#Dean Winchester Angst

[sunsbaby]

❝ love ends in blood . . . ❞

❝ at least it does for dean winchester. ❞

dean's hands tremble as they make contact with your body, his eyes brimmed with tears as he took in your injured state.

"shh, baby girl it's okay..you'll be fine–" his words came out breathy, "we'll get you fixed up, good as new, angel." you heard a crackle in his normally gruff voice.

with all the strength you could muster, you brought up your palm to his cheek. the once warm touch was growing cold. you knew the end was nearing, and dean couldn't grasp onto the thought of life without you. his palms unlike yours were warm, but not from his body heat—blood.

you were bleeding out rapidly, in no way would you ever be able to stay alive for long. you tried to speak, yet nothing came out. you knew dean would try everything to bring you back—he could never let the dead stay dead—and you didn't want that.

"no, please, honey.." his bottom lip trembled and fresh tears rolled down his cheeks.

dean couldn't let you go, not when you were his anchor, his life line, his everything. but he knew deep down if you were to die, you didn't want to be brought back. and damn if he didn't want to push that aside and let his own selfishness take over; he just couldn't and if this was your wish, so be it.

his forehead came to rest on yours, noses touching as he planted a soft kiss on your lips. your eyes once bright with life now dark. his tears fell onto your face, his eyes shutting as he holds you for the last time. his clothes were stained with your blood, his skin dyed a crimson red. he held you close as the life faded from your figure.

sobs wracked through his body as he came to realize you were truly gone.

sunny yaps! oh hey guys.. heh just stopping by to put this here!! 😽

special tags! @bluemerakis @littlesoulshine @h8aaz @figthoughts @deansbeer @liiiilsss @fuckedupfate @bejeweledinterludes

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ® 𓂃 do not repost or copy my works without permission!!

[deansbeer]

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐊, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘.

♡ ⋮ my content is not suitable for minors.

꒰ paired duo ꒱ demon!dean x female!reader.

꒰ synopsis ꒱ you moved on after dean died by the hands of metatron — until he shows up at your front doorstep again, ruins you, and reminds you exactly who you belong to.

꒰ content warnings ꒱ smut | angst | rough sex | backshots | demon!dean is aggressive | dom!demon!dean | hair pulling | head pinning | manhandling | size kink | dirty talk | light degrading | possessiveness | implied past relationship | creampie | overstimulation.

꒰ sticky notes ꒱ he's been consuming my mind all of last week and i needed to let it out somehow. so i opened google docs @ 3am crack hours ….. (i’m convinced a horny demon possessed me) & birthed this to life :) not to mention !!! the awful stomach cramps i was having (hunched over while holding back tears from the pain).

divider creds, @haecunt !

i’ve made my taglist private because i’m no longer using it. i had a hard time keeping track of it and would forget usernames. i am also too lazy to go back, save them to my notes, and copy paste under my fics.

you didn’t even hear the front door open.

no knock. no warning. just the sudden shift in the air — a weight that wasn’t there before. and before you can even turn around, he’s already there, behind you, voice low and rough and wrong in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“miss me, sweetheart?”

you freeze.

you haven’t seen him since he died. since the bunker. since the mark of cain took over him. you left, packed your shit and disappeared into this town like a ghost yourself, hoping the grief would settle into something manageable. you got a job. a decent little place for yourself. a dark oakwood dining table you bought secondhand and never used.

and now he’s here. dean.

not your dean. not the man who held you like you were something sacred. no. this one’s wearing his face, but his eyes are black and shining, his grin sharper, meaner. hungrier.

you barely get a breath in before he’s got you bent over the table, spine arched, hands flat on the worn wood. your pajama shorts are on the floor before you even register his touch, panties yanked down with a rough tug. he spits on his fingers, spreads you open like he’s done it a thousand times. like he remembers every inch of you.

“knew you’d run,” he mutters against your ear, pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance. “but damn, baby… you really thought i wouldn’t find you?”

you gasp when he pushes in, slow at first, but deep. it has your legs trembling and your nails scraping the wood. he’s bigger somehow. heavier. and when he bottoms out, he laughs low and filthy, one hand sliding up your back to flatten between your shoulder blades.

“yeah. that’s it. she’s missed me, hasn’t she?”

he starts moving, hard, fast, determined. his hips slap against your ass, the sound obscene in the quiet of your little kitchen. he keeps your head down with one hand, pressing your cheek to the table like he wants to leave a mark. almost like he wants you to remember this every time you look at it.

and you certainly will.

you’re already a mess. mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, ass lifting into the air like your body can’t not chase the next thrust. he finds that spot inside you — that soft, spongy spot — and hits it over and over until your whole body shakes.

“fuck, look at that,” he groans, watching your ass jiggle with every brutal snap of his hips. “missed this pussy, baby. missed the way you fuckin’ fall apart for me.”

you whimper, voice caught somewhere between “please” and “don’t stop.” your hands grip the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. your back arches on instinct, legs spread as wide as they’ll go, taking every inch of him.

“not so quiet now, huh?” he growls, leaning over you, chest pressed to your back. “what happened? thought you were done with me? thought you’d get your little house, your little life, and i’d just stay dead?”

you shake your head, breath stuttering. “i didn’t— i didn’t know—”

“yeah, you didn’t,” he snaps, punctuating it with a brutal thrust that knocks the wind out of you. “but it doesn’t matter. ‘cause you’re still mine.”

his hand curls in your hair, yanks your head back just enough for him to see your face. his eyes are pitch black, but there’s something else under the surface, something that looks like hate, yet also feels like heartbreak.

he spits on your tongue before you can even register what’s happening. and you take it, mouth open, swallowing him down like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

he fucks you harder after that — rough, relentless, like he's trying to carve himself into you all over again. and maybe he is. maybe this is his way of saying i’m still here. maybe this is all he has left.

you come first, it hits you sharp and fast, your body locking up around him, your voice breaking on a sob. he doesn’t slow down. if anything, he fucks you through it, like he wants to feel the way you tighten, the way you shake.

“goddamn,” he breathes. “look at you. fuckin’ ruined.”

you’re still trembling when he comes, buried deep, holding you down with both hands now. you can feel it — the way he pulses inside you, the way he groans through gritted teeth, forehead pressed to the back of your neck like he’s trying to burn the moment into memory.

when it’s done, he stays there, cock still inside you, breath heavy, hands gripping your hips like he doesn’t want to let go.

like he can’t stomach the idea of letting you go again.

the silence that follows is thick.

you stay bent over the table, panting, your cheek damp against the wood. he finally pulls out, and you hear the soft, wet sound of it — the mess he made of you. of both of you.

you turn your head, barely able to look at him. “what now?”

he shrugs, eyes back to green for just a second. “now? i clean up. maybe grab a beer. maybe fuck you again.”

you swallow hard.

he steps closer, brushes a hand over your ass like he didn’t just break you open. “don’t worry, sweetheart. i ain’t leavin’ again.”

you know you should be scared. terrified, even.

but all you feel is the ache between your legs and the echo of his mouth on yours.

you already know… you never really left him either.

[jollyhunter]

Strong and warm and solid, but really, you are the solid one. Dean’s the ocean crashing against your shore, and when his head lands on your chest and you hear that content hum, you hope that this is all you’ll ever need.

The pure intimacy and the many forms of love you've described is so beautiful - because that's what love is, isn't it? It's not black and white, only good or bad, healthy or toxic. Sometimes it's neither nor and it's just what it is and either it'll just fade out over time or something will grow from it. And I hope it's the latter and Dean won't be gone one morning. 🧡

A den of arms and a waste of time

(Dean Winchester x female reader)

Summary Dean comes to you in the night, and you always know what he needs. CWs Needy Dean. No smut, but sexual content. Unconventional relationships. Love. 18+. 2k words.

Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Dean comes to you in the night, and you turn yourself into an instrument for his comfort.

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment it started, became what it is now, because there’s so many different phases you’ve gone through.

At the beginning, it’s just sex. Good sex, no, great sex, between friends. On paper, you were and still are nothing but colleagues, acquaintances, but on paper doesn’t account for the way you open up to each other, the way you’re pretty sure Dean hasn’t to a lot of people, and you know you haven’t. Late night talks, until the birds start singing outside, both of you bleary-eyed and tired, but your souls lighter.

When you start sleeping with each other, you’re sure that connection is going to break – you’ve long suspected Dean can’t fuck a woman and love her at the same time. And for a while, he pulls back, draws back into himself, and while you love the way your bodies work together, you grieve for your friend.

It’s not that sex with Dean isn’t fun – he’s an attentive lover, but it also feels like he’s going through the motions. A long studied script that is sure to get you off, but sometimes, sometimes, it feels like he’s not even really there. Like he’s performing, but he knows the play so well, he doesn’t need to pay attention to his lines anymore.

It’s doesn't creep you out, exactly, but it makes you unenthusiastic to continue. You can take care of yourself, and you’d rather have Dean back as your friend, where you actually feel like you are special, mean something to him. You tell him, and it confuses the hell out of him. He’s not used to being rejected – not with that face, those shoulders, that swagger. The ass. You’re a strong woman, you think to yourself. But it actually works, and after a few weeks of reacquainting yourselves with each other, you have your confidant back.

Dean still flirts with you sometimes. Oh boy, does he. You’re pretty sure he can’t help himself. It’s more a compulsion than anything else. You smile, but gently reject him.

It’s when you already live in the bunker that you start finding Dean up at night. Sometimes you hear him move deep in the bowels of the old Men of Letters construct. He’s quiet, but your hunter skills are attuned enough to hear him. Almost like a mother who can pick out her baby’s cries among a crowd of them. You push that thought away. It’s weird. But it is also true.

When you find him in those nights, he acts like he’s fine. But there’s always something weighing on him. He takes on the weight of the world like it’s nothing, like he’s used to it at this point, but you see how it tenses his jaw, how he holds himself, how often his hands are balled into fists.

It’s on one of those nights that you’re sitting next to him, talking, and your fingers land on his neck, press against the knotted muscle there. He flinches, then jokes, but something about the feeling of his skin makes you continue, and Dean doesn’t tell you to stop.

For a moment, when it starts feeling good, he looks terrified and you’re sure he’ll ask you to quit touching him in a second. But then his eyes fall closed. Goosebumps raise on his arms, you see, and you keep going, don’t talk. His breathing’s shallow.

After a few minutes of this, you get up. He blinks his eyes open, thanks you bashfully, ready to deliver another joke, but then you move behind him, lay both hands on his neck.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but then you are pressing your fingers against him again. He goes quiet. You can’t see his face, but you keep going, and after a few more minutes, you realize his breathing is slower, deeper. You keep touching that soft skin of his when suddenly his shoulders are shaking. You run your hand over the back of his head, through that soft hair.

“Dean?” you say quietly and lean forward. His eyes are closed. His expression is…

You can’t describe it. It hangs somewhere between pain and lust. And there’s tears running down his cheeks.

He wakes from it a second later. Runs the back of his hand over his face as horror sets in, horror at his perceived weakness. He stands up, nearly sends his chair and you flying. The way he looks at you is as if you’ve just walked in on him naked, seen everything, when all this time he’s been trying to convince you that he doesn’t have skin.

Weeks of avoidance follow. Dean doesn’t look at you. He’s short with you, barely friendly, but that’s it. You try to talk to him, but he blocks you. You almost give up on it when he comes to you.

It’s a normal night, or what you would consider a normal night. You’ll never know what in that day made him change his mind. Maybe it was just time amassing, like drops in a puddle. It doesn’t matter.

The knock on your door is so gentle but it wakes you immediately. Habit of the trade.

“Yes?” you say into the dark. The door opens, a strip of light falling in. He doesn’t turn on the light. He doesn’t want you to see him.

“Dean, are you okay?” you ask quietly, but he doesn’t answer. There’s a moment where you wonder if something terrible is about to happen, or already has happened, and he’s going to tell you about it. He closes the door behind him and you hear him move towards you, towards your bed. Then he sits at the edge of it. He’s quiet for a while.

“Can you do it again?” he asks and you are lost for a moment, and then you understand. The thing that has caused this chasm between you.

“Come here,” you say, and tug on his arm. He doesn’t budge for a moment, but then you say: “Dean, I’m tired, I want to lay down.” He follows you down onto the bed.

He lies next to you, and your hands find his neck, start massaging. He makes a noise in his throat. It’s difficult from this angle, though, and you really are tired, made infinitely more tired by the big, warm body beside you, so you change to running your hand over his back, up and down and up and down. You sling one leg over him simply because it’s more comfortable. Dean sighs, a sigh so heavy it breaks your heart.

When he eventually moves, you’re sure he’ll leave. But he doesn’t. He rolls over you, kisses you, uncoordinated. Plump lips on your cheek and chin before they find your lips. He pulls at your clothes, and at his own, becomes almost frantic. When he finally pushes into you his breath stutters. He comes within a few thrusts, whimpers like a hurt animal. You can’t see him in the dark, but as he moves to pull out, move away, you wrap your arms around him, pull him close. He lets you. You lie like that for a long time.

So that’s how you get here, to your little ritual. You never know when Dean will show up. It’s made your sleep light, and you wake up many times throughout the night, sure that you’ve heard him. It’s fine, you tell yourself. He’s your best friend, one of the people you love the most in this world. It’s fine.

