#Cowboy!Dean

[honeyryewhiskey]

03. you're a cowboy like me

ᯓ★ story index abt, you wake up next to dean, trying really hard not to make rash decisions but he keeps looking at you like that and smiling like that and— fuck it. warnings, smut 18+ mdni!, cowboy hat rule, riiiide 'em cowgirl, struggle 2 face feelings, shared showers 2.9k words

The afternoon spills it’s golden warmth into the old house, dust sparkling in the rays cutting through the open windows. Slowly, you stir, finding yourself comfortably tangled up with Dean. Somewhere in your sleep, you ended up tucked between the faded grey cushions of the couch and him—his arm draped loosely over your shoulders, your hand and ear pressed right to the steady beat of his chest.

He’s still out cold, half sitting up with his legs sprawled across the length of the couch, one boot dangling precariously off the edge. His pink lips are just slightly parted, brows softer than you’ve ever seen them. His stetson sits low enough to shield his eyes from the sun, lashes barely visible beneath the brim.

You steal the moment, shamelessly drinking him in: the way his features seem gentler now, all the rough edges smoothed out by sleep. There’s something about seeing him like this that makes your chest ache, just a pinch.

Then his tongue sweeps lazily across his bottom lip, wetting it before they tug up into a smirk. “You keep starin’ at me like that, sweet thing,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low with sleep, “‘nd I’ll start thinkin’ you might be sweet on me.”

You jerk back slightly, caught red-handed, but you recover fast, flashing a coy grin. “Might? Don’t give yourself too much credit, cowboy.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your palm, and his arm tightens just slightly before he pulls away, stretching leisurely like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Sure, darlin’,” he teases, tipping his hat back enough to give you a lazy once-over, that boyish grin never leaving his sleepy face. “But if you wanted to cozy up to me all night, you just had to ask.”

Living on the road meant living by your own code—let ‘em chase, but never get caught. It’s become a rule you follow religiously, a line you never cross. 

But for the love of all things holy, this silver-tongued man is staring down at you with that deviant glint in his pretty green eyes, the kind that electrifies your skin, winds you up in the most invasive way. His chest, broad and steady beneath yours, feels like a challenge, and that damn stetson perched atop his dirty blonde, tousled hair only makes it worse—taunting you, daring you to just reach out and take it.

Your eyes lock with his, and for a split second, it feels like he’s peering past your irises and right into the swirl of wicked thoughts dancing in your mind. His gaze falters, dipping to your mouth just as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. 

Before he can catch on, you snag the hat from his head in one slow, deliberate motion. Settling it atop your own with a smug little tilt.

You meet his stare head-on, fluttering lashes feigning innocence. A slow, low laugh spills from his lips, rich and rough, igniting a flush on your skin.

His thumb brushes up to catch your chin, holding it gently but firm as he leans in, consuming nearly all of the space between. Hungry and honey-eyed, he’s fixed on trailing over your features with a deliberation that sets your pulse racing. “Careful, now.” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath skimming your skin awakens shivers cascading down your spine.

Your gaze flickers, restless and heated, between his open mouth and watchful eyes. “I’m done with careful,” you breathe—and before you can think twice about it—your lips close the gap. 

He leans into the kiss, rushed and messy, as his hand grasps the back of your neck to tug you closer. You climb on top, straddling his dirty blue jeans. A moan escapes you as he bites down on your bottom lip, matching his hasty kiss. Your nails dig into the back of his neck and he grumbles against your mouth.

His hands lose any sense of decency, sliding under your shirt, finger pads roughly digging into the skin of your waist. Deep enough to leave big red hand prints in their wake. Your hips twitch in his grasp, denim rocking against denim with enough pressure to make him groan against your lips. 

His hands shift, hooking under your thighs as he lifts you to maneuver himself to sit properly against the back of the couch. 

Your hands find the cool, silver buckle of his belt and tug, “Woah,” he rasps, mouth still pressed to yours with a breathy laugh, “easy, sweet thing.” His lips move to trail sloppy kisses down your neck, as his hands find the button of your jeans, swiftly popping them open.

He pulls back, his dilated pupils finding yours as one hand roughly grabs your jaw, “I wanna see how pretty you look,” he starts with a tantalizing smirk, eyes trained on yours while his other hand slips down into your heat. You're gasping before he can even finish his sentence, “when you cum.”

Two thick fingers plunge inside, stretching you out and curling just enough to make you whimper. The sound coming from your lips makes his grip on your jaw tighten as a lazy smile crosses his lips. He starts to pump, slow, too slow, and you buck your hips against his hand. 

“So pretty when you’re needy,” he hums as his thumb presses to your clit, circling and working you into a dizzy headed mess. His other hand slips down to your throat, holding you in place as he leans back slightly, just enough to watch your eyes flutter and brows knit while you ride his working hand. 

