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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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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.

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester supernatural

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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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.

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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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 · 2 months ago

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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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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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headcanons:

Dean Winchester

x girlfriend x county fair ✦

✦ He’ll pick you up with the windows down, Led Zeppelin’s “Hey, Hey, What Can I Do” playing loud. He’ll give you that once-over the second you slide into the seat—eyes lingering just a second too long, lips curving into that smug grin. “You look real good, sweetheart.” His hand will rest on your thigh the whole drive.

✦ From the moment you step out of the Impala, he’ll grab your hand—tugging you just a little closer than necessary. He won’t let go unless it’s to wrap an arm around your waist or brush his fingers through your hair, slow and deliberate. You’ll catch the way his eyes track you in the crowd, protective and possessive, like he’s daring someone to even look at you wrong.

✦ You won’t even ask—he’ll immediately drag you toward the shooting gallery. He’ll smirk like he’s already won, but when the rigged game plays him dirty, he’ll mutter curses under his breath. Then you step up and shoot every tin can clean off the shelf. He’ll stare like you just proposed. “Damn,” he’ll say, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he hands you the ridiculous oversized Scooby Doo. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

✦ You’ll both be shameless about the fair food—funnel cake, fried Oreos, turkey legs, bacon-wrapped everything. Powdered sugar ends up all over his shirt, your lips, his fingertips. When you try to sneak a bite of his, he’ll lean down and tease, “Only if I get something in return.” And when you lick powdered sugar off his thumb? His eyes will darken just a little, voice low: “Atta girl.”

✦ You’ll drag him into the old-timey photo booth, and he’ll groan—“Really?”—but he’ll be the one who picks the cowboy hat and slides it low over his eyes with that smirk you know too well. He’ll pull you into his lap for the last photo, mouth brushing your jaw like he doesn’t care who sees. When the strip prints, he’ll tuck it into his wallet like it’s the most valuable thing he owns.

✦ In the corn maze, he’ll pretend to get lost—but you’ll feel the way his hands drift lower as he pulls you close. “Guess we’re stuck in here,” he’ll whisper, breath warm on your neck. Between the high stalks, it gets a little heated—hands on hips, lips pressed to skin. His voice will be low and rough when he growls, “You keep looking at me like that and we’re not making it out of here before dark.” Then a kid runs past out of nowhere and he sighs, mutters something like: “cockblocked in a cornfield.” Suddenly he knows exactly which turns will get you out.

✦ When the sun starts to set, you’ll find yourself staring at the Ferris wheel. You won’t ask—Dean’s not great with heights. But to your surprise, he’ll reach for your hand and walk you straight toward it without saying a word. At the top, when the ride pauses and the world feels still, you’ll hold onto him tighter—pretending it’s for you, but he’ll know better. His arm will wrap around your shoulders, and he’ll watch you in the golden light, as if he’s locking the moment away for the days he forgets what warmth feels like.

✦ Later, you’ll hear a country band playing under fairy lights—Kenny Rogers or something close. Dean will pull you into a slow two-step, (he’s had a few overpriced beers), even if there’s no one else dancing. He’ll spin you just to make you laugh, then reel you back in tight, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs something low and teasing that makes your whole body burn.

✦ As night falls, he’ll lead you to a quiet patch of grass away from the noise, spreading out his leather jacket like a blanket. You’ll sit between his legs, your back against his chest, his hands resting low on your waist. When the fireworks start, he’ll press kisses to your neck, one after another. “This,” he’ll whisper, voice gravel and honey. “You. Me. I could stay right here forever.”

✦ On the ride home, you’ll start to crash from too much sugar and sunshine, your head resting on his shoulder. He’ll drive with one hand on the wheel, the other sliding slow up your thigh—just enough to tease. The music’s low, your body’s warm, and just when you’re starting to drift, he’ll say something soft and devastating like—

“You feel like home, baby.”

credit & links:

✦ more headcanons here.

⟡ gif from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ pics & dividers by easytiger-xo.

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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LITTLE MISS SCARE-ALL

Introducing… vampire-rockstar!reader ✮⋆˙

✮⋆˙nyx is the nickname the townsfolk had given her after they all realized no one really knew her name. It fits, though. After all, she is their goddess.

✮⋆˙nyx is rock n roll personified. Tight little leather skirts and flimsy little tank tops. Knee-high boots that could squash you if she wanted to, long red nails that somehow don’t inconvenience her when she decides to play the guitar for a lucky crowd, always smelling of vodka and cigarette smoke and power.

✮⋆˙nyx is a force of nature, an unstoppable beast, but she is also just a pretty girl that wants to have fun and make people jump along to her music. Dean will soon realize that she is not like other vamps he knows, and that he is not immune to her spellbinding aura.

✮⋆˙nyx will crash her way into the Winchester’s lives, and her fangs will sink in deep into the older one’s heart, no matter how much he tries to stop it. After all, he had never met a daughter of the legendary Count Orlok.

✮⋆˙The Winchesters are not ready for Nosferatu’s wild, ravishing, fierce rockstar daughter, but she is coming, and no one can stop her.

TONIGHT'S SETLIST:

✮ Black No.1 - Type O Negative

✮ Runaway - Bon Jovi

✮ The Rain Song - Led Zeppelin

✮ Closer - Nine Inch Nails

NOTES: so, I'm trying something different with this! this will be a mini-series and the first part will come out soon! I've been working pretty hard on this because I loved the concept and I can't wait for you all to meet Nyx<3

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery <3

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

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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｡𖦹°‧ hell survivor,

summary. dean tells you about his time in hell.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. angst

wordcount. 579

notes / warnings. dean's trauma for the time he spent in hell.

You wake up to the sound of him breathing too hard.

Not snoring. Not shifting.

Just breathing. Fast. Shallow. Wrong.

Your eyes adjust to the dark, but you already know where he is. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His back rises and falls like the room’s too small for him.

You sit up slow. “Nightmare?”

He flinches like you touched him.