During the days, you’re joking, laughing together. Fight sometimes, but rarely. Work. Things are good, but sometimes you miss those talks you used to have. They have been exchanged for Dean’s nighttime visits.

He comes into your room and lies down next to you. Over time, the way you do things has changed a little. At some point, Dean fucked you as soon as he came to your room, but it was just that same performance as it used to be. It’s not what you want, and it’s not really what he wants, so you’ve made sure he understands not to do it. It also strangely feels like some sort of payment, and you don’t like that.

So he comes in, lies next to you, like a dog waiting to be petted. You begin running your hands over him. He’s tense as a balled fist at first. It’s half the stress of the day, but the other half you think is the fear that this is the night you’ll reject him. You rub it out of him until his shoulders go down, his breathing slows. Until he hums, content and rich, and your heart flutters so hard it makes you dizzy.

Then you take off his clothes. Let your hands run over all that warm skin, impossibly soft, which surprises you over and over again, a map of the world speckled with scars. He should feel like touching metal, you think, considering how hard he's made himself to the outside. Sometimes you massage him and sometimes you just stroke him and sometimes you just wrap him up in your arms. You’ve learned to read the signs of what he needs each night so well.

And sometimes, but not always, you make love. It’s what you call it, but you’re not sure if it’s the least accurate or most accurate name for it. The point is that Dean’s there, he’s present, with you. When he pushes his face against your neck, he’s pushing it against your neck. When he kisses your lips, he kisses your lips. When you get on top and ride him and have him gasping and nearly sobbing under you, because he’s being touched by someone who loves him after years and years and years of only being touched by strangers, and he reaches his hands up to hold your face in them, he’s holding your face.

When you drop down next to each other, you hold him again. He presses against you like an unloved pet or a child begging for forgiveness. He tells you he loves you, and you believe him, even though with no amount of time and words could you ever describe what kind of love it is.

He’s always gone in the morning. You don’t wake up when he goes, and you’re not sure if that’s because Dean can be even quieter than you were aware of, or because your brain is being kind to you by not waking you when he leaves. It hurts, at first, and sometimes it still hurts after you’ve already been doing this for a long time. You don’t know if it’s because it actually disappoints you, or because you’ve been taught to expect love to come in a certain shape.

Sometimes you ask yourself if this whole arrangement makes you happy. It does. Touching Dean like that and being there for him, being his haven, is a pleasure the height of which you didn’t know existed. It’s intimacy on a level that’s dizzying if you look at it for too long. It also makes it impossible for anyone to ever get close to you, or him, for that matter. You occupy each other, like a reservation at a restaurant where someone does and doesn't sit at the same time. 

You chuckle to yourself, run your hands over your face. You need to stop thinking like that. Why does it need a name? Why does it need a shape? Why can’t it just be love?

You’re distracted from your thoughts by the sound of your bedroom door opening. You see his outline for a second, and then the room is swept into darkness again. Shuffling, rustling, and when you open your arms, he’s in them a second later. Strong and warm and solid, but really, you are the solid one. Dean’s the ocean crashing against your shore, and when his head lands on your chest and you hear that content hum, you hope that this is all you’ll ever need.

[dina-winchester]

What We Were ³

Read part two here

Pairing: Dean Winchester x You

Summary: Sometimes the past doesn’t knock. It just walks back in—quiet, unannounced��wearing the same damn eyes you never stopped dreaming about. And sometimes? It finds you when you’ve finally started pretending you’re okay.

Warnings: Angsty, moving on, heartbreak, no use of Y/N

Dean doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies there, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling like it’s holding all the answers he’s too afraid to ask for. That note? He’s read it three more times. Can’t help himself. The way your words sink into him—it’s like you’re still here, sitting beside him, whispering those things just for him to hear.

But you’re not. And he’s the reason why.

The guilt gnaws at him, a slow, relentless burn just beneath the surface. He used to be so good at pushing it down, drowning it in whiskey and distractions. But nothing dulls this—not really. Because this wasn’t just a breakup. It wasn’t just losing you.

It was letting you go.

Letting himself believe he wasn’t worth staying for.

And now he’s got this goddamn note, and it’s messing with everything. Stirring up thoughts he tried to bury. Memories. Mornings tangled up together under worn blankets, your sleepy smile, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. The way you’d tilt your head when you looked at him, like you could see right through all the walls he spent years building.

He presses his hand over the note again, flat against his chest, like he’s afraid it might vanish if he doesn’t hold it there.

A bitter laugh escapes him. “You’re such a damn idiot, Winchester.”

The next morning, he skips breakfast. Wanders the bunker like he’s looking for something but never finds it. Eventually ends up back in the library. He runs his fingers over the spine of that Jules Verne book again—Journey to the Center of the Earth. He flips through the pages absently, not even reading, just trying to feel close to something you loved.

He doesn’t realize Sam’s standing in the doorway until he speaks.

“You okay, man?”

Dean stiffens but doesn’t look up. “Peachy.”

Sam crosses his arms. “You’ve been weird for days. More than usual.”

Dean sighs, rubs a hand down his face. He could lie—he’s good at that. But something about holding that note in his hand makes it harder. Makes him feel like maybe being honest is the only thing he hasn’t tried.

“I found a note,” he mutters. “From her.”

Sam’s quiet for a beat before he murmurs your name.

Dean nods.

“What did it say?”

Dean shrugs, eyes on the book again. “Said I deserve the world.” His voice cracks just slightly. “Told me she wants me to take care of myself. That she loved me. Always will.”

Sam watches him for a long time, then moves to sit across from him.

“And what do you want?”

Dean finally looks up, eyes tired. “I want her to be okay. I want to be okay. I just… I don’t know if I deserve it.”

Sam doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches him, brows furrowed.

“You ever think,” Sam says gently, “that maybe you don’t have to earn it? That maybe she saw something in you that you just… never let yourself believe?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He just folds the note again—carefully, like it’s something sacred—and puts it back in his pocket.

He’s not ready to say it out loud yet.

But something’s shifting.

Something’s starting to stir.

Your perspective

It’s been a couple months since you left the bunker. You’re in a small town now—it’s quieter, easier, where the world doesn’t end every other day. You’ve got a job, at a cozy little diner while helping out occasionally at the bookstore below your apartment. It’s calm and grounding. People are kind. It’s safe. Peaceful.

The bell over the door jingles as you step into the diner, the smell of coffee and butter and something fried lingering thick in the air. It’s early—sun barely cresting over the trees—and the place is still waking up. You like it this way. The rhythm. The soft clatter of dishes, the low murmur of the radio in the kitchen, the hum of normal life. Predictable. Safe.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Linda calls from behind the counter. She’s been here for years, knows every customer by name and drink order. She gives you a warm smile and nods toward the back. “Wrote you on for the breakfast shift again. Hope that’s alright.”

You nod, tucking your jacket into the back room and slipping on your apron. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

And it is—at least, it should be. You pour coffee, refill creamers, take orders with a smile that mostly feels real. The regulars like you. You’re good at this—being kind without getting too close.

But around 10 a.m., as the breakfast rush dies down, your coworker Jules sidles up beside you, wiping her hands on a towel.

“You ever go out?” she asks, too casual to be casual.

You blink, glancing over. “Out?”

“Yeah, like… bars, movies, dates?” She lifts an eyebrow, playful. “You’re too pretty to spend all your time here and at home.”

You laugh lightly, setting a plate down on the pass-through. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

Jules leans on the counter, undeterred. “I mean, I know a guy. Nate. Super sweet. Works at the garage a few blocks over. Drives a truck, reads books with real pages—he’s practically a unicorn.”

You smile, but it’s hollow. “That’s nice. But I’m not really looking for anything.”

Jules watches you for a second, picking up on something in your tone. “Bad breakup?”

You shrug. “Something like that.”

She doesn’t push, and you’re grateful. Just pats your arm and moves on to wipe down a table. You go back to pouring coffee, heart a little heavier than before.

A little while later the bell above the diner door jingles again—this time with a little more energy behind it.

“Hey, dude!” comes the familiar, slightly too-loud voice.

You glance up from the coffee pot just in time to see Nick, your best friend since you moved here, stride in, grinning like he owns the place. He’s got a brown paper bag in one hand and that same worn hoodie he always wears slung halfway off his shoulder.

You laugh before you can help it. “You’re late.”

“I’m not on the schedule,” he counters easily, and before you can reply, he steps in and pulls you into a quick hug—warm, familiar, grounding. “Brought you a muffin from that place you like. Figured you’d be halfway to chewing on the napkin by now.”

You eye the bag suspiciously. “Is it the lemon one?”

“Do I look like an amateur?”

He slides onto one of the counter stools, already reaching for a coffee cup. You pour him a fresh one, smiling as he takes a dramatic first sip like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“Mmm. Burnt diner coffee. Just how I like it.”

“Glad we could deliver the gourmet experience,” you deadpan, nudging the muffin toward him.

He beams and peels it open. “See, this is why I keep showing up. Free baked goods and quality company.”

Jules glances over from the other end of the counter. “Nick, you moving in or what?”

“Thinking about it,” he calls back, grinning. “You got room in the back?”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth sticks with you. Nick always has a way of showing up just when the quiet gets too loud.

That night, you sit on the small porch of your apartment, a mug of tea in your hands, watching the sky shift into dusk. The world is quiet here. Too quiet, sometimes.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the clouds, and wonder if he ever found the note.

If he misses you.

If he’s okay.

You never say his name out loud anymore. But he still lives in the spaces between everything. In the way you like your coffee. In the worn flannel you still wear when you’re cold. In every adventure story on your bookshelf that you can’t bring yourself to open again.

You told yourself you left to heal. To breathe. But some nights, like this one, it feels more like surviving than living.

And damn it… you miss him.

Dean’s perspective

The bottle’s half empty, resting on the edge of the table beside him. Dean sits out back behind the bunker, legs stretched, back against the cold stone wall. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that used to feel like a break but now just feels like absence.

He lights a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked in a while, but tonight… tonight something’s gnawing at him. He doesn’t even like the taste. Just the burn. The distraction.

He exhales slow, watches the smoke curl into the sky, and presses a thumb over the soft fold of that note in his shirt pocket.

He doesn’t even know why he still carries it—other than the fact that letting it go feels impossible.

He’d worked a case earlier that day, but it barely registered. Salt-and-burn, in and out. No joy in the hunt anymore. Not without the voice that used to ride shotgun, arguing about music or quoting Jules Verne just to make him groan.

He pulls the note out again. He knows every word, every damn loop in your handwriting. But he reads it anyway.

You deserve the world.

He huffs a bitter breath and looks up at the stars, the cold air biting at his fingers.

“Do you still think that?” he mutters to the dark. “Or were you just trying to make it easier for me to breathe when you left?”

He swallows hard.

“’Cause I haven’t been breathing much since.”

There’s no answer—just the quiet whistle of wind through the trees.

But something about tonight feels heavy. Like your name’s caught in the air. Like, wherever you are… maybe you’re thinking about him, too.

Three days later, Dean finds himself driving aimlessly. No case. No purpose. Just the hum of Baby on the road, tires chewing up pavement like maybe, just maybe, she’ll take him somewhere that feels like something again.

He’s not even sure when the gas light came on, but it does—bright and insistent. He groans, rubs his face, and pulls off the highway into a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town. Just a single stretch of shops, an old gas station, a diner with sun-faded curtains and a crooked open sign swinging in the breeze.

He pulls into the lot, hops out, starts filling the tank.

His eyes drift lazily to the diner across the street. Not because he’s hungry—hell, he’s not sure he remembers what hungry feels like—but because something about it feels… familiar.

He lingers a little longer than he means to, hand resting on the pump, eyes on the door as someone walks out.

It’s not you.

But for a second, his heart kicks hard—because it could’ve been.

Same hair color. Same easy way of moving. Same shape in the corner of his eye. It’s not you, but the illusion of it grips him in the gut. And he hates how quickly his heart races.

He finishes pumping the gas, slams the cap shut harder than necessary, and climbs back in the car.

Doesn’t drive off right away. Just sits there.

Staring at the diner.

He doesn’t know—can’t know—that not even two hours ago, you were wiping down counter stools inside. That you wore your hair up and hummed a little under your breath. That your coworker teased you about your lack of a love life again and you rolled your eyes like you always do.

You’re gone by the time Dean finally turns the key and pulls back onto the road.

But he passes the diner slow, eyes scanning the windows one last time.

Maybe it’s the sky, he thinks. Maybe the air. But something about this place feels like her.

He doesn’t stop.

But he keeps thinking about it for miles.

Read part four here

A/N: So I know this is all slow burn but I promise, it’ll get a bit more action packed next chapter! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

Thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! 🫶🏻

Tags: @candy-coated-misery0731 @pillowjj @piertomaximoffsgirl @chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual @mrswinchester3 @robynn9436-blog @cherryresidence @shanimallina87

I hope you like this one, I appreciate y’all so much. 🩷 I’ll keep you tagged throughout this series, if you ever want me to remove you, please let me know.

