#Dean x reader

[figthoughts]

⟢ — thinking about DEAN needing to pull the impala over on the side of the road because you just can’t keep your hands to yourself .ᐟ

warnings: smut, semi–public car sex, oral (m. receiving), praise, est. relationship (softdom!bf!dean x gf!reader) 18+

𓂃ㅤ . ⟡ ㅤׄㅤ

“i said quit it,” dean muttered and switched off the impala’s engine, the rumbling sound dying out into a smooth silence. he turned to you, and a challenging grin spread across his face, “you just can’t control yourself, can you?”

a hearty laugh bubbled up your throat as he grabbed your wrist, his warm hand pulling it away from the now prominent bulge in his jeans, which strained against the dark denim. “come on, you just look so good today, dean. i can’t help it,” you said through your chuckles.

dean scoffed at your words, pulling you closer. “oh, yeah? you just can't help it? you’re in for it now, sweetheart.”

dean pinned your wrist to your chest, keeping your wandering hand hostage as he dove in and kissed you. you gasped, and dean seized the opportunity, slipping his tongue between your parted lips to tangle with yours, teasing and desperate as he dominated your mouth. his movements were demanding, and you felt the need in his kiss. the frustration.

he moaned wantonly, breaking the kiss and pulling back to look at you. his green irises had shrunk from his blown-out pupils, dilating with desire. he murmured quietly as his eyes searched yours, “in the backseat. now, baby.”

his voice was low, but biting with an eagerness that made your thighs clench. it took the pair of you less than ten seconds to reach the backseat, fervently finding each other’s lips again with ease. your teeth clashed and your tongues fought, the kiss eager and full of need, but not that either of you cared. he managed to pull you on top of him, leaving his hands on your hips, guiding you to grind down onto him. it was desperate and messy, from the need that coursed through both of your bodies, brought on by your incessant teasing and playing.

dean groaned at the feeling of you pressing against the line of his hardened cock, the rough denim rubbing against his angry red tip. fuck, you’d been such a tease. dean was right; you just couldn’t control yourself—your hands travelling up his thigh while he drove, moving in on his dick and palming it through his jeans, all while your eyes not once leaving the road the entire time you played with him, and that wicked smirk plastered on your face. you were evil.

“take this off,” he muttered against your lips, his fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. you slipped it off, no questions asked, as dean took his flannel and shirt off too, discarding the fabric on the floor of the car. he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses to your breasts through your bra as he undid your jeans and pulled them down. you lifted yourself up, helping him pull away the denim.

“yeah, that’s it,” dean grinned and slid his fingers over your clothed pussy as you settled back down into his lap, feeling the warmth of his skin press against you. “just what i thought. no wonder you were touching me like that. wet and desperate just for me, huh?” dean huffed through a smirk, pressing your soaked underwear against your folds.

“okay, yeah... maybe. so what?” you laughed along with him, grinding your cunt onto his fingers more. “can’t you just help me with it?”

dean's lips curled into a devious grin, one that made the heat burn hotter in your stomach, and you knew you were in for it. “course, baby. though i'm gonna have some fun with you first... s'only fair,” he grinned as you let out a scoff, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “payback’s a bitch, sweetheart," he crooned mockingly, his fingers not letting up on the teasing touches between your thighs.

you groaned at his words and overall demeanour, scrunching your face in frustration whilst he kept toying with you. “no, come on. i’m sorry, just—”

“nope. you’re gonna help me first. consider it… reparations for working me up so much when all you had to do was just ask for my help,” he murmured, his tone smooth but full of smug satisfaction from seeing you so worked up now.

“okay, okay…” you conceded and let your hands undo the button and fly of his jeans. you shimmied them down, along with his boxers too, as much as you could, before pulling out his painfully hard cock. you wiped some pre from his tip, giving his length a full pump. a hiss escaped dean’s lips.

“geez,” you chuckled, “this was all me?”

he huffed with a defeated smile and let his head fall back into the leather seat, soft little grunts leaving his lips as you moved your hand up and down his member.

“baby, you don’t know what you do to me,” he managed to get out through rough breaths. his hips began to buck up into your touch ever so slightly, but his rubbing through your panties didn’t falter; he was teasing you, like you'd done to him, not giving you any proper stimulation that your body was so desperately aching for.

“i need more, dean. please, don’t tease me anymore,” you begged softly, continuing to pump his pretty cock, feeling it throb in your hand.

“mmm,” he pretended to consider your request, “no, i don’t know if you’ve paid your dues yet, my little tease. you knew what you were doing when i was driving.” he rubbed his thick fingers through your damp folds, purposefully pressing the fabric of your underwear against you. the friction felt good, but torturous at the same time; the stimulation just wasn’t enough. you let out a huff. you wanted more. needed more.

“fine.”

you took your hand away from his dick, shuffling back a little on the leather seats. you pushed dean back against the door and settled in front of him. a smirk grew on his face as you bowed down, wrapping your mouth around his cock, though the smirk quickly dropped and morphed into a contorted expression of pleasure as you began swirling your tongue on his sensitive tip, sending hot sparks shooting through his nerves.

“fuuuck… that’s it,” he groaned, trying to get his length deeper into your mouth with small thrusts.

you obliged and took him deeper, trying not to gag on his swollen tip as he thrusted further into your mouth, his head brushing against the back of your throat.

dean’s hands found their way into your hair, scrunching a handful and guiding you to bob on his cock. you let him move you up and down his length, feeling him twitch in your mouth. you wrapped your fingers around the base of his dick, squeezing softly, earning a groan from dean.

you tasted his salty precum, letting your tongue run along his slit. dean let out a deep guttural groan, and his head fell back again, his grip in your hair tightening. “fuck, that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. don’t stop,” he muttered out, his dick still twitching against your tongue. he let obscene words fly from his mouth as his brain began to lose touch with everything but you and the feeling of your warm mouth wrapped around him.

as he tensed against your tongue, you knew it was time to pull him out before he shot his seed down your throat. you pulled him out, earning a groan of protest from dean.

“please, can you just fuck me now?” you looked up at him with your best wide and pleading eyes.

“y-yeah. take those fuckin’ panties off,” he huffed, panting slightly as you sat up, his eyes locked on yours as you manoeuvred yourself to pull your underwear down.

a satisfied grin bloomed on dean’s face the second you flung your panties off. his hand immediately unhooked your bra and pulled it off you, discarding it with the rest of your clothes on the floor, before pushing you down against the seat. he climbed above you, taking in your breasts with a cheeky smile.

“hello, my favourite ladies,” he hummed and kissed your tits before meeting your eyes again, “well after you, of course, my favourite little tease.” he dropped a kiss on your cheek, finding your exposed heat with his fingers again, stroking at your clit.

you chuckled at his dorky comment and looked up at him, feeling his fingers rub at your core. “mmm, no, dean. i need you inside me…. please? i wanna feel you.”

dean nodded, letting his eyes flicker between yours. “yeah, okay. since you asked so nicely.”

he quickly pushed his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down and grabbed his cock, positioning himself at your entrance. he swiped his tip along your cunt, collecting your arousal on the head of his dick, before slowly pushing into you, earning a pleased hum from you as he stretched you out.

“there we go, baby. is this what you wanted?” dean grinned, bottoming out inside you, feeling your walls clench around him, trying to accommodate his size.

“yes… fuck, yes….” you responded breathily, your voice a little winded from the feeling of him finally impaling you.

he took a moment to just look at you, letting his gaze fall over your pretty parted lips, your now dishevelled hair, and your heavy-lidded eyes that met his with silent pleas to move, but also unspoken words full of love and trust. dean finally pulled his hips back before thrusting back into you. he let out a deep groan and continued to watch your flushed face react to the feel of him moving in and out of your cunt.

your jaw dropped as he began to pick up a firm pace. his dick pistoned into your puffy cunt, hitting all the right gooey spots that made you tighten around him. the car rocked with every thrust and filled with loud breathless moans from the both of you.

dean’s hand found your clit again, his thumb rubbing it expertly. he grinned down at you, taking in your face of pure bliss with his own lazy expression.

“mmm, look at you. taking my cock so well, baby. you’re so tight,” he groaned out, thrusting into you with a measured pace, his balls slapping against the fat of your ass.

his green eyes sparkled as he watched your tits bounce around from his quick thrusts; you could see him practically salivating at the sight. his free hand grabbed at your tits, squeezing and palming them with a stupid grin on his face.

“fuck, dean… you feel so good,” you gasped out as you rocked against the leather seats, your body now coated with a film of sweat. he picked up his pace even more, drilling you into the backseat. you couldn’t help the loud moans from flying out of your mouth or the way your hands had found their way to his back, clawing at it, trying to pull him closer to you.

“ohhhh, fuck… squeezing me like crazy, sweetheart,” he said, winded from the feel of his cock being smothered by the warmth of your tight walls. his hand sped up on your clit, desperate to get you off.

sparks flew throughout your body from his touch, and you cried out, “mmm, god… so close, dean! fuck!”

you felt the band snap in your stomach, and you came, gushing around him, leaving a creamy ring around the base of his cock from your sticky fluids. he thrusted into you even harder, watching you ride the wave of your orgasm as he chased his own.

“that’s it… that’s it, baby,” dean cooed softly with a smirk on his face. “that’s what you wanted, huh? to cum on my cock like a good girl? such a pretty girl like this. my pretty girl.”

your tight walls kept fluttering around him as you rode your high, the sensation driving him closer to painting your insides white. his thrusts stayed firm and deliberate, nudging against your spongey walls with expertise, building up that tight feeling in your stomach again without even really trying.

“oh, god... more, dean. please, i—” you sputtered out.

“more, baby?” he grunted with a grin, “you're a horny little thing today, huh?”

“need you to cum in me, dean…” you whined, looking up at him. his smirk grew as he leaned down and pressed open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and throat.

“i’m gonna fucking stuff you, baby, don’t worry,” he muttered against your skin, tasting the saltiness of your sweat on his tongue.

the car rocked back and forth from his harsh strokes. you were sure any passerby would immediately know what was happening inside, but you couldn’t find half the mind to care, not when you were so close to hitting your peak again.

“mmm, god…. sweetheart, you’re so— so beautiful,” dean huffed, still nipping and kissing at your neck.

you whined, unable to find the words to reply to his sweet praise. the car filled with the dirty smell of sex and the sound of him squelching in and out of your cunt.

“m’so close, sweetheart. you almost there?” he groaned, his warm breath tickling your neck.

the feeling of his thick member thrusting into you with quick and calculated movements, paired with his heavy hand on your clit, forced your back to arch up into him, your body begging for him to go deeper—to bury himself completely in your greedy cunt. your desperate hands kept clawing at his muscled back, leaving pink lines of broken skin, urging him to give you more.

dean moaned gutturally, “baby— baby, please. can’t hold on much longer.” his dick twitched inside you, and he kept plunging his swollen tip in as far as he possibly could, feeling your walls clamp around him, sending jolts of pleasure flying throughout his body.

“close. i’m close,” you sputtered out, your heat clenching as he rapidly pumped into you, making your core tighten with a fire that threatened to send you over the edge.

dean whimpered and gave you a handful of powerful thrusts, and his hand rubbed your clit vigorously, desperate to make you finish before he did.

“atta, girl. that’s it. i’m right here, sweetheart. i’m there with you. just let go f’me…. please, baby,” he moaned out, his brain wrecked; half focused on not spilling into you just yet, and the other half focused on pushing you into cumming on his dick again.

his practiced ministrations and soft words of encouragement worked you over quickly, bringing on your harrowing release. loud mewls and moans were ripped straight from your throat as your pussy gushed again, only making the wet filthy noises louder. you wailed dean’s name, unable to control your mouth or body as he fucked you through your orgasm.

dean let out a shuddered moan as you cried out his name and hit your peak, squeezing around him like a vice. his eyes clamped shut, and he gritted his teeth, shooting his load into your cunt. “oh, shit, baby— shit!” he groaned, opening his hazy eyes and looking down at your sweet face.

you felt his warm ropes coat your walls, and you hummed, returning his gaze. his dilated eyes flickered between yours as his movements came to a still inside you, his cock beginning to soften. “fuck… fuck, baby. you’re so—”

you smiled as dean’s post-sex spiel began, the action pushing up your flushed cheeks, making the corners of your eyes crinkle.

“jesus, so good…. so good,” he muttered through pants. “so beautiful. i’m so lucky— jesus, i’m so lucky.”

a quiet but mirthful laugh escaped from your lungs. “i love when you get like this,” you murmured earnestly, your features pulled into an amused expression as dean continued to babble out soft praises and compliments.

“sorry, i just—” he trailed off with a sheepish grin, collapsing on top of you. he buried his face into your neck, pressing gentle kisses to your sweaty skin.

“no, s’alright. i love it, really.”

“yeah? good… cause i can’t help but act a damn fool around you, babe. you make me crazy, i swear.”

a grin grew on dean’s face as he heard your scoff of amusement at his words. his curved lips against your skin sent butterflies down to your stomach, fluttering around from his praise.

“m’serious. i’m crazy for you— crazy for that pussy. she’s mine… all mine,” he murmured into your skin.

another amused laugh escaped you. “yeah, she is. all yours, baby,” you playfully conceded.

“mmm,” he hummed in agreement, then lifted his head to look down at you. your eyes met, and you could see glints of desire still dancing around in them. “no more teasing me now, yeah? we’re even?”

it was your turn to grin; the corners of your lips curled, and you nodded. “yeah, no more teasing, baby… for now.”

fig yaps: need my shit rocked in the back of his car tbh anyway you’re welcome for that gif btw !!!!!!!! i actually have it tattooed on my eyelids so i can watch it every time i close my eyes teehehe anyways this lived in my drafts for months and i still don't love it but yolo dropping this and probably dipping for a few days bc my brain is playing evil tbh

feedback and reblogs are welcome and appreciated ofc !! <3

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[supernotnatural2005]

Heat Of The Moment

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: A little backstory to Dean’s statement 😉

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings/tags: Smut (18+Only), established relationship, swearing, mentions of blood, (attempted) shower sex, fluff, poor Sammy (again lol).

