thirdsaltyhunter

[thirdsaltyhunter]

𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙨

MOC!Dean/Girlfriend!Reader SMUT ;)

He’s on edge. Angry.

You can see it in the way he carries himself, the brutality he leaves behind on hunts. He’s become a perfect monster, and while you know John would be proud of his ruthlessness, you can’t bring yourself to be anything but worried.

You climb into the Impala after ridding a town of a small colony of ghouls. It was a brutal fight, and even if the hunt went about as well as any monster quest can go, you're covered in black tar, formaldehyde, and what might be half-digested body parts. And sweat from the humidity of hurricane season. You'd have preferred a hunt further north or west from the swamplands, maybe even both, but Dean's a machine seeking the soonest kill. You haven't been back to the bunker in two weeks.

Sam is back at home, pretending he's not chasing a cure for the Mark of Cain, or a lead on where the bastard himself is. It's just the two of you, which would normally mean sing-alongs and air guitar solos. Burger stands and Dean sneaking sips of your Diet Coke. And sex. Lots and lots of loud sex without the looming threat of Sam in the next room or the shower or wherever else he might walk in on you.

You don't speak. You pick at the edge of your black nail polish on your thumb, where it's already chipped and peeling away. The rain lashes against the windows, the wipers squeaking against the glass. They need to be changed out, along with fresh oil, but Dean's been distracted. That's why Baby's less clean than usual. You try to tidy up, but Dean's constantly on the move.

He barely sleeps. He drinks more than he eats, but at least beer has enough calories to keep him from losing too much weight. You try to get him to have a sandwich every now and again, but he's so far away.

Right now, he's covered in blood. It's coating his hands, his face, his stubbled jaw. There's monster goo on his boots, and it's probably being tracked into the car after him.

"You okay?" you ask.

He grunts.

"Dean, can we pretend to be normal people for two seconds and talk to each other? Couples do that."

"Nothing to talk about."

Not the way he mangled Abaddon's body after brutally killing her. Or the way he's dropped bodies left and right. No, Dean doesn't want to talk about that. You can see the cuts on his knuckles healing from last week, after he'd punched a man's face in and cut himself on the guy's teeth. Why? Because he'd whistled at you outside of the bar.

You were scared Dean might kill him. He would've, if you hadn't stopped him. For a good minute as you stood between him and a bloodied drunk lump, you couldn't recognize him. His eyes were black, like a fucking shark.

He sighs, rubbing his temple. "I can hear you thinking from here."

"Just... worried about you."

He scoffs. "I'm golden, baby. Just fuckin peachy."

"Is that how we're gonna do this? Pretending? Because it's not working, De. Not anymore."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I just want to know you're still..." Your voice cracks. Dammit. The tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes now, streaking paths in the blood and graveyard dirt on your face.

Dean hates it when you cry. It makes him soften immediately. His voice lowers, affectionate, gentle. Ready to make everything okay again, just to see you smile.

"I'm right here," he says. "Not going anywhere."

He drives you back to your motel, and you mourn the loss of him in the shower with you as you wash your hair. You're not used to showering without him. Ever since you got together, he's been begging to crash your showers, and now he's just... absent. Sitting at the table cleaning his gun.

When you emerge, clad in one of his flannels—red and black checkered, his favorite—and a lacy pair of panties, he doesn't blink. Just ruffles your hair absently and shuts the bathroom door behind him.

And he stays, for an abnormally long time. You approach the door carefully, knocking on it gently. "De? Baby?"

He doesn't answer. You try the knob, and it swings open.

He's in the shower. You can see his silhouette through the curtain, bracing himself against the wall. You realize he's crying.

"Dean?"

He sniffs. "Yeah. Just give me a second. I'll be out soon."

"Are you okay?"

His voice comes out so, so small. "No."

You pull back the curtain and look at him, your hand gentle on his cheek. "Come on, baby. The water's getting cold."

He nods. He climbs out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist, scratching at his stubbled jaw. His eyes are rimmed with red, and his hands are bruised and scraped, but they're so gentle on your face.

He stares.

"What?" you ask, your cheeks hot. "You're staring at me."

"You're beautiful," he whispers.

You blush deeper.

"Sometimes, I get so... angry." He whispers the words like he's ashamed of them. He hates himself for saying it. "I'm in this blind rage, and all I want to do is break things. Hurt things."

You're afraid to ask, but you do anyway. "Me?"

"Never you," he says fiercely. "Never you. I'd never hurt you, baby."

"I know." You frame his cheeks with your palms, smoothing your thumbs across the bones. "You're good. That's what you are, Dean. Goodness incarnate."

"How can you say that?" he whispers.

"Because I know it."

"But..." He bites his lip, rolling it between his teeth. A line appears between his eyebrows, deep and frustrated. "But you don't know what it's like. This thing is evil." He jabs at the mark on his arm. "It makes me feel like I've got all this pent-up rage. And hunting helps, or at least it did at first, but now I'm so wound up that nothing feels real, and if I stay still for too long, I want to destroy everything. I got this pain inside me. Or maybe it's a hunger. It lives..."

You stop him. "Show me where it hurts, Dean."

He taps his chest, right above his heart. You press a kiss against his anti-possession tattoo, then lower, over his broken knuckles, then just above his heart along the corded muscle where he's got a nasty scar.

He flexes and unflexes his fingers. His cock twitches against the towel.

"Baby," he warns.

"Hm?" You reach over the towel, running along his hardening shaft.

"We can't," he says. "I don't trust myself to be gentle with you."

"So don't."

He chuckles darkly. "It's not that simple."

"How come?"

"Because I'm unstable. I could burn you, baby. And I don't wanna come close."

"I'm not going anywhere," you say. "You're a good man. The man I love? He's a good man. I want your rough edges, your anger, your darkness. Just as much as I want your joy and laughter and the best years we have together. I want you, Dean. All you are. All you'll be."

He kisses you hard. As hard as he can without knocking his teeth against yours. He inhales sharply as your mouths intertwine, his tongue pushing past your lips and devouring you. You tug the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. His cock presses into your stomach as he wraps his arms around you and holds you tight.

He pulls back, gasping. "Baby—"

"Let me make it better," you ask, your voice low and seductive. "You showed me where it hurts. I'll heal you. You say it's too loud in your mind? Use me to make it quiet."

He's fighting his desire. The war wages in his mind. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," you say firmly. "Use me, baby. Until the noise stops."

His towel hits the floor. Then you're hitting the bed hard enough to bounce lightly. The springs creak as he climbs on top of you, kissing your throat, licking your collarbones. He unbuttons the flannel one at a time, deftly working the clasps until your bare breasts are on display for him. He kisses one, then the other, tracing your nipples with his tongue before he frames one with his mouth and sucks deep. Hard. Just enough teeth to send a delicious sting down your spine and to your cunt.

The shirt falls away, and then your panties are gone too, and he's between your thighs, running his fingers through your folds and circling your clit with his thumb. You moan, desperately shaking, your muscles tightening as your core becomes nuclear heat. 

"Dean," you whimper. "Dean, this is about you—"

He raises an eyebrow. "You think I don't want this? Baby, I could die between these thighs of yours and call myself a happy man."

He licks a thick stripe up your pussy, gathering moisture from your slit as he makes his way to your clit. A slow circle, a tease. He sucks your clit between his lips, and your hips buck, grinding against his stubbled jaw. It almost hurts, just close enough to sting like electricity. You hope it scratches you up a little, scraping away at the soft skin of your inner thighs. You want Dean to leave his mark, like you're a territory.

He spreads your legs a little wider, pulling your thighs over his muscular shoulders. He devours your cunt like it's his last meal on death row, sucking and twisting and pulling at you in every spot he's memorized. He eats until he can barely breathe, suffocating himself against you, and when he comes up for air, his chin slippery, he shoves two fingers into your pussy. You squeeze him, gasping as he fucks you with his hand, grinning wickedly at your reaction. Then he's back between your legs, kissing and suckling, while he fingerfucks you. He scissors his index and middle fingers, twisting to reach that special, gummy spot that makes you explode. And then you do, coming hard and loud, gushing against him.

"Open," he barks.

You do. He shoves his fingers into your mouth, deep, and you diligently suck them clean. 

You know his eating you out was preparation, because he flips you on your stomach, pushing a pillow under the cradle of your hips before he hauls your ass in the air. His cock presses between your legs, catching moisture as he circles your center with the angry red tip of his length. He pushes in, just barely, and when you whine, he sheathes himself in a punishing thrust.

It hurts a little. Dean's always been big and girthy, and his size was definitely an adjustment when you first slept together. He splits you open on his cock, and you feel him all the way to your cervix as he pushes your face into the mattress and pile drives you into oblivion. Your toes curl as he buries one hand in your hair, pulling as he braces his other the headboard for leverage. Every thrust is bruising, his hips smacking into yours, your ass up as you become putty in his hands. He's a sculptor molding you from clay, pounding into your cunt without apology. 

But it feels so good. He's so big and you're so full, feeling him everywhere, from the crown of your head where his hand rests to the tips of your toes to the bottom of your spine. Your pleasure is a pinball reverberating through your body, and you're clutching the blankets for purchase, your cunt tightening as you get closer and closer to the edge.

He smacks your ass. You like being spanked, even if Dean normally prefers to be gentler with you. It makes you gush around him, and he does it again, a little harder. "Come on, baby. Come for me. Gotta feel you come on my cock. You can do it. Fuckin come."

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, and then you do. You fucking squirt as he manhandles you, ordering you to come as he practically splits you in half. You ache everywhere, even after the relief of your orgasm. It's greedy, how much you want him. You'll never be satiated as long as you're in love with Dean Winchester. You love and want him more every single day. 

"Gonna paint your little pussy. So fuckin tight. Squeezing me just right. Gonna fill you up until you're spilling out the sides. Make sure when you're sore tomorrow, you remember who you belong to."

He yanks your hair again, for emphasis. "Say it."

"I'm yours. I'm yours, Dean—"

"I want you to come again," he barks. "I know you've got it in you. Give me one more baby. Want you to come with me."

"I can't."

He flips you over, his pace barely broken. His fingers find your clit, stroking you just right. "That's it. Come on, baby. One more. Come for me."

You come so hard it hurts, but he's there to catch you. He spills inside of you, his spend dripping out of you as he pulls his cock out of your sore pussy. Then, he kisses your forehead, so sweet and soft. He comes back from the bathroom a moment later with a warm towel, wiping away the evidence of your shared releases. Then he grabs you some clean panties, dresses you in that same flannel. When he climbs into bed beside you, back in his boxers, you're half-asleep, spent. He pulls you into his arms, smoothing your sweaty hair off your forehead.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

You nod.

"I wasn't too rough?"

