#Bobby Singer x reader

[jakegyllenbaalz]

i❤️ supernatural

[super-incorrect]

Bobby - You are the first person in the recorded history to have ever started a fire with water, ya idjit.

Y/n, moved to tears - Oh my gosh, thank you!

Dean - THAT WASN'T A COMPLIMENT!

[raz-writes-the-thing]

"This is my favorite part of the day—just us, no worries.” with bobby singer if you could!! thanks for giving him a shot!! <3

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Bobby groused, pulling his cap off and throwing it onto the coffee table next to his recliner. He gestured for you to come relax on his lap- which you did without hesitation, melting into his embrace.

Bobby let out a sigh of visceral relief, his arm rubbing yours as you curled up to him, resting your cheek upon his shoulder.

"Those boys will be the death of me," he said absent-mindedly, hand rubbing soft circles against your tee. You hummed, pressing a hand to his chest so you could feel his heartbeat. "Idjits."

"Enough about the boys, Bobby," you said, adjusting to press a kiss to his cheek. Bobby's lips curled into an affectionate smile.

"Yeah," he agreed in his classic drawl, cuddling you closer and reaching for the television remote for some background noise. "You're right. Let's enjoy our time to ourselves while it lasts."

That sounded like an excellent plan to you.

[shelbgrey]

Dating Dean Winchester Headcanons:

Paring: Dean winchester x Singer!Reader

Summary: just some headcanons about Dean dating Bobby Singer's niece. -NSFW content warring.

A/n: the winner of the latest poll, there will be a new one up next week. I was so excited and suprised on how many people did the poll, my first one only had six and the latest one had over 100.

❤️Mood board ❤️MasterList

Being Dean's girlfriend isn't always easy, but you get through it. So let's talk about it.

There was always something between you guys, but with your choice of life there was always something in the way.

You two practically grew up together, with Bobby being your uncle and John being his father you two were always around each other.

I think Dean also had a slight fear of Bobby, you were his niece and your practly his daughter.

Bobby wasn't clueless, he saw the way you two looked at each other. He wanted to kick Dean's teeth out, he's extremely over protective. Bobby also knew if anyone would keep you safe it wold be Dean.

“I know you'll take care of her”

On a side note, Bobby refuse to call you 'idjit'

The last thing he's said before he died was, “take care of my girl.. You idjits”

Anyway, Even if you two kept denying it or if your just clueless, everyone would know.

Other than Sam and Cas, your the only one he 100% trusts you. He'd trusts you with his life and your his partner in crime.

What makes your relationship stronger is that you started off as best friends and allies.

You always thought you were losing him, he would always have one night stands and there was Lisa. Of course they ment nothing to him, he just thought he'd never be good enough for you.

He thought you deserved better. “I'm not what you need...you deserve better”

That was the first time you opened your heart out to him, but he put his walls up. The he pretended like nothing happened... Until you went on one particularly hard hunt.

Everything was happing so fast thst neither one of you remember that night. There was blood everywhere and Dean did everything he could to save you, Castile healed you and Dean confessed something he's been wanting to since he was 18.

“I love you... Please don't leave me, I can't lose you”

Since everything moves fast in your lives you both decided to take things slow. Dispite his rugged appearance he's nothing but a gentleman to you.

He's extremely over protective of you, to the point hunts with him got annoying.

“I'm not some damsley in distress, Dean!”

He knows what a badass you are and he knows you can hold your own, but he can't help but be your shield.

That's really the only times you fight, your both very reckless and laugh in the face of danger. You guys stress each other out on hunts.

But, lets get to the good stuff now.

Your the only other person who can drive the impala, you'd rather just have him driving with you setting with him.

You guys love the same music, so your always singing on the top of your longs to old rock songs. Your guys song is Angel Eyes by The Jeff Healey Band.

You always have to be sleeping next to each other to get a goods night rest, even when you weren't together you two shared a bed in the old motels.

Dean refuses to sleep unless you have fallen asleep first, he just needs to know your okay before he can have a good night sleep.

You bake the best pies in his opinion and Sam loves your homemade salsa.

When you guys moved into the bunker you guys made great use of the kitchen, Sam loves your guys cooking.

Speaking of Sam, he's one of your best friends. Cas is your first, but you and Sam have a long history together. You were even the first one to hear he got accepted into college.

We know Cas is like the Winchesters gardian angel, well Gabriel is yours.

About three years into yours and Dean's relationship you broke up, it was around the time Sam went to hell and you guys just pushed each other away.

Gabe knew you guys loved each other, so he worked really hard to get you back together. He did succeed.

You guys might argue about the little things, but he always know how to make them better.

You guys just like staying in and watching movies or Scooby-Doo. You guys love cuddling up in the Dean cave and just ignore the world for a few hours.

He loves cuddles, if your in bed or on the couch he needs to be holding you. He loves it when he's laying in bed and your lying on top of his chest.

He also loves it when you hold him, maybe after a rough hunt he'll love just rest his head on your chest while you play with his hair.

You love just being in his arms, there's no feeling better than that. He loves snaking his arms around you and resting his chin on your head because he just really needs to being close to you.

He's really just a big ol' teddy bear.

He's a rough kisser, he's way taller than you so usually he hold your chin between his fingers and lift for head up to kiss you.

There's a lot of neck and forehead kisses being handed out by this man. He loves wrapping his arms around you from behind and just trail soft kisses down your neck.

He also loves it when you kiss his forehead. It just a small, loving gesture he absolutely loves.

If your cold you'll steal his flannels or his jackets, he had this black and red flannel that he now only sees if your wearing it.

when ever your busy doing research Dean always deliver a tiny kiss on your forehead. He'd just be walking by and he'll give you a quick kiss just to make you blush.

He's good a making you blush, he thinks it's adorable.

Trust is a big part of your relationship, you both had opened up about the abuse your fathers and dumped on you. That was the reason Bobby took you in, he could bare you being in the type of environment he grew up in.

With that Dean made a promise to never hurt or scare you. He refuses to lay a hurtful hand on you. It'll break his heart if you flinch away from him during an argument.

As much as you love Dean, demon Dean scares the hell out of you. The demon knew this and used it to his advantage. He Dean went back to normal he could barely look into your eyes. He blamed himself for the bruises around your neck the demon caused.

“I promised you I'd never hurt you... I'm so sorry” he said. “it's not your fault”

On a more positive side... You guys have lots of nicknames. You call him Deano or bub and he calls you just about anything but your actual name, Sweetheart is your favorite.

And with FBI names, you take a different approach. While he uses rock aliases you use actor or fictional names.

“agent Sweets, really?” he said playfully. “What? I like the show Bones”

Your like a mother to Claire, she loves you so much and your the only person she trusts other than Jody and the boys.

Speaking of Jody, she took you under her wing immediately. You never had a mother growing up so it was a relief to have her in your life.

You become a mother to Jack too, and your relationship hit a really bumpy road during that time. You hated how Dean treated Jack and it always turned into a fight.

“if you touch him, I swear to God, Dean!”

Den didn't want to be like his father and after awhile Dean's shell broke and he started to grow a soft spot for him, after your lives calmed down you both did end up adopting Jack.

But to legally do that you had to get married. You both wanted to get married so bad, but with your lives you never got the chance.

You weren't gonna get a white wedding, you knew that and Dean thought the Cort house wasn't good enough. So you got married in the church of Elvis in Las Vegas.

NSFW headcanons:

Dean prefers being on top and being the one in control.

He'll mark your thighs with his teeth and biting hard enough to leave a light bruise.

Loves eating you out,your legs around his head. He loves your legs in general and loves leaving kisses on the insides of your thighs. He'd rather pleasure you for hours than receive.

Hair pulling, he loves feeling your fingers in his hair or he'll tangel his fingers in yours and tug on it when he's getting head or about ready to cum.

Bondeg kink, ropes, his ties, belts, he'll tie you up with anything if your comfortable with it.

definitely a fan of overstimulation, he loves the way that your body twitches and you whimper from his touch.

car sex! All the way. loves to take you in the back of the impala, loving the way the windows fog up and the small area gets loud with the noises you make.

He's a soft/mean Dom, it just depends on his mood. But no matter what he always makes sure your comfortable. He loves to take control in the bed but would never push you.

He would really get off on marking you up. He didn’t think he would, as it wasn’t something he thought too much about but when he did it there was no turning back.

He definitely has a Praise kink too, he loves making you feel loved and appreciated. He love how he can easily make you blush. “your so Beautiful”

“you feel so amazing Sweetheart”

He loves hearing you moan. If you try to hold back or even muffle them when it's unnecessary, he'd put an end to it. “don't hold back, let me hear your voice”

He has big chocking kink, he won't be too rough about but he loves wrapping his fingers around your neck and feeling your pulse when he's ramming into you.

This man is amazing when it comes to aftercare. He knows exactly what you need. After your both cleaned up, he'll pull you to his chest to cuddle.

[bi-bard]

Scrapbooks - Bobby Singer Imagine [Supernatural/Criminal Minds Crossover]

Title: Scrapbooks

Pairing: Father Figure!Bobby Singer & Winchester!Reader

Word Count: 824 words

Warning(s): mention of John Winchester, unhealthy family dynamic

Summary: [During Season 1] (Y/n)'s reconnection with their brothers leads to them wanting to rebuild some old bridges.

Author's Note: Y'all remember this oc? The one that started as a joke but then became a serious thing that allowed me to talk about found family/trauma bonds/etc.? I remembered it.

Also, this story is kind of a sister story to this part of this oc. Wanted to compare similar events ;)

Dude. The Bobby gifs are disappointing, not gonna lie.