“Dean,” you whisper again, gentler now.

“I’m fine,” he rasps. Which means he’s not.

You crawl over, the sheets twisting around your legs, and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t lean into you. Doesn’t move at all. He’s ice.

“I keep seeing their faces,” he says suddenly. Voice hollow. Dead. “The ones I… the ones I did it to.”

You go still.

He’s never talked about this. Not in detail. Not like this.

“I told myself I’d hold out. That I wouldn’t break. Thought I was strong enough,” he mutters. “Thirty years. I fought them off for thirty goddamn years. And then I gave in.”

Your heart aches in your chest.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

His laugh is low and ugly. “Yeah, it was.”

“Dean—”

“I became them.” His hands curl into fists. “And it was so easy. That’s what scares me the most.”

You pull your knees up behind him, resting your chin on his shoulder, hugging him tighter. “You were tortured, Dean. Over and over. No one would have lasted that long.”

“I enjoyed it,” he says quietly. “At the end. I stopped hearing them scream. I stopped… feeling anything.”

You feel his shoulders shake.

Dean Winchester doesn’t cry.

Except now he is.

“I come back here, and everyone wants to treat me like I’m still him. Like I’m still—human.” His voice breaks. “But I left that version of me down there.”

“No, you didn’t,” you whisper, kissing the back of his neck. “He’s still here.”

Dean exhales slow. Shaky.

“The worst part is… I keep thinking about what I’d do if I had to go back. And I know I’d give in sooner.”

You close your eyes. “You’re not going back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, firmer this time. “Because I won’t let you.”

He finally turns to look at you. His face is wrecked—eyes red, jaw clenched like he’s holding the world together with nothing but rage and guilt.

“You should’ve left me dead.”

You slap his chest.

Not hard. But enough.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Don’t you ever say that.”

“I’m not who I used to be.”

“No,” you say. “You’re stronger. You’re here. You fought your way out. You came back.”

“Yeah, but what came back, huh?” he hisses. “What if it wasn’t all of me? What if part of me’s still—”

“I don’t care,” you cut in, fierce. “Whatever’s left, I love him.”

Dean stares at you like you just set the room on fire.

And then, finally, slowly, he leans into you.

His head presses to your shoulder. Your fingers tangle in his hair. He’s trembling now, silent and small and real in a way he rarely lets himself be.

“I’m so tired,” he breathes.

“I know,” you whisper. “I got you.”

You hold him like that until the sun starts to rise.

And when he finally falls asleep—chest rising soft against yours, breath slowing—you stay awake.

Because he’s your hell survivor.

And you’re not letting him fall back in.

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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✮⋆˙ cuddles with dean

𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ dean learns to be a little selfish.

𖤐 𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 .ᐟ deans my cutie little lovebug and i just want him to sleep peacefully this is my dream and i definitely got carried away writing this (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝) okay bye

𖤐 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 .ᐟ fluffy fluff with angst(?). cuddles. mentions of deans time in hell, and his low self-esteem. dean-centric. gender-neutral reader. modern reader in spn. isn’t really season specific, but set anytime after season 4. probably ooc (again). i may have rushed at the end, sorry. 2.68k words.

─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───

It takes Dean a long time before he ever allows himself to be put in this position — vulnerable, open, seen. It’s not something he does. It’s not something he can do, or at least, not that easily. His life has never really been about him. Every good thing he’d ever done, every ounce of effort or care, it’s always been for someone else: Sam, Dad, the job. He’d never done anything for himself that didn’t somehow bleed into someone else. And even then, it never felt like enough.

Sam is his little brother, his responsibility. He raised him, he bled for him, he died for him. Dean had went to Hell with Sam’s name carved into every broken piece of him. Most people wouldn’t do that. But Dean Winchester isn’t most people. He’s his father's little soldier, the good son, the obedient one. There was never room for anything else. Never any space to figure out who he was outside of someone else's shadow. He didn’t belong to himself. Not when he was Sam’s guard dog. Not when he was John’s perfectly crafted weapon.

Dean hates himself — that much is obvious. He doesn’t need to say it out loud because he’s pretty sure that everyone already has that figured out, even if he wants to pretend that it isn’t true. It shows in the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he tears himself down before anyone else can get the chance to. He calls himself selfish, even though everything he’s ever done has been for the sake of everyone else. But he doesn’t see it that way. Dean never has. To him, sacrificing everything he is was just the bare minimum. That’s what he should do. Because what is he, if not useful? What is he, if not needed?

He’s so used to standing alone, to being the last line between the people he loves and the things that want to tear them apart. He'd rather it be him than anyone else — because somewhere along the way, he decided that his life just doesn't hold the same worth. Not like Sam's. Not like yours. And he hates that it hurts, but he also hates that he even thinks about wanting anything at all. Because wanting is selfish. Needing is selfish. And comfort? That’s not something Dean thinks he’d ever be allowed.

He’s touch-starved. He’s touch-starved in a way that's ingrained deep within his bones, but he’s convinced himself that this is just how it’s supposed to be. That he doesn’t get softness. Doesn’t get warmth. Doesn’t get to be held, or healed, or cared for. And if he ever lets himself want it — if he ever lets someone close enough to see how tired he is — then what does that make him? Weak? Needy?

Yeah, it takes Dean a long while to let himself be put in this position — in your arms, safe, and loved, and for him to think that maybe he does deserve it. Even if he hasn’t earned it the way he thinks he’s supposed to. When it's so clear that all you want is to give it to him, no strings attached. It’s like coaxing a wild animal – careful, patient, and slow. You never corner Dean with affection, never overwhelm him with your gentle nature he doesn’t think he’s allowed to want. You just exist in his space, solid and steady, a quiet kind of constant that doesn’t ask for anything in return. And maybe that’s what gets to him most, that you don’t expect him to earn your kindness. You’re just there. And over time, that simple act starts to chip away at something inside him, something he didn’t even realize was still breakable.