“Dean,” you whimper, as he works a brutal pace into you. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches. The pressure in your core builds as he sinks deeper, hitting your sweet spot in a merciless rhythm. You falter, your hands pressing into his chest for stability. 

“Stay just like that,” he mumbles, relaxed against the couch, undoing you with ease, hungry eyes shamelessly watching you lose any semblance of control of yourself. 

Your walls clench around his digits, breath hitching with every rough thrust. The sensation of it all drawing your eyes closed, reeling in the building knot of tension, “Nuh, uh. Look at me—” he demands, voice husky and warm.

“Dean—fuck,” you sigh, opening your eyes to find his, pupils eating the green of his irises as you’re reduced to a whimper wet mess in his hands. 

Your hips sputter and buck as you catch your breath, and he slowly pulls his hands from your jeans. You’re still coming back down when he’s picking you up at the waist, setting you on wobbly legs to tug your jeans loose from your legs. His hands glide over the skin of your thighs, squeezing your ass before pulling you back onto his lap. 

He moves with an eagerness that matches your own, securing your legs around him, his lips are back on yours as you both clumsily undo his belt and tug just enough for his cock to come out—slick and throbbing against your skin. 

He groans against your lips, taking himself in his hands. “Fuck,” he hisses, thrusting into your wetness. The sudden stretch makes you shudder, nails digging into his shoulders as you sink down onto his length, rocking your hips into his. 

His mouth goes to your neck, lapping and biting at the sensitive skin. His hands squeeze your hips, guiding your body up and down against his. 

It’s hot and sticky in the old house, making you feel damn near high as his tip slams against your sweet spot. His movement matches yours, messy—needy. His arms wrap around you as you lean against his chest. 

He steadies your hips with one hand, the other securely locked around your back. Thrusting up into you at a mind-numbing pace. His hand gets tangled in your hair—the pull making your vision go spotty. 

You give into his control, mind swirling with his lips desecrating any bit of your skin he can find, the sound of wet skin slapping against each other filling the room with your whimpering and his muffled groans. 

Your hand wraps around the muscles of his bicep, nails digging deep as the other clutches to the back of his neck. You feel yourself tighten around his cock, moans sputtering out of your lips as your thighs tighten against his hips. His hips sputter, cursing under his breath as the sensation of his cum shooting inside you pushes you over the edge.

Your bodies become a synchronized twitching mess—panting from the come down as you slowly loosen your grip on him. 

Blinking back into reality, you sit up, still too weak to remove yourself from his lap. Dean’s sleepy smile finds you, his hands coming up to brush the stray hairs from your face as he cups your cheeks. “See,” he huffs, managing to find his ammunition for teasing as he grounds himself back to earth, “told you I’d be a gentleman.” 

You roll your eyes, swatting his hands from your face with a tired laugh as you roll off his lap and onto the couch beside him. “That smart mouth of yours is making sense of all the trouble you talk about getting yourself into.” you retort, rising on weak legs to slip back into your clothes. 

“Mhm,” he hums, hardly listening to what you had said, “you sure you need to keep those on?” 

His hand catches your thigh just as you’re pulling the denim over them—interrupting you. He leans over, swollen lips leaving kisses on your skin as you’re swatting at him again. The reaction makes him look up at you with a teasing, dimpled smile. “Sorry—can’t help myself.” 

You bite back a laugh, refusing to encourage his mischief. You can feel his eyes on you as you jump into your jeans, bottoning them back up. Through the window, you can see the afternoon sun moving down onto the horizon. 

“We should probably go find your car,” you sigh, turning on your heel to face him as he finishes up notching his belt. 

“Probably,” he nods, eyes lazily casing the desert sky, “my backseat’s pretty spacious, too, y’know. In case—” 

Your hand goes up, cutting him off as you shake your head. You leave him to chuckle at himself in the living room. 

ᯓ★ 

The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the abandoned ranch as you and Dean prepare to leave. The silence between you is tangible, charged with everything you’ve done and nothing you’ve said.

The walk through the desert feels endless, the dusty trail crunching under your boots as the golden glow of the horizon stretches out before you. Dean leads the way, his pace steady, his shoulders broad against the fading light. You follow close behind, the heat of the day clinging to your skin, but the chill of the coming night creeping in.

“You ever think about settlin’ down?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

Dean glances back at you, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You mean, like a white picket fence and apple pie? Doesn’t really suit me.”

“No,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “I mean, somethin’... simpler. A place to call your own, where you don’t have to look over your shoulder every second.”

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the trail ahead. “It’s not in the cards,” he admits finally, his voice low and rough.

You let his words hang in the air, biting back the urge to press further. He’s not the type to linger on dreams he doesn’t think he can have. 