More of this OC!

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

After I found out that Sam was out hunting again, I found myself calling him a lot more.

I don't know what I wanted to be for him. I don't know if I wanted to protect him or if I just wanted to make sure he knew that I could help him escape that life if he needed to.

I always knew that Sam was the best of us.

He deserved more than the hand he had been dealt. I don't think he ever knew that or would ever believe it if someone said it to him, but it was true.

He had fought so hard for some kind of normal life.

Maybe I just wanted him to know that there was a door to one.

Sometimes I wondered why I didn't do the same thing for Dean. I think that I wanted him to be what I had tried to be for Sam. I wanted him to be there. To support me in running away from that life. I wanted to know that he never hated me for it. But I couldn't believe that.

I knew that my dad had gotten into Dean's head more than Sam's. I knew that I was called selfish and cowardly and ungrateful. I knew that if I ever had to look my dad in the eye again, he would see nothing more than a traitor. I knew that he would do anything to convince Dean that I was one.

There weren't many connections in the hunting world that I felt guilty about losing. So many of them were purely professional or momentary.

My brothers were obviously an exception.

And so was Bobby Singer.

He had been the first person I talked to when I realized that I didn't want to be a hunter anymore. I sat on his couch while my brothers were upstairs. I cried and begged for some solution or forgiveness or just anything.

He just handed me a wad of cash and said that when I ran, I needed to run like Hell was at my heels.

I didn't call him after that night.

I think I just wanted to make sure that my dad wouldn't be pissed at him for what I did. Bobby had done enough to protect me. It was my turn to protect him.

It took some time after reconnecting with my brothers for me to ask Sam for Bobby's number.

He chuckled at first, jokingly asking "Which one?"

"Whatever one will get me an answer," I replied simply.

I scribbled down the number I was given before giving Sam a quick goodbye and hanging up.

I stared down at my phone as if I was waiting for the number to dial itself. It didn't matter how many deep breaths I took. I was still just as nervous as before.

"Fuck it," I mumbled, rapidly dialing the number.

It rang a few times before I was met with a very familiar, very gruff voice. "Agent Kayser."

"Hey, Bobby," I said.

"Who is this?"

"It's... It's (Y/n)... (Y/n) Winchester." I held my breath for a moment, tears welling in my eyes as I waited for him to hang up the phone. He didn't. "I... I know that I'm probably one of the last people that you wanna hear from-"

"Shut the hell up," he snapped at me. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you to call me?"

I let out a breathy chuckle, letting my head fall forward.

"Dammit, kid, you just about scared the life out of me when you ran off," he continued. "Didn't have your number. Didn't have a clue where you went. You popped up in the paper a few years ago. Hold on a second."

I heard some ruffling in the background.

"I started keeping track of the articles that mentioned you," he explained. "Got 'em all here in a scrapbook. Saving kids and stopping some real bastards."

I wiped my eyes. "You kept them?"

"Of course I did! Are you kidding?"

"I guess... I guess I just assumed that you hated me."

"What, because you didn't want to be a hunter anymore? Kid, I'm not that much of an ass."

I chuckled.

"Listen," he said. "I don't know how much time off you get with that big FBI gig, but... I have an extra room for whenever you need it."

"I would really like that," I replied. "I've missed you."

"Missed you too, kid," he muttered. "Try not to go years without calling this time."

"I'll do my best."

Hanging up was almost bittersweet. I had established contact. That was good. But ending the conversation made my heart drop slightly. I knew how quickly each of our lives could change. Every phone call could be the last.

But all I could do was take a deep breath and push that thought away.

I didn't have time to think like that.

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

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Everything - @geeksareunique

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[canyouimaginethatstory]

Memory Box (Bobby Singer X Reader) REQUESTED

AUTHOR NOTE: This was requested by Angelssavior Summary: While you were cleaning your mother's house after she passed you came across a memory box that leads you to discover a secret your mother kept from you.

You sat there in your childhood home staring at the piece of paper you found hidden away in a memory box your mother had. She had recently passed away and you were clearing out her things. You were an only child and your mother owned the house so there was no hurry. But you felt like you needed to do it and get it over with. Like ripping a bandaid off. You were going through the stuff she had in the attic first and came across a memory box with the name Bobby on it. You opened it and found letters and pictures. It was clear from reading the letters that your mother and this Bobby guy were an item. It was when you came across a page that had been torn out of your baby book that your heart broke for a second time. The piece stated that this Bobby Singer guy was your father. Your whole childhood your mother always said she didn’t know who your father was.

She said that he was some guy she met at a bar but judging by this memory box that was all just a pack of lies. Why would she lie? Was this Bobby Singer guy a bad guy? Had he broken her heart or did she break his? So many questions attacked you. You tried to keep yourself busy cleaning and going through your mother’s stuff. But no matter how hard you tried Bobby kept entering your mind. You didn’t even know what your dad looked like. By the time night time rolled around you were finishing up in your mom’s closet. All you had to do was go through some old photo albums. You found one small album hidden in the back on the top shelf. As you looked through it you didn’t notice in any of the pics in it. They were mostly of your mother when she was younger. Some of her alone and others of her with a guy about her age back then. He had thick brown hair that was combed back, brown eyes, and the way he looked at your mother was the way someone who was truly in love looked at someone.

There were pictures of them sitting in on old pick up trick, having dinner at a diner, a date at the drive-in movies and so on. You came across one of the guy holding a baby in a hospital room and you noticed handwriting at the bottom. Bobby holding Y/N 1991. Your eyes widened. That was the year you were born and that was you in the picture being held by your father. That did it for you. You had to track down Bobby Singer. So when you got home you got out your laptop and decided to try and search up your father’s name. After about an hour of searching, you find a Bobby Singer that lived a few miles away and owned a junkyard. You wrote the address down and decided you would go by in the morning. You needed answers. The next day you drove straight to the junkyard. You tried the best you could to calm your nerves. You just sat there parked across the street for what seemed like hours. Just when you were thinking about leaving a guy walked out into the yard followed by two younger boys. They seemed to be talking about something. You compared the older man to the pictures you found. It was definitely him just older. You took a deep breath and got out of your car.

Every part of you telling you to turn back but you ignored them and walked toward the junkyard. As you got closer you felt yourself shaking a bit. “Excuse me,” you called out getting the attention of the trio.

“Can we help you sweetheart?” the shorter of the younger boys asked. He had short black hair and bright green eyes. He was definitely cute.

“Yeah, I’m looking for Bobby Singer,” you stated.

“I’m Bobby Singer,” Bobby said walking up to you, “Do I know you?”. You looked him straight in the eyes.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said, “and I’m pretty sure I’m your daughter,”. Shock crossed the faces of all three men. Soon you were sitting inside Bobby’s house and you explained about your mom and everything you found. You even showed him the pictures of him and your mom together and the picture of him holding you.

“Is this true Bobby?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “it’s true,”.

“Look,” you said, “I don’t want anything. I just wanna know why you left and didn’t even bother contacting me and I wanna know if you know why my mother would lie and say she didn’t know you,”.

“I do,” Bobby said guilt clear as day in his eyes which broke your heart honestly, “but if I told you may not believe me,”.

“Try me,” you said.

“We’ll give you guys some privacy Bobby,” Dean said as he and Sam walked outside. Bobby explained everything to you. How he and your mom met, how he was there through her entire pregnancy and the day you were born. And then he explained the hunting life and monsters to you. He explained how your mother knew and they decided it would just be safer if he left and you never knew about him. To protect you. As you processed all he told you some things started to make sense. Like how your mom would place salt around the bottoms of doors and windows. How she always had a silver knife with her and kept stuff made of iron around the house. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in Y/N,” Bobby said.

“I believe you,”  you stated, “some of that stuff you explained mom did all the time,”.

“I know it doesn’t make up for leavin,” Bobby said, “but I am really sorry Y/N,”.

“I forgive you,” you said fighting back tears, “you did it to protect me,”.

“I thought about you every day,” he said. Before he knew it you hugged him tight and just let tears fall. He patted your back and just held you. Finally happy to hold his baby girl again.

MASTER LIST: Here

PROMPT EVENT: Here

REQUEST INFO: Here

[game-of-reading]

“You’re too good for me.”

Pairing: Bobby Singer x reader | Supernatural

Warnings: None I can think of

Spoilers: Technically takes place during season 5 episode 2 “Good God, Y’All!” but doesn’t actually include any lines from the episode

Word count: 690

You help Bobby, your boyfriend, come home and start his adjust after his recovery in the hospital.

*gif not mine, found it online so credit to who made it*

Bobby was staring out the hospital window as he waited for you to fill out his discharge papers to take him home.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle being in a wheelchair, or how he was going to handle not going on hunts anymore. He knew he was lucky to have you by his side, but even then he wasn’t sure if you’d remain with him.

“Ready to go, baby?” Your voice brought him out of his thoughts and turned his head to look at you as you approached his side.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Bobby grumbled in response before sighing.

“Want me to push you or are you gonna push yourself?”

Bobby contemplated your question, appreciating that you didn’t just assume if he wanted to be pushed.

“Probably be faster if ya pushed.” Bobby decided, managing a small smile.

You nodded and moved behind his chair, gripping the handlebars and turning him around to head out to the hall.

It was silent between the both of you as you pushed Bobby out of the hospital and to your car, stopping beside the passenger seat.

“Okay, do you want help getting in or do you want to try on your own?” You asked while unlocking the car and opening the passenger door, looking at him to see him staring at the car.