It started with the smallest things. Your fingers brushing against his whenever you pass him something. The way you rest your hand on his arm when patching him up. They’re nothing, really — just harmless touches that you probably don’t even think about twice. But Dean does. He thinks about them more than he should. At first, he tells himself it's because he's not used to it. But the truth is, he misses it when it's gone. And that terrifies him. Because wanting something for himself? That’s not in the job description. That’s not who he’s supposed to be.

So when you get together and the cuddling starts, it’s always him as the big spoon. Of course it is. That’s who Dean is — the protector, the shield. He doesn’t let himself be held, not yet. He keeps watch even in the deepest of sleeps and in the darkest of nights, as if danger might strike at any moment. But your warmth seeps into him, like sunlight soaking into skin long starved of it. Dean’s drawn to you in a way that he hasn’t been drawn to anyone or anything before. His hand drifts to your chest, his breath soft and calm against your shoulder. It’s never deliberate, not at first, but over time it happens more often — these small, tender trespasses into comfort. And soon one day, without thinking, he simply lets himself fold right into you.

Dean revels in it more than he’ll ever admit. The way he fits so nice and easily in your arms — like he was always meant to be there. His head rests just above your heart, breathing synced with yours in the kind of rhythm that makes the world feel quiet for once. He's tucked into you so firm, your arms wrapping around him to secure him to you. As if in that moment, if something were to come through those motel doors, they would have to pry Dean from your cold dead hands. Because right now, he’s hidden from the world by the comforter that lays gingerly over him. It comes right up to his head, only his hair is visible to anyone that dare to even check. The only person that can truly see him is you.

And Dean loves the little things that you do. Like how your fingers will trace shapes into the back of his neck, absent-minded and soft, like you’re painting calmness directly into his skin. Sometimes he wonders if you're drawing sigils or love notes, or just letting your touch wander. He doesn’t care what it is, though, just to be clear. He doesn’t care what you do. It leaves him feeling weightless, like his body is finally remembering what it feels like to be safe. That sensation, those tingles running down his spine, are enough to anchor him in the moment. And when everything else in his life has been chaos and guilt, and war — your touch is the one thing that doesn’t ask anything of him.

Which reminds him why he loves your hands. The way they move with such care, so soft it nearly breaks him into pieces. They’re nothing like his own — scarred, calloused, blood-soaked and burned by the weight of a world he never had a choice in. Your hands don’t carry the same kind of grief. They don’t know what it’s like to be dragged through Hell, to scream for years that don’t exist in time, to become the thing he swore he’d never be. He still remembers every second of it, every moment he was the one on the rack — the one being tortured, and worse, becoming the torturer. And somehow, your hands still touch him like he’s someone worth such devotion.

That’s what gets to him the most. Your hands are from a place far far away, untouched by the things that plague his. There are no hunts or horrors quite like this life. And it’s that contrast that makes his mind wander. Because how could someone like you, with your soft hands and open heart, want someone like him? Someone who hates himself, who always puts others before himself and still believes he’s selfish for wanting anything in return. But even with all of that, even with everything screaming that he shouldn’t take it, he does.

And you don’t mind. It surprises Dean the most how you completely and effortlessly don’t mind. He keeps waiting for the catch sometimes, for the moment when you pull away or start to expect something in return. But it never comes. Not with you. You let him hold on as tightly as he needs to, let him drape his weight across you like he’s something heavy and fragile all at once. His strong arms lock around your waist, pressing you close like he’s afraid of being pulled away. And even when his body sinks into yours like a living blanket — too warm, too much — you never pull away. If anything, you melt right into him, and he basks in that. In you.

You’d never complain. Dean doesn’t know if anything he does actually bothers you — nothing ever seems to — but that doesn’t stop him from overthinking. He worries about taking too much, about letting himself get too comfortable in a role he was never allowed to want. He questions if he’s too heavy, if he’s clinging too tightly, if maybe it’s selfish to crave softness when his whole life has been about giving it away. Sometimes, all it takes is a subtle shift from you, a stretch or a sigh, and his brain darkens with guilt. He’ll apologize under his breath, pulling back just slightly, ready to undo the comfort he let himself believe he could have. But you notice — of course you notice — and you meet it with tenderness, never rejection.

You resettle without hesitation, like you want him there, and he almost can’t handle how gently you handle him. You stroke the back of his neck with featherlight fingers, your arms curling around his broad frame as if you’re telling him to stay — that he’s safe. You press soft kisses to the crown of his head, murmuring reassurances in a voice that wraps around his heart like a warm blanket. It undoes him. Every single time.

You might shift again, though this time it's much more gentle and slow, but Dean will barely register it. He’s just barely treading the line of that quiet space between sleep and wakefulness, just conscious enough to feel the warmth of you wrapped around him. And suddenly, a low, involuntary sound escapes him — so low that Sam who’s been long asleep couldn’t hear. It’s soft, almost like a whine, and you’re pretty sure if he were awake enough to notice, he’d probably deny it ever happened. But you do hear it, and it pulls a quiet laugh from your throat; a breathy sound laced with fondness and it tickles at Dean's brain. Though a sleepy pout tugs at your lips, even as you smile, and you lean in close to whisper a little teasing, “What’s wrong, hm?” but you already know. You know exactly what he wants, what he needs, because you’ve come to understand him in ways no one else ever has.

Your hand finds its way into his hair, still a little damp from the shower — the strands soft like clouds and a few curl slightly at the ends. Your fingers scratch lightly at his scalp, in slow and soothing consistent movements, while your other hand rests along his back; drawing slow, tender circles that feel like medicine to his aching and tension-filled body. You coo something nice, something sweet that melts into the space between you. It makes his mind go fuzzy and causes him to drift deeper. You don’t care that he’s heavy, or clingy, or quiet — you just want him to feel good. To be cared for, completely and unconditionally. And in this moment, that’s exactly what he lets you do. He doesn’t fight it. He can’t.

