jollyhunter

[jollyhunter]

[jollyhunter]

not if they don't catch u.

i'm afraid it's a crime ._.

[jollyhunter]

Really curious where this is going!!

Are You Here?

Summary: Reader is a shifter, Dean is in love, Rowena is here to save the day.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Cursing (It's me. So of course), Self-deprecation, Shifting Realities, Threatening Gun Violence (kinda? I think you'll get it when you get there), no use of y/n. if i missed anything please let me know.

A/N: This one should cross off "Star Crossed Lovers" for my @jacklesversebingo card! I'm going to be turning this one into a three ? part series. I know I know I've promised series for a while, but this time I'm serious. lmao If you'd like to be tagged just let me know!

Word Count: 1.6k

Dont copy my work, i worked really hard on it and i might cry if you do. You don't want me to cry do you? Comment, reblog, and like if you want! All mistakes are mine, if you notice any errors...my bad.

She had been lying in bed for hours, those fucking TikTok videos repeating over and over behind the lids of her eyes. ‘Keep a journal’ one had said. ‘If you just keep trying it’s bound to happen!’ another had enthusiastically exclaimed. ‘Try this position, that position, only think of your DR!’ came another. And still nothing. The frustrated sigh that left her was heavy as she rose from the bed to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. All she wanted was to escape this world and all its problems, to hit the road with Sam and Dean in another reality. A dark chuckle escaped her lips at the thought. Yeah right, you should’ve known better than to believe in all that crap. Nothing will get you out of this boring life.

                She leaned against the counter as she filled a small glass and took a long swig before laughing again, “So fucking silly. Why would I even think that would work?” She mumbled to herself, shaking her head slowly, “Multiverse? What a joke…” She carefully placed the glass down into the sink, deciding to head back to bed for the night. She placed an episode at low volume and dozed off to the sound of Sam and Dean’s adventures.

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

                The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. The two brothers had been sitting with their heads buried in books for what felt like an eternity as they tried, and failed, to wake the sleeping woman across the room. Page after page of unanswered questions had only fueled the fire raging in Deans mind.

“She’s been like this for days! Why won’t she wake up?” Dean’s gruff voice echoed around the library as he stared in frustration at the love of his life, “It’s never taken this long before.”

                Sam glanced up from the large book in front of him, peering over at his older brother. Dean’s shoulders were slumped, the bags under his eyes somehow darker as exhaustion set in, and yet he never left her side. Sam sighs as he placed his head in his hands, frustration radiating off him. Before he can respond to the rhetorical question from his older sibling, the door at the top of the stairs slammed open, metal clanging against the wall. The cold metal of his pistol touched his palm as he rose from his seat, hand firmly wrapped around the weapon on his side. He glanced again over at Dean who had already raised his own gun, pointing it in the direction of the stairs when a pile of books carried by a bundle of bouncing red curls came struggling into the room.

                “If you don’t mind!” Rowena’s annoyed voice came muffled from behind the lore and Sam jumped forward to grab the books before they fell. The red-headed woman wiped her hands along the sides of her long dress as she glared up at the two Winchesters, “Buffoons.”

                Dean slotted his pistol back in his jacket and sent a narrow look down at the witch while nodding in the direction of Sam who was placing the books down on the table, “What’s all this?”

                “Help.” She stated confidently before strutting across the room to peer down at the unconscious woman laying across the infirmary cot, “How long has she been like this?”

                “A couple days.” Dean mumbled, stepping closely behind the witch, “Why do you care?”

                His poor attitude didn’t go unnoticed. Jaw ticking, Rowena glanced back up at him, hands clasped firmly at her waist, “Well, while I don’t particularly enjoy your presence…” She sends him a pointed look before softening her gaze on the woman below them, “She has wormed her way into my heart. And I would hate to be stuck in this world where she doesn’t exist and you’re a mopey, brooding mess again.”

                “Gee, thanks for that.” Dean replied, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He slipped down into the chair beside the cot, his hand clasping hers unconsciously as the hardness in his tone slips away, “Have you found anything that could help? I know she does this a lot…you know sleeps or whatever this is, but I’ve always been able to wake her.”

                The sigh that left Rowena’s lips brought Dean no comfort, his head hanging a bit as he waited for her reply. None came, however, instead Sam piped in from his place still at the table, “What do you mean ‘stuck in this world where she doesn’t exist’?”

                “I was hoping one of you would catch that.” Rowena began, a smile obvious in her tone, “I should’ve known it would be the one with the big brain.”

                “Watch it.” Dean starts, “I read.”

                “Of course you do, Dear Boy. Anywho,” Rowena spun on her heel and grabbed a small book from the top of the stack, “I assume you both recall that Chuck was destroying worlds before his tragic demise at the Nephilim’s hands?”

                “Kinda hard to forget.” Sam’s sarcastic response cut in, the grimace on his face only spurring Rowena on.

                “Well, there are many, many universes out there, boys.” She continued, flipping through the book as she spoke, “Many universes with many people who no longer wish to be in their universes.”

                “Yeah, and what does that have to do with her?” Dean piped in, nodding at the body beside him.

                “Well, Dearie, it seems that the love of your life is from one of those universes.” Rowena’s brash response hit Dean like a train. From another universe? No way, she knows so much about this one, so much about this life. It could be possible, it could be…but she would’ve said something by now, wouldn’t she? She would’ve told me. His rampant thoughts ran wild as he tried to process what Rowena was telling them.

                “From somewhere else? Like from one of the universes Chuck was trying to destroy?” Dean’s head snapped in Sam’s direction, his younger brother jumping into action where Dean could not.

                “Oh, I’m sure Chuck would’ve destroyed it eventually. But no. I believe our sweet girl is trying to escape the life she lived there. I believe she’s looking for something…more.” Rowena responded with a curt nod and a smile down at the woman, “I can’t know her reasoning for certain without asking, but I’ve had suspicions for quite some time that we had a Shifter on our hands.”

                “She’s not a shifter, Rowena. I did all the tests on her when we found her. She didn’t have any reaction to silver except cussing me out after I sliced her palm.” Dean replied with a small grin, the memory causing a slight chuckle to escape him.

                “Not your kind of shifter, Dean.” Rowena placed a hand on his shoulder as she peered down at him. The hunters green eyes meet hers in confusion as she finally answers the unspoken question between them, “A Reality Shifter.”

                “Reality?” Dean whispers, “Like she came here on purpose?”

                “Yes. But She doesn’t seem to know that she isn’t truly from here; Honestly, I can’t say that she knows she’s shifting at all.” Rowena answered, “I’m unsure how she did it, but I’ve been keeping my eyes on her for a while and I don’t think she’s realized that this isn’t where she belongs.”

                Dean jerked his shoulder from her grasp, standing to his feet, “She belongs here. With us. With me.”

                Rowena dropped her hand back to her side, sending a scowl at Dean’s reaction, “Of course, Dearie. I do think she belongs with you, soulmates and all the disgusting things that come with it; I just mean that this isn’t her true reality.”

                Sam’s chair scraped against the floor as he moved to stand beside his brother, realizing what Rowena was trying to tell them before Dean, “Are you trying to say that they’re meant to be, but they can never be? Like star-crossed lovers?”

                Sam could practically hear Dean’s eyes roll, “This isn’t some Romeo and Juliet crap. This is my life, our life.”

                “Exactly.” Sam mumbled, sending Dean a grimace, “When has either one of us ever been lucky enough to be as happy as the two of you’ve been?”

                “I do mean star-crossed lovers, Dean.” Rowena interjected, “You can’t honestly believe that Chuck would allow you to find your soulmate before he died without some kind of catch?”

                Dean felt the air leave his lungs, that thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, but it should’ve. Why wouldn’t Chuck try to ruin his life again from The Great Beyond? He could never have anything good in his life. Never be happy, never truly love and be loved. He was meant for death and destruction, and that Apple Pie life would always and forever be just out of reach. No, He shakes the negative thoughts from his mind, finally deciding to come to his senses as he stares down at the beautiful woman sleeping peacefully next to him, I’m waking her up. I’m getting her back and then I’m gonna throttle her for ever doing this shit in the first place.

                “Well, how do we wake her up?” He growled out, “Can we wake her up?”

                “I believe we can. But it’s going to take a while, and she’s going to need to be told everything when she comes to.” Rowena answered, pilfering through the titles she brought with her, “It’s going to be time consuming, but I brought everything I could think of to help.”

                “And I’m sure we’ll owe you after this?” Sam grunted in response.

                A sweet smile crossed Rowena’s face, and she peered back at the body laying across the cot, “I owe her, consider this me repaying my debt.”

                “Then let’s figure this shit out.” Dean sternly replied as he dropped a hand to the top of her head, leaning down to whisper in her ear before placing a sweet kiss to her head, “I’m gonna fix this and when I get you back, you’re never doing this shit again.”

______________________________________________________________

Taglist: @lmhf1 @whimsyfinny @enigmalynne @k-slla @envysarchive

@daisydark @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @manicjk @aylacavebear

@suckitands33 @oceean @mxtansy @justwhisperingfantasies @mgchaser

@xinsonyax

[jollyhunter]

This is so cool! Please always do geek out.

I just realized why I loved your description so much in this story. And why it just automatically played out as an early season episode in my head.

It’s not just the way you described it so vividly but also the way you painted the setting. It feels exactly like the first season. And I LOVE and miss that so much in the show. The way everything was dark, gritty, rough and raw. Even the clothings were worn out and you could tell they’d gone through the wringer - just like the places they’d visit.

In contrast we have the two brothers banter in the most diabolical (Butcher says hi) settings. <3

And YESS THE LORE. I can’t wait to read about them try to do research in some crappy run down motel room. Sam drowning in piles and piles of old books in some dusty library and the more they dig up the worse things get. Just like in the old times!

I’m also a sucker for lore and when I read about this idea of Hekate I was instantly intrigued. So kudos to you for doing the research and weaving this into the canon world of Supernatural! Can’t wait to read more of it and relive the old times vibe <3

𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕄𝔸ℝ𝕂 𝕆𝔽 ℍ𝔼ℂ𝔸𝕋𝔼 ── ℙℝ𝕆𝕃𝕆𝔾𝕌𝔼

— dean accidentally opens the box of a familiar, and you're not exactly thrilled to have been bound to a hunter. — not much for warnings, gross witchy scenery? 3k words

The hunt should have been over the second Dean sent a bullet through the witch’s heart. That should have been the final act, clean and simple. But Sam—of course—was adamant about raiding her lair for books to add to the bunker’s archives.

Dean could handle hunting a witch just fine—gross as hell, but manageable. A coven? Sure, stomach-churning, but he’d get it done. A witch’s lair, though? That was where he drew a hard line.

The house itself had looked deceptively normal, an old Victorian tucked amongst a dense forest of willow trees. As the witch’s body turned to ash in the backyard, Dean followed Sam into the basement. Cool, damp stone walls seemed to absorb every bit of light, the beam from their flashlights swallowed by shadowed corners as though the darkness itself were alive. 

Dean lingered near the stone steps as Sam meandered around, not nearly as phased by the chaotic graveyard of horrors stored on every rotting wooden shelf.

The space was small, unease creeping up Dean’s spine as he stood between the shelves and tables that buckled under the weight of dozens of glass jars. Each filled with murky liquids or splintered bones, some crammed with grotesque chunks of something—hair, teeth, both. A viscous, questionable goo dripped from the edges of the shelf near his head, pooling onto the cold stone floor. In the corner, an ominous object shrouded in swirling fog pulsed faintly, as if it were breathing.

Every fiber of Dean’s being recoiled in protest.

His grimace deepened as his eyes flicked between the copious amount of jars, trying to find the least disgusting focal point. But the cauldron on his left was impossible to ignore, its grotesque contents bubbling and hissing as steam curled into the air. The smell of rotting flesh wafted through the air, sharp and cloying with each pop, hiss, pop. It burned his nose enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Dean squinted at the rancid brew, his brows drawing together in disgust. “Is that—blood?” he muttered under his breath. “Oh, hell no.” He thought he saw something floating in it—a hand, maybe. Pointing his flashlight at the pot, a small pale patch of skin gleamed in the light. Definitely a hand. 

He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising bile, when Sam’s voice rang out like a gunshot, sharp and urgent.

“What the—Dean!”

The urgency in Sam’s tone trigged every sensitive nerve, turning over into adrenaline that surged through Dean’s veins. His body moved on instinct, rounding the corner with his ivory Colt raised, his heart pounding in his ears.

“What?” he barked, his voice sharp with a dreadful medley of fear and irritation. Clearing his throat, he tried again, steadier but no less on edge. “What is it?”

He skidded to a stop, the sight before him turning his stomach anew. Sam stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, staring at an altar of what Dean could only recognize as archaic dark magic.

The altar dominated the room, massive and ominous. Carved from dark, weathered stone, it looked ancient, as though it had been forged centuries ago in a time best left forgotten. Symbols and figures sprawled across its surface and the surrounding walls, their etched edges worn smooth by the passage of time. The carvings seemed alive in the flickering light of dozens of candles arranged in a deliberate circle around the altar’s platform. The golden glow casts eerie, dancing shadows that seem to twist and shift like living things.

At the center of the altar sat a sleek, coffin-shaped box, the soft brown wood a stark contrast to the horrors of the stone above. A massive steel lock secured it, its design intricate, almost ceremonial, and clearly ancient. From the edges of the box, faint tendrils of white mist curled outward, drifting like restless spirits.

Dean’s gaze narrowed as he approached the box, his instincts prickling. A glass window gave view to the inside, something like a face looked back at Dean, obscured by the swirling mist. But as he leaned closer, he could just make out the curves of a woman’s face. He couldn’t if he was looking at something dead or alive, the haze and stillness disorienting any semblance of life.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, a silent plea in his worried eyes as his chin jerked toward the box sitting ominously in the middle of the room. Faint glints of magic pulsed a glowing green in the veins of the woodwork, as if the box itself contained more life than the body inside. Dean couldn’t ignore the slight hum emitting from the cursed thing, oppressive and low like a growling predator—bowed and ready to lurch. 

Dean turned to him, incredulous, his expression a mix of defiance and disgust. “I’m not touching that thing.” He straightens his back, but can’t help glancing back. The humming invaded his senses, seeping into his ear drums and beckoning his attention. 

Sam’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he shot Dean a look. “We have to check if she’s alive.”