You laugh lightly. "It was incredible, baby. I'm alright. A little sore, but I like it rough." You like being fucked stupid. You feel safe with him, safe enough to let him dominate you. It's exhilarating and freeing. Being loved is being seen. 

He raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"I like everything with you." You touch his face, stroking his full bottom lip. "How's it feel?"

"Better," he whispers. "It's quiet now."

"Good."

"I need you, baby," he says. "To remind me where I am. Who I am. To light up the dark and pull me out of it."

"I'm right here," you promise. "Always."

He sighs, a shaky breath. His lips slide to your palm, kissing you gently there. "When this is over, I'm gonna marry the shit out of you."

"Is that a question?"

"It's a promise," Dean corrects you, so fierce. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

And as you fall asleep in his arms, you dream of babies with his eyes, and wrinkles, and a world where the two of you can relax in the world you've saved. It's been a beautiful fight, and it'll be a beautiful life. 

[thirdsaltyhunter]

Heyyy🩷🩷

Could you write a little something about a slow and sweet morning with Dean where reader kisses all his scars?

Thank youu🥰🥰

ೀ⋆｡˚ a map i know by heart,

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 535 genre. soft fluff

warnings. mentions of scars, implied past trauma, soft physical intimacy, lots of kissing, quiet vulnerability

The morning is quiet. Gentle in a way most aren’t.

No monster breathing down your neck. No motel checkout alarm buzzing at your spine. No cursed knives, no blood. Just warmth.

Dean is still half-asleep beneath you, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, one arm lazily slung across your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

His chest rises under your palm, steady and safe. Bare skin soft from the heat of the sheets. The sunlight cuts through the curtains in narrow gold strips, trailing across his ribs and the curve of his stomach, where old battle lines still live.

Scars.

Faint white slices. Burns. Jagged edges left behind by years you can never unlive. Marks that tell a story written in pain and survival.

You lean down, brushing your lips just over one near his collarbone. It twitches under your mouth. He exhales through his nose.

"Mm," Dean hums. Half a protest, half content. “You tryna wake me up or put me back to sleep?”

You smile against his chest. “Both.”

Another kiss. A softer one, placed just below his sternum. That one, he doesn’t flinch at.

"You're being weird," he mumbles, voice raspy with sleep. But his hand moves, trailing slowly up your back, finding your waist and staying there.

"You’ve got a lot of ground to cover," you murmur, kissing the little scar on his side—one he once told you came from a wendigo and a really stupid plan.

His lips curve lazily. “That one hurt like a bitch.”

“I remember.” You press your mouth just to the edge of it. “You limped for three days and insisted it was fine.”

Dean huffs a breath. “Still got the job done.”

You trail lower, nudging the sheets out of your way, peppering more kisses across his ribs—over a burn, the crescent moon of an old knife wound, a barely-there line that only shows in the light.

He watches you now. Awake, but not stopping you. Not brushing it off with a joke or a half-hearted “you don’t have to do that.”

Because you do. You want to.

Each mark is part of him, part of the life that built the man you love. And there’s something sacred in this—in being the one who gets to touch him like this, with care instead of cruelty.

You reach his shoulder, press your lips to the old scar there, then trail up to his neck, soft and slow.

By the time you reach his jaw, his fingers are curling tighter into your waist.

“Y’know,” he says quietly, “I don’t think anyone’s ever kissed that many scars before breakfast.”

“Guess I’m setting records.”

His lips ghost yours now, his voice low. “You gonna start keeping track?”

“Might.” You smile. “Wouldn’t want to miss any.”

Dean pulls you fully on top of him, arms wrapping around your back like he needs the weight of you there, grounding him. He nuzzles into your neck, stubble catching against your skin, his voice barely audible.

“Don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You stayed alive.”

And he kisses you back like maybe—just maybe—that makes it all worth it.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[thirdsaltyhunter]

Hollow Bones - Dean Winchester

I am finally back from my trip and desperately needed to write something for Dean! And I just had to use this Mark gif, I ain't sorry. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader has always been guarded around Dean, keeping just enough distance to protect her heart. But sometimes even (y/n) can't mend the cracks in the walls, only Dean can.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, shower sex, slight angst, jealousy, dom!Dean, slight possessiveness, friends to lovers

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader (2.5k words)

Exhaustion stuck to her bones and muscles, not daring to let go of her as if it was a child scared of being alone. She couldn’t shake it off, couldn’t part from it as they drove past yet another welcome sign. 

By now the houses all looked the same, the stores all sold the same things, and the air was always thick and heavy wherever they went. The leather seat she had claimed as hers years ago had been shaped to her frame, expecting her to find rest on the backseat every single week. 

Even though this hunt was different because Sam had decided to stay back, it still followed the same pattern. It always did. And (y/n) couldn’t shake her annoyance and tiredness any longer, forcing her to shift in her seat at every turn Dean took. She tried to keep her eyes from wandering towards him, knowing that it wasn’t fair to direct her uncomfortableness towards him. 

She didn’t speak up as the Impala left the main road, didn’t protest as Dean turned down the music, only allowed herself to speak as he drove towards a motel, “Didn’t you want to visit the hospital first?”

“You need sleep and food. We can’t risk you getting careless while we are out there.” Dean kept his voice quiet as if he was scared he’d rip her out of her state. She didn’t reply, only let go of a grateful hum while her heart began to clench in her chest. It had been weird between the two of them for the past days, ever since their last hunt where Dean had spent his night out with a woman from town for the first time in weeks and (y/n) hadn’t been able to swallow her hurt any longer.

What she was feeling had nothing to do with Dean, and yet it had everything to do with him, on a deeper level at least. She had been hurting for years, swallowing down whatever she was feeling for Dean to try and protect her heavily guarded heart. For years she had built a wall around the strong muscle, not daring to break down the bricks she clung to. But every building had its weak spots, and Dean’s wandering eyes had always been hers, forcing the walls to slowly crack.  

“Wait here, I’ll get us a room.” (Y/n) watched Dean enter the reception, she could study him through the wide windows, allowing her to study the oblivious hunter. She knew he didn’t see through her facade, all too used to the unemotional features staring at him whenever they were working together. She knew he didn’t pick up on the subtle shifts in her behaviour just yet and how she searched for the comfort of the hours where she was all alone. But time wasn’t her friend, she knew Dean would eventually notice how she distanced herself, forcing (y/n) to come clean with what she was fighting against. 

Dean returned to Baby a few minutes later, opening her door while mumbling the room number before reaching for their bags. Wordlessly she followed him with tired limbs, entering the room after Dean only to stand frozen in the hallway of the room. It was an open room, with one big bed placed in the middle, and a shower and sink which was hidden behind a milky glass.

Heat wandered up her spine as her thoughts pictured Dean taking a shower, offering just enough of his body to make her heart race in her chest. (Y/n) only shook her head while taking another step towards the bed, eyes watching Dean plop down on it with a sigh. His eyes fluttered close, arms crossed behind his head, offering a glimpse of his muscles fighting against the tightness of his flannel. 

“I’ll take a quick shower.” (Y/n) mumbled the words – words Dean only nodded at without opening his eyes. She reached for new clothes before disappearing behind the milky glass, and then she froze again. Her gaze was stuck to the glass, seeing Dean’s frame through it, and even though she couldn’t make out any details, she knew he’d see enough of her if he opened his eyes. 

Slowly she turned towards the shower to start it, watching the water fall to the ground while her trembling fingers pulled her shirt over her head. Her senses were fully focused on Dean, she could hear him shift around on the bed, but she didn’t turn towards him. A part of her hoped he was watching her, feeding into the need she felt deep inside of her, but another part knew well enough she needed to get rid of thoughts and hopes like these. 

With her clothes pooling on the cold floor, (y/n) stepped into the shower with a sigh. The water cascaded down her back, clinging to her trembling frame. Something inside of her switched, forcing tears to well up in her eyes and her hand to cover her mouth before a sob could echo through the shower. Her body was trembling, shaking with every cry trying to rip through her body. 

She felt pathetic for giving into the emotions flushing through her body, for being unable to stop herself from shaking as if she was being buried in icy waves. The shower tiles were cold against her shoulders, she pressed herself against them to keep her balance, all while desperately trying to stop the tears from rolling. 

“(Y/n)? Is everything alright?” Dean’s voice cut through the thick air, forcing goosebumps to rise on her skin. She couldn’t reply, didn’t find the strength to work through the tightness in her throat. “Sweetheart?”

Dean’s frame appeared in front to the shower, eyes finding her glassy ones. They stared at one another for a few moments, moments where her hand lost its strength to muffle her sobs, allowing the sounds to echo through the shower. Without speaking another word, Dean shuffled out of his clothes, exposing himself to her widening eyes as he stepped into the shower. 

Instantly, his arms found their way around her body, hand finding the back of her head to press her face against the crook of his neck. She shook against him, clung to Dean as if he was a lifeline saving her from drowning in the sadness which buzzed through her body like lightning hitting her over and over again. 

“I got you, sweetheart, shh.” Dean’s hand stroked up and down her spine, pressing her even closer to him as if any space was left between them. She didn’t dare let go, soaked up every passing second while calming down and finally getting a grip on her shaking system. 

“I’m sorry.” (Y/n) mumbled the words against his skin, words which made Dean tighten his hold on her. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, not for feeling something. What happened, sweetheart?” He gently tugged her face away from his neck, eyes staring down at her. His hand had settled on her waist, thumb rubbing circles into her skin to try and keep grounding her. 

“I,” a shaky exhale left her. (Y/n) got lost in his concerned eyes, filled with a green so deep she wondered if he had ever looked at her like that before. “I think everything is just too much for me at the moment. But you don’t have to worry about me, I got it.”

“I always worry about you.” A scoff left her, a sound so sharp (y/n) almost winced at it. Dean’s thumb stopped moving, eyebrows furrowed while he tried to dissect her reaction. “Have I done something? Is this about me?”

“Drop it, Dean, please.” She tried to free herself from his grasp, but there was no way out of this conversation. Dean didn’t let her escape, didn’t give her a chance to move away as something flushed through his eyes she could only describe as anger. 

“No, I ain’t playing this game with you. What is going on? If I did something I deserve the chance to make it right.” Her tongue kissed her teeth, mind racing while she weighed her options. She deeply inhaled, hands finding his forearms as if she was trying to push him away, but she didn’t move, not yet at least. 

“How long will you keep me around? When will you get bored of me and decide to string one of those girls along you seem to pick up like trophies?” The words were sharp, cold, no longer dripping with the sadness she had exposed moments ago. Dean was undoubtedly hurt by the words, jaw muscles tensing as he finally let go of her, hands dropped to his side. 

“Is this what you think of me? You think I’d drop you for some girl I couldn’t care less about? How many times have I saved your life? How many times have I stitched you up? Would I do any of that if I wouldn’t care?” The words made her tense, eyes no longer able to keep contact. Her body began to move, turning away from him as if she was trying to leave the shower, but Dean was quicker. His hand found the back of her neck to pull (y/n) back against his chest. “I won’t let you run from this, be honest for once.”