Again he appreciated that you didn’t just start to help, instead giving him a chance to decide.

“I want to try first,” He mumbled and you nodded, stepping back as he rolled closer before putting the brakes on the chair.

You watched as Bobby grabbed and moved each of his legs off of the chair and to the ground, bracing his left hand on the car you held a hand out so he could haul himself up.

“Okay?” You asked when he didn’t move.

“Just…” Bobby trailed off, looking at his feet before your face as you gave him an encouraging nod.

“Take your time, babe. There’s no rush.” You said, and Bobby knew you meant it.

With a deep breath, Bobby steadied himself before taking his left hand off the car to move it onto the passenger door, twisting himself and allowing you to ease him back into the seat.

Once he was sitting you let go of his hand and began to fold the wheelchair so you could put it in your trunk. Bobby took his time lifting his legs into the car and getting comfortable, closing the door just as you got in the driver’s seat.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” You said, looking at Bobby with a small grin.

~ later at home ~

You had spent time arranging a bed to the side of the library, upset that Bobby wouldn’t be able to just go upstairs anymore, so you decided to make sure he can still feel a sense of normalcy while being stuck on one floor.

“The hell are ya doing?” You turned to look at Bobby, slightly confused.

“What’s it look like?”

“Looks like ya brought down the whole bed set.” Bobby clarified, pushing himself closer. “Ya plannin’ on sleeping on a bare mattress?”

“I plan on sleeping beside my boyfriend.” You stated, sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning at Bobby’s reaction.

“No, I can’t ask you to give up that bed.” Bobby shook his head.

“Good thing you’re not asking, Bobby.” You said, leaning forward to grab the armrests, pulling him closer so you could place your hands on either side of his face, forcing him to keep his eyes on yours. “I’m going to do everything I can to help you, I will take care of you however you need me too, because I love you. So if you want me to, I’ll sleep up-” Your speech was cut off by Bobby’s lips on yours, your eyes automatically closing as you kissed back.

Bobby broke the chaste kiss, a smile on his lips as you moved your hands to rest on the chair’s armrests.

“I love you, too.” Bobby murmured, bringing his hand up to cup your face. “You’re too good for me.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hope this finds the right audience :)

I'm not much of a poster and I don't usually share my works but I thought someone else might like what I manage to put in words. And, hey, sharing my creative-ness might help.

If you do like my work, feel free to request something!

[merdeeokercee]

Bobby Singer/Reader (Microfic)

1st Person Microfiction

Rated Mature 18+

Words: 367

Tags: Fluff, Short and Sweet, One-Shot(?), In Bobby's Chevelle, bewbie touch, but that's literally it, nothing beyond that so, yeah

Title: What Does Love Taste Like?

Summary: After taking out a Vampire nest, Bobby and reader share a kiss in the front seat of his car. 

“...Because only he could get away with kissing me after two days of chasing a vamp nest with no dingy motels or their bathroom sinks.”

Do not steal or copy and paste my work anywhere else. Thank you, enjoy!

***There is an "authors note" at the end***

-----

What does love taste like?

Well, I imagine that if love had a taste, it would taste just like this—whiskey. Whiskey that has settled into a bed of cigarettes and iron, then aged for 48 hours in 98 degrees of Robert Singer.

There is a note of desperation, a minim of ache between us, and we ride them both with our tongues.

Yes, if love had a taste, it would be this. The lips, tongue, and spit of a man—one who means the world to me. Because only he could get away with kissing me after two days of chasing a vamp nest with no dingy motels or their bathroom sinks.

I took to a bottle of water and a toothbrush, but it seems Bobby kept it real.

“Ever heard of a toothbrush, Singer?” I ask him the moment we part. His knees spread as I straddle his thighs in the front seat of his Chevelle. He doesn’t even attempt to appear guilty or ashamed; he just shows off his signature crooked smile.

“Fergot,” he says with a lame shrug.

“Yeah? Well, you taste like a twelve-pack and stale man.”

“Well, Sugar,” Bobby blows steam in my face, hot and heavy. “Hate to break it to ya, but—I am a man.” One of his hands slides up my back and settles on the middle of my spine, while the other finds my stomach. He looks at me, his grin gone, but his eyes still shining. “See? See these big man hands? You have any idea the things they want to do to you?”

Bobby splays his fingers. They’re rough and calloused, thick and strong. Today, I watched them strangle the handle of a machete while he whacked off a band of vamp heads. Tonight, I imagine they’ll be digging into my skin while holding me tight as I ride.

The words in my head evaporate, and with a face on fire, I croak,

“I don’t know… why don’t you show me?”

Bobby tilts his chin up, holding my gaze. I bite my lip as his hand on my stomach travels up and up until it settles over a breast.

He chuckles, deep and rolling.

“Oh, gladly, Ms.”

-----

"Authors Note"

So, this is my first time writing fanfiction on this site, I've been gawking trying to learn how it is done by others, but, please do let me know if I have missed anything? Doubt ppl will see this one cus, allas, not enough Bobby Entreprenuers around here if you ask me, but that's what pushed me to post this one first anyways.

I'm also aware first person and microfictions seem to scare ppl off but hey, I enjoy writing both and that's all that matters to me.

If someone does read this one day lol, tell me what you think- LIKE COMMENT AND SUBSCRIBE LMAO- but fr... pls. COugh. <3

[fandom-lover2]

Commissions Are Open

Hello Supernatural Fandom!!

So, I recently got royally screwed over by my last job and lost a lot of money I'd been saving in the hopes of seeing my mom in San Francisco when she comes over from our home country and am trying to find ways to earn a little cash on the side.

Given my gift, I'm hoping this reaches the right people and you guys can help out a bit.

Here is my masterlist if you wanna check out my other works

What I write:

Comfort Letter - $5 (500 words)

Written as a pick-me-up/comfort letter from the character of your choosing. Great for a bad day or gift for a friend who's having a tough time

Personalized Comfort Letter - $7 (500 words)

Comfort Letter written by the character of your choosing addressed to you covering any topic of your choosing

(here is an example I did for a friend)

Drabble (500 words) - $5

Short story (1000 words) - $10

Full fic (1500 words) - $15

Full fic (1500 words) - $15

Long fic (2000/2500 words) - $20/$25

I also love rewriting scenes from movies and TV shows and adding in my own lines/lines for my characters to add, if you've ever wished you or your oc could have been present in a scene I will rewrite it and add your chosen dialogue. Price will depend on word count.

Characters:

Dean Winchester

Same Winchester

Bobby Singer

Castiel

Jack Kline

Crowley

Rowena

Jody Mills

Donna Hanscum

Benny Lafitte

Will write:

SFW

NSFW

Hurt, comfort

Hurt, no Comfort

Fluff

x reader

Oc x character

Oc x Oc

Oc x reader

Won't write:

Rape or rape fantasy

Hate speech - character cannot say anything racist, homophobic or transphobic.

Editing and proofreading (beta reader)

If you need help with editing or re-checking your fic, I'm your girl

500 words - $2.50

1000 words - $5

1500 words - $7.50

2000 words - $10

Please DM if you'd like anything or have any questions

Thank you!

[cuntiel]

[imbadatwrighting]

I never knew a season of a tv show could be so “we’re not gay!” while actively being gay before I watched spn season five

[spn-incorrect-quotes]

Y/n : We need more help. Maybe I should call my friends.

Cas: ... Your what?

Y/n : My friends.

Sam: Are they saying “friends”?

Bobby: I think they're being sarcastic.

Dean: No, no, no, this is delirium, they've cracked from being awake all night. Hey, Y/n ! All of your friends are in this room.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

malevolence

part I

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: You've had a crush on Dean for longer than you even remember, but Uncle Bobby told you not to play with fire. When Dean returns home from a hunt, you knew something was off... you just didn't expect it to be this.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 5,887

A/N: Oh my god. This has been in my drafts forever and I'm so happy I've finally put it out. I'm thinking... three parts? If I get all of the story down as it is in my head, then for sure... should be about three parts. It's set not long after John's death, so Dean is still a baby boy. <3 I found these gifs ages ago and I was like, "oh, I need to do a Demon!Dean fic where he's early seasons Dean." because ugh, the potential. You know the drill. If all the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be. Oh, boy, will they be. I hope y'all like this. All the love.

You didn’t remember when it started. Maybe it had always been there, tucked beneath your ribs like a secret. Something soft and patient, biding its time in the dark. A seed waiting for heat and blood and something wicked to make it bloom.

Dean Winchester had been in your life for as long as you’d had a life worth remembering.

Not family, not really. But close. Tangled up in the same blood-and-oil world that raised you. The golden boy in your uncle’s long, strange shadow. Loud, sharp, sunburnt around the edges—he came and went like a storm, shaking dust off his boots and filling every room he entered with too much heat.

He was six years older, which had once felt like a canyon.

When you were ten and he was sixteen, he may as well have been a movie star. Too cool. Too fast. All swagger and sarcasm and smudged knuckles from a fight he didn’t bother to explain. You remembered the first time he called you sweetheart—just a tossed-off thing, barely looking at you as he handed you an ice pop in the middle of a sweltering July.

“Here ya go, sweetheart.”

And you remembered the way it made you freeze. How the word hung in the air like cigarette smoke, thick and confusing and too warm. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know why it mattered. You just knew that your name had never sounded like that before.

He’d swung you up onto his shoulders that same day—hands sure, grip steady, like he didn’t mind your weight. Like you belonged there. You’d clutched fistfuls of his hair and shrieked with laughter while Bobby hollered from the porch to “cut that damn foolin’ around before someone breaks a bone.” Dean had just grinned and jogged faster.