As the sky fades to deep blue and the first stars begin to peek through, you finally see it—Dean’s Impala, tucked away beneath a rocky overhang like a secret he couldn’t bear to lose.

“There she is,” he says, his tone softening as he picks up his pace.

You watch him approach the car, his hand brushing over the hood like he’s greeting an old friend. You can’t help but smile, the sight of him and that car feeling like something whole in a world that’s always breaking.

He opens the trunk, dumping the duffle bag and rummaging through for a blanket, he tosses it over to you. “Get comfortable. We’re better off to cover some miles tonight, get away from the town.”

You take the blanket and slide into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel. The air between you feels lighter now, as if the journey through the desert burned away some of the weight you felt at his words from earlier.

The drive is quiet, the radio dialed low, filling the space with the sound of guitar-driven symphonies. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, but there’s a softness in his eyes when they flick to yours. It’s the kind of look that makes you wonder if he’s holding onto something he can’t bring himself to say.

The hum of the engine and the gentle sway of the Impala lull you into a light sleep, your head resting against the cool window. The sky bleeds from orange into black as you sleep. Dean tries to keep his focus on the road, but a pull he can’t quite make sense of keeps his head turning to you. Checking, every so often. As if you might disappear—be a figment of his imagination—if he doesn’t. 

You’re pulled from the haze by the softest nudge—Dean’s hand on your shoulder, his voice low and rough in the quiet.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a small smile as you blink up at him. “Got us a room.”

You yawn, stretching as you step out of the car, the cool night air prickling against your skin. The dingy motel sign flickers overhead, casting faint neon light across Dean’s face. He unlocks the door, holding it open with a smirk as you step inside.

Your eyes land on the lone bed in the center of the room, the sheets pulled tight, and pillows stacked neatly. “One bed, huh?” you remark, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shrugs, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.” His grin turns playful, teasing. “‘M gonna shower, if you wanna join. Wouldn’t wanna waste all that hot water.”

You give him a slow, deliberate once-over, biting back a smile. “Well, aren’t you full of ideas,” you say, turning toward the bathroom.

Dean’s eyes follow you, his confidence faltering for just a second as you slip off your jacket and toss it onto the bed. One step, then another, you trail your fingers to the hem of your shirt and lift it over your head as you walk, letting it fall to the floor without looking back. Next, you wiggle out of your jeans and kick them to the side.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, scrambling to follow, his boots thudding softly on the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his gaze sweeps over you like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Coming, cowboy?”

His jaw works, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m comin’.”

The bathroom fills with warm steam, and you’re giggling before you’ve even stepped under the water. Dean fumbles with the knobs, his grin boyish, his cheeks flushed. The messy, very much necessary moment back at the old ranch was one thing—standing in front of each other naked and tired from a night’s drive felt like something else entirely.

The awkward air gives way to jokes almost immediately—him teasing you about how you’re hogging the water, you laughing at his terrible singing as he rinses his hair.

It’s easy, light, like the world doesn’t exist beyond the tiled walls and the sound of your laughter.

Afterward, you both dry off, Dean tossing you a shirt he grabbed from his duffel. It hangs loosely on you, the scent of him clinging to the fabric. He watches as you climb into bed, his expression softening before he joins you, sliding in beside you like he belongs there.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The lamp casts a faint glow, the sound of distant crickets filtering through the open window. Dean shifts closer, his arm draping over your waist, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck.

“You make me feel… okay, like I don’t gotta worry so much.” he murmurs, the words almost too soft to hear. “I’d started to forget what that felt like.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t reply, not with words. Instead, you cover his hand with yours, threading your fingers together.

The steady rhythm of his breathing slows as you drift off, his warmth wrapped around you, his presence a comfort you hadn’t realized you craved.

Sleep comes slowly, your mind swirling with memories of his touch, his warmth, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. You think about asking him—what happens now?—but the steady rhythm of his breathing tells you he’s already asleep.

Or so you think.

Dean lies awake long after your breathing evens out, his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. Outside, the Impala sits ready, the desert wind whispering against its sleek frame.

And as the stars blink down on the quiet motel, Dean makes his decision.

erm sorry if that scene sucked. i. tried. </3 i felt like the rushed needy give it 2 me now vibe made sense idk !! and i just rly think this version of dean is a freak that likes to watch ok ily bye

tags <3 @stanzie @the-fandoms-onceler @floralscented @titsout4jackles

[spnstillstudies]

122/327 (KO-FI♡)

S6E18, “Frontierland”

[szlez]

Not His First Rodeo

Damn! banned again. Hope the censored version will last. For fire free (or not really) check here.

An art entry for @klayr-de-gall's Auaugust 2024.

Day 6: Cowboy/Outlaws

[zepskies]

hey love!! so in awe of your writing & writing style and i wanted to ask which fic of yours is your favorite?

Well hey there, my lovely!