AN: Just a fun little idea that came to me seeing this gif. I thought it’d be fun to explore the story behind it. 😂 I hope you guys like this one ❤️

Main Masterlist

You stood under the sputtering spray of the motel shower, the water lukewarm at best. It was exactly what you’d expected from a place that hadn’t been updated since Psycho—seriously, all it was missing was Norman Bates in drag, wielding a kitchen knife, and bam! Instant horror movie stardom.

Instead, you had something far more dangerous lurking behind the flimsy curtain.

Dean.

The bastard didn’t even ask. He just peeled the plastic barrier back and stepped inside, cocky as ever, because he knew damn well you’d never tell him no.

Damn him for that.

His large, calloused hands found your hips instantly, the heat of his palms seeping into your slick skin before sliding around your waist. He pulled you flush against him, his arms locking around you in a way that left no room for escape—not that you wanted one.

You arched a brow when you felt something stiff and very familiar pressing into your lower back.

“Seriously?” you huffed, equal parts amused and incredulous. After last night, you were convinced he’d be out of commission for at least a week. “I thought guys needed a recovery period.”

Dean hummed against your neck, his smirk evident even before he spoke. “What can I say, sweetheart? You bring out the animal in me.”

You barely had time to cringe at his line before he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your shoulder. Then another. And another.

Despite yourself, you melted, tilting your head to give him better access. He was insufferable, overprotective to a fault, and cocky as hell. But the second he touched you like this?

You were done for. Every. Damn. Time.

“We broke a lot of records last night,” he murmured into your skin, his lips brushing over your pulse.

“And?” You challenged, leaning your head back against his shoulder to eye him in your periphery.

Dean grinned, his hold tightening. “How about a part two?”

His voice was a low, husky whisper against your ear, the deep timbre sending a shiver down your spine—one he felt. That smug, insufferable smirk of his only widened as his hands began to explore.

You were the prize fish in his pond, and he was just waiting for you to take the bait.

And like a mindless, naive little guppy, you bit.

“Really?” Your voice came out breathier than you intended, but could you blame yourself? His hands were already spanning your waist, trailing lower, teasing at the place that was aching for him.

Apparently, your pussy was onboard before your brain had even caught up.

Dean chuckled, his lips grazing your jaw. “Mmhmm.”

You gasped when one of his large hands cupped your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple in a way that sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through you.

“I’d like to break a few more,” he murmured against your throat.

And that was it.

Your last thread of self-control snapped.

You spun in his arms, crashing your lips against his without a second thought, your desperation all but forgotten in the heat of the moment.

You’d learned something pretty damn fast about yourself being with Dean Winchester, and that was his uncanny ability to reset you to your factory settings. One touch, one well-placed kiss, and suddenly, you were a feral little thing, all instinct and no shame. A literal bitch in heat.

And if you were bad, he was worse.

His hands were everywhere—greedy, demanding, like he was staking a claim he’d already won. He knew every spot that made you whimper, every trick that left you melting in his grasp, and the bastard used all of them. Ruthlessly. Shamelessly. And with that cocky-ass smirk that was half smug satisfaction, half pure, lust-drunk hunger.

Your nails bit into his shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his skin as his hand slipped between your thighs, thick fingers parting you with ease. His touch was confident, practiced—like a man who knew exactly how to play you, and play you well.

A sharp gasp left your lips the moment he found your clit, pressing down with slow, deliberate circles that sent sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. Your body jerked, reacting on instinct, your breath coming out in shaky stutters as he picked up his pace.

“F-fuck…” You barely managed, voice caught between a whimper and a plea.

Dean was watching you, his sharp green eyes locked onto every twitch, every gasp, every shiver he pulled from you. He lived for this—the way you tensed against him, the way your lips parted, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging in deeper as if grounding yourself against the inevitable. And the sting of your grip? It only spurred him on.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with appreciation. “Let go.”

His movements became ruthless, precise, each flick and stroke of his fingers drawing you closer to the edge until it finally broke—your orgasm crashed through you like a rogue wave, dragging you under, pulling a breathless cry from your lips as your body convulsed in his hold.

Dean’s arm tightened around you, keeping you upright as your legs trembled beneath you, your erratic breaths warming his skin.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his touch still gentle as he worked you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last jolt of pleasure—until your hand found his wrist, wrapping around it with a silent plea for mercy.

Dean stilled immediately, his grip relaxing, but his gaze never wavered as he tilted your chin up to meet his. His pupils were blown wide, the green of his irises barely a thin ring as he drank you in—flushed, breathless, completely unraveled beneath his touch.

And then he kissed you—deep and slow, savouring you, as if this moment was just as intoxicating as the night before.

When he finally pulled back, a smirk ghosted his lips, his voice low and teasing as he murmured against your mouth, “That’s one.”

A lazy, satisfied chuckle bubbled up in your throat, knowing exactly what he meant. He’d started keeping track last night, somewhere between the second and third round, taking pride in every single time he pulled you over the edge.

Your fingers trailed down his chest, over the soft ridges of muscle that weren’t quite a six-pack—more like a solid foundation with a little softness to keep things interesting. And you liked that about him. You loved that about him. Dean was strong, but he also liked a hearty burger and a good dessert. And honestly? Chiseled abs were overrated anyway.

You bit your lip as your hand trailed lower, fingertips teasing through the coarse hair of his happy trail, watching his stomach twitch beneath your touch. A smirk curled your lips as you wrapped your fingers around his impressive length, feeling the heavy weight of him in your grasp.

A sharp breath ghosted against your cheek as you pumped him slowly, deliberately.

"And which hole do you want your first in?" you whispered against his ear, your voice dripping with mischief.

The guttural groan that tore from his throat was downright sinful, his hands flying to your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

"Fuck," he hissed, his hips jerking when you gave his leaking tip a teasing squeeze. "Wanna fill up your sweet pussy first."

Heat pulsed low in your belly, your walls clenching around nothing at the hunger in his voice.

"Here or the bed?" you murmured, cupping his jaw, your thumb brushing over his plush bottom lip.

"Here," he rasped, eyes blown wide with need. "I need to fuck you. Now."

His mouth crashed against yours, the kiss filthy and desperate, all tongue and teeth as he backed you up against the cool tile.

Pulling back briefly, his sharp eyes darted around, quickly assessing his surroundings before locking onto the metal bar meant for handicapped residents.

Dean grinned. “Perfect.”

“Perfect?” You raised a brow, but he hoisted you up into his arms. 

“Yeah, c’mon, rest your foot on here, baby,” he breathed, guiding your foot onto the bar to support you more comfortably against the wall.

Neither of you even considered checking if the bar was sturdy. You were too horny to think beyond must fuck now. Instead, you did as instructed, letting him hook your foot up onto the bar, effectively spreading yourself open for him. 

Dean took a second to admire the view, sucking in a breath through his teeth like a man about to make a very bad—yet totally worth it—decision.

“You good?” he asked, gripping your other thigh, already lining himself up.

“Just fuck me, Winchester,” you whined.

“I love it when you get all bossy,” he chuckled, but as he moved forward, his wet foot slipped on the slick enamel of the tub.

“Shit—”

He caught himself at the last second, slamming a palm against the wall to keep from taking you both down. Your laughter was instant, bubbling past your lips as he groaned.

“You okay there, clutz?” you teased, giggling against his jaw.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up. You distracted me with your damn siren pussy.”

He adjusted his stance once again, gripping your thigh a little tighter this time as he lined himself up, and finally sank into you in one smooth thrust.

You gasped, the pleasure instantly overriding your laughter, your body stretching to accommodate him. The slight tenderness from last night only made the fullness more intense. Your back pressed harshly against the cool tile, and Dean took a second to let you adjust before rolling his hips slow and deep.

The steady rhythm didn’t last long. You were too far gone, too desperate. “More,” you whimpered. “Faster.”

And that was all he needed. Dean picked up the pace, thrusting into you hard, the slap of skin against wet skin filling the small bathroom alongside your breathless cries and his low groans.

And then—

A loud, metallic CRACK echoed through the room.

Before you could react, the grab bar snapped clean off the wall, the sudden shift causing Dean to slip against the slick enamel, sending you both tumbling down in a chaotic mess of limbs, curses, and water.

Dean, to his credit, tried to break your fall—because he was a gentleman after all—but instead, his head smacked against the towel rack with a loud thunk, while you crashed down hard on your wrist.

The impact sent the shower head spinning loose, turning it into a rogue fire hose that blasted water in every direction, soaking the already disastrous scene.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then—

“Fuuuuck,” Dean groaned, clutching his forehead. When he pulled his fingers away, they were smeared with crimson. “Oh, come on.”

You, on the other hand, were cradling your wrist, biting back a whimper. But Dean caught it anyway, and instantly, his own pain was forgotten.

His eyes locked on your arm, where swelling was already creeping up, your wrist bent at an angle that made his stomach churn. Fuck.

“I think… I think I broke something,” you choked out, tears stinging your eyes from the pain.

Dean’s concern went full throttle. “Shit, baby, lemme see,” he fussed, reaching for your injured wrist despite the blood trickling down his own face. “Does it hurt bad? Can you move it? How’s your fingers—”

You barely heard him. Because the moment you really looked at him, you gasped. “Dean, your head—”

You grabbed his chin with your good hand, tilting his face toward the light, your stomach twisting at the gash splitting his brow open, still bleeding freely.

Both of you stared at each other, completely ignoring your own injuries while freaking out over the other’s.

“Okay. Okay. We gotta get you to a hospital.” Dean urged, your wrist was already turning a dark purple-ish colour.

You blinked at him. “Dean, neither of us can drive in these conditions.” you pointed out and he opened his mouth—paused—then nodded.

“Yeah. No. You're right.” You both looked at each other, and then at the same time, you uttered— "Sam.”

Dean sat in the waiting area beside Sam, freshly stitched up and looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had just concussed himself mid-sexcapade, whilst you were across the hall, getting X-rays.

Sam sat with his arms crossed, shaking his head like a parent debating whether his kid was even worth bailing out this time. “I just—I don’t even know what to say to you.”

Dean huffed. “Aw, come on, Sammy—”

“What the hell were you guys thinking, man?” Sam scolded, exasperated. He got it—he did—but still. Even he knew shower sex was risky, mostly an unrealistic exaggeration shown in porn or the movies. Reality was a hell of a lot different.

Dean waggled his eyebrows, only to wince when the motion tugged at his stitches. “Jealous?”

Sam gave him the most exhausted bitch face of all time. “Of the head wound or the property damage?”

Dean grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time I broke something in the—”

“Nope. Nope. Not finishing that sentence.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t understand how two people can have this level of bad decision-making.”

Before Dean could fire back, you reappeared from the exam room, cradling your freshly casted arm.

Dean sat up straighter. “What’s the verdict, sweetheart?”

You sighed dramatically. “Fractured wrist. Congratulations, Winchester. You’re now officially the reason I can’t do anything for the next six weeks.”

Dean’s smirk only grew. “I dunno. I can think of a few things you can still do one-handed.”

“Guys!” Sam cut in, already regretting his life choices. “Can we please just get out of here?” He stood, rubbing his face, still heavy with sleep from being woken up by his half-naked brother knocking on his door at one in the morning.

You nodded in silent agreement and followed him out as he headed towards the exit, Dean strolling beside you, still with that cocky grin.

As the two of you strode toward the impala, Dean’s arm casually slung over your shoulders in his usual display of affection, you eyed your cast with a small sigh.

“I think it’s safe to say shower sex is officially off the table,” you muttered, and Dean huffed a small laugh and squeezed your shoulder gently but nodded. 

“Yeah, shower sex is complicated…Bathtub, though?” He looked at you with a failed attempt to waggle his brows and you bit back a smile but still tilted your head with interest.

However, before you could answer—

“No. Nope!” Sam interrupted with a shake of his head.

“Oh c’mon Sammy. Stop being such a prude.” Dean rolled his eyes, whilst Sam levelled him with his infamous glare.

You all silently climbed into your respective seats. Sam behind the wheel (since Dean’s vision was still a little blurred), Dean riding shotgun and you in the back.

Sam had just slid the key into the ignition when Dean turned in his seat to face you.

“How about a pool?”

“I hate you,” Sam groaned.

AN: I hope you guys liked this one, it was fun to write 😜, poor Sam is always at the brunt end of his brother's endeavours 😂. As always feedback is much appreciated ❤️

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

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

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

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

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

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

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

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

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

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

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[zepskies]

DEAN WINCHESTER: SMUT LIST

All stories below are 18+ only and/or contain smut. Stories are Dean Winchester x Reader unless otherwise noted.

Touch Me - (Dean x Plus-size!Reader) Dean isn’t used to how “touchy” you can be, but he never said he didn’t like it.

Make It Right - (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) He didn’t mean to claim you. Not like this. Not before he’s meant to die.

Something Real - (Firefighter!Dean W. x Reader) Now that you and Dean are officially engaged, you take some much needed time off together for a family vacation. But even with the wedding set for next year, the two of you are still at odds when it comes to one key part of your future together…

✦ (Part of the Smoke Eater-verse)

Reuniting with Dean. 🩵 Dean returns from Purgatory. Will either of you be the same?

Vintage Collection 📖 You and Dean discuss (argue about) his favorite magazine, Busty Asian Beauties.

Headcanon: How Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to seeing your breast reduction scars. ❤️‍🩹

**Note: This list does not include AU Dean Winchester series & mini series. Find AU series (all containing smut) over here.

