gh0stvi0lets

[gh0stvi0lets]

hii so if its okay with u can u pls make a sam drabble where him and reader adopt a black kitten and a golden retriever puppy and like reader is like a black cat who is the biggest softie around only sam (reader and sam r in a relationship but its like a fresh relationship so reader isn’t extremely vulnerable yet) and the kitten is closed off to the golden retriever but the golden retriever is js being a cutie (like sam) and reader is like “they’re like us” and sam is like “that’s the most sentimental thing you’ve ever said” and he keeps teasing reader and kissing them

sorry if this is weird/doesn’t make sense lmao but it’s js so cute to me lmao

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `the perfect pair, sam winchester ,༘ ♡

summary: yourself and sam adopt a black cat and a golden retriever. weirdly enough, their personalities match your own. sam thinks it's sweet. word count: 870 pairing: sam winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You didn’t mean to adopt two pets in one night.

Swear.

But the way the cat looked at you with huge pupils, tiny body curled tight in that cold kennel like she was begging you to save her—well. What were you supposed to do?

So you did.

You brought her back to the bunker that same day. She filled the Impala with pitiful meows the whole drive home, like she was making sure you wouldn’t forget she was there.

Sam took a different route back this time. One of those long, empty roads where the fields stretch on forever, the sun sinking just enough to paint the sky gold. Cornfields on either side as the leaves and stems sway in the lukewarm breeze.

That’s when you saw him. Dazed, pacing in slow, aimless circles by the roadside like he didn’t quite know where the world ended and the road began.

“Sam,” you breathed, leaning forward, squinting through the windshield like you didn’t trust your own eyes. “Pull over.”

That got his attention. He followed your gaze, his eyes widening when he saw the dog. A blur of golden fur and frantic energy.

The Impala’s engine gave a soft hum as Sam killed it, rolling to a stop on the gravel shoulder. Jinx, your new stowaway, yowled in her carrier at your feet as you flung the door open.

The dog froze when he saw you, ears back, eyes wide and scared. You dropped to a crouch, hand outstretched.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, soft as you could. “I won’t hurt you.”

He crept closer, head low, paws shuffling through the dirt, and just when you thought he’d bolt, his tail gave the tiniest wag.

Sam came up behind you, quiet but steady. The dog saw him, and it was like you disappeared. He bounded forward, tail whipping like a flag, and Sam’s mouth tugged into the softest grin as he knelt.

“Hey, buddy,” Sam said, voice low and warm as sunlight. The dog nosed at his hands, then launched up to lick his chin before Sam could dodge.

“Wow,” you laughed, breathless. “He really likes you.”

Sam wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, still grinning. “I don’t know why.”

“Face it. You’re just good with dogs.”

The dog trotted to the Impala like he already knew where he belonged, sitting himself right by the passenger side door, right where you’d left it open.

“No way,” you said, half laughing, half groaning. You looked at Sam, who was staring at you with the kind of hopeful eyes that made your chest hurt.

“We can’t just leave him,” Sam said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

You sighed—but you were already smiling. “No. We can’t.”

-

A couple weeks later, you still can’t believe you pulled it off. Two strays in one night. But somehow, they’ve settled in like they always belonged.

Jinx rules the bunker, meowing at shadows and curling up in warm laps like she owns every stitch of fabric you own.

Sam named him Bear. Trails after Sam like a shadow, big tail thumping whenever Sam so much as glances his way.

Most of the time, they share the same space. Curled up next to each other like no one else can provide the warmth. It’s sweet.

Yourself and Sam are relaxing on the sofa, watching some random movie that Dean decided to watch, then left halfway through because he got bored. The pattering of paws on the cold tile flooring echoes throughout the bunker as they run into the lounge.

Jinx spins on her paws, turning around to Bear and squeaks at him. Her back arches, her tail too but it flops toward the end. Her pupils are huge as she charges her attack on Bear.

He doesn’t expect it—of course—he bows to her and grumbles, slapping his paws on the tiles as his tail shakes excitedly.

You just watch them. They’re entertaining in their own weird little way. As soon as Jinx pounces on him, he makes a noise you can’t exactly explain, but it leaves you both in stitches.

“Jinx is definitely your baby,” Sam grins as he looks over at you. “My baby? What about Bear? He’s just like you!”

You both giggle as the fluffy creatures play-fight; making the weirdest noises as Bear tackles Jinx and bolts toward the kitchen. Jinx follows him, chirping with her tail pinned high.

“They’re just like us,” you say, “both weird in a good way, but make the perfect couple.”

Sam looks at you in awe, reaching for your hand to squeeze it.

“That’s the most sentimental thing you’ve ever said,” Sam huffs a laugh, a smile sticking to his face.

“Yeah, well,” you begin, snuggling up to him, “don’t get used to it.”

Sam laughs. Genuine and warm. He tilts his head toward your face, moving closer. “I’ll try my hardest.”

He then covers your face with kisses. Sam’s hands hold your face as he covers your cheeks in little pecks, freckling your nose as he plants one big kiss on your forehead, before his lips meet yours.

Honestly? You couldn’t wish for anything better. Because this? This is all you need.

[gh0stvi0lets]

Get some rest

established Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: Dean makes sure you take care of yourself when you have a migraine

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, just h/c and fluff <3, soft and protective Dean

1.2k words

a/n: ahh first official posted fic! feedback is appreciated!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Dean loved every single moment of being with you.

The late night talks.

The spontaneous dates.

The feeling of just being near you.

Dean even loved the not-so-great aspects of your relationship.

You were full to the brim with good qualities. Dean could list off everything he loved about you until he was blue in the face. Your hair. Your eyes. Your smile. Your nose. Your kindness. Your intelligence. Your ass. Your sensitivity.

Your stubbornness.

Dean really did love your stubbornness, even if it caused most of his grief.

He had learned to recognize the signs. When you were pushing yourself too hard and desperately needed a break. When the cracks of the carefully laid foundation of you being okay were crumbling, and he had to step in to fix it.

Someone so wonderful, shouldn’t have to be plagued by things like stomachaches, or illnesses.

Unfortunately, you were ill quite a bit.

And though if it were up to Dean, you would never feel anything less than perfectly healthy and downright fantastic, he would be lying if he didn’t get excited every time he had the chance to take care of you.

When you started squinting at the laptop like it was the sun and periodically hunching over to pinch the bridge of your nose, Dean knew he had his opportunity to take care of you again.

“Sweetheart, you feel okay?”

You blinked up at him, then shook your head. “Yeah. Fine. Just need to finish this research.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?” Dean tilted his head. “You’re getting a headache. Or a migraine. It’ll only get worse if you don’t rest.”

“I’ll rest after I finish looking at this case. I’m almost done.” You gave him a pointed look before returning to your laptop.

Dean observed you for a few moments, noticing how you not-so-subtly clutched one side of your head as you tried to focus well enough to read the words on the screen in front of you.

“Alright.” Dean sighed. “That’s it. The pain is on one side of your head, that means migraine. Migraine means ibuprofen and rest.” Dean crossed the room and stood in front of you. “It’s time to get in bed. I’ll bring you water and meds once you’re snuggled up.”

“5 more minutes-”

Dean put his arm on the table right beside you to lean down and speak lowly in your ear, “you know, in the time we’ve been together, somehow I think you’ve gotten worse at taking care of yourself.”

“You’re one to talk, Winchester,” you fought weakly, but Dean had already reached out to push your laptop closed.

“Seriously, sunshine, you’re going to run yourself into the ground.”

“Will not.”

“Yes, you will.” Dean picked up the laptop and placed it on the table he had been working at. “Bed. Now. I still have enough brains to handle finishing this up.”

“But we were supposed to jump on it tonight.” You brushed a hand back through your hair.

“So?” Dean shrugged. “Cas and Sam can handle this case alone if they need to. I’m more concerned about you giving yourself an even worse migraine. You need to rest.”

You frowned. “I want to do my part for this case.”

“You already have.” Dean shook his head.

You and your damn tendency to want to do it all.

It’s endearingly frustrating.

“I don’t want to leave it all to you guys. Again.” You drew your knees up to your chest on the chair of the library.

“Hey.” Dean crouched down beside you, stroking the denim fabric over your thigh gently. “You’re not leaving it all to us. You’re sick. You need rest.”

“I ‘need rest’,” you air quoted, “a hell of a lot more than any of you do.”

“First of all, Cas doesn’t get sick or need rest,” Dean began, which earns a glare from you. “Second of all, there’s nothing wrong with taking the rest you need, sweetheart. Third of all, you’re a fucking badass in every sense of the word. We’re beyond lucky to have you in any capacity at all.”