“You’re a miserable liar, Dean. You don’t care about me, you care about disappointing whoever has enough pity to listen in, that’s all. Don’t stand there and act as if I am more to you than I truly am.” He turned her towards him with more strength than needed, forcing her back against the wall while his lips found hers for a bruising kiss. 

It took (y/n) a second to move, to reply to the kiss with her hands finding his wet hair, fingers tugging on his roots. The kiss was messy, teeth and tongues, bodies pressed together to communicate the words neither of them had ever dared to speak before. 

“You’re everything to me, don’t push me away because you’re scared. Not me, sweetheart.” Dean whispered the words against her lips, words she couldn’t reply to. She kissed him again, hands moving down his muscular chest to settle beneath his navel, all too aware of the path both were about to stumble onto. “I won’t touch you before you tell me the truth, (y/n).”

“I can’t be another name on your list, Dean. You’re it for me, and I won’t risk getting hurt.” She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the momentarily silence wash over them. Dean’s hand found her throat, thumb settling on her chin to tilt her head back up towards him, only to kiss her again.

“I won’t hurt you, sweetheart. Let yourself fall, just this once and put your trust in me.” She could only nod, trying to drown out the protesting thoughts which faded into nothingness as his calloused fingertips stroked over her wet skin. A gasp left her the second he circled her hardening nipples, eyes watching his fingers explore her skin. 

Her hands began to move too, finding his twitching cock to slowly wrap her fingers around him. Both moaned in unison as she began to pump him while he found her heat, fingers circling her pulsing bundle. Being touched by Dean felt like being ripped from this life to be offered a new chance, something so beautiful and calming she couldn’t even put it into words.

“I once promised myself I’d do this properly, at least on a bed.” He pressed the words past his teeth, making her chuckle while tightening her grip on him. Both were high on the sounds the other made, giving room to the sensations they had been dreaming of for years. “But I can’t wait any longer.” 

Dean picked her up without another warning, only to press her against the tiles once again. Her heart was racing, pulse climbing higher and higher as he brushed the tip of his cock through her wet folds, “You’re on the pill right?”

(Y/n) nodded her head, words stolen right from her mouth as he pushed into her. Her forehead fell against his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, lungs burning from the way she held her breath. Dean pushed deeper and deeper, groaning whenever her walls clenched around him, undoubtedly trying to relish in the moment before he’d properly take care of her.

“That’s it, sweetheart, look at you taking me so well.” Dean panted the words as he began to fuck her against the wall. She clung to him, fingernails buried in his skin to keep herself pressed to Dean as he gave them both what they were aching for. She was dripping for him, allowing Dean to fuck her faster with every passing thrust, searching for a high both wouldn’t ever forget. 

“I’ve been stupid, so fucking stupid for keeping myself from touching you. But you’re mine now, won’t let another guy even look at you again.” His words made her moan, walls clenching around him once again. “I’ll kill whoever dares to come close to you.”

“Dean,” she choked on his name, feeling him so deep inside of her, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was imagining all of this. “Just like that, right there.”

She would feel him for days, struggling to let go of her thoughts circling around this very moment. He fucked her with just enough pressure to push her closer towards the edge with every ferocious thrust. Dean was everywhere, surrounding her like a fog forcing her deeper and deeper into its grasp until there was nothing left but him. 

“Cum for me, sweetheart, show me how pretty you look when you cum on my cock.” Her breath hitched in her chest as he fucked the spot which made her see stars. She came moments later, teeth grazing his skin as she pressed her mouth to his shoulder. 

Dean kept fucking her, hips snapping against hers over and over again until he came himself. He let go with a groan, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. She struggled to keep her eyes open, but she needed to look at him with her head drawn back and her walls still fluttering around him. 

“Shit, you’re perfect, (y/n).” Dean pulled out of her to carefully set her back down. She clung to him as her limbs shook from the intensity of her orgasm, unable to support herself alone. He didn’t dare let go of her as he cleaned her, hands touching her soft skin while pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You know I don’t break my promises, not when it comes to you, right?”

“I know. I trust you, Dean.” Her lips found his again, sharing a slower kiss to seal their promise made in the foggy shower with still racing hearts and prickling skin.

[thirdsaltyhunter]

hi olivia!! ik you just wrote a drabble of sam shaving his beard, but do you think you could do a dean one where he shaves his stubble and reader gets upset ? thank you:)

⋆˚✿˖° betrayal, but make it smooth,

pairing. dean winchester x reader (gn) genre. fluff

wordcount. 457

notes / warnings. mild dramatic overreactions, references to stubble-related preferences, absurd levels of emotional betrayal (fake), cuddling, soft touches, dean being smug, reader being ridiculous, pure goofy fluff with a pinch of pining, sam being heavily ignored

You spot it the moment he walks into the war room.

You freeze mid-sip of coffee, mug halfway to your lips, eyes locked on his face.

His… suspiciously smooth face.

Dean pauses in the doorway like he senses the vibe shift from across the room. “What?”

You lower your mug slowly. Narrow your eyes. “What. Did. You. Do.”

Dean blinks. “Is this a trick question?”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “He shaved.”

You gasp. Audibly.

Dean raises a brow. “The hell was that?”

“You shaved?” you accuse, standing now. “Your face?”

“…That is typically what shaving involves, yes.”

You storm over like he just kicked your puppy.

Dean looks vaguely alarmed.

“You betrayed me,” you say, voice hushed with scandal.

Dean squints. “I had stubble, not a sacred vow.”

“It was scruff, Dean. It was perfect. It was rugged and manly and distinguished.”

He smirks. “You thought it was hot.”

You point at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“You implied it first!”

Dean shrugs, supremely unbothered. “It was itchy. I wanted it gone.”

“It was your whole brand!”

“I thought Baby was my brand.”

“Baby doesn’t press her cheek to my forehead when I’m sad.”

He pauses. Then, softer: “You press your cheek to my scruff when you’re sad?”

“I did.” You pout. “Now I gotta settle for… this.” You wave a hand at his freshly-shaven jaw like it offends you personally. “You look like a baby-faced assassin.”

“I take offense to that,” Sam says, still not looking up.

Dean touches his chin. “Y’know, I think I look great.”

“That’s the problem.”

Dean snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re smooth.”

“You like smooth,” he teases.

“I like you with emotional damage and five o’clock shadow.”

“You like me regardless,” he says smugly, stepping closer. “Which is why this doesn’t actually matter.”

You glare at him. You want it to matter. You want to stay mad. But he’s got that glint in his eye. The one that says I win, and also you love me anyway.

You fold your arms. “You still feel weird.”

“Wanna test it?” he murmurs, stepping in even closer.

You hesitate.

Then cautiously—very cautiously—reach up and cup his jaw.

It’s warm. Smooth. Soft. Not scruffy.

You scowl dramatically. “Ugh. It’s like touching a baby seal.”

Dean grins. “But like, a really sexy baby seal.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re obsessed with my face.”

“…Not anymore.”

He laughs and leans in, forehead resting gently against yours.

“I’ll grow it back,” he says. “Just for you.”

You sigh, fingers still resting on his cheek.

“You better.”

Then, very quietly, just to be petty:

“I’m not cuddling you again until I hear sandpaper.”

Dean snickers. “That sounds like a challenge.”

And honestly?

It is.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[thirdsaltyhunter]

⌖They all wanna take her out⌖

⌖ (but no one ever wants to take her home)⌖

SUMMARY: Dean has always been just along for the ride. Getting around town, flashing his fuck me eyes and feeling good for a night. When he's suddenly confronted with something real, he doesn't know how to act. 3.8k

WARNINGS: angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. mentions of parental abuse. dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms. hurt/comfort. using sex to replace intimacy. dean winchester is bad at feelings and incredibly traumatized. angst with happy ending.

now playing: fuck me eyes by ethel cain.

Dean Winchester learned from a very young age that love is conditional.

He would only ever be loved for what he could give, for what he might provide. If he ever was loved at all, that is.

Because, yes, Sammy loves him. But that’s because Dean made him dinner every night, kept him safe during cases, and read him bedtime stories. Dean would let him have the last bit of store-bought pie, and Sam would look at him with those shiny puppy eyes. He would calm him down after a nightmare and get him to fall back asleep, and Sam would smile at him a little more gently the next morning. Dean would save his life during a hunt while their father was busy chasing the monster, and Sam would press himself to his side during the ride to the motel.

Sam loves him because Dean provides for him, the way a son is conditioned to love a parent.

His father… he prefers not to think about that one too much. John loved him—Dean knows he did—in his own way.

And maybe his father only ever looked at him with anything akin to affection when Dean ganked a creature in record time. Maybe he only ever acknowledged him to order him around, to scold him, or to demand he take care of Sammy.

Maybe his father would come back to the motel rooms angry, his hand always fisted around a gun or a bottle. And Dean had learned quickly that his rage would soon be redirected toward him if he didn’t act fast. If he didn’t perform.

So he’d abandon his comic books, his cartoons and carton of chocolate milk, and he’d approach his father with careful steps—the way a dog approaches the hand that hits him. Dean would speak in a low voice, just a few sentences at first, testing the waters. If his father spat a “go to bed” at him or if his fist clenched, Dean would get up from the couch and go lay down on the stiff motel mattress.

If John closed his eyes or rubbed a hand over his mouth, Dean continued. He would reassure his father, try to comfort him. He had figured out exactly what to say to make him put the bottle down just halfway through it. He knew what not to say unless he wanted to get yelled at and find his father gone the next morning.

When he excelled at hunting, when he followed orders without questioning, when Sam was safe—that was the closest he ever felt to being loved by John.

Any mistake, any selfish request, any bit of his true self that slipped through his mask would make any warmth evaporate, and he’d be left frozen—sometimes with a bruise—and wondering why. What did he do this time?

So, yeah. Dean knows that love is conditional.

That’s why, when you came into his life, he didn’t know how to handle you.

There’s a lot of things Dean struggles with, but women have never been one of them.

He knows what they want, and how to give it to them.

From a very young age, women of all ages have looked at him a certain way. He quickly realized that he was attractive. Hot, even. Sexy. Women would approach him—his classmates in school, ladies at the bar his dad brought him to long before he was old enough to enter, witnesses during cases—and they all batted their pretty eyes at him, spoke to him in soft voices, and touched him with gentle hands.

At first, he would get attached. There was something in his chest, something snarling and salivating, that went crazy at their attention. At their affection. Some girl would run a hand through his hair, and Dean would already be wondering what their kids would look like.

Then he got old enough, and the touches became a little more lingering. Women would slide their hands up his arm, wink at him after pouring his whiskey, lean down until all he could see was their cleavage. They kept the soft voices, but now there was an undertone to it. Something sticky, sweet, and velvety. It would wrap around his brain and make him fuzzy.