Dean crossed his arms, glancing between Sam and the coffin. “Okay, great. You do it then.”

“Oh, come on—” Sam started, exasperated.

“No. Absolutely not. You do it,” Dean cut him off, taking a step back for emphasis.

Sam rolled his eyes, his shoulders tensing with irritation as he mimnicked Dean’s retreat, but the advantage of his longer stride puts far more distance between him and the entity. “You’re closer.”

Dean scoffs, “I’m also smart enough to not mess with whatever that is,” Dean shot back, jabbing a finger toward the box. 

The tension hung thick in the stale, musty air of the room. Their argument devolving into a silent battle of glares and clenched jaws, the kind of stubborn standoff only brothers could maintain. The faint sound of something dripping—water or something far worse—echoed from the shadows, an eerie rhythm pattering to their exchange.

Finally, Sam huffed and threw his hands up, his patience wearing thin. “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”

Dean groaned loudly, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. He rubbed a hand down his face as if physically preparing himself for what was to come. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, but Sam’s determined look left no room for argument.

With a resigned sigh, Dean tucked his colt behind his back, exchanging it for a fist in one hand, the other opened flat beneath it. His lips curled in a reluctant grimace. “Fine, let’s do this.”

They counted together, the rhythm of their voices tense and clipped between the echos of dripping water and magic’s hum. On the third count, Dean groaned, his shoulders sagging as Sam’s paper crushed his rock.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered, punctuating his frustration with a string of colorful curses. Sam smirked faintly as he handed over his sawed off shotgun, clearly enjoying his victory a little too much. Dean snatched the weapon with a scowl.

“She better not bite me,” Dean grumbled under his breath, rolling his neck as if psyching himself up. He flexed his fingers around the gun, shaking out his hands before turning his full attention to the box.

The object loomed in the dim light, taunting him. The faint metallic tang of old blood mixed with the musty smell of decay hanging heavy in the air. Dean’s lip curled in distaste as he stepped closer, shotgun poised.

With a muttered curse, he raised the weapon and brought the butt of the gun down hard on the rusted lock. The sharp crack echoed off the stone walls like a gunshot, the steel clasp clattering to the floor with an ominous finality.

The lid creaked open with an almost deliberate slowness, releasing a thick plume of white fog that hissed as it spilled out, curling unnaturally across the floor. The fog carried a potent floral scent, one that would be sweet had it not come billowing out with an offensive invasion of every sense. It clings to their throats, earthy and rich on their tongues. Both brothers cough and sputter, trying to expel the heady fragrance. 

Dean swatted futilely at the cloud as he shoved Sam’s gun back into his brother’s grasp, his face twisted in irritation. The air felt suffocating now, thick and almost alive as it pressed against their skin.

“Fucking witches,” Dean grumbles, gagging on the fog’s assault. 

“Check for a pulse,” Sam said, his voice muffled by the sleeve pressed to his face as floral notes lingered stubbornly in the air.

Dean shot him a withering glare, his jaw tightening. “What do you think I’m doing, sightseeing?” he snapped. His nose wrinkled as he steeled himself, reluctantly extending two fingers toward the ridgid figure.

The carved wooden edge bit into his arm as he reached inside, his fingers brushing against skin that was far too warm for someone who looked so deathly still. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before pressing his fingers to the wrist, his touch tentative against the unnerving softness.

A single thud of a pulse reverberated beneath his fingertips, firm and slow. Then, without warning, a sharp, electric jolt shot up his arm, stinging like a live wire.

“Son of a—” Dean hissed, yanking his arm back as if burned. He stumbled a step, cradling the assaulted limb against his chest. His glare darted toward the box as if it had personally insulted him.

The altar around them seemed to shudder in response, emitting a deep, reverberating hum that thrummed through the room like a living heartbeat. The vibration rattled the shelves and sent a few jars tumbling, their contents splattering across the stone floor in a sickly mess.

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, his eyes wide as he leaned in. “Dean, look—her wrist.”

Dean’s gaze snapped back to the figure, narrowing as he focused on the exposed wrist. A faint marron glow illuminated the dim space, drawing his attention to the intricate mark now etching itself into skin. It twisted and spiraled inwards like a labyrinth, a perfect circle of maze-like lines leading to the hexagram at its center. 

“What the hell…” Dean muttered, his voice low and uneasy. The symbol pulsed faintly with an eerie, otherworldly light, each flicker sending a fresh wave of unease crawling up his spine until the glow simmered into an angry red scar. 

“Wait—” Sam’s voice cuts sharply through the tense air. His hand shoots out to grab Dean’s wrist, drawing a startled groan as Dean instinctively jerks back, cradling his arm to his chest.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean snaps, his glare fierce.

“Uh, Dean…” Sam’s voice wavers as he nods toward his brother’s wrist.

Dean follows his gaze, his irritation draining into a nauseous unease. On the inside of his wrist, a faint red symbol begins to glow. The intricate maze-like lines twisting in the same fashion as before.The pulsing light feels alive, like claws sinking deeper into his skin, its rhythm uncomfortably in sync with something else.

You.

A soft, languid yawn escapes your lips, and both men startle, their weapons drawn in unison as your body shifts against the confines of the box. You twist and turn, your spine stretching almost unnaturally as you work the slumber from your body. Your eyes blink open slowly, heavy with drowsiness. The room is dim as you sit up, but even in the low light, you can see the tension etched into the brother’s postures.

Flexing your fingers with a deep, patient breath, you glance between them, taking in the guns pointed at you without a flicker of fear. Your gaze drifts lower, catching sight of the faint glow on Dean’s wrist. Your expression hardens, any hint of lethargy vanishing.

“You killed my witch,” you say flatly, your tone devoid of warmth, cutting straight through the silence.

Dean’s jaw tightens as his grip on the weapon steadies, his green eyes narrowing. “Don’t move,” he orders, his voice devoid of care.

Your lips curl into a smirk—a slow, mocking thing that dances at the corners of your mouth. You rise to your feet slowly, stretching your neck with the causal grace of a predator. Your movements are smooth, deliberate as your eyes dig into his.

“What are you?” Sam asks, his voice tight but undoubtedly curious, his brow furrowed in cautious concern.

You tilt your head, your gaze flicking to him briefly before settling back on Dean. “What am I?” you echo, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, but the slit of your stare drowns your smile in mockery. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before binding my soul to his.”

Dean’s frown deepens, his confusion plain, but his voice sharpens like a blade. “What did you just say?” Dean demands, his voice low and sharp, a dangerous edge that matches the glint of the gun in his hand.

Sam’s face drains of color as he lowers his weapon, a soft, horrified “Oh, God,” slipping past his lips.

Your eyes flash, an unnatural luminous green light flaring briefly before fading back into something more human. You sigh, exasperated, as if their ignorance is almost too much to bear. “I am not going to spell it out for you,” you spat, each word cut with your impatient disdain. You cross your arms, turning your focus to inspect your nails, waiting for the brothers to put two glaringly obvious puzzle pieces together. 

Dean’s eyes narrow, his scowl deepening, but before he can snap back at you, Sam’s voice cuts through the tension, cautious yet tinged with realization. “Dean, uh… I think she’s a familiar.”

Dean’s frown deepens, you can physically see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he tucks the colt back into his waistband as his head snaps toward Sam. “A what?”

Sam’s gaze flickers nervously between you and Dean. “A familiar. Y’know—like a witch’s magical companion.”

The disgust on Dean’s face is immediate and unfiltered, his lip curling as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re saying she’s some kind of… pet?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed into slits, the sharp retort escaping your lips before you can stop it. “I am not a pet, you Neanderthal.” Your voice is as tough as steel, every syllable cutting through the room with precision.

Dean’s brows lift, his dismissive smirk only adding fuel to the fire. “Oh, relax,” he shoots back, waving you off like an annoying stray hissing pathetically at his feet. “Sammy, tell me you can fix this.”

“I—I don’t know,” Sam stammers, clearly out of his depth. His eyes dart between you and Dean like he’s watching the beginning curls and clashes of a cat fight. “I’d have to—”

“Research!” Dean interrupts, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Because that’s always the answer.” His voice is practically vibrating with frustration as he pivots back to you, green eyes narrowing again. “Alright, familiar-lady, let’s go.”

You tilt your chin up, tightening your hold on yourself with an air of defiance, your posture radiating every pulse of your obstinacy. “No.” The single word is crisp, final, and as razor-edged as the glare you toss over your shoulder before turning away entirely.

Dean exhales slowly, the sound heavy with a barely contained vexation. His jaw tightens like cement setting on top of earth. As he speaks again, his octave drops, dangerous, each word laced with displeased command. “Let’s go. Now.”

The words hit like a shove, heavy and unavoidable. The edges of his piercing tone dig into your throat like iron spikes anger pooling from your glowering eyes with pure venom. Teeth clenched, you step out of the box reluctantly, your movements stiff with rebellion as you stalk towards the door.

Dean watches your retreat, the muscles in his jaw tensing and popping as if he’s trying to bite back every curse in the book. His stare snaps to Sam, eyes fierce with confusion and frustration. “What the hell just happened?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, his lips pressing into a thin line as he pats Dean’s shoulder. His expression teeters between unease and a forced attempt at reassurance. “I think you just gave your first command,” he tries apprehensively.

Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so messed up,” he mutters, his boots already thudding heavily as he starts after you.

Sam trails behind him, casting a wary glance at your retreating figure before leaning in toward Dean. “Yeah,” he interjects under his breath, his voice edged with genuine concern. “And for the record? I don’t think she likes being told what to do.”

Dean shoots him a withering scowl, his bitterness simmering just below the surface like a fire ready to ignite. “Yeah, ya think, Einstein,” he grumbles, quickening his pace.

Sam lingers for a moment, his brow furrowed as he watches you stride ahead, your defiant posture radiating silent fury. He sighs, falling into step beside his brother, his voice quieter this time. “Dean… if we can’t figure this out—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean cuts him off, but there’s a crack in his armor. His shoulders are rigid, his steps heavy, every muscle in his body coiled tight with anger.

They walk in silence for a beat, the question hanging between them like the dark thundering skies of a brewing storm. Both brothers, lost in their own thoughts, feel the weight of the situation pressing down—a bond they don’t understand, but know enough to see the problem without an easy fix.

Sam finally breaks the quiet, his voice tinged with reluctant worry. “How do we even start breaking the bond without… you know…?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his lips set in a grim line as his gaze flicks toward you ascending the basement’s stone stairs. “I don’t know, Sammy,” he mutters, his voice low, almost defeated. “But we’re gonna figure it out. We have to.”

Ahead of them, your darkly dressed silhouette looks almost ghostly against the light of day. And as they follow, both brothers are haunted by the same question: how do you undo a bond like this without killing the human who holds it?

hiii this series will be very dark whimsy fun, derived from the story of hecate and her familiar gale (who she turned into a polecat for sexual deviancy, like just THINK about how much fun we can have with that little tidbit of backstory). we'll just ignore the fact that dean would actually probably never sleep with a familiar lol and my beloved, rowena, will make an appearance in the next to explain the lore <3 and i'll make a series intro page, promise, just too lazy to do so rn

tagging ( i always forget to do this ) my mooties but lmk if u wanna be added <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @ultravi0lence14 @deansbeer

[jollyhunter]

I devoured this with my eyes glued to the screen. Chasing each word. Like - the way you weave words together? The images you paint? They are so lively, so vibrant and detailed. And the way you write for Sam and Dean is just so on point.

Also the idea of Dean accidentally binding a witch’s familiar to himself is so clever and interesting (and let’s be real, hilarious. ‘Cuz of course it happens to Dean out of all people). And it all seems so canon? Like I feel I just watched the beginning of a supernatural episode.

May I please be added to the tag list? Girl got me bound to you already - I NEED MORE OF THIS 🤲

𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕄𝔸ℝ𝕂 𝕆𝔽 ℍ𝔼ℂ𝔸𝕋𝔼 ── ℙℝ𝕆𝕃𝕆𝔾𝕌𝔼

— dean accidentally opens the box of a familiar, and you're not exactly thrilled to have been bound to a hunter. — not much for warnings, gross witchy scenery? 3k words

The hunt should have been over the second Dean sent a bullet through the witch’s heart. That should have been the final act, clean and simple. But Sam—of course—was adamant about raiding her lair for books to add to the bunker’s archives.

Dean could handle hunting a witch just fine—gross as hell, but manageable. A coven? Sure, stomach-churning, but he’d get it done. A witch’s lair, though? That was where he drew a hard line.

The house itself had looked deceptively normal, an old Victorian tucked amongst a dense forest of willow trees. As the witch’s body turned to ash in the backyard, Dean followed Sam into the basement. Cool, damp stone walls seemed to absorb every bit of light, the beam from their flashlights swallowed by shadowed corners as though the darkness itself were alive. 

Dean lingered near the stone steps as Sam meandered around, not nearly as phased by the chaotic graveyard of horrors stored on every rotting wooden shelf.

The space was small, unease creeping up Dean’s spine as he stood between the shelves and tables that buckled under the weight of dozens of glass jars. Each filled with murky liquids or splintered bones, some crammed with grotesque chunks of something—hair, teeth, both. A viscous, questionable goo dripped from the edges of the shelf near his head, pooling onto the cold stone floor. In the corner, an ominous object shrouded in swirling fog pulsed faintly, as if it were breathing.

Every fiber of Dean’s being recoiled in protest.

His grimace deepened as his eyes flicked between the copious amount of jars, trying to find the least disgusting focal point. But the cauldron on his left was impossible to ignore, its grotesque contents bubbling and hissing as steam curled into the air. The smell of rotting flesh wafted through the air, sharp and cloying with each pop, hiss, pop. It burned his nose enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Dean squinted at the rancid brew, his brows drawing together in disgust. “Is that—blood?” he muttered under his breath. “Oh, hell no.” He thought he saw something floating in it—a hand, maybe. Pointing his flashlight at the pot, a small pale patch of skin gleamed in the light. Definitely a hand. 

He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising bile, when Sam’s voice rang out like a gunshot, sharp and urgent.

“What the—Dean!”

The urgency in Sam’s tone trigged every sensitive nerve, turning over into adrenaline that surged through Dean’s veins. His body moved on instinct, rounding the corner with his ivory Colt raised, his heart pounding in his ears.

“What?” he barked, his voice sharp with a dreadful medley of fear and irritation. Clearing his throat, he tried again, steadier but no less on edge. “What is it?”