You sighed, seemingly understanding that Dean isn’t going to let the rest thing go. “Will you come rest with me after you finish?” You asked quietly.

Dean couldn’t help but break out into a grin. “Just try and keep me away.”

“I won’t,” you replied. You began to stand, and Dean gently took your elbow to steady you.

“Easy there. I could carry you to bed, you know,” He offered, though he was already leaning down to pick you up, bridal style. He would never miss a chance to feel you this close to him. It was practically what he lived for.

“I could walk,” you grumbled.

“Don’t act like you hate being carried, sunshine. Remember, we’ve been together too long for you to fool me.”

Your cheeks tinged pink. You buried your head in his shoulder. “Shut up. You’re not allowed to tease me. I’m sick.”

“Oh, now you’ll admit it?”

“I thought you wanted me to rest,” you pouted.

“Of course I do.” Dean pushed open the door to your shared bedroom with his foot. He carried you like you’re made of glass over to the mattress, then carefully lowered you down. “You get comfy, yeah? Do you want the lights left off?”

“Yes, please,” you mumbled as you shifted in the bed to get comfortable.

“Alright,” Dean said softly. “I’ll be right back with your water and ibuprofen. Do you want some tea, too?”

“Yes, please,” you whispered. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sunshine.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading out to gather your supplies. He quickly checked in with Sam, ensuring that he’d be okay to finish up the research, before he returned to the room.

He closed the door, careful not to make too much noise, before he offered you the water and tea. Dean then took the medicine out of his pocket.

You sat up just enough to take the pills, then let your exhaustion sink you back down into the mattress.

Dean climbed gingerly in behind you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back into him.

“Is this alright?” He asked quietly. “Not too… sensitive to touch, or anything?”

“No, it’s good.” You nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t keep thanking me. Get your rest.” He kissed the back of your head. “I’ll be right here.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweet girl.”

You drifted off to sleep in Dean’s arms.

As you slept, Dean decided he might like the moments when he finally convinces you to take care of yourself the most.

[gh0stvi0lets]

⋆˚࿔ Caught in the Act

summary. Sam walks in on you doing the trend… and suddenly, you’ve got an audience.

pairing. Sam Winchester x reader (f)

wordcount. 371

notes. I just literally love this trend and I thought why not?

join taglist. dean version ->

The thump of the bass rattled the floorboards of the bunker’s common room. You’d been scrolling through your phone earlier, saw the trending “So Far So Fake” hip dance, and thought, Why not?

You were alone—or so you thought.

Leggings hugged your hips, the overhead light casting just enough shadow to make your movements feel almost stage-worthy. The song’s build hit, and you sank into the rhythm, swaying your hips, rolling them with the beat, letting your hair fall over your face before flicking it back.

You were halfway through the slow, sultry part when—

“Uh…”

The voice came from the doorway.

You froze mid-hip roll, eyes darting up to see Sam Winchester leaning against the frame, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hazel eyes were glued to you in a way that made your stomach do flips.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, voice a little too casual to be completely casual.

Your face burned. “Sam! How long were you—”

“Long enough to wonder why you’ve been hiding this talent from me,” he cut in, pushing off the doorway and stepping closer. His tall frame made the room feel smaller instantly.

“It’s a trend,” you said, trying to sound unaffected while swiping at your phone. “It’s just for fun.”

“Mmh,” he hummed, that damn smirk deepening. “Fun, huh? Looked more like a public safety hazard to me. You keep moving like that and someone’s gonna get hurt.”

You rolled your eyes, but the blush wasn’t leaving your cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re busted,” he countered, leaning down just enough to meet your gaze. “Next time you decide to do one of these… trends… maybe invite me. I could, you know, be your… audience.”

Your pulse skipped. “You mean you want a private show?”

“Something like that,” he said, straightening up but still grinning at you like he’d just caught you red-handed with the crown jewels. “But I should warn you—I might not be as polite about just watching.”

You threw a pillow at him, and he caught it with one hand, laughing as he backed toward the hall.

“Finish your dance, Y/N,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be… right here. Supervising.”

©2025 gh0stvi0lets rights.

୨ৎ tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl @littleladydemon

[gh0stvi0lets]

⋆˚࿔ Broken Glass

summary.

pairing. Dean Winchester x reader (f)

warnings. +18 sexual content (mdni), emotional conflict and tension, verbal frustration

wordcount. 719

join taglist.

The motel room felt suffocating. Not because of its four walls or the stale air—but because of the tension thick enough to drown in. Dean paced, jaw clenched tight, fists curled at his sides like he was fighting an invisible enemy. You sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, trying to make sense of the silence that wasn’t there.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” His voice was low, hoarse, like he’d been holding back for too long.

You looked up, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at you. “Because what I say never changes anything. You hear only what you want.”

He stopped moving, glare darkening. “That’s bullshit.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Maybe if you didn’t shut me out every time things got hard—”

His hand was on your face before you could finish, fingers rough, thumb stroking your cheek like he was trying to remember you. His other hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer until his lips crushed against yours.

The kiss was desperate, angry, and full of the words neither of you could say aloud. His mouth was warm, tasting like whiskey and regret, hands roaming fiercely over your body as if trying to memorize every inch.

Your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, asking permission without words. You parted, letting him in deeper, tongue tangling with his in a battle of want and need.

Dean’s hands slid under your shirt, fingers grazing bare skin, sending sparks of fire wherever they touched. Your own hands were tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he dipped his head to trail kisses down your neck—hard, hungry, leaving marks that burned deliciously against your skin.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he growled into your skin, voice thick with something raw and unfiltered.

You pushed him gently but firmly, making him pull back just enough to look at you, his green eyes dark and stormy. “Then don’t push me away next time.”

He bit his lip, then was kissing you again, slower this time, like he was trying to hold onto you before you slipped away. His hands slid under your jeans, palms pressing flat against your hips, pulling you flush against him.

When he finally eased you back onto the bed, your heart was pounding hard enough to drown out everything else. Dean hovered over you, fingers tracing the curves of your body with a mix of reverence and need.

He took his time, undressing you piece by piece, lips and hands worshipping every inch exposed. Your skin burned under his touch, nerves sparking to life with every flick of his tongue and brush of his fingertips.

Dean’s mouth found your collarbone, sucking a dark bruise into your skin before trailing lower, over your chest, teasing nipples until they were painfully hard. You arched into him, hands gripping the sheets, breath shallow and desperate.

His fingers slipped beneath your waistband, tracing teasing circles against your skin, driving you crazy with need. When he finally entered you, slow and sure, a low groan rumbled in his chest, and you clenched around him, every nerve ending singing.

Dean’s pace was steady, firm—but it grew faster, rougher, as the tension between you snapped and shattered. His name was a growl on your lips, breath hitching, body trembling as he moved with a desperate urgency that matched your own.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him down for fierce, hungry kisses, each one a promise and a plea. The room filled with the sound of your ragged breaths and Dean’s low moans as you both teetered on the edge.

When you came apart, it was like falling through glass—shattering and painful, but somehow beautiful in the way it pulled you closer together.

Dean collapsed beside you, sweat slick and warm, fingers brushing your damp hair back from your face. His voice was a shaky whisper, full of the kind of vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “For everything.”

You cupped his cheek, thumb stroking gentle circles. “Then don’t be. Just stay.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “I will.”

And for the first time in a long time, the weight in your chest felt a little lighter—because maybe broken things could still be mended.

©2025 gh0stvi0lets rights.

୨ৎ tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl @lyarr24 @profounddreamsorsomething

[gh0stvi0lets]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ big arms, bigger apologies,

summary. you've just been introduced to the world of hunting and the questions are many. sam's not in the mood to answer them

pairing. sam winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 611 genre. soft angst with instant comfort

warnings. sam snapping briefly, reader is new to hunting and insecure, smothering apologies in the form of forehead kisses and cuddles

“So wait,” you ask, curling your legs up on the motel bed, “do all vampires drink human blood? Or like… could they just do cow blood if they wanted? Like in Twilight?”

Sam doesn't look up from the laptop. “Not now, Y/N.”

You blink. “Right, sorry.”

Thirty seconds later: “But… do they sleep? Like, are coffins mandatory, or—”

“Y/N.” Sam’s voice is sharp this time. Harsher than it’s been since you started tagging along.

You freeze. His eyes are still on the screen. Fingers flying across the keys. Jaw tight.

You swallow. “Sorry. I’ll stop talking.”