Oh wow, you're so kind, thank you!! 🥰💜💜 That is a tough question... So I'm going to cheat a little bit and give you my top 3:

3. Smoke Eater (Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader)

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.  That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator. 

This was my first full AU series. It came from my love of Chicago Fire and medical and cop procedurals like it. Throw in a murder mystery, arson, former playboy Dean, and other angsty storylines in the middle of a whirlwind romance, and you got yourself a firefighter AU! ❤️‍🔥

2. Break Me Down (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

I feel like most people would expect me to answer this one for number one, but it's still very close to my heart. It was my first real foray into the complex, lovable asshole known as Soldier Boy (Ben).

And it was my attempt at creating a redemption arc for him through an "enemies to lovers" story, edgier than anything I'd done previously, thanks to the grittiness of The Boys world.

I've continued writing far past the original series because I just can't quit these two, and this version of Ben.

1. Midnight Espresso Series (Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized Latina Reader)

This is a collection of stories in the SPN fandom, and it's very personal to me! (I'm plus-sized and Latina.) Though I tried to make it so all readers, regardless of race/ethnicity or otherwise, could enjoy those stories as well.

It gave me the chance to pair Dean with a reader character who is also a giver like him, who looks out for and cares for him in the same way he cares for others, all while being a badass hunter herself.

From dramatic and angsty hurt/comfort to fluffy smut, I've tried to explore many facets of their relationship, while utilizing both my heritage/culture and my personal experience with body insecurity, body shaming, etc. Like BMD, this is a series I can always come back to and write more stories for. 💜

Bonus: The Honorable Choice - (Dean W. x OFC)

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

I haven't dropped this one yet, but I'm mentioning it because it's currently one of my favorite projects that I've worked on so far!

⬆️ Part 1 coming on 11/03 (Read it on Patreon now!)

[shishquahcustardtree]

I’m your huckleberry 🤠 😉

[cassiopeia-grimm]

Imagine

Dean / Beau : My heart is yours, wherever you go, it will follow you. No matter the distance, I'll always be with you.

[bluelikesad]

Just some sketches of a Pink cowboy 💖

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

🌾 these quiet lives ⛰️

deanjo fic - 1437 words - rating: G - western au - read on ao3

There is a small ranch, somewhere on the border between Kansas and Nebraska, about a twenty minute ride out from the nearest town. Its windows are shuttered now, but in the ephemeral times of cowboys and outlaws, it was a bustling little place - perhaps not full of people, but full to the brim with two quiet lives being well lived after many days of hardship. 

These quiet lives were those of Jo Harvelle and Dean Winchester.

or, the dean and jo are long term cowboy partners on the ranch they bought together and now dean is cutting jo's hair fic

written for beloved rain @queerstudiesnatural's 2k celebration and the prompt deanjo! i had an absolute blast running with this. massive thanks to @magdaclaire for the beta <3

fic is below the cut!

There is a small ranch, somewhere on the border between Kansas and Nebraska, about a twenty minute ride out from the nearest town. Its windows are shuttered now, but in the ephemeral times of cowboys and outlaws, it was a bustling little place - perhaps not full of people, but full to the brim with two quiet lives being well lived after many days of hardship. 

These quiet lives were those of Jo Harvelle and Dean Winchester.

To everyone else (namely the nosey figures in the windows of that small town a twenty minute ride away), their partnership looked formulaic: a guy and a girl shacking up together with a few horses, a ranch, saving up to make the place a little cozier. Nothing that nobody hadn’t seen before. 

But what everyone else didn’t know was how radical their love was. The way that Dean was Jo’s first kiss with a man, and Jo Dean’s first kiss with a woman, when they were both far from virginity. How they had drifted in and out of each other’s lives for years like no one could decide their fate. The scars along Jo’s torso, too, were proof that they had almost been out of time. That they were alive, to realize the could-be potential of their will-they-won’t-they relationship at all, was incredible. It was the time of outlaws, afterall, and our two protagonists had not been immune to a lawless life.

With all that stood in their way you could perhaps be justified in saying their love was out of character. But it wasn’t. It made perfect sense, in the same way that poetry might, strong and solid in meaning if only when read by the right eyes. And that was Jo and Dean: a nonsense poem with a strict rhyme scheme, predictable on the surface yet profound between the lines. Rhythmic, galloping, beating hearts as certain as hooves on the sun-hard ground. 

Still, they weren’t strictly in love. Rather, the love was all around them. Jo saw it in the green oasis of their pastures amid the desert land, in the firewood piled beside the porch, in the leather jacket quietly left for her to wear on colder days. Dean saw it in the crystal clarity of the ranch windows after a rough wind, in the oats faithfully refilled in the stables, in the gift of a new hat with a wider brim when the heatwave came. For both of them it was a love of actions, the affection solid and tangible and filling after years of starvation.