He skidded to a stop, the sight before him turning his stomach anew. Sam stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, staring at an altar of what Dean could only recognize as archaic dark magic.

The altar dominated the room, massive and ominous. Carved from dark, weathered stone, it looked ancient, as though it had been forged centuries ago in a time best left forgotten. Symbols and figures sprawled across its surface and the surrounding walls, their etched edges worn smooth by the passage of time. The carvings seemed alive in the flickering light of dozens of candles arranged in a deliberate circle around the altar’s platform. The golden glow casts eerie, dancing shadows that seem to twist and shift like living things.

At the center of the altar sat a sleek, coffin-shaped box, the soft brown wood a stark contrast to the horrors of the stone above. A massive steel lock secured it, its design intricate, almost ceremonial, and clearly ancient. From the edges of the box, faint tendrils of white mist curled outward, drifting like restless spirits.

Dean’s gaze narrowed as he approached the box, his instincts prickling. A glass window gave view to the inside, something like a face looked back at Dean, obscured by the swirling mist. But as he leaned closer, he could just make out the curves of a woman’s face. He couldn’t if he was looking at something dead or alive, the haze and stillness disorienting any semblance of life.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, a silent plea in his worried eyes as his chin jerked toward the box sitting ominously in the middle of the room. Faint glints of magic pulsed a glowing green in the veins of the woodwork, as if the box itself contained more life than the body inside. Dean couldn’t ignore the slight hum emitting from the cursed thing, oppressive and low like a growling predator—bowed and ready to lurch. 

Dean turned to him, incredulous, his expression a mix of defiance and disgust. “I’m not touching that thing.” He straightens his back, but can’t help glancing back. The humming invaded his senses, seeping into his ear drums and beckoning his attention. 

Sam’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he shot Dean a look. “We have to check if she’s alive.”

Dean crossed his arms, glancing between Sam and the coffin. “Okay, great. You do it then.”

“Oh, come on—” Sam started, exasperated.

“No. Absolutely not. You do it,” Dean cut him off, taking a step back for emphasis.

Sam rolled his eyes, his shoulders tensing with irritation as he mimnicked Dean’s retreat, but the advantage of his longer stride puts far more distance between him and the entity. “You’re closer.”

Dean scoffs, “I’m also smart enough to not mess with whatever that is,” Dean shot back, jabbing a finger toward the box. 

The tension hung thick in the stale, musty air of the room. Their argument devolving into a silent battle of glares and clenched jaws, the kind of stubborn standoff only brothers could maintain. The faint sound of something dripping—water or something far worse—echoed from the shadows, an eerie rhythm pattering to their exchange.

Finally, Sam huffed and threw his hands up, his patience wearing thin. “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”

Dean groaned loudly, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. He rubbed a hand down his face as if physically preparing himself for what was to come. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, but Sam’s determined look left no room for argument.

With a resigned sigh, Dean tucked his colt behind his back, exchanging it for a fist in one hand, the other opened flat beneath it. His lips curled in a reluctant grimace. “Fine, let’s do this.”

They counted together, the rhythm of their voices tense and clipped between the echos of dripping water and magic’s hum. On the third count, Dean groaned, his shoulders sagging as Sam’s paper crushed his rock.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered, punctuating his frustration with a string of colorful curses. Sam smirked faintly as he handed over his sawed off shotgun, clearly enjoying his victory a little too much. Dean snatched the weapon with a scowl.

“She better not bite me,” Dean grumbled under his breath, rolling his neck as if psyching himself up. He flexed his fingers around the gun, shaking out his hands before turning his full attention to the box.

The object loomed in the dim light, taunting him. The faint metallic tang of old blood mixed with the musty smell of decay hanging heavy in the air. Dean’s lip curled in distaste as he stepped closer, shotgun poised.

With a muttered curse, he raised the weapon and brought the butt of the gun down hard on the rusted lock. The sharp crack echoed off the stone walls like a gunshot, the steel clasp clattering to the floor with an ominous finality.

The lid creaked open with an almost deliberate slowness, releasing a thick plume of white fog that hissed as it spilled out, curling unnaturally across the floor. The fog carried a potent floral scent, one that would be sweet had it not come billowing out with an offensive invasion of every sense. It clings to their throats, earthy and rich on their tongues. Both brothers cough and sputter, trying to expel the heady fragrance. 

Dean swatted futilely at the cloud as he shoved Sam’s gun back into his brother’s grasp, his face twisted in irritation. The air felt suffocating now, thick and almost alive as it pressed against their skin.

“Fucking witches,” Dean grumbles, gagging on the fog’s assault. 

“Check for a pulse,” Sam said, his voice muffled by the sleeve pressed to his face as floral notes lingered stubbornly in the air.

Dean shot him a withering glare, his jaw tightening. “What do you think I’m doing, sightseeing?” he snapped. His nose wrinkled as he steeled himself, reluctantly extending two fingers toward the ridgid figure.

The carved wooden edge bit into his arm as he reached inside, his fingers brushing against skin that was far too warm for someone who looked so deathly still. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before pressing his fingers to the wrist, his touch tentative against the unnerving softness.

A single thud of a pulse reverberated beneath his fingertips, firm and slow. Then, without warning, a sharp, electric jolt shot up his arm, stinging like a live wire.

“Son of a—” Dean hissed, yanking his arm back as if burned. He stumbled a step, cradling the assaulted limb against his chest. His glare darted toward the box as if it had personally insulted him.

The altar around them seemed to shudder in response, emitting a deep, reverberating hum that thrummed through the room like a living heartbeat. The vibration rattled the shelves and sent a few jars tumbling, their contents splattering across the stone floor in a sickly mess.

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, his eyes wide as he leaned in. “Dean, look—her wrist.”

Dean’s gaze snapped back to the figure, narrowing as he focused on the exposed wrist. A faint marron glow illuminated the dim space, drawing his attention to the intricate mark now etching itself into skin. It twisted and spiraled inwards like a labyrinth, a perfect circle of maze-like lines leading to the hexagram at its center. 

“What the hell…” Dean muttered, his voice low and uneasy. The symbol pulsed faintly with an eerie, otherworldly light, each flicker sending a fresh wave of unease crawling up his spine until the glow simmered into an angry red scar. 

“Wait—” Sam’s voice cuts sharply through the tense air. His hand shoots out to grab Dean’s wrist, drawing a startled groan as Dean instinctively jerks back, cradling his arm to his chest.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean snaps, his glare fierce.

“Uh, Dean…” Sam’s voice wavers as he nods toward his brother’s wrist.

Dean follows his gaze, his irritation draining into a nauseous unease. On the inside of his wrist, a faint red symbol begins to glow. The intricate maze-like lines twisting in the same fashion as before.The pulsing light feels alive, like claws sinking deeper into his skin, its rhythm uncomfortably in sync with something else.

You.

A soft, languid yawn escapes your lips, and both men startle, their weapons drawn in unison as your body shifts against the confines of the box. You twist and turn, your spine stretching almost unnaturally as you work the slumber from your body. Your eyes blink open slowly, heavy with drowsiness. The room is dim as you sit up, but even in the low light, you can see the tension etched into the brother’s postures.

Flexing your fingers with a deep, patient breath, you glance between them, taking in the guns pointed at you without a flicker of fear. Your gaze drifts lower, catching sight of the faint glow on Dean’s wrist. Your expression hardens, any hint of lethargy vanishing.

“You killed my witch,” you say flatly, your tone devoid of warmth, cutting straight through the silence.

Dean’s jaw tightens as his grip on the weapon steadies, his green eyes narrowing. “Don’t move,” he orders, his voice devoid of care.

Your lips curl into a smirk—a slow, mocking thing that dances at the corners of your mouth. You rise to your feet slowly, stretching your neck with the causal grace of a predator. Your movements are smooth, deliberate as your eyes dig into his.

“What are you?” Sam asks, his voice tight but undoubtedly curious, his brow furrowed in cautious concern.

You tilt your head, your gaze flicking to him briefly before settling back on Dean. “What am I?” you echo, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, but the slit of your stare drowns your smile in mockery. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before binding my soul to his.”

Dean’s frown deepens, his confusion plain, but his voice sharpens like a blade. “What did you just say?” Dean demands, his voice low and sharp, a dangerous edge that matches the glint of the gun in his hand.

Sam’s face drains of color as he lowers his weapon, a soft, horrified “Oh, God,” slipping past his lips.

Your eyes flash, an unnatural luminous green light flaring briefly before fading back into something more human. You sigh, exasperated, as if their ignorance is almost too much to bear. “I am not going to spell it out for you,” you spat, each word cut with your impatient disdain. You cross your arms, turning your focus to inspect your nails, waiting for the brothers to put two glaringly obvious puzzle pieces together. 

Dean’s eyes narrow, his scowl deepening, but before he can snap back at you, Sam’s voice cuts through the tension, cautious yet tinged with realization. “Dean, uh… I think she’s a familiar.”

Dean’s frown deepens, you can physically see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he tucks the colt back into his waistband as his head snaps toward Sam. “A what?”

Sam’s gaze flickers nervously between you and Dean. “A familiar. Y’know—like a witch’s magical companion.”

The disgust on Dean’s face is immediate and unfiltered, his lip curling as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re saying she’s some kind of… pet?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed into slits, the sharp retort escaping your lips before you can stop it. “I am not a pet, you Neanderthal.” Your voice is as tough as steel, every syllable cutting through the room with precision.

Dean’s brows lift, his dismissive smirk only adding fuel to the fire. “Oh, relax,” he shoots back, waving you off like an annoying stray hissing pathetically at his feet. “Sammy, tell me you can fix this.”

“I—I don’t know,” Sam stammers, clearly out of his depth. His eyes dart between you and Dean like he’s watching the beginning curls and clashes of a cat fight. “I’d have to—”

“Research!” Dean interrupts, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Because that’s always the answer.” His voice is practically vibrating with frustration as he pivots back to you, green eyes narrowing again. “Alright, familiar-lady, let’s go.”

You tilt your chin up, tightening your hold on yourself with an air of defiance, your posture radiating every pulse of your obstinacy. “No.” The single word is crisp, final, and as razor-edged as the glare you toss over your shoulder before turning away entirely.

Dean exhales slowly, the sound heavy with a barely contained vexation. His jaw tightens like cement setting on top of earth. As he speaks again, his octave drops, dangerous, each word laced with displeased command. “Let’s go. Now.”

The words hit like a shove, heavy and unavoidable. The edges of his piercing tone dig into your throat like iron spikes anger pooling from your glowering eyes with pure venom. Teeth clenched, you step out of the box reluctantly, your movements stiff with rebellion as you stalk towards the door.

Dean watches your retreat, the muscles in his jaw tensing and popping as if he’s trying to bite back every curse in the book. His stare snaps to Sam, eyes fierce with confusion and frustration. “What the hell just happened?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, his lips pressing into a thin line as he pats Dean’s shoulder. His expression teeters between unease and a forced attempt at reassurance. “I think you just gave your first command,” he tries apprehensively.

Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so messed up,” he mutters, his boots already thudding heavily as he starts after you.

Sam trails behind him, casting a wary glance at your retreating figure before leaning in toward Dean. “Yeah,” he interjects under his breath, his voice edged with genuine concern. “And for the record? I don’t think she likes being told what to do.”

Dean shoots him a withering scowl, his bitterness simmering just below the surface like a fire ready to ignite. “Yeah, ya think, Einstein,” he grumbles, quickening his pace.

Sam lingers for a moment, his brow furrowed as he watches you stride ahead, your defiant posture radiating silent fury. He sighs, falling into step beside his brother, his voice quieter this time. “Dean… if we can’t figure this out—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean cuts him off, but there’s a crack in his armor. His shoulders are rigid, his steps heavy, every muscle in his body coiled tight with anger.

They walk in silence for a beat, the question hanging between them like the dark thundering skies of a brewing storm. Both brothers, lost in their own thoughts, feel the weight of the situation pressing down—a bond they don’t understand, but know enough to see the problem without an easy fix.

Sam finally breaks the quiet, his voice tinged with reluctant worry. “How do we even start breaking the bond without… you know…?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his lips set in a grim line as his gaze flicks toward you ascending the basement’s stone stairs. “I don’t know, Sammy,” he mutters, his voice low, almost defeated. “But we’re gonna figure it out. We have to.”

Ahead of them, your darkly dressed silhouette looks almost ghostly against the light of day. And as they follow, both brothers are haunted by the same question: how do you undo a bond like this without killing the human who holds it?

hiii this series will be very dark whimsy fun, derived from the story of hecate and her familiar gale (who she turned into a polecat for sexual deviancy, like just THINK about how much fun we can have with that little tidbit of backstory). we'll just ignore the fact that dean would actually probably never sleep with a familiar lol and my beloved, rowena, will make an appearance in the next to explain the lore <3 and i'll make a series intro page, promise, just too lazy to do so rn

tagging ( i always forget to do this ) my mooties but lmk if u wanna be added <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @ultravi0lence14 @deansbeer

[jollyhunter]

Soldier Boy x Antihero!Reader - INTRO

“So, what you’re sayin’ is, all we ‘ave to do, is keep the cunt from nuclear energy? Well that sounds easy peasy, doesn’t it?” Butcher grins smugly while his eyes flicker from the screen back to M.M.. He sighs and runs a frustrated hand down his face. “Except that she’s after Soldier Boy as we speak. And he’s a fuckin’ a-bomb on two legs. Who the hell knows what happens when those two clash?”

You’re an A-class supe. A Russian high value asset. And you’re anything but a hero.

May I introduce? Your identity - or what's left of it:

Project “Ground Zero” - 1981 Codename: Ashfall

Civil Name: 🆈🅽 🆈🅻🅽 Origins: ███████ Sex: Female

Height: ███cm Hair color: Varies | natural █████ Eye color: █████ | (powers activated) turquoise-green glow Age: 80+ y.o. | appears early 30s Connection to Tgt.: CLASSIFIED (See File of Jan.24,1986) Supe class: A+ (Do not engage! Inform a superior with access to the asset’s A.W.) Supe powers: CLASSIFIED Activation Words: CLASSIFIED Mission Priority: Retrieve Experiment ███████ ███

“I have long forgotten who I am. And I am sick of being told what I am.”

What to expect?