The silence afterward is loud. Too loud. You slowly pull the scratchy motel blanket around your shoulders, cheeks burning, chest tight. You know you ask a lot of questions. You don’t know this world, not like they do. You’re trying, you are—but every rule seems made of shadows and blood and danger, and suddenly you feel very, very small.

You wish you hadn’t come.

Sam finally exhales and pushes the laptop aside. The moment he looks at you, the regret hits him like a truck.

You're curled into yourself on the edge of the bed, biting the inside of your cheek like it's the only thing keeping your lip from wobbling. Your eyes won’t meet his.

And Sam Winchester hates himself immediately.

“Shit,” he says under his breath. Then he’s up—crossing the room in three long strides and kneeling in front of you. “Hey. Hey, no. Don’t do that. Don’t shrink away.”

You try to blink fast. “It’s okay. I was being annoying. You’re busy.”

“No, no, I’m the idiot here,” he says, hands finding your knees, voice suddenly warm and low and painfully gentle. “You’re asking questions because you want to learn. That’s good. That’s so good.”

You finally glance at him—and his heart just shatters.

Your eyes are glassy. Hurt. And worse—you’re trying to hide it.

He lets out a soft noise, like a wounded animal, and wraps his arms around you without hesitation. Just buries you in his chest like he’s trying to press rewind and erase the last five minutes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. You didn’t deserve that.”

You melt into his warmth, hands gripping his flannel as he folds you into his lap like it’s second nature. His giant arms wrap around your back, one hand smoothing over your shoulder, the other cradling your head.

“I didn’t mean to distract you,” you murmur.

“I want you to ask me things,” he insists, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. Then another. Then one to your temple. “You’re new. You’re supposed to be curious. You think I came out of the womb knowing how to identify vampire nests?”

You laugh, watery. “I mean… you were kinda born into it.”

He groans dramatically and smothers you again, peppering kisses across your hairline now. “Okay, fair. But still. That’s no excuse. I was stressed and being an ass.”

You smile into his shirt, his warmth slowly stitching the moment back together. “You were kinda being an ass.”

“Oh, I know,” he mutters, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “You should punish me. Ask me twice as many questions tomorrow.”

You grin. “Deal. First one: do werewolves shed?”

Sam laughs—loud and real—and hugs you tighter. “God, you’re cute.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing.” He kisses your forehead again, like it’s his new full-time job. “Forget I said anything.”

But you won’t.

Not tonight.

Not when his arms are around you like this.

Not when your heart’s finally settling.

Not when Sam Winchester treats you like someone who’s always worth comforting.

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

[gh0stvi0lets]

STRESS RELIEF ⋆˙⟡

pairing: sam winchester x fem!reader | MDNI

summary: you make out with sam in bed

warnings: unprotected sex (dont do this) , cum inside , rough sex , praise & degradation , reader calls sam “daddy.” + “sir.” , use of “babygirl” , slight breeding kink

sam and you had been laying in bed watching a movie for god knows how long, him dozing off while you just lay your head on his bare chest. he seemed exhausted, most likely from his most recent hunt.

sam didn’t tell you much about them claiming he didn’t want to “stress that pretty little head of yours” although you could tell it bothered him.

you press a soft kiss to his neck knowing he’s sensitive there, and he holds back the shiver that so desperately wishes to wrack through him. sam chuckles deep in his chest “what are you up to?” he asks suggestively with a barely concealed grin that decorated his lips.

without another word you kiss his lips, while your hands trail down his abdomen. sam entangles his fingers with yours in a gentle gesture. you sigh louder than intended yet content. “what am i up to?” you give sam a smirk and let your hand fall further down the mans tired body.

his hand followed yours with your fingers still intertwined like perfect puzzle pieces. “up to no good..” sam muttered under his breath. you kiss him again, this time deeper . . slower. he can feel the pure need radiating from you.

he puts his hand on your cheek, your lips moving together like a sensual dance. sam can feel your heart thumping against him, body heat makes the two of you impossibly warmer. “as always.” you pulled away to breathe because fuck if you didn’t need to breathe you’d kiss him until your lips fell off. 

sam is hard and breathless from just a few kisses, he blames how fucking stressed he’s been. it doesn’t take much for him to thrust his hips up against your hand desperately. you coo at him “you’re so hard baby..” a hand squeezes his bulge through the thin layer of his boxers.

with that he flips your positions until he’s hovering above you, his lips crash into your own with a level of need you’ve never seen from sam. you grip his hair in your hand as he caresses your curves and mutters little praises into your ear.

you quiver under him, your body betrays just how aroused you are. an impatient sam found himself grinding his clothed cock against your pussy. the warmth of your fluttering cunt drives him crazy, he’s missed you so bad these grueling past few days.

“such a pretty girl.. need to be inside this cute lil’ pussy.” he groans. you roll your hips against him in a silent plea to just fucking do it. sam’s large callused hands grip your hips, tighter than he maybe intended.

you pull your panties to the side, allowing him access to your tight cunt, you swore his eyes must’ve popped out of his head at the sight of your glistening folds. “sir jus’ put it in please” you beg while batting those pretty lashes of yours.

“fuck princess..” he says when he finally pulls out his throbbing cock, the tip an angry red while his slit drips copious amounts of pre cum. one day you’d be the death of him and honestly sam wouldn’t mind.

your heart pounds in time with the aching throb of your dripping pussy. “poor desperate thing..” sam mutters before continuing “need daddy’s thick cock to fill you up with his cum.” he finally pushes inside that pretty hole that begged to swallow him up and suck out his soul.

sam doesn’t waste any time before he’s pounding that needy cunt, one hand on your hip and the other playing with your clit. your head falls back against the soft pillows. “sir.. oh fuck.” you whine softly, sam’s thrusts go deeper and you swear you can see his dick in your tummy whenever he pushes inside.

he’s just so big, god you’re already close. “sammy m’ gonna cum” you gasp out between each pounding thrust, the bed creaks below you. sam’s thumb on your clit speeds up “babygirl.. you feel so fucking good.” he grunts.

sam is close too, so fucking close. “mm daddy’s gonna fill you up till you can barely walk..” he growls in your ear. you clench around him as your orgasm crashes through you, warming your insides. it proved to be too much for sam. spurts of his cum paint your insides white, he pulls you into his arms.

he pulls out “shit baby, that wasnt too much was it?” he worries, you shake your head no. your body still feels like jelly but you could stay here in his arms forever.

authors note: thinking of making a taglist if anyone is interested! my requests are open and um. i hope you enjoyed. this is my first fic in awhile so im sorry if its ass!!

[gh0stvi0lets]

⋆˚࿔ In the Quiet

summary. After a rough hunt, Sam returns injured. You quietly patches him up, and share a tender moment.

pairing. Sam Winchester x reader (gn)

wordcount. 524

join taglist.

The motel room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the broken air conditioner rattling in the window. A dim yellow lamp flickered by the bedside table, casting weak light over the room’s peeling wallpaper and Sam’s blood-soaked shirt.

No words were exchanged when Sam staggered in—shoulders tight, blood dripping from a gash above the ribs. His face was tense, jaw clenched like it always was when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t in pain. Dean was still outside, probably cleaning the weapons or dragging a body into the trunk.

Sam leaned against the wall and gave a tired smile. “Hey.”

“Sit down,” you said softly, already reaching for the med kit you kept in your duffel. There was no panic, no scolding—just calm, practiced care. You’d seen worse working shifts in the ER. But it always hit differently when it was him.

Sam sank onto the edge of the bed with a quiet wince, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s not that bad,” he muttered.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

You knelt in front of him, fingers gently tugging his flannel aside. The fabric stuck to dried blood, peeling off slowly. Sam hissed, but didn’t flinch. Not from you.

The wound was deep—an angry, jagged gash that looked like something had clawed clean through his side. You didn’t ask what caused it. You already knew the story written in blood and torn flesh.

You cleaned the wound in silence. Sam watched you closely, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Your hands moved with practiced steadiness, even as your stomach twisted in knots. You hated this part—seeing him hurt, barely holding it together. But you’d never let that show.

“You’re quiet,” he said, voice rough.

“I don’t like seeing you like this.”

Sam didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, like he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. You pressed sterile gauze to the gash and began wrapping it with clean bandages, your touch as gentle as possible.

“You always know what to do,” he murmured. “Even when everything’s gone to hell.”

“I’m trained to.” You gave a faint smile. “Patch up broken things.”