Never Say Goodbye - (Dean x Soulmate!Reader) The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU]

Series Complete

Midnight Espresso-Verse - (Dean x Plus-Sized!Reader) A Masterlist of stories in which Dean dates a curvy Latina. Includes a touch-starved Dean being doted on by his (eventual) girlfriend, physically and emotionally protective Dean, body positivity, a season 15 "fix-it," and much more.

Summary: You’ve never taken Dean’s flirting seriously…until he asks you for an impromptu Spanish lesson. 

If You Want It To Be When your car breaks down after a hunt, Sam and Dean tow you back to the bunker for Christmas. This time of year gives you and Dean a little courage to be honest about what you both want. And what you want, is for him to see you.

Series Complete

✦ Want more Dean?

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

⋆˙⟡ Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Supernatural Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[cherrygirlfriend]

MAIDEN OF THE SEA

“for so long i didn’t have a home… thank you for changing that.”

mermaidia!reader... a girl who was the eldest daughter of the king of the ocean, poised to be the next one in charge of it all, now an orphan with no way home.

mermaidia!reader... a girl that was taken from her home in the sea by fishermen when she was a teenager only to be sold like a prop.

mermaidia!reader... a girl that grew up in captivity, being held in tanks by rich people that treated her like a freak show; like she was nothing but a pet to show off.

mermaidia!reader... a girl that grows legs whenever she isn’t in salt water; and due to her, the amount of salt the winchesters had to buy doubled due to the frequent sea salt baths she took; not only did she enjoy it but whenever she goes more than three days without being in salt water, her skin starts to turn blue and scaly.

mermaidia!reader... a girl who the winchesters took in when they realized that she has no family, no home, after they took care of the people that owned her.

mermaidia!reader... a girl with the tail the color of beautiful, shimmering blinding blue, whose eyes turn the same color when she feels strong emotions.

mermaidia!reader... a girl who reminds dean winchester so much of himself; the eldest, an orphan, someone with no childhood, no home…

“never had she danced so beautifully; the sharp knives cut her feet, but she did not feel it, for the pain in her heart was far greater.”

MERMAIDIA’s abilities... speaking to animals, changing the temperature of water, hydrokinesis, tears that turn into pearls, accidental weather control…

pearl necklaces seashells bright blue moon phases animal crossing mermaid media long baths animals salt stargazing rabbits sam and dean self-made jewelry reading ice cream the ocean the sun home

WORLD UNDER THE SEA

works coming soon…

[maddie0101]

𐚁 chapter seven: hints of something more

𐚁 summary: dean stays by your hospital bed, refusing to leave. but when his eyes catch something he wasn’t meant to see yet, his whole world shifts.

𐚁 warnings: injury, hospitals, worried!dean, hurt/comfort, fluff, idiots in love, we love mary in this series.

𐚁 word count: 2.8k (ik it’s extremely short…but I promise next chapter will make up for it :)

series masterlist previous chapter next chapter

The clock on the wall ticked too damn loud. Or maybe it was just Dean’s pulse pounding in his ears, keeping time with the anxiety clawing at his chest.

He’d seen plenty of injuries before—seen riders get thrown, trampled, broken. Hell, he’d been one of them more times than he could count. But nothing had ever hit him like this. Nothing had ever felt like the world was caving in on itself the way it had when he saw you go down.

The image wouldn’t leave his head. The way your body had crumpled under the weight of your horse, the gut-wrenching scream you let out before going still. The way your dad had frozen for a split second before charging forward, right alongside Dean, both of them calling your name like somehow that would make you open your eyes.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. He needed a drink. Something strong enough to burn away the panic that hadn’t left since last night. But he wouldn’t leave. Not until he knew you were okay.

Bobby shifted beside him, his grip on the chair tightening. He hadn’t said much since they got here. Just paced, ran a hand through his graying hair a few times, then finally sat down when the waiting got to be too much.

Dean wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to promise Bobby that you’d be fine, that you were too damn stubborn to let this take you out. But he couldn’t. Because deep down, he was just as scared.

The waiting stretched on, seconds dragging into minutes, minutes into hours. It felt like forever.

But then the door to the waiting room opened and a doctor stepped out.

Dean was on his feet before he even registered moving, Bobby right beside him. John, Mary, and Sam stood, the air in the room thick with tension as they all braced for whatever was coming.

A doctor approached, still in surgical scrubs, her expression calm but serious. “Singer?” she asked, glancing between them.

Dean’s heart nearly stopped. “Yeah,” he said quickly.

The doctor pulled off her surgical cap, exhaling softly. “She made it through surgery,” he said, his voice steady, calm. “She’s stable.”

Dean’s chest caved, relief crashing into him so hard his knees nearly buckled. He exhaled sharply, pressing his hands to his hips, trying to steady himself.

“But,” the doctor continued, glancing at Bobby, “her recovery is going to be long and difficult. Her leg took the brunt of the impact. We were able to repair the damage, but it’s going to take months of rehab. It won’t be easy.”

“She had some internal bleeding, but we were able to stop it,” the doctor continued. “A few broken ribs and a concussion, but she’s stable. She’s in recovery now, and we’ll monitor her closely for the next few days.”

Bobby nodded once, as if preparing himself for battle. “But she’ll be okay?” His voice cracked just slightly.

The doctor’s expression softened. “Yes. With time.”

Dean barely heard anything after that. You were alive and you were going to be okay. Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. “Can we see her?”

“She’s still coming out of the anesthesia, but you can sit with her,” the doctor said with a nod. “Just keep it quiet. She needs rest.”

Bobby clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder—his way of saying thank you for being here. Bobby nodded again, clearing his throat. “I’ll go in first.”

Dean stepped back, giving him space, watching as Bobby disappeared down the hall with the doctor. The second the door shut behind them, Dean sank back into his chair, running a hand down his face.

Mary placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, sweetheart.”

Dean let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I know.” But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still scared out of his damn mind.

Fifteen minutes later, Bobby stepped out of the room, his face weary but his shoulders slightly less tense. He clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he walked past, giving him the unspoken permission he’d been waiting for.

Dean didn’t hesitate. The second he stepped inside, his heart dropped. His chest tightened all over again.

You looked so damn small in that hospital bed, wires and tubes hooked up to you, an oxygen mask resting near your pillow. Bandages wrapped around your head, bruises already blooming across your arms. The sight of you so still, so fragile, made his stomach twist.

Then your eyes met his and for a second, neither of you spoke.

You couldn't hold it in anymore, your lip trembled, and before Dean could even register what was happening, tears started spilling down your cheeks.

Dean’s heart shattered. In two strides, he was at your bedside, his arms wrapping around you without hesitation. You clung to him, shaking, your fingers gripping the back of his shirt as you sobbed.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against the top of your head, his own throat tightening. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.”

You cried harder, burying yourself into him like you were afraid he’d disappear. “I—I don’t know if I can ride again,” you choked out, voice raw.

Dean felt the words like a knife to the gut. Riding was your life.

He pulled back just enough to cup your face, wiping a tear off your cheek with his thumb. “You will ride again,” he said fiercely. “I don’t care how long it takes, how hard it is—I will make sure you do.”

More tears fell, but your lips trembled into the tiniest, tiniest hint of a smile.

And Dean exhaled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment before whispering, “You’re not doing this alone, y/n. I promise.”

Eventually, the exhaustion overtook you and your body slumped along with your breathing evening out. Dean glanced at the chair beside your bed, then said, screw it. Carefully, he climbed into the bed beside you, pulling you against his chest.

You fit perfectly there, the way you always had. You sighed softly, your head resting where you could hear his heartbeat.

Dean stroked your hair absentmindedly, his own heart finally starting to slow. You were here and you were safe. As long as he had breath in his body, he wasn’t going to let you go.

Dean cleared his throat, shifting in the hospital bed, trying not to wake you. But as he took in every beautiful feature and memorized every detail on your face his eyes drifted downward, toward your hand laying ontop of his chest.

And all air seemed to have disappeared from his lungs because there, right below the edge of your hospital bracelet was ink.

A tattoo. His exact tattoo.

Dean’s stomach dropped and his pulse roared in his ears as he stared at it, frozen. It was the exact same design, same placement…

You’re his soulmate.

The realization hit him so hard he thought he might actually be sick. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. His mind raced, already imagining what it would mean—what it could mean.

You were his. You always had been, even before the ink showed up on your skin.

But now? Now, fate had carved it into stone.

Relief, joy, and something terrifyingly close to hope swelled in his chest.

But just as quickly, another thought slammed into him just as hard. Now’s not the time.

You had no idea. You were laying in a hospital bed, beat to hell, exhausted, and in pain. Dropping something like this on you right now? It wasn’t fair. You deserved to find out when you weren’t loopy on pain meds, when you could actually process what it meant.

So he forced himself to breathe, to shove down the overwhelming emotions clawing at his chest. He’d tell you. Just… not today.

Dean sat there, staring at your wrist, his pulse hammering so hard he swore you’d be able to hear it if you were awake.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. That small patch of ink changed everything. For months, he’d dreaded this moment, not because he didn’t want you to be his soulmate, but because he was terrified you wouldn’t be. He had spent endless nights staring at his own tattoo, tracing the edges of the ink, wondering who fate had paired him with, hoping, praying, that it would be you.

And now? It was.

Dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away before he lost what little grip he had left on his emotions. He clenched his jaw, staring up at the ceiling, forcing deep breaths into his lungs.

He wanted to wake you up. To grab your wrist, show you—tell you that you’d always been his. That every moment, every second of your lives had been leading to this.

But you needed rest. You had just been through hell. You were broken, bruised, battered, and exhausted. Your body needed time to heal, and right now, so did your mind. Dean it kills him, but he has to wait.

Dean exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting back to you. Even bruised and hooked up to all these damn machines, you were still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The way your eyelashes fluttered slightly as you dreamed, the way your lips parted just a little as you breathed against his chest, it was like his body knew before his mind had caught up.

He belonged to you, always had.

Dean ran a slow, gentle hand through your hair, his touch feather-light. You sighed softly, shifting just a little in his arms, but you didn’t wake. He smiled and his heart ached with how much he loved you.

A small knock on the door nearly made him jump out of his skin. And he looked up sharply, his body instinctively tensing, ready to defend you from whatever was coming but then he saw his mother standing in the doorway, her face soft with quiet understanding.

Mary stepped inside, quiet and calm, her gaze sweeping over the hospital bed, over you nestled against Dean, before landing on him. “How is she?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Dean exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Doctors say she’ll be fine. Just needs time.”

Mary nodded, her expression soft. “And you? Have you even moved from that spot?”

Dean didn’t answer, just huffed lightly and shifted slightly, but he never let go of you. Before Mary could say anything else, a soft sound broke the silence.

A small sigh. Dean’s breath hitched as his gaze snapped down to you. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, still hazy with exhaustion, but you found him instantly.

Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, tightening his grip on your hand. “You’re awake.”

You blinked up at him, then your gaze drifted, landing on Mary. “Mrs. Winchester?” Your voice was scratchy, hoarse.

Mary smiled warmly, stepping closer. “It’s good to see you awake, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, wincing a little. “Feels like I got trampled.”

Dean smirked, shaking his head. “Damn near did.”

Mary gave you a knowing look. “How are you feeling?”

You let out a tired breath. “Sore. Loopy. Probably look like hell.”

Dean scoffed. “You look fine.”

You shot him a skeptical look, but your lips quirked just a little before turning your attention back to Mary. “Did I worry you?”

Mary chuckled softly. “A little. But not nearly as much as him.” She tilted her head toward Dean, who immediately glared at her.

Dean’s eyes narrowed at his mom, trying to suppress the warmth in his cheeks. He hated the way she could always tell, could always read him so easily. “You’ve got a real talent for embarrassing me, you know that?” His voice had a teasing edge, but his tone was just shy of defensive.

Mary smirked, unfazed. “What, you’re telling me I’m wrong?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. She shifted her gaze between him and you, catching the subtle way his hand still rested in yours, the way his thumb traced circles on the back of your hand.

The room was quiet for a few beats, the only sound being the steady beep of the machines keeping track of your vitals. Dean was still sitting there, unmoving, his focus entirely on you. It was like he didn’t even hear the conversation anymore.

Mary cleared her throat, looking between the two of you before taking a step back. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to talk about.”

Dean’s gaze followed her as she quietly stepped out, closing the door behind her. The second it clicked shut, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

“You okay?” Dean asked, his voice low, the deep concern in his eyes impossible to hide. He shifted closer to you, brushing some stray hair from your forehead.

The action was so simple, yet it caused a sharp hitch in your breath. The warmth of his touch, the way his fingers gently moved your hair aside, made your heart skip a beat. For a moment, you forgot about everything, the pain, the exhaustion, the confusion, and focused entirely on the man laying with you. His presence was calming, grounding. The steady rhythm of his breathing, his gentle touch, made you feel safe.

You nodded, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you swallowed hard, willing the rush of emotions to settle. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice softer than usual. It was the truth, mostly. You were still sore, your body aching from the fall, but being with him made everything feel a little less overwhelming.

Dean didn’t seem convinced. His eyes searched your face, as if trying to read what you weren’t saying. “You sure?” He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing against yours, sending a warm pulse of electricity through your skin. “You don’t have to pretend with me, y/n.” His voice was so sincere, so raw, that it took you by surprise.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at him, trying to find the right words. It was so hard to explain how much he meant to you, how much this moment meant. You’d always been able to put up walls, keep your distance, but with Dean, those walls crumbled with each passing second.

“Honestly,” you started, your voice a little shaky, “I’m just glad you’re here.” The admission slipped out before you could think about it, and it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t ignore. You felt vulnerable, exposed in a way you hadn’t intended, but it felt right.