It’s obviously inspired by the Winter Soldier - You’ll be the Bucky to his Captain America 🫶

Potential TW: Canon violence, canon strong language, (fuckin’ diabolical, I’m warning ya), also smut at some point. I’ll try and keep it pretty similar to the show. So definitely 18+, Minors Do Not Interact!

A/N: I started watching The Boys like a week ago and I'm almost done with season 3. So naturally I am going crazy about everything right now and I NEED a damn Soldier Boy x Antihero!reader so I can have them corrupt each other in the most beautiful way. // I KNOW I'M LATE TO THE PARTY

If you’d be interested, please let me know!! ❤️

[jollyhunter]

I'll file this under "Dean headcanons I didn't know I needed"?? 💗 LOVE IT 💗

Also, may I propose a tat of Baby and one of Sam's green lil' rifleman? OH AND OFC A FANCY QUOTE OF "Driver picks the music shotgun shuts his cakehole"

HIIIII I’VE COME BACK TO TUMBLR FOR THE FIRST TIME IN LIKE OVER A YEAR, IM PIIIINIIIIINNNGGG BAD FOR DEAN WINCHESTER 😭

I’m an apprentice and was wondering if you could just blurb or write (or literally whatever you want/think of!!!!!) about being a fellow hunter in a long term relationship with Dean, traveling motel to motel and eventually living in the bunker with them, setting up an area and tattooing the boys (but mostly Dean) on slow days when we’re bored just sitting around in the bunker. (My vision is super based on knowing his character was supposed to be YATTED but it got cut due to budgeting-ugh).

Maybe also being a witch or something idk just thinking of plot lol hehe I’d be happy with LITERALLY anything! And if you’re uncomfortable doing this or just don’t feel like it that’s totally cool too!

Anon, I love you - this request is just *chefs kiss* Dean Winchester with tattoos would be the death of me.

I wasn’t sure how to implement the witch element into these headcanons but I hope this is okay!✨

Dean Winchester x tattoo apprentice! Reader

It was hard to get a lot of practice in especially out on the road, moving between motels and all the hunting you and the winchesters do- but once you all move into the bunker and settle in, you made it your mission to create your own little corner.

Dean had always been supportive of your tattooing. He is absolutely fascinated with the process of watching you tattoo- whether it’s creating your designs or practicing them on fake skin, he’s always watching.

He would also help you set up your space and help you buy supplies.

Dean always wanted tattoos, but was never sure of what he wanted to get. (Definitely has a secret Pinterest board of tattoo inspiration)

He loves to go through your designs and is in absolute awe of how talented you are. Sam would often find him just going through them in his down time, zooming in on every little detail.

As soon as you are ready to tattoo real skin, Dean is ready to be your Guinea pig.

“I’m ready sweetheart.” He’d say with a cocky grin, but he wouldn’t tell you he’s absolutely shitting bricks. But as soon as that needle hits his skin he’s like “oh… that’s not what I thought it was gonna feel like.” And he’s totally fine.

Sam would eventually get a couple small tattoos from you, his pain tolerance isn’t as good as deans but he still sticks it out like a champ.

You start off with smaller tattoos on Dean, gradually going to biggest more intricate pieces. Some having deep meaning, some because he thought the design was cool ( which would be like 90% of his tatts)

Since you both had been together for a longgg time, you know he’d get something that symbolises you.

He’d also get something for sam 😭 (you just know he cried when he showed it to him.)

Dean just admires your focus and how beautifully you do your work, he’s just such a proud boyfriend of his talented amazing partner.

You’d have to constantly remind him of tattoo aftercare because he can get a bit lazy with it.

“No Dean you can’t scratch your tattoo it’ll ruin it.” “But it’s so damn itchy!”

When the tatts are healed he can’t help but feel so much more confident in himself. Every reflective surface he sees he just flexes his arms and smirks.

If anyone asks about where he got his work done he perks up right away. “Oh yeah my partner did them, they’re amazing right?” And just rambles about you and your talents.

Lovesss when you trace over the work you’ve done on him with your fingers when you’re laying down with each other.

[jollyhunter]

There's a connection, now, even if there might be none come morning. This lust that he can mistake for adoration is what he needs. What he craves.

This is so bittersweet 😭 I love the way you write from Dean’s perspective and what he truly longs for but knows he can’t ever have (or rather, believes he doesn’t deserve) 😭❤️

May I be tagged for your Dean list? 🫶🦊

Another Notch on His Belt

Pairing: Dean Winchester

Summary: Every little part of him is holding onto every little piece of her, and any other woman he’s been lucky enough to escape his life with. Even if it’s only for the night - or - Dean replaces intimacy with sex. 18+ only

Word Count: 1.2k words

Tags/Warnings: lil’ bit of SMUT, casual sex, Dean needs a hug, light angst

A/N: Summary inspired by the lyrics of the song “Tough” by Lewis Capaldi.

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Read on AO3 || Masterlist

He loves the sex. 

Needs it. 

Craves it. 

The closeness it gives him. The warmth of someone else surrounding his hardened body. Touching, feeling, writhing below or on top of him. He doesn’t care. 

Even with the scrapes and bruises he doesn’t remember which ugly bastard he ganked giving them to him, he’s not ashamed. He just wants to fill up his heart with affection to get him through the next death he knows is inevitable, no matter how hard he tries.

It’s something he can’t escape, except maybe for the night. Tonight, if he’s lucky.

As she pours him another cup, and places the pie he ordered beside his now empty plate, he pretends not to notice. It doesn’t mean he’s not watching. He just continues to hold the conversation with Sam while listening to her greet someone new.

Her voice carries like silk over the chatter of people and the ringing coming from the door. Her hands are clean, her skin soft and inviting as she pulls out her notepad and pen. 

He flicks his head up to exchange a glance, and she actually winks at him. “Can I get you anything else?” 

“Sammy?” He looks his brother’s way, but brings his gaze back to her the second he’s answered.

“Thanks,” he says and reads the badge pinned to her blouse aloud. “That’s a pretty name.” 

The girls in these dives they eat at are always perfect in his eyes. Their lives are just so, even if they don’t see it. 

No scars, at least not from weapons. Pliable flesh he can sink his fingers into. Grab, smooth, lick, taste. Sweet perfume that would fill a home he knows has things littered with the apple pie life he once thought he wanted. 

He’ll tell no one he still does.

He’ll also never tell Sam that’s the real reason he doesn’t bring them to the motel anymore if he can avoid it. It’s easier to leave them when he wakes up and feels out of place.

She walks away, back to the counter whence she came with hips that sway in time to the tick of the dusty old clock on the wall. Past the other patrons and tables full of more coffee and mediocre food. 

Chicken served in nugget form. Sandwiches lathered in sauce. It may be swill and smell closer to ass than edible, but if he plays his cards well, he’ll be devouring something far better tonight.

“Don’t wait up,” he says after downing the scalding liquid in one go. He’s done with waiting. Just needed the last boost of confidence before he goes in for the kill.

He stands up and grabs his phone. Brushes down his jacket, checking there’s nothing on it from the hunt, and looks up to the smile that caught his eye again. 

She’s watching him.

“Don’t do the hot coffee thing,” Sammy bitches, as he walks away.

But while Dean ignores him, a split second frown sours his face. He refuses to let his baby brother see the remark stings. 

It’s not about dipping his stick in the oil, but he’ll let Sam believe it is. The facade is easier than admitting the truth.

He steps up to the counter, where she’s taking some other chumps order, and raises the cup he never put down to gain her attention. There might be a suave grin thrown her way. Definitely a twinkle in his eye.

“Can I get another, sweetheart? Hot, and…just like you?” There’s a wag of his brow now.

“Sure thing, hun,” she says with a chuckle that makes her even more desirable. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is.

He wants to taste. He wants to touch. He wants her arms wrapped around him while he holds her tight. So he takes the opportunity presented to him. A brush of his fingers on hers when she hands the smooth ceramic back to him. Lingering as he gauges for any reaction. Any hint that she’s interested in being his comfort for the night.

“Thanks,” he says through a grin of goof and charm, and she smiles. Doesn’t even move her hand, and he knows he’s in with a chance.

“Can I get you anything else…?” she asks.

“Dean.” He winks.

“Dean,” she repeats, and he wants to hear it again. Underneath him. On top of him. Legs wrapped ‘round his waist as she chants it into his ear. 

He’d settle for it once if it was on her doorstep, following an ‘I had a good time last night,’ and so he’s bolder. His choice of words, just as. “Any chance you’re getting off soon?”

And she chuckles, hearty and soft. Nods her head in consideration, tongue playing with her cheek as she looks him over nice and slow. “You don’t beat around the bush, huh, Dean?” 

“Depends on the carpets,” he says. 

It’s cheesy and cringe and doesn’t even make much sense, but it works. She’s placing the pot of coffee down, leaning in closer to him, hovering over him a couple of hours later in a room that’s both foreign in foundation and comfort.

Plush bedding that’s clean. No smoke or dust or grime in sight. 

A light that never flickers and appliances that don’t buzz.

There’s a thigh on either side of him, bent at the knees just as he wanted. A sheen of sweat between. Her hands, warm and soft, creep over his skin, tracing patterns with tingles that curl his toes and tense the muscles in his shoulders and glutes.

His arms pull her down on him, pushing himself further into her. Giving her more of him, and she moans. He does, too. The squeeze of her walls on the covered tip of his dick is wonderful, but it’s the look in her eyes that does it for him. 

There’s a connection, now, even if there might be none come morning. This lust that he can mistake for adoration is what he needs. What he craves.

He’s wanted. She feels. Her body is alive, and she cries his name. 

“You like that, baby?” he asks with a snap of his hips, savouring the next sound she makes. If they go another round, he’ll do it again. When he’s alone with just his hand, he’ll chase it with the memory of her trembling lips, thighs and chest.

He’s pulling her tit into his mouth. Wide to capture as much of her smooth skin as he can. He’ll remember the saltiness, too. The way her nipple pebbles as his tongue swipes over and around it. The way her pelvis rocks.

She’s grinding down on him. Her fingers are tugging into his hair, and as her nails scrape down to the nape of his neck, he’s pulling her stomach to his. 

He’s grabbing her ass and raising it up. He’s chasing both their highs.

And when it hits, and he feels his balls tighten, and her around him, squeezing him for all he’s worth, he’s burying his nose into the junction between her hairline and ear. Inhaling the soap and shampoo. Her perfume. The sweat on her skin. He’s taking it all in and holding her tight.

In this moment, she’s his. 

The closeness she gives him. The warmth of her surrounding his hardened body. Touching, feeling, writhing on top of him.

He craves her.

He needs her.

And he’ll continue to, because it’s not just about sex. He loves the intimacy.

Read on AO3 || Masterlist—————————————————————Thank you so much for reading!

Coming soon! - Must Love Dogs - 24/01

(Dean’s POV - Humour - 900 words)

The Colonel needs to take a leak. Rather than risk the stench of dog piss in their already rank motel room, Dean, begrudgingly, obliges. It’s lucky(?) he does, because Dean will always pick up. —————————————————————TAGLIST- If you’d like to be tagged, lmk.

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa

[jollyhunter]

Here I was, thinking it would be all tooth-rotting fluff and sweet banter 😭

But you’re all horn dogs

THIS MAY OR MAY NOT INFLUENCE MY GIFT FOR THE 24TH JANUARY FOR YOU SWEETIES ♡

[jollyhunter]

I'm going to join without being tagged 'cuz I don't know many on here yet but I love the idea 👉�� I'll put it under the cut as well! Don't want to spam y'all lol

If you guess them all, we'll be instant moots. Those are the rules

Tagging anyone who wants to yap with me about their favorite movies 🫶

Rules: Without naming them, post a gif from ten of your favorite films, then tag ten (or more) people to do the same.

Thank you for the tag @justabigoldnerd! Look, I'm doing one of these only hours after getting tagged, QUICK MAKE A WISH

Anyway LOL, I actually don't watch that many movies but, in no particular order:

Tagging: @yallwildinrn @too-young-to-fall-in-love @pippinoftheshire @falling-into-peril @okilokiwithpurpose @imgoingtofreakoutnow @ikeepwatchinghelicopters @belgianfry @cha-melodius @huggiebird (no pressure!)

[jollyhunter]

This was beautiful - if you feel insecure about your body, no matter what body type you have, give this a read and listen!! to!! the!! men!!! ❤️❤️❤️

Headcanon: Body Insecurity/Appreciation

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader

AN: This one was requested by one of my lovely Patreon members, @roseblue373. 💜 It's a special one to me personally, being plus-sized myself and having gone through my share of insecurities. Wish I had one of these guys to make it better lol!~

Prompt/Request: Great job with the latest Dean/Beau/Ben reacts vignettes! I'd love to see one where reader has put on weight and isn't happy with their body, and how each would make her feel better!! IF the muse agrees, of course! ❤️

HC: How Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to your body insecurity.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Established relationship, body insecurity (but also body appreciation), thicc thirty, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, spiciness/smuttishness.

Dean Winchester

You've started breezing past mirrors when you get out of the shower.

Because if you catch sight of your own reflection, you can't help but utter a sigh, your lips dipping into a frown.

In the privacy of the room you share with Dean in the bunker, you take a risk in unwrapping the towel from your body in front of the mirror.

You inspect yourself with growing dejection, noting all the places that are rounder, heavier, less firm than they used to be.

Looks like no amount of running down leads and killing monsters has been enough to keep you in shape.

Too much shitty fast food, too many times you indulged yourself with snacks and dessert alongside your foodie boyfriend.

"What'cha doin', sweetheart?" Dean asks. He steps into the room while wiping donut icing from the corner of his mouth.

Speak of the devil.

When Dean finally catches you frowning at yourself in the mirror, you inhale sharply and close the towel back up.

"Nothing. Just need to get dressed," you reply quickly. "Shower's open."

You try to offer him a smile, despite the pang of jealousy when you eye him.

He gave you the first chance at the shower after the latest case wrapped up, so he's still wearing most of his FBI suit, sans jacket. The white dress shirt is rolled up to his elbows, a few days of scruff neatly trimmed across his cheeks.

The man can cram an entire pizza down his gullet and wash it down with three slices of apple pie, not to mention countless beers. And still, Dean stays looking downright edible.

By comparison, you feel...fat. Like you've let yourself go.

You turn away from him to grab your well-worn sweatpants and an oversized shirt; you plan to change alone in the bathroom, but Dean grabs your arm.