[ultravi0lence14]

SHRIKE

meet bambi

found half alive in a hidden cabin in the woods, sam and dean never expected to find a witness. the gruesome entails of the case seemed to be that of a demon on a killing spree; displayed bodies with deer antlers sticking out of both the hands and the chest.

all signs point to a crazy, blood thirsty spawn of hell. yet as the story and case begin to unfold, sam and dean start realizing that the shy, traumatized, and religiously ambiguous girl they found surrounded in bones might be the missing piece to all they’re trying to solve.

BACK TO THE HEDGEROWS WHERE BODIES ARE MOUNTED

I WAS HOUSED BY YOUR WARMTH, BUT I WAS TRANSFORMED

BY YOUR GROUNDED AND GIVING AND DARKENING SCORN

REMEMBER ME, LOVE, WHEN I AM REBORN

AS THE SHRIKE TO YOUR SHARP AND GLORIOUS THORN

TAGS: @starzify @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sacr1ficialang3l @haunteres @bluemerakis @beausling @deanswidow @h8aaz @littlesoulshine @honeyryewhiskey @tinas111 @hvnlygrl @thesevnthseal @soldiersgirl @cowboysandcigarettes @rositaslabyrinth @losers-clvb @j2archives @sunsbaby @deanspookiebear

NAT BABBLES: stumbled across a photo on pinterest to than think of lottie matthew’s, abigail hobbs, and shrike by hozier to then come to this conclusion.

[wendichester]

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 outta love³,

summary. dean's falling out of love.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. angst

wordcount. 874

notes / warnings. shout-out to the amazing @candy-coated-misery0731 for coming up with the idea for this third part ehe // depiction of depression, self-isolation, reckless behavior (implied alcohol use and dangerous hunting choices), angst-heavy

ᯓ★ read part 1, part 2

Dean’s still standing in the kitchen long after the door shuts. Your jacket is gone. Your voice—those last few words—isn’t. They linger like smoke, wrapping around his throat until it’s hard to breathe.

"You didn’t love. Not enough."

The thing is—he did. Still does.

But love, it turns out, doesn’t mean a damn thing if you’re too much of a coward to show it.

He stares down into the coffee cup in his hand like it might tell him what to do. All he sees is the reflection of a man who let you walk away. And didn’t stop you.

You don’t cry at first.

That would feel like surrender.

Instead, you move through the days like a ghost. You check into a shitty motel two towns over, the kind with peeling wallpaper and towels that smell like bleach and smoke. You take a job on a hunt that someone else passed on, something nasty and a little too complicated to handle alone. You don’t care.

You pack light. Work fast. Sleep less.

Every bar is your new church. Every bottle, a communion. Every night, a prayer you don’t even bother aiming at the sky.

It’s not revenge. Not exactly.

It’s survival, minus the will to survive.

Dean keeps your mug in the cupboard.

He tells himself he’ll put it away tomorrow. Then another tomorrow. Then a week passes, and it’s still there, untouched, waiting.

Like the rest of him.

He hunts, sure. Goes on a salt-and-burn with Sam. Slays a few demons. Takes a hit or two that hurts worse than it should.

Sam doesn’t push at first. But one morning, he finds Dean staring blankly at the bunker wall like he’s watching something that isn’t there.

“She’s not coming back,” Sam says gently, not cruel, just… honest.

Dean flinches like the words cut. They do.

He doesn’t answer. Just walks out and doesn't come back till well after dark.

You don’t answer his texts.

You see them. Every single one.

The first ones are soft, almost careful.

Just checking in. You okay? I’m sorry. I miss you.

Then there’s a few angry ones. Guilt-sharpened. Defensive.

You think I didn’t love you? That’s bullshit. I never meant to hurt you. You just—left.

You ignore them. Leave him on read.

Because none of it matters now, does it?

Intentions don’t stitch up wounds. And I’m sorry won’t build a goddamn time machine.

Dean dreams about you.

In some, you’re smiling. In others, you’re bleeding.

He wakes up sweating, heart pounding, always reaching for the empty space beside him before he remembers.

It’s colder now.

He’s colder now.

He tries to bury himself in work. In whiskey. In routine.

He tells himself you’re probably fine. That you needed to get away. That maybe it’s better this way.

He doesn’t believe it.

Especially not when Sam gets wind of the job you took solo. One that went south. One that left your name on the list of local injuries reported at a hospital just outside Tulsa.

Dean doesn’t wait.

He gets in the car and drives.

You’re bandaged when he finds you.

One arm wrapped. Lip split. Your jacket stained in places it shouldn’t be.

You’re sitting outside the hospital, smoking a cigarette like it might keep your heart from caving in. Something you picked up recently, because who cares?

When you see him, your body doesn’t even flinch.

Your soul does. But the body? The body’s used to surviving disappointment by now.

Dean pulls up fast, slams the car door like it offended him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he barks.

You exhale smoke, eyes dull. “Wasn’t.”

He stops. Looks at you harder.

“You almost got yourself killed.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered.”

Those words shouldn’t leave your mouth with that tone. Not with that flat, dead air behind them. But they do. And Dean looks like you just tore out what was left of his heart.

“Don’t say that.”

You blink at him slowly. “Why? It’s true, isn’t it? You already mourned me. Might as well make it official.”

Dean steps back like your words are bullets.

“You don’t mean that.”

You don’t answer.

Because part of you does. Or did. Or wants to.

It’s easier than saying, I didn’t know how else to feel alive without you.

He doesn’t leave.

Not this time.

He leans against the car, hands on his hips, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together with molars alone.

“I fucked up,” he says eventually. “I know that.”

You don’t respond. Just watch the smoke curl from your cigarette like it’s more interesting than the ruins he’s standing in.

“I was scared,” he says. “And I thought I was protecting you by pulling away. But all I did was make you feel alone. I know that now.”

You flick ash to the ground. “Little late.”

“I know.” His voice breaks. Just enough to cut through. “But I’m here now. If you want me.”

You don’t look at him. Can’t.

Because the worst part isn’t that he’s here.

It’s that a part of you—God help you—wants to fall into him all over again.

And that part?

That part still believes he could be your home, if only he knew how to stay.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[gxhana]

The Last Embrace (Oneshot!)

Pairings: Boyf!Dean Winchester X Girlf!Fem Reader

Summary: You slowly die in Dean's arms.

The forest is quiet now.

Too quiet.

Not long ago, it echoed with gunshots and snarls—branches breaking underfoot, the hiss of silver through air. But now it’s just you and Dean, and the scent of pine and blood.

Your blood.

You’re lying on your back in the undergrowth, the forest floor damp beneath you, cold seeping up through your bones. Above you, the trees sway gently in the moonlight, their long fingers cradling the sky. And Dean… Dean is kneeling over you, hands stained crimson, breath ragged in his throat.

“No, no, no—don’t you do this,” he growls, more to himself than to you. His voice is raw, cracking like the broken branches around you. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just—just hold on, sweetheart, please.”

You try to speak, but it hurts. Everything hurts. Your stomach is a mangled mess, the claws of that thing, whatever it was having torn through armor and skin like wet paper. You can’t feel your legs. Can’t feel much of anything anymore.

Your lips part anyway. “Dean…”

He shushes you immediately, one bloodied hand cradling your cheek. “Don’t talk. Save your strength. Sam’s coming. He’s calling Cas. We’ll fix this, just like we always do.”

But even he doesn’t believe it. You see it in his eyes the way they are glistening. He’s hurt too, you noticed it, the raw gash along his arm, the way he winced when he moved. But he didn’t flinch when you did. His wound, no matter how deep, paled in comparison to yours. You were the one bleeding, and in that moment, nothing else in the world could possibly matter more to him.

“You’re bleeding,” you rasp, lifting your hand weakly to the gash on his shoulder.

“I don’t care,” he whispers, pulling your hand to his chest. Holding it like it means everything. “I don’t care about me. I just need you. I can’t, I can’t lose you.”

You can smell the earth, the moss, the fading smoke from Dean’s shotgun. The world should feel cruel right now, but it doesn’t. Not with him holding you like this.

“Hey,” you say, voice faint as a breeze. “You remember that night in Tennessee? Cabin by the lake. I made chili and burned it.”

Dean lets out a breath half-laugh, half-sob. “Yeah. And you made me eat it anyway.”

“You said it was the best thing you ever tasted.”

He smiles, the real kind, though it trembles. “It was. Because you made it.”

Your fingers twitch in his. “I’m scared,” you admit, and it breaks something in him.

“I know, baby.” His forehead presses to yours, warm and shaking. “But I’m right here. I’m not letting go.”

You close your eyes.

The stars are hidden now, swallowed by branches and the dark.

“I love you,” you whisper. You taste blood when you say it.

And he says it back like a promise, like a prayer: “I love you. Always. You hear me? Always.”

Your breath comes slower. Shallower.

The forest listens, silent.

And then you’re still.

Dean stays there long after the night, rocking you, whispering things you’ll never hear. He can't accept the fact that life is slipping from you.

The world doesn’t stop when you die.

The wind still weaves through the pine branches like breath through a sleeping chest. But Dean sits in the dirt, motionless, with your head in his lap and his heart in ruins.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

At first, he just holds you, arms wrapped too tightly around your body like he can press the life back into you through sheer will. He’s murmuring your name, telling you it's okay, that help is coming, that Cas and Sam will be here any second now and fix this. Just like always.

But your hand goes slack in his.

Your chest stops rising.

Your eyes—God, your eyes don’t close all the way.

His voice falters. Then stops.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no, no…”

He presses his ear to your chest. Silence. Not even an echo.

He shakes you gently, then harder. “C’mon, don’t do this. Don’t --you can’t be gone, you don’t get to leave me.”

But you’re not answering anymore.

He lets out a sound that’s barely human—raw, guttural, the kind of noise that comes from a soul being torn apart. His arms tighten around you as if the earth might try to take you from him. He buries his face into your shoulder, into your blood-soaked jacket, inhaling you like maybe if he breathes you in deep enough, he can keep a part of you alive inside him.

“I was right here,” he gasps. “I was right here, and I still couldn’t save you.”

His hands trembling as he brushed the dirt from her cheek. He leaned over you, his forehead touched hers for a moment, and then he kissed her, not soft or hesitant, but fiercely. It wasn’t gentle because his heart was breaking. It was full of everything he never said, everything he wished he could still say. His lips pressed hard against hers, as if he could pour life back into her, as if he could make her stay. It was a desperate, aching kiss, one that came from deep love and deep pain. He kissed her like he was trying to hold on, even though he already knew he’d lost her.

Time dissolves.

Sam finds him hours later, kneeling in the same spot, dirt smeared across his face, his knees soaked through with your blood. He doesn’t look up when Sam calls his name. Doesn’t speak when Cas arrives and lays a hand on his shoulder. He just keeps holding you. Rocking.

There’s no battlefield. No monster left to kill.

Only silence.

And Dean, alone in the woods, clutching the only person who ever made the war feel worth fighting.

Later that night, when they’ve taken your body back to the bunker, Dean sits in your room.

He doesn’t turn on the lights. Just sits on your bed, holding the flannel you used to sleep in, the one that still smells like pine and leather and something only you.

He finally speaks again, low and hoarse, to no one.

“I promised I’d protect you.”

The silence answers.

He laughs bitterly—just once—and then the tears come. Quiet, broken, not the kind he ever lets anyone see. He presses the shirt to his face, and for a moment, he lets himself fall apart in the dark.

And in that room filled with your things, your memories, your laugh echoing faintly in his mind… Dean mourns the only home he ever found, somewhere he could be himself and something that prevented him from falling apart. Now, with it gone, he stands in the silence it left behind, aching not just for what he lost, but for who he was when he had it.

[littlexdeaths]

ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʀᴏᴀᴅ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ - ᴅ.ᴡ.

dean winchester x fem reader x crossroads demon

warnings: all my works are 18+ only! s3 timeline, established relationship (dean x reader), some good ole’ angst, reader is making some stupid/selfish decisions, descriptions of a car accident, uh…sexual tension with a demon? does that count?

word count: 2.3k

a/n: genuinely not sure what prompted me to write this, but i hope you guys enjoy it. a big thank you to @undead-supernova for looking this over and for always putting up with me. ilysm august <3 in this universe i’ve decided that crossroads demons can either possess a host or materialize in their original human form. so you’ll have to tell me who mr. crossroads reminds you of ;)

“This better work,” you whisper, dusting the dirt from your palms as you rise to your feet.

The crossroads were eerily quiet, not even the hum of cicadas to put your mind at ease while you waited for something…anything to happen.

While you weren’t very experienced when it came to summoning demons, you knew you had done everything right—leafing through John Winchester’s old journal had told you that much.

In a small tin box lay a picture of yourself, a bottle of graveyard dirt, and a bone from a black cat. The items were all neatly arranged and sealed in the box that is now buried beneath your feet.

But the night remained still, not a flash of red eyes or black smoke in sight.

“Come on,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest as a cool breeze sweeps across your cheeks. “Where are you?”

You’re only greeted with more eerie silence and you can’t help but wonder if this was all for nothing, if Sam’s reckless decision to kill that last crossroads demon ruined your chances of summoning another one.

You only had two months left with Dean, two months until he would be dragged to hell kicking and screaming, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. Your time together was coming to an end and you were becoming desperate for any other outcome.