Sam reached out and brushed his fingers across your cheek. His skin was rough and warm, and the contact made your breath catch. “You’re not just a nurse to me.”

You leaned into their touch. “I know.”

Once the bandages were secure, you helped ease him back onto the mattress. He moved slowly, stifling a groan as pain flared up. You didn’t move far—just settled beside him, hand finding his and lacing your fingers together.

“You need to rest,” you whispered. “Sleep. Let your body do the healing.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, He pulled you a little closer, until your head rested against his shoulder, careful not to press against the wound. You stayed like that, tucked into the quiet warmth of each other, surrounded by the faint rattle of the A/C and the distant sound of Dean’s boots outside.

“I feel safe when you’re here,” Sam said softly.

You didn’t need to reply. You just held his hand a little tighter.

©2025 gh0stvi0lets rights.

୨ৎ tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl @littleladydemon

[gh0stvi0lets]

𝐻𝑖 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒!

⋆˚꩜｡‎ Violette | she/her, writer, french

𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

I write fanfic about whatever comes to my mind - mostly spn - but can always do something else!

English isn't my first language so sorry in advance for any possible mistakes.

Requests are always open, feel free to send me an ask if u want something specific or just whatever though, i love talking <3

Anyway take care, love u! -Vi <3

⋆˚꩜｡ PS -> it's a side blog

[gh0stvi0lets]

⋆˚࿔ Pancakes and Vynil

summary. A lazy morning, pancakes, and Dean in sweatpants.

pairing. Dean Winchester x reader

genre. fluff

wordcount. 757

join taglist.

───────── 🥞 ──────────

You woke up to the smell of bacon.

That was the first thing your sleepy brain registered. The second was the warmth beside you, and the third — the distinct absence of it. Dean's side of the bed was still slightly warm, but empty.

You stretched beneath the covers, blinking up at the ceiling. The old ticking of the bunker’s pipes echoed faintly, but beyond that, it was peaceful. No monster alarms. No desperate phone calls. No blood. Just a rare, beautiful silence.

You slid out of bed, pulling Dean's flannel off the floor and wrapping it around yourself before padding barefoot down the hallway toward the kitchen.

What greeted you might have been the most domestic, heart-melting sight you'd ever seen:

Dean Winchester, hair a mess, wearing grey sweatpants and a tight-fitting Led Zeppelin tee, flipping pancakes while softly humming along to the vinyl record playing in the background. Elvis. Of course.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a sleepy smile.

"You're up," Dean said without turning around, but the grin in his voice gave him away. “I was trying to surprise you with breakfast in bed, sweetheart. You ruined the plan.”

"Hard to stay asleep when the bunker smells like a diner," you teased, walking over and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. He leaned back into your touch, one hand reaching down to rest over yours.

“Hey, you’re wearing my flannel.”

“I always steal your flannel.”

“Yeah, but I pretend to be annoyed so you’ll keep doing it,” he said, finally turning to face you. He leaned in and gave you a soft kiss — lazy, warm, and lingering. “Morning, gorgeous.”

You scrunched your nose. “I probably have morning breath.”

“I’ve kissed you with blood on your face and dirt in your hair. I think I can survive a little morning breath.”

“Gross,” you laughed.

Dean flipped a pancake with practiced ease, placing it on a growing stack beside the bacon. He pulled two mismatched mugs from the cabinet — his was classic black, yours had a tiny cartoon moose on it, a joke gift from Sam. He poured the coffee and slid it toward you like a bartender at a dive bar.

You took a grateful sip. “Mmm. This almost makes up for you leaving the bed.”

“I made bacon,” Dean said with a mock-wounded look. “Do you know how much love goes into me sharing bacon?”

“Your eternal love is measured in strips of cured meat?”

“Exactly.” He nudged your nose with his. “Now sit your adorable butt down and let me spoil you, woman.”

You obeyed, plopping into one of the chairs at the small kitchen table, watching as Dean brought the plates over. Pancakes stacked high, whipped cream on the side (because he remembered you didn’t like it melting on top), and a syrup bottle already warm from sitting near the stove.

Dean sat beside you, not across from you, his thigh brushing against yours as he stole a piece of bacon from your plate with a wink.

You mock-glared. “Rude.”

“You love me,” he said with his mouth full.

“Debatable.”

He leaned in close, voice low and teasing. “You wore my flannel.”

“Okay, fine,” you mumbled, cheeks warming. “I love you. Especially when you feed me.”

Dean chuckled, that deep, gravelly sound that always gave you butterflies. He leaned in again, this time brushing a kiss to your temple. “I love you too. Even if you hog the covers.”

“You’re the human furnace in this relationship!”

“You literally sleep like a starfish. I’ve almost died from blanket suffocation.”

You laughed so hard you nearly choked on your coffee, and Dean just sat there, watching you with that same dopey smile he only let out when things were quiet — when he didn’t have to be the hunter, the soldier, the protector.

Just Dean.

After breakfast, you ended up curled on the couch together in the war room, a thick blanket tossed over you both, his arms tight around your waist. The record player kept spinning soft, crackling rock ballads, and you laid there, tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

Dean kissed the top of your head, voice barely above a whisper. “We should do this more often.”

You closed your eyes. “Do what?”

“This. You and me. Just… being.”

You looked up at him, heart swelling. “You deserve to just be, Dean. You really do.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, thumb brushing your cheek like he was memorizing you. “Thanks for reminding me.”

©2025 gh0stvi0lets rights.

୨ৎ tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl @lyarr24 @profounddreamsorsomething

[gh0stvi0lets]

…sub!dean (or switch, like he tries to sub but gets too frustrated and it turns into him being on top?) smut pls? (i need this man SO bad you don’t understand 💔💔💔)

(yes i am slightly ashamed of myself but lowkey…. 👀)

-🔆

⋆˚✿˖° control issues,

pairing. switch!dean winchester x reader ( female )

wordcount. 701 genre. smut ( mdni )

warnings. explicit sexual content, power play, switch dynamics, light bondage (cuffs), dirty talk, slight sub!dean that turns into dom!dean, mild frustration-turned-passion, consensual, heated dynamic shift, language.

notes. hell, i'll be damned. this might be my favorite smut ever

It starts as a joke. Or at least, you think it does.

Dean’s sprawled on the bed, cocky as ever, lips tugged into a lazy grin. “Alright,” he says, holding up the cuffs with a tilt of his head. “You wanna play boss? I’ll behave.”

You raise a brow. “You? Obedient? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Hey,” he smirks, shifting to sit up, “I can follow orders. If they come with the right kind of… motivation.”

You pluck the cuffs from his hand, toss them onto the mattress between you. “Then lie down and shut up, Winchester.”

He does—smug as hell, clearly entertained. Arms up. Wrists ready. A part of him is probably still thinking he’s indulging you, letting you have your fun.

You straddle his waist, click the cuffs into place around the headboard. Metal snaps closed, and that’s when you see it.

That tiny flicker in his eyes.

Uncertainty.

Not fear. Not hesitation. Just… unfamiliar ground.

You lean in, lips brushing his. “Still with me?”

He nods once, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

You trail your mouth down his throat, biting lightly at his pulse, taking your time. He’s already hard beneath you, shifting against your hips like he’s barely holding back. But you don’t rush.

That’s the point.

You kiss your way down his chest, your fingers ghosting over his abs, teasing the waistband of his boxers. Every time he bucks his hips, you pull back. Every time he groans, you slow down.

Dean Winchester doesn’t beg—but he gets damn close.

“Jesus,” he hisses, muscles tense. “You trying to kill me?”

You smile sweetly. “What happened to behaving?”

He groans. “I’m trying. Fuck, sweetheart, I’m trying.”

You lean down and kiss him again, slow and deep, hands dragging up his thighs. You grind down against him deliberately—letting him feel how wet you are, how ready—and still don’t let him take control.

And that’s when it happens.

Something shifts.

He yanks at the cuffs—hard—and when they don’t budge, he growls. “Let me touch you.”

You pretend to think. “Mmm… no.”

His eyes darken. “I swear to God…”

“Dean.” You lean in, mouthing at his jaw. “You said you’d behave.”

“Yeah, well—” he grits, eyes locked on yours, voice low and rough— “I lied.”

And just like that, it flips.

He pulls hard enough that the cuffs jangle against the frame, eyes wild, mouth crashing into yours. You fumble with the key, laughing breathlessly as you free one wrist, and then he’s on you. Fast. Starving. All control ripped away from your hands and devoured by his.

You barely catch your breath before he flips you onto your back, shoving your thighs apart, mouth dragging hot kisses down your body like he’s reclaiming something.