The first night Dean woke up alone in a messy motel bed, he understood.

He would only be wanted for what he could provide. Girls would look at him with caring eyes as long as he made them moan and squirm in the sheets. They would caress his face and hold him close as long as their legs ended up shaking and their pupils blown out. They would offer him nice words, comforting him and complimenting him, as long as he could offer them a good hookup.

They wanted him—as long as he was gone by morning.

So when he met you, he knew exactly what to do.

Sam and Dean had already crossed paths with you in previous hunts. After the first time you almost stabbed him during a poltergeist case, the brothers called Bobby and asked if he knew anyone with your name.

Bobby’s voice had turned the most affectionate they had ever heard it as he told them about the time you came to him for help with a spell. He went on a little rant about you staying in his house after you got hurt and how he woke up to breakfast waiting for him on the dinner table and his fridge full of beer and fresh produce, before he realized he sounded way too fond of you and grumbled something about you being a good kid and to keep you safe if they ever crossed paths with you again.

And they did—over and over again. Sam bumped into you at a library in Nevada, and you joined them in a vampire hunt once in Massachusetts. Dean bought you a drink in upstate New York about three months after your first meeting, and he could never have guessed how it’d go.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he grinned at you with his signature confident smile. You murmured a thank you and grabbed the margarita from his hand, your fingers brushing.

But the smile you gave him was a little too neutral, too actually grateful. You didn’t shudder at the touch of your fingers, and your gaze quickly returned to your phone afterward. Your words weren’t flustered or alluring—just normal.

Still, he didn’t give up. He slid onto the stool next to you, and the moment you turned to face him, he tilted his head and looked down at you in that way he knew would make his lashes look longer and his green eyes shinier. He added just the tiniest bit more arrogance to his lopsided smirk, and he even went as far as to wink at you.

But then you laughed—not flirty, not mean, just amused—and sipped your margarita as you turned around and shared some small talk with the bartender.

So you weren’t interested, then.

That was okay. Dean knew how to handle rejection.

But then you found Sam and Dean again later that night.

The bartender had ended up pulling some tarot cards from behind the counter, and you offered to give her a reading in exchange for a free drink. Dean had never seen anyone handle psychic bullshit the way you did—so effortless, so sharp. You joked your way through it, laughing as you laid the cards down, but your words still carried weight. Each sentence landed with the kind of quiet gravity that made people go still.

You told fortunes like you were spinning stories, your voice lilting between casual and cryptic. You winked at the girl behind the counter, did little sleight-of-hand tricks with the deck, and flipped each card like it had something sacred to say.

Halfway through it, five people were already lining up behind you, drawn in like moths to a flame.

You drifted through the bar like smoke the rest of the night—laughing, glowing, throwing back drink after drink without ever seeming sloppy. You didn’t take a dollar for your readings and kept reminding people not to take you too seriously, but it was impossible not to. Dean couldn’t stop watching you.

And then, you’d found your way back to the brothers, your cheeks flushed with tequila and your eyelids a little heavy. “I think I’ll call it a night, guys.”

“Let me drive you back to your motel.” Sam threw Dean a weirded-out look, and he could hear his little brother’s question in his head.

You’re leaving a bar, alone, before two?

Dean didn’t turn to face him, scared his real self would slip through his mask. Instead, he led you out of the bar and into the passenger seat of Baby, thanking the God he didn’t know if he believed in that he decided to stop after his first beer.

He didn’t let himself wonder why he stopped. Why the sight of you dancing around the bar, beaming at every client and being admired by everyone had suddenly killed his hankering for the one thing that had always been good to him in his life—even when it burned washing down his throat.

Dean was ready to drive you to your motel in silence, make sure you got in safe, and head back to the bar to get hammered. He wouldn’t try anything again, because he knew better than to push after being rejected.

“You know, you really saved my ass back there,” you murmured when Dean stopped the Impala in front of your room, turning to stare at him under the dim streetlights.

When Dean met your eyes, they were kind in a way he had never been on the other end of.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean said with what was meant to be a bashful smile, but he couldn’t help the way his chest puffed out. He was of service. He did something good. “It’s what we do—we have each other’s backs.”

You seemed to study him for a second, your eyes scanning every inch of his face. Dean squirmed in his seat, not loving the way he could almost feel you sinking in, making your way through his walls, analyzing him on an almost psychic level. Maybe you actually did know what you were talking about.

“Still. Thank you.”

This was the moment. It was dark, late at night, and the two of you were alone in Baby in some desolate parking lot. You were slightly buzzed, and he had just given you something. Had just performed.

Your eyes were still on his, and this was when you’d lean in and kiss him, or invite him into your room. He got ready for it, almost desperate for the gratification it would bring—for those few minutes he would finally feel fulfilled. Feel loved.

But then you chuckled, shaking your head slightly before opening the car door.

“Stay safe, Dean,” you whispered into the night, right before getting out of the car and walking into your motel room.

To this day, Dean doesn’t get it.

He saw you more often after that. Something happened to you—something ugly and tragic—that you wouldn’t talk about with anyone but Bobby. It left you morose, a little broken, and with a whole new set of scars.

Bobby called Sam and Dean the day you tried to put scopolamine in his beer so you could go on a hunt.

“She’s goin’ stir-crazy, but I’ll be damned if I let that girl go on a hunt alone after—that.”

So a deal was made. You could work on cases, but you had to go along with Sam and Dean. You seemed to actually like the brothers, because you only rolled your eyes once before accepting.

That was the moment everything went downhill. 

Because suddenly, he was trapped with you at every waking moment—during long drives in Baby, in every moldy motel room, in every library and morgue and graveyard. You became a constant in his life, in the way only his brother, his car, and his whiskey had ever been.

And Dean could’ve dealt with it, if you weren’t so goddamned confusing.

Because you patch him up sometimes, and your hands on his skin are delicate and soothing. You murmur reassuring words in the dark of night, brush his damp hair off his forehead, and ask him if he’s okay—and Dean actually believes that you care about the answer.

But you still don’t want him.

You stare at him with shiny eyes—wide and compassionate and beautiful—but you still take a step back if he tries to slide closer. You run toward him and cradle his face in your hands when he gets stabbed by a wraith, you keep his head on your lap the whole ride back to the motel, and you insist on holding his hand as Sam sutures the wound. Still, the moment he makes a suggestive joke, you roll your eyes and hand him another shot of whiskey to shut him up. You stay by his side that whole night—but you won’t let him touch you.

Dean doesn’t get it. He keeps waiting for you to leave one day—to get tired of this. Of him.

But you don’t. You keep complimenting him—and not just his looks. Maybe you sneak in one or two comments about his eyes, but you praise him. The real him. Not Sam’s parental figure. Not his dad’s perfect soldier. Not the playboy. Somehow, you glimpse beneath the mask.

“You care, Dean. Not a lot of people do. They pretend they do, they offer empty condolences and claim to have tried their best. You—you feel it, deep in your bones. I love that about you.”

“The way you talk to kids—you’re so gentle, Dean. You make them feel safe. You make your way into their hearts in a very special way. The way sunlight filters through the rocks of a cave. The way flowers bloom between cracks in the pavement. You have that effect on people. I love that about you.”

“You always put people before you, Dean. You’re so quick to jump into danger, to use yourself as a shield. You have such a big heart, no matter how much you try to hide it. You’re one selfless motherfucker, and it’s fucking annoying. I love that about you—but it’ll get you killed one day. Again.”

Caring. Gentle. Selfless.

Dean doesn’t fucking get it.

Because you’ve got his back during hunts, and you always find your way to the foot of his bed after a really bad nightmare, and you never get mad when he makes a mistake. You can see all the darkest parts of him—the ugly, scarred, putrid parts—and you look at him with so much… affection.

But you don’t fucking let him give back.

Dean doesn’t understand why. What did he do to deserve this? Why have you decided to give and give and give and take nothing? Why do you keep him around? Why won’t you just let him be of service?

He needs to offer something. Be of use somehow. Before he loses this. Before he loses you. Before you realize he’s no good when he’s not performing—and you leave.

But you’re so fucking impossible.

“I just don’t fucking understand why you won’t let me do it!” Dean yells, slamming Baby’s door shut.

“Guys—”

“Because it’s not fucking worth it, Dean!” you cut Sam off, getting out of the backseat and storming around the Impala to stop right in front of Dean. “The motherfucker is dangerous, okay? You can’t keep throwing yourself in the line of fire like that!”

“He hurt you,” Dean spits your name, eyes frantic and his grip on the revolver desperate.

Turns out, the demon they’d been hunting in this town happened to be the same one you encountered months ago—the one that left you cracked and weak.

Dean had lost it when he found out.

But the son of a bitch had formed a cult. At least a hundred demons, all following him around like starving dogs and hanging onto his every word like he was God—or Lucifer, Dean figured.

You three had barely made it out of that destroyed liquor store alive. The demons had cornered you, muttering something about sacrifices and “he’ll love some hunter blood, it’s his favorite.”

Then he appeared. Some long-haired guy with circular dark glasses and bell-bottom pants. Dean had wanted to snort, a snarky one-liner burning at the tip of his tongue—until he felt you.

At the sight of the John Lennon wannabe, your breath caught in your throat and your hand clamped around Dean’s arm tightly, nails digging into his skin like you were gripping a rope that was the only thing keeping you from falling into the abyss.

Dean had never seen you that scared—face pale, lips trembling. He didn’t need to ask. He knew. That was the bastard responsible for the scar down your spine you still tried to hide. For the nightmares that left you gasping in the backseat of Baby.

Dean was going to make him bleed.

If only the bastard hadn’t disappeared. He saw you, said something about still remembering the taste of your blood and how, “You’re still my favorite. A feisty one, huh? So let me do something for you. For old time’s sake.”

And just like that, every demon started vanishing. One by one, they melted into shadow. The demonic lost Beatle was last, still grinning at you in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl and blood burn.

Dean had grabbed the first blade he could find—a simple silver one, since Sam had the demon knife. It wouldn’t do shit. Would barely leave a scratch. But Dean had to do something. Anything.

So he charged, blinded by the pure-white rage pounding in his chest. He was close—just a few more steps—when you stopped him. You wrapped your arms around his middle and yanked him back.

The demon’s laughter still rings in his ears. And when Dean looked up again—he was gone.

Just the three of you. In a shattered liquor store. And once again, Dean had failed you.

“I know he fucking hurt me!” you say through clenched teeth, hands still shaking. They haven’t stopped since the encounter. Dean needs to do something. He needs to kill. He needs to perform.

“But he would’ve fucking incinerated you the moment you got too close!”

Your voice shakes. Dean tells himself it’s just from the memories. Just that.