Your kisses are the softest sound he’s ever heard. Little clicks as your lips part from his skin, quiet and sweet and endlessly patient. Every single one makes him burrow closer, hiding his face like he could melt straight into you. He’s not embarrassed, not really — that wouldn’t be the correct word anyway — but his cheeks are warm, and he knows you’re amused by the way your chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. It makes him press in deeper, his face tucked away and eyelashes fluttering against your skin like a shy confession. And you take that as permission, because of course you do; pressing slow kisses across his cheeks, along his brow, the curve of his nose — anywhere your mouth can reach really and Dean just lets you. He can’t quite reach your lips from the angle he’s trapped himself into, he knows that, but he still tries to return the affection anyway. He’ll drowsily nudge kisses against your collarbone, or your shoulder, or anything he can manage.

And you call him such sweet things while you do it. They’re soft pet names that make him ache. Honey. Sweetheart. Words that never felt like they belonged to him before, but somehow, coming from you, feel like they do. He doesn’t know why you calling him sweetie makes his chest tight in a way that isn’t derived from panic or just something bad — but it does. But it’s also the way you say his name that gets him the most. The way it rolls off your tongue, syrupy and lovely, like something precious. You make his name sound beautiful. And Dean doesn’t know how you do it, how you take a name he’s only ever heard barked in anger or strained with urgency and turn it into something tender.

Your hand leaves his back for a moment and he misses the weight of it instantly — until he feels the soft brush of your fingers along his jaw. He sucks in a breath as you trace the edge of it with the back of your knuckle before cupping his cheek, stroking it with the pad of your thumb like he’s something delicate. He leans into it without meaning to, something quiet and needy pulling him into the warmth of your palm. You’re having fun with it, doting on him like he’s your favorite thing — and yeah, he is. He feels it in the way you touch him, in the way you look at him like he’s soft and worth loving. Dean’s never been cherished like this, not even close — and it makes him feel dizzy, overwhelmed in the best way possible. Dizzy and safe. Always safe, always with you.

It melts his heart and terrifies him at the same time. The way you treat him with so much care, so much softness, like he’s something worth keeping. And as much as he craves it, as deeply as his wretched soul aches for it, he still doesn’t believe he’ll ever actually deserve it. He tells himself he should pull away in the last conscious moments he has — but he doesn’t. He won’t. Because he let this happen. He let you in. Let the warmth of your love root itself in him until it was too deep to tear out without causing pain. Until not leaning into it hurt way worse than anything else.

Dean doesn’t know how he ended up here, wrapped up in arms that want nothing from him except for him to exist, but he gave up trying to make sense of it a long time ago. He can’t seem to make himself care about the why, though, not when you don’t seem to either. And maybe that does make him selfish because he’s finally allowing himself to be. Sure, maybe there’s a whisper of guilt that still creeps into the corners of his mind, but you always chase it out with a kiss, or a soft word, or a tender look. And in these quiet, sacred moments, where his mind is just full of thoughts of you — he can’t think of Hell. He can’t think of all the horrors and pain and suffering. Just you. Sweet and gentle, and wonderful you. And somewhere in the deep dark of the night, Dean wonders why he was so against being selfish sooner.

𖤐 .ᐟ dean winchester hit me up, im always available just lmk (๑>؂•̀๑)

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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I. Road To Hell

Once upon a time… there was a railroad line...

The edge of the truck stop carried with it a sort of biting cold, like the dark night of winter had teeth. Ten miles from any town, straight down the middle of bitter Illinois. A place for the stragglers, the sinners, and the things with teeth prowling in the shadows.

You were a hunter by trade. By blood, you should've been a housewife, domesticated like a pet, nodding and polishing golf clubs for an absent husband, pretending to be happy with life as it was, unaware of what could be. Of course, that was all before. Before the big black dogs marched out of hell and turned your parents to shreds. Before you saw, and understood.

Mom sold her soul for a baby. Dad sold his for the mortgage.

Neither knew, both died.

Funny, that.

Tragedy leaves a mark, the same way that evil does. The stain is one that can't be prayed or bleached out, and the only reasonable conclusion is fight or flight. You've got the scars to prove your choice came with terms. You've got memories to keep you just warm enough at night to believe in something, but to keep you sharp. Like a blade, an instrument in a solo choir.

So, you find yourself smack inside of No-Man's-Land, buttfuck nowhere, Illinois, hunting a pair of vampires with a taste for dime store hookers and truckers hooked on benzos. People who won't be missed. People who disappear easily. Mini-skirt, thong underwear, bare legs in subzero weather, playing bait with a razor wire stuffed in your bra and several small knives lining in-seams and creases in fabric.

Nowhere diner. Nowhere girl. A hunger that can't be filled. A fate that can't be avoided.

You are Eurydice.

Little do you know, Orpheus and his big black car are six miles away.

It was the road to hell...

Dean Winchester knew it well. He knew it from the meat hooks at the bottom of the flaming pit, to the iron cells holding strong to lost souls, to the back doors in Purgatory.

And Purgatory was the whole reason he was here, anyhow. He told Sam he was out to get laid, but really he needed a second to breathe, and killing made him feel better. In some way, he wanted to know he was still his father's son. Capable and precise and ready to do the right thing. Two bloodsuckers? That he could take care of and still make time for a slice of pie at the diner off the highway they'd turned into hunting grounds.

He pulled into the parking lot among the big rigs and transients a quarter to eleven o'clock. Middle of the night, not too close to dawn, distanced enough from dusk. Truckers snored in their cabs, and the empty cars belonged to the sparse diner patrons, spread out across the counters and linoleum table tops, islands brought together purely by coincidence.

And then he saw Her.

Right away he clocked the hooker costume. She held herself too uncertainly, her skin unbruised, unblemished. Impervious to the cold, she took a drag off her cigarette, looking disinterested in being anywhere. There was an innocence about her too, that Dean couldn't shake. Those eyes of hers, wide and framed by long, graceful lashes. Legs for days like a gazelle. He was struck all at once with the realization she shouldn't be there.