You were twelve when he taught you how to throw a punch. Fourteen when he handed you your first switchblade, silver and wicked and gleaming like a promise in your palm.

“Keep it in your back pocket. If a guy gets too close, don’t hesitate.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed you the sharpest thing you'd ever owned and trusted you not to flinch.

He always trusted you not to flinch.

That was the difference.

You knew what adoration felt like long before you understood it. You knew you liked his voice, liked his hands, liked the way he’d lean against the hood of the Impala and call you trouble when Bobby wasn’t looking. You hated the way your stomach twisted when he brought girls around. Hated the way you’d listen for laughter through the thin walls of Bobby’s house and feel sick when you heard it.

You were seventeen when it changed. When it stopped being something soft.

You’d grown into yourself by then. Still not tall, still not loud, but sharper in the eyes. More aware. And Dean—he’d started looking at you like he wasn’t supposed to.

It was in the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you passed him in the hallway. The way his voice dropped when he asked you how your day had been. The way he smirked when you snapped back at him, low and dark, like he liked it. Like he was daring you to try again.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. But you started wearing tank tops when he was home. You started sitting a little closer on the couch. You let your fingers brush his when you passed him a drink.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Bobby, of course, saw it all.

“That boy’s got too much fire in him. You don’t go pokin’ it just to see if it burns.”

But by then, it already had.

You were twenty-one now. The canyon had closed.

That afternoon, like so many before it, you sat curled in your usual spot on the porch swing, the cushion beneath you faded from years of sun, the book in your lap more of a habit than a distraction. Your bare legs were pulled up under you, one foot tucked beside the other, your back pressed to the peeling white wood of the armrest. The breeze was warm, sticky with late-summer heaviness, and the cicadas sang like they didn’t know how to stop.

Out in the yard, Bobby cursed low under his breath as he wrestled with the rusted insides of a pickup that hadn’t run since the Reagan administration. His ball cap was pushed up on his forehead, sweat darkening the brim, grease streaking his arms all the way to the elbows. There was a glass of sweet tea beside you, sweating rings into the wood, forgotten in the quiet rhythm of turning pages.

The world hadn’t shifted yet. Not that you could tell. Everything was still where it belonged.

You’d been half-asleep in the sun, lulled by the rhythm of cicadas and the creak of the porch swing, when Bobby’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Son of a bitch!”

You blinked, looked up from your book. A moment later—

“Goddamn bastard bolt won’t budge—get in there, ya stubborn piece of shit—”

Yep. Classic Bobby.

You closed your book around one finger to mark your page and leaned forward, peering past the porch railing toward the truck hood and your uncle’s hunched figure.

“You need a hand, Uncle Bobby?” You called, voice lazy with the warmth of the afternoon. “Or want some tea?”

There was a pause. A soft clank of metal against metal. Then, gruff:

“Tea, girl. And ice this time—I ain’t drinkin’ lukewarm leaf water in this heat.”

You huffed a laugh and stood, arms stretching up overhead as your back arched, joints crackling from the hours spent curled on the swing. The hem of your tank top slid up your stomach, bare skin catching the last of the sun as you padded barefoot across the porch.

Your cutoffs were frayed at the bottom, threadbare in the way only your favourite ones could be. Your legs had picked up freckles over the summer. You felt them heat now under the open air as you reached for the screen door.

Inside, the house was cooler, dim and familiar. You moved on autopilot, pulling a glass from the cupboard, grabbing the pitcher from the fridge. The ice clinked softly as you poured. You lifted it, turned—

And froze.

That sound. That rumble. Low. Hungry. Home.

The Impala.

You nearly dropped the glass right there on the kitchen tile.

You turned so fast your bare feet squeaked against the floor. The screen door banged open behind you as you stepped out onto the porch, tea sloshing over the rim, eyes locked on the long black shape pulling into the drive like it owned the world.

She slid to a stop in a slow growl of gravel. The driver’s door creaked open.

And then—there he was.

Dean climbed out like a scene from a movie. One hand on the roof, the other shoving the door closed. His boots hit the dirt and your heart tripped over itself. He looked broader than you remembered. Taller somehow. His hair was longer than it had been last time—curling just slightly at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, and he moved like he hadn’t just been on the road for hours. Like his body didn’t get tired the way other people’s did.

Bobby looked up from under the hood.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, already wiping his hands on a rag. “Where the hell’s your brother?”

Dean just smiled, that lazy half-smirk you knew too well.

And then you called his name.

“Dean!”

His head snapped toward the porch so fast it almost startled you.

And when his eyes landed on you—barefoot, flushed from the sun, standing under the porch roof with your tank top clinging to your ribs and the glass of sweet tea still trembling faintly in your hand—he grinned.

Not like he used to. Not like the soft smirks he’d given you when you were younger, teasing and warm and safe.

No. This one was sharp. Wolfish. Like he’d been starving and just spotted his first meal in days.

“Well hey there, sweetheart.”

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

The second his voice hit your ears, smooth and warm and laced with something low and dangerous, your body moved before your brain caught up.

The glass of tea hit the porch rail with a clatter, sloshing again, forgotten as your bare feet left the wood and hit the gravel, sharp stones biting into your soles. You winced but didn’t slow, teeth catching your lip, eyes locked on him like nothing else in the world mattered.

“Girl!” Bobby hollered from the front of the truck, voice sharp as a whip. “You’re out here barefoot on the goddamn gravel again—what’re you, feral?”

You didn’t answer. Just ran faster.

Dean was already grinning by the time you reached him. One brow quirked, his whole face lit with smug delight like he’d known you’d come running. Like he wanted it.

You could see it in the way he stood, relaxed and ready, arms just starting to open. Like he was expecting to catch you.

And God help you, he did.

You threw yourself into him without grace—without shame—legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. His hands caught you under your thighs, rough palms settling against bare skin, fingers pressing. Harder than they needed to.

He smelled like heat. Like leather and road salt and motel soap and something darker curling beneath it. Something you couldn’t name.

Your voice came out soft, pressed close to his ear as you held onto him tighter than you meant to.

“We missed you.”

His hands flexed where they held you—gripping tight. You felt it. The possessiveness in his touch. The way his thumbs slid just slightly against the crease where your thighs met the curve of your ass. The quiet exhale that ghosted down your neck.

“Speak for yourself,” Bobby grunted from behind, but even that sounded weaker than usual. More bark than bite.

There was a pause. Then:

“Dean,” he said flatly. “Put my niece down. Don’t think I ain’t seen where your hands are, boy.”

Dean turned his head just slightly, that grin never leaving his face. Still holding you.

“Just catchin’ her, Bobby. Can’t help it if she’s a little…” His gaze dragged back to you. Slow. Heavy. “Squishy.”

Your breath hitched. You felt heat rise all the way up your neck.

Dean’s fingers squeezed again. Barely perceptible. Just enough for you to feel it. For Bobby to notice.

“Dean,” Bobby snapped, and this time there was steel under it.

With infuriating ease, Dean let you down. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. His hands slid down the backs of your thighs as he lowered you, only releasing when your feet touched dirt and your balance returned.

You took a half-step back, suddenly too aware of the heat between your legs. Of the gravel under your soles. Of the way he looked at you like you were his to pick up again whenever he pleased.

Bobby was already walking past, muttering to himself and wiping his hands again.

“Damn fool boy…”

Dean just chuckled, low and satisfied. His eyes never left you.

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

The house smelled like garlic and onions and whatever Bobby had pulled from the freezer that morning and declared dinner. The table was set with mismatched plates, forks with dull edges, and two sweating bottles of beer you’d pulled from the fridge yourself. One slid in front of your uncle with a thunk, the other nudged across the table toward Dean with just enough force to draw his eyes back to you.

He caught it easily, grinned like he knew the touch of your fingers on the bottle had been deliberate, and then tipped it in a mock toast before popping the cap with the edge of the table. You pretended not to watch the way his throat moved when he took the first sip.

You took your usual seat to Bobby’s left, legs tucked beneath you, sipping your water slow and quiet. The table was warm and familiar. A little too small for three grown bodies. A little too crowded in the heat.

Dean and Bobby talked like no time had passed at all.

“So where’s your brother?” Bobby asked around a mouthful of food, squinting at Dean like he expected bad news.

“Chasin’ some lead out in Idaho,” Dean replied, casual. “He’ll meet me back on the road. Said somethin’ about needing space.”

“From you or the case?”

Dean just smirked. Shrugged. “Probably both.”

You didn’t join in. Just twirled your fork in your noodles, dragging them across the plate like you were thinking hard about something. You weren’t. You were trying not to look at Dean. You were failing.

He looked good. Too good. Tanned and broad and infuriatingly comfortable, leaning back in his chair like it was his own damn kitchen. Like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You caught yourself staring and dropped your eyes back to your food.

Then something brushed your foot. Just a light nudge. The kind that might’ve been an accident. The kind that would’ve been nothing, if you weren’t barefoot and hyper-aware of every single thing about him.

You froze. Fork paused mid-twirl. Eyes still on your plate. The nudge came again—more deliberate this time. A soft push against your arch.

You looked up. Dean was still talking to Bobby. Still sipping his beer, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

But his eyes cut to you. And he grinned. Slow. Shit-eating. Wolfish.

Your stomach dropped straight to your knees. You cleared your throat and took a sip of water, suddenly warm all over. Bobby was still muttering about Sam, something about demon omens in Ohio, and you tried to focus. You really did.