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “I know you still have nightmares about what he did! You need—I could’ve gotten rid of him for you. I could’ve made him pay!”

He’s yelling now. He doesn’t want to. He’s terrified he’ll scare you. If you ever flinch at him, he thinks he’ll lose what’s left of his mind. But he’s burning. Itching. Dying to earn it. To earn you.

“That’s not what I need, Dean!” your voice echoes through the parking lot. Somewhere behind you, Sam slips into the motel room.

He’ll find out how this ended in the morning.

Dean snaps. He slams his palm against the hood of Baby—because violence has always felt more comfortable than whatever the hell else is simmering in his chest.

Still, you don’t flinch. That makes it worse.

“Then what?” he screams, stepping closer. “Tell me—what the hell do you need from me?”

“Nothing!”

You break too. Arms flailing. Voice raw—raw in a way Dean’s never heard before. And just like that—he freezes. “I don’t fucking need anything from you, because my love for you isn’t transactional!”

Love.

Your love.

For him.

Transactional.

You both stand there in the dark, your breathing ragged from the outburst. He’s staring at you, blank and wide-eyed, frozen in place. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t perform.

He’s waiting—for you to yell again. Or hit him. Or turn around and leave.

But instead, you sigh. Drop your head. Take a deep breath. Then step forward and cup his face with tender hands—and Dean shatters.

Something inside of him breaks. Suddenly. Gruesomely.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” you say again, voice soft and balmy, coating every single one of his scars and soothing him. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good.

“And it isn’t something you have to earn. Or something you’ll lose. You don’t have to fight for it. And you sure as hell don’t have to kill for it.”

Dean doesn’t understand. His throat locks up. A pain unlike anything—not even Hell—explodes in his chest. His breath stutters. His mouth opens and closes, again and again. All his wit, his charm, his clever little lines—gone.

There’s a loud clatter, and when Dean looks down, he sees that he’s let go of the revolver. 

It lays there on the asphalt, lonely and shiny. Violence, pain, struggle.

You guide his face back up, cold fingers drumming on his cheekbones, and he meets your eyes. Compassion, softness, love.

His eyes sting, and a lonely tear slides down his cheek. He fights the urge to wipe it away, to pull back and hide his face, to break something. His father’s face flashes before his eyes—his anger at any sign of weakness, his usual “Pull yourself together, boy.”

His tough love.

But maybe love doesn’t have to be tough.

Because there’s nothing tough about the way you’re holding him. There’s not an ounce of harshness in your eyes. No disappointment in the way you wipe away the tear. No disdain when you kiss the wet stain on his cheek.

He leaves the revolver on the ground, pressing his forehead to yours instead.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into the night, his eyes holding yours like they’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

“You don’t have to.”

And it’s as simple as that. It could be as simple as that—if Dean lets it.

And when you finally lean forward and your lips meet, it’s not lustful. It’s like two galaxies collapsing, two parallel universes crossing paths. Mystical, celestial—something Dean thought impossible.

There’s definitely something psychic about you, because you’re otherworldly.

Dean has met angels, demons, dragons. He’s met gods and the devil. He’s been to Heaven and Hell. But still, the most unfathomable creature he’s ever seen is this girl who sees right through him—who he would never be worthy of, but who still loves him.

“Come on, darling,” you pull him forward, away from his father’s car, and his guns, and his ever-haunting ghost.

That night, you two don’t have sex. You let Dean hold you through the night. You run your fingers through his hair, play with his hand, and pepper soft kisses all over his face. You don’t expect anything from him. It doesn’t matter that he lays there and lets you take care of him—lets you love him.

Because the next morning, you’re still there. Because the next morning, you still want him.

And he doesn’t have to perform anymore.

NOTES: can you tell that i love character studies? this is my favorite kind of thing to write. Ethel released fuck me eyes and y'all expected me not to write about dean??? anyway, I know i've been a bit MIA but I'm trying to find motivation to finish my WIPs.

I love you all! hope you liked it<333

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @mimiimmii @scatorcciosbabe<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[thirdsaltyhunter]

Nothing says love, like a black eye.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: a dumb argument over mugs, turns into a wrestling match that leads to a black eye.

You had forgotten how easy it was to argue with Dean Winchester.

And how infuriating it was, too.

It started over something dumb. Something like how you load the dishwasher, which was ridiculous, considering the bunker barely had more than three plates between the three of you, and none of them ever made it to the dishwasher anyway.

“You can’t just throw the mugs in,” Dean said, arms folded like you had personally offended the laws of physics.

“They’re mugs, not grenades,” you shot back. “And they’re ceramic, not bone china.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, gesturing at your arrangement. “That mug handle is sticking out. It’s gonna catch on the rack.”

“And?”

“And it’s gonna break. And then I’m gonna have to hear you whine about how that was your favorite.”

You straightened, a slow smile spreading across your face. “You broke it, you owe me a new one.”

“It hasn’t broken yet!”

“Because I have excellent placement skills!”

“Placement skills?” he echoed, laughing under his breath. “What are you, some kind of mug whisperer?”

You smirked, backing away from the dishwasher like you were defending a fortress. “Don’t be jealous because I’ve evolved beyond caveman dish stacking.”

Dean took a step closer, eyes glinting. “Caveman, huh?”

Your smirk widened. “You’re just mad I do it better than you.”

“I’m mad,” he said, cracking his neck, “that you clearly want a grappling match and are using dishes as a warm-up.”

You raised a brow, hands on your hips. “What, you think I can’t take you?”

Dean grinned, slow and dangerous. “I know you can’t.”

That was it.

Challenge accepted.

You lunged before he could finish the thought, catching him off guard and grabbing the collar of his flannel shirt. He laughed, twisting with you as the two of you stumbled into the center of the room. You knew you couldn’t take him down with strength, but leverage? Leverage and pure spite? That was your wheelhouse.

Dean managed to flip you once, half a second where you were suspended in air before he caught you and set you down with a smug, “Need a nap, sweetheart?”

You responded with a growl and swept his leg. It didn’t take him down, but it threw him off balance enough that he stumbled into the couch, and you used the opening to pounce again.

It devolved quickly into full-blown wrestling.

Hands slipping, limbs tangling, breath coming short with adrenaline and poorly disguised laughter.

You rolled across the rug, flipping him onto his back and straddling his hips. He smirked, grabbing your wrist and twisting with just enough force to flip you again.

“Oh, that’s how it is,” you muttered, breathless.

“That’s exactly how it is.”

The grin on his face was pure smugness and so stupidly pretty that for one second, you almost forgot what you were doing.

He went for your wrist again. You dodged, shoved, and turned, too fast, too sharp. His elbow came up at the exact wrong angle as you twisted to gain leverage.

You heard the thud before you felt it.

Deans elbow connected with your face.

His elbow didn’t give.

Your face did.

You cried out, stumbling back and clutching your eye, pain flaring behind your eyelid like a camera flash gone nuclear.

Dean’s whole body stilled.

“Oh, shit. Shit. Y/N…”

You waved him off with one hand while the other clutched your face. “I’m fine. I’m—ow. No. I lied. That hurts.”

“Let me see,” he said immediately, reaching for your hand.

You swatted him away. “Give me a second. I think I just saw God for a minute.”

Dean hovered, helpless and wide-eyed, hands twitching at his sides. “You’re bleeding.”

You groaned. “Wonderful. How bad is it?”

Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hey, did someone—”

Sam stopped in the doorway.

The scene in front of him must have been a lot to take in. You, on the floor, half-laughing and half-crying, holding your face. Dean kneeling beside you, shirt rumpled, looking guilty as sin and slightly terrified.

Sam blinked.

Dean opened his mouth.

“It’s not what it looks like!” you and Dean both blurted at the same time.

Sam raised a brow. “Okay, well it looks like Dean punched you in the face during foreplay.”

You barked out a laugh despite the pain. “You’re not completely wrong.”

“I didn’t punch her,” Dean said, horrified. “She ran into my elbow like a damn linebacker.”

Sam crossed his arms, trying not to smile. “So just a romantic injury, then.”

Dean shot him a glare. “She tackled me over a mug.”

“I was winning,” you added helpfully from the floor.

Dean looked down at you, eyes narrowing. “You were not winning.”

“I was on top, jackass.”

“You were distracted.”

You grinned through the swelling pain, and he caught it. Something in his expression flickered. Concern still hung in the air, but it softened with that twist of affection he had never been able to hide when it came to you.

Sam moved toward you, tilting your chin gently so he could get a look at the forming bruise.

“Gonna swell,” he muttered. “You’ll look like you lost a bar fight.”

“I’ll just say it was a demon,” you replied.

Dean groaned. “Do not tell people that.”

“I’ll say it looked like a demon. Talks like one. Smells like beer and leather.

“Alright,” Dean huffed, standing. “That’s it. I’m making you an ice pack before you start composing ballads.”

He stomped off to the kitchen.

Sam handed you a dish towel and lowered himself beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded, gently pressing the towel to your eye. “Yeah. I think I just forgot how to duck.”

Sam smirked. “Or maybe you forgot that Dean never knows when to quit.”

You let out a tired laugh. “That part, I remember.”

Dean returned with a lumpy bag of frozen peas wrapped in another towel and handed it to you with exaggerated care.

“For the record,” he muttered, “you fight dirty.”

“You had it coming,” you said, settling the ice against your face and sighing.

Dean crouched in front of you again, eyes flicking over your face like he was counting all the damage.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

You softened, just a little. “I know.”

You chuckled, winced, and leaned your head back against the couch. Dean hesitated, then reached out and brushed his thumb just under your good eye. His gentle touch, more of an apology than words ever could express.

Tag list : @hobby27 @roseblue373 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers @jollyhunter

[thirdsaltyhunter]

God I love this, Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorite books.

❥❥ Lavender Skies

❥❥ Pairing : boyfriend!Dean Winchester x nerdy girlfriend!Reader ❥❥Warnings : very mild language, light kissing, established relationship and just too sweet fluff and play-fighting. 18+ only !!  ❥❥Word count : 1k+

The dewy summer Sun streams through the Impala’s window and casts a soft, glowing shadow of the inside of your boyfriend’s prized Chevy- or “Baby” as he likes to call it- on the pages of your worn copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’. You lie in the front seat of the muscle car, bare legs, sticky with the evidence of June’s heat, kicking idly out of the passenger window. Outside, the Sun is lazily starting to dip below the horizon, colouring the Nebraska sky in pretty shades of the early evening. The motel parking lot is quiet, save for the faint hum of cicadas and the tune you are sounding softly under your breath- probably some classic rock Dean introduced you to with a proud quirk of his lips. You adore how he shares everything he loves with you without even knowing just how special you feel when he makes you a part of his world, a part of himself.

You turn a page, lost in the fantasy world between your fingertips. So much so, you barely have time to look up or flinch when the Impala’s door slams shut behind your head and your book is snatched from your hands with a roar of delighted, boyish laughter.