Dean’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles as he took your hand in his. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he just shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Not going anywhere,” he said quietly, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Your heart fluttered at the weight of his words. It was like he was telling you that, no matter what, he’d be there—always. It was exactly what you needed to hear.

The silence that followed was comfortable, but heavy. Both of you were lost in thought, but the simple act of sitting together in that moment, sharing the quiet, spoke volumes. You wanted to say more, wanted to tell him everything that had been building up inside of you for years, but right now, there was a certain peace in just being with him.

Dean shifted in his seat, his fingers gently caressing the back of your hand. “You know, I’m gonna be here when you wake up tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere. And when you’re ready to get back on your horse, I’ll be right behind you.”

You chuckled softly, the sound a little shaky, but it felt good to laugh again. “You always were stubborn,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood, even if just a little.

Dean smirked, a glint of something playful returning to his eyes. “Guilty as charged,” he said, but then his smile softened, his gaze meeting yours with a seriousness that made your heart race.

Your breath caught in your throat and your heart started beating wildly in your chest. You tried to say something, anything, but the words felt tangled in your mind.

Instead, you squeezed his hand tighter and Dean didn’t push, he simply held your hand, his thumb tracing over your skin in a soothing, repetitive motion.

chapter eight sneak peak:

He let out a soft sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted his weight. “Look, I get that it’s complicated. But you’re not gonna be able to ignore it forever. You’re not gonna be able to hide from it either, especially not if it’s—” He stopped, as if reconsidering his words. “If it’s closer than you think.”

You blinked, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. “Closer than I think? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Dean’s eyes darkened slightly, like he was trying to keep something back, but the teasing smirk that tugged at his lips didn’t quite mask the tension in his shoulders. “Oh, you know. Maybe someone’s been a little too close for comfort recently. Someone who’s been there for you, every damn step of the way. Someone who doesn’t mind picking you up when you can’t walk. Helping you get through the hard days.” He leaned in slightly, the corners of his lips curling up into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I’m sure you’ve figured all that out on your own, right?”

author’s note:

okay, okay I know this was extremely short but I wrote this almost a month ago. I’ve edited a little bit but that’s about it. I’ve been too lazy to write more detail into this series..oops.

anyways, next chapter will be worth it, I promise! I know these two make us want to smash their heads together and force them to finally confess, but I promise it’s very soon! 🤭

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @saturnsooya @furiouscopshepherduniversity @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission

[pieandflannel]

౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ talking to the moon 🌔

₊⊹ ʚ ₊⊹｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ｡˚ ₊⊹｡ ₊⊹ ୨♡୧ ⊹₊ ｡⊹₊ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ˚ ⋆ ｡⊹₊ ɞ ⊹₊

pairing: dean winchester x gn!reader

summary: you never really got over deans death.

cw: heavy angst, death, grief, denial. brief reference to events in s15.

word count: 684

julia yaps: i literally cried while writing this… </3 (proof)

inspo: talking to the moon by bruno mars + s15 ep20

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

you knew the risks of this job. you and the boys always have. any day can be your last, every hunter knew it and accepted that fate, but now?— you are taking baby out for another ride onto an empty field where you regularly go, you park it and walk out, the door creaking like always, something dean never really cared to take care of when it came to baby. but that’s what gave her personality.

you sit on the hood of the impala looking up at the darkening sky, dean’s last words to you repeating themselves inside your head. “when you look up at the night sky and see the first star appear, that’ll be me saying i love you, so look out for it, okay sweetheart?”

you take off the jacket you’re wearing, dean’s favourite green jacket, and lay it beside you on the hood. you gently stroke the canvas material, a button finding it’s way under your fingertips. tears forming in your eyes as you remember how much dean loved to wear that jacket. You didn’t even have the courage to wash it.

the feeling of longing ripping you apart from the inside out. no matter how long ago it happened, it will never feel real. denial haunts you every single day ever since dean passed away.

as you wipe away your tears you notice the first star up in the sky, “hi dean” you spoke softly with a small sad smile, not being able to hold your tears in. soft sobs coming from your petite being.

rarely has there been a night where you didn’t talk to the moon and stars, desperately hoping that they pass on your messages to heavens mailroom.

“i miss you so much… we all do, especially sammy.. he misses his older brother” you say, your voice croaky from the tears. you wipe your eyes with your sleeve, it’s being stained with your tears after so many nights of crying.

“miracle literally has to have one of your flannels in his doggy bed in order to sleep properly..” you spoke up to the sky, but deep down you were praying that dean was listening.

“i even gave baby a bath today..” you share, your hand gently patting her, imagining dean proudly smiling at the news. “i couldn’t collect myself to clean the inside just yet… but at least she’s shiny on the outside now” tears welling up in your eyes as you talk with a pained smile.

“i hope you know how much i love you… and that there is not a single day where i don’t think about you” you take a deep breath, trying to stop yourself from sobbing. the frosty air burning your nostrils. but the cold weather doesn’t stop you from talking to dean before sleep. it became a ritual, a habit of yours. you couldn’t go to sleep unless you did so.

you sit in silence for a good while, just appreciating the stars shining. star gazing used to be your and deans go to date. he would drive the impala onto this exact field, park it and the two of you would simply gaze up into the night sky, cuddle up into each other and exchange some stories or memories of yours. whether it was a funny one or traumatic, it didn’t matter because you had each other.

this was also the place where dean confessed his feelings for you years ago, so this spot holds a very special place in your heart.

the faint sounds of your sniffles echo through the grass, you take a deep breath before speaking up again, “i should get going.. but i’ll be back tomorrow” you reassure, grabbing the jacket and putting it on before sliding down the car.

you wave up into the sky, and at that exact moment a shooting star flies across the sky. you gasp softly deciding to take that as a sign, you were well aware that others thought of you as a bit delusional, but you didn’t care, you needed to believe. faith is what kept you somewhat sane.

“goodnight dean, sleep well”

disclaimer: grief can be a very very difficult thing to deal with, i myself go through it every day for the past couple of years, it never really goes away, so if you ever need someone to talk to or for someone to simply hear you out, feel free to message/contact me! you are never alone and you always have me! <333

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3

tags: @jensino @emeraldcrs @soldiersgirl @jensenacklesballsack @missus-ackles @littlesoulshine @deanswifeyy @slut4jackles @h8aaz @figisonline @figthoughts @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @rositaslabyrinth @deanspookiebear @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @heartrendercastiel

♡ comment to be added/removed!

© pieandflannel – do not plagiarise or repost any of my work!

© reserved for photo/gif owners!

[kamisobsessed]

'pull that dick out' me too

More Dean x younger!reader who he really cannot stand.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Dean Winchester with plus size girly 👉🏻👈🏻

.⋆｡Fresh Start｡⋆.

Dean Winchester x plus size reader

You watched your best friend die, come back, vanish off the face of the earth, return a changed man, die again and become a demon all in the span of just a couple years, so when in all of that can you finally work up the courage to confess? Or maybe he’ll just do it first

Warnings: friends to lovers, confessions, angst, Dean’s insecurity and regrets, mention of demon!Dean, lots of insecurity in general, mutual pining and comfort, chick flick moments, maybe ooc Dean, making out WC: 1.7k Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

The bunker was silent for the first time in 24 hours, the echoes of screams and curses had long-since dissipated and yet, you couldn’t calm down enough to sleep. You turned over in your bed, suddenly the room was too warm, your blankets too suffocating, and something kept brushing against your foot but you couldn’t work out what or where it was. Light from the hallway bled into your room, the final straw of your exhausted mind.

You stepped into your slippers, the fabric warming up quickly as you stood. Your tired mind conjured images of some spiked hot chocolate and late night TV to soothe you to sleep. The stretch of the bunker’s hallway was silent save for the buzz of the antique lights, guiding you to the kitchen.

The door stood open, letting you see the man who had been gone from his place in your life for far too long. He was hunched over the kitchen table, chained to the spot as if he moved, he would hurt someone again.

“Dean?” His gaze shot up to you, giving you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey sweetheart. I didn’t wake you did I?” You shuffled closer, shaking your head. This time, his green eyes shone as he pulled out the chair beside him, offering you the small glass of whiskey. You sagged down next to him, the bare skin of your arm brushing against the soft flannel that covered his broad shoulders. Without so much as a grunt of exertion, he pulled your chair closer as he always did when you sat next to each other.

His hand naturally fell to the soft fat of your thigh, a move he had done for years. It grounded you both — the vulnerability of the touch, the warmth of your body, the rough calluses on his palm — it was sometimes the only thing that kept you both sane in the middle of the hellfire you faced. 

“You should be asleep.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “The past couple days have been a lot.” You sipped from the glass, the burn of the alcohol waking you up a bit more, but not enough to break the quiet atmosphere of the kitchen.

Dean grimaced and pulled his right arm from where it was resting on the table, as if that would make the scar that was now etched into his soul vanish. He looked so much older in this light, the decades of darkness finally weighing him down.

“You’ve put up with a lot from me, not just from the past couple days.” His words hung in the air between you, words that had been yet unspoken though felt through the years. You could’ve scoffed.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘putting up with you’, more like I care about you and want to help you with whatever you’re going through.” Your finger traced along the line of a scar on the back of his hand. “Just the same as you do for me. Like when I get too drunk and have to spend the night next to the toilet and you stay with me, giving me water. Or when I get arrested cause my forgery skills aren’t up to snuff and you bail me out. Or when I get hurt and you drop everything to help me. It’s what we do.”

Dean watched your touch grow firmer with your conviction until his skin paled beneath the pad of your fingers. “I died sweetheart. And I’ve killed. And I’ve made you watch as I sleep through half of America, even on nights where I promised not to. I’ve lied and cheated and been damn selfish. And for the life of me, I don’t know why you haven’t realised by now that I’m bad for you, for everyone, it’s why Cain gave me this mark in the first place.”

You pull yourself closer to him, daring to cup his cheek with your free hand, forcing him to look at you. He lowered himself into your grasp, letting out a sigh of relief. “But you’re still a good man, a great man even. You’ve saved more people than I can count, you are a hero Dean.”

“I was a demon not even 12 hours ago.” He hissed through his teeth though he stayed in your arms. You had seen what his black-eyed counterpart had done, felt the rage he carried as he thundered through the bunker in some attempt to survive. He scared you, not that you would ever admit it to him, and he broke your heart. But you knew it wasn’t Dean’s fault, none of you knew what the Mark would do to him or turn him into, yet Dean couldn’t see it that way.

“And Sam and I are still here. That has to count for something.”

“Sammy’s my brother. And you’re…” He trailed off, a pensive look marring his face. 

“I’m?” You prompted, your stomach twisting with the possibilities. Dean was not one for feelings or letting himself wish for something more out of life, you knew that from the first moment you met him and yet it didn’t stop you from falling for him. Everything you said was true, he has always been a hero, your hero. He was always there for you, even for the most mundane of things. He was kind, charismatic, hilarious, intelligent, passionate, and so many other wonderful things that would take you days to name them all.

You loved him and there was no way he loved you. He was the most amazing man alive, chosen by the angels to fight evil, with the most pure heart of anyone you’ve ever known. He deserved a bombshell, knock-out of a woman to stand by his side, not some fan-girl from the middle of nowhere who had somehow found a way into the small circle of people he truly cared about.

“Hey,” his right hand gripped your wide hip, now the both of you were a breaths length apart, “you’re thinking too much.” 

“I disagree.” Your muttered protest was muffled behind the fear that somehow he could read your mind and suddenly knew the overpowering secret in your heart.

For the first time in what seemed like months, Dean smirked that classic smirk of his and set your blood alight. “I think I know why. Just,” his voice shook uncharacteristically, “tell me if you don’t want this.”

And before you could ask any questions or wonder why he sounded so terrified, he kissed you. Your body seized with surprise, his lips were so plush and warm and everything you had ever dreamed of and then they were gone. 

“I’m sorry, I-“ Dean started but you didn’t give him the chance to regret anything else, you grabbed him by the back of his neck and slammed your lips against his. A groan rumbled through his chest and into yours as he grabbed onto you with all of his force. 

You clung to him like you would wake up any second now and go back to a life of wishing for exactly this. Your head tilted, deepening the kiss as much as it could go considering you were both still sitting in kitchen chairs in the middle of the night.

“Fuck sweetheart.” Unadulterated lust shot through you like a bullet at the way his voice dropped lower. “You taste even better than I thought you would.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip as you dumbly stared into his darkening eyes. “You’ve thought about me?” 

You could damn yourself for that, Dean Winchester was finally touching you, kissing you and all you could think of was why he was doing it in the first place. But Dean just chuckled with such a deep understanding that the small protesting voice in your head was silenced. “All the time baby, since the moment I met you.”

“Really?”

You yelped as he pulled you to your feet before throwing you onto the table. “Dean-“ Your protest was cut off as he stepped between your thick thighs, his hips pressing against yours deliciously. One large hand cupped your jaw, almost covering the length of your face.

“I know that I never showed it but fuck, you haunt me. You’re gorgeous-“ He kissed you briefly, his eyes fluttering closed with the feel of your swollen lips, “-sexy as hell-“ he emphasized with a roll of his hips, “-so fucking smart-“ his fingers taped your temple, “-and the best damn woman I have ever met.”

You moaned as he captured your lips once again, this time, his tongue immediately slipped past the seam of your mouth. The air between you was now stifling and you wanted to choke on it. Your fingers flew to the short strands of his hair and he whined against you.

Pulling away this time was a Herculean task but Dean wasn’t finished with you. “And I don’t deserve you, not in a hundred lifetimes, not after all the things I’ve done. I’m tainted.” 

“And I’m nowhere near your level in every way.” You countered, making his jaw clench angrily.

“But maybe that doesn’t have to matter anymore. Maybe we can just forget about all of that and start fresh.” Your chest heaved as you struggled to catch your breath. “We just wipe the slate clean between us.”