Dean’s foot slid along the curve of your ankle. A slow, lazy stroke like he was petting a dog. You flinched. He didn’t.

You jabbed him back without looking, your toes kicking out under the table—more annoyed than anything else. But all it earned you was a harder nudge, right against your calf this time, like a shove disguised as affection.

You looked at him again. He didn’t break eye contact. He arched one brow, lips twitching around the mouth of his beer bottle.

What’re you gonna do about it, sweetheart?

You wanted to kick him. You wanted to crawl into his lap. You wanted to do something reckless. But you just stabbed a piece of meat with your fork and tried not to choke on your own pulse.

Bobby looked up, finally catching the flush on your cheeks.

“You alright there, girl?”

You smiled too quickly. “Just hot.”

Dean chuckled. Low and full of teeth. His foot bumped yours again under the table. You didn’t look at him this time. But you could still feel him.

You barely touched your dinner after that. Every bite tasted like heat. Every sip of water failed to cool you. You could still feel the press of his boot against your ankle long after he’d stopped. Like his touch had sunk straight through your skin.

You were the first one to stand when the plates were empty, scraping your chair back with a little too much force.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” you said quickly, already stacking yours and Bobby's plates, trying to busy your hands so they didn’t shake.

Bobby looked up with a lazy arch of his brow.

“Someone’s in a damn hurry all of a sudden.”

You forced a small laugh, ducking your head. “Just trying to be useful.”

“Mhm.”

You were already halfway to the sink, rinsing plates under warm water, grateful for the hiss of the faucet and the hum of muscle memory. Plate, rinse, stack. Forks, soak, scrub. Your feet shifted over the cool tile, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders started to melt.

Behind you, a chair scraped back.

“I’ll help.”

Dean.

Bobby snorted from the table.

“You? Since when do you ever lift a damn finger after supper?”

“Feelin’ generous,” Dean said, all smooth edges. You could hear the grin in his voice. “Must be the company.”

Bobby huffed and pushed to his feet with a grunt, grabbing the last beer and heading toward the living room.

“Well, bless your heart. I’ll be in my chair, pretendin' not to hear whatever dumb shit you’re about to break in my kitchen.”

And just like that, you were alone.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept scrubbing the last plate, shoulders a little too stiff, breath caught somewhere too high in your chest. You heard him behind you—soft bootfalls, the clink of glass against glass as he gathered the empty bottles and his dish.

Then—

Heat. He was behind you. Close. Then closer.

The heat of his chest pressed flush to your back, hard muscle and worn cotton, and you froze. Completely. Your breath caught in your throat. The plate in your hand nearly slipped from your fingers.

Dean reached around you, casually, his forearm brushing the side of your breast as he slid his plate into the sink with a quiet clink.

He didn’t move. He lingered, then stepped back a beat too slow.

“Oops.”

Your whole body burned.

You turned your head, wide-eyed, and found him just watching you. That smile on his face wasn’t sheepish. It was smug. Knowing. Unholy.

You tried to say something—tried to form any kind of reply—but your tongue felt thick and your heart was pounding in your throat.

Dean leaned one arm against the counter beside you, his body angled lazily toward yours. He was close enough that you could see the faint pink line of a healing cut along his collarbone. Close enough that his scent wrapped around you again—leather, motel soap, motor oil, and something else. Something you couldn’t name. Something dark.

“You always clean up this fast, sweetheart? Or just when I’m watching?”

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slow across your face, then down your neck, then back up.

“You've never been shy.”

You tried to laugh. It came out breathless.

“You’re messin' with me.”

Dean’s smile widened, teeth flashing.

“Am I?”

You shook your head—barely. “You don’t… You don’t look at me like that.”

“Don’t I?”

His voice was low. Deliberate.

You turned back to the sink, trying to hide your face, the blush crawling down your throat. Your hands moved automatically, scrubbing at a plate that was already clean.

Dean didn’t leave.

“Been gone a while,” he said, voice softer now. “Did you miss me?”

Your hand paused on the dish. Your voice was almost a whisper.

“Of course I did.”

He leaned in closer again, heat at your back, breath on your neck.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

And behind you, he chuckled. Low and dark and pleased.

“Good.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Dean was still behind you, heat pressed too close, breath ghosting somewhere near your ear—and for a second, it felt like he might lean in further. Might say something else. Might do something else.

But before anything could shatter, Bobby’s voice cut through the house like a crack of thunder:

“You two done makin’ out in there or can I start the damn show?”

You practically jumped.

Dean chuckled—soft, smug, low in his throat like he was deeply entertained by your reaction—and stepped back just far enough to let the heat leave your skin.

You scrambled into the living room a little too fast, like Bobby’s voice had tugged you from the edge of something you couldn’t name. Your skin was still warm, your breath still not quite steady, but you dropped down onto the couch with a half-hearted exhale, like you could shake it off with the right posture. You curled your legs up beside you, pulled a throw pillow into your lap, and clutched your glass of water like it was going to save you.

“Eastwood or MASH*?” You asked, too quick, too light.

Bobby looked up from the remote, squinting at the ancient television like it had personally offended him.

“Whichever channel works. If I get static again, I’m throwin’ the damn thing out the window.”

You smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The house had settled into its familiar hum—floorboards creaking under the weight of time, cicadas still buzzing low through the open windows, the faint clatter of Dean moving around in the kitchen.

You heard him before you saw him.

He entered the room like a slow-moving shadow—easy, casual, like he belonged there more than the furniture. Your stomach twisted.

He didn’t say a word. Just met your gaze for a moment—sharp, amused—and then reached down, hooked his hands under your ankles, and lifted your legs without asking. You startled slightly, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Because it felt so easy for him.

Then, with a slow exhale, he dropped onto the couch beside you, your legs falling across his lap like he’d planned it that way all along. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch, close enough for you to feel the heat of it at your shoulders. The other—casual, lazy—settled over your shin, fingers tracing an idle path along your skin.

You tried not to tense. You tried not to breathe. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.

And Bobby noticed. He turned his head slowly, one eye narrowing as it moved from the screen to your legs across Dean’s lap, then up to the hand that hadn’t stopped moving. His jaw clenched. His beer bottle landed on the side table with a quiet clunk.

“Touch her like that again,” he said, voice low and dry, “and I’ll break your fuckin’ hand.”

Dean didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stop. Just kept rubbing slow, maddening circles along your shin with the pad of his thumb. He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Aw, c’mon, Bobby,” he drawled, the smile curling across his lips like smoke. “Ain’t like I’m doin’ anything wrong.”

Bobby didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

“You think I don’t see it?” He asked, and his voice was sharper now, honed to an edge. “The way you been lookin’ at her since you pulled up? I ain’t blind, Dean. And I sure as hell ain’t stupid.”

There was a pause, a hitch you felt more than heard. Dean’s smile wavered for the barest second. Just long enough for you to wonder if Bobby had struck a nerve.

Then it returned, just as cocky, just as easy.

“She’s not a kid anymore,” he said, casual, like that settled something.

Bobby leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were cold. Steady.

“No, she ain't. Which is exactly why I’ll put you in the goddamn ground if you so much as look at her like she ain’t got a choice.”

Something shifted.

You didn’t understand it, not fully. But you felt it. Something sharp beneath the surface. Something not quite right. Like there was more to what Bobby said than what he said.

Dean’s silence stretched long enough to be dangerous. Then he tilted his head, eyes still on Bobby, and smiled.

“She looks like she can make her own choices to me.”

You tried to move your legs. Tried to pull away, just a little. Dean’s hand pressed down. Not painfully. Just firmly. Deliberately. Bobby was still watching. And so was Dean.

“You touch her like that again,” Bobby said, lower this time, the threat coiled beneath each syllable, “and I’ll remind you who the hell you’re talkin’ to.”

Dean didn’t answer.

The television filled the silence, tinny dialogue from a rerun you couldn’t focus on. And under the hum of it all, Dean’s thumb resumed its lazy stroke against your skin, like nothing had happened at all.

The house was silent, save for the low creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet.

The kind of silence that came only after the heat of the day had broken—after the static between bodies had faded into cool sheets and shallow sleep. Bobby had gone to bed not long before you had, muttering something about his bad knee and early mornings, casting one last look between you and Dean like he was waiting for something to ignite.

But nothing had.

Not then.

Now, it was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. You didn’t check the clock—just blinked awake with your throat dry and your skin too warm beneath the sheets. The house had cooled but your body hadn’t. Something restless sat in your chest like a live wire humming under your ribs.

The floor was cold beneath your feet, quiet in the way old houses only were when everyone else had gone to bed and the world had softened into stillness.

The air felt different after midnight—cooler, heavier somehow. The way it settled in your lungs felt like a warning, though you couldn’t say why. You moved without thinking, sleepy and restless, fingers trailing along the hallway walls as you padded toward the kitchen, drawn by nothing more than the dryness in your throat and the weight of something unnamed sitting beneath your skin.

Bobby’s old shirt hung off one shoulder, worn soft with age, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked. No panties. No bra. Just that and bare skin and the ghost of sleep still clinging to the corners of your vision.

The fridge opened with a low hum. You filled your glass slowly, letting the cool water slide over the ice and kiss the rim, the glow of the open door painting your skin in pale blue light. You lifted the glass to your lips and drank.

And that’s when you heard it.

The creak.

Not the house settling. Not the wind. Not the sound of an old man in the hallway. Boots. Slow, deliberate.

You turned just as the light from the fridge caught the edge of his silhouette, cutting him out from the dark like something carved from smoke and heat and half-formed sin.