“Hey!” you yelp, sitting up, your glasses sliding defiantly down your nose as you glare at the culprit. Dean Winchester sits there, all broad shoulders and his signature cocky grin, his dreamy green eyes sparkling with mischief under the fading light. He’s in a soft, worn flannel and jeans, hair slightly mussed from running his fingers through it, and my god, he’s gorgeous—rugged and handsome, and all yours. And right now, you hate the way your toes curl just a little and your heart kicks up pace by habit as his heady scent hits you- all leather, whiskey, gun-oil and courage, all distinctly him. “Gimme my book back Dean!” you whine, reaching out just as he whips it out of your reach. “No can do sweetheart.” he chuckles, his voice all gravelly and rough and stupidly infuriating in this moment, making a million butterflies flutter in your chest even as he drives you up a wall. With a petulant pout and another childish whine, you make grabby hands for your book again and after a healthy bout of struggling, he just tugs into his lap with a handsome smirk, eliciting a gasp from you as the hem of your sundress rides up your thighs. You try desperately to ignore the heat blooming in your cheeks as you cross your arms and pout at him like an angry little doll sitting all pretty and pissed in his lap, making his grin widen. “You’ll lose my page.” you huff, giving up and resorting to complaining instead. “Nah, I’ve got it right here, baby. Just wanna know whatcha reading.” Dean says with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, bringing the book down. He flips it open, thumbing through it with exaggerated curiosity, “Lemme see what’s got my girl all starry-eyed…except for me, that is.” He clears his throat dramatically, then reads, voice dripping with mock gravitas, ‘‘You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.” He pauses, one eyebrow shooting up as he looks at you, that perfect smirk growing as he works you up into a thoroughly flustered state from his teasing. “Well, damn, sweetheart. This sappy stuff what keeping you from givin’ your boyfriend attention ? ” “Maybe I don’t wanna give my boyfriend attention cause he’s so-” you fumble, searching for the right word, “ annoying.” you finally say with a self-pleased smile and an air of adorable superiority. He laughs, pushing your glasses up and presses a loving kiss on your cheek. “ Well, I may be annoying but you still think about me while reading about this Darcy guy and the one last week, what was his name…” he trails off, thinking hard, his brows pinching together. “ Dostoevsky ?” you ask, barely suppressing your giggle with an unimpressed expression. “Ugh, such a long word.” he groans playfully. “Did you know that hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is the fear of long words but it's such a long word itself, isn’t that so cool !? But…it's not the longest word. That’s pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis! But I think this might be second! ” you exclaim excitedly, veering completely off-topic with the happiness of sharing with your boyfriend the new fact you learnt just a while back.  You are thrown off guard by the fond way Dean is staring at you. Like you’re his entire world. Like he is memorising every nerdy word that is coming out of your mouth just so he can hear it on repeat again and again, anytime he wants. “I fuckin’ love you, y’know that? You’re so damn cute, baby. God, how did I manage to end up with you as my girl. You’re my little nerd, yeah ?” he says, each word making your heart feel so full- so full of his love, so full of him- that you giggle all flustered, blushing and girlishly happy. “God, I love that.” he groans with a smirk before pulling you in for a kiss. His lips guide yours tenderly, his hands cupping your face like you’re made of porcelain and he pours all of his heart- which he lets no one but you near- into the rhythm and feeling of his mouth against yours. You both pull away a little breathless, a little dazed and little too much in love.

“How ‘bout you read me some of that little book, hmm ?” he indulges, his voice rougher. And after drowning in the utter girly feeling of being so loved and spoiled, you press a big, happy kiss to his perfect cupid bow lips and settle against him as he hands you the book back. Wrapping his arms around his precious nerdy little girl, Dean nuzzles into your strawberry scented hair as you begin to read, giggling at him to let you concentrate when he starts peppering obsessive little kisses against your neck and shoulders. 

The Sun dips lower and the parking lot is no longer silent. It now echoes with the sounds of the both of you falling deeper in love and the growing hum of the crickets outside Baby, under the lavender sky. 

❥❥ Author's message : I really loved writing this cause Dean with a nerdy girl is just reeyuhlee awwhhdorable. if you'd like to be tagged, please don't hesitate to let me know !! comments and re-blogs are highly appreciated !! and I'd love to hear all your thoughts on the fic and my writing so please let me know down below. and of course, my inbox is totally open to any thoughts or requests :3. hope you like it !!

❥❥ Taglist : @mostlymarvelgirl, @jayhalsteadfan-2417

[thirdsaltyhunter]

“Whipped (Cream, Maybe)”

Dean Winchester x Reader | flirty, soft, whipped Dean, SFW-spicy

~430 words

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

🥧

The motel bed dipped as Dean climbed in beside you, two paper plates in hand—one stacked with apple pie, the other with your sacred strawberry cheesecake.

“You ever betray me for a fruit dessert again,” he said, “and I’m sleeping with the pie.”

You grinned, taking the cheesecake plate like it was royalty. “Then I’ll sleep with the strawberries. At least they’re sweet.”

He scoffed. “So am I.”

You gave him a look. “You literally just threatened dessert-based infidelity.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, scooped up a juicy red strawberry with his fork, and popped it into his mouth—never breaking eye contact.

You tilted your head, playful. “Gimme that.”

His mouth curved around the strawberry, lips smug. “You want it that bad?”

“Mhm.”

You leaned forward slowly, arms on either side of him, watching the way his expression flickered between confident and stunned. And then—without warning—you kissed him, stealing the strawberry right out of his mouth.

Dean made a surprised sound in his throat, hands twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to stop you or grab you.

You pulled back just an inch, chewing slow, grinning. “Tastes better from you.”

Dean stared, absolutely dazed.

You reached up and licked the corner of his mouth where a hint of strawberry juice clung, then tilted your head and whispered, mock-innocent, “Missed a spot.”

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, voice rougher than before, “what are you trying to do to me right now?”

You blinked up at him, biting back a smile. “Be seductive. Is it working?”

Dean exhaled hard, looking wrecked. “Are you kidding me?”

He set both plates aside—carefully, like this moment was fragile—and cupped your jaw with both hands, just staring at you.

“You try to act all cute and goofy while licking strawberry off my mouth and you expect me to not lose my damn mind?”

You laughed softly, fingers trailing up the front of his flannel. “Dean Winchester, are you whipped?”

“Woman, I would commit crimes for you right now.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, his hand slipping into your hair like he never wanted to let go. And maybe he didn’t.

Because in that moment—strawberries forgotten, pie ignored—you were the sweetest damn thing he’d ever tasted.

[thirdsaltyhunter]

Trouble

Dean Winchester x Bobby'sDaughter!Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is a mystery and nothing but trouble

Warning: early seasons Dean, one curse word (record low for me)

Another case. You're sitting with the Winchester brothers in a diner, going over a case Sam had found. Newspapers and books were spread across the small table. He though it might have something to do with demons, which is why they had called you for backup. Demons were your specialty, as crazy as that would sound to any normal person.

You had only worked with the boys a couple times before. You liked Sam, he was kind and smart, and had the same fascination with lore that you did. Dean on the other hand, you were still figuring out. You knew that cocky swagger was mostly a facade, a protective wall he had built around his true self. Somewhere within you, curiosity scratched at your brain. He was a mystery and you loved mysteries.

When you first met them, Bobby had told you to stay away from the elder Winchester. 'He's trouble' your father had said. Even in the short time you had spent with them, you could tell Bobby was right. Dean was trouble. He was flirty, reckless, and never stayed in the same pace for long.

It's not like you were interested in him. You just wanted to figure him out. But you were sensible enough to know that even that was probably stepping into dangerous territory.

The whole time Sam had been talking, you were stealing glances at Dean, studying him. You couldn't deny he was extremely good looking. Maybe he would be good for a hook up. You definitely weren't interested in a relationship, you had sworn off commitments since you became a hunter. But maybe just a one night thing. Just enough to get him out of your head. Yeah, that was definitely dangerous territory.

"Alright, you think we should check out the vic's house first?", Sam said, closing the lore book in front of him.

"Sounds good to me," you answered, eager to get this case over with so you wouldn't have to be in such close proximity to Dean.

You glanced over at him again and he smiled at you, pen between his teeth and a boyish glint in his eyes.

And your heart fucking stopped. Good Lord he was pretty. And you'd always been a sucker for a pretty face.

Yep, you were in big trouble...

[thirdsaltyhunter]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ ` the amulet, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: dean threw his amulet away years ago. little does he know that you've kept it after all this time. word count: 590 pairing: dean winchester x reader notes: it's always annoyed me when dean put the amulet in the bin </3

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

Dean threw the amulet away 3 years ago.

And you’ve kept it, after all this time.

Dean’s probably forgotten by now—never told you why he decided to get rid. But you never asked. You didn’t need to know. It was clearly a vulnerable topic.

It wasn’t about the memories, not at first. It was because he had thrown it away. The man who wore it for years, who carried it with him hunt after hunt, letting it slip from his neck. Discarded like a broken piece of himself. It had always been him and that amulet—a reminder of Sam, his family, the life that he fought so hard to protect.

So you kept it. Not out of some misplaced hope that he’d want it back, but because you couldn’t bear the thought of it being forgotten entirely. It wasn’t just a necklace; it was a part of Dean.

You kept it in a small box tucked deep in your bag. Not because you were hiding it, but because you think Dean will appreciate it one day. Appreciate the fact that you’ve kept it all this time.

He’s been different lately. Soft. Not weak—just soft. Like he’s let his guard down, instead of wallowing in his own bravado. He’s been looking at Sam like he’ll never get another chance. At you like he’s finally seen how long you’ve been standing beside him.

Tonight, you all decided to crash in some motel off the I-70, and all you can think about is that damn box.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

You shuffle through your bag, taking the box as Dean watches you intently. “What’s that?” He asks, and you open the lid toward him, the tarnished gold glints in the lamplight.

Dean doesn’t say anything, he just stares. His throat works around something he doesn’t say. “You threw it away,” you begin, “and I figured, y’know…” you finish gently, and he furrows his brows.

He just stares. Like it’s a ghost. Like it’s something sacred and cursed all at once.

Slowly, Dean sits up on the edge of the bed, taking the box from your hand and examining it for himself. His thumb runs over the amulet once, a sigh escaping his throat. “Damn,” he laughs, “thought this’d never see the light of day.”

Time scuffed, aged, and wore the amulet’s exterior, but its meaning remains fresh, as if renewed. You just watch him as he collects his thoughts. He shakes his head lightly in disbelief. “Back then, everything was falling apart. Sam, Dad, me… It felt like I was carrying a lie.” He looks at you, a glimmer in his eye. “I didn’t know what anything meant anymore.”

He glances down at the floor, then back up at you. “But you held on to it anyway.”