“Could you forget about all of that- the womanising, the pain I’ve inflicted, the Mark- for me?” Your arms wound around his neck, letting your foreheads press together.

“Yes, in a heartbeat. Could you forget about my insecurities and fear of not being enough to be with me?” You felt his smile begin to grow, his grip on you tightening once again.

“So long as you let me fuck those thoughts from your head anytime they appear, no matter the time or place.”

You laughed loudly, the exhaustion of the late night, of the past few years, vanishing in his hold. “That just sounds like you want to get me into Baby’s backseat.”

“It was my first fantasy of you, sue me.” He shrugged.

“You’re such a pervert, Winchester.” And yet, you pressed forward to kiss him again. 

“Hey, I can’t be anymore, fresh start remember?” And in that dingy kitchen in an abandoned bunker made by long-dead hunters, Dean Winchester got his second chance to be free of all the darkness he had been condemned to with you, who never thought that you were ever worthy of giving him that strength.

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── CRYSTAL FALLS

the cheerleader & crystal fall’s star basketball player. well, you’re not exactly a cheerleader yet, not until dean convinces you to try out, anyway.

one . not in love

dean needs help tutoring & you need help following after what you really want. sam’s worried about you hanging around his brother too much.

two . keep comin’ back

three . means i care

&. notes !! yay new series <3 layout inspired by the most aesthetic blog ever @daylighted ! anyway hope you all enjoy even if it takes a while to get out ! also can you tell i’ve been watching tree hill ‘nd i’m in love with nathan ?

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[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

part V

Pairing: Dean x Fem!Reader, Sam x Fem!Reader (a hint of Michael!Dean x Fem!Reader)

Summary: A fall unmade. A throne surrendered. The softest resurrection stitched together in blood, breath, and grace. You bring them both home—one from the heavens, one from the pit—and lay yourself between them like scripture. This is the ache after worship. The redemption after ruin. The girl, the vessel, the brother. Nothing left but love. Nothing left but them.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, reference to smut (p in v, dp), heartbreak, pining, moderate fluff, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 6,915

A/N: A resolution, if you will. I was wrestling with whether or not to add another instalment to this series, and all it took was one ask to have me folding like a deckchair. Thank you to whoever it was that submitted the ask, ha! <3 This has been a trip. I am still really proud of this series as a whole. Felt like reclaiming some of my religious trauma, super cathartic. I hope this ties things together a little better for everyone. I know it's not exactly a happy ending... but when is it ever with these men? Dean's gonna retreat inward in his guilt, like he always does. And our dear Sammy is gonna be more emotionally open but he'll still be fighting to reconcile what he did while Lucifer was playing host. Yap over. If you wanna give me feedback, please do. I liiiive for it. All the love.

Without further ado: ANATHEMA

"Both she and I, I hold her by the hips On heaven's stairs, her eyes wanted a kiss No cause for shame, beloved saint

Another night, a different time There's no cause for shame I'm paralysed, a glowing life Our beloved saint Ebony eye Swing your arms in the October air Both you and I

A hole in heaven, you're my dearest dove We watch the flowers bloom in the house of fools These passing shadows in photographs of you Your burning embrace, it's as warm as rain

I can't describe this glowing light There's no other way than the pearly gates I found my holy place"

Ebony Eye - Yves Tumor

You stayed in his lap long after the movements had stopped.

The room had fallen quiet, save for the brittle sound of your breath threading through the silence like incense through a ruined cathedral. Your body trembled, not from cold or fear, but from the aftermath of something too vast to hold. You felt stretched thin, like skin over glass, every nerve raw and flickering with the weight of what had just passed through you.

Michael—still wearing Dean's face, still inside Dean's body—held you like something sacred. His cock remained buried inside you, softening, warm. The pressure of it made you ache, but you didn't move. Neither of you did. His hands rested lightly on your hips, reverent, as though he thought even now, even after all this, he might break you.

"The righteous fall seven times," he murmured again, his lips brushing your temple.

His voice had changed. No longer the cold, perfect command of Heaven's sword, but something quieter. Almost human. Something like surrender.

"But I do not plan on rising."

You didn't respond. Your lips parted, but no sound came. You couldn't speak. Couldn't move. The grief was building again, this strange and impossible ache that made your chest feel tight, like your ribs had been laced together with barbed wire.

"I have warred for my Father's name," he said softly, the words falling like scripture into the hollow between you. "I have drowned cities. Silenced prophets. I have watched stars die for less than the disobedience I showed you."

His fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, not to tease or possess, but as if committing your form to memory.

"And yet," he whispered, "I have never seen anything more holy than you."

Your throat closed. A sound cracked in your chest—half sob, half gasp—but you swallowed it down. You didn't know why you were crying. You didn't even know if it was for him, or for Dean, or for yourself.

"I wasn't made to want," he continued, almost tender now. "But I did. I wanted your voice. Your ruin. The way you broke for me. The way you looked at me and hated me and still... still gave yourself. Not out of love, but faith."

He cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him. You looked into Dean's eyes—but they weren't Dean's, not yet. Still too bright. Still too far away from Earth.

"He will not remember me," Michael said. "But he will remember this. He will dream of it. Of the way you trembled when he touched you. The way you begged. The way you fell."

His thumb brushed your bottom lip. Gentle. Unbearable.

"I have carved you into his bones. Etched your name into the chambers of his heart. So that even when I sleep, he will feel me there. And through him, I will remain."

You shook your head slowly, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "Don't," you whispered. "Please don't say goodbye like this."

His smile was small. Wistful. Not mocking.

"You wanted him," he said. "And I... I wanted you."

There was no cruelty left in him. No power. Only something vast and breaking. You felt it beneath your skin, the moment he began to unravel. It wasn't violent. It wasn't sudden. It was soft, like silk unspooling from a frayed edge. Like surrender.

"This is all I know to give," he said. "So I give it."

You reached for him—without thinking. Just a touch, just the edge of your fingers curling into his shoulders, like maybe if you held him close enough, he wouldn't go. You didn't know why you did it. You didn't know what it meant. Only that some part of you was breaking open right alongside him.

"I will watch through him," Michael whispered. "I will remember. I will protect."

He kissed your temple like a benediction.

"Wake up, Dean."

There was a pause.

And then his body shuddered once beneath yours—his spine arching, hands twitching—and then a breath. A sharp, wet, human breath, gasped like it had been denied to him for a thousand years.

Dean's eyes snapped open. Green. Startled. Wild. Alive.

"What the hell," he rasped, blinking rapidly, chest heaving as he grabbed at your waist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. "Where—what the fuck—where am I?"

You stared at him. At his face. At the way it shifted—his again now, no longer angelic. No longer terrifying. Just Dean. Just yours.

"Dean," you breathed. Your voice cracked like it had never held his name before.

He looked down. He saw the mess between your bodies. The way you were still wrapped around him. The bruises. The tremble in your hands.

His eyes widened. Horror bloomed across his face.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "What did he—what did he do to you?"

You shook your head through the tears, through the ache, through the strange and sudden relief blooming in your chest. "No," you said. "He gave you back to me."

Dean's grip faltered. He looked like he might come apart. Like he didn't know how to exist in this skin anymore.

"I remember," he choked out. "Pieces. Your voice. You were crying. I—fuck—I felt it. I felt everything."

You pressed your forehead to his, your fingers curling around the sides of his face.

"I have you," you said. "You're here. You're mine."

And then he broke.

He pulled you into him, arms wrapping around your back like a man clinging to the edge of the world. You buried yourself in his chest, still shaking, still full of grief, and something else now, too—peace. Small. Fragile. Real.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry. I should've—he used you. He used me—"

"I know," you said.

But even as you held Dean, even as you clung to the warmth and solidity of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you couldn't stop thinking about the last thing Michael said.

How he would stay. How he would watch. How he had carved you into Dean's bones so he could remember what love felt like—even if he never rose again.

You closed your eyes. And somewhere, buried deep inside the man you loved, the archangel slept.

The silence was deafening.

Dean's arms stayed locked around you, tight but trembling. You could feel every fractured breath leave his lungs, hot against your shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't speak. He was still inside you, still anchored to your body like he was afraid that pulling away would erase him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe if he moved, this would all vanish. Maybe you'd wake up alone again. Empty again.

His hand slid up your spine—slow, unsure—then back down. A small, shaking pass, like he was trying to memorise you the way Michael had. But it wasn't ritual now. It wasn't sacred.

It was human. And it hurt more.

"I can't—" His voice cracked, barely a breath. "I can't believe he..."

You didn't answer.

Dean shifted just enough to glance down, to look at where you were still joined, his expression twisting like he might be sick. But even then, he didn't move. His jaw locked. His hand gripped your waist.

"I should pull out," he muttered.

You shook your head immediately. "Don't."

His eyes snapped back to yours, startled.

You swallowed, throat tight and dry. "Not yet."

He searched your face like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he didn't trust what he saw there. But when you didn't look away, when your hands clutched tighter at his shoulders, he nodded—just once—and stayed.

You didn't know how long you sat like that. Breathing each other in. Remembering the weight of silence after prayer. After war. After divinity left the room.

Then Dean whispered, "Why are you crying?"

Your chest stuttered. You hadn't even noticed the tears had started again, but they were slipping down your cheeks, warm and constant.

"Because," you rasped. "It's not him anymore."

Dean flinched like you'd hit him. You saw it—the pain flash across his face. But you didn't take it back.

"He gave you back to me," you said, softer this time. "He chose to leave."

Dean's brow furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes. "Why the hell would he do that?"

You exhaled slowly, lowering your forehead to his. Your voice was smaller than you meant for it to be. "Because he loved me."

Dean didn't move. He didn't breathe. You felt the way his entire body went rigid beneath you, and still—you didn't stop.

"He never said the words. But he didn't have to. He... he let himself fall. For me."

The words barely made it past your lips, each one more broken than the last. It sounded like betrayal when you said it out loud. Like a confession you hadn't meant to speak. But it was the truth.

And Dean deserved the truth.

His hands twitched at your waist, then slid up, fingers threading through your hair with aching care. His voice was hoarse. "Do you love him back?"

You hesitated. Just long enough for his heart to skip a beat beneath you.

"I don't know," you whispered. "I think... I think I'm grieving him."

Dean made a sound in the back of his throat. Something torn. But he didn't push you away. He didn't accuse. He just wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, eyes closing like the weight of it all had finally landed.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I didn't ask for any of it. I just—I missed you so much I stopped knowing what was real."

"I know," he murmured. "It's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

You believed him. And it still hurt.

After a while, Dean took a deep breath, grounding himself against you, then glanced toward the bathroom door.

"Let me clean you off."

You stiffened.

"It's okay," he said quickly. "I just... I need to. Please."

You nodded.

When he lifted you from his lap, you winced. Your thighs ached. The soreness between your legs stung as he slid free from your body, and you whimpered at the loss of warmth.

Dean caught it. He cursed under his breath and kissed your forehead, holding you close before carrying you into the bathroom.

The light was too bright. You blinked against it as Dean set you down on the counter, moving with slow, deliberate care. He ran the water, tested the temperature. His back was tense. His hands, shaking.

When he turned to you, his eyes went dark at the sight of your thighs, your hips, the mess between your legs.

"God," he whispered. "I hate that it was me. My body. That he used me to—"

You reached out and took his hand.

"It wasn't you," you said. "It wasn't. But... it still felt like you. And that's what made it worse."

Dean swallowed hard. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," you said. Then, after a beat: "Not in the way you think."

He stepped forward, slipping his arms around your waist again, his forehead pressing to yours.

"I'm gonna carry this for the rest of my life," he said. "Knowing he touched you like that. Knowing I didn't stop it."

"You're here now."

"I wasn't supposed to come back."

You met his eyes. "He wasn't supposed to fall."

That stopped him.

You leaned into him, your hand splayed over his heart. "He gave me you. You gave me something to come back to. I don't know what that means yet. I just know I need to feel like I'm yours again."

He looked at you like you'd cracked the sky open. And then, without a word, he helped you into the shower.

The water was warm. Steam curled around your skin like absolution.

Dean washed you gently, reverently. He didn't speak much—just murmured small comforts under his breath as he dragged warm cloth over your thighs, between your legs, along the curve of your spine. He pressed kisses to your temple, your shoulder, your wrist. And when he was done, he just stood there, holding you against his chest under the water like he could baptise the grief out of both of you.

You felt it then. That ache in your throat. That memory of fire.

"Dean," you whispered. "Sam..."

He tensed.

You looked up at him. "We have to get him back."

He nodded slowly, eyes wet. "I know."

"He gave himself to Lucifer to save you. And now you're here. You're home. So now... now we bring him back too."

Dean cupped your face in both hands and kissed you, soft and aching. Like a man kissing someone alive for the first time after war. It wasn't desire. It was devotion.

"I've got you," he whispered. "And we'll get him. I swear to God, we'll get him."

You pressed your forehead to his and closed your eyes. You had found your holy place. Now it was time to save the rest of it.

Dean carried you back to your bedroom in silence.

He didn't ask if this was where you wanted to go—he just knew. This was where he used to find you curled beneath his flannels. This was where you used to curl into his chest and drink his whiskey and call him home without saying a word. This was where the haunting had started.

And now, maybe, this was where it would end.

The room smelled like you. Like worn cotton and soft skin and ghosted tears. But underneath it, Dean caught something else. Himself. Faded and stretched thin, but there. The memory of his clothes on your body. His glass at your lips. His seat still pulled back just how he used to leave it.

He paused in the doorway, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You watched him hesitate. You felt it in his grip. He looked at the bed like it might bite him. Like it wasn't his place anymore.

So you reached up, touched his jaw, and whispered, "Come here."

That was all it took.