“Thought you could tease me?” he mutters against your stomach. “Keep me helpless while you took your sweet time?”

You moan as his fingers slide inside you, rough and precise.

“You liked it,” you gasp.

“Damn right I did,” he growls. “And now you’re gonna get it back.”

He fucks you with his fingers until you're begging, writhing, nails clawing at his back. Then he replaces them with his cock, thrusting in deep—hard and perfect, every snap of his hips angry and hot and a little out of control.

“You wanna call the shots?” he pants. “Then say it.”

“Dean—”

“Say it.”

You moan his name again, louder this time, and he grabs your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice shaking. “You wanna be in charge? Fine. But not tonight.”

You nod, whimpering, and that’s all he needs.

He drives into you harder, both of you slick with sweat, bodies colliding with messy, desperate rhythm. The bed creaks beneath you, his name tangled in curses and pleas. You come fast, your back arching off the sheets, and he follows—groaning against your throat, pulsing deep inside you.

When it’s over, you lie there tangled together, breathing hard, sticky and sated.

Dean brushes his thumb over your jaw. “Still think I’m the sub type?”

You grin, sore and glowing. “You lasted longer than I expected.”

He laughs, low and wrecked. “Yeah, well. Don’t tempt me next time unless you’re ready for round two.”

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

[gh0stvi0lets]

• Why did I start this Tumblr blog ?

(Thank you for the tag @mostlymarvelgirl <3)

Well, I just love writing and I was seeing lots of fic in here so I thought it could be fun to share mine as well.

౨ৎ tags: anyone who wants bc I just don’t know who to tag in this lmao

❤︎ WHAT CAUSED YOU TO START A TUMBLR BLOG?

i saw so many cool tmnt fanarts from tumblr on pinterest and then decided to go straight to the source after some time!

tags .ᐟ @glowydiaries @calamaroo @mooshie-blue @hers-underwraps @your-mommy-ems @daystarpoet @sweetheartcrush @gentlehue @comehomeetomyheart @lovestruckhaze @inkstainsonmysheets @cherryribbcns @lovethornes @cowboylikemily @jjsblueberry @binibby @maybxlle @auntiejohn @haeerizm @lilywalkers

[gh0stvi0lets]

⋆˚࿔ Skates and Sweethearts

summary. Cheering loud, loving louder—Sam’s biggest fan on and off the ice.

pairing. teen hockey player Sam Winchester x reader

wordcount. 728

join taglist.

───────── ⛸️ ──────────

The ice rink was freezing, but your heart was warm with excitement.

You tugged your scarf tighter around your neck, grinning as your eyes scanned the players skating laps across the ice in warmups. And then—there he was. Sam Winchester, #12, your boyfriend, your pride and joy.

Even with his helmet on, you’d recognize him anywhere. Tall, graceful despite his bulkier padding, all long limbs and quiet focus. His dark brown hair curled slightly beneath his helmet, and when he skated past your side of the rink, he looked up—like he knew exactly where to find you.

You waved enthusiastically, and sure enough, he spotted you. Sam’s lips curved into a shy grin, and he lifted his glove to give you a small wave back. Your stomach did a little flip.

“God, he’s such a dork,” you mumbled to yourself fondly.

“Who, Sam?” your friend Jenna teased, popping a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “You’re practically melting. Should we leave you two alone with the Zamboni?”

You laughed, shoving her playfully. “Shut up. It’s a big game, okay? I’m just here for moral support.”

Jenna smirked. “Moral support… and heart eyes.”

She wasn’t wrong.

─────────

The game started with a crack of the puck against the boards and the roar of the crowd echoing in the rink.

Sam played defense, always the calm in the storm, holding the blue line with focused intensity. You watched as he intercepted a pass cleanly, pivoted, and sent the puck across the rink like it was second nature.

“Let’s go, Sammy!” you yelled, cupping your hands around your mouth.

He didn’t look up this time—too locked in—but you saw the way his shoulders squared a little, the way he dug his skates in deeper.

You knew him. He’d heard you.

The first period ended in a tie, and the team skated back to the bench, breath steaming in the cold. Sam lingered near the edge of the rink for a second, then turned, spotted you in the stands, and gave you a subtle thumbs up.

Your heart fluttered.

─────────

During intermission, you leaned over the glass, waiting. You knew Sam always snuck a peek at the crowd before skating back out.

Sure enough, he appeared, helmet pushed back, sweat dampening the curls on his forehead.

“Hey, superstar!” you called.

Sam turned, face lighting up the second he saw you.

“Hey yourself,” he said, his voice a little muffled by the helmet, but no less warm. “You’re loud tonight.”

“I always am,” you said proudly. “Win this thing, yeah?”

He grinned, a little breathless. “For you? Anything.”

Before the ref could blow the whistle, he leaned in and tapped the glass right in front of your hand. It wasn’t much—a small gesture—but it made your whole chest squeeze with love.

─────────

The third period was down to the wire. Tie game, one minute left on the clock.

Your leg bounced uncontrollably as you watched Sam skate across the blue line, battling a forward from the other team for the puck. He twisted at just the right moment, hooked it with his stick, and flung it toward center ice.

The puck ricocheted, a perfect assist—and then the goal horn blared.

You leapt to your feet, screaming, voice joining the sea of cheers.

“YES, SAM! THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND!” you shrieked without shame.

Jenna whistled beside you. “Okay, that was hot.”

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes. Sam had turned back toward his bench, his teammates clapping him on the back, but you saw him glance up again, scanning, like he needed to see you to believe it really happened.

You pressed your hand against the glass again and mouthed, You did it.

─────────

After the final buzzer, the team poured off the bench, swarming the ice with victory yells and sticks raised. You waited near the edge of the rink, heart racing.

Eventually, Sam skated off, helmet under his arm, cheeks flushed and sweaty, a proud smile tugging at his lips.

He spotted you immediately and made a beeline.

“Hey, champ!” you said, bouncing on your toes. “You were incredible out there.”

Before he could say anything, you pulled him into a hug—armor padding and all. He smelled like ice and sweat and the faint hint of his shampoo, and you didn’t care about any of it.

“I couldn’t stop looking for you,” he murmured against your hair.

You pulled back, eyes wide and soft. “You found me every time.”

Sam smiled and cupped your cheeks gently with his gloved hands, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Thanks for being here,” he said, voice low. “I mean it.”

“Always,” you said simply.

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. 

He leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow, not caring who saw. You could hear Jenna whooping somewhere behind you, but all you felt was him—warm and safe and yours.

When he finally pulled away, his cheeks pink for reasons other than the cold, he whispered, “Let’s go get hot chocolate. My treat.”

You beamed. “With extra whipped cream?”

“For the best cheerleader in the world? Of course.”

©2025 gh0stvi0lets rights.

୨ৎ tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl @littleladydemon

[gh0stvi0lets]

⋆˚࿔ Glass House

summary. Sam takes care of you during a painful night of withdrawal, refusing to leave your side.

pairing. Sam Winchester x reader

genre. hurt/comfort

warnings. alcohol addiction, withdrawal symptoms, vomiting, emotional vulnerability, swearing

wordcount. 933

notes. I haven’t write about Sam in so long, I missed my man so much (promise some more happy and cute fic will come 🙏🏻)

join taglist.

The motel room stank of cheap vodka and sweat. Stale air pressed heavy against the drawn blinds, turning the space into a humid prison. Somewhere in the corner, the clock blinked 3:14 AM in relentless red.

Sam had been sitting in the creaky chair for hours, legs stretched out, hands nervously wringing the hem of his flannel. The bottle you'd tried to hide under the sink was shattered in the tub, the acrid scent of alcohol still clinging to the air like guilt.

You were sprawled across the bed, eyes half-lidded, barely conscious, sweat beading on your forehead. Your shirt was damp. Your jeans were on the floor. Sam had pulled the comforter halfway up your legs but left your arms free—because every time he tried to tuck you in, you thrashed and cursed and tried to hit him.

“Stop hovering,” you slurred again, voice thick like syrup. “I’m fine, Sammy…”

“You’re not fine,” he said quietly.

“I said I’m fine, goddammit!”

You tried to push yourself up, maybe to prove your point, but gravity betrayed you. You barely made it a few inches before you collapsed against the mattress with a frustrated groan.

Sam was at your side in a second, gently easing you back down. His hand was warm on your clammy skin, and you hated how comforting it felt.

“You’re sweating through the sheets,” he murmured, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “You’re shaking. Your pupils are blown wide. You haven’t eaten in over a day.”