Contentment, in the gentle touches of four scarred hands. 

On one of the long sloping dusks of August, the world bathing in nectarine and plum, Jo sat on the bottom porch step with Dean a step above, his knees either side of her. It was the kind of evening which cost nothing, yet gave everything in return, where the turn of the earth could be felt in the hum of the cicadas, and the day, while fading away, seemed still to be new - the kind of evening which only ever occurred thrice in the nineteenth century, and has not occurred since. Well, it was on that incredibly rare kind of evening belonging only truly to retired outlaws, that Dean held silver scissors (copper in the light) in his scarred hands as he snipped easily away at Jo’s hair.

“Almost a decade past since we got this place, now,” Jo mused. “You were 31 then, you’re 41 now.”

“And you were 24.” 

“I’m older now than you were when we moved here.”

Dean hummed, somewhere quiet between surprise and acknowledgement, the scissors snipping a melody at the nape of Jo’s neck. 

He had been in the habit of cutting Jo’s hair for as long as they’d set up together on the ranch - a few months short of a decade, to agree with Jo - as, though she liked knives, she wasn’t to be trusted with them near a head of hair, and Dean had had the practice of cutting his younger brother’s shag for all his adolescent years. 

Tonight, though, was slightly different from the usual trim. Cursing the summer heat and finally relaxing into Dean’s encouragement, Jo had marched up to her partner and demanded anything past her chin to be very decidedly cut off. She could tuck it behind her ears as she worked, and the wave of her hair would bring it up off her neck and out of the heat. All this had been patiently explained by Dean many times before. He had this way of knowing Jo, and knew, in the same way as he liked wearing his mother’s jewelry, that cutting her hair might steady her in the skin she was prone to slipping in and out of. 

So far, Jo liked it. Liked the feeling of weight leaving her, the almost dizzying lightness that came with her hair cascading to the floor. She had followed Dean blind into battle, and while she would not do that again, she could go all in on him cutting her hair well. The many hues of their relationship, the bright bruises of their coming-of-age, had not altered, simply mellowed. 

“D’you ever miss it?” Dean said, caring yet mild. “The life we had before all this?” 

Jo waited for two hawks to sail across the apricot sky before answering, no clouds to dapple the light. The words came to her easy enough, but from somewhere moving and deep, wading through long grass. She breathed in deeply, bringing herself to meet them, allowing herself to savor their sweetness.

“All the time we were running with that gang, I were thinkin’ - this is what proper love is, to have something worth dying for. I’d never known it before, you know. An’ then that hound sinks its teeth into my side an’ my vision goes white and there’s only one thing I remember seein’ after that.”

The careful snips of the scissors ceased, and Jo smiled, tilting her head upwards to hold Dean’s gaze.

“You. I could barely think nothin’ and it’s just your face in front of me and then I had one thought, and it were just that I’d been wrong. I were wrong. Love is something worth living for. By god, right then I knew it was worth livin’ for you.”

“Joanna Beth,” Dean whispered, his lips rose and soft around her name. 

Jo had not used to like it when he called her that, mainly due to the fact it was the name her mother had flung at her from across the bar in many a desperate fit of anger, back when she was alive and both of them working at the Roadhouse. It was a name that sank low in her gut like a guilty stone, heavy with the shame of misplaced temper. Jo had wanted to get out, and her mother had wanted a daughter, and neither could give the other what they wanted.

But Dean only ever used Joanna Beth in moments of adoration. As if he felt the simple Jo could not do her justice. When he said Joanna Beth, it meant he was seeing the whole of her, afresh, anew, finding again all of her troubled histories and still wanting to write futures with her.

Her slate was never, would never be clean. There was too much blood for that. But Dean saw the blood and did not love her in spite of it, but with it. Like he wouldn’t rather have her any other way. 

“Grow older with me, Winchester,” Jo murmured, and she turned in his lap to meet him, having been inches too far from him for far too long.

His lips pressed hers tenderly, like they had done hundreds of times before. The great heartlands of America could not hold as many sensations at this, for all of the lushious, dying, sprawling, changing lands around had nothing on them. They were not in love, but they were radiant with it, each with the other firmly and irreparably in their heart.

Jo had yet to find a gray hair, and she felt her breathing alongside Dean was nothing short of a miracle. She hummed these next words against lips, passing them like a breath between them.

“Grow old.”

And, dear reader, I can see even now through the shuttered windows of the ranch they whiled away their years on the many contented memories they made. There is still love there, this century and a half later: it is not a haunting, but a remembrance.

They did, indeed, grow old. 

[solarcas]

new look for his special day!!!