He crossed the threshold and laid you down with the same care you'd once begged Michael to mimic—like you were breakable, and he was already mourning the pieces. He followed you onto the mattress without letting go, settling beside you, your towels still clinging damp to your skin, your bodies curved into one another like parentheses around a prayer.

For a long while, you didn't speak.

Dean's hand rested on your waist, his thumb moving slowly back and forth. You could feel the tension in his jaw, the storm still gathering behind his eyes. He was here. He was real. But his silence said everything—he was holding himself together with threads.

You turned your face toward his and pressed your lips to his collarbone. "I thought I'd never get you back."

Dean's breath caught.

"I missed you," you said. "So much I started thinking maybe I made you up."

He didn't speak right away. When he did, his voice was so low it barely made it out of his chest.

"I saw you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Through him. Through Michael. When he first came back to the bunker. I—I didn't have control, but I was still there. And I saw you."

You swallowed, throat burning.

"You were walking around in my flannels," he said, eyes distant, voice rough. "Nothing else. Just skin and cotton and grief. And I remember thinking, God, she's still mine. Look at her—she's still mine."

You felt the ache in his words. The guilt. The love.

"You drank from my glass," he went on, more broken now. "Sat in my chair. Took all the pieces of me and tried to build something that felt like home. And he—Michael—he didn't get it. But I did. I felt it."

You buried your face into his shoulder.

"And then..." He exhaled hard. "Then you told him to pretend to be me."

Your heart clenched.

"I heard you," he said. "Your voice. Soft. Begging. Needing. You said you couldn't take it anymore. That you needed him to pretend—to hold you like I would. Fuck you like I would. You said you didn't care if it was fake. You just wanted to feel like I was there."

You started crying again.

Dean turned fully onto his side, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed the salt from your cheeks.

"I wanted to die," he whispered. "Right then, I swear to God—I wanted to claw my way out of my own body and come back to you."

You touched his wrists, grounding him.

"He used my voice," Dean said, shaking his head. "My tone. My commands. Everything I ever gave you—he twisted it. He made you kneel. He made you pray."

You nodded. "He made me say the Lord's Prayer while he was inside me."

Dean flinched like you'd shot him.

"But I need you to know," you said softly, "that I never stopped seeing you. Even when I was begging him. Even when I let him use your face to hurt me... I was begging for you to come back."

Dean kissed you then.

Not possessive. Not desperate. Just slow. Like a man unlearning absence.

His lips brushed yours, again and again, like punctuation marks. Full stops. Pauses. Small gasps of thank God and I'm here and you're mine.

His hand slid beneath your towel, resting warm and wide over your bare hip.

Not pulling. Just touching.

You arched into him gently, letting the contact say what you couldn't. That you were here. That this was real. That you were still his.

He kissed your knuckles. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

"I've got you," he whispered. "And I'm never letting anything take me from you again."

You let yourself melt into him. For the first time in what felt like eternity, your bed felt safe again. Like your bed. Like his bed. Like something worth reclaiming.

Dean's fingers brushed through your damp hair, his voice lower now. "We'll get Sam."

You nodded.

"He gave himself up to save me," Dean said. "And now it's our turn."

You met his eyes. "We're bringing him home."

Dean leaned forward and kissed you again, long and sure, and when he pulled back, his voice was stronger.

"We save him." You rested your forehead against his, tears still clinging to your lashes. "And this time," you said, "none of us fall alone."

A week passed.

It didn't move like time. It moved like a wound. Every day stretched out wide and soundless, too long, too quiet, like the house itself had forgotten how to hold the weight of breath.

Sam was still gone. At least, the part of him that mattered.

Lucifer didn't rage or seethe like he had before. He didn't boast or posture. He was worse now. Quieter. More comfortable. He moved through the bunker with Sam's walk, Sam's voice, Sam's memories, but none of the hesitation. None of the pain. He looked at you with eyes that remembered how Sam used to love you—and twisted that memory into something clinical, almost tender.

It made your skin crawl.

And Dean—

Dean had barely touched you since the shower. At first, you told yourself it was just time. That he was processing. Healing. That the weight of everything—Michael, Sam, the way he'd come back into the world inside you—was still sinking in.

But time passed. And the distance grew.

He stopped sleeping beside you. Stopped eating meals in the same room. He drifted through the bunker like a ghost of himself, never cruel, never unkind—just... gone.

You'd find him in the garage, shirtless and silent, fake-fixing the same part of the Impala he'd already rebuilt twice. You'd catch him in the kitchen at 3am, standing in the dark, pouring whiskey like it was medicine. You'd pass each other in the hallway and he'd give you that tight, broken half-smile like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Like the words were stuck somewhere behind his teeth, choking him.

And every time you reached for him—every time your fingers brushed his arm, or you said his name—he pulled away.

Like your touch burned.

Tonight, you found him in his room. The door was cracked just enough to let the light bleed through, but not enough to invite anyone in. You stood there for a moment, hand resting on the frame, listening to the clink of glass. The slow pour of liquid. The kind of silence that only exists when someone's trying not to cry.

You pushed the door open.

Dean didn't look up. He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, his glass of whiskey cradled like something sacred. He was still dressed—jeans, grey t-shirt, boots unlaced. His shoulders were taut, tense, like he'd been carrying the same breath in his lungs for days and didn't know how to let it go.

"I've been calling you," you said softly.

He didn't answer. Just took a sip, eyes on the floor.

You stepped in and closed the door behind you. "I'm not playing this game with you anymore."

Dean's voice, when it came, was quiet. Tired. "What game is that?"

"The one where you disappear. Where you keep hiding from me like I did something wrong."

That got his eyes, just for a second. Sharp, green, glassy.

"You didn't do anything," he said. "That's the problem."

You crossed the room and stopped in front of him. "Then look at me."

Dean didn't move.

"Dean," you said again, more firmly this time. "Look at me."

Slowly, like it hurt, he lifted his eyes to yours. And what you saw there—

It wasn't anger. It wasn't blame. It was grief. Pure, bottomless grief. The kind that eats a man from the inside out. And under it—shame. So much shame it made your heart ache.

"I see it," he said, voice barely audible. "Every time I close my eyes. Every time you speak. I see it."

"See what?"

He exhaled shakily. Looked down at the floor, then back at you. And then, in the softest, most broken voice you'd ever heard from him:

"You. Crying. Begging. Praying while my body used you like some kind of fucking experiment."

The words hit like a whip. You didn't move. Didn't speak.

"I see your lips around my fingers," he continued, his voice unraveling by the word. "You on your knees. The way you whispered my name like it still meant something. Like I was still in there. And I just—"

He swallowed. His throat worked like he was trying not to throw up.

"I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't stop it. I was in there, and I watched him take every part of me you loved and twist it into something he could own."

You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands rising to cup his face.

"Dean—"

"I can't hold you without thinking about it," he whispered. "Can't touch you without wondering if it's me you want, or just the part of me he let you keep." His voice cracked. "I feel like he carved his name into you using my fucking hands."

You didn't let go. You held his jaw steady, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"I need you to hear me," you said. "Right now. Right here."

Dean's breath caught.

"I need you. You. Not him. Not the memory of him. Not the angel who used your face to keep me from losing my mind. You."

He closed his eyes like he couldn't bear it.

"You don't get to disappear," you said, quieter now, but no less firm. "I need you. Sam needs you. You don't get to hide in your guilt while the rest of us try to hold this place together."

"I'm trying," he said, brokenly. "I'm trying to figure out how to breathe again, and every time I look at you I feel like I'm back in the dark. Watching. Helpless."

"You're not helpless now."

"I should've fought harder."

"He locked you in your own body."

"I should've been stronger."

"You didn't do this, Dean."

"I felt every fucking second," he said. "I felt you break. And I couldn't do a thing."

You pressed your forehead to his.

"I chose to let him in," you whispered. "I begged him to pretend to be you. I wore your shirts and sat in your chair and drank your whiskey because I missed you so bad I wanted to bleed. I knew what I was doing."

Dean's hands gripped your thighs. His breath shook against your skin.

"He let me be close to you. Even if it was wrong. Even if it wasn't really you, it felt like you. And that was the only thing that kept me from burning this whole fucking world down."

He didn't speak. Didn't move.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

"You don't get to hate yourself for something I wanted."

His eyes were red now, glassy. But he was listening.

"We need to go after Sam," you said. "We are losing him. He is slipping every single day. Lucifer is comfortable. You know what that means."

Dean nodded slowly.

"So we fight," you said. "We save him. We bring him home."

He looked at you like he was trying to find himself in your face again.

"I'm doing this," you said. "With or without you."

And then you kissed him.

Not sweet. Not delicate. But true.

Your mouth met his like a promise, like a final prayer, like you're still mine and I am still yours and we are not done yet. And when you pulled back, you were both breathless. But Dean's hands hadn't left your skin. His grip was firmer now. Present. Alive.

You stood.

"I'm going to find him."

And before Dean could speak, before he could gather the broken pieces of his voice, you turned and walked out into the hall—leaving the door open behind you. Because he had a choice now.

To follow. Or to fall behind.

The hallway stretched long and silent ahead of you, every step toward Sam's door pounding through the soles of your feet like the earth itself was trying to warn you. The air tasted metallic. War-heavy. Like something ancient holding its breath.

You were halfway there when you felt the shift.

Not a sound. Not a warning. Just the air moving differently—quicker, hungrier—right before a rough hand caught the nape of your neck. You barely had time to gasp before you were spun, fast and breathless, your back crashing into the wall hard enough to knock the wind from your lungs.

Dean's mouth was on yours before you could speak—hot, bruising, desperate. Your gasp left your chest and he swallowed it, groaning like it hurt to breathe without you. His hands fisted in the oversized t-shirt you wore, dragging your hips flush to his like he was trying to fuse the space between you shut.

You whimpered into him as his body pressed harder, grinding against you in a rhythm that wasn't even trying to be subtle. You were aching, soaked and pulsing, and the rough drag of denim against the heat between your thighs made your knees buckle. Dean caught you, pinned you higher against the wall with one hand, the other bracing beside your head.

"Fuck," he groaned, lips sliding messily down your jaw. "Fuck, I'm so sorry, baby. I just needed—I just needed a second. To hate myself. To remember what it felt like before you looked at me like I was something good."

You pulled him back to your mouth with both hands tangled in his hair, kissing him like the week apart had carved a hollow in your chest that only he could fill.

"Don't care," you gasped between kisses. "Don't wanna hear it. Just—don't stop—Dean—please—"

His mouth slammed back into yours like he couldn't get close enough, couldn't get in deep enough, like if he could just breathe you in far enough, it might cleanse something that rotted inside him.

He ground against you again, the thick press of his cock dragging over your soaked core through the t-shirt and his jeans. You moaned into him, hips bucking shamelessly.

"You're everything," you whispered into his mouth. "You hear me? Everything."

Dean's lips moved down your throat, teeth grazing your skin, a breathless fuck pressed to your collarbone before he came back up, kissed you again, harder, sloppier.

You nipped at his lower lip, sucked it between your teeth, and he groaned, hips jerking.

"You've always been it," you said, voice cracking. "Even when it wasn't you—I was looking for you. I only wanted you."

Dean let out a high, broken noise, barely restrained, almost a sob, almost a growl. "I know," he rasped. "God, I know, I just—fuck, I don't deserve you—"

You kissed him so hard he staggered. Pulled at the back of his neck, tongue slipping past his lips to taste the whiskey and desperation on his breath. You were soaked. You were shaking. You were seconds from grabbing his belt and pulling him inside you right here, all be damned, consequences be damned, Lucifer be damned—

But then, you remembered.

Sam.

The plan. The promise.

You tore your mouth away from his, chest heaving, your hand flattening over his heart like it might still the pounding there.

"Dean," you said, voice ragged. "We can't. Not yet."

He leaned his forehead against yours, panting, nodding even as his hips still rolled against you once, slow and sinful.

"I know," he whispered. "I know."

You swallowed, blinked hard, felt your lip trembling. "I love you."

The sound Dean made wasn't human. A sharp, breathless whine, high in his throat, like your words had struck something holy in him. He kissed you again, softer now, slower, and when he pulled back, his hand slid from the wall to cradle your face.

"I'm with you," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You nodded, breath still shaky, heart slamming against your ribs.

"We get him back," you said.

Dean's jaw clenched. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. "Let's go save my brother."

The door to Sam's room was open.

That should've been the first warning. He never left it that way. Not before. And certainly not now—not since the day Lucifer took up residence behind his eyes and began wearing your family like a second skin.

But the room yawned open like a mouth tonight, dark and still and waiting.

You stood just outside the threshold, Dean beside you, both of you silent. His breath was still uneven from the hallway, chest lifting and falling beneath his shirt like something in him hadn't fully settled—like something in him had only just begun to stir.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to. You stepped inside.

The air was heavy, warm. Thicker than it should've been, like the walls were holding something they couldn't quite bear.

And there—sitting cross-legged on the bed, barefoot, elbows on his knees—was Sam. Or at least, what was left of him. He tilted his head when he saw you, smiling. Not with Sam's softness, but something else entirely. A smile that curved like a knife and promised to cut.

"Look what the dog dragged in," Lucifer said, voice bright and theatrical, like a line he'd been rehearsing for days. His eyes flicked lazily from you to Dean, then back again, amused. Relaxed. The predator pretending to be the host.

You didn't answer.

Dean took a slow step beside you, jaw tight, eyes locked on the thing wearing his brother's face.

Lucifer sighed and leaned back against the wall, stretching like a cat in a patch of sun. "And here I thought we'd made peace," he went on. "You got your boy back, I got the vessel of my dreams. But no. You just can't leave well enough alone, can you, little thing?"

He turned his head, studying you. His gaze was sharp, knowing. Disgustingly intimate.

"You've got a thing for archangels, don't you?" He asked, tone lilting. "First Michael, now me. And you say I'm the pervert."