Dean.

Leaning in the doorway like he hadn’t been asleep at all. Like he was waiting. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you. And when he did? Something in his expression made your stomach twist—not with fear, not yet, but something so thick and dark and electric it almost knocked the air out of you.

That grin.

It was the same one he’d worn when you were sixteen and he caught you staring at his mouth. The same one he used when he fixed cars with the sleeves of his flannel rolled high and the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Familiar. Easy. Pure Dean.

But something about it wasn’t right anymore. It was too still. Too slow. Too hungry.

“Well,” he said, and his voice was rough in that way it always got when it was late and he hadn’t talked in hours. “Aren’t you a sight.”

You swallowed hard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes dropped down your body. Then rose again. Like he had every right.

You didn’t move. Didn’t cover yourself. You should have.

“You always walk around like that?” He asked, stepping into the room. “Wearing nothin’ but some old shirt and a smile?”

You didn’t answer. The question didn’t feel like a question.

Dean smiled again, slower this time, head cocked to the side as he watched you over the rim of the glass in your hand.

“Bobby know his niece’s struttin’ around like a damn centrefold at two in the morning?”

You flushed hot. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Yeah. I can see that.”

He was close now. Close enough to smell—leather and heat and that undertone you still couldn’t quite place. Something wrong. Something sour-sweet and unplaceable. It made your knees feel unsteady.

His hand lifted—not fast, just steady—and pushed the fridge door shut behind you. The kitchen plunged into shadows again, save for the faint light of the oven clock. He was still grinning.

“Didn’t think you’d grown up this much.”

You laughed, shaky and quiet, trying to ease the weight of his stare. “Been a year.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s showin’.”

Your breath caught.

He took another step. Close enough now that the fabric of his shirt brushed your arm. He tilted his head down, voice dropping just slightly.

“You used to look at me funny,” he said. “Back when you were younger. Always staring. Thought I was imaginin’ it.”

You blinked, pulse pounding. “You weren’t.”

“No,” he murmured, and his eyes flicked to your mouth. “Guess I wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath on your skin. The heat of him. His fingers brushed the side of your thigh—light, just once, and then gone. It burned like fire anyway.

“You’ve really come into yourself, sweetheart.”

He said it like a confession. Like a revelation. Like it was all finally clicking into place.

And you couldn’t breathe.

His voice went softer. Meaner.

“You want me to look at you like this, don’t you?”

You didn’t speak. He didn’t need you to. Because he already knew.

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was his hand on your hip or the tilt of your chin or the way the space between your bodies seemed to vanish all at once—like the air itself had given up pretending there was still a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

All you knew was that you were suddenly there. Back pressed to the counter. Dean’s body crowding yours like gravity had finally remembered what it owed you.

And then he kissed you.

Not softly. Not hesitantly. Not like a maybe. No, Dean Winchester kissed you like he was claiming you.

His hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressed against your cheek, fingers curling behind your neck as he pulled you in and kissed you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like he’d been waiting too. Starving for it. For you.

You gasped into it, lips parting without thought, and he groaned—"fuckin’ finally"—and kissed you deeper, tongue slipping past your lips like he knew exactly how to take what he wanted. And he did.

You were drowning in him. Pressed between cool counter and burning heat, chest heaving, hands fisting into the hem of his t-shirt just to keep from sliding down the cabinets. Your knees had gone weak. Your body was molten.

When he pulled back, it was barely an inch. His breath hit your lips. His grin carved into you like a knife.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice thick and low and already wrecked. “I always knew you’d taste this fucking sweet.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand was already moving. Down your side. Over your hip. Between your thighs.

You gasped.

He grinned harder.

“No panties,” he murmured, dragging the hem of the shirt up your thigh with his knuckles. “You really were asking for it, huh?”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to deny, to confess every filthy thought you’d ever had about him—but then two of his fingers slid between your legs and found you already wet, and the words died on your tongue.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dark and hungry, lashes low. “You’re soaked for me. All this time, and you’ve been walking around just beggin’ for me to get my hands on you.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

He slipped one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate, watching your face as your jaw dropped open around a gasp. Then another, stretching you perfectly. You choked on a sound, back arching, thighs trembling.

“Shhh,” he crooned, lips at your temple now, the hand at your jaw moving to cover your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, sweetheart. Bobby hears you moaning like a whore in his kitchen, he’s gonna come down here and shoot me.”

His fingers curled.

Your eyes rolled back.

You moaned—muffled, desperate—against his palm as he started to fuck you with those fingers like he meant it. Like he’d been thinking about it for years.

And maybe he had.

His hips were pressed against yours, his breath against your cheek, his mouth dragging along your jaw as he fucked you slow and filthy and completely possessed.

“You ever think about me, baby?” He whispered. “Late at night, all alone in your bed? Bet you used these pretty fingers trying to imagine mine, didn’t you?”

You whimpered under his hand, your body jerking with every pump of his fingers, slick and obscene.

“Bet you used to fuck that little pillow, huh? Crying into it thinkin’ about me pinning you down, stretching you open…”

You were going to come.

It was embarrassing how fast it was happening—how quick he’d found every nerve, every want, every buried need you’d never let yourself speak out loud. But now it was all on the surface, raw and exposed, dripping down his wrist.

He growled in your ear, soft and dark and lethal:

“Come for me, sweetheart. C’mon. Be a good girl and come all over my fuckin’ fingers.”

You did.

You shattered—silently, somehow—body writhing against his hand, nails digging into his shoulders, whole frame trembling with the force of it. His fingers didn’t stop, fucking you through it, dragging every last wave from your body until you were limp in his grip, gasping into his palm.

He finally pulled his hand from your mouth, cupping your jaw again, kissing you slow and deep, like the filth he’d just whispered into your skin meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

He pulled his hand away, brought it up to his lips, and licked his fingers. Then smiled.

“Told you,” he said. “Sweet as goddamn honey.” 

Then his lips were back on your neck.

You were still trembling, thighs slick and trembling where he held you, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other back between your legs, slick with everything he’d pulled from you. You were floating, dizzy, pressed between the cool of the counter and the heat of his body, his mouth trailing kisses up your throat like he was about to say something—

And then the kitchen door slammed open. You barely had time to register the heavy feet pounding across the floor before—

Splash.

Dean staggered back with a sharp, visceral hiss, smoke curling from his shoulder where the water hit, his skin bubbling in a flash of red.

You gasped, shoved back into the counter, heart leaping into your throat.

“What the fuck—!”

Dean growled—growled—low and guttural, his spine arching with the burn, lips curling back to reveal teeth that didn’t quite look like his own.

And Bobby was standing there. In boxers and a flannel and socks. Holding an empty mason jar in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Breathing hard. Rage in every line of his face.

“Get. The fuck. Outta my house,” Bobby said, each word like a shotgun blast. “Now.”

Dean turned his head slowly. Eyes flashing black for a moment before shifting back to the green you'd always known.

“Well, shit,” he rasped, voice raw. “Knew you were smart, old man. Didn’t think you’d catch on so fast.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby snarled, stepping forward, “I’ve seen a lot of demons pretend to be worse things. You just happen to be wearin’ a face I liked.”

Dean smiled—teeth too sharp, too wide.

“I’ll be seeing her again.”

Bobby raised the shotgun in his hands.

“Not if I have anythin' to say about it.”

Dean looked at you once. Only once. That same smirk, but now you saw it—really saw it—for what it was. Too smooth. Too slow. Something evil wearing something you used to love. And then he vanished. Not in smoke, not in fire. Just… gone. The air thinned out. The heat left the room. And the absence of him was a screaming thing.

You were still shaking. Still pressed to the counter, shirt rumpled, legs slick, skin flushed. The high hadn’t even left your blood yet. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Bobby lowered the shotgun, then turned to you.

“It ain’t safe anymore.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He crossed to you slowly. Gently. Like approaching a spooked animal.

“That thing,” he said, voice quieter now. “That thing wearin’ Dean’s face? That’s a demon. And he’s been here all day.”

You stared at him. Everything in you recoiled. Denied. And yet—you knew.

Bobby exhaled hard. His hand came up to your arm, grounding you. Steady.

“I’m sendin’ you somewhere safe.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Somewhere he don’t know. Somewhere he can’t get to you. You’re leavin’ in the mornin’. No arguments.”