☀😇 solarcas -> galacticdean 🌌🤠

[Open for better quality!] (+ new matching banner:)

[letmeblued]

Supernatural 06x18

Sorry but I wanted a destiel pic

[honeyryewhiskey]

02. takes one to know one

ᯓ★ story index abt, you join your new friend, outlaw!dean, in a little game of cops and robbers. warnings, robbery, guns, suggestive language, sprinkle of angsty hidden feelings, there's only one bed couch (more of that in prt3!!) 2.7k words

The sheriff had a lot more going on than just civil duties, the vast ranch set picturesque before you can attest for that. The house itself is massive, pure white siding glowing in the moonlight. Beyond that, a sleek brown barn cuts into the night sky. From where you and Dean sit, crouched behind one of the dozen jagged shaped trees that line the outskirts of the property, it looks deceptively peaceful. 

But you know better.

This stash of gold Dean assures you is hidden within those walls, isn’t gonna be an easy swipe. Guards patrol the quiet ranch, a few are pacing the front as you watch and search for a blindspot. 

“You sure about doin’ this, darlin’?” Dean drawls in a hushed whisper, his eyes light and playful, almost daring you to say no. 

Your narrow-eyed gaze goes toe-to-toe with his, your lips curling into a smile. “I was born sure, Winchester.” you quip, not missing a beat. 

Dean’s husky voice drops lower, momentarily lacking it’s usual cocky drawl, “you just stick to the plan, alright? You do that for me ‘n we’ll be swimmin’ in gold before sunrise.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of adrenaline in your veins. The plan—Dean’s plan—was simple enough: get past the guards, crack the safe and get the hell out of dodge. Simple, of course, was a relative term when talking about breaking into the home of a man who probably shot first and asked questions—never. 

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” you tease, tucking your body closer to his. Your chin grazing his leather-clad shoulder as you both keep steady eyes on the ranch. 

Dean gives a quick glance, the moonlight catching in the green of his eyes. That pretty grin of his making a slow return. “Because you couldn’t resist me.”

Playfully hitting his arm, you shoot back at him, “or maybe I couldn’t resist the payday.” His eyes are back on you, lingering as his lashes slowly lift as he takes in your features at this newfound closeness. He merely offers a quiet hum in response, brushing against you as he shifts to hand you a small set of lockpicks. 

“Figure, with the way you work a cue stick,” he mumbles, voice low and as teasing as his eye contact, “you got this part handled.” He places the small box in your hand, clasping his large hands on either side of yours as he smirks, “And I’ve got a knack for getting into trouble. Perfect match, huh?”

Before you could reply, the sound of boots crunching on gravel causes both your heads to snap towards the ranch. A guard passes by, just a few yards away, his rifle glinting in the moonlight. Dean’s playful demeanor is entirely consumed by a sharp alertness that makes you wonder just how many times he’s been in a situation like this. 

The stillness passes as the guard meanders away, the sound of his boots dying out in the quiet of the desert. Your new partner’s shoulders relax at the false alarm. That lopsided smile playing at his lips again as he tugs you closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone.

“Showtime, baby.” Dean whispers, pulling back with a wink as two fingers reach up to tip his hat. 

The two of you slip through the shadows of the ranch like ghosts. A mere step between your bodies as you stick close to the edges of the house where the moonlight doesn’t touch. Dean leads, moving with surprising stealth for someone so broad. Every now and then, he glanced back at you, giving a little nod of reassurance. His focused eyes softened slightly each time he turned back. 

Moving through the property was easier than you thought, but Dean’s uncanny sense for danger has made it so. He pauses just before a light sweeps over your path, his hand shooting out to pull you into the shadow of a nearby tree when he detects movement before you do. The guards are predictable, too. Their routes timed perfectly to give just enough room to duck behind a stack of barrels or hop over a fence. One guard left his post at the backdoor, leaving an opening to slip into the darkened home. 

You follow Dean’s silent lead of avoiding spots of creaky floorboards as you step inside, pulse thrumming with adrenaline. As you move through the dark, Dean peeks through doors with deliberate slowness. You watch between him and the back door, until he’s motioning you over with the flick of a finger. 

The study was just as grand as you’d imagined—dark wood paneling, glass cases displaying expensive weapons and memorabilia. A massive desk cluttered with papers sits before two large windows. In the center space, a portrait of some grim-faced ancestor takes up most of the wall. 

Dean’s already hovering over it, inspecting the frame. The sharp edges of his side profile illuminated by the moonlight spilling in through the window. His eyes finally catch yours, nodding for you to come over, a sly grin on his lips as he leans down over your shoulder. 

“These rich sons of bitches are always so predictable.” He laughs dryly, “go on ‘n tug on that side of the frame for me, Sweetheart.” 

You don’t waste a second, pulling on the frame until it pops open. Swinging like a hidden door, revealing a built in safe on the adjacent wall. Pulling the small box of tools Dean gave you earlier, you get to work on the silver lock. The tumblers click softly as you go, each sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Dean stood behind you, close enough to hear his steady breathing. Keeping an eye on the door, his hand resting lightly on the gun tucked into his waistband.