“Shut up, Sam,” you muttered. “Don’t wanna hear your FBI bullshit right now. I just—I just need a drink. Just one.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Fuck you” you hissed, trying to turn away, but your limbs were noodles.

He didn’t flinch. Not anymore. Not after the third relapse. Not after he'd seen you curled up in a pool of your own vomit outside a dive bar in Nebraska.

“I’m staying,” he said gently, resolutely. “You don’t have to like it.”

The withdrawals were the worst part. Your body ached in places you didn’t know could hurt. Your skin crawled like insects had burrowed beneath it. You threw up in the trash can twice, each time dry-heaving after, sobbing weakly between spasms.

“I hate you,” you mumbled into the pillow.

“I know,” Sam replied, holding back your hair. “You can hate me all you want.”

You didn’t mean it. Or maybe you did. It didn’t matter right now. The truth was slippery.

When the tremors got worse, he laid behind you, arms wrapping carefully around your shivering frame. You tried to shove him off at first, weak swipes of your hand against his chest, but he stayed. Unyielding.

You cried. You hated yourself for it, but it wouldn’t stop. Hot, choking sobs that wracked your chest and left you gasping for air. You felt like you were dying. Maybe you were.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t, Sam. It hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

“You should leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You turned your face toward him, eyes bleary. “Why not? You should. I’m a fucking mess.”

His eyes searched yours—soft, unwavering. “Because I love you.”

You closed your eyes.

You hated him for saying it. Hated how much you needed to hear it.

An hour later, you were still curled against him, your head pressed to his chest. He was reading aloud from some book he found in his duffel—The Great Gatsby, of all things—his voice slow and deep and steady. A tether in the chaos.

You didn’t care about Gatsby. Or Daisy. But Sam’s voice was the only thing holding you together.

When the next wave of nausea hit, he was there with the trash can again. He wiped your mouth with a towel and rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles.

“I’m disgusting,” you muttered.

“You’re human.”

“I’m weak”

“You’re hurting,” he corrected, gently but firmly. “That’s not the same thing.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy. “You think I can really stop?”

Sam leaned forward, his hand finding yours.

“I think you can do anything—if you don’t do it alone.”

When the sun finally rose, bleeding soft pink through the dusty blinds, you were asleep on his chest, breath slow and even for the first time in hours.

He didn’t move. Not even to stretch his legs.

He just held you.

And for once, you didn’t fight him.

©2025 gh0stvi0lets rights.

୨ৎ tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl @littleladydemon

[gh0stvi0lets]

I’ve been thinking, what would you think of something where the reader works with everyone in Storybrooke (excluding Regina and Rumple) to give Emma the best birthday party possible? Perhaps the reader keeps Emma occupied and when they head into Granny’s for dinner, everyone surprises her? And the whole thing becomes a great party. 🥳

(After all, the OUAT pilot included Emma’s birthday and her making a wish to not be alone anymore, right before Henry showed up. Personally I think it would’ve been nice if the show ended with Emma’s birthday but she’s surrounded by her family and friends in Storybrooke, making it come full circle)

⋆˚࿔ Once Upon a Birthday

summary. Emma’s birthday wish comes full circle—with family, friends, and love filling Storybrooke at last.

pairing. Emma Swan x reader (gn)

wordcount. 844

notes. I loved writing this so much, thanks for requesting <3 (and sorry for the late again 🙏🏻)

join taglist.

Emma never made a big deal out of birthdays.

Years of bouncing through foster homes taught her not to expect balloons or cake. The candles never got lit. The gifts were usually more “secondhand sweater” and less “heartfelt gesture.” She didn’t hate birthdays—they just felt… forgettable.

But now, as she stood with you outside Granny’s Diner on the exact day she turned another year older, her hand tucked comfortably in yours, Emma had to admit: it felt different this year.

You smiled at her, seemingly casual. “C’mon, Swan. Dinner’s on me.”

She arched a brow. “You’re treating me to lukewarm coffee and Ruby’s barely-legal cooking?”

“First off, Ruby’s learned to cook. Second… yeah, pretty much.”

Emma snorted, shaking her head. “Well, in that case.”

She reached for the door.

Earlier That Morning…

Storybrooke was buzzing.

Literally buzzing—you could hear Leroy yelling instructions at the other dwarves from blocks away, and Snow was running around like a woman possessed.

You stood in the middle of the town square, arms full of decorations, trying not to get trampled by David and Hook as they wrestled a banner onto the light posts.

“Careful with that!” you hissed as one end slipped off and nearly decapitated Dopey.

“Sorry!” David called, flustered.

Hook straightened the pole with a grin. “Not exactly the sea, but we’ll make do.”

Henry jogged up to you, clipboard in hand. “Y/n, the cupcakes are done. Belle and Zelena handled the gift table. Operation Swan Sparkle is a go.”

You raised an impressed brow. “You actually gave it an operation name?”

He shrugged. “It felt right. It's Mom’s birthday.”

“Full circle,” you murmured.

“Exactly.”

Back to Present…

Emma stepped into Granny’s expecting maybe a table in the corner, maybe you ordering her a burger with extra onion rings.

What she didn’t expect was everyone.

“SURPRISE!!!”

The diner exploded with cheers and confetti. Ruby hit play on an old-school boombox, blasting cheesy ‘80s music as the entire town stood there grinning—Snow, David, Hook, Henry, Belle, Zelena, Archie, the dwarves, Granny, even freaking Pongo with a birthday hat balanced on his furry head.

Emma blinked. For a second, she didn’t say anything. She just stared, jaw slack, eyes wide.

You leaned in, whispering, “Happy birthday, Sheriff Swan.”

“You did all this?” she asked, voice suddenly small.

“Well… we did.”

Henry ran up and threw his arms around her. “You’re not alone anymore, Mom. You never have to be again.”

And just like that, Emma Swan teared up.

Not the kind of tears she used to fight back with a clenched jaw and stiff shoulders. These were happy tears. Warm, safe ones.

“I… wow,” she managed. “Thank you.”

Granny approached with a tray of cupcakes stacked like a pyramid, each one topped with a sparkler. “Make a wish, dear.”

Emma looked around the room—at her parents, her son, her strange and wonderful family, and you standing beside her with that look in your eyes.

She smiled.

“I already got it.”

Hours Later…

The party was in full swing.

Ruby had turned off the diner’s lights and strung up fairy lights and lanterns, casting a warm glow over everything. Archie played acoustic guitar while Bashful and Happy sang backup (surprisingly well). Snow somehow convinced half the town to dance in a conga line. Henry was teaching baby Neal how to play pin-the-tail-on-the-dragon.

You stood off to the side, sipping cider, watching Emma laugh with her parents. She looked more at peace than you’d ever seen her.

“You did good,” Hook said beside you, gently elbowing your ribs. “She needed this.”

“She deserves this,” you said simply.

As if sensing your gaze, Emma looked your way.

She crossed the room and tugged you into her arms, resting her forehead against yours.

“You really went all out,” she whispered.

“Only because you’re worth it.”

She laughed softly. “Think we can make this a tradition?”

“I don’t see why not. Storybrooke seems to love a good party.”

“Well then,” she said, brushing her lips against your cheek, “let’s give them a reason to keep celebrating.”

You smiled.

Emma Swan had once made a wish on a lonely birthday to not be alone anymore.

And now, all these years later, surrounded by the people who loved her, in a town that had become a true home, that wish had finally, truly come true.

©2025 gh0stvi0lets rights.

[gh0stvi0lets]

𝘋𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘢𝘨 𝘕𝘰 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦,

──────── ♱ ─────────

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 5(𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭) 𝘰𝘧: 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. teenage dirtbag dean winchester x high school sweetheart reader

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵.

<- PART FOUR

The day you graduate, it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the school parking lot.

Your gown sticks to your back. Your heels are already sinking into the grass of the football field, and the valedictorian speech tucked in your hand feels like it belongs to someone else—someone with a future already planned, someone who didn't fall in love with the town’s loudest, loneliest bad boy.

But none of that matters when you glance over the crowd and spot Dean leaning against the hood of his Impala, arms crossed, sunglasses on, looking completely out of place and like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You haven’t seen him all week.

You hadn’t even been sure he’d come.

But there he is.

And your heart—traitor that it is—stumbles.

Three Days Earlier

You and Dean sat in the back of the Impala in the school parking lot, watching the rain blur the windshield, his hand laced tightly with yours.

“I don’t think I’m staying here after graduation,” you’d said softly.

Dean looked at you, his expression unreadable.