Still, you said nothing.

Lucifer's smile widened. "Oh, don't be shy. It's not like you were modest before. Should I describe it again? That night in your room—the way you begged. Please, you said."

You took a slow, steady step forward. Dean followed.

Lucifer's voice dropped, mocking reverence. "Cried in his lap. Prayed with our cocks inside you. Said Dean's name while Michael marked you like a sacrament. You wanted that. Don't forget that."

The words sliced clean—but you didn't flinch. Not this time. You stepped forward again, closer, slow and deliberate.

"Thought so," Lucifer murmured. "You want to save Sam now? Sorry. Too late. He gave himself to me. Willingly. That's what consent looks like, sweetheart. I own this temple."

Dean's voice came low and quiet behind you. "You don't own shit."

Lucifer blinked. Turned his gaze on him.

"You always were the dull one," he said with a smirk. "Little brother gets the brains, and you... you get to be the walking trauma response. A blunt instrument. Honestly, I'm surprised she picked you."

Dean didn't move. Didn't blink. But something shimmered beneath the surface—heat rising under his skin. A pressure building in the air. Something divine, ancient, and aching to be used.

"You think Sam's not still in there," Dean said, voice quiet but steady. "You think he's not fighting you. But I can feel it."

Lucifer smiled, but it faltered at the edges. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Sammy's not screaming anymore, is he?" Dean asked. "Because he's pulling. Right now. I know it."

Lucifer's jaw twitched.

Another step.

You were close now. At the foot of the bed. Lucifer's posture shifted, almost imperceptibly—like he felt it too. The tension in the air. The slow gathering of light around Dean that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Still trying to play hero?" Lucifer asked him. "You think you're holy now? Because Michael gave you back? You think grace is some kind of redemption, Dean?"

Dean's breath was tight. "No. I think it's fuel."

Lucifer's expression cracked—barely—but enough.

Dean stepped closer, and the air shimmered again. His shoulder brushed yours, heat blooming beneath his skin like fire-banked ash.

You looked at Sam. Really looked. And what you saw, beneath the smirk and the cruelty, was a flicker. A tremble. Something not quite right in his eyes.

He was still in there.

You moved, slowly, until you were at the edge of the bed. Lucifer didn't stop you. Didn't blink. Just watched.

You sat beside him. Soft. Steady. Your hand rose. And when your palm cupped Sam's cheek, the skin beneath your touch was shaking.

"I need you," you whispered. Your thumb brushed the hollow beneath his eye.

Lucifer exhaled slowly. "He can't hear you."

"I love you."

Lucifer's face pinched.

"Come back," you said. "Please, Sam. Come back to us."

Dean dropped to his knees beside the bed, one hand on the mattress, the other gripping Sam's shoulder like a tether.

"You hear her?" He whispered. "You know who we are. You know."

Sam's eyes closed. His jaw trembled. Not Lucifer's smirk. Not control.

Pain.

"You're not alone," you said again, leaning forward, pressing your forehead to his.

The air pulsed.

Dean's breath hitched. His body arched—just slightly—as something ignited inside of him. A light under his sternum. A holy thing, half-buried and not quite his, but present.

Michael. You saw it in his eyes as they went glassy, then clear. A spark of gold. A flare of grace.

Dean's voice broke. "Sammy," he whispered. "Come home."

And then—

Lucifer screamed. Not rage. Not performance. Terror. His hands lashed out, clutching at the air, at you, at anything. But it was too late. The consent was gone. The lock had broken. Sam had let go.

Light cracked across the room like lightning through stained glass. Lucifer's mouth opened in a howl that didn't sound human. And then he was gone. Just like that. A flash. A gasp. And Sam collapsed into your arms, boneless and trembling.

You didn't know how long the light had been gone. Maybe minutes. Maybe more. But when you looked up, when the silence finally settled around you like dust, Sam was still in your arms. Breathing. Shaking. Alive.

Dean was crouched on the other side of the bed, one hand still pressed to Sam's shoulder, like he hadn't dared let go until the room stopped glowing. His face was pale, slack with disbelief. His mouth opened once—twice—but nothing came out.

Sam exhaled, ragged, like the first breath after drowning. His eyes were wet. His lips were bitten red. He blinked slowly, and when he looked at Dean, something broke.

"You came back."

Dean didn't say anything. He just nodded—once—and crawled onto the bed like a man moving through holy ground. He reached for Sam like he didn't trust his hands to hold anything that wasn't grief, and when his palm found the back of Sam's neck, his head bowed.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, voice thick. "Yeah, I did."

Sam's arms trembled. You felt it. And then suddenly, he was leaning forward, gripping Dean's shoulder, pressing his forehead to his brother's like he was trying to confirm it—trying to feel that he was real.

You didn't speak. You didn't interrupt. You just curled between them, one hand on Sam's arm, the other on Dean's thigh, your cheek resting against Sam's chest, eyes wide and wet and locked on Dean.

And for the first time since you lost them—you had them both.

One breath. One bed. One bruised, breathing, battered miracle.

Dean's hand slipped down to your side, tugging you closer, and you let him pull. Sam's fingers found yours. No one spoke for a while. There was nothing that could be said.

But your mouth moved anyway. You kissed Dean's chest—soft, reverent. His collarbone. His jaw. Then Sam's arm. His shoulder. The corner of his mouth. Small, aching things. Little devotions. They didn't stop you. They didn't even react—just watched you through heavy lashes, like they couldn't believe they got to be touched again.

Eventually, Sam cleared his throat. "The night Dean said yes..."

Your breath caught.

He glanced at Dean, who gave a short nod. Guilt flared behind his eyes, but he didn't speak.

Sam looked at you.

"You weren't there," he said. "You were here. Cas and I—we'd just come back from a lead that went nowhere. Dean hadn't said a word to us in hours."

Your lips grazed the edge of Dean's arm.

"We found him in the woods," Sam said quietly. "He was kneeling. Alone. Like he was already halfway gone."

Dean's jaw twitched.

"I tried to stop him. I said—I said I wasn't ready to lose him. That there had to be another way." Sam's voice cracked. "But he looked at me like he was already dead."

You looked up. Dean's eyes were fixed on the far wall, jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might break.

Sam continued. "He told Michael yes. And then he was gone."

You kissed Dean's shoulder, slow and soft, and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

He didn't look at you. Just muttered, "Don't."

"I mean it," you said. "I should've been there."

Dean finally turned. His eyes were glassy. "You needed to be here. I didn't want you to see it."

You pressed a kiss to the edge of his throat. "You didn't get to make that call."

Sam's hand came up, caught your wrist, and for a moment, you weren't sure what he was going to say. But then he brought your hand to his chest, held it there, and said:

"I knew you'd get me back."

You looked at him, breath hitching. His face was solemn, eyes warm. You nodded. "I promised I'd stop at nothing."

He nodded back.

And then you were moving—settling between them, one leg over Dean's thigh, your hand still resting over Sam's heartbeat. Your body folded between theirs like a prayer.

There was no way to make this moment neat. No clean way to fold three broken hearts into one another and pretend the cracks didn't show. But they were here. And so were you. And for now, for tonight—that was enough.

Later, when the shaking had stopped, when Sam's breathing had evened, when the light had bled out of Dean's bones and you were all just skin and blood again—you lay tangled between them in the aftermath.

No one spoke for a while.

There was only the weight of breath. The subtle rhythm of recovery. Your head on Dean's shoulder. Sam's palm resting flat against your thigh. Dean's fingers brushing idly against your hip like he couldn't stop touching just to make sure you were still here.

It wasn't silence. It was sacred stillness.

But eventually, you broke it.

"We need to call Cas."

Dean shifted, his arm curling tighter around you.

"He needs to see that you're both... okay," you added. "That you're back."

Sam nodded, slow, head against the pillow.

You hesitated, then winced—just slightly. "He's probably still freaking out."

Dean noticed. "What?"

"I, uh..." You pressed your lips together. "He... might've seen something. That he wasn't supposed to."

Both brothers stilled.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Define something."

You squirmed a little deeper into the mattress. "The aftermath of... that night. You know. The... threesome."

Dean groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "Oh, come on."

Sam's voice was flat. "He walked in?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I was still in Michael's lap. His grace was still buried in me. Lucifer was being smug. And Cas—he looked like he wanted to scrub his eyes with bleach."

Dean turned his head, wincing. "Christ."

"He told Michael that you two wouldn't take it lightly," you added softly. "Said I belonged to you."

That silenced the room again. But not painfully. Just weightfully. Like truth laid bare on a table.

You sighed. Then softly, reverently, you whispered, "Cas?"

The air shifted. A breath caught in the fabric of the world. And a moment later, he was there. Standing in the doorway. Looking at all three of you like he wasn't sure if this was real.

His eyes landed on Dean first. "Dean," he said quietly.

Dean blinked. "Hey, sunshine."

You could feel the way Sam huffed beside you, amusement soft and stunned. Castiel's expression didn't change, but something about his shoulders relaxed.

You gestured to the foot of the bed. "Come sit down."

He did. It was awkward, but gentle. Like watching someone return to a dream they thought they'd lost. Castiel looked at Dean, then Sam, then down at you between them.

"I'm glad you're both back," he said. "You were gone a long time."

Sam gave him a look full of apology and reverence. "Thank you. For not giving up on us."

Castiel nodded once. Then he turned to you. "And you?" He asked. "Are you okay?"

You looked at him. Then at Dean. Then at Sam. You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Sam's lips—chaste, but intimate. Grateful. Then turned, cupped Dean's jaw, and kissed him too. Warm. Anchoring. Home. And when you looked back at Castiel, your voice trembled, but your smile didn't.

"I'm home again," you said. "Finally."

He said nothing. Just nodded. And then the quiet settled once more.

Not grief. Not fear. Not waiting.

Just stillness.

You curled tighter between the boys, your body a seam between everything you'd lost and everything you'd survived. And somewhere in the back of your mind—deep beneath your skin—you felt the echo of a voice that wasn't yours. That wasn't Michael's. That wasn't Lucifer's.

Just something ancient. Something sacred.

And on the seventh day… the storm ceased.

And there was ruin. And there was blood. And there was resurrection.

And the girl who bore the weight of heaven and hell… was no longer kneeling.

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

[spn-fanfic-reblog-writes]

>.>

Dean when you're ovulating and horny AF 😂😂😂

Dean can always tell when it’s nearing that time of the month. Not because he keeps track or anything, but because you turn into a freakin’ succubus, hell bent on riding him until his brean leaks out of his cock.

Not that he minds. At all. It’s actually his favorite time of the month because he loves how easily he can work you up and how you’re always ready to go no matter what. Sometimes, however, you get a little violent with him, dragging him by the collar into dark corners of the bunker, or clawing at his thighs beneath the table while he’s trying to work. He’s more than happy to take as many breaks as you need, helping to get you off as much as possible while your libido is skyrocketing, but sometimes he’s exhausted and his poor cock just can’t take it anymore. He’s not as young as he used to be and he needs a little rest in between your attacks. He does his best, however, letting you ride his face or dry hump his leg until you’re satisfied; never once complaining about your temporary nympho-phase.

Dean can always tell when you’re in that special kinda mood, and boy does he love it.

Dirty Headcanons

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 14 - Water Is Forever

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I love writing chapters where Bobby comes in with a steel chair to once again prove he's father of the year.

Chapter title from Hurt Feelings by Halsey

Word Count: 17.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean, Sam, and Bobby go on a hunt, and you and Jo take a road trip. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 13 - Chapter 15

Read on A03!

The day had been long. Long and slow and heavy, all howls in the wood and misshapen faces on trees, machetes in their hands and Dean staring at his phone, hoping She’d call.

She wouldn’t. She when they’d left Her at Bobby’s, She hadn’t even looked up for Her book. Bobby said he’d call Jo to make sure She didn’t burn down the house on accident.

They all knew She wouldn’t.

The house was where the books were. 

But She might burn down herself. Jo needed to be there, because Dean couldn’t be—not now, not as sand slowly slipped them by on the wind, and his time became thin—but She shouldn’t be alone right now. She’d spiral. Dean knew Her.

He knew that, before, he would’ve been worried he’d return to Her hand around her own neck and long, raised scratches on Her skin. And now, when he truly knew everything, he knew he’d return to that. To panic in Her eyes and strangled sounds from Her throat, Her back pressed to the wall and the Blade in her hands. 

Relief would sag in Her shoulders, when she saw he was in one piece. It always had, over these past two months, and he’d done all he could not to leave Her side. It was the damn least he could do, really, when She was still losing Her mind to save him. And She hadn’t wanted him to go on this hunt. She’d thought it was a bad idea, that they shouldn’t be letting Dean put himself in situations where he’d be in danger right now.

She was right. But Dean had insisted on this last, semi-normal hunt—he wasn’t allowed to call it a last hunt, because he had once, and She’d looked like she was about to punch him—and promised he wouldn’t come back with a single scratch.

She’d glared at him, and made him pinky promise, but he’d gotten away with it. They’d left two days ago, and—unless someone fucked up—they’d be back tomorrow.

And She was going to kill him.

Because his hands were covered in his own blood.

“Told ya’ not to run, boy.” Bobby said from above, leaning over Dean’s body to see the tear in his jeans. “We ain’t tryin’ to break you here.”

Sam hummed Her name from ahead, shooting Dean a smirk over his shoulder. “She’s gonna be mad at you-“

“Shut your face, Sammy.” Dean pushed himself on his palms, ignoring the splintering wood and mud from the dirt. “She won’t get pissed I fell. She’ll kick your ass, though-“

“For what, letting you fall-“

“For forgetting my fucking bubble wrap. Supposed to be watching me, bitch, making sure I don’t get hurt-“

“I can’t stop you from being stupid, jerk, Bobby told you not to run-“

“I wasn’t running-“

“We’re not blind, Dean, you were obviously fucking running, and she’s gonna kill you-“

“Not if I kill you first-“

“That doesn’t make any sense-“

“Hey!” Bobby blocked Dean’s path with an arm over his chest, running his free hand over his face with a sigh. “Both of ya’, shut the fuck up. Dean, stop runnin’, and I’ll look at that when we’re done to make sure it don’t get infected. Sam, stop teasin’ him, he’s sensitive.”