But after weeks of careful consideration, you had decided that if you couldn’t save him…you might as well join him in the pit.

Your eyes continue to scan the dark stretch of road, annoyance beginning to bubble up inside you the longer you wait. 

“I don’t have all damn night!” you finally shout into the dark void, nearly ready to turn around and leave.

“—My, my so impatient, sweetheart.”

A deep velvety voice slices through the air, curling around your body and chilling you to the very core.

You quickly turn on your heel, taking in the male before you. He’s leaning against an old tree, the shadows somewhat shielding his handsome features. His dark hair falls in long waves over his shoulders, his bored expression morphing into something far more sinister when your eyes meet.

Those same eyes flash a fiery crimson before melting back into a warm amber, his full lips pulling up into a Cheshire-like grin.

“Dean Winchester’s play thing…what do I owe this pleasure?” he all but purrs, but the insult rings true.

“I wasn’t aware that Hell started recruiting Van Halen wannabes,” you fire back, amusement trickling over your features when his eyes narrow.

“Now, now…you shouldn’t insult me, pet,” he hisses. “I clearly have something you want.”

The demon shrugs away from the tree, slowly beginning to close the distance between you. Every instinct in your body is telling you to flee or reach for the bottle of holy water hidden in your jacket and cause this bastard a world of pain. But you remain still, keeping a close eye on the monster sauntering toward you.

“You know, I expected something like this from Sam…but not you.” He chuckles, his eyes trailing over your figure. “But I guess you humans are just full of stupid surprises.”

Your jaw clenches when he flashes you his pearly whites, your fingers twitching with the desire to slap that grin right off his face.

“So,” he continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “You've come to try and weasel your boyfriend out of his little deal, is that it?” 

The demon stops only a few paces away, his dark eyes continuing to study you.

“That’s not—” you begin, but he holds up his hand before you can finish, beginning to slowly circle around you, like a predator zeroing in on its prey.

“Let’s just cut to the chase here, shall we?” He strikes before you can react, slinking up behind you and pinning you in place. “There’s nothing you can do to stop this.”

You struggle against his hold, but he only grips you tighter, the heat of his chest radiating through your jacket. The demon leans impossibly closer, and when his lips graze over the shell of your ear, nausea stirs in the pit of your stomach.

“My sister already told Sam this, before he killed her.” You don’t miss the snarl behind those words. “But Dean’s deal is iron clad and non-negotiable…so you’re wasting your breath, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t come here for Dean,” you hiss harshly through your teeth.

The world seems to halt for a moment, your lower lip trembling as you release a shaky breath and, finally, your words click into place. Everything crackles back to life when the demon practically purrs in your ear, his ringed fingers trailing over your forearms to grip your hips, caging you in further against his chest.

“Well, now isn’t that just sweet.” He chuckles, his loose curls tickling your cheek. “You wanna join your boy toy downstairs?“

“An observant one, aren’t you?” you snap bitterly.

The male clicks his tongue in distaste, spinning you around to face him.

“It just seems like such a waste…” He loosens his grip and begins to circle you again, his eyes more curious than predatory. “You two could have had it all…marriage, a white picket fence, hell, maybe even a couple of kids. But no, Dean just had to go and throw it all away for Sam.”

You keep your expression calm, refusing to even let your thoughts wander down that path. Because deep down you know those things would never come to fruition, even if Sam was dead.

“How does that feel? Knowing Dean chose his baby brother over you?” the demon taunts, his gaze sharpening with each step.

You try to ignore the slight sting behind his word, and the way they seem to stoke that small feeling of resentment you’ve been attempting to bury all these months. A feeling that now threatens to claw itself to the surface.

“Shut up,” you whisper hoarsely.

But he ignores you.

“And now you’re just going to throw your life…your soul away, for him?” He scoffs with a shake of his head. “Like I said, a damn waste.”

“Why do you even care?” you counter.

He merely shrugs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

“While it might be hard for you to believe,” he begins, his tone much softer than it was a moment ago. “Some of us still remember what it was like to be human.”

Something sour settles in your stomach and prickles over your skin because a part of you—the human part—can’t help but feel a flicker of empathy toward him. This demon standing before you used to be human at some point before his soul was tortured and twisted beyond recognition in the darkest pits of hell.

But those feelings quickly dissipate when his lips curl back into a devilish grin and a burst of crimson consumes his irises.

“So, sweet thing, an eternity of hellfire. That’s what you really want?”

But for the first time tonight, you hesitate.

Your thoughts enviably drift back to the first time you almost truly lost Dean. You can vividly recall his look of pure anguish when those bright headlights flickered across his face, and the way he vehemently tried to shield you from the devastating impact of the semi-truck.

How you were able to walk away from that wreck with only a concussion and a cracked rib was nothing short of a miracle…but Dean wasn’t so lucky.

The worst part was seeing him lying there in that hospital bed, covered in bandages and bruises while attached to a ventilator. That feeling of dread and utter devastation you felt when the doctors told you that he wasn’t going to wake up, was something you’ve never quite been able to shake. And despite your affinity for killing the things that went bump in the night, you were never the religious type. The idea of one almighty God turning a blind eye while millions of innocent lives were lost had never sat right with you.

But during those couple of days, you found yourself praying to whatever God that would listen.

The demon releases a dramatic sigh, snapping you out of your thoughts and back to the present.

“You know sweetheart, I’m happy to walk away. No harm, no foul. But I’ve got places to be, important deals to make…debts to be fulfilled.”

And his grin widens when a shiver passes through you, the sounds of phantom hell hounds snarling in your ear.

“So, what’s it going to be?” he asks, holding out both of his hands. “You live a long, but miserable life without Dean…or you rot in hell with him. Decisions, decisions…”

You release a shaky breath while you begin to seriously weigh your options, but eyes narrow in annoyance when the bastard starts to hum the Jeopardy theme song.

You know this is a stupid and utterly selfish decision, but you would take an eternity of hellfire and torture…as long as you had him.

“You’ve got a deal,” you assert, holding your hand out toward him.

The demon glances from your outstretched palm to your face, his shoulders beginning to shake with laughter.

“Oh, that’s cute…but it takes much more than that to seal a deal with me, baby.” He grins, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Your hand falls limply to your side and his laughter only grows in volume at the look of sheer horror that crosses over your features. 

Nowhere in John’s journal or your own research did it mention that was how a demon deal was made. And you can’t help but feel a little sick picturing Dean, your Dean with his hands all over a demon.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweet cheeks, my deal’s don’t require…” he trails off, his dark eyes alight with mischief. “Full frontal nudity, but I’m not entirely opposed to it.” 

He winks, choosing to ignore your harsh glare.

“No, all I require is one teeny, tiny, little kiss.” 

“And then it’s done?” you clarify.

“Then it’s done,” he confirms. “Cross my heart, hope to die… You know the rest.”

“Okay,” you mumble. “Then let’s get this over with.”

The demon flashes you another wide grin before he takes two long strides toward you, one hand snaking around your waist while the other reaches up to cradle your cheek. You let your eyes flutter closed when he slowly starts to lean in, his warm breath fanning across your lips.

But a shrill ringing suddenly pierces the air, forcing you back a step and out of the demon’s grasp. He lets out a low growl of annoyance, which sends another shiver rippling through you. The source of the interruption is coming from your back pocket, and a feeling of dread washes over you when you pull the phone out from it.

Dean <3 flashes across the small screen and you feel your carefully crafted composure begin to crumble. This wasn’t something you had planned for. Dean was supposed to be in bed, sleeping off your last hunt. You all desperately needed the rest after clearing out a large vamp’s nest, the bags under your eyes being a testament of that.

But you were running out of time and when both Sam and Dean passed out the moment you arrived back at Bobby’s…

There was no way you would pass up an opportunity like this. Not when Dean’s final days are growing closer.

So you quickly silence the call before you can relent, sending him straight to voicemail.

But Dean isn’t one to give up so easily, you know that. It’s one of the many things you love about him. You aren’t surprised when the phone begins to ring almost immediately, but you quickly silence it again.

When that third call comes through, the demon gives you a pointed look.

“You should probably get that.” He hums, taking a few steps back to lean against that same tree as before. “Mighty persistent that one.”

You grit your teeth before flipping open the phone and pressing it to your ear.

“Hey, De…” you start, but are quickly cut off.

“Where are you?” His tone is short and clipped, but you can hear the underlying panic.

Your eyes immediately flick over to where the demon is perched across from you, inhaling deeply to try and collect yourself.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you reply as casually as possible, kicking some gravel by your feet. “Just went for a drive to clear my head.”

The demon snickers, his grin widening when you shoot him a warning glare.

“Sweetheart, I might have been born at night…but it sure as hell wasn’t last night. Now tell me, where are you?”

Any semblance of patience has left his voice, and you let out a deep sigh. You know he’ll just continue to call if you hang up on him, so there’s no use in trying to keep up this ruse any longer.

“I’m at the crossroads.”

Dean lets out a string of curses, the revving of the Impala’s engine only growing louder in your ear.

“And what in the hell are you doing out there?” You can hear the disappointment radiating through the receiver despite the shitty reception.

“Making a deal,” you answer softly.

“Son of a bitch. I told you and Sam there’s nothing you can do, so you need to stop—”

“I’m not here for you, Dean.”

The other end goes quiet as the gears slowly begin to turn in his head, and when Dean finally musters the courage to speak, his voice shakes.

“Baby, please don’t do this.”

You quickly blink away the tears that begin to well in your eyes, the pain in his voice only twisting the knife further into your gut.

“I’m not worth it,” he pleads.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the demon croons, tapping the watch on his wrist. “I don’t have all night.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” you whisper, snapping the phone shut.

“Now then,” he says, straightening back up with a smirk. “Where were we?”

end note: i began writing this back in january when i was on season 3 of my supernatural rewatch and i’m feeling very proud of myself for finally finishing it. i already have some ideas brewing for another part to this, so if anyone would be interested in that…just let me know <3

[honeyroots]

་༘࿐ SNEAKY!LINK!DEAN headcanons ꕥ

sneaky!link!dean just rolls off the tongue... MDNI (18+).

how i think being DEAN WINCHESTER'S sneaky link might go:

¹ — DEAN WINCHESTER has your phone number memorized. every time he gets another cellphone, or doesn't have access to his mainline, he has no problem dialing your number. at this point, you might as well be saved as an emergency contact. sometimes when he calls you from a restricted or unknown number, he pretends to be a phone sex hotline.

² — DEAN WINCHESTER is not immune to jealousy. even if you're technically not in relationship, he doesn't like when other people get too friendly with you. when you're at a bar with him, shooting pool, he gets grumbly if he notices too many people looking your way. when you try to call him on it, he never admits it, but you can tell that he was feeling some type of way about it later that night when he's fucking you. "say it," he tells you, buried deep inside you, "tell me this is just for me."

³ — DEAN WINCHESTER is a sexter. he's feeling needy so of course he's gonna send you some out-of-pocket text in the middle of the day. he's trying to work you up to the point of frustration, so you can feel the same way he does. he sends pictures of just the shaft because he doesn't think you deserve to see the tip until you see him again in person. it's his way of scheduling a hook up with you.

⁴ — DEAN WINCHESTER brings you flowers, even if you're teasing him for it. he knows just how to play the gentleman card. opening doors for you, pulling your chair out, bringing you flowers. he knew he was going to get laid the second you called him, doesn't mean he won't still treat you like a gentleman would.

⁵ — DEAN WINCHESTER coaxes your kinks out of you. he wants to know everything you like so he can implement, even if you're feeling a little embarrassed about what you want. he does not care, he just wants you to feel good. sometimes he implements it outside of the bedroom, offering a cheeky wink because he knows you're feeling the warmth in your belly. he wants to give you whatever you need, even if it's a kink he's not familiar with. he's doing the research, and forgetting to clear the browsing history too.

[accoochtrement]

Sobbing 😭😭💖💖

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `fix you, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: dean accidentally hurts you on a hunt, and he can't forgive himself. word count: 1015 pairing: dean winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The tension still sits comfortably in the air, as if you’re supposed to expect more. More fighting. More bloodshed.

The noise had thinned out, the last of the attackers either dead or had scattered.

You had been back to back with Sam, Dean leading in front, clutching his gun, holding it out in front of him as everyone scours the rooms for any potential threats.

Sam moves slightly to the right, examining hidden corners and blind spots. You move closer to Dean.

“Dea-”

As you step toward Dean, a figure lunges from the shadows behind him. He reacts instinctively—turns, swings hard—

His fist connects with your face before either of you realise what’s happening.

You hit the ground with a thud, causing both brothers to turn around and properly look at you. “Shit,” Dean gasps; Sam rushes to your side, completely stunned.

“What did you do?” Sam exclaims, kneeling down beside you as he helps you lift yourself up. Dean stares down at you, pure consternation floods his face as he tries to wrap his head around what he had done.

He clenches his jaw, dropping to his knees, joining Sam in aiding you. You sit up, clutching your face. The throbbing hot pain pulses through your nose, the pain striking down your neck and your shoulders. You pull your hand away, revealing the pool of blood trickling down your wrist. Dean reaches his hand out to touch you, and you flinch.