"Who says you need to get dressed?" he says, popping his brows with a suggestive grin. He slips his arms around your waist, but your instinct is to shy away from his hold. You chuckle awkwardly and avoid his now curious gaze.

"Sorry, babe. Um...I'm wiped. I just want to get to bed," you say.

But Dean isn't fooled. His spidey sense is tingling, and his gut is almost never wrong.

His hand slides down your arm and grasps your hand, tugging you back into his arms. You utter a little gasp, but you ultimately smile at his familiar grin. There's a perceptive gleam in his eyes though.

"You know, seems like you've been pretty wiped lately," he says, raising a brow. "It's been a while since we, uh..."

He waggles his brows playfully, squeezing your hips. You want to smile, but you can't let yourself. You can't quite look at him either.

For Dean, it's another glaring red flag. His lips form a frown, and he dips his chin to find your eyes.

"Hey," he says. "What's goin' on? Talk to me."

His tone is so sincere, you have to blink against the sting of tears. Your lower lip wobbles, and Dean frowns in earnest. He presses a hand to your cheek and gets you to look at him with your watery eyes.

"Sweetheart, you gotta tell me what's wrong," he says, more gently, but serious.

Eventually, you're able to get it out. You can't bear the thought of him touching you, because lately, you can't even bear looking at yourself.

"I know I've been gaining weight, I just..." your voice breaks, and you gesture haphazardly at your body. "I'd get it if you're not really into this right now."

Dean's heart clenches. He's downright shocked at your confession, and more than a little disheartened. He presses a hand to your cheek and guides you to look at him.

"All right, hold up just one damn minute."

His calloused fingers gently brush away your tears, but his hands keep moving, slowly traveling down your body. They slide down your bare arms, skimming the sides of your breasts.

Your breath hitches. Your hand is still fisted over your beating heart, keeping your towel closed. His hands continue to move, molding to the curve of your waist over the fuzzy fabric.

"I'll admit, we've been pretty busy lately with everything we've got going on. But if you think that means I'm ever not into this delectable, sexy, voluptuous, goddess body you got rockin' the house?" he says, grinning that utterly Dean grin of his.

You bite your lip against a bubble of laughter. He's too fucking much sometimes.

Dean tugs you closer, until your hips fit snugly against his through his slacks. His tall, broad frame crowds you. His lips skim your cheek, then over your lips in a tease.

He squeezes the flesh of your hips, tender and sensuous.

Your heart flutters at the feeling.

"Mmm, I like you nice and soft," he murmurs against your cheek, close to your ear. "Feels that much better when I fuck you."

A small gasp gets trapped in your throat, while the gravel depths in his voice go straight to your pussy in a pulsing throb of warmth.

By the time he claims your lips in a devouring kiss, you're all too willing to let him peel your towel open, drop it to the floor, and guide you backwards onto the bed.

There he'll take his time, forging yet another mental map of every plush square inch of you.

Beau Arlen

Beau is a busy man. You understand that.

As Sheriff, his job demands a lot from him. He's also a father and has an ex-wife to contend with. (You knew that going in, and you've come to love Emily too.)

However, you can't help but start to take it personally when your sex life begins to suffer. He's often claimed being tired...but there's another suspicion that's been taking root in your mind, feeding your doubts and insecurities about how your boyfriend sees you, and about how you see yourself.

When you slip into bed at night, a kiss goodnight is all he gives you lately, before he's sighing deeply and closing his eyes, his soft snores soon filling the room.

One night, you try touching his shoulder, leaning in to kiss his bearded cheek. He hums at the pleasant feeling.

"You wanna...?" You trail the question in his ear, pressing more sweet kisses down his neck.

"Aw, sweetheart," he groans. "I'd like to, but I think I'd just smother you. I'm about to pass out."

You huff a laugh. You teasingly walk two fingers across his chest. "What if I make it easy for you?"

You shift onto your side. Resting a hand on his chest, you lean down to kiss him. He hums at the softness of it, but the more passion you try to imbue into each new kiss, Beau isn't as responsive as you would like. Eventually, you stop all together.

You frown, becoming disheartened. "You're not into this, I guess."

He opens his tired eyes, gazes up at you in apology. He opens his mouth to reply, but you beat him to it.

"You know it's been a month since we've had sex," you say.

Beau frowns, sliding a hand up your back. Only now does he notice, with appreciation, the familiar silky négligée you're wearing.

"Nah, that doesn't sound right," he says.

"Well, it is," you say. "I know you say you're tired, but I mean, you've had this job for as long as I've known you, Beau." Your eyes fall away from him. "So is the job, or...is it me?"

Beau's brows furrow. "Now wait a minute."

The mere thought dredges up what's been plaguing your mind recently, and it has your throat tightening. Tears of embarrassment and upset well up in your eyes, no matter how much you try to push it down.

You push away from him and turn away, crossing your arms. You try not to look at yourself in what used to be your favorite lingerie.

You can't stand the extra weight you've put on, mostly in your hips and ass, but in your middle and arms too.

You've gone through your own stress at work this year, with less and less time to try and take care of yourself, along with making sure Emily gets to and from school, cooking for the three of you, going to PTA meetings when Carla can't make it (since Beau often can't), and every other proverbial hat you wear.

Beau follows you, sitting up and laying a hand on your back. "Sweetheart--"

"I know I've put on a few. Hell, more than a few," you admit, hastily wiping under your eyes. "God, I can't even look at myself right now, let alone have you--"

"Hey. You stop right there," Beau says, more firmly. He gets you to turn around with his hand on your shoulder. He doesn't like the way you're curled in on yourself, as if hiding your body from his gaze.

That, and the sight of your tears damn well break his heart.

He cups the side of your face gently and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, followed closely by your lips.

You don't want to melt, but you just can't help it. You cling to the front of his shirt and lean into his kiss, like you've been lost in the desert, and his lips hold the breath of life.

You almost don't realize it when his arms slip around your waist. He earns a surprised yelp from you when he gathers you close against his chest and rolls you underneath him.

You land against the pillows in a huff. You stare up at his playful smile, his green eyes glinting with amusement, with fondness, and also with desire as they roam over your breasts, barely contained by dark green satin and lace.

"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" he says. His voice is a low, earthy drawl as his gaze rakes over you. His big hand runs down your side and over your hip, then down your bare thigh, squeezing soft, tender flesh. He slips that hand under the satin night gown.

His hand can't span your entire thigh, but it's not for lack of trying. Your heart beats a staccato rhythm at the way he looks at you, your breath hitching when his thumb dips between your legs, brushing against the damp, silky fabric of your panties.

"It's not because I don't find you sexy as hell. Believe me, darlin', I do," he says. "You're so fuckin' beautiful, especially when you're all laid out for me here."

And he means what he says. You know it by the hardness you feel pressing against your hip. You slip your fingers into his hair with a sigh.

He bows his head to press kisses along your neck; down and down, he noses at the thin strap of your night gown. His path of kisses continue, and he indulges himself by dipping his tongue between the valley of your breasts.

"Filling out this lacy little thing so nice," he murmurs into your skin.

Your upset has turned to abject relief, but you still have to blink away the remaining urge to cry.

You let out a slightly tremulous breath.

"Oh, yeah?" you ask.

Beau pauses. He pulls away, just so he can look up and meet your eyes. He still finds insecurity in yours, so he meets you with a kiss filled with heat and intent.

He's now wide awake. He plans to take his sweet time taking you apart, inch by inch.

In fact, in the back of his mind, he also plans to do better about letting his deputies help him out more at the precint so he can have a better work-life balance.

(Because going a whole damn month without the taste of you is "no bueno," in his words.)

Soldier Boy (Ben)

The man may not be very patient, or particularly perceptive, but he's not an idiot.

At least, not about sex.

He knows that you've been feigning tiredness, and generally avoiding his touch.

What's strange is that you haven't been avoiding him. You still cook for him, still share conversation with him, still insist on having him spoon you on the couch while catching him up on the past four decades of TV shows and movies.

But when he begins to sneak a hand under your oversized shirt (an old one of Ben's), caressing your hip, then dipping down to your softer stomach on the way to your panties, breaking your concentration from the movie as unease laces down your spine.

You grab his wrist on reflex, instead lacing your fingers together.

"What's the matter now?" he asks.

You look over your shoulder at him and find him frowning at you, a divot between his brows. You don't manage to hold his gaze for long.

"Sorry," you say quietly. "I'm just, um, tired."

Ben doesn't believe you, and he's direct when he calls you out on it.

Reluctant to put what you've been feeling into words, you pause the movie and leave the couch (and him) behind.

Ben is annoyed enough to follow you (and underneath, he hides an edge of concern). The conflict leads into the bedroom, where you're still unwilling to open up.

He finally stops you from walking away from him, pinning you against the dresser by your hips. He practically looms over you as he demands an answer. He knows you're hiding something — something that's had you reluctant to let him touch you.

"Is there something you wanna tell me?" he says, a raw edge of warning in his tone. "What, are you fucking somebody else?"

Shock flashes in your eyes, making you angry. "What? No!"

"Well, you seem to be getting your fill somewhere, and it hasn't been from me--"

"Are you fucking serious? I'm not..." Your lips purse. You're actually hurt that he would hurl that accusation your way--and it couldn't be farther from the truth.

You tug your long shirt downwards and cross your arms, but it's more like you're hugging yourself, shielding your body away.

Ben's brows furrow a little bit more.

Eventually you get it out; you haven't been feeling up to being intimate because you're having a hard time even looking at yourself lately.

"I know I need to, um, get back in shape," you say, taking in a shaky breath to try and steady yourself. Your throat constricts, the beginnings of tears stinging your eyes. You want to look at anywhere but at Ben. "I just haven't had much time, with everything going on. But Annie gave me this guide on some different diets, like intermittent fasting, Keto--"

"Fasting," Ben intones. "What, you wanna fucking starve yourself? What the fuck is Keto?"

You sigh, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

"No, not starve myself. And Keto's just..." The idea of trying to explain the new diet craze to your boyfriend is too daunting a task to consider. "Never mind. The point is, I have a plan. My hips, my thighs, my ass--"

Ben squeezes your hips at the mention of them. He happens to like the softness.

"Yeah, you've got a little extra. So fucking what?" he says, his voice deep and exacting as his gaze roams over your body. "Just gives me more to hold onto when I'm fucking you."

You utter a shocked laugh. "Ben!"

He grins lazily, and he turns you this way and that, admiring you from all angles. In his eyes, he doesn't find a side he doesn't like. You can't help but blush hotly under his gaze.

"Sweetheart, do whatever you want if it makes you feel good. But you don't need to starve yourself." His hands move to your ass, squeezing a bit harder on the plush flesh.

A yelp escapes you; he's pressing into you from the front as well, and you feel him heavy and already half-hard against you. You grab onto his arms for stability as your breaths quicken.

His attitude kind of surprises you, even though it soothes the frayed, insecure part of your soul that wants to be as beautiful and attractive in his eyes as he is in yours.

Ben is literally a super soldier. You're actually kind of jealous. The man can drug and booze hard and eat whatever the hell he wants, but his super metabolism just seems to absorb it into his washboard abs.

(The more you think about it, the more you want to smack him.)

Nothing about him isn't hard and lean, muscle and strength.

Only his hands have a measure of gentleless when they're holding you like this.

"I've just got so many stretch marks now," you begin to complain, in an emotional whisper.

He snorts. "And? You think it's anything I haven't seen? I'm not afraid of a little cellulite either."

At that, your head tilts in consideration. Butcher's Granny Fucker remark comes to mind. You bite your lip against a smirk.

Ben crooks a curled finger under your chin. He guides you to meet his eyes, before he lures you into a lusty kiss.

It's somewhat rough because of his beard, but you still smile afterwards, leaning against him now.

"Ain't nothing about you that I can't handle," he adds, all smirking and cocky. To prove his point, he hooks those strong hands behind your thighs and lifts you onto the dresser.

You gasp and cling to his shoulders. From there, he makes quick work of ridding the oversized shirt from your body, revealing you to the cool air and his hot gaze.

You take his face in your hands and bring him in for an even steamier kiss, your heart lighter and trembling with anticipation.

You've held yourself from him long enough, Ben thinks, and he has every intention of devouring you right on your old dresser -- before you two even get to the bed.

AN: 😮‍💨 I feel like each of these could've been even longer with their own one-shot loll. I wrote the Midnight Espresso-verse for Dean, partially to explore what his relationship would be like with a plus-sized reader. 💖💖

Let me know which one you liked most this time!

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[jollyhunter]

NyQuil

Summary: Reader has the flu, Dean is trying to make them feel better.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: flu, medicine, talk of being roofied, reader is a whiney baby (reader is 100% based on me 🤣), plotting the death of a MC, no use of Y/N

Don’t copy my work and post it as your own or I’ll probably cry. A reblog, comment, or like is real cool though. 🤙🏼 As always, grammar and all that may not be correct. Sorry, I do this for fun, not cause I’m grammatically correct. Though I do try my best.

🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Chills cover my body even as I lay wrapped like a little burrito on the bed; My head’s pounding from the pressure in my sinus cavities, and I can’t blow my nose or inhale enough ibuprofen to alleviate the pain, yet still my mouth remains a tight line as the tall man beside me shoves a spoonful of yellow liquid in my face.

An exasperated sigh leaves his lips, annoyance crossing his face as he holds the utensil out, “Sweetheart, please, just take the meds. You’ll feel better.”

I rapidly shake my head, pulling the blanket over my mouth to block the path to my lips. He glares down at the barrier and pulls it back with his free hand, “Why are you like this?” He mumbles as he stares blankly down at me, “It’s just flu meds.”

“I asked for the pills.” I grumble, pulling the blanket back up over my mouth before he can shove the spoon at me again, “You didn’t listen to me.”

He rolls his eyes, the spoon still carefully hanging from his fingers, “It does the same thing, and this stuff works faster! Just take it and we can take a nap.”

I shake my head again, narrowing my eyes at him, “You didn’t even bring me a drink to wash it down with.” My voice is muffled from behind the comforter, but I know he can hear me just fine. My sore throat aches as I speak, yet still I carry on complaining, “I need a chaser, Dean! I can’t do it without one.”

His eyes roll for the thousandth time today as he drops the plastic container holding the bane of my existence onto my nightstand and balances the spoon on top of the lid. His hand slips behind him into his back pocket and he pulls out a bottle of ginger ale, raising a brow as I scrunch up my nose at that, too. “What? This not good enough for you either, Sneezy?” He grumbles, snatching the spoon from beside us and taking seat next to me. He slowly pulls the blanket from my face once more, spoon brushing my bottom lip as he offers it again, “It’s just like a shot. Down the hatch and it’s over.”