You were still in Bobby’s shirt. Still barefoot. Still breathless. And now the world had cracked open beneath you. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l <3

[deanwinchestersbabygirll]

Protective~ Dean Winchester imagine

Warnings// angst, fluff and cock blocking

lil summery// just a lil cutesy protective Dean Winchester

*REPOST FROM MY OLD ACCOUNT*

Dean x Reader

Word count// 1400

(gif from Pinterest)

You Sam and Dean had just finished a pretty rough ghoul hunt, once you guys had all showered the remnants of the night, dean suggested you guys head out for a few drinks to celebrate, once you got to the bar Dean and you slide into a booth, deans arm wrapping around your shoulders pulling you into his side “you get the first round Sammy” Dean said smirking at his brother, Sam rolled his eyes “fine but you’re next” he said walking to the bar

“So how you feeling after you’re first ghoul sweetheart” you looked up at your boyfriend “well I’ve gotta say I won’t be chasing one for a very long time, much prefer a simple salt and burn” Dean chuckled kissing the side of your head, “alright beers are severed” Sam said sitting down with the drinks “thanks Sammy” you said taking a drink out the bottle

You and the guys were having a great time talking about passed hunts before you’d met them “he just looked at me all upset and said ‘I lost my shoe’ all because he lost the damn rabbits foot” Dean laughed finishing his second beer, “alright my round boys just another beer?”you questioned getting up “yeah thanks Y/N” Sam said “yeah me too thank you sweetheart” you hooded moving to the slightly crowded bar you quickly got the bar tenders attention “hi three beers please” the man nodded “that’ll be 12 bucks gorgeous” he said placing three beers in front of you, you nodded handing him a 20 dollar bill, the bar tender went to get your change leaving you standing for a few minutes

“what’s a beautiful girl like you doing at a place like this” a man grumbled out from one of the bar stools, he looked to be a drunk creep no younger than mid 50s “I’m here with my boyfriend and friend” you said back hoping he’d back off at the boyfriend comment “ah bet your boyfriend doesn’t treat you like I would” the man said moving closer to you “look buddy I’m not interested I’m in a relationship” he didn’t seem too happy with that “you better watch yourself you bitch I’m giving you a choice the only thing you should be saying is yes sir, because that’s the only damn thing you’ll be saying when I’m pounding you in front of your little boyfriend you slut!” he spat out, “is there a problem here miss?” The bartender asked returning with your change “no everything’s fine thanks” you said grabbing the change stuffing it in your pocket before taking the beers back to the winchesters

“Hey sweetheart everything good? You were gone a while” Dean said grabbing his beer and pulling you back to your place at his side “yeah fine just waiting for my change” you answered quietly, you could see the man from the bar staring at you his hand holding his glass tightly in his grasp as he wouldn’t break eye contact “I’m gonna head back to the motel after this one guys I’m pretty tired” you said feeling uncomfortable either the stares the man wa giving you, dean nodded “yeah I think we’ll all head out then, you good with that Sam?” Dean questioned, Sam nodded

Once you guys finished your drinks you made your way to the exit, from the corner of your eye you seen the man get up, following your trail to the exit, starting to feel scared you grabbed deans hand tight, Dean turned to look at you concerned “you okay Y/N? You hands really sweaty” you nodded to answer him too nervous to even speak, you thought the night air would make you feel better but knowing the man was following behind was just making your feel sick, before you could get into baby dean stopping you, both hands on your arms as he looked at you “sweetheart my job is lying for a living, I know somethings bothering you and I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what it is” Dean asked alerting Sam “what’s going on?”

Sighing you looked behind the brothers to find the man staring at you from behind a car “there was a guy at the bar, he freaked me out a little bit I didn’t care too much until he sat staring at me for the last hour so I wanted to leave but he followed us out here” you said, your heart pounding in your chest, Dean got an angry look on his face as he turned searching the parking lot “where the hell is he!” Dean moved to look around finding him quickly, Dean stormed over “hey! The hell do you want jackass? You think you can harass my girlfriend I wouldn’t find out” Dean grabbed the man by his shirt “not my fault she’s a whore man, just wanted a little taste of her sweet p-”Dean didn’t let him finish his sentence before he was released punching him in the face “my nose!” The man yelped but dean wasn’t done yet, Sam was holding you in a hug blocking the fight from your eyes

Once dean was done teaching the man a lesson in how to respect women he walked back over to you and sam “alright he’s down, let’s get back to the motel” Dean said getting in the drivers seat. Once you guys made it back to the motel you followed the brothers back to the room, Sam went into the bathroom leaving you and Dean alone

sighing dean sat on the bed you two would be sharing, he started to wrap his bloody knuckles you let out a shaky breath before sitting beside him and taking his hand “I got it” you said taking out the rubbing alcohol and rubbing it on his wounds, Dean flinched slightly at the sting “why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He asked softly you looked up giving him a small smile “I just didn’t want to bother you, I just didn’t realise how big a creep the guy was till he followed us out” dean nodded “sweetheart if someone or something is ever bothering you I don’t give a rats ass how by or small, you tell me and I will take care of it” you nodded “yeah I will I’m sorry dean” Dean was shaking his head “you have nothing to be sorry for Y/N you did nothing wrong” you wrapped your arms around deans shoulders pulling him to a hug, we wrapped his own around your waist holding you close to him

You pulled away to give him a small kiss, however a small kiss with Dean was never really just a small kiss, this one being no different as Dean was swiping his to tongue along your bottom lip, you parted your lips allowing dean to explore your mouth, you moaned quietly when dean pushed you slightly to lay back on the bed as he moved to lean on top of you as you continued to make out, deans hand was tugging at the hem of your shirt, and just when you were about to take it off the bathroom door opened, the younger Winchester emerged in his pyjama pants and shirt “seriously!” He yelped turning away

Dean sighed moving to stand up “relax Sammy were decent” you chuckled as you moved to get up and get changed in the bathroom, Dean following close behind “seriously don’t guys I don’t want a repeat of the hunt back in Chicago” you giggled “I promise Sammy we’ll keep it PG” you and Dean changed into your sleepwear, Dean sporting the same as sam, minus the shirt, he found them to be annoying when it got too hot in bed, you in a pair of shorts and deans old led zeppelin shirt

When you both emerged from the bathroom Sam was already tucked in for the night, all lights off minus the one in the bathroom, you and Dean made your way to the bed getting in either side Dean quickly grabbed your waist tugging you close enough so you could rest your head on his bare chest and tangle your legs together “we’re definitely getting our own room next hunt” Dean whispered kissing the top of your head, you chuckled at his remark closing your eyes “whatever you say Winchester”

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

lil repost of one of my personal favs from my old account :))

[supernotnatural2005]

Sexual Encounters with Dean Winchester - Fantasy

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Exploring kinks with Dean.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings/tags: Smut! (18+), Car wash, Dean's baby cleaning his baby 😜, semi public sex, fluff, swearing, dirty talk, established relationship.

AN: Another one to add to this Kinky-ass series 😅, it was an idea that just came to me and was fun to explore! I hope you guys like this one 💕

Main Masterlist

SEDW Masterlist

The summer heat hung thick in the air at the Salvage Yard. The scent of oil, rust, and sunbaked metal mixing with the warm breeze. Rows of old, abandoned cars stretched across the yard, their hoods popped open like gaping mouths, skeletons of machines long past their prime. 

Bobby’s house stood sturdy and weathered in the centre of it all, with its wraparound porch that held so much history and too many late-night whiskey-fuelled conversations. The old barn loomed in the distance, its doors slightly ajar, housing Bobby’s collection of spare parts, weapons, and God knows what else.

It was quiet now—eerily so. Sam and Bobby had taken off for a supply run, leaving you and Dean alone. And while he was inside tinkering with something—probably cleaning one of his guns for the fifth time today—you were outside, preparing a little surprise.

Dean had let slip a couple of nights ago—after a few celebratory drinks of another case done and dealt with, at the local dive in town— that he had a fantasy. Not some ordinary, run-of-the-mill kink. No, something that was more personal to him. 

His girl, washing his Baby. 

He’d gone into great detail how nothing could be hotter—his two greatest loves, together, covered in soap and water.

And who were you to deny him this fantasy?

Smirking to yourself, you dragged an old radio from the garage, setting it down on the workbench. You placed the cassette tape, you’d dug out of Dean’s box of his beloved tapes, into the compartment and with a flick of the volume dial to the max, the opening chords of Pour Some Sugar on Me blasted through the humid afternoon, cutting through the quiet.

It wasn’t 30 seconds later, the screen door was creaking open.

“The hell?” Dean’s voice floated out, rough with confusion. You didn’t turn to look just yet. You knew exactly what was about to happen.

You dipped the oversized sponge into the bucket of warm, soapy water, wringing it out just enough before gliding it over the hood of the Impala. The sun gleamed off the wet metal, tiny rivulets of water dripping down the sleek black curves of Baby’s body. You bit your lip, pretending to be completely unaware of the way Dean had stopped dead in his tracks.

When you did glance up, you found him standing there, frozen on the back porch, his entire expression comically dumbstruck.

His jaw had quite literally dropped.

A slow, wicked smirk pulled at your lips. Oh, yeah. You had him.

You gave the hood another slow swipe then, for good measure, and bent just a little further than necessary, your tiny denim shorts riding even higher, clinging to the curve of your ass. The white tank top you wore clung to your skin like a second layer, teasing the lace of your bra underneath. 

You could feel his eyes roaming over you, hungry and dark, his entire body going still in that telltale way that meant his self-control was hanging by a damn thread.

Dean let out a strangled groan. “Son of a bitch.”

You kept up the show, swaying your hips in time with the music, letting the heat of the sun mix with the heat of his stare. Then, like you were in some sinful 2000s music video, you lifted the sponge, squeezing it over your chest. Cool, soapy water cascaded down your skin, soaking your tank top completely see-through.

Dean actually stumbled forward a step, like some invisible force was dragging him closer.

“Jesus, fuck.” His voice barely made it past his lips, breathless with something between awe and agony.

You dragged the sponge over your body, teasing, slow, torturous, wringing every ounce of restraint from him. Rolling your hips to the beat, you stretched across the Impala’s hood, putting on a show until the final strums of the song faded out.

Grinning, you turned fully to face him, leaning back against the slick metal, watching the way his chest rose and fell. The way his fists clenched at his sides, his body taut with restraint.

“So…” You tilted your head, your smirk coy. “Is this everything you imagined?”

Dean didn’t answer.

He moved.

In one swift motion, he closed the distance, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the hood with effortless strength. The cool metal met your bare thighs, shocking a gasp from your lips—one he swallowed as his mouth crashed onto yours.