That is, until he caught the anti-possession charm dangling from her heavy black combat boots, so small it barely caught the light enough to twinkle. The final piece fell into place the second their eyes locked.

"It's not safe here, after dark," he said, finding his voice as he spun his keys around his finger.

"Counting on it, Mister," she replied.

"Dean," he told her. "Name's Dean."

She put out her cigarette, snubbing the lit cherry under the tip of her shoe. For some reason, by some damned miracle, she gave him her name.

& brother thus begins the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice.

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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PAIRING: Dean Winchester x Gn!reader

SUMMARY: Giving Dean a handjob while he drives the Impala.

NSFW. Minors DNI.

For @godjustkys 😛

Music played at a medium volume. Dean tapped his finger on the wheel to it. You payed attention out the window—focusing on the trees, buildings you’d pass, all of it. You enjoyed it. It was peaceful, till a car cut Dean off. “Jackass..” he grumbled, and you bit back your laugh. A few minutes past and throughout those minutes you noticed how fidgety he’s gotten, and how his breathing picked up. You thought nothing of it. That was until he stole quick glances every so often.

“Okay, what the hell?” You spoke. Finally confronting Dean.

“What?” He replied, turning his head over to look at you—fully look at you.

“What’s with all the looks and the weird movements all of a sudden?” You asked, and he looked like he didn’t have not a clue what you were talking about. “Dean.” You say, bluntly. Face dropping.

“S’nothing. Swear.” He grumbled, turning his attention back on the road. But the both of you knew it wasn’t ‘nothing’. You didn’t take your eyes off of him. Still staring at him and he felt it. After a few seconds past he knew he wasn’t getting off the hook, and that you weren’t gonna drop it. “Okay, fine. Just thought of a few things, that’s all,”

“What things?”

“It’s not—“ Dean huffed. Getting all hot ‘n bothered. You would laugh if he didn’t seem so serious. Getting himself all worked up was funny. He adjusted his grip on the wheel, about ready to turn up the music and completely ignore you—tune you out. “Jus’ thinking about you, me..” he trailed off. You arched one of your eyebrows.

“Spit it out,” you urged. Dean swallowed, hand moving from his thigh to cover his crotch. Your not to sure if your reading the situation wrong or what. But you’re fifty percent sure that he’s talking about sex. “Seriously?” You scoffed. “Baby, if that’s what you wanted that’s all you had to say,”

You could practically see the relief in his face. “Can you please just touch me? I don’t wanna pull over right now just-“

“It’s alright. You don’t gotta say any more.” You turned your body to face him. A hand coming up next to his to remove it. “Let me see you, c’mon.” So he complied. Either way he would’ve. Would it be wrong to call him pathetic if was already moving his hips up? Well he was. It was funny, really. His pants were soon undone and you could’ve sworn he let out a whine. It was quiet though. You’re surprised you even heard it.

“Sweetheart, please.” He’s not sure he can put up with any of your teasing at the moment. His cock throbbed like crazy and he was ‘bout in tears because he needed it so bad. You pulled down his boxers, his cock springing free. The hit of the cool air caused him to suck in a breath. And just as you went to wrap your hand around his cock you paused.

“I don’t know, what if you crash the car?” You teased, and ohhhh he was starting to get pissed. With a rough comment of your name you rolled your eyes and finally touched him. His eyes closing for a moment.

“Feel good?”

“Mhm.” Dean about whined. As soon as you thumbed at his tip, he swerved the car. “Hah!— God!” He followed it up with a curse.

“Focus on the road, Dean,” you said, softly.

“‘M trying.” He grunted.

You sped up your hand. Dean leaked so damn much it got all over your hand, but it was nearly a perfect lubricant. He tried to resist in fucking his hips up into your hand, for the sake of the car and your lives of course. But it was so hard. Somehow he managed to get past a few little bucks. Dean let out a mix of grunts, groans, and whimpers. Even a few moans and whines. He couldn’t help it. “Ah! Fuck..” he must be close. “I’m close.” Yep.

You slowed your hand down just a bit to fuck with him. Waiting to speed up until he reacted to it. “No, no, c’mon, don’t be like this,” Dean looked at you quickly. “Y’know I need this, baby. Please,” Smiling to yourself you moved your hand up and down quickly. A minute or two later he came with a broken moan—hips stuttering.

You couldn’t get enough, and you’re sure he couldn’t either. You wanted more and he needed more. This resulted in to you guys pulling over by a nearby field, continuing on with what Dean started.

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thirdsaltyhunter · 2 months ago

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"To try and be the hero that keeps rescuing the princess, even when the princess is just a peasant who can put on a show."

"Someone who glows in the low light of the night, laughs in a way that fills the bar with life, and always touches you like he’d like to keep you."

"Voice like a lullaby and a big, firm hand on your thigh that isn’t going to leave a bruise."

THIS IS POETRY- I'm gonna cry

No More

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, so much angst, hurt/comfort, small fluff at the end, pre-established relationship, past abusive/toxic relationship, soft Dean

Summary/Warnings: Some scars don't really fade. They just fester and rot, remaining unattended in your body because you can't really remember how to heal them.

And Dean can't fix this for you. But he can give you somewhere safe to fix yourself.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one's heavy guys. If you think that past abusive relationships might be a no go for you, make the right choice for yourself <3. If not, enjoy (?) the story.

Word Count: 4k

It had been a good hunt. An objectively good hunt. Done in two days, no bodies to burn or bury, an alright bar in the town, and Sam managing to get his own room because he’s sick of you trying to bang Dean in front of him.

“Hey, don’t blame my girl for how you’re always sticking your ass in our business-“

“We share a room, Dean!” Sam had said, half-throwing his hands in the air. “Where else am I supposed to stick my ass if not in our communal living space-“

Dean had snorted. “Communal living space? Dude, you sound like such a jackass-“

“Why, because I can use big words like space?”

“I- Watch it, Sammy-“

“I’ll watch it if you stop trying to fuck on my bed!”