“Got it,” you whispered after what felt like an eternity. The safe door swung open, revealing stacks of gold bars that gleamed even in the dim light.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a sight.”

You quickly began transferring the bars into the canvas bag Dean had brought, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. 

This plan of his had gone so smoothly, too damn smooth to be more accurate. 

Just as you finish zipping the bag, heart still hammering in your chest, a muffled voice barks from the hallway, “check the study!”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he reached for the gun tucked in his belt, but the door burst open before he could draw. Two guards stormed in, their guns trained on you both.

“Drop the bag,” one of them ordered, his eyes narrowing.

Your mind raced as Dean slowly raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. His smirk returned, cool and steady, as if staring down the barrels of two guns was just a typical Thursday night for him.

“Well,” he drawled, his gaze sliding to you. “Guess now’s a good time to make a confession.”

Your stomach dropped. “Dean—”

“I mean, might as well, right?” he continued, cutting you off. His smirk softened into something maddeningly sincere, his eyes holding yours even as the guards barked for him to shut up. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. And if I were a better man, I’d have asked you on a proper date. Y’know, steak dinner and all that crap.”

You blinked, completely thrown, but before you could respond, Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing the desk lamp and hurling it at one of the guards. The heavy base struck him square in the face, and chaos erupted.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He ducked under the second guard’s arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the floor. “Move!” he shouted at you, his voice sharp.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Snatching the bag, you bolted for the window, Dean hot on your heels. He shoved you ahead of him, glass shattering as you both tumbled through the opening and into the cool night air.

The shouts behind you were nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart. Bullets whirl through the air, but Dean grabbed your hand, dragging you across the open yard and toward the safety of the rugged desert terrain ahead.

You didn’t stop running until the ranch was a distant glow behind you, your legs screaming in protest as you collapsed against a tree.

Dean slid down next to you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. A laugh escaped him, soft and incredulous. “Hell of a night,” he muttered.

A wicked laughing fit hurls out of you through panting breaths, reeling from the cooling adrenaline icing your veins. “You really had me for a second, y’know,” you manage through heavy breathes, “d’you mean any of that? Or was it all just part of your plan?” 

Dean smirked, taking off his stetson to run a hand through his messy hair. “Which part?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, biting your lip in mock-deep thought. “The part about me being the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Or the bit about steak dinners?”

Dean chuckled, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, lazily tilting to peek down at you through his lashes, “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, didn’t I?” He’s doing it again—that smug little smirk—a sweet boyish charm that tempts your nerves in the most unfamiliar way. 

You turn away from his gaze, settling your eyes on the bag in your lap and letting your hair fall around your face to cover the blush that’s creeping in. “Mhm,” you hum into the quiet between, “careful now, cowboy. I might just hold you to your word.”

He doesn’t answer, and you pretend there isn’t a slight twist straining your heart for half a beat. Quietly, he places his hat back on. Pressing into the ground, he rises to his feet with a huff. Dean extends a hand, his eyes scanning the distance as you take his offer. 

Boots kick up dirt as you walk side by side down the dusty terrain. And for a moment—in the quiet of the desert, with the bag of stolen gold between you, the danger of the heist morphed with the dawn settling in the horizon. A warm toned thing, burning at the edges of your cold exterior, new nerve endings bleeding light between your thoughts of Dean and the feelings he keeps insighting. 

Trudging on, the sheriff’s ranch is out of sight. The weight of the gold was growing heavier, hanging from your shoulder. But you’d be damned if you let him carry it, not when it felt like grasping some essence of control. 

“So,” you drawl, kicking at a red rock, “you looked like a real professional back there. How long’ve you been sniffing out trouble like this?”

Dean shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets as he considers his words. “Sorta spent my whole life in some type of trouble.” he states plainly, voice quieter as he continues, “Been on my own a couple of years, give or take. Found the type of trouble I like best in all that time.”

You glance up at him, his skin soaking up the orange light peeking over morning clouds. The warmth of the hue makes his eyes impossibly green. Like the cactuses zig zagging your path, sharp and rich in color. “You like it? Being on the road?”

“Yeah,” he sounds unsure, pausing with his lips parted, “Most of the time, I do. It’s… simple.” His hands return, moving with each word, “No strings, no one to answer to.” 

You hum back, nodding in agreement. It’s a sentiment you can agree with, the same idea you've convinced yourself of for much longer than just a couple years. 

“But,” he sighs, eyes flicking across the landscape, “I miss my brother, Sam.” The name makes a smile creep onto his lips as he mutters, mostly to himself, “m’little Sammy.” 

There’s a softness on the name that makes your chest ache, “Why don’t you go see him, then?”