My brows furrow as I glare up at him, “No! The after tas—.” I’m cut off by the spoon ramming into my open mouth and the mix of mint and honey rolling across my tongue. I suck in a sharp breath through my stuffy nose before I swallow. An audible gag leaves me at the feeling of it burning down my throat. He shoves the bottle of ginger ale in my face, using his other hand to wipe the tears rolling from my watery eyes. “All done!” He cheers, grinning wickedly down at me, “Was that so bad?”

My nostrils flare as I take a big drink from the bottle, the terrible after taste still lingering on my tongue even after trying to chase it away. “I hate you.”

He chuckles softly, taking the bottle from my hands to set it down on the night stand, “You do not.” Sliding into the bed beside me, he pulls me to his side, “What movie do you want to watch?”

“I don’t want to watch anything with you, Asshole. You roofied me.” I say, pushing against his chest to roll away, “You’re a NyQuil roofier and I hate you.”

His arms tighten around me, securing me to his side as he scrolls through the movies on the tv, “That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called. I think you’ll survive the cold and flu medicine, though. Hell, you may even thank me in a few minutes.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes, “I won’t.” I mumble as he finally selects ‘Tombstone’ and we dive into comfortable silence. His fingers trace small circles across my spine as I drift off plotting his demise.

*******************************************************

A/N: hellooooo, friends! I’m so sorry for my lengthy hiatus. Obviously with everything going on in my life currently, I haven’t had time to put anything out. I hope this little one-shot (Drabble?) is good enough for now, as it’s all I’ve got at the moment. I’m still attempting to work on a few other things as I have time, and hopefully since things are settling down, I’ll have more time to get things out to you guys! Thank you for being patient with me. I looooove you! 🫶🏼

Taglist: @lmhf1 @whimsyfinny @k-slla @enigmalynne @envysarchive

@daisydark @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @manicjk @aylacavebear

@suckitands33 @oceean @mxtansy @justwhisperingfantasies @mgchaser

@xinsonyax

[jollyhunter]

AHA! GOOD TO KNOW 🤣

*notes down* Interrogate with waterboarding delsymboarding.

NyQuil

Summary: Reader has the flu, Dean is trying to make them feel better.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: flu, medicine, talk of being roofied, reader is a whiney baby (reader is 100% based on me 🤣), plotting the death of a MC, no use of Y/N

Don’t copy my work and post it as your own or I’ll probably cry. A reblog, comment, or like is real cool though. 🤙🏼 As always, grammar and all that may not be correct. Sorry, I do this for fun, not cause I’m grammatically correct. Though I do try my best.

🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Chills cover my body even as I lay wrapped like a little burrito on the bed; My head’s pounding from the pressure in my sinus cavities, and I can’t blow my nose or inhale enough ibuprofen to alleviate the pain, yet still my mouth remains a tight line as the tall man beside me shoves a spoonful of yellow liquid in my face.

An exasperated sigh leaves his lips, annoyance crossing his face as he holds the utensil out, “Sweetheart, please, just take the meds. You’ll feel better.”

I rapidly shake my head, pulling the blanket over my mouth to block the path to my lips. He glares down at the barrier and pulls it back with his free hand, “Why are you like this?” He mumbles as he stares blankly down at me, “It’s just flu meds.”

“I asked for the pills.” I grumble, pulling the blanket back up over my mouth before he can shove the spoon at me again, “You didn’t listen to me.”

He rolls his eyes, the spoon still carefully hanging from his fingers, “It does the same thing, and this stuff works faster! Just take it and we can take a nap.”

I shake my head again, narrowing my eyes at him, “You didn’t even bring me a drink to wash it down with.” My voice is muffled from behind the comforter, but I know he can hear me just fine. My sore throat aches as I speak, yet still I carry on complaining, “I need a chaser, Dean! I can’t do it without one.”

His eyes roll for the thousandth time today as he drops the plastic container holding the bane of my existence onto my nightstand and balances the spoon on top of the lid. His hand slips behind him into his back pocket and he pulls out a bottle of ginger ale, raising a brow as I scrunch up my nose at that, too. “What? This not good enough for you either, Sneezy?” He grumbles, snatching the spoon from beside us and taking seat next to me. He slowly pulls the blanket from my face once more, spoon brushing my bottom lip as he offers it again, “It’s just like a shot. Down the hatch and it’s over.”

My brows furrow as I glare up at him, “No! The after tas—.” I’m cut off by the spoon ramming into my open mouth and the mix of mint and honey rolling across my tongue. I suck in a sharp breath through my stuffy nose before I swallow. An audible gag leaves me at the feeling of it burning down my throat. He shoves the bottle of ginger ale in my face, using his other hand to wipe the tears rolling from my watery eyes. “All done!” He cheers, grinning wickedly down at me, “Was that so bad?”

My nostrils flare as I take a big drink from the bottle, the terrible after taste still lingering on my tongue even after trying to chase it away. “I hate you.”

He chuckles softly, taking the bottle from my hands to set it down on the night stand, “You do not.” Sliding into the bed beside me, he pulls me to his side, “What movie do you want to watch?”

“I don’t want to watch anything with you, Asshole. You roofied me.” I say, pushing against his chest to roll away, “You’re a NyQuil roofier and I hate you.”

His arms tighten around me, securing me to his side as he scrolls through the movies on the tv, “That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called. I think you’ll survive the cold and flu medicine, though. Hell, you may even thank me in a few minutes.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes, “I won’t.” I mumble as he finally selects ‘Tombstone’ and we dive into comfortable silence. His fingers trace small circles across my spine as I drift off plotting his demise.

*******************************************************

A/N: hellooooo, friends! I’m so sorry for my lengthy hiatus. Obviously with everything going on in my life currently, I haven’t had time to put anything out. I hope this little one-shot (Drabble?) is good enough for now, as it’s all I’ve got at the moment. I’m still attempting to work on a few other things as I have time, and hopefully since things are settling down, I’ll have more time to get things out to you guys! Thank you for being patient with me. I looooove you! 🫶🏼

Taglist: @lmhf1 @whimsyfinny @k-slla @enigmalynne @envysarchive

@daisydark @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @manicjk @aylacavebear

@suckitands33 @oceean @mxtansy @justwhisperingfantasies @mgchaser

@xinsonyax

[jollyhunter]

Naww I love the way Dean’s handling a grumpy reader 🫶

Totally keeping this as comfort for when I’m sick again - although I‘d have to be forced to swallow a pill and would probably choke on it in the process lmao 😭❤️

NyQuil

Summary: Reader has the flu, Dean is trying to make them feel better.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: flu, medicine, talk of being roofied, reader is a whiney baby (reader is 100% based on me 🤣), plotting the death of a MC, no use of Y/N

Don’t copy my work and post it as your own or I’ll probably cry. A reblog, comment, or like is real cool though. 🤙🏼 As always, grammar and all that may not be correct. Sorry, I do this for fun, not cause I’m grammatically correct. Though I do try my best.

🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Chills cover my body even as I lay wrapped like a little burrito on the bed; My head’s pounding from the pressure in my sinus cavities, and I can’t blow my nose or inhale enough ibuprofen to alleviate the pain, yet still my mouth remains a tight line as the tall man beside me shoves a spoonful of yellow liquid in my face.

An exasperated sigh leaves his lips, annoyance crossing his face as he holds the utensil out, “Sweetheart, please, just take the meds. You’ll feel better.”

I rapidly shake my head, pulling the blanket over my mouth to block the path to my lips. He glares down at the barrier and pulls it back with his free hand, “Why are you like this?” He mumbles as he stares blankly down at me, “It’s just flu meds.”

“I asked for the pills.” I grumble, pulling the blanket back up over my mouth before he can shove the spoon at me again, “You didn’t listen to me.”

He rolls his eyes, the spoon still carefully hanging from his fingers, “It does the same thing, and this stuff works faster! Just take it and we can take a nap.”

I shake my head again, narrowing my eyes at him, “You didn’t even bring me a drink to wash it down with.” My voice is muffled from behind the comforter, but I know he can hear me just fine. My sore throat aches as I speak, yet still I carry on complaining, “I need a chaser, Dean! I can’t do it without one.”

His eyes roll for the thousandth time today as he drops the plastic container holding the bane of my existence onto my nightstand and balances the spoon on top of the lid. His hand slips behind him into his back pocket and he pulls out a bottle of ginger ale, raising a brow as I scrunch up my nose at that, too. “What? This not good enough for you either, Sneezy?” He grumbles, snatching the spoon from beside us and taking seat next to me. He slowly pulls the blanket from my face once more, spoon brushing my bottom lip as he offers it again, “It’s just like a shot. Down the hatch and it’s over.”

My brows furrow as I glare up at him, “No! The after tas—.” I’m cut off by the spoon ramming into my open mouth and the mix of mint and honey rolling across my tongue. I suck in a sharp breath through my stuffy nose before I swallow. An audible gag leaves me at the feeling of it burning down my throat. He shoves the bottle of ginger ale in my face, using his other hand to wipe the tears rolling from my watery eyes. “All done!” He cheers, grinning wickedly down at me, “Was that so bad?”

My nostrils flare as I take a big drink from the bottle, the terrible after taste still lingering on my tongue even after trying to chase it away. “I hate you.”

He chuckles softly, taking the bottle from my hands to set it down on the night stand, “You do not.” Sliding into the bed beside me, he pulls me to his side, “What movie do you want to watch?”

“I don’t want to watch anything with you, Asshole. You roofied me.” I say, pushing against his chest to roll away, “You’re a NyQuil roofier and I hate you.”

His arms tighten around me, securing me to his side as he scrolls through the movies on the tv, “That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called. I think you’ll survive the cold and flu medicine, though. Hell, you may even thank me in a few minutes.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes, “I won’t.” I mumble as he finally selects ‘Tombstone’ and we dive into comfortable silence. His fingers trace small circles across my spine as I drift off plotting his demise.

*******************************************************

A/N: hellooooo, friends! I’m so sorry for my lengthy hiatus. Obviously with everything going on in my life currently, I haven’t had time to put anything out. I hope this little one-shot (Drabble?) is good enough for now, as it’s all I’ve got at the moment. I’m still attempting to work on a few other things as I have time, and hopefully since things are settling down, I’ll have more time to get things out to you guys! Thank you for being patient with me. I looooove you! 🫶🏼

Taglist: @lmhf1 @whimsyfinny @k-slla @enigmalynne @envysarchive

@daisydark @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @manicjk @aylacavebear

@suckitands33 @oceean @mxtansy @justwhisperingfantasies @mgchaser

@xinsonyax

[jollyhunter]

THIS MAY OR MAY NOT INFLUENCE MY GIFT FOR THE 24TH JANUARY FOR YOU SWEETIES ♡

[jollyhunter]

тⲏₑ ᵥᵢ𝑏ₑ ᵢ'𝑑 𝑏ᵣᵢ𝑛𝑔 𝑡ₒ ꜱᵤ𝒑ₑᵣ𝑛ₐ𝑡ᵤᵣₐԼ

My shot at @legalmente-loca 's cool idea!

[jollyhunter]

24 Kinky Days with Dean x reader - Day 22.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW - MDNI! - includes explicit sexual content, Dean being naughty and goofy, teasing, praise kink, bit of fingering, a lil' spankin', biting, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before u tap it!), softdom!Dean, Dean guiding you through a new s♡x-position, fluff, aftercare and also there's pizza (yes, that's a warning) - no use of Y/N - there's probably more so just let me know if I missed something - English is not my native language and I’m dead on my feet Contains brief reference to Dec.9 (Whip Stroke) and Dec. 16 (Roll Over Rule)

Summary: Your ideas of 'self-care' couldn't be more contradicting: Dean's craddling a pillow and munching on his cold pizza, while you go through your yoga routine next to the motel bed. The entire time he's watching you stretch and bend and arch your back with lingering eyes... until he decides you've had enough yoga. Time for a 'fun way' to relax.

Words: ~6,500 (yeah, I know, prepare for a lot of teasing, but it'll pay off)

Feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated! Let me know in the comments what your favorite part was! <3 A/N: At this rate, I give up on the order of the prompts / days. 🥲 But I definitely want to complete the challenge! (Sorry for the long wait y'all!)

22nd Dec. - Yoga, Kama Sutra - potato, potahto

“Of course pizza beats yoga.” Dean scoffs, his eyebrows pinched together with a lazy shake of his head in disbelief. Like the audacity of you even questioning the superiority of fast food? Unbelievable.

“But- how can you even compare the two? That’s junk food. And this is like…” You think for a moment until you remember the right term, “Self-care. You should try it once.” You try to argue in hopes that this conversion might still turn to your favour. But you know you’re pulling on threads by now.

“Oh I do self-care.” He retorts gruffly, his eyes flickering down at you. And to proof his point, he stuffs a big bite of pizza into his mouth, munching on it while he continues, his words halfway muffled, “Food and beer’s my self-care, baby.”

“But-” You groan with a roll of your eyes but stop yourself there. If that man wasn’t halfway as fit as he is, you’d at least still have the trump card of health factor left. But truth be told, despite that, you didn’t have any more arguments, and you both knew it.

So in Dean’s eyes that settled it. His way of self-care is superior to yours. End of discussion.

His focus shifts back to his pizza and the old TV boxed in by a pair of wooden chairs. The smell of cold junk food mingles with the musty carpet that's infiltrating your nostrils everytime you get a bit closer to the floor. Gratefully the sweet cinnamon smell of one of those Christmas candles you had lit the moment you returned to your room, covers up most of the motels stale stench.

After Dean has been channel zapping through various Christmas movies, he finally gave in and tossed the remote control aside on the bed. The TV is running some ads in the background now and Dean is on his stomach stuffing his face with pizza, while you are on the ground next to the motel bed, doing your yoga session on a mat. "To relax," as you had explained to him. "Desperately needed after this case had turned out to be a damn goose chase all along." You added. And on top of that, the hard mattress you had to put up with for the past week did little to ease your bad mood or aching back pain.