Dean’s eyes widen as he examines your face, the terror glazing over your eyes sending a shiver down his back. He can’t figure out why he did what he did—but it surely broke his heart.

“Y/N—” He begins, and you hiss at the stinging pain jolting through your face. Tears stream down your face, unsure whether it’s because of Dean or the fact that your nose feels like it’s shattered from the inside.

“—I didn’t know it was you. I would never-”

“Give her some space, Dean.” Sam hushes, and he backs up. He stares at you, his breath shallow, eyes flicking between your trembling body and the blood running from your nose. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

The silence is heavy yet again, but this time it’s soaked in something bitter. Dean doesn’t look like himself, though. He clenches his jaw so tightly it might crack; his fists curl at his sides, and his eyes are glassy.

Sam suggests that they should take you back to the Impala, and Dean reluctantly agrees.

-

The motel room is too quiet. Your nose is finally bandaged up, a dull ache radiating from your cheekbones and down your neck. The injury itself isn’t the problem, it’s Dean’s face that flashes in your mind as he turned and hit you. The blank instinct. The power. You can’t stop replaying it.

You’re curled up in bed, the comforter completely covering your body as you lay with your eyes shut. Sam is finishing cleaning himself up after the hunt, washing away the remains of dried blood and dirt.

Dean walks in, the door opening and shutting quietly as he shuffles his boots on the cheap carpet. You don’t even bother to move.

He pauses. “Hey.” His voice is low.

You don’t respond.

“Y/N,” he starts, moving closer to you. He pulls a chair out from the table, sitting close enough to you where you can’t avoid him.

“I didn’t know it was you. God, I—I thought you were one of them.” You can hear the guilt in every syllable.

He exhales, slapping his hands on his thighs. “I’m going for a drive. Call me if you need me.”

-

It’s well past midnight when you find yourself unable to sleep. The thoughts keep replaying in your head. Dean isn’t one to apologise with words. Him distancing himself from you tells you more than what you need to hear.

The Impala’s headlights are shining into your window, the voile blocking the harsh lights from the outside, yet you just know it’s the Impala. You get up, throwing a zip-up hoodie over your shoulders and make your way outside.

Dean sits in the driver’s seat, his head tilted back and his eyes shut. The engine hums gently below him, Led Zeppelin barely coming through the speakers. You tap on the window, startling him awake. He reaches for his gun, but relaxes once he sees that it’s you.

“Can we talk?” You ask him, and he looks at you, eyes rimmed red and cheeks flushed a light crimson.

“Of course.” He opens the car door, shutting it behind him. You lead him back to your motel room, allowing him to step inside before you lock the door behind you.

Dean sits on the edge of your bed, his hand ruffling through his hair as he looks up at you. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, Dean,” you begin, catching his attention. “But you terrified me. The way you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t even look. The force behind it was…” You trail off, noticing that he’s watching every single movement in your eyes. He’s locked onto yours. “You really hurt me, Dean.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m really, really sorry. Truly. I would never ever lay a hand on you like that—ever. I promise you. I’ll be more careful next time.” He admits his wrongdoing, his hands fidgety. He rubs a hand over his face.

You stand there above him, yet all he does is look at you. He opens his arms.

“Can I have a hug?” He asks, and you nod. You fall into his arms, his grip tight and forceful like he doesn’t want to let go.

He can’t let go.

He plants a kiss on your temple, rubbing his hand across your back to soothe you. Make you feel safe. Loved.

And to let you know that he’s sorry.

The weight of everything begins to melt away, the hundreds of questions fleeing your brain. You allow yourself to be wrapped in his warmth, believing that it was a onetime mistake.

And it will be.

[jollyhunter]

Lucky Cat

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE Dean Winchester x f!Reader, Soulless!Sam mentioned

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Dean’s POV, Takes place around early season 6, Angst, Dean and Soulless!Sam mentioned, eventually Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Reader is a hunter who had left the hunter life like Dean after Sam 'died', No use of Y/N, English isn’t my native language

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean really didn't want to pull you back into this job, but with Sam's 'soul' problem, he's left with no other choice but to ask you for help. Unfortunately, as always, he will regret that decision. (I'm sorry, I suck at summaries, might edit it later)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,3 k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTE Moodboard is done by the wonderful @chevroletdean for their 500 Follower Celebration ! I hope this entry lives up to it. :D Congrats once more, dear! You deserve it all and much much more!! ♡♡♡ Big shout out to @ambiguous-avery for helping me with this! Thank you so so much again! I for some reason struggled a lot with getting to the core of this story, and now I might just continue this fun idea :D

The crescent moon grins down at Dean, its light barely enough to paint the outlines of crosses stretching across the horizon.

Dean’s back slumps against a tombstone, then slides down along it until he hits the ground. His feet are planted into grass. Hazy as the fog lingers between the graves and licks at his limbs like hungry souls.

‘Queen of the Witches - Freer of slaves - Glorifier of the oppressed - Daughter of Goddess Diana and Lucifer’. It all sounded like the perfect solution to your ‘Soulless-Sam-Problem’, when Dean and you had stumbled across the lore books about the Goddess of the Moon, Aradia, a couple of days ago.

And honestly, all was going well. You’d gathered all the ingredients thanks to Bobby’s support through the phone. Located a witches boneyard somewhere at the arse-end of the world while you'd made sure Sam was on a goose chase.

You made the hoodoo. Successfully summoned the Goddess.

So far so good. Fucking finally. No curveballs so far.

Until she had Dean pull a card from her deck, urging him to, ‘Bet your lucky star in exchange for your brother’s soul’.

Now his gaze travels up to the silver curve which has been mocking him like the Cheshire cat ever since he made that damn deal.

“You goddamn idiot,” Dean rasps out. His face tilts down, eyes locked onto the trembling card in his hands.

“Why’d you even come-“ Why the hell did you drop everything the moment I called? You idiot should’ve stayed away from me and this goddamn life like we’d agreed…

His thumb trails the golden letters edged into the black paper. “The World,” he scoffs the name out loud. Bitter. With a tinge of sardonic. Not like you’re his whole World without him realizing it.

He slides his finger pad further up and across the intricate illustration. Careful, reverend. Like he’s afraid he might break the white lines which depict you.

You’re sprawled out, like you’d been knocked unconscious and decided to take a nap inside a golden frame – that is, the image of you – or perhaps it was you-you? The Queen of Witches didn’t really give him much to work with.

“Damn it…” I shouldn’t have called you. You shouldn’t have come. Why are you so goddamn stubborn? … Why do you even care so much about me and my crap?

Okay, here’s the thing about you and Dean; You always talk back. But not the ‘sucker punch to the gut’ kind of talk back. But the ‘I’m here for you’ kind of. The ‘talk to me’. The ‘I’m not gonna judge you, promise’. The kind, Dean didn’t know how to deal with.

You’d ask, “How are doing?”, he’d reply, “I’m fine.”

You know better. Of course you do. ‘I’m fine’ is the equivalent to ‘I’m too broken to open up’.

So you try once more. “Dean, c’mon. Talk to me…” He on the other hand brushes it off more aggressively this time. “I said I’m alright, okay?”

This is the point where Sam would go ‘yeah, okay.’ and drop it. Maybe because he knows better than to push him. Maybe because he knows Dean will only clam up more and eventually lash out when put on the spot. Maybe because he’s just learned to accept his older brother’s stubornness.

You know all that, too. But the big difference is; you continue nonetheless.

“Dean,” you’d sigh his name, for some reason which is beyond him, still patient, even though it takes all of your nerves to not shake the emotions out of him. “Please. I can see that you’re not doing well. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

How can you be so damn caring? I’m literally a walking-talking broken time bomb.

And since you’re not raising your voice, that’s usually the point where he’d start to yell. Accompanied by a warning finger pointing your way. “I swear to God, if you ask me one more time to spill my guts, I’ll forget my manners and deck you.”

And guess what? You’d still fuckin’ pester me.

Even on our drive to this godforsaken graveyard you didn’t miss a chance to make me want to strangle you — to just make you shut up. You were meant to help me get Sammy’s soul back, not bare my soul to you.

He hated the way you saw right through him. The way you read him as if he was an open book even though you were one of the people he wanted least to see behind his facade.

And right now I wish for nothing more than your annoying voice. Prodding and pestering me about my emotional constipation.

Anything.

One word.

“C’mon, sweetheart… don’t do this to me…” he whispers. Voice hoarse. Raw.

Please.

But illustrations don’t answer prayers. And neither do regrets.

His hand trembles. Clenches. Fingers curled around the edge of the black tarot card. It dents under the calloused palm closing around it - then gets tossed through the air before it hits the ground between his feet.

“Son of a bitch!” he rasps out, the curse like a rip through the air before it sinks into the empty, silent night.

His empty hands are now both shaking. He drops his head. Face buried into his palms to steady them. To hold himself together.

But at this point it’s like he’s trying to hold a sinking ship together. Worst is, he’s not the captain. He’s the ship. He’s the one who failed the crew. Their only ground. When he breaks, everyone drowns.

Problem is, as of right now, not many are left for him to keep afloat.

This is my fault — I should’ve — I shouldn’t have asked you for help. It should’ve been me, not you.

“Why didn’t you just stay away from me…”

He pushes his fingers between his strands of hair. All the way back as he buries himself deeper.

I should’ve listened more to you. Every time you tried to make me spill my guts — you never gave up on my stubborn ass and I just —

A strangled sound wrecks through him. Muffled by his hands and barely loud enough to rip through the unspoken grief. Hanging heavy between the tombstones.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry - I’m so goddamn sorry - I-

He rakes his fingers down. Until the hair caught between them is pulled taught. The heel of his palms press into his stinging eyes. A poor attempt at damming the tears that threaten to break free.

“You wanted to know whether I’m fine..?” he murmurs. His voice is low and broken. Breath shudders as the raw admission forces its way out now. “You want the truth? I’m far from fine. Sammy’s gone. I’m left with his Terminator version driving shotgun with me and he freaks me out to the point that I’m sleeping with a finger on my colt’s trigger. Lisa and Ben are — they’re better off without me. I should’ve never even showed up on their doorstep.”

He pauses. Bites back a soft sound close to a sob. His voice suddenly drops to a raspy whisper, the sound of it taking on an edge of anger. Driven by disappointment and helplessness.

“You wanted me to open up? Fine. I’ll talk. I –… I’m afraid, when I’ll let someone in, I’ll shatter and you’ll be the one picking up the pieces. And– And that’s not supposed to be your job. I’m the one who’s doing the fixing. But truth is…” — his hands slip off his face, his rolled up eyes water and his lips press together to fight his tremors — “I can’t — I —… I am beyond repair, sweetheart. But the only thing that kept my messy mind together was—“ his voice cracks when he sheds a single tear. Squeezes his eyes shut as he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Damnit… please… I’m begging you,” he croaks.

His hand reaches for the card on the ground. Desperate. The way he’d reach for the closest bottle of whiskey if he could. The grip on it tightens, his thumb digging into the centre of the paper where your curled up form is edged into.

“Talk to me —“ he pleads your name.

…

“What’s the matter?” Dean jumps to his feet as the voice pops up next to him. He whips around. Eyes narrowed at the familiar Goddess.

“What do you want?” he growls. His free hand reaches for the colt while the other holds onto the only thing left of you and instinctively pulls it closer to chest.

Aradia’s perched on a large tombstone as she tilts her head down at him like an owl, “If you crumple her body’s vessel like that you’ll crack her bones.”

“What?”

“The card, you snivelling monkey.” She waves a hand his way. Dean stares at her. Befuddled. She sighs and rolls her silver glowing eyes behind her glasses. Hops off the tombstone like a school girl as she prances over to him with her pretty golden shoes.

“You’re clearly not as emotionally dense as you make yourself out to be.” Dean’s eyebrows furrow and he whips his colt up which makes her stop in her tracks.

“Shut the hell up and get her back!” he demands, his voice deep and still hoarse. Aradia cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed.

She steps up to him, her blond, curly hair bouncing with every step. Way too close for Dean’s taste as he backs up until his knee pits hit a tombstone.

She leans in, corners curled up into a sweet smile. Dean’s lips twitch in response. Not good. Way too close for a skeevy mother of all witches.

Her index pushes the barrel aside. Her piercing gaze boring into his.

“Now, now… we don’t want to put any unnecessary holes into our contract.”

Dean narrows his eyes. But he knows she’s right. The witch-killing bullets would hardly be enough to make her flinch. Reluctantly he lowers the colt to his side.

She nods approvingly.

Her long fingernail trails along his arm, runs down his chest, and Dean’s hand curls into a tight fist around the gun’s grip. The anger flickers through every muscle that jumps under the force of his clenched jaw.

“Keep your damn germs to yourself.”

A chuckle skips off her pursed lips. “One would think you’d be a little more grateful. I’m willing to make you a new offer…”

She taps his nose - he startles, open-mouthed, a row of appalled curses forming on his lips - but she silences him when in the same motion her finger flicks against the edge of the card still in his hand.

Fucking hoodoo.

Sparks fly off the corner, like she just struck a match… with her oozing black-gold-glittery fingernail. His eyes widen as he watches in befuddlement, how your pictured form begins to squirm into the card nook while the burnt upper corner spreads in slow-motion.