They’d kept arguing. You’d remained silent, picking at the wood of the table and wondering if—should you actually attempt to—you could sink into Dean’s chest and just stay there for a while. It would be warm and solid, and probably not all that safe—that man got himself stabbed and shot a lot—but safer than being in you. Then your traitorous and useless body, made only to be snapped in half. It must have something written on it or in it, emit some kind of blacklight or stench that said weak. Dumb, weak little bitch, lucky to have this because you don’t deserve it. Couldn’t deserve it.

Better, you could turn to stone, right here in the booth. If you could do that, you’d never get another bruise on your throat or hear venomous words spat in your ear. Sam and Dean could leave you behind and never have to feel any guilt. Dean could stop having to pretend he likes you as more than a body, and pull away without beating himself up about abandoning you like a used and worn couch.

Moth-eaten and stained, only still in the house because it feels wrong to throw it out. Because you have a little sentimentality for the couch when it was nice, before it had been beaten and abused and reduced to just a lumpen sack of feathers and cloth.

You don’t think that comparison is fair to the couch.

At least the couch was once useful.

Because it had been a good hunt.

You were the problem.

You’d slipped and wavered and fallen. But the whole place had smelled like lavender soap, and it had carried you back to where that same smell had suffocated you. He had loved that smell, and said it made you seem prettier and softer than you were.

This whole case had reeked of him. And you’d told yourself you’d be fine. That it was in the past, and he wasn’t supposed to have that kind of control over you anymore. That the world seems gray in that vamp nest, but it was winter, so that was to be expected. And when you’d been knocked flat on your back, you’d seen a crack in the ceiling—identical to the one that had been over his bed—but had been a coincidence. Ceilings cracked, and there were only so many patterns in the world.

And when a Vamp had wrapped its hand around your throat, that was just something that happened to hunters. You all got hurt and beaten and had close calls. That was the job. You’d faced worse than this. You’d faced blood coating your fingers and splattered on your face, guts pooling at your feet and long moments where you’d been sure no one would come and save you.

Dean had always saved you. Even before you’d started doing more—and then more and more and more, until it seemed pretty obvious you were dating and it was more exhausting to fight it than accept it—Dean had always been saving you. He’d had to do it today, yanking the Mare off your chest and cradling your head against his chest until you were breathing easily.

Yet again, you’d been the problem. The hunt had been easy and simple, and you’d still fucked it because you sucked. You were dead-weight. You couldn’t stop feeling the hand around your throat—imprinted like a tattoo that made your words small and body smaller—and you couldn’t stop the weighed down feeling of hopelessness. Your brain stuck on a scratching loop around the Vamp’s hiss of dumb, annoying, weak little bitch, until you couldn’t manage to smile at anything at all.

It just made you feel worse, because Dean might be worried you don’t think he’s being funny. That whenever he makes truly horrible joke and you don’t giggle like a lovesick schoolgirl, it’s because he’s gone wrong.

He’s done nothing. You really hope he just gives up and tosses you aside, because he shouldn’t have to put up with worry about something so valueless. He’d find someone else. Someone better and more deserving. You’re just lucky he ever even looked at you, let alone bothered to try and stay. To try and be the hero that keeps rescuing the princess, even when the princess is just a peasant who can put on a show.

You’d tricked him into thinking you’re better than you are. Lied to him until you’d trapped him, and now he had to stay with you, because he’s a good man and you’re simply the fucking worst thing in the world to darken his path, and he’ll leave if he really saw you-

That’s not fair to Dean. He is a good man. Better than he was, by miles and stretches and eons, but that really just made it hurt more. Because Dean’s not him, but you’re still you. The same you who was weak, and stupid, and undeserving. That doesn’t change. It only grows now that you have someone you really don’t deserve. Someone who glows in the low light of the night, laughs in a way that fills the bar with life, and always touches you like he’d like to keep you.

You aren’t something that should be kept. But he’s doing it anyway.

And there’s some bile in your throat at the thought. And that’s just another way in which this—in which you—are horrible.

But the worst part was that things like this happened all the time, and you still weren’t strong enough to build an immunity. To just move on, like a big girl. To actually teach yourself that he was in the past, and this you—now, in the present, sitting with your smoking hot boyfriend’s arm around your shoulders—didn’t have any right to be afraid anymore.

“Are you feeling okay?”

You blink at Dean as he guides you out of the bar, Sam walking a few feet ahead and the wind of the night is so cold-

Dean says your name, his brow furrowing in the way it does when he’s worried, and you give him your best, softest, most docile smile.

“Everything’s fine.” You say, and you can almost believe yourself. Your voice is gentle and small and doesn’t sound like you, but it’s the best way to end the questions. You’ll fold over. You’ll bend until you snap. And nobody needs to push you for that to happen.

But Dean’s still frowning. “Are you sure? ‘Cause if you’re feeling well we can head back to the bunker tonight, and Sam won’t have to get his own room-“

“No, Dean, I’m-“

“Yeah, no, Dean.” Sam turns, shooting his brother a glare. “How would I get home?”

“You’re smart, Sammy, you’d figure it out-“

You tune out the rest of their fake-argument. You’re mostly listening to the wind. It’s loud, and strong, and cold. So cold, biting at your skin and making your joints stiff, but at least you can feel it. It’s not numbing, and it’s indifferent, and Sam and Dean don’t seem half as affected by it as you are, but they’re also not weak-

“C’mon,” Dean says your name, and you realize you’re moving again. That he’s guiding you into the shotgun seat, and a grumpy looking Sam is clambering into the back.

“Wait, why-“

“We’re dropping Sam off, then heading back.” Dean turns the engine on, his voice barely raising to match the rumble, and you’re not sure you heard him right.

“Why- I don’t-“

“I wanna go home.” Dean shrugs, and it’s too casual. “And Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll be fine without Mommy and Daddy watching him.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, built by Sam’s groan from behind you, and you can’t stop the words from slipping out. “I told you to stop calling us that.”