By now, Dean had become used to your sporadic yoga sessions whenever time allowed it. Although it was still a mystery to him how this ‘weird hippie stuff’ was in any way relaxing to you, he always enjoyed watching you. And he’d made it a habit of his own to comment with a lick over his lips – perhaps even a low, appreciative whistle – and shamelessly lustful eyes taking in every detail of your body as you’re going through your routine, “Have I ever told you how lucky I am? Like jesus – you’re so fuckin’ flexible. Like some friggin’ contortionist. I bet you can even hook your foot behind your head.”

So, naturally, Dean isn’t really paying any attention to the TV. Even though the intro sequence of “Die Hard”, one of his favourite movies, is now playing.

As always his eyes are lingering on your stretchy outfit and how tightly your favourite colour wraps your body, highlighting every curve of yours, no matter where. The thin shimmer of sweat on your exposed skin and the way you seemed so in control and at the same time at peace. To him it felt like a big contrast to the moments of action where you’d cut down a vamp or plunge a stake through a pagan’s ribcage, your movements quick, precise and face and clothings always covered in the red aftermath.

He takes another bite of the pizza, attempting to distract himself, but his gaze keeps drifting back to you. Your rear in the air now as you switch into the Downward Dog pose. The soft moans and heavy breaths that slip your lips makes him chew slower. His mind now imagining you arching your body in other ways rather than yoga moves, while moaning his name and – Damnit, Winchester, get your mind out of the gutter.

“You having fun up there?” Your teasing voice rips right through his rather explicit picture of him going through some yoga poses with you at his mercy and he almost chokes on the mouthful of pizza. He forces it down with a swig of beer, while he gathers his thoughts sufficiently to reply with a cocky smirk, “Just enjoying the view.”

“Of course you do.” You roll your eyes but can’t help a soft chuckle before you switch to another pose.

From the corner of his eyes, he watches how you effortlessly stretch your legs apart just to roll over onto your stomach where you continue with propping yourself up on your hands, arching your back and then tipping your head back while pressing your stomach into the mat.

“Tell ya what,” he suddenly speaks up before he interrupts himself, stuffing the rest of the pizza crust into his mouth and swallowing it down. “You could probably do the whole Kama Sutra without breaking a sweat.”

You hold the Cobra pose when your chest briefly heaves from the huff that slipped your nose. “Horn dog.”

“Yoga, Kama Sutra – potato, potahto.” He snorts with a mocking tone, clearly starting to get annoyed from his fruitless efforts to distract you so far.

He shifts on the bed, propping his head up on the pillow in the crook of his arm to get a new angle on your curves. After watching you for a moment, he decides it’s time for a new approach.

He clears his throat before he muses in a sultry tone, “There’s also better ways to relax than yoga.”

While he licks his greasy fingers clean, he can’t help but appreciate the way the tight fabric of your yoga pants stretch over your curves again.

Still playing deaf, huh? A playful Cheshire smile forms on his lips when he finishes to suck his last digit with a obscene pop. He then continues in a demanding voice, “C’mere.”

“I’m not done yet.” You reply curtly, muffled slightly by the mat, your head now dropped down with your forehead resting on your folded hands.

He lets out an amused hum, “Oh yes you are.”

Within seconds he rolls off the motel bed to move on top of you, straddling your thighs and pressing down on you, pinning you against the mat.

You let out a surprised gasp, “Dean!”

But the only response you get is a cheeky “Heh-heh”.

When you feel his warm hands cup your butt cheeks and starting to squeeze and massage them, you lift your head to glance back over your shoulder at him. You give him your warning ‘seriously now?’ look, which he just deflects with a mock-innocent grin of his that said ‘what?’.

The way his palms squeeze firmly against your butt cheeks makes him let out a low satisfied hum in his throat. One hand moves to rest next to your head, supporting him as he leans down. His breath’s hot against your ear when he mutters, “This’ a lot more fun than that bullshit yoga.”

You want to bite back with a snarky comment about it not being bullshit at all – but your thought gets cancelled the moment his lips brush over the sensitive skin behind your earlobe, tracing a path of open mouthed kisses along the side of your neck. You let out a low shuddering breath, instinctively tilting your head for him.

But then a waft of his junk-food-slash-beer-laced breath hits your face and it instantly makes your nose scrunch up in a cute fashion.

“De, you smell like a dumpster.” You chuckle and reach with your hand over your shoulder to playfully shove his face away.

“Oh yeah?” He retorts with a smirk. Meanwhile his free hand snakes to the inside of your thighs, tight fingers sliding up under the stretchy fabric of your yoga shorts.

“Huh… only one way to solve it.” He mutters before he nips at your hand which had been pushing his face, giving the tip of your middle finger a short sharp bite that makes you gasp and immediately pull away.

He chuckles at your reaction and then straightens up to sit back on your legs. He inches further down to your calves, his eyes darting from his fingers wiggling under your short pants, up to your face again with a smirk on his lips. “I know what you’re thinking, sweetheart…”

Your anticipation’s building quickly. Feeling his fingers tracing so teasingly along the rim of your panties made the heat pool in your stomach and your mind throw all other plans for your remaining yoga session out the backdoor. And he damn well knew it the moment he brushed against the damp stain in the centre of your thin patch of fabric.

But then you let out a frustrated huff. He’d suddenly pulled his hand from between your legs to pat your ass with it, his glinting emerald eyes never leaving yours as he continues with a drawled “Nuh-uh.”

Then he leans over to the bed, his hand sliding into the pizza box where he fishes a remaining slice out. “Open wide.” He orders with a grin as he reaches with his hand over your shoulder. There he prods the tip of the pizza slice against your cheek, “C’mon, down the hatch. Commit a sin for me.” He quips with a feigned serious tone.

When you still look at him with that expression of befuddlement, he chuckles, his grin widening, “Take a bite, sunshine. Your breath’s my breath.”

You’re torn between being turned on by his words in some dirty twisted way and being utterly amused by them. It’s not like you were on a diet – heck, you sometimes eat so much junk food with all the cheap diners you’d hit every day on the road, it was a damn miracle you hadn’t gained weight yet.

“C’mon, Say aaaah.” He hums, still grinning from ear to ear as he prods the pizza slice against your lips.

After an amused snort, you can’t help but crack a grin of your own, “You’re a silly man, Winchester, you know that?” You finally give in and open your mouth enough to take a bite of the cold salami pizza.

“Yeah, but I’m your silly man.” He replies as he discards the pizza slice back into the box.

You swallow the bite down when his finger swipes over your bottom lip to clean away a streak of tomato sauce. His eyes follow his thumb’s movement, his touch gentle but the expression on his face more mischievous when he watches the tip of your tongue licking out to chase his finger to catch the bit of sauce.

You hold each other’s intense gazes, eyes darkened with something more. The sudden shift in atmosphere had you both still in your movements, taking in how the air between you had suddenly charged up.

Dean finally can’t take the tension any more and lets out a low growl from the back of his throat. He withdraws his finger, before giving your cheek a soft pat. “There’s my good girl.”

Your lips curl into a proud smile at his praise, “Only for you.”

A soft chuckle slips over his lips as he straightens up to sit back on your thighs again. His hands run down your back until they wrap around your hips, fingers trailing the hem of your yoga shorts. He hooks his fingers into the elastic band, slowly starting to pull them over your butt cheeks.

Your breath hitches when the cold air makes contact with your exposed rear. Next moment you feel his teeth dig into the soft flesh of your left bum cheek which triggers a short surprised yelp of yours.

“It was just too tempting.” He chuckles against your skin before he lets go of your butt with a wet-smooch to the red mark and straightens up again.

He pats the spot where he’d just claimed you, with his hand, “Lift up your hips, sweetheart.”

As you wiggle underneath him, he gets up on his knees, his weight now lifted off you to aid you with it. He leans forward to get a better hold on the fabric to properly pull the yoga pants along your panties down towards your knees.

“There we go… Now hold still for me, sunshine…” He mutters while his hands move along your skin.

A shiver runs through your body as you feel the only thing between you and him being taken from you, how you feel the fabric brush down your legs until you are completely exposed for him. Exposed and at his mercy. And damn it made your breath hitch from feeling vulnerable, as much as excitement.

After his hands had traveled further down, taking your pants and underwear with him, he discarded the redundant pieces of clothing to the side.

Finally satisfied, Dean slides down your legs again until he’s sitting on your calves, his hands on the back of your thighs. “Now where was my good girl’s cute little butt again.” He comments as he gently palms the soft globes of your cheeks with his smile never leaving his lips.

You groan softly and your eyes flutter closed, your body practically melting into the yoga mat under his touch.

“Oh, right, there it is.” He squeezes, his large hands massaging the flesh before he suddenly gives you a firm spank.

“Jesus-!” You yelp up at the unexpected sharp smack, your eyes wide open now as you whip your head to the side to stare back at him.

“Hey, you’re in prime spanking position here. What am I supposed to do, just admire the view and do nuthin’?” He mutters behind a teasing chuckle, his green eyes glued to the spot on your butt that was now slowly turning a light shade of red where his palm had hit you. “Plus, I know ya like it. Or you want me to get out the leather crop and remind you of our spankin’ session last week?”

Your thighs twitch involuntarily at the reminder of that evening. And the heat in your core is tingling from the vivid memory of that sweet-burning sensation that had taken over your body every time the leather smacked down on your skin.

“Guilty as charged.” You mutter while you have to force a moan back down your throat.

Dean’s lips curl into a cocky grin, “Knew it.”

You playfully narrow your eyes at him as you glance back over your shoulder to keep an eye on his sinful hand. But Dean stays unperturbed, if anything, your warning look just spurs him on even more.

“That’s for looking too damn good in those tight-ass yoga leggings.” He continues, giving your butt another firm slap before he reaches between your legs and your breath catches in your throat. His thumb traces the outline of your dripping folds, “And this-” His fingertips just graze over your centre, “That’s for being my good girl.”

He takes a moment to enjoy your gasp and how your head had dropped to the mat, your breath shaky already. His tongue darts out to lick his lips before he orders in a more gravelly tone, “Now be a good girl and spread your legs for me. I need to taste you.”

A shuddering exhale leaves your mouth, followed by a curse that luckily gets swallowed by the yoga mat you’re breathing into. You bend your knees slightly outward, as far as his hips pinning down your calves allow you to go.

“That’s it sweetheart…” He murmurs before his large hands grab the inside of your thighs, guiding your legs to part even further while his head slowly starts to sink down between them.

Your thighs begin to shiver from his warm breath hitting your soaked slit, desperately begging for his attention. Your hands blindly search for the edge of the mat, your fingers clutching it on each side as you prepare for him to dig into you.

Dean of course notices your anticipation and can’t miss the chance to comment on it.

“You’re gonna grab that mat nice and tight for me, sunshine. And you’re gonna hold still, keep those legs spread, and stay nice and quiet.” He instructs, his tone taking on a more commanding one, but still with a mischievous edge to it.

He then lowers his eyes again to admire the slick flesh between your legs where your folds are already parted, practically gleaming in the dim light of the motel room.

“Damn, look at you all nice and wet and open for me.”

Dean shifts his weight to brace his left elbow on the floor next to your hip, the other hand splayed out on the small of your back to hold you in place.

“You’re like a damn waterfall already, sunshine.” He murmurs in awe. The way your body reacts to him never ceases to fascinate him. He leans in, and you feel his hot breath coming in short puffs as he places a gentle kiss on your hooded clit, before he pulls back again.

As you immediately lift and tilt your head to look at him, he lets out an amused hum, “Now now, head down, sweetheart. Remember, yoga’s about relaxing and focusing on your body.”

“Smartass.” you manage to groan out.

“Eatsass.” he corrects you and before you get to be smart with him again, he proofs his point by suddenly parting your slick folds with his tongue, drawing it all the way up until he pulls it back into his mouth with a smack of his lips.

A low moan ripples through your chest, finally feeling that long desired friction that has you melt into a puddle of a blubbering mess. “Please- Dean- don’t stop- I need more- please-”

He grins at your pleading words and dives right back in. Licking, prodding, tongue lapping across your glistening folds, drinking your juice like its the only thing that keeps him sane. He moves up, his tongue circling your clit before he wraps his lips around it. Your legs suddenly tense up and a pathetic mewling-yelp erupts from your parted lips when he starts to suck at your bud like he’s finishing off a flurry through a thin straw.

Your hips jerk back and involuntarily try to pull away from the onslaught. But in vain as his large palm presses down on the small of your back to keep you in place and in reaction to your attempted escape, he just increases the borderline painful pull on your clit even more.

The foam gives in under your clawing fingers, feeling yourself near your climax. You’re close to a scream - until he finally loosens his grip around your sensitive bundle of nerves. You’re relieved and frustrated at the same time. Your clit’s now swollen and overstimulated and oh so close to pop you off the edge.

“P-please…” you whimper and turn your head to the side against the mat to be able to look back at him, “De… please – I-… I’m so close-”

“You want to come on my face… or my fingers, hm?” Dean hums with a cocky sound to it.

“Both- anything- please,” you beg now, your chest heaving under the weight of your body, your breaths grown ragged and heavy.

“Such a greedy little thing,” he growls, his tone laced with pride, knowing exactly that he can always drive you mad with need if he wants to.

He shifts his weight, his chest resting between your legs and his free hand snaking over your thigh to join him. His fingertips reach between your legs, running through the folds, as he lets his finger circle around your entrance for a moment. At your muffled whimper, he effortlessly pushes his middle finger inside. “But first, I wanna see if I can make those legs of yours quiver from just one finger…” Dean states, his tone low with a raspier edge, and darkened eyes fixed on your dripping hole.

You gasp at his words, his gravel tone sending a shiver down your spine. But after a moment of enduring his finger’s tantalizing strokes, your patience snaps and you regain your voice.

“Oh fuck you.” you groan in protest, your teeth clenched from frustration. One finger after all this teasing? This was just pure torture now and he knew it.

“What? You want me to go in full house?” He chuckles knowingly, enjoying your worn down patience way too much for your liking, “Want me knuckles deep inside you again, is that it?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but instead quickly jams his index finger inside you, pumping them both in and out while his lips enclose around your clit once more.

You don’t even have the time to gasp for air when you feel your walls clenching and gripping onto his curling fingers. A few seconds of intense onslaught of his is enough to send you flying over the edge with a loud guttural moan. Your nails dig into the mat, your legs are shaking and your walls fluttering around his fingers while he helps you ride out your height.

Once you fall limp and try to catch your breath, Dean slowly withdraws his two fingers to raise them to his mouth and suck them clean. He grins, wiping his face with the back of his hand before his tongue swipes over his lips, kingly as he does so, savouring every last drop of your taste.