You continued, “I don’t know where I’m going yet, or what I’m doing. But this town—it’s not home anymore. Not since everything changed.”

Dean didn’t speak for a long time. The rain kept tapping on the roof like a metronome.

Then he said the thing you’d been dreading.

“I don’t know if I can leave Sam.”

You nodded. You knew that already.

Sam was still just a freshman. Still stuck with a dad who disappeared for days on end and left dinner in the form of bills and silence. Dean had raised him more than John ever did.

You turned to Dean, heart pounding. “So what does that mean? For us?”

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Neither of you cried. Neither of you yelled.

But the silence that followed was the loudest goodbye you’d ever heard.

Now

Your name is called. You cross the stage. Accept your diploma. Smile for the camera.

But your eyes are searching for him.

And when you get back to your seat, diploma clutched in one hand and a storm swirling in your stomach, your name is called again.

You walk to the podium.

The paper in your hand is not the speech you submitted.

No one else knows that but you.

And Dean.

You adjust the mic and take a breath. “I was supposed to stand up here and talk about ambition. About college, and goals, and what it means to grow up. But that speech... it doesn’t fit anymore.”

The crowd shifts.

You find Dean in the back, sunglasses off now, watching you like the world depends on what you’ll say next.

So you say it.

“When you’re seventeen, everyone expects you to have a five-year plan. To know what you want, who you are, and where you’re going. But no one tells you how hard it is to figure that out when the world around you keeps changing.”

There’s a pause.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t plan to fall in love this year. Especially not with someone messy, complicated, reckless, and real. Someone who sees right through me. Someone who made me realize that love isn’t always clean or easy—but it’s worth it.”

You hear whispers. You see heads turning. But you don’t stop.

“I don’t know where I’m going yet. And maybe I won’t figure it out right away. But I know this: the people who change you, the people who make you stronger, braver, better—they’re worth holding onto. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s hard. Even if you have to fight like hell for it.”

You fold the speech.

Step back.

Your classmates are silent.

Then, applause.

Polite. Confused.

But in the back, you see Dean’s mouth twitch into a stunned smile.

And you know he heard exactly what you said.

The reception is a blur. Photos, cake, sweaty hugs, family. Your parents talk about scholarships and summer jobs. Chad lingers awkwardly in the background. You nod and smile and answer every question with mechanical cheer.

But inside, all you can think is:

Will he wait for me outside?

And when you finally escape—

He’s gone.

The Impala isn’t in the lot.

Your stomach drops like a stone.

You walk home.

Slowly. Alone. Sunlight filtering through the trees like it’s mocking you.

You’re halfway up the porch steps when you hear the low rumble of an engine behind you.

You turn.

The Impala pulls up to the curb, dirt on the sides, music playing low through the open windows—“There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,” your favorite track from Mixtape #6.

Dean steps out.

No leather jacket.

Just a gray t-shirt, scuffed boots, and eyes full of something that looks dangerously close to hope.

You don’t speak.

He walks up the steps slowly, until he’s standing just a few feet away.

“I heard your speech,” he says.

You smile softly. “Thought you might.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I drove home after you finished. Thought maybe that was the end of it. That I should let you go.”

“But?” you ask.

Dean’s eyes search yours. “But then I realized—every time I think about you leaving, it feels like I’m missing something I can’t replace. And I don’t want to be the guy who watches you walk away just because it’s easier than facing the hard stuff.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t have a five-year plan,” Dean admits. “I don’t even have a five-day plan. All I know is, I want to be wherever you are.”

You blink back the tears. “Even if that means leaving?”

He steps closer. “I talked to Bobby.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Your uncle?”

Dean nods. “Told him about Dad, about how he’s never around. Told him I need to stick close to Sam, but I can’t do this alone anymore.”

“What did he say?”

“That I’ve got a spot at his garage. That if I want to stay here for a while, keep Sam with me, build something that isn’t just running from place to place... I can.”

Your heart lurches.

“I’m not asking you to stay for me,” Dean says quickly. “But if you want to stay—with me... there’s room.”

You laugh. A small, broken sound. “I was scared you’d never ask.”

He steps the rest of the way forward.

You meet him there.

And when he kisses you, it’s like the first time all over again—hungry, soft, real.

You melt into him, fingers curling in his shirt.

When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Princess treatment still stands, by the way,” he whispers.

You grin. “Good.”

One Month Later

You’re working part-time at the bookstore downtown while you figure out your next move.

Dean works weekends at Bobby’s, covered in grease and satisfaction.

Sam’s grades have gone up. You help him with homework in the garage while Dean tunes engines and sings off-key to AC/DC.

You and Dean still argue sometimes—about dumb things, like who left the milk out or whose turn it is to do laundry.

But every night ends the same way.

Mixtapes. Slow dancing in the kitchen. Foreheads pressed together in the dark.

He keeps a tulip on the dash of the Impala now.

Plastic. Faded. Perfect.

One Year Later

You get accepted to a writing program three towns over.

Dean drives you there on your first day, holding your hand the whole way.

He lets you go with a kiss and a key on a tulip-shaped keychain.

“You’ll come back, right?” he asks.

You nod. “Always.”

He grins. “Dirtbag and all?”

You lean up and kiss him one more time.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Especially that.”

author’s note. Okay so this is it, the final chapter and the end of this mini series. I hope y’all enjoyed it as much as I did while writing that, I know it’s not perfect I’m clearly not a professional writer but I really tried my best and it was such so much fun. I wanted to thank you y’all, I honestly didn't think so many people would be interested in reading this and all your messages really means a lot to me, thank you <3

I might take a lil break and return to my old one shot fics and then the Sam’ mini series will come as I said I’ll do both <3

୨ৎ tags: @rosemichael12 @iloveyou2mia @britt217 @aylacavebear @angellust333 @suckitands33 @stars4birdie @imsiriuslyreal @iamaslytherin0 @vsploganxx

୨ৎ usual tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl

[gh0stvi0lets]

𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘢𝘨𝘦,

──────── ♱ ─────────

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 4 𝘰𝘧: 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. teenage dirtbag dean winchester x high school sweetheart reader

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 1.5k

<- PART THREE PART FIVE ->

Dean knows he messed up the second the words leave his mouth.

"Don’t be a slut, Y/N. You belong with me, and you know it."

It tastes bitter even as he says it, but it’s too late. You’re already flinching, already pulling away, already shrinking into yourself like he’s something dangerous. And maybe he is.

He drives like a demon down back roads with his jaw clenched and his hands shaking on the wheel. The Impala roars beneath him, but it doesn’t drown out the voice in his head.

You’re just like everyone else.

You didn’t mean to hurt her.

You called her a slut.

He barely remembers getting home. Doesn’t remember killing the engine or storming upstairs. He just remembers the slam of his door and the silence afterward.

And the look on your face.

Like he broke something sacred.

The fallout is swift.

You don’t come to school Monday.

He spends the whole class staring at the empty seat beside him, the crumpled assignment on his desk unread, the silence louder than the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

He doesn’t blame you.

But he hates himself for it.

Every mixtape he made you feels like a joke now. He imagines them shattered on your bedroom floor, magnetic tape strewn across the carpet. Part of him wants to crawl through the pieces and beg for forgiveness. The other part— the part that always ruins everything—thinks maybe he never deserved you to begin with.

But Dean doesn’t sit still for long.

And he sure as hell doesn’t let the best thing that ever happened to him slip away without a fight.

He starts small.

A note in your locker. Folded neatly in half, slipped through the vents.

“I’m sorry. I was angry. You didn’t deserve what I said.”

You don’t respond.

The next day, another note.

 “You’re not a mistake. You’re not a mess. You’re everything good I never thought I deserved.”

Still nothing.

So Dean stops playing small.

And goes full Winchester.

You hear the rumble of the Impala outside your house Friday evening—louder than usual, like he wants you to know he’s there.

You peer through your bedroom blinds and freeze.

He’s standing next to the car, wearing a damn suit.

A black button-up, that he probably borrowed from his father. A tie, loosely knotted. His boots are polished. He’s holding a bouquet of tulips—your favorite. He looks like trouble dressed up in apology.

Your heart stutters.

You don’t go out right away. You don’t want to make this easy.

So you wait.

And he waits.

And eventually, you open your front door and step onto the porch with your arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Dean holds the flowers out toward you like a peace offering.

“They didn’t have roses,” he says. “But I remembered you always drew little tulips in your margins.”

You stare at him. “You remembered that?”

He nods, suddenly shy. “I remember everything about you.”