“Yeah, but you also told me that you were-“ Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly and clearing his throat. “That you weren’t into car sex, and that ain’t ever stopped us-“

You cover his mouth with a hand—his shit-eating grin just as blinding in only his eyes—and Sam makes a fake gagging sound.

And you think Dean knows. That he’s realized that you’re just so tired and weak and useless, and he’s trying to work out if it’s worth keeping you around. If you’ll listen to him and do what he asks—and you will, you always will, not because of the threat of being left but because he’s Dean and he couldn’t lead you astray if he tried—or if he needs to leave you on the pavement to scrape yourself back together.

So you don’t fight him, or insist that Sam can have his privacy and sanity without getting another room or you and Dean leaving, because you don’t really want to be touched like that right now. You just drop Sam off at the motel, grab your bags, and slump back into the Impala’s bench as Sam and Dean exchange low words outside.

By the time Dean joins you, you’re half asleep. And you try to stay awake—to entertain him half as much as he entertains you—but he pulls you right into his side, lets your head rest on his shoulder, and Dean doesn’t smell like lavender. He smells like evergreen and apples, he’s warm when your ears are still a little numb from the cold, and when he starts to hum along to the low music, you’re gone. Everything fades, and it’s just the deep sound of Dean’s voice like a lullaby and a big, firm hand on your thigh that isn’t going to leave a bruise.

Maybe you don’t deserve a bruise.

Maybe you don’t deserve anything. Maybe you’re lucky to be stuck in this bed with stinging marks around your throat, and a voice like nails on your ears sneering that you’re a weak little bitch. If you were stronger you’d fight back, but you’ve been broken in and can’t be put back together. If you were stronger, you’d scream for help, but you’re also so horribly you that you know nobody will ever come and save you.

Who would try to save you? Who could possibly care about something like you enough to bother and patch up you up, to take string to your skin and heart and organs and tie them back together? You’re not strong enough to make anything stick. You’re made of glass and linen, and any attempt to put you back together would be futile, because you’d probably just break further. Someone would have to be patient enough to pull you back together when you spooled apart, and warm enough to fuse and meld you in a way that wouldn’t shatter with one touch.

You don’t think a person like that would be real. And if they are, they wouldn’t want you.

Because they’d be strong, and you really are weak.

If you were strong, you would’ve left. But you’re still here in this freezing cold bed, staring at the crack on the ceiling.

And you don’t think you’ll ever be more than that. Not as another hand wraps around your throat—you don’t remember what you said, but you must have said something—and there’s a heavy weight on your chest and you can’t breathe-

“Breathe.” A deep voice that sounds like it cares says your name, and you listen. “It’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe for me.”

For him. There’s a hand on your head that’s combing through your hair and pressing you into a place that warm and solid and safe. You’re held steady by an arm around your waist, and it fits so well there. You don’t think it could hurt you if it tried.

He’d sounds kind and caring, and he’d said your name like you mattered, so you’ll try to breathe.

And you don’t remember how to do it for yourself yet, so—just for now, until you can teach yourself to do anything for you—you’ll breathe for him.

“There you go, baby,” the voice mutters, and when you make a weak, choked sound his body tenses, but he doesn’t push you away. “I know, but I’ve got you. Swear I’ve got you.”

He says he’s got you. Dean says he’sgot you.

And you believe him.

So you start to cry.

He’d never liked it when you cried. He’d said it was useless, and that the sound was annoying.

Dean just keeps holding you, and muttering soothing words in your ear until the tears stop flowing. He only keeps rubbing a circle on your back until your breathing slows, and you can lean back to meet his gaze.

He’s not angry. Just worried.

You’re going to start crying again.

“Are,” you sniff, trying to pull yourself back together by force, and look around the dark space. “Are we still in the car?”

“Pulled over earlier.” He mutters, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone with a care you don’t deserve. “You started doing that tossing shit when you’re about to have a nightmare. Wanted to get ahead of it.”

You swallow. You’d made him pull over, and you had enough nightmares that he knew what one looked like, and you were just a burden and problem and he should just shove you out of the Impala and leave you to rot like carrion on the highway-

“Stop doin’ that.” Dean grunts, and you tense.

“I- I’m not-“

“You’re freakin’ out. You’re freakin’ me out.” Dean scans over your face, pulling you close until you’re half on his lap. “If you’re hurt, you know you gotta tell me, sweetheart. I’m not looking to do a zombie bite thing, where we get home and you start bleeding all over the floor. So tell me.” He takes a deep breath, and his exhale is warm over your lips. “Please tell me.”

You can’t tell him. You’re not ready for him to leave yet.

You drop your brow to Dean’s, taking low, slow breaths and shaking your head. “It’s okay-“

“It’s fucking not.” He snaps your name, his grip tightening slightly, and you flinch. “I- shit- did I hurt you-“

“No.” You mumble. “I’m just tired-“

“You’ve been sleeping for five hours. You’ll get another seven once we get goin’ again. But,” Dean narrows his eyes, even as his grip loosens once more. “We’re not getting back on the road until you answer me. What’s wrong.”

“I-“ You cut yourself off with a choked sound. He’s angry. You’d made him angry, and he won’t hurt you but if he did you’d deserve it-

You start crying again, and Dean’s eyes widen. This is it. He’s going to push you out the window and you’ll have to wander through the marshes until the mud just swallows you whole-

Dean pulls you fully into his lap, holding you there carefully and muttering in your ear with a care and reverence you don’t deserve.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry, fuck, please don’t cry-“

“No, it’s- I’m-“ You take a long, strangled breath, wrapping your arms around his torso until you’re sure you’re going to suffocate him. “It’s not you, Dean, I- It’s not your problem-“

“Fucking hell it’s not my problem.”

You shake your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Maybe you really could move in there, and nothing would ever hurt you again. “It’s- You don’t have to-“

“I do.” He mutters, guiding your head back to meet his gaze. He brushes the tears from your eyes. You don’t deserve this. “You’re hurtin’.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyways. Holding a lie too long has never done you a favor before.