“It felt wrong to leave it. It feels like it’s a part of you, Dean. I couldn’t leave that behind.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He pulls the chain over his head, letting the amulet settle against his chest, right where it used to sit. The familiar weight grounds him.

“I’m not takin’ it off again,” he says, final and quiet. “Not this time.”

An smile creeps up on your face, and he smiles back. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” he says, “because you brought it back. It means something more now, Y/N. It has to.”

A sense of comfort waves over Dean, although not everything is fixed, maybe it never will be. But this? This feels like something has settled back into place.

[thirdsaltyhunter]

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ strung on you,

summary. it's a quiet night. those are odd. and it turns even more so when you realize that dean isn't all bad.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 615

You never liked Dean Winchester.

Okay—“never” might be strong. You tolerated him. Mostly because he was Sam’s brother, and Sam was the only reason you weren’t six feet under or holed up in some dusty motel room spiraling into your fifth nervous breakdown.

But Dean? Dean was cocky. Loud. Constantly deflecting with sarcasm and classic rock and some macho posturing you were sure he thought was charming.

You’d rolled your eyes more times in the last three weeks than you had in the past three years combined.

So you don’t know what draws you outside tonight.

Maybe it’s the quiet.

Maybe it’s the low, unfamiliar hum of music drifting through the open door.

Maybe it’s curiosity. Or restlessness. Or boredom. (It's not.)

You step out into the cooling night and see him perched on the hood of the Impala like he’s posing for a vintage vinyl cover. One boot propped up, one leg dangling. The guitar rests in his lap like it belongs there—fingers moving slow, casual, reverent. His eyes are tilted toward the stars. Not searching. Just...looking.

He doesn't see you right away.

You take that moment to study him—really study him—and you hate how different he looks like this. Soft. Still. Like he doesn’t have to wear the Dean mask out here under the stars. Just a man. A little tired. A little sad.

His fingers strum something you don’t recognize. Bluesy. Slow. Almost lazy in the way it curls into the night. He hums, low, like he’s half-singing to himself, or maybe to no one at all.

You blink once. Twice.

Then you walk forward, slow, crunching gravel under your boots. You’re not even sure why. You don’t want to ruin it. Hell, you don’t even know if he’ll let you stay.

But he hears you. Of course he does.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just hums another note and scoots a few inches to the left.

An invitation.

You hesitate. Then sit. Cross-legged beside him, knees pulled up, arms around them. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the edge of his warmth.

For a minute—maybe more—neither of you say anything. Just the guitar. Just the wind. Just the weight of shared silence.

He keeps playing. Humming. The same lazy melody looping and twisting, changing just enough each time to keep it alive.

You watch his hands. The little callouses. The confident way he coaxes each note like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

But it does. You feel it. Somewhere low in your chest.

“You’re good,” you murmur, before you can stop yourself.

His smile is so faint it might not even be there. Just the ghost of one. But it’s there.

“Don’t tell Sam,” he says, barely above a whisper. “He thinks I can’t do anything quiet.”

You huff a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “Your secret’s safe.”

He plucks another string. Let it echo into the dark.

You lean back on your hands, eyes tracking stars. “Didn’t know you could play.”

“I don’t, really,” he lies.

And it is a lie. But it’s gentle. Protective. Like the music’s a secret he doesn’t give easily.

You don’t call him on it.

The notes shift again, softening. Slowing. He hums something sweet and a little sad, and maybe—just maybe—it’s for you.

Not all of it. Not fully. But a piece.

You glance sideways. He’s still staring straight ahead, but his mouth has that curve. Just barely. But it’s there.

You don’t smile back.

You just sit with him. Quietly. Until the stars blur and the strings go still.

And for the first time, you think maybe you don’t hate Dean Winchester after all.

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[thirdsaltyhunter]

Morning Light

Pairing: Dean x You | Established relationship

Warnings: None. Pure fluff y’all.

Summary: Waking up next to Dean. Ugh, yes please.

A/N: I saw this gif and I just had to. I had to, okay. Hope you like it, let me know your thoughts!

It’s early morning in the motel room, everything quiet and still, sunlight barely spilling through the curtains.

The first thing you feel is warmth. His body, pressed gently against yours beneath the blankets. His arm heavy over your waist, like he was afraid to let you go even in sleep. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the slow rhythm of his breathing, and the faintest brush of stubble against your forehead where he’d fallen asleep close.

You shift slightly, and that’s when his lashes flutter.

You look up just in time to catch it—those sleepy, sea-glass green eyes blinking open, unfocused at first. Then they find you.

A slow, lazy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Hey beautiful,” he whispers, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hi baby,” you breathe, brushing your fingers gently against the side of his face as a soft smile spreads on your lips.

His eyes close again under your touch, like it soothes something deep inside him. You let your thumb trace the soft line of his brow, memorizing every detail like you haven’t done it a hundred times already. The little crinkle that forms when he’s concerned. The faint scar just above his temple. The way his lips twitch when your fingers drift over his jaw.

“You watching me sleep again?” he mumbles, one eye cracking open.

You smile. “Can you blame me?”

He huffs a low chuckle, but it fades quickly as your fingers move to his hair, threading through the strands at the back of his neck. He leans into your hand like he needs it, like he’s never had softness like this before and still doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose.

Dean exhales a quiet, happy sigh, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re clearer, filled with something that wraps around your heart and squeezes.

You shift slightly, lifting your hand and pressing your palm to his.

Dean blinks, watching curiously as your fingers align with his. His hand is warm, rougher than yours, but when you both press your palms flush, it just fits. The space between you narrows a little more as you lace your fingers slowly, deliberately, not looking away from the way they tangle together.

Then, without a word, you lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss to his knuckles—soft, reverent.

Dean’s breath catches, his green eyes darkening just a little with emotion. “Damn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me with how sweet you are.”

You smile softly, cradling his hand against your cheek. “Just loving you, that’s all.”

He shifts in closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re too good to me.”

“Not possible.”

He kisses you then—slow, unrushed, like the morning is made only for this.

“I love wakin’ up like this,” he murmurs against your lips before pulling back slightly to look at you. “With you. Feels like the world doesn’t exist outside this room.”

You tuck your face against his chest, your voice quiet. “It doesn’t. Not right now.”

He pulls you in closer, burying his nose in your hair. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t wanna go anywhere.”

You don’t, either. You just want to stay in this moment, tangled in him, with the morning light on your skin and love in every heartbeat.

And for a little while longer, the world stays far, far away.

[thirdsaltyhunter]

"It’s a pile of limbs and worn-out love, and it shouldn't work—but it does." Oh my God that's so adorable 🥺

Can i request a deanXsamXreader and she’s just in need of comfort from them because she’s going through a bad depressive episode?

⊹ ࣪ ˖ where the light gets in,

summary. you've been feeling down lately. sam and dean are not about to let that slide by.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x reader genre. comfort

wordcount. 427

notes / warnings. depression, emotional numbness

It’s not even raining, but the world feels gray. Not the dramatic kind of gray—just dull, like someone turned the saturation all the way down and forgot to put it back.

You haven’t gotten out of bed all day. Not really. You tried once, made it to the bathroom, then crawled back under the covers like a ghost slipping back into the dark.

There’s no specific reason. That’s the worst part. No demon attack. No cursed object. No bloody hunt gone sideways. Just… a weight. One that settled on your chest last week and hasn’t moved since.

The knock is soft, careful. Dean’s voice even more so. “Sweetheart?”

You don’t answer. You want to. You want to say “come in” or “I’m fine” or even “go away,” but all of it gets stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

The door creaks open anyway. You don’t mind. It’s Dean. And Sam right behind him. You’d know the way they fill a room even with your eyes closed.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. He just kneels beside the bed, one calloused hand smoothing your hair back, thumb brushing your temple like he’s checking for fever. Like maybe he can fix it if he just touches you gently enough.

“You’re here,” you croak. It’s pathetic. It’s everything.

“Of course we’re here.” Sam’s voice is low, grounding. “You didn’t answer our texts. We got worried.”

You almost apologize. You want to. But what spills out instead is, “I feel like nothing. I feel like I don’t matter. Like I’m just taking up space and wasting air.”

Silence. A beat.

Then Dean says, “Well, that’s bullshit.”

You blink.

“You matter,” he says firmly. “You’re not a burden. You’re not invisible. You’re family. You hear me?”

Sam crawls into bed behind you, wrapping himself around your back like a giant human heater. His arms circle your waist, his breath warm against your neck. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with us.”

Dean slides in on the other side, tugging the covers back over you all. It’s a pile of limbs and worn-out love, and it shouldn't work—but it does.

“You don’t have to fix it today,” Dean murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “Hell, you don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. We just want you here.”

“You can be sad,” Sam whispers. “You can be messy. We’ll hold you through it.”

And so you cry. Quiet, ugly tears that soak Dean’s shirt and make your chest ache. You cry because it hurts, and because they’re here, and because somehow you’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen.

They don’t rush you. They don’t flinch. They just hold you tighter.

And for the first time in days, you believe them.

Maybe you’re not okay yet. But you're not alone. And that counts for something.

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[thirdsaltyhunter]

Dean Winchester Astrology Breakdown

This is an in depth breakdown going into planets and houses. I was honestly SHOCKED by how fitting a lot of this was. I did not cherry-pick horoscopes so that it would fit, this is just what I found. I will be doing one for Sam too cause this was fun.

Aquarius Sun: He's always been the type to go against the grain. He doesn't fit into the clear box of normality. He thinks outside the box allowing him to be innovative and see hidden connections. Aquarius are intelligent and analytical, but also imaginative and highly intuitive. This allows Dean to read people very well and often be one step ahead. People born under this sign absolutely hate being controlled, they are strong willed and persistent. If he feels his freedom is restricted he will lash out and try to revolt. Aquarius can be very short tempered. They also tend to be restless and like to move around a lot. They can be emotionality walled off and will mirror others so they don't have to show their true selves.

Sagittarius Moon: the moon determines emotions, instincts, and drive. Sagittarius are always seeking a purpose in life. He wants a mission that will give meaning to his life. We see this in the way Dean devotes his life to hinting or taking care of Sam. Sagittarius hate being alone and will seek the company of others as a distraction. He also have a tendency to be restless but adaptable. This placement contributes to Dean's playful side, but given that it is his moon sign, this side only comes out with people he's comfortable with. Sags are adventurous and like to have fun experiences. This comes with a tendency to be reckless and risky, which we see a lot of from Dean. Also a fear of commitment or being tied down.

Moon in 8th House: this placement creates people who crave a feeling of security. The also have a strong sense of responsibility to others and the good of humanity. (One place said that "they may have the ability to get money out of people in an unfair way" and I think this is funny given how good Dean is at hustling people.)