He shifts on top of you to move a hand next to your waist on each side, leaning down to grab the hooks of your sports bra between his teeth. With a swift tug, it falls open and he leans in to kiss you between your shoulder blades. You let out a low hum, enjoying the soft affection with eyes fluttered close. He moves again to gently tug the last piece of clothing over your shoulders and arms until he flings it over his shoulder, where it lands next to your other things.

You feel the rough fabric of his shirt graze your skin, and the buckle of his belt makes you shiver when it lowers down on the nape of your back. Just below it, the growing bulge behind his jeans rubs against your butt when he rolls his hips against you.

“You feel how hard I am just because of you?” He murmurs against your skin, the words almost lost in a stifled groan. But you still answer with a low confirming hum. He continues to plant kisses along your back, taking his time to explore every single inch. His lips send small shivers down your spine and all the way to your core again, each one of them like a spark along your fuse.

“Babe?” He mutters between hot kisses lining up to your ear now.

“Mh?” You hum into the yoga mat while tilting your head slightly for him.

“You ever heard of the elephant position?” He asks innocently.

The what? That name earns him a surprised giggle of yours. It was nothing unusual that Dean would randomly hit you up with some sex-position he’d like to try out with you, but this one was a new one to you. “Are you seriously talking about how elephants mate? Or are you trying to impress me with the yoga pose?” You tease him. Clearly he wasn’t talking about the latter. “Or, let me guess, it’s a Kama Sutra thing.”

He plants another open-mouthed kiss right under your ear, “Mmm-hm,” and his throat rumbles against your neck, is lips lingering there for a moment while he murmurs, “That… Ever tried it?”

With the side of his face he nudges your head further aside before he dives down to take the skin of your neck gently between his teeth, pinching it enough to make you gasp.

At his question, though, you look a bit sheepish and you shake your head, “No… is it… good?”

Dean beams at your admission – he simply loves it whenever he can show you something new, especially when he knows how much pleasure it’ll bring you.

He perks his head up like an excited dog, “Oh you’ll love it, baby. I promise. It hits all your super-sensitive spots.” He leans back in to nibble on the soft flesh of your neck before he continues in an eager tone. “You wanna try it?”

“Uh,” you lift your head now to glance back, meeting his glinting green eyes above his wide smile. Your lips curl upwards at the sight of his excitement and you respond, “Yeah, will you, uh, will you show me?”

“Of course, baby.” He leans back to lower his hips on your thighs again, his eyes raking up and down your buck naked body. “I need you to stay just like this- uh – whatever pose this is.”

You chuckle and raise yourself on your elbows. “The sphinx.”

“Yeah, right, okay, sphinx.” He mutters and pushes himself off you for a second, “Stay. Don’t move.”

He reaches for his belt buckle, the sound of the metal clinking while he unbuttons his jeans and slides the denim along his boxers off his hips. The heavy, worn jeans quickly land somewhere next to your yoga outfit, and his shirt follows seconds after.

“Yeah, that’s better.” He mutters to himself before climbing on top of you again, his knees straddling your legs as he lowers himself down. He runs his hands up and down your sides, his firm pecs brushing against your back. “’M not crushing you, am I?” He asks, his tone softer for a moment.

“No, all good. Don’t worry.” You reassure him before you angle your shoulders to nuzzle your nose against his jawline, feeling the scruff prickle your skin.

“Good.” He nuzzles back into your neck, hands trailing down your arms, “Mmmh… you’re so soft, sunshine.” His hands continue their path until they wrap around your wrists and guide your arms up just slightly above your head as your chest slowly lowers back down. He places them there before he murmurs against your ear, “Keep them there for me, baby, keep them right where I can reach them, yeah?”

“Mhm.” You nod and suddenly become aware of the way the tip of his erection brushes against your inner thighs every time he moves.

“Just wanna make sure I know where those hands are.” Dean chuckles and purposely bucks his hips so that his swollen head briefly kisses your entrance.

His hands slowly glide up the inside of your arm, fingertips ghosting over your twitching skin. He brushes them underneath you, hands up the front of your chest, cupping your breasts and slowly kneading the soft flesh in his palms, “Can’t have you squirming and fighting against me while I’m trying to make you feel good, y’know.”

You arch into his hands, needy little sounds of pleasure dripping off your lips. Your core’s burning again, begging to be taken care of.

“I know baby, I know…” he coos between tender kisses, and in spite of his chapped lips, he caresses your shivering skin with soft love letters.

“Dean- please- I-” you start to plead, your voice bouncing off the pink foam you’re panting against.

But Dean finishes for you with his voice dropped to a rougher octave, while still trying to sound soothing for you, “You just want me to pound you mindless into that damn mat… I know… and I can’t wait to make you cry, sunshine… Gonna make you scream my name so loud, the folks at the front desk will hear it and think there’s a whole exorcism going on or somethin’… But first you need a lil’ patience, sweetheart… alright?”

The question was of course rhetorical. Once your boyfriend has his mind set on something, he’ll pull through with it. Or at least that’s how he’d like to describe himself. You of course know that you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger whenever you really want.

“It’ll be worth it, I promise… I’ll make sure you come so hard, you’ll be seeing nuthin’ but stars for a whole minute.” He adds while he withdraws one hand to palm his erection before he lines up behind you.

“But first… I gotta pump your tight bands of muscles up… the ones closest to your sweet, drippin’ entrance– ” He begins to explain but gets interrupted when he pulls a gasp from your lips, thanks to him suddenly biting down on your shoulder.

His words come out slightly muffled as he continues with a growl, “… get them hot ‘n aroused ‘n sore from all my undivided attention… I want you to come just from my cock inside you.”

You feel his tip tease your entrance, circling it but never pushing in like he’s waiting for the right moment. His feet then dip beneath your legs, before his calves and heels press against your thighs to keep them clamped together. “That’s it… keep ‘em nice ‘n tight.” He husks somewhere behind you while he rocks his hips again. His warm breath’s skimming over your sweat-dampened skin sending shivers of goosebumps in its wake.

Once you’re just in perfect position for him, he finally pushes his cock inside you in one smooth motion which draws a low guttural moan out of your throat.

For the next minutes, Dean does as he explained, taking his sweet time to build up your tension at just the right spots.

He pulls the ridged-band along your slick, clenching walls, slow and ordaining. When he feels you twitch, he knows he’s found just the right spot. With deliberate rolling motions of his hips he begins to push and pull the head of his cock along your g-spot.

Your face drops to the mat, a shaky breath rippling out of your throat when you feel him graze your insides. His slow motions are torturous and unbelievably pleasurable at the same time.

His strong thighs bind yours between his own while he increases the friction, now rutting his swollen tip against your tightly grasping entrance.

“You feel that baby?” He whispers huskily, his lips right next to your ear-shell.

“Y-yeah,” you answer weakly, your breath slowly picking up pace to match his hips new rhythm.

Once he notices your entrance shimmy around his shaft, he knows he’s got you just where he wants you. He swiftly pulls his length out, earning himself a frustrated whimper of yours.

“No- no please, don’t stop-” You start to plead but before you know it, he pushes back in. This time without holding any inch back.

“You did so well, being so patient for me…” He begins to mutter against your hair, “I’ll take care of you now. Let go and just feel me, sunshine.”

You groan, arch your back and raise your chest off the floor, holding yourself upright with your elbows. But you quickly notice it’s in fact, Dean, who’s keeping you from collapsing back into your pink mat.

He had his arm wrapped around your torso, pulling your back close to his chest. His large palm slides along your body until it wraps around your soft, plump flesh to cup one of your breasts, your nipple teasingly pinched between his thumb and index finger. He supports you both on his free hand pressed into the foam, the muscles of his biceps flexing relentlessly from the force of his movements.

All the while he keeps snapping his hips against your bum with precise thrusts, each time taking your breath as he meets your cervix. Each collision eliciting a twinge, like a sweet hurt that has your pupils dive under your eyelids.

He switches his supporting arm, the freed hand roaming every part of your body like he’s exploring and worshipping it at the same time. His large palm comes to rest on your ass, splayed out on your soft flesh. Then you feel him slip out of you, shifting his position as he puts some of his weight on your ass now to hold you down when he begins to pound you into the mat again.

“Oh fuck-” The new angle draws a surprised yelp from you.

But Dean quickly comes to soothe you with open mouthed kisses dancing up your spine, his teeth skimming your skin and his lips tasting the sheen of sweat clinging to your body. Arrived at the nape of your neck, he husks out, “Good girl, takin’ every inch of me… lettin’ me fill ya up all the way…” his voice drifts off when his tongue darts out to lick the sensitive spot behind your ears, sending another shiver down your back.

The new pace of his hips is slower but no less intense. He continues to slam his cock past your slick folds, pulling out almost entirely before he rocks his hipbones back into your cheeks. Over and over, each time all the way to the shaft’s base, drawing those guttural moans from your sweet lips which make him growl with pride.

He rasps out groans and praises against your neck, each spurring you on equally, “You’re taking me so well, baby- Fuck- so good for me… my good girl… bein’ so, so perfect, only for me…”

Your moans grow more desperate, breathless, feeling his cock harden against your soft walls. “D-Dean-,” you whimper as your head briefly lolls back to lean into his shoulder just before it drops forward again with a loud shuddering moan sparked by your core.

Your hands start fisting into the crappy motel rug, pulling at the loose threads of it as you desperately search for something to hold onto. Your frantic actions don’t go unnoticed by Dean who’s watching your every hitch in breath and twitch of your muscles, always making sure he doesn’t miss the signs that the pain’s still pleasurable to you.

He quickly shifts his weight as his hand on your ass darts over to your clawing fingers, doing the same with his other. He untangles your fingers from the fabrics, intertwining them with his own while his forearms come to join yours on the pink foam, supporting himself on both elbows now.

He can feel your legs tremble against the weight of his hips, which he uses to plough you into the yoga mat as he slams into you. His movements now erratic and rough. Squelching sounds mix with your combined moaning and panting. Driving each other closer to the edge with every sound.

“Y-you close, baby?” He growls against your ear, already knowing the answer. He can feel your fluttering walls gripping him tightly, “Fuck-” he groans, his hands squeezing yours and pinning them there when your body starts to buckle and shudder beneath him. He’s now driving his cock inside you with primal need.

“Oh God-” you whine, face pressed flush into the foam as you feel the knot in your belly tighten up and your muscles go tense.

“F-fuck yeah- that’s it- squeeze and come on my cock, come for me-” He growls, his voice dropped to a gravelly, rumbling tone. He runs his nose along your neck, across the trail of red marks, when he suddenly sinks his teeth into your flesh once more.

And that does it for you. Your knot explodes into waves of pleasure rippling through your body. Stars take over your vision when you scream his name. Your walls flutter around his cock, pulling him over the edge along you and coating your walls with his warm seeds. The climax keeps crashing down on you in multiple shock waves until your body finally falls limp, your limbs twitching as if you’d been struck by a lightning bolt.

Dean collapses on top of you, his breath ragged and hot as it wafts against your sweaty skin. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his biceps just barely able to keep his body from completely burying you under his weight.

“Damn… that- wow…” You whisper breathlessly, still trying to regain your vision and collect your thoughts.

“You were amazing, baby.” Dean praises you with a hoarse voice, his lips lingering on your temple.

You tilt your head to catch his lips in a soft, but purposeful kiss. When you pull back just enough to speak, you catch a glimpse of his eyes briefly widen at your words, “No, you are amazing.”

♡

For a moment you both enjoy each other’s soft breaths and the way he hugs you tightly as he wraps his body around you like a heavy blanket. You keep nuzzling your faces into each others hair while you let the silence be filled by your affections. Silence except for the TV which’s now playing the final scenes of “Die Hard” in the background.

After some time, Dean pushes himself off you, gently sitting back down on your bum as he takes in the sight of you in front of him. His hands are kneading the flesh of your ass as he watches you with hooded eyes. Then a cheeky grin begins to form on his lips when he realizes something.

“Y’know, you’re laying down in the perfect position for me to do somethin’.” He states with a full-out grin now.

“Huh-?” Before you can even process what’s happening, his fingers dig into the skin where he knows you’re the most ticklish.

“Dean!!” You squeal like a mouse – but the sound quickly hitches into a high-pitched giggle while you desperately try to wiggle away from him. “St-stop it- y-you jerk!” You stutter between gasps for air and the tears gathering on the rim of your eyes. You kick your legs, throwing him off and not wasting your chance, slipping away to scramble for an escape.

But you quickly find yourself back on the motel rug with a gasp and a thud, thanks to Dean pulling you back by the ankle. His smile has turned into that smug grin of his when he taunts you in a commanding voice, “Where d’you think you’re goin’, hm?”

“Th-that’s- unfair!!” you protest, but your words dissipate in another round of giggles as you turn onto your side, trying to free yourself. But Dean has his calves wrapped around your knee to lock it while his fingers skitter across the heel of your foot. You grapple with his free hand but he effortlessly evades your flailing limbs and grips you by the hip before you get to wiggle away again.

Next moment, you find yourself unceremoniously flipped back onto your stomach and his weight dropped down on your ass to pin you down bellow him. His thighs straddle you, this time reverse as his hands dart out to snatch one of your ankles, bending your leg back so he can continue his assault.

“Unfair? Me?” He lets out a deep chuckle, lips pursed in mock-innocence, his head tilted to glance back down at you over his shoulder. He stills his teasing fingers, waiting for your reaction.

You try to catch your breath while you narrow your watering eyes at him, daring him to go on.

Of course that sly bastard musters the audacity to answer your threat with a wink of his emerald eyes glinting with mischief and his lips flashed into that cocky smirk of his.

“Never.”

A/N: Dean going from goofy to smut to fluff to rough sex and back to fluffy and goofy like 📈 Idk I just see him like this, a caring 'n goofy softdom horn dog who loves it when he can show you new things.

Let me know what you think and if you got to enjoy it my sweet vixens ♡

Masterlist of opened windows:

1st Dec. - Sunshine 2nd Dec. - Spell Book 3rd Dec. - Lights Out 4th Dec. - Tickle 5th Dec. - Dirty UNO 6th Dec. - (TBA) 7th Dec. - Candlelight 8th Dec. - Hex Play 9th Dec. - Whip Stroke 10th Dec. - Barbie World 11th Dec. - Temptation ... (check the masterlist for more!)

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