Well. At least you’re moving. Means you’re still somewhere alive in there… right?

She snaps his attention from the now smouldering edge back to her.

“Want her body back and another chance on a certain someone’s other missing part?” The Goddess asks, then smiles knowingly as she continues, “Then find your lucky star.”

My lucky star..? Like Twinkle Twinkle Lucky Stars?

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” But she ignores him and turns on her heels. Dean’s desperation grows, mixing with anger as he bellows after her. “Hey! At least tell me what I’m looking for!”

She stops, turns to face him as she pushes her glasses back before she gives him that look his teachers always would.

“Oh but that’s part of the lesson, Winchester. Be grateful for it.”

“Hold on– Damn it!” Dean curses out loud as she vanishes into thin air right in front of him. Colt still gripped tightly in one hand, the card with you on it in his other.

He looks down at your image. How you’re cowering in one corner as the card smoulders at the other, almost imperceptibly, like a silent countdown. His teeth clench, cursing inwardly this time.

“Hang in there, sweetheart…” he mutters before he carefully shoves the tarot card into his jacket’s inside pocket.

Dean makes his way back to Baby, which is parked at the end of the narrow path of the graveyard. He wants to fish out the car keys from his pants pockets – when his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“What the…” he pats down his front and back pockets. His green eyes widen in panic before they snap around the place in search of them.

Across from him and his Impala, sits a black cat on one of the square tomb stones. Its tail flicks as their eyes lock.

It greets him with a soft, muffled meeeow.

Then Dean’s focus is pulled down to the creature’s open mouth.

There it is. Hanging from between the feline’s teeth.

Baby’s keys.

“How did you –” his breath catches in his throat when it tugs the keys back between its jaws.

“Whoa- o-okay, okay, easy… c’mere kitty, kitty…” he holds his hands up in a placating gesture while he takes a slow step towards it.

The cat startles, then begins to chew on it. Dean instantly freezes up.

“Don’t…” he warns and perhaps his tone came off a tinge too aggressive, “Don’t you friggin’ dare –”

Gulp.

Dean’s face drops. “Oh you gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The next moment he lunges for the black cat. It tries to leap off the tombstone and make a break for it but Dean is quicker. He scruffs it, ignoring its hissing and thrashing.

Then shakes it like a Polaroid picture.

“Spit it out!” he yells in a mixture of panic and disbelief, “C’mon! Spit it out! Gimmi back my baby!!”

But the key’s long gone to the belly. The cat meows desperately while being rattled left and right, your golden eyes searching his in vain.

Damn it! Dean, it’s me!

EDIT NOTE: For anyone who saw my side note in brackets and was scratching their head 😂… It was 5 AM and I was dead on my feet when I posted this and forgot to delete it. Lmao I’m sorry, please just ignore all my weird wording and typos I haven’t found yet 💀

Dean Tag List:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005 @Ms-kayla-readinglover @youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort @lamentationsofalonelypotato @my-stories-vault

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @nesnejwritings

[deansbeer]

little help goes a long way ・ DEAN WINCHESTER. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ pinned library

eighteen plus. minors do NOT interact.

SYNOPSIS. where you accidentally give dean a hard on during a hunt.

WARNING(S). sexual tension | fem!reader | strong language | sex innuendos | implied smut.

KARI NOTES. he's been running on my mind all day and i needed to let my thoughts run wild. so have fun readin' — you'll def thank me later!

satiated desire

the hunt had taken an unexpected turn, leaving you and dean pressed up against each other, your back flush against his chest. you shifted slightly, trying to get a better vantage point, when you felt dean's grip tighten on your hips, holding you in place.

"dean—" you began to ask, but the words died on your lips as you felt something hard pressing against you from behind. your eyes widened in realization, heat creeping up your face.

"shit, sweetheart, i'm so sorry," dean murmured, his voice strained. "i didn't mean for that to happen."

you whisper to dean in his ear, "we'll deal with this after the hunt, okay?"

he nodded mutely, your heart racing, already imagining ways to help him with his... situation. a small smile plays on your lips as he replied, "you're the best," he murmurs, hearing the mix of relief and anticipation in his voice.

"of course, dean. i've got you."

dean let out a shaky breath, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

with that, the two of you turned your focus back to the hunt, both eagerly awaiting the chance to properly address the growing tension between you.

[wchswift]

ଓ The apple pie life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: you and Dean are tasked with going undercover as a married couple in a suburban neighborhood to investigate a string of mysterious disappearances linked to a local HOA. Content: fluff, one kiss, angst (kinda), idiots oblivious to their own feelings, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, demons, spells, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 4k a/n: I've been keeping this in my drafts for a while now and while life happens and I work on my dofp!logan one shot, I decided to post this :) I hope you enjoy it

mdni 𖤐 18+

“Yeah, no. This ain’t happening.” Dean Winchester stood at the edge of a freshly mowed lawn, surveying the neighborhood like it was a Hellmouth in disguise. Which, for all they knew, it very well could be. Rows of cookie-cutter houses lined the street, each painted in calming shades of beige, sage, or blue. Even the mailboxes were identical. Dean glared at one as if it had personally offended him.

Sam sighed, arms crossed, watching his brother’s tantrum. “Dean, it’s a neighborhood. Not a death sentence.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be Mr. Suburbia. Me. You know I don’t do...” Dean gestured vaguely at a garden gnome. “This.”

Standing between the two of them, you held a faux wedding photo that Sam had printed for the cover story. “We’re married. You’re a mechanic. I work from home. We moved here for the good schools. Sound familiar?” you said with a smirk, holding the picture up.

Dean snatched the frame and scowled at the image. “I look like a hostage,” he muttered.

“You always look like that,” you shot back. “Now come on, let’s get unpacked. Our ‘friendly neighborhood welcome committee’ is stopping by in an hour.”

Dean groaned, but there was no backing out. Sam had been adamant: five people had disappeared from this very block in the past six months. The only connection? All were new to the neighborhood, and all had been avid participants in the HOA’s activities.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, hoisting a box from the Impala. “But I’m not calling you ‘honey.”

Dean’s idea of "unpacking" consisted of dumping boxes onto the floor and shoving furniture into place like he was playing Tetris with his life. You trailed behind him, trying to make the house look halfway livable. It wasn't easy; the entire setup resembled a sitcom scenario, complete with ruffled curtains and throw pillows that Sam insisted would help you blend in.

Dean picked up one of the pillows, squinting at the stitched slogan: Home Sweet Home. “This thing screams demon bait,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.

“Maybe if you acted like a halfway decent husband, it wouldn’t,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from Sam.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean shot back, hauling a box of what appeared to be mismatched kitchen supplies onto the counter. “This is my nightmare, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“It’s not exactly a dream for me either, sweetie,” you replied, stressing the endearment with a sugary grin. Dean’s eye roll could’ve powered the whole neighborhood.

The doorbell chimed just as you finished arranging a vase of fake flowers in the living room. Dean peered through the peephole like he expected to see a mob of demons. Instead, a group of impeccably dressed neighbors smiled back at him.

“Kill me now,” Dean muttered, opening the door.

A blonde woman with a Stepford-wife grin and a clipboard stepped forward. “Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Lana, the HOA president. And these are Sheila and Rick, your next-door neighbors!”

Dean gave his best approximation of a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Uh, hey. I’m Dean. This is my—uh—wife.”

You plastered on your most winning smile and shook hands all around. “So nice to meet you all!”

Lana’s eyes swept over the living room, clearly appraising your decor. “You’ve done such a lovely job already! Oh, and Dean, we’ll have our weekly HOA meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. We expect all new residents to attend. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to come up with an excuse, but you elbowed him. “We’d love to,” you said quickly.

“Wonderful!” Lana chirped. “I’ll leave you with the neighborhood handbook. Everything you need to know is right here.” She handed over a spiral-bound monstrosity of rules and regulations before bustling off with her entourage.

Dean stared at the handbook like it might explode. “Fifty bucks says they’re part of a cult.”

That night, Sam joined you both in the kitchen, where you poured over the HOA handbook. Sam had come by under the guise of helping you move in but was really playing the role of a nosy family friend who conveniently lived a few towns over.

“Okay,” Sam said, flipping through pages. “This is weird. Every house here has to have a specific type of lawn ornament? And look at this—rules about curfew, holiday decorations, even what kind of car you can park in your driveway.”

“Classic control freaks,” Dean muttered, popping open a beer.

“Or something worse,” Sam countered, pointing to a line about mandatory attendance at neighborhood socials. “People start disappearing, and the HOA gets more power over the remaining residents. It seems like they're under some spell… perhaps they made a pact? Maybe with a demon.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So it’s not just bad casseroles we have to survive.”

“We need to hit that meeting tomorrow,” you said. “Whatever’s going on, that’s where we’ll find the first clue.”

The next evening, you and Dean made your way to the HOA meeting at the neighborhood clubhouse, blending in among the perfectly groomed crowd. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a suburban magazine spread: crisp polos, floral blouses, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Dean leaned closer to you, muttering, “Tell me this doesn’t feel like a Stepford reboot.”

You elbowed him lightly, smiling for the neighbors. “Try to look like you’re not plotting their demise, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, adjusting his flannel like it was armor. “Let’s just hope these people don’t sacrifice newcomers to their God of Lawn Care.”

Inside the clubhouse, Lana, the HOA president, stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand. She welcomed everyone with her signature cheerfulness, but you couldn’t miss the way her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the newcomers—you and Dean.

“Now, let’s get started!” she chirped. “First order of business: Mr. Peterson’s garden gnomes. We’ve had complaints they’re too whimsical.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, mouthing, too whimsical? You struggled not to laugh.

The meeting droned on, a mix of petty complaints and rigid enforcement of bizarre rules, until Lana’s tone shifted.

“And finally,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “a reminder that all residents are expected to attend next week’s neighborhood barbecue. Remember, harmony is our greatest strength. We’re all part of something... bigger here.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Most of the neighbors nodded dutifully, but a few glanced nervously at each other. You caught Dean’s gaze, and his expression was sharp, all traces of humor gone.

Later that night, back at the house, you pored over what you’d observed with Sam and Dean.

“It’s not just the rules,” you said, pacing the living room. “It’s the way they act. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line.”

“And what’s with Lana’s ‘bigger picture’ speech?” Dean added, tossing the HOA handbook onto the coffee table. “She’s definitely hiding something.”

Sam tapped at his laptop. “I did some digging. Lana moved into this neighborhood ten years ago, right before the HOA’s rules got so strict. Before that? No disappearances, no creepy cult vibes.”

Dean frowned. “So she’s the ringleader?”

“More like the summoner,” Sam replied, turning the screen to show an old news clipping. It detailed Lana’s involvement in occult studies years ago. “If she’s behind this, it’s not merely a pact. It’s using the HOA to enforce perfection, as it literally sustains the spell that keeps it anchored here.”

“So, the HOA handbook’s not just a pain in the ass,” you said, glancing at Dean. “It’s the demon’s playbook.”

The next morning, Dean decided to “blend in” by taking his role as a suburban husband to absurd levels.

You came downstairs to find him in an apron, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish. “Morning, sweetheart!” he called, his grin annoyingly smug.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still half-asleep.

“Being the perfect husband,” he said, loading a plate with a stack of slightly burnt pancakes. “You should try it sometime, darling.”

The sarcasm in his tone made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “If this is your idea of perfection, the demon’s going to smite us before lunch.”

Dean’s antics didn’t stop at pancakes. Later that day, he decided to tackle the front yard—shirtless, of course, because “that’s what husbands do, right?”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the garden hose like it owed him money. His flannel was tossed onto a nearby fence, leaving his t-shirt in a crumpled heap in the corner. The summer sun glinted off his shoulders, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, you couldn’t help but stare.

“You know,” you called out, fighting a smirk, “the neighbors are going to think you’re some kind of exhibitionist.”

Dean glanced up, his grin wolfish. “Or they’ll think you’re married to the best damn landscaper on the block.”

“You missed a spot.” You pointed at a section of the lawn.

He mock-groaned, holding a hand to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Man slaves away, and this is the thanks he gets? No wonder I’m burned out on marriage.”

“Burned out implies you ever tried,” you shot back, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean’s expression shifted, just for a moment—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly buried under his usual bravado. “Yeah, well... guess I never found the right reason to try.”

The air between you grew heavier, the teasing edge dulled by an undercurrent you didn’t quite know how to address. He broke eye contact first, turning back to the yard. “Don’t just stand there, princess. Grab a rake or something.”

The barbecue was the kind of event you’d have laughed at if you weren’t actively part of it. Neatly arranged folding tables with checkered cloths stretched across the neighborhood park, and neighbors mingled with drinks in hand, every one of them smiling just a little too wide.

Dean leaned against the grill, flipping burgers with the same intensity he used while sharpening knives. “This is a trap. You know that, right?” he muttered, glancing around.

“Obviously,” you replied, sipping a too-sweet lemonade. “But we’re undercover, remember? Try to act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Dean’s grin was laced with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast. Love talking about lawn fertilizer and HOA-approved fence heights.”

Just then, Lana appeared beside the two of you, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dean, those burgers smell amazing! And you—” She turned to you with that polished grin. “You’re just glowing, aren’t you? Married life suits you two so well.”

Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, slung an arm around your shoulders. “Well, Lana, we’re just one big, happy couple.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick kiss to your temple, the smug look on his face daring you to react.

You forced a tight smile. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Lana beamed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wonderful to hear. It’s so important to maintain harmony in the neighborhood.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “After all, everything falls apart if even one house doesn’t meet expectations.”

Dean’s arm stiffened against your shoulder, his instincts flaring. “Is that right?”

Lana nodded, her expression unreadable. “Absolutely. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy the barbecue!”

Once Lana was out of earshot, you and Dean regrouped with Sam near the dessert table.

“She’s hiding something,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, setting his plate down. “And what’s with the whole ‘harmony’ thing? She sounded like a cult leader.”

Sam nodded, keeping his voice low. “She is. It is indeed a deal, an exchange. The more the neighborhood conforms to the rules, the stronger it gets. People who can’t meet the standards? They’re the ones who disappear.”

You frowned. “So the HOA rules aren’t just annoying—they’re literally fuel for this thing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, good news. We’ve got the perfect distraction right here.” He gestured at himself and you with a smirk.

“Perfect distraction?” you repeated.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’re new, we’re not exactly HOA material, and if anyone’s gonna tick off a demon about their precious rules, it’s us.”

Sam sighed. “Just be careful. If the demon gets wind of what you’re doing, it won’t wait for you to break a rule—it’ll come for you directly.”

The first crack in the HOA’s perfectly polished façade came two days after Dean decided to rebel in his own loud, stubborn way. The offending incident? A single garden gnome—brightly painted and flipping the bird—set proudly on your front lawn.

You crossed your arms, staring at the gnome as Dean lounged against the doorframe. “Really?”

Dean grinned, proud as a kid showing off a bad report card. “What? It’s art.”

“It’s bait,” you corrected, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He smirked, arms crossed. “Lana won’t know what hit her.”

Sure enough, Lana arrived within the hour, clipboard in hand and fury barely masked beneath her painted smile. “Dean, we need to discuss your lawn decorations,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dean stepped outside, wearing the smuggest expression you’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, Lana? Don’t you like art?”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, before recovering. “This neighborhood thrives on harmony. Your—choice of ornament—disrupts that balance.”

Dean leaned casually against the porch railing. “Huh. Didn’t see anything in the handbook about freedom of expression being against the rules.”

You watched from the window, biting back a laugh as Lana sputtered, her usual control slipping. She left with a curt, “This isn’t over.”

After Lana stormed off, you expected Dean to be all bravado and quips, but instead, he started fixing the fence. It was such a rare sight that you almost did a double take.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the porch post.

“Making sure the place doesn’t fall apart,” Dean replied, hammering a nail into place. “If we’re staying here long enough to take down a demon, might as well make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were so handy, Mr. Winchester.”

He smirked, not looking up. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m full of surprises.”

That night, you found Dean in the kitchen, you noticed Dean seemed... different. Focused. Almost like he belonged here. He stirred a pot of chili with a level of precision that rivaled his aim with a gun.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remarked, leaning against the counter.

Dean shrugged. “I used to cook for Sammy when we were kids. Guess some habits stick.”

The soft admission caught you off guard. For all his bravado, moments like these reminded you of the man underneath—the one who took care of everyone else, even when he didn’t have to.

“This is weird,” you muttered, setting the table.

Dean looked over at you. “What is?”

“You. Doing all this domestic stuff. It’s like you’re... enjoying it.”

Dean shrugged, placing the bowls of chili on the table. “I don’t hate it. Beats getting shot at every day.”

“Guess you’re not half-bad at this husband thing after all,” you teased.

Dean smirked, his usual cockiness back in place. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, flipping through channels. Sam had gone back to his motel, leaving you and Dean with a rare bit of downtime.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Dean spoke up. “You ever think about it? A normal life, I mean.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Sometimes. Why?”

He leaned back, one hand draped along the back of the couch, his expression unusually serious. “I don’t know. It’s just... this case, all this fake domestic stuff... It’s kinda nice. Not worrying about what’s lurking around the corner every second.”

“You’ve never thought about it before?” you asked gently.

Dean gave a short laugh, his gaze distant. “Nah. Figured it wasn’t in the cards. Even when I was a kid, normal wasn’t exactly in the Winchester playbook.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected.

“Maybe it’s not about the cards you’re dealt,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s about finding your own kind of normal.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, but he broke the gaze first, his usual smirk returning. “Well, my kind of normal definitely involves better TV shows than this crap.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

The tender moment passed quickly as the two of you turned back to the case.

The next morning, Sam returned with a crucial discovery. “Lana made a deal with a demon ten years ago. She wanted the perfect neighborhood, and the demon delivered. But the cost? Anyone who doesn’t fit her version of perfection gets sacrificed to keep the deal going.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So she’s trading lives for lawn perfection? Well, that’s messed up.”

Sam nodded. “It thrives off the conformity she enforces. The more people play by the rules, the stronger the demon gets. The ones who disappear? They’re used as sacrifices to maintain the spell.”

Dean stood abruptly. “Great. So we take down the demon, and her whole Stepford act goes up in flames.” He looked at you. “But first, we gotta piss her off enough to make a move.”

After talkng with Sam, you and Dean turned the dial on your undercover roles.

You started your day loudly arguing in the driveway about “trivial” things—how Dean never folded the laundry right, how you “always” bought the wrong coffee creamer.

Dean played it up like a pro, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Fine! Next time, you go grocery shopping!”

“Oh, because you’re so busy, huh?” you shot back, struggling not to laugh.

So you two just keeped violating the rules. Determined to push Lana past her breaking point, Dean added strung mismatched Christmas lights across the front porch, even though it was July.

“Dean,” you said, standing in the driveway with crossed arms, “I’m pretty sure even the demon is rolling its eyes at this point.”

Dean grinned as he plugged in the lights, which flickered in a garish rainbow. “Oh, come on, admit it. This is the most fun we’ve had on a case in months.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re married to me,” he shot back, winking. “You know,” Dean said, leaning in close as you adjusted the strand of blinking lights, “we make a pretty good team when we’re breaking all the rules.”

You smirked. “Better than your pancake-making team, that’s for sure.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Touché.”

Lanas’s car pulled up just as Dean propped his flamingo lawn ornament next to the mailbox. Her expression was a masterclass in repressed rage as she stepped out, clipboard in hand.

“Dean!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors glance over from their gardening.

He sauntered up to her, feigning innocence. “Morning, Lana. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Her smile was brittle, her grip on the clipboard tightening. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s escalating antics had done the trick. By the time night fell, Lana’s perfectly polished demeanor had cracked. She called an emergency HOA meeting, under the pretense of “addressing a disturbance in harmony.”

“You ready for this?” Dean asked as the three of you crouched outside the clubhouse, peeking through a window.

“I’ve been ready since the gnome,” you replied, flashing him a quick grin.

Sam whispered, “Looks like she’s prepping for a ritual. We need to stop her before she completes it.”

Dean nodded. “Sam, you cut off the ritual. We’ll handle Lana.”

“We?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you shot back, but the teasing tone didn’t quite mask the warmth in your words.

The two of you burst through the clubhouse door just as Lana lit the final candle on an ornate altar covered in sigils. The neighbors, all eerily quiet, stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions blank and glassy-eyed.

“Lana!” Dean called out, his voice cutting through the room. “You forgot to put this on the HOA agenda.”

She turned, her face twisting into something feral. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “This neighborhood is perfect because of me. Because of what I’ve done!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, your definition of perfect kinda sucks.”

Lana snarled, grabbing a knife from the altar and lunging at him. You moved instinctively, stepping in to block her path. Together, you and Dean fought her off, moving in perfect sync.

She was fast, unnaturally so, but you matched her step for step, Dean covering your back with practiced ease. At one point, she swung the knife in a wide arc, and Dean caught her wrist, twisting it just enough for you to knock the blade free.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at you.

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” he replied, his grin full of adrenaline-fueled bravado.

Behind you, Sam chanted Latin, his voice steady as he worked to dismantle the ritual. The sigils on the altar began to glow, flickering as the power binding the neighborhood started to unravel.

Realizing she was losing, Lana screamed, “You’ll ruin everything! Without this deal, this place will fall apart!”

Dean shrugged, stepping closer. “Good. Then maybe it’ll feel a little more human.” With a final swing, he knocked her unconscious, the force of it sending her crumpling to the floor.

Sam finished the ritual just as the sigils burned out entirely, plunging the room into silence. The neighbors blinked, their blank expressions fading as they seemed to wake from a dream.

“It’s over,” Dean said, his voice low.

Outside the clubhouse, you leaned against the Impala, catching your breath. The air felt lighter now, the oppressive weight of the neighborhood’s perfection finally lifted.

Dean stood a few feet away, looking at you with an unreadable expression. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you teased, but the smile you gave him was gentle.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Before you could think, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he’d been holding back—relief, affection, gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took me long enough, huh?”

You laughed softly, your hand resting against his chest. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

The next morning, as the three of you packed up to leave, Dean was back to his usual self—mostly.

Dean hesitated, glancing at the house. “Gotta admit,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “this whole domestic thing... wasn’t the worst.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you hated it.” Dean smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, turns out I don’t suck at it. Could even get used to it, maybe.”

“You know,” he said, leaning against the Impala as you loaded the last bag into the trunk, “this whole married thing has its perks.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Yeah. Hot meals, shared insurance benefits, someone to remind me when I forget my wallet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Maybe in another life.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. Dean opened the driver’s side door, his usual cocky grin back in place. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.” You climbed in, Dean kissing you on the head before closing the door.

As the Impala roared to life and the too-perfect neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help but think about Dean’s earlier words. Maybe this undercover mission had been more than just a case.

Maybe, in some small way, it had given both of you a glimpse of what could be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[dina-winchester]

What We Were ⁴

Read part three here

Pairing: Dean x you

Summary: You can’t outrun your past no matter how hard you try.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of injury, angst, hurt, blood, emotional distress, no use of y/n

A/N: So I know Dean’s not in this chapter—we’re building up to it, but I just thought this gif was appropriate considering the storyline. 😏

The Days Drag On

The routine’s been the same for the last few days. You wake up, get through work, try to stay distracted, keep yourself from thinking about the whispers in the town. You’re trying to ignore the creeping feeling in the pit of your stomach every time you walk through the diner.

At first, it’s just whispers. People disappearing in the woods—no bodies, just empty spaces. No one wants to talk about it, but it lingers in the back of your mind. It gnaws at you.

You can’t ignore it, no matter how much you want to. Every time you pass by the diner, or walk through the grocery store, you hear bits of conversation. The old woman at the counter, shaking her head. The young guy in the corner, avoiding your eyes. People have stopped going into the woods, but no one knows why. It’s just… happening.

More time passes, and there’s still no answers. A new face disappears. A couple more days, and another person is gone without a trace.

But then there’s Nick. The silence from him. It’s unsettling. You’ve been friends for months now, and he always checks in. He’s one of the few people you’ve really connected with in this small town. But now, after a couple of days without a word? You’re starting to worry.

You text him again, trying to keep the tone light. “Hey, you alive over there? You good?” No reply.

You call. Straight to voicemail.

You brush it off. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s out of town, or had a late night. You’re not used to the feeling—this little gnawing anxiety that’s settling in your chest, creeping into your thoughts, but you push it aside. Nick’s fine.

The next morning, you head to work, distracted and uneasy. The cool morning air cuts through the layers of your jacket as you walk, eyes scanning the empty streets. You can hear the crunch of leaves beneath your boots. It’s quiet, almost too quiet for a morning like this.

And that’s when you see it.

The missing person flyers.

You stop in your tracks. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut. You blink hard, looking again at the familiar face staring back at you, that smile you’ve seen so many times—Nick.

The flyer’s bright red words shout at you. MISSING. There’s no mistaking it.

For a second, the world around you blurs. Everything falls away as the reality settles in your chest, heavy and cold.

You choke on the breath that catches in your throat, fingers trembling as you reach out to tear the flyer from the pole. Your heart beats erratically as your thoughts race.

No. Not Nick. Not him.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you can’t bring yourself to check it. The flyer flutters in your hand, the image of Nick’s smiling face mocking you, reminding you how he’s gone.

Everything inside you shifts. That pit in your stomach widens, and suddenly, you can’t breathe. You swallow thickly, the heat behind your eyes threatening to spill over, but you fight it back. You won’t let yourself break.

Not yet.

You shove the flyer into your pocket and turn toward the diner, eyes trained on the ground, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. But the thought of Nick, gone without a trace, keeps gnawing at your mind, refusing to let go.

You can’t ignore it any longer.

You start to do your research.

You pull out old maps of the area, trace the paths, looking for anything that might explain what’s going on. You sit at your kitchen table at night, the soft glow of the lamp catching your tired eyes, flipping through town records, stories, local lore. But it’s hard. So many years have passed since you’ve had to dig this deep.

Still, you can’t shake the feeling. Wendigos. The old stories—hungry monsters that devour, but not just in the way you’d think. They don’t just eat their victims. They store them. You remember Dean talking about the last case he worked, about the caves in the woods.

“This thing is a good hunter in the day, but an unbelievable hunter at night,” he had once told you.

