against him, listening to the rain still pelting the roof of the Impala.

“God, I love storms,” you whisper, and he drops a kiss on your neck as you drift off in his arms.

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#read with larrs #content 18+

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