The kiss was desperate, hungry. Claiming.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, arching into him, feeling just how much he’d enjoyed the show. His hands roamed your back, fingers digging into your hips as he dragged you closer, like he couldn’t get enough. The heat of his body, the rough denim of his jeans between your legs—it was intoxicating.

He kissed you like a man starved, all tongue and teeth, devouring you, owning you.

You whimpered when his lips trailed lower, his stubble scraping deliciously against your damp skin.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he growled, voice thick with want, hands gripping your ass as he rocked against you.

You moaned at the friction, rolling your hips into him, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging just to hear the sharp hiss that left his lips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder.

Your breath hitched as he ground against you, slow and deliberate, teasing himself as much as you.

“As much as I’d love to take my time with you,” Dean panted, his voice ragged, “I’m afraid we don’t have a lotta time.”

Your lips curled into a wicked smirk as you dragged your nails down his chest, over the fabric of that grey tee of his, the one that clung to his biceps and broad shoulders. “Then we better make it quick.”

You husked against his lips and then caught his plush bottom lip between your teeth, tugging just enough to make him groan deep in his chest, and that was all it took. Dean all but growled before crashing his lips against yours once more, the kiss hot and filthy. 

His large hand framed your jaw, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue thrusting past your lips, swallowing your breath like he couldn’t get enough of you.

His hands were everywhere—skimming down your sides, gripping your hips, squeezing your ass before finally cupping your breasts through the soaked fabric of your top. A sharp gasp left you when he pulled away, yanking the dampened fabric over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him. 

Without hesitation, he tugged the cups of your lace-bra down, freeing your breasts to the warm summer air before his mouth was on you, hot and hungry, sucking, nipping, lavishing you in wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“Fuck, baby,” you whimpered, arching into him, your fingers fisting into his hair as the ache between your legs turned unbearable.

Dean groaned against your skin before pulling back just enough to flick open the button of your shorts, yanking them and your panties down in one swift motion. You barely had time to shiver before his hands were between your thighs, his fingers trailing over your slick heat, teasing, pressing just enough to have you trembling.

“Shit, baby,” he rasped, dragging his fingers through your wetness, spreading it before pressing the pads of two fingers against your aching clit. “Already so fuckin’ soaked for me.”

Your head fell back, a breathy moan slipping past your lips as he started working you open, circling your bundle of nerves with slow, deliberate strokes. He knew exactly how to touch you—his practiced hand moving with confidence, like he was playing a damn fiddle, pulling every little sound from you with ease.

Your thighs twitched, hips rolling into his hand, but he wasn’t about to let you slip away from him. His free arm slid around your back, pulling you against him, keeping you close, keeping you steady. You weren’t going anywhere—not until he was done with you.

“Dean,” you gasped, clinging to his bicep, your other hand gripping his shirt as he slid one thick finger inside you, curling it just right. Your walls clenched around him, the stretch not nearly enough, but he took his time, teasing you, dragging his finger in and out before adding a second.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and sinful as he thrust his fingers deep, curling them against that spot that had you gasping. “Goddamn, sweetheart… you’re squeezing me so tight.”

His thumb found your clit again, circling, pressing, sending waves of pleasure through your body. His arm around your back tightened, anchoring you, his body pressed firm against yours as he worked you apart with ruthless precision.

The tension coiled in your stomach, tightening with every stroke, every flick, until you were right there, teetering on the edge.

Dean leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice rough and dripping with possession. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

A broken cry tore from your throat as your orgasm hit, your body arching into him, back bowing as pleasure wracked your frame. Your walls pulsed around his fingers, thighs trembling, hands fisting his shirt as he worked you through it. His deep groan vibrated against your skin, his grip on you firm, grounding you as you came undone beneath him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he praised, fingers slowing but never stopping, drawing out every last pulse. His free hand smoothed up your back, keeping you close, pressing you against his heat as you shuddered.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your throat before dragging his slick fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum. “You taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

Still panting, you reached for his belt, fingers fumbling in your urgency, desperate to feel him inside you. Dean wasted no time helping, shoving the leather free and popping the button of his jeans, his cock already hard and aching as he shoved them down just enough to free himself.

Your breath hitched as you wrapped your fingers around him, the heat of him searing against your palm. He was thick, heavy, veins pulsing beneath your touch as you stroked him from base to tip. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat, his hips jerking into your grip as his head tipped back, lips parted on a ragged breath.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasped, his hands gripping your thighs, like he was grounding himself in you.

You let your thumb sweep over the weeping tip, smearing his precum, feeling the way he twitched under your touch. His jaw clenched, muscles tensing, and fuck, you swore you could watch him like this forever—his body taut with need, barely holding himself together.

But Dean had other plans.

With a rough growl, he pried your hand away and pressed you back onto the hood of the Impala, the metal warm against your spine, sending a shiver through you. His hands spread your thighs wide, his gaze roaming over your flushed, wrecked body like he was committing you to memory.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, palming himself as he stroked his cock, his eyes dark and hungry. “You look so goddamn good like this. My girl. My Baby.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls fluttering around nothing as you whined for him, arching, desperate. That was all it took.

Dean lined himself up and thrust in with one smooth, devastating stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The both of you moaned—loud, unrestrained—as he stretched you open, filling you completely. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he stilled, savouring the heat of you wrapped around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot, ragged. “So goddamn tight, baby.”

A whimper slipped from your lips, your hands clawing for grip on the slick metal as you tried to rock your hips, but his grip on your thighs kept you pinned beneath him. The stretch of him was almost too much, the delicious burn leaving you trembling, but it wasn’t enough—not yet.

“Dean, baby" you gasped, voice breathless, needy. "Please. Move. Fuck me."

Your plea shattered whatever restraint he had left.

Then he moved.

There was no holding back, no slow build—just pure, unrelenting need as he started fucking into you, hard and fast. The Impala rocked beneath you, the metal creaking under the force of his thrusts, and every time you jolted higher, he yanked you back down onto him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

The sound of skin slapping, the wet, filthy noises of him pounding into you filled the air, mingling with your desperate cries and his gritted curses. Every thrust sent you spiralling higher, every drag of his cock against that perfect spot making your vision blur.

Dean was unraveling just as fast, his grip tightening, his groans turning into something deeper, almost desperate. His lips found yours in a searing, messy kiss, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he broke away, panting against your mouth.

“Gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” he growled, his hand slipping between you to rub tight circles over your clit, driving you closer to the edge. “C’mon, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, pleasure ripping through you, your walls clenching around him as you came with a cry. The way you squeezed him had him cursing, his rhythm faltering, his breath shuddering.

“Shit—fuck, baby—” His hips stuttered, and then he was right there with you, groaning deep as he buried himself to the hilt, his release spilling inside you, hot and thick.

He slumped against you, both of you breathless, shaking, bodies slick with sweat. His hand smoothed up your side, soothing, grounding, before he pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.

“Damn,” he chuckled, voice wrecked. “Might be the best ride I’ve ever had in this car.”

You rolled your eyes, but the breathless laughter still bubbled out of you. "You’re such a dork." You smacked his shoulder lightly, a mix of jest and silent demand for him to help you up. He did, pulling you against his chest, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

When he pulled back, his green eyes were softer now, something unspoken lingering between you both. His fingers traced along your jaw, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips.

"Thank you," he murmured, voice quieter now, more reverent. "For this… for everything."

Your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his gaze, and you cupped his cheek, stroking your thumb over the rough stubble. "Anything for you."

Dean exhaled, something almost like relief washing over his expression before he kissed you once more—slower this time, less desperate, more savouring. His hands lingered on your hips, his thumb brushing soft circles against your skin, grounding you in the moment.

But before you could get lost in him again, you reluctantly slipped away, heading inside to clean up and change. The last thing you needed was to look like you’d just been thoroughly fucked on the hood of Dean’s beloved car—especially with Bobby and Sam due back any minute.

By the time you descended the steps—now looking far more presentable—you caught sight of Dean through the hall window. A smirk tugged at your lips as you watched him, his focus entirely on the Impala, washing away lingering suds and ensuring not a single trace of your time together remained. Of course, he had to finish her off too. Pun intended.

You bit your lip, amused at the sight, but before you could enjoy it any longer, the familiar rumble of Bobby’s truck rolling up the dirt driveway snapped you from your thoughts.

Bobby stepped out first, casting a suspicious glance toward Dean, while Sam followed, his gaze narrowing as he watched his brother casually running a drying cloth over the hood.

“Didn’t you just clean her yesterday?” Sam asked, brows furrowing.

Dean hesitated for only a fraction of a second before smirking, his comeback effortless, at least so he thought. “Yeah, well… she got a little dirty.”

AN: This was a fun little one to write 😆. Ofc Dean's fantasy would be something like this, simple but effective. I hope you guys liked this one ❤️, feedback is always appreciated 😊

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[watermelongirl01]

Sweet Rescue Masterlist

Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have always heard about the brave and strong firefighters around your town, but never gave it the relevance it truly deserved. That is, until you find yourself caught in a horrible car accident, one that makes you see your life flashing before your eyes. Now you feel the overwhelming need to thank the fire department that rescued you. How can you show them? By gifting them a year of your finest desserts. Little did you know, this was the key to Captain Dean Winchester’s heart.

Who thought that the accident would begin the most wonderful love story between the fireman with the sweetest tooth and the best baker in town?

Content Warning: English is not my first language. This will be a mini-series AU with fluff, angst, and eventually smut.

If you are interested and reading this, please let me know. I Will be adding chapters as soon as I can.

Please DO NOT copy or translate this.

Chapters:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Tags: @ladysparkles78 @ariesandwolves @n-o-p-e-never