You take the bouquet slowly, cautiously, like it might burn.

Dean takes a breath. “I was out of line. Hell, I was a total asshole. I know it. And I get it if you never want to talk to me again.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are so damn earnest it hurts.

“But,” he continues, “if there’s even a sliver of a chance you’d let me try to make it up to you, I’ve got a plan.”

You raise a brow. “A plan?”

He grins, boyish and nervous. “A really, really over-the-top, probably dumb-as-hell, rom-com kind of plan.”

You stare at him another beat.

Then sigh. “Alright, Winchester. You get one chance.”

He lights up.

And then he opens the car door for you.

He takes you to the fair.

It’s not even in town—it’s one of those seasonal pop-ups half an hour away, past the train tracks and old gas stations. The kind of fair with flashing lights, sticky fingers, bad music, and a Ferris wheel that creaks a little too much.

And it’s perfect.

Dean buys you a funnel cake before you even ask.

Wins you a stupid stuffed tiger at a rigged ring toss after seven tries in a row.

Carries your jacket without being asked. Walks on the outside of the sidewalk. Smiles at you like he’s trying to memorize your face.

You don’t forgive him right away.

But you don’t pull away when he brushes your hand.

And that’s something.

The Ferris wheel is the last stop.

You’re sitting side by side at the very top, suspended high above the fairgrounds. The lights glitter below. The stars are faint overhead. The wind smells like popcorn and summer and sugar.

Dean is quiet.

For once, he doesn’t try to fill the silence.

He just looks out at the town below like he’s trying to find the words.

“I lost my mom when I was four,” he says finally. “House fire. My dad never really came back from it. Not really. He just... moved us around, chased things in the dark.”

You glance at him.

He’s still staring straight ahead, jaw tight.

“I got good at running. Got even better at pushing people away. But then I met you.”

Your breath catches.

“And for the first time, I didn’t want to run. I wanted to stay. That terrified me more than anything.”

He finally turns to face you.

“When I said what I said, I wasn’t angry at you. I was scared. Because you saw me—the real me—and instead of turning away, you let me in. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

You don’t speak.

Your throat feels tight.

“I don’t want to be the guy who hurts you,” he whispers. “I want to be the one who makes you feel like the happiest girl you deserve to be.”

You look at him—really look—and all the anger you’ve held in your chest starts to loosen. Not vanish. But shift.

Because you can see it now, what he’s been carrying.

The weight of every person who’s ever walked away.

The fear that you’d be next.

You reach over and take his hand.

Dean blinks, startled.

“Dean,” you say softly. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to try.”

He laughs, shaky and small. “Trying my ass off over here.”

You smile, for real this time. “I can tell.”

He leans in, hesitant, waiting for you to meet him halfway.

And you do.

The kiss is softer this time.

Slower.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just real.

When the Ferris wheel starts moving again, you don’t let go of his hand.

Later, in the parking lot, Dean opens the passenger door for you, then pauses.

“I, uh, have one more surprise.”

You look at him warily. “What kind of surprise?”

He reaches into the glovebox and pulls out another mixtape.

But this one’s different.

The label reads: “Track 8 – For When You Forgive Me.”

You laugh. “There were eight?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe nine. I kinda lost count.”

You slide the cassette into the tape deck. A soft guitar strum plays.

There’s a pause on the tape, like he took a shaky breath before recording the next part.

Then comes the song.

It’s raw. Just Dean and an acoustic guitar, the chords slightly clumsy, the rhythm imperfect, but full of heart. You recognize the lyrics—half-finished stanzas he must’ve written himself, messy and beautiful.

Your throat tightens as the song swells, his voice cracking slightly on the chorus.

You blink back tears and turn toward him.

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s gripping the wheel with white knuckles, not looking at you, like he’s bracing for rejection.

But you reach out and cover his hand with yours.

He flinches, then looks over. There’s something naked in his expression—fear, hope, need.

“I’m still mad at you,” you say, voice quiet. “Still hurt.”

He nods slowly. “I know.”

“But I believe you mean this.”

His throat bobs. “Every word.”

You squeeze his hand. “Then don’t just say it in a song. Show me.”

Dean turns toward you, really turns, like he’s coming up for air. “I will. I swear. Every day. If you let me.”

You look at him for a long moment—this boy with a cracked voice, too many walls, and a heart he’s never known how to carry safely.

And then you lean in and kiss him. Not like the first kiss. Not like the desperate one. This one is quiet. Intentional. Steady.

When you finally pull away, Dean’s eyes are glassy.

“Princess treatment,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “All of it. Forever.”

You laugh through your tears. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“I’ve regretted a lot of things,” he says, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “But not this. Never you.”

The tape keeps playing softly in the background, his voice humming under the stars.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, the quiet atmosphere sounds perfect among each other heartbeats.

୨ৎ tags: @rosemichael12 @iloveyou2mia @britt217 @aylacavebear @angellust333 @suckitands33 @stars4birdie @imsiriuslyreal @iamaslytherin0 @vsploganxx

୨ৎ usual tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl

if you'd like to be added to the series’, don't hesitate to let me know!

[gh0stvi0lets]

What would you think about Emma and the reader looking at a house together, and Emma can actually envision a future with them in that house? 🏠

𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴,

──────── ♱ ─────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺. Home isn’t just a house—it’s the two of you building your future together.

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. Emma Swan x reader

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 776

𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴. I loved writing this it’s so sweet, thanks for requesting <3

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The moment the realtor opened the door, you saw it: sunlight filtering through the tall windows, catching in the dust that danced lazily in the air. The place was old, maybe even a little worn down, but it had charm. Character. A story behind every creaky floorboard.

You glanced at Emma, who was already scanning the entryway with a skeptical look. Arms folded across her chest, lips pursed, leather jacket creaking faintly as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“It smells like someone’s grandma lived here,” she muttered.

You smirked, bumping her shoulder. “So? Maybe we’ll find some antique treasure in the attic. Or a ghost.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve had enough ghosts for one lifetime.”

Still, she followed you inside. She always did.

The realtor trailed behind, rambling about square footage and "great bones." You tuned most of it out. You weren’t here for the specs—you were here for a feeling. A spark. Something that told you this could be home.

You stepped into the living room, where light pooled on the hardwood floor. The fireplace was chipped but charming, and the old built-in shelves seemed like they were waiting for stories.

“Okay,” Emma admitted, running her fingers along the stone mantle. “This part isn’t bad.”

You watched her eyes soften just a little. She didn’t notice you watching—she rarely did when her defenses started to slip.

“It’s nice, right?” you said, testing the waters.

Emma’s mouth twitched. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You laughed. “Too late.”

You walked down the hall together, the boards groaning beneath your steps like a whispered conversation. The bedrooms were small but cozy, the kitchen a blank canvas. The backyard was overgrown, but fenced in and quiet, with just enough space for a garden. Or a dog. Or maybe even—

Nope. You stopped yourself there.

But Emma didn’t.

She stood by the back door, gazing out at the tangled yard. Her fingers toyed with the curtain cord absently, eyes distant.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping beside her.

She didn’t answer right away. Then:

“I could see us here.”

Your heart thumped, loud and sudden.

Emma blinked like she couldn’t believe she said it. “I mean—hypothetically. If we did this. The house thing. You know. Settling. Staying.” She glanced over at you, hesitant. “I’ve never... thought about that before. Not really.”

You stayed quiet, letting her talk.

“I used to think I wasn’t made for stuff like this. White picket fences, morning coffee in the kitchen, grocery lists stuck to the fridge. That was for other people. Normal people.”

“You are normal,” you said gently.

Emma let out a soft huff. “I’m really not. But with you…”

She trailed off, then turned to face you fully. Her eyes were clear and open in that rare, unguarded way she only ever showed you.

“With you, I want it. All of it. Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff.”

Something lodged in your throat—emotion, thick and sudden.

“You mean the grocery lists?” you teased, voice a little shaky.

Emma smiled. “Yeah. And the couch naps. The arguing over what color to paint the walls. Fixing up the kitchen cabinets even though we both suck at DIY.”

You looked around at the house, imagining what she saw. A home. Your home. Hers.

“I want that too,” you said quietly. “With you.”

Emma reached out, taking your hand. Her grip was warm and certain, even though she looked like she might bolt at any second.

“I never thought I’d get to have this,” she admitted. “A future.”

You squeezed her hand. “Then let’s build one. Starting here.”

She looked back out at the yard, then at you. And this time, her smile wasn’t hesitant at all. It was real.

“Let’s do it.”