Dean scowled. “Hey-“

“And,” Bobby snapped Her name, completely ignoring Dean’s glare. “She’ll kill all three of us if we don’t deliver Prince Charming back by sunrise. So damn focus, or I’m callin’ this all off. And apologize to each other like men, instead of little fuckin’ babies.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam kicked a rock with a frown, but they mumbled apologies, and kept moving through the woods.

It was just a vamp nest. Simple. In and out, take the edge off with the hunting and hopefully come out with their homework.

She’d found mention of an old lore book that this vamp nest should have a copy of, and could be another lead.

Likely an empty one.

They all knew better than to tell Her that.

Besides, this was pretty much just a normal hunt. They’d stopped doing normal hunts when Dean’s timer hit one month, it and had been taking a toll. Sam sat too tall and rigid in his chair, Bobby always had a beer on the table, and She-

Dean was really fucking worried about Her. She’d only remember to eat when food was put in front of Her, only go to the bathroom when Dean asked when she’d done it last. Every night She’d pass out over a book—Dean waiting across the table, pretending to do his own research, but mostly just staring at Her—and he’d carry Her to bed. It was eating at his gut every second, how She was doing this to herself for him, and She wouldn’t even entertain the idea of slowing down or resting.

That was the real reason he wanted Jo there. She couldn’t be alone, but She wouldn’t do this, so Dean needed to know She’d have someone to watch her while he was out. 

Mostly, he just wanted to know She’d have someone at all.For after. For when the timer ran out, and Dean was either there, or… Not. 

It was looking a little damn bleak.

“If we don’t get these pieces of shit tonight,” Bobby grunted, his machete resting over his shoulder. “We’re headin’ back. It’s- We don’t got the time to waste on a goose chase.”

Dean didn’t protest. It was the right call, because they didn’t. And he’d needed this, but not more than he needed Her, and he couldn’t have Her if he was goddamn-

He wasn’t allowed to think that word. 

So he thought of Her instead. Probably exactly where he left Her in the library, covered in a blanket because Jo wasn’t strong enough to carry Her to bed, maybe with bite marks on Her hand and too-hot coffee seared on Her tongue.

“Bobby, you get any calls-“

“She’s fine, Dean.” Bobby sighed, shooting him a flat look. “She’ll can handle herself.”

Dean frowned, because She could. She could spin a knife between Her hands and drive it into a monster or demons heart without breaking a sweat, looking beautiful when the blood splattered on Her face and glowing after She washed it away.

But Her handling herself wasn’t what Dean was worried about.

It was the fact that any blood She split might escalate to being Her own. It was that She could handle herself, but son of a bitch She couldn’t take care of Herself. Not in a way that counted, that didn’t make Dean’s skin itch and crawl with something bitter, because he should be there. She wasn’t sleeping to try and save him, and—even though a second didn’t pass where Dean wasn’t trying to talk Her into just a moment of rest—the least he could do in return was take care of Her.

He was, somehow, the only one who ever really seemed to know how to care for Her. 

“I tried to do your thing once, by the way,” Sammy had said last night, watching Dean from over the top of his computer. “Doesn’t look like it works when it’s no, you know, you.”

Dean had frowned, leaning back against the headboard of his bed, knowing he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight because it was too big, and there was an empty, dull spot to his right where She was supposed to be. “What are you talking about, my thing.”

“That thing you do. With- You know.” Sam had said Her name with a shrug, and Dean had glanced back to that empty spot with a frown. “Where you go like this, and she stops freaking out.” Sam ran his own thumb down his nose, giving Dean a pointed look. “It doesn’t work when it’s not you.”

“I-“ Dean had swallowed, shaking his head. “That’s not my thing-“

“Yeah, it is.” Sam had shrugged, as if what he was saying was nothing at all. “Only thing I’ve ever seen work, by the way. You should be careful with that.”

Dean had heard the underlying words. You should be careful with Her.

He was being careful with Her. He’d been more and more careful, since everything had fallen into place, and he finally fucking understood. It had been like he was staring at the most important photograph in the world, but a lense flare had been blocking half of it. But it had been a photo in the broad sunlight, of silver water in a lake, with flowers and life all around it and the flare placed so perfectly that it could just be a reflection. A part of the picture that was unknowable with purpose, that no one was supposed to see. And he’d wanted to. Dean had always wanted to mean more to Her than anyone, and see past that lense flare because he was an exception to Her, the only one allowed to see that too bright, secret, hidden spot.

And he hadn’t been. If anything, Dean had been the exception because every other damn person got to see but him.

He should hate Her for that. 

He was done trying to.

Because now he could see it. See Her. All of Her. And for the first time since he’d met Her, Dean almost fully understood Her. 

And son of a bitch, every single part of Her was bright and beautiful, and he didn’t goddamn deserve it at all.

It wasn’t a lense flare. It had never been a lense flare. It was a covered part of the lake, where everything was overgrown and tangled and colorful, almost more blinding within itself.

Dean wanted to live in it. He wanted to know everything about it, because it was part of Her and nothing that was Her could ever be wrong. If it was an ingrained, sensitive and angry organ, he'd tend to it. If it was a stained window that filtered all Her light, he'd worship it. If it was a sickness, he’d cure it.

He just had to know it first.

"So you've been- Just your whole life?" He'd frowned at Her in Bobby's kitchen, his words slow and careful. "Or was it like, a puberty thing?"

All of them gathered in the flat, hot and tight air to walk Dean through the situation. Sam leaning against the counter, Bobby in the doorway—braced slightly, as if she was going to make a break for it and he wanted to be ready—and Dean across from Her at the table.

He'd thought about sitting next to Her—feeling the heat from Her body, pressing his thigh to Her's to keep her steady and check that this wasn't a dream—but then he wouldn't be able to look at Her. Know what questions would cross a line from seeing it written all over Her face, figure out which words were lies as if it were a sixth sense. 

He wouldn't be able to catch Her hands and pry them apart when She picked her skin bloody and raw.

“I-“ She’d glanced at Bobby—as if She was unsure of her own answer—rubbing the scar on Her palm as she spoke. “It- I mean, it could’ve been a puberty thing-“

“Maybe. Dunno.” Bobby had shrugged, his voice barely a grunt. “Didn’t take you off the road splittin’ trees and causin’ creeks to vanish-“

“Creeks to-“ Dean had gaped at Her. “Oregon.”

She’d flinched slightly. Dean had forced himself to grip the edge of the table instead of reaching for Her. “Yeah.”

“I thought I was going crazy.” He’d muttered under his breath. “Whole thing just- Poof, dry-“

“What happened in Oregon?” Sam had asked, and She’d let out a long sigh.

“I- Dean freaked me out, and I lost control.”

Dean had frowned. “I was just pissing, sweetheart-“

“You were missing.” She’d snapped, something hot in Her eyes that had made Dean blink. “I couldn’t find you, Dean, I got scared-“

“And lost control.” Sam had finished, running a hand through his hair. “Did we- You never thought about being, I dunno- Like me?”

Dean had tensed, sitting up a little taller in his chair—he loved Sammy, he did, but two demon-blood kids who he couldn’t leave if he tried would drive him out of his mind—but She’d just shaken her head.

“No.” She’d whispered. “It’s- There’s no way it’s that. You told me about the blood, Sam, and that just sounded like-“ She’d let out a long slow breath, staring at her hands as she continued. “It never hurt you.”

“It killed me.” Sam had countered, raising his brows. “And I got, uh-“

“Migranes.” Dean had muttered, something his head spinning around the word hurt. This had hurt Her, and he’d never done anything to protect Her. To help Her. He’d never even noticed, he’d just thought it was another thing about Her that couldn’t be understood, he’d been a blinded fucking idiot and now She’d been hurt.

Sam had nodded. “Yeah, uh, that. So maybe like- You said you’re in pain a lot-“

She’d let out a dry laugh. “That’s because I’m not using it. It’s- I can use it. That’s not a problem. I just won’t, and it doesn’t like that.”

There had been a long silence, and Dean had felt something bubbling up his throat that he wasn’t able to stop.

“Why?”

She’d blinked at him, that furrow on Her brow a little tighter than usual. “Wha-“

“If it’s hurting you,” Dean had grunted. “Just- Fucking use it, Princess. You almost killed Lilith back there-“

“I didn’t mean to-“

“Do I sound like I’m against it?” Dean had said Her name, leaning forward to hold Her gaze, because this was so simple. Nothing should be allowed to hurt Her, and if the reason Dean had spent years keeping Her skin from being clawed apart and Her body from curling in on itself was because of this, it shouldn’t be a question that She should just goddamn stop. “If you can do half of what it sounds like, I’ll never get on your ass about hunting without a gun again, you just gotta use it-“

“No.” She’d snapped. “You don’t- I can’t. I won’t.”

Sam had said Her name slowly, and Bobby had sighed in the doorway. Like he’d known exactly where this was going. “Maybe Dean’s right. I mean, you’ve killed demons before-“

“I didn’t- No.” Her voice hadn’t been firm. There had been something desperate and fragile in it, almost like a plea. “I won’t. I won’t be that. I won’t. You don’t let Sam use the blood, and you hate witches, De, I won’t-“ She’d swallowed, cutting herself off with too soft words. “I won’t.”

Dean hadn’t had the words to tell Her that it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the same. He didn’t want this to be the situation, but it’s what they goddamn had, and Dean had always been good at working with what he had. If She came with this whole complicated witch shit, then Dean would work with Her, because he had Her. 

He didn’t want Sam to use the blood because he’d promised Dad, and it had gotten him goddamn killed. He hated witches because they sucked, and She didn’t suck. She was awesome. Amazing. The warmest water in the shower and the best pie at that roadside diner in Texas and all the brighter stars he’d ever gotten to watch on the roof of the Impala. 

He couldn’t let Her just fucking hurt herself. 

And he never knew when to stop. 

“You don’t even know what that is, Princess.” He’d muttered, narrowing his eyes. “You said witch, but I’ve dealt with witches. Witches don’t make creeks freakin’ vanish.”

She’d shot him an exhausted glare. “It doesn’t matter what I am, Dean, it’s dangerous-“

“Maybe it’s not.” He’d snapped. “If not using it is what’s making you hurt, maybe you should use it. That’s feelin’ pretty logical to me, sweetheart, and if you’d told me sooner, I coulda helped.”

A shadow had eclipsed in Her eyes, and Dean’s gut had twisted slightly. “You said you weren’t mad at me.” She’d whispered, and there it was.

She sounded small.

He was the lowest piece of shit in the world.

“I’m not.” Dean didn’t know how he’d managed not to reach for Her. It took willpower he’d never had before. “I- Shit, I’m not, but-“ There was something so hot in his body. Louder than fury and purer than the sun, all for Her because She’d been hurting and nothing had saved Her. “You don’t have any idea, Princess, and it’s been happening for goddamn years-“

“Dean.” Bobby had grunted, his tone a low warning Dead really didn’t care about. “We’ve been tryin’, boy, but in case you didn’t notice, there’s been a lot of shit to deal with-“

“I coulda helped.” Dean had hissed, glaring between Sam and Bobby, almost shielding Her from their view, like that was worth anything at all. “You two couldn’t do shit, but I woulda fucking helped, and now there’s- Son of a bitch, we don’t have enough time-“

He’d apologized to Her. Later, after Bobby had made him take a walk and he’d ended up working on Her car for hours—his hands covered in grease and knees scraped with dirt—Dean had returned to Her side in the dark, muttered a low apology, and been forgiven. 

“Promise you’re not mad at me?” She’d whispered, and Dean had almost stomped downstairs to find a mirror Bobby didn’t care about that much, just so he could punch himself.

He’d hooked his pinky through Her’s, his voice barely a rasp. “Not mad. Promise. Just-“ He’d let out a long breath, shaking his head. “If I ask a question, and you wanna stab me, could I get a warning first?”

A small smile had tugged at Her lips. “Is it a stupid question?”

“Kinda. Not sure yet.”

“Then no.”

He’d raised his brows. “No, you won’t stab me-“

“No, you don’t get a warning.”

Dean had chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess I deserve that one. Was a bit of a douchebag.”

She’d only hummed, something flashing over Her face Dean hadn’t understood. “What’s the question, De?”

“What- Shit.” He’d let out a long breath, rolling onto his back as he ran a hand over his face. “What’s it feel like?”

There had been a long pause, and when Dean had turned his head, She’d been staring at him with a wide, open expression that had ached in his whole body. 

“What?”

Her voice had been so soft. So goddamn nervous and soft, and Dean had needed to swallow down a roar of something primal in his chest, just to the right of his heart, that had just wanted to grab Her and never let go. 

“What’s it feel like.” He’d repeated, unable to look away from the shining lighthouse of Her eyes, splitting right through him in the dark. “The- your witch thing.”

“I-“ She’d drawn Her lips into a tight line, watching Dean so intently he’d been worried Her gaze would carve him open. “I don’t-“

“If you don’t wanna tell me-“

“No.” She’d whispered, impossibly fast, and Dean had blinked. “I mean, I want to. I do. I just- I don’t know how.”

“Well, just tell me what you told Sam-“

“I didn’t tell Sam. He’s never asked.”

Dean had blinked at Her in obvious confusion—Sammy loved these weird things, Her having some sort of concrete and ocean-razing power would’ve been his freakin’ wet dream—and She’