Your stomach churns as you scroll over the map again. Deep in the woods, there are a few caves—caves you’d never noticed before. You’ve walked these woods, but something about these caves… It hits you hard.

Wendigos don’t just kill. They preserve their victims, stashing them away in dark corners. And if someone’s alive… if there’s even a chance—Nick.

You freeze, the weight of the thought crashing down on you. He’s always been there for you. Always understanding, even when you didn’t know how to live without the hunting life.

And now, he’s gone. Just another name on the list of disappearances. You can’t just let it go.

You dive deeper into the research, frantically flipping pages and typing on your laptop, feeling the walls close in around you. You’ve seen the signs. You’ve heard the stories. The claws, the deep shadows, the need for sustenance. You know what you’re dealing with. You don’t have time to waste.

With a deep breath, you grab your jacket and the small knife you keep in your bag. You can’t do this alone. You know you shouldn’t go back into the woods. You promised yourself you’d stay out of it, that you’re not a hunter anymore. But this isn’t just any hunt.

This is Nick.

You head out the door before you can think twice, heading straight for the edge of the woods.

The Woods

The morning air is cold, crisp, and a little too quiet. The kind of quiet you can only find deep in the woods. Your boots crunch against the forest floor as you walk, each step careful, measured. The flare gun is tucked securely in your bag, your regular gun pressed against your waistband, reassuring in its weight.

It’s been a while since you’ve been out here, away from the hustle of normal life, away from the routine. You’ve gotten rusty. You can feel it in the way your eyes scan the trees, the way your muscles strain with each step, the way the old instincts aren’t quite firing as smoothly as they used to. But you’re not helpless.

You can do this. You have to.

You push forward deeper into the woods, mapping your surroundings, calculating escape routes, trying to get your bearings. You know the terrain here better than you care to admit, but this time is different. There’s something off. You can feel it in your gut.

Every snapping branch, every creak of a tree seems louder, more pronounced, like it’s waiting for something. Waiting for you. You don’t know whether it’s the isolation of being alone in the woods or the weight of what you’re hunting, but something doesn’t sit right.

And then, you hear it.

A sound—quick, a blur through the trees. It’s fast, unnervingly fast. Your hand instinctively hovers over the gun at your side, and your breath hitches. Your pulse quickens, and every instinct tells you to move, to run, to get out. But you can’t.

You tighten your grip on the flare gun. It’s supposed to be your backup, the last thing you use if things go sideways.

You adjust your stance and keep walking, slower now, eyes darting, heart hammering in your chest. And then—there. A flash of movement in the distance, and suddenly, you’re not just looking at trees. You’re looking at it.

The Wendigo.

It’s not what you expected. It’s bigger—its limbs unnaturally long, its teeth sharper, its eyes glowing with hunger. It locks eyes with you, the faintest echo of intelligence in its gaze, and you know it’s no mindless predator. It’s smart. Smarter than anything you’ve faced before.

It charges.

Instinct kicks in. You pull the gun from your waistband, aiming as best as you can, but the thing is fast. So much faster than you thought it would be. Before you can even pull the trigger, its claws scrape across your side, and pain explodes through you—sharp, brutal, and blinding.

You stumble back, blood seeping through your clothes, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Your hand fumbles for the flare gun, and you fire it off with a desperate cry, the bright flare bursting toward the Wendigo. It doesn’t hit dead on, though. The creature is faster than you anticipated, its body twisting away just in time, and the flare barely grazes its side.

But it still burns.

The Wendigo screeches, a horrible, echoing sound, its glowing eyes narrowing with fury and pain. It retreats, staggering back, a patch of its skin sizzling from the flare. It’s not down, but for now, it’s buying you time.

You don’t waste it.

Stumbling backward, you pull your regular gun again, trying to steady your breathing, but the pain from the clawing is overwhelming. Blood is dripping from your side, your arm, but you push through it. You know you have to keep moving, keep running.

With a final, pained glance at the creature, you force yourself to turn and sprint for the edge of the woods. You don’t look back, not even once. The world spins, your head heavy with dizziness, your heart pounding too fast for comfort.

You don’t stop until the trees break, and you’re finally out of the woods. The pain of your injuries crashes over you, but you’ve made it out. Barely.

You’ve still got a long way to go, and the Wendigo isn’t finished with you yet.

Read part five here

A/N: Thank you so so much for reading! Make sure to leave your thoughts in the comments, they mean a lot to me! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in the next part. 🫶🏻

Tags: @candy-coated-misery0731 @pillowjj @piertomaximoffsgirl @chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual @mrswinchester3 @robynn9436-blog @cherryresidence @shanimallina87 @amourcri3s @mandee7 @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @samlou @almostshamelesstale @alexfms97

I hope you like this one, I appreciate y’all sooo much. 🩷 I’ll keep you tagged throughout this series, if you ever want me to remove you, please let me know.

[littlesoulshine]

you tried to block dean’s number the night he tells you he’s choosing lisa. not because you’re heartbroken—though yeah, your chest feels like someone took a large crowbar to it—but because you know him. the second the dust settles, the second the new-normal starts to itch, he’ll be clawing at your door. or your voicemail.

you’re right.

the first call comes at 2:37 a.m. two nights after the goodbye, then 7:04 a.m. then a string of missed calls—midday, midnight, one right after the other.

you don’t answer the texts either. —"hey. i know you saw me call. just pick up." —"please" —"i made a mistake" —"i need to see you" —"you were never just a distraction" —"you said you loved me. that didn’t go away."

like hell it didn’t. so when the knocking starts, three sharp taps on your front door, you already know it’s him. you consider letting him rot on the other side. you consider slinking upstairs, letting him pound until his knuckles break. but there’s the raw, groveling voice. “i’m not leavin’ baby” and that’s the one that breaks you.

you open the door and there he is. slouched in your doorway like wounded expression with his leather jacket clinging to him like regret, eyes heavy, jaw unshaven, hair wild like he’s been dragging his hands through it all day, his nervous tic.

"fuck," he mutters when he sees you. "you look..."

"don’t," you cut him off. "say anything."

he hesitates, but then he steps forward, and you don’t stop him. his hand hovers, then lands on your waist like a dare. the other comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek. his breath smells like whiskey and nights he didn’t sleep.

“i picked her because she was easy,” he says, voice low. “you were never easy. you still aren't but i can't let you go. i drove all night long to get here...to get to you, baby.”

your throat works around silence, because fuck him, meant it when he walked away.

but God, his fingers on your skin, feels like pure it’s lightning. it’s all those nights you lay awake, seething, aching, hating how much you missed him.

“you think you can come back,” you whisper, trembling with fury, “and i’ll just fall on my knees for you?”

his mouth twitches, eyes turning from anxiousness to lust. “i mean. i hoped.”

“you’re an asshole.”

“i know.”

you shove him, hard, both fists to his chest, shoving him back against the hallway wall. and he lets you—breath hitches in his throat when your palms press flat and stay.

“you came here wanting to fuck your way out of this?” you ask, furious.

“yeah,” he breathes. “but only if you wanna fuck your way through it.”

your mouth crashes into his like own personal punishment. his hands are all over you—shoving your shirt up, squeezing your tits through your bra, dragging a whimpering sound from you when he pinches your nipple between his fingers.

“you miss this?” he growls into your mouth, grinding his hard cock against your belly through his jeans.

“i missed better dick,” you spat, fingers already yanking his belt open. “but i guess you’ll do.”

he laughs, dragging you backwards into your living room, kicking the door shut. he’s shedding clothes like he’s burning up—jacket hits the floor, then shirt, then boots. you take a second to just look at him. all muscle and a huge sense of entitlement.

“you want me to beg, baby?” he asks, stepping in close, cupping your face again, but this time with reverence like he never deserved to.

“i want you to eat me out till i forget your name.” he drops to his knees like he’s been waiting his whole life for the order. he’s completely—pulling your shorts down in a swift drag, mouth already open as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another. he licks a fat stripe up your cunt over your panties, eyes rolled back, groaning like he’s fucking starving for you.

“God, you’re soaked,” he pants, mouth pressed against the damp fabric. “you missed me, baby?” he teases speaking to your pussy.

“missed someone who could make me cum,” you say, grinding into his face. he laughs again, tongue pushing the fabric aside to taste your slick properly. his mouth seals over your clit and you jerk, gasping, grabbing a fistful of his hair. he moans into your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish again.

“fuck—dean—oh, fuck,” you choke as his tongue circles your clit, then flicks, hard and fast. he doesn’t stop. he eats you like it’s redemption, like he’s praying with his mouth, worshiping your pussy like it’s the last thing he’ll ever taste. your legs shake, and your hips even buck. and still he doesn’t stop.

“you gonna cum, baby?” he growls, pulling back just enough to slap your clit with his tongue. “gonna cum all over my fuckin’ face?”

“yes d—fuck yes—”

he presses two fingers inside you, crooking them just right while his mouth latches back on. your climax hits you like a freight train. you scream, knees buckling, grinding into his face as you cum, as he moans and keeps sucking, drinking it in.

he stands up, chin glistening, eyes wild.

“still mad?” he asks, unzipping his jeans, cock springing out, thick, big, hard, and pulsing.

you wipe your mouth, breathless. “fuck me like you’re sorry.”

he slams into you without a word, lifting you with brute strength, your legs locking around his hips, and your back hitting the wall. “i missed you,” he pants into your neck. “i missed this pussy. this mouth. you.”

you bite his shoulder. “shut the fuck up and make me cum again.”

tags: @soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel @zepskies

[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆ RIDE A COWBOY, D.W

SMUT SMUT SMUT! DRY HUMPING! BOTH SUB AND DOM DEAN KILL ME NOW

⭑.ᐟ Maybe I’m ovulating… but I saw the cowboy dean icon (thank you @deansmisha !) and I was like… HELL YEAH! Please interact and send requests if u have any<3

word count. 702

my supernatural masterlist/my masterlist

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The moment the door closes behind you, you know you’re in it for the whole night.

Dean’s already taking off his jacket, he unties his boots, and when he goes to take off the cowboy hat he’s been wearing for hours, you stop him.

‘Wait. Don’t.’ You’re closer to him now, hands trailing on his still clothed chest, almost begging him not to take anything off.

He gets it.

He knows exactly what you’re thinking about.

His lips are on yours in seconds. They’re hungry, they’re desperate because he knows he won’t get to be in you for a while.

He walks backwards, lips still attached to yours, still hungry and his legs hit the end of the bed.

Dean lets himself fall, he lets you fall on top of him.

He slides himself until his back hits the bedpost, his jean’s tight over his boxers, he already feels himself slip into madness.

Your lips finally detach themselves from his lips only to bite into his neck next. Your hands trailing at the back of his neck, playing with his hair, toying.

‘Please. Get on with it.’ He begs, because this is torture. He already wants to fill and feel you, taste you, but he knows he has to wait.

His head hits the bedpost, because he just can’t wait. He’s about to lose it. The hat slightly falls to cover his eyes.

‘Alright! you’re so impatient, jeez!’ You joke, your legs going to stay on each side of his left’s, and that’s when he knows he’s fucked.

You’re fucked too, because you’ve barely touched him, you’re already dripping wet.

‘Fuck.’ He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated and mutters under his breath although you hear him, and just that makes you smile because you know you’re making him lose his mind just by playing with him.

Your pace fastens, and you swear you see tears well up in his eyes. Probably in yours too- because this is just too good.

When you see the wet spot hanging on his jeans where his tip is, you know you did a good job.

Before you have a chance to do anything else, Dean flips you to the other side of the bed and hovers.

‘My turn now, you’re gonna be sorry.’ He threatens. His hat finally falls, and in the next couple of seconds his shirt is off, his jeans leave soon after leaving him in his boxers.

When you go to take off your clothes, it’s his turn to stop you.

‘Let me.’ He demands.

You nod your head, and soon enough your clothes are gone, maybe ripped, but you don’t care because you just want him inside you.

‘I need you. Please, Dean.’ You whimper, and Dean finds it hilarious. He thinks it’s funny how just a couple minutes ago, you were dominant, playing with him, and now you’re the one begging, and he’s enjoying that more than he’d like to admit.

‘You made me wait, remember?’ A smirk tugs at his lips as they descend to lay kisses on your neck, your chest, going slower making your heart beat faster.

Dean would like to act like he wants to wait, but he really can’t. So in between kisses, surprising you, he enters you.

It’s not rough, it’s slow, it’s full of love and pleasure but you know it’s about to change because you both need each other.

Moans and screams of pleasure echo through the room, your hands grip on his back like they’re supposed to stay attached there forever, leaving marks.

His teeth trade bruises on your shoulders.

‘You’re taking it so good.’ His voice is hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in years, you hum in response because frankly, that’s the only thing you can do.

‘I love you.’ He lets out in between groans, his hands take yours as they hold each other on each side of your head.

When it’s your turn to moan again, you manage to respond.

‘I love you.’

Dean swears that’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

You saying you love him while he can hear and see how much pleasure you feel from him being in you.

He’s basically in heaven.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Taglist: @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @l0v33-rey @mostlymarvelgirl @that-stanford-girlie @sunnyteume @bohoooitsme @beelzebzb (comment to be added!)