“Tell me how to fix it.”

“You- you can’t fix this,” you mumble, staring at the bridge of his nose. You aren’t worthy of looking him in the eyes. “It’s, it’s just me, Dean. I’m just like this.”

He frowns. “Like what?”

“Weak.” You whisper. “I- I risked the hunt, I always risk the hunt, and I’m not strong like you and Sam are, and I just wanna go home-“

“We’re going home, babygirl.” Dean’s voice is soft, and low, and cautious, and you let out another sob that shakes your whole body. “And you’re not weak, you ganked like three vamps-“

“Could’ve done more.”

“There were seven of them. Three is pretty awesome numbers.” He gives you a nervous small smile. “You’re awesome. I don’t know who’s been telling you otherwise, but you are.”

That’s what breaks you. The floodgates don’t open—they’d barely held anything to begin with—but something snaps along your spine, and you can’t stop the horrible, rotten truth from falling out of your mouth.

“But he was right.” You whisper. “I’m weak, Dean, and I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

“There’s nothing to see, and I- Who’s he?”

You wish that you’d slept better. If you had, your tongue wouldn’t be loosened with pure exhaustion, and you could lie.

But you’re so tired. Unbelievably tired. Mind-numbingly and persistently tired, all the time, and it’s grow so intolerable you just want to be anything else. And if what you are is weak and alone, at least you’ll know that’s where you're supposed to be.

And you’d never wanted Dean to know. He was never supposed to learn from your own mouth how foul you are. He was supposed to find out himself, and then leave you like everyone always has the right to do.

But you’re telling him that you’re weak and fearful, that you’d never been able to fight tooth and spit and leave. You waited so, so long to leave and even then, it had only been because he’d been gone for a while, and you were so tired, and you needed to be anywhere but there.

And you stepped out, and never gone back.

There’s not going back now either. It all spills out, from how you met him to the day you left. And Dean’s so quiet. Only watching you as you speak and squeezing his hold on your hips when you trail off or cry.

But he doesn’t kick you out. And when you finished, you’re still in his lap. You can’t read the expression on his face. The highway lights are dim, and there’s nothing obviously hateful or disgusted written over his features, but you might just be too stupid to see it-

“I’m-“ Dean clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You blink at him, the tears still blurring your vision. “What.”

“That’s- I didn’t know, I never even fucking guessed- I should’ve guessed-“

“How would you have guessed?” You whisper, risking a drop of your brow back to his. He lets you stay. “I never told you-“

“But I know you. I should’ve seen it, you- I should’ve made you feel like you could tell me, I-“ His face hardens in his second, his grip tightening, but not to suffocated you. To protect you. To wrap his whole body around yours and keep it there safely. “I should fucking kill him. Cut off his arms and stuff them up his ass, get Cas to put the fear of god in him-“

“Dean, no-“

“He doesn’t just get to fucking do that to you and keep walking around-“

“He shouldn’t.” You mumble. “But he did. Men do all the time. And, I- I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-“

“Don’t apologize.” He grunts, dragging his thumb over your cheekbone. “You’ve never done anything wrong, baby, it’s just that son of a bitch, who’s gonna get a knock on his door soon-“

“No knocking on doors,” you wrap your arms around his neck, shaking your head against his brow. “Please, Dean, that’s- that’s not what I want-“

“What do you want?”

His question is immediate, and it crashes into you like a tidal wave. Numbing your whole body and kickstarting it in the same second, because you don’t know. You haven’t really known, haven’t had a direction, in years. You wandered and wandered and just tried to keep on breathing, to keep on your feet, and never let yourself look back.

You’d never been good at that last part. You kept on breathing because you didn’t have a choice. You’d kept on your feet because if you faltered, you’d fall over and it would be so painful to get back up.

But you’d always looked back. On nights like this one, over and over and over until your eyes were sunken and your neck was craned to always make sure nothing was behind you.

It might be nice to rest. To breathe not because it’s a labor, but because it feels nice to breathe the same air as Dean.

It would be amazing to keep looking back—it’s a habit, and it will die a slow and withering death until it’s gone, and you never pinpoint the moment you lost it—but to also start looking forward. Looking for that place to rest, that you already seem to have found.

What do you want?

“I want some food.” You whisper, leaning back to scan over Dean’s face. “And a nap. Please.”

Dean gives you a small grin, and nods. “I think we can do that. And after, you’ll give me an address-“

“Please don’t kill him, Dean.” You drop your voice slightly, holding his gaze. “I just want to stay with you, and to never see him again. Please.”

Two more wants. You’re on a roll.

“Just me?” Dean asks, and you don’t he believes you.

But it really is the truth.

“Just you.” You say, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, and humming when he grins against them.

“Lucky you,” he mutters your name against your lips, squeezing his arms around you “I think I know a dude who can swing that.”

You let out a soft giggle—barely a breath, but there—Dean squeezes his arms again, and you really like how he does that. It’s not because he’s trying to remind you where you belong, it’s because he trying to check that you’re there. Like he’s just as afraid that you’ll flee as you are that he’ll shove you aside, and he’s trying to hold you together with everything he has before you slip away.

“You’re really cheesy,” you say, and he chuckles.

“You like it. We start drivin’ again, you think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”

“Yeah, but food-“

“We’re only a few hours out from home.” Dean shrugs, really making no attempt to move you from his lap. “I’ll order whatever you’re feeling when we get back.”

You pause, playing with the hairs on the back of his neck as you think. “How about pizza?”

“Who’s cheesy now-“

You lean back to give him a mock glower. “Dean Winchester.”

“What did you not like that one-“

“It was horrible-“

“That’s not a no-“

You cut him off with a long, soft kiss, and you like it here. Wherever Dean is, you’ll like it there.

“Can we please get pizza?” You mumble, and he nods. It’s such a small, normal movement.

It makes you feel a little more found.

“We can get anything you want, princess.”

End Note: Oof that was a sad one. Sorry squad.

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