Dean hesitates, jaw tightening, “not that simple.” He let out a low breath, running a hand over his chin. “I don’t even know where I’d start. And if I ever tried to show my face to my old man…” His voice trails off, the words tangling in a wide-eyed huff that says it all in one motion. 

You part your lips to reassure him, daring to give the advice of it’s-never-too-late to a soul you know won’t take it. But, before you could he hummed a low, dismissive note. 

“Anyways,” he quips, a lazy grin returning to his face, “look at me, turning into a regular chatterbox. This your doin’, pretty girl?” His eyes find yours, but the usual playfulness isn’t as prevalent as it has been all night. In its place is something dark, trying desperately to work its way out. 

A look you know better than to pry at. 

Leaning over to nudge his shoulder, you offer a small smile. “Maybe I’m just easy to talk to.”

Dean’s grin shifts into something softer, but he doesn't answer. With a deep inhale his chin is up in the air again, eyes looking at anything but you.

 A splotch of brown you both assumed to be more rugged desert hills comes into focus—a vacant ranch tucked between scattered fields of jagged trees and cacti. The barn had collapsed, its frame a shadow of what it once was, but the house stood stubbornly, its roof intact and its windows dark against the rising sun. 

Dean raised his brows, eyes glancing over, “looks cosy.”

You scoff, giving him a worried look, “if your idea of cozy is ‘haunted ranch on the hill’, sure it is.”

“Better than sleepin’ out in the dirt,” he shoots back, already heading for the porch. He spins on the heel of his boots as he walks backwards, “‘sides, darlin’, if there’s a ghost around I’ll keep you safe.” 

With a wink that works a giggle out of you, Dean jogs up the creaky steps and disappears into the run-down house. 

 The inside is covered in a layer of dust and dirt, but there’s furniture scattered around—a worn couch covered by a sheet sits in an otherwise empty space. A creaky dining table in the kitchen, where you plop the heavy bag of gold, a cloud of grey puffing around it. 

“Not too shabby,” Dean coos, coming down a set of weathered stairs. “Just an old mattress on the floor with, uh, minimal stains and a whole lotta dust. Looks like we’ve got options.” He crosses the creaky floor until his boots are inches from yours. A smirk shining down at you, as his voice finds that teasing tone again, “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of ghosts.” 

Your eyes roll at his taunts as you cross your arms. “Please. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Uh, huh,” his brows furrow, lips twisting with contemplation as his eyes dance across the curves of your face.

“Yes, huh. Cross my heart.” You swear with a reassuring nod. 

His eyes fall to the couch, and then back to the stairs before they settle back to you. His thoughts written in the smirk on his lips. “Mattress is kinda gross, actually. Couch could fit two—”

You cut him off, throwing your palm up with a humph. “Look, Cowboy, I may look the type but it takes a whole lot more than a game of pool and stealing gold to get me all cozied up on a dusty ‘ol couch in the middle of the desert.”

Dean barks out a laugh, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey—’m not suggesting a thing, little miss.”

You arch your bows with a “mhm,” the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Dean follows as you walk into the living room, discarding the sheet and plopping onto the cushion with a sigh. The couch dips under Dean’s weight on the opposite end. A quiet set in for a moment, comfortable and as warm as the growing heat of the sunrise. 

“Will say, though,” Dean sighs, his thighs sprawling over the soft surface as he relaxes into the creaky furniture, “I’d be a gentleman—”

“Shut up.” you shoot back, unable to hide the laugh that slips between the words.

hmmmmm should they boink in the next part???? hmm hm hmm

tags <3 @the-fandoms-onceler @a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles

[deansraspberrypie]

❤🤠 Sexy cowboy

Dean Winchester 🤠❤‍🔥

🍰 Tag list: @undisputedchick2 @jranutter @kazsrm67 🥧

[dorkybooktrash]

I did not know I needed Jensen Ackles in complete cowboy gear as his entire character before Beau Arlen. Somewhere dean is hooting because he’s living his cowboy fetish, and Cas is rolling his eyes at his husband

[rennerator]

LOVE LOVE LOVE POWER COUPLE!!!!! S2 Look at THESE TWO!!!!! AWWWWWWWWWWWW GORGEOUS, MARVELOUS, MAGNIFICENT!!!! This is SO SOOOOO GOOD!!!!!! I LOVE THIS!!!! I LOVE THEM!!!!! :D I am sorry, BUT, I couldn't help myself with thinking about the way that Cas is "offering" his hand there and the position that Dean is in! ;) Like, it is not Friday BUUUUUUUT, yeah, my mind went there! XD Thank YOU!!!! THANK YOU SO SOOO MUCH for this!!!! You are INCREDIBLE!!!! :) <3

so I made a post about a 1945 Levi’s poster...

[shishquahcustardtree]

He’s Kenough

[cassiopeia-grimm]