Capricorn Mercury: Mercury governs how you think, communicate, and learn. Capricorn's stern energy counteracts the care-free nature of Sagittarius. They want to constantly keep his mind busy and like to research things that interest them. This placement is why Dean can be brutally honest. He doesn't bother with false niceties, if he doesn't like you, you'll know it. He doesn't try to be liked by everyone and will seem trustworthy to the right people and offputting to the wrong people. He isn't quick to trust people, but once he decides he likes you, your in for life.

Mercury in 10th House: means they can take charge of a room. They care about their profession and will try to be the best at what they do.

Sagittarius Venus: the planet of love, relationships and pleasure. This placement means that, deep down, he has a great desire for love. He is charming, flirty and charismatic. I pulled this quote directly because it was so fitting, "But the charisma of Venus in Sagittarius is the traveler’s charisma. This is a Venus that knows exclusion, knows ill belonging. It's Venus it feels, perpetually, as though it must dazzle because it is a perpetual visitor." Hold on while I cry... anyway- in relationships he can be very playful and adventurous. He simultaneously wants freedom and security. It may take a while for him to fully commit to a partner. This is in part due to fear of being rejected. He may at being tired down, but that feeling is overpowered by the desire to give you the world.

Venus in 8th House: means he can be very possessive and jealous. May indicate money will not come to them through their own efforts (again hustling) possibly gaining money through a relationship or partnership.

Aquarius Mars: Mars is the planet of action, courage, aggression, and assertiveness. Again Aquarius like to go against the grain. If an Aquarius mars does what everyone else is doing, they can become rebellious or close off completely. Dean hates being told what to do and will do the opposite of whatever you think he will do. He can be unpredictable, even to himself, often thinking "why did I do that?". He loves to fight against a system and wants to bring chang into the world. Yet he never feels like he's doing the right thing, perpetually feeling like he's on the wrong path, but don't you dare question him about it. He will never let anyone tell them how to live his life to the point that he will purposefully self sabotage. He can be very cynical, showing it through humor, mockery or sarcasm, specifically sarcastic self-aggrandizing humor.

Mars in 10th House: this position usually mean they either want to be in politics or the army. They want to be successful. They take initiative and have leadership skills.

Leo Jupiter: the planet of growth, expansionand ethics. This placement can cause him to come off as arrogant and stubborn. Arrogant because he can have too much faith in himself. Stubborn because he stands strong in his principles and doesn't like to change his mind. He will only take on a new belief when he sees it for his own eyes. This can come off as stubborn, but also can be an admirable trait because he doesn't cave under the opinions of others and won't fall victim to manipulation. He wants to do what is right so he does it, simple as that. If you ask him what he believes, he'll tell you.

Jupiter in 4th House: means that this planet of development with play and important role in the family and home. They ma stay with their parents until late in life. They will be raised well by their parents (especially mothers) being taught manners and having a good education. (Ok well that doesn't really fit)

Virgo Saturn: the planet of order, restriction and maturity. Ah, this is partially where Dean's tendency to take on too much comes from. He is weighed down from service to others. He often feels like he is on his own because he takes on more than is fair. He has a perfectionist streak and will leave thinks unfinished, because if he never finishes then there is no risk for it being less than perfect. He may act like he doesn't care to avoid problems, but the problem is that he cares too much. He is stifled by his own high standards.

Jupiter in 6th House: makes hardworking reliable people. They can work for long hours sometimes to the point of burnout. They take responsibilities very seriously and often carry a heavy burden. They also have an eye for detail and can be hypochondriacs.

[thirdsaltyhunter]

Morning After

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: you're feeling a lot of feels the morning after you and Dean admit your feelings for each other

Warnings: fluff, cuddles, slight angsty thoughts, happy sadness? very slight implications of smut

You slowly drifted awake, your eyes adjusting to the low light in the bedroom. You felt warm and relaxed. The night before had been filled with love and passion, making up for so many years of pining. And it was now morning and he was still here. No one night stand like you were used to. No awkward goodbye. No leaving in the middle of the night. He was still here. Still asleep next to you and that made your chest tighten.

His arms were wrapped around your middle, your back pressed against his chest and you felt safe. And that made you want to cry, because in the hunting life, you rarely felt truly safe. You turned in his arms, slowly as to not wake him and your gaze landed on his sleeping form. He looked equally peaceful and that also made you want to cry.

You watched him sleep for a few minutes, watching his steady breathing. You hoped he wouldn't wake up just yet, because you knew he would tease you about being creepy. Smiling at the thought, you slipped gently form the bed. You were going to grab a cup of coffee and try to shake off all the emotions you were feeling.

The night before, he had told you he loved you and you still couldn't quite wrap your head around that. You realized that maybe you had been broken for a long time and hadn't realized it until those words healed something in you.

When you reached the bunker's kitchen, Sam was already seated at the table, scrolling on his laptop, coffee in hand. You gave him a wave as you poured a cup for yourself. When you turned back to him, he had an expectant look on his face, clearly wanting you to tell him about the conversation you and Dean had had the night before. Sam, bless him, had been your wingman for years, urging you to admit your feelings. You had always been too scared. You felt a little silly for that now. You guess you'd have to tell Sam he was right.

You laughed softly at how excited he was for both of you and promised him you would tell him everything later. You poured another cup of coffee for Dean and headed back to the bedroom.

You set the mugs on the nightstand and crawled back in bed, causing Dean to stir. He immediately pulled you back into his hold.

"Where'd you go", he asked, voice gravelly from sleep, eyes still closed.

"I brought coffee."

"You're amazing." He nuzzled his head in your neck causing you to laugh.

You felt him smile against you and you had the thought that, in this moment, you were truly happy and you don't think that you've been truly happy in a long time. You didn't know how long this would last, given that you had yet to deal with the fact that Dean now has the Mark, but you would savor this moment for as long as possible. You didn't know what a relationship with Dean would look like, but you had him. After so many years of wanting him you finally had him and there was a little comfort in knowing that whatever came next, you would face it together.

[thirdsaltyhunter]

I've been reading your stuff all day, and I LOVE it omg

Could you maybe write something where reader is a hunter who works with Sam and Dean from time to time but they don't know each other that well and one day when they come back from a hunt she kind of hurries off because she doesn't want them to know that she can't afford a motel room. But either Dean or Sam finds out that she's been sleeping in her car to save her money for meals etc.

Thank you in advance <3

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ four wheels and an empty stomach,

summary. hunters life really doesn't pay off. you've been sleeping in your car and definitely not eating enough. but tonight, this will be different.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. angst

wordcount. 504

notes / warnings. reader experiencing hunger and homelessness. emotional vulnerability. exhaustion. depravation. // i hope you're all safe 🩷

It’s raining by the time you finish cleaning up the hunt. Not a heavy, stormy rain—just that sad, needling kind that soaks into your clothes and makes everything feel a little heavier.

You pull the zipper of your jacket up to your chin and throw a quick wave at Sam and Dean, who are still arguing about where to get burgers.

“I’m gonna head out,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Catch you guys next time.”

Dean’s half-turned toward you, distracted. Sam’s digging through his pockets for the Impala keys. Neither of them really notices when you slip away into the parking lot.

Good. You don’t want them to.

Your car’s parked under a flickering streetlight—ancient, rusty, and barely hanging on like you. You unlock the door as quietly as you can, toss your duffel in the backseat, and climb into the driver's side.

You crank the heater even though you know it’ll drain the battery by morning. Small price to pay to not freeze your ass off.

You curl up on the front seat, hoodie pulled over your head, and close your eyes.

Tomorrow, maybe you’ll have enough cash for a real bed. Maybe not. You’re getting good at pretending the ache in your ribs is anything but hunger.

You’re almost asleep when you hear it.

A sharp knock on the window.

You jolt upright, heart hammering, breath fogging up the glass.

Dean Winchester stands there, rain dripping off the brim of his jacket, frowning like he’s just been punched in the gut.

You scramble to unlock the door, embarrassment burning hot under your skin.

“Dean, I��I was just—” you stammer, no good lie ready.

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and rough, almost broken. “You sleepin’ in your car?”

You grit your teeth, furious at yourself for getting caught. You don’t need pity. You’ve survived worse. You don’t need—

Dean crouches beside the car, rain soaking into his jeans, hands resting gently on the frame like he’s afraid you’ll bolt if he moves too fast.

“Why didn’t you say somethin’?” he asks, so soft it guts you.

You stare down at your hands. “Didn’t wanna be a charity case.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s biting back a hundred things he wants to say.

Finally, he just holds out a hand.

“C’mon,” he says. “We got two beds. You’re not sleepin’ out here. Not while we’re around.”

You hesitate, shame coiling hot and thick in your gut.

Dean’s smile is crooked, a little sad.

“Not charity, sweetheart. Family.”

And somehow, that word hits harder than anything else.

You take his hand.

Dean tugs you out of the car like you weigh nothing, tucks you under his arm like you belong there, like you always have. His jacket is warm around your shoulders, and when you glance up at him, he just squeezes you closer without a word.

The rain keeps falling.

But for the first time in a long time, you’re not alone in it.

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[thirdsaltyhunter]

My heart 😭

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ love bouquet,

summary. sam brings you flowers from his run.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 331

You hear the bunker door open and shut with its usual deep, echoing creak—then soft footfalls down the hallway.

You don’t even glance up from your book.

“You’re back early,” you call from the war room table.

No response.

You tilt your head, half-expecting him to be tugging off sweaty layers or grumbling about the heat. But when you look up—he’s already halfway to you.

Shirt clinging to his chest, damp from his morning run. Hair curled from sweat. Chest still rising a little too fast.

And in his hand?

A handful of crooked wildflowers.

Tiny, delicate things. Yellow, violet, pale blue. A few have half-bent stems. There’s no ribbon, no bouquet wrap. Just petals crushed gently together in his giant palm.

He stops right in front of you, breath catching like he’s nervous.

“Found these on the trail,” he says, voice scratchy from the run. “Figured… you might like them.”

You blink.

Then smile.

And then melt. Right there in your seat.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, heart bursting in your chest. “You brought me flowers?”

He shrugs. “They’re not fancy.”

“They’re perfect.”

You set your book down and take them carefully from his hand. One of the petals falls into your lap and you don’t even care. You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek—sweaty and flushed and still so warm.

Sam just smiles, all bashful and boyish.

“I know they’ll wilt fast,” he murmurs. “But they reminded me of you.”

You pause.

“Because I’m wild and bendy?”

He huffs a laugh. “Because you’re soft. And pretty. And not easy to ignore.”

You nearly swoon.

“Samuel Winchester, you romantic menace.”

You stand, flowers still clutched to your chest, and wrap your arms around his waist. He smells like sunshine and salt and that tiny bit of earth that clings to wild grass.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you mumble into his chest.

“I know,” he says, hugging you back just as tightly. “That’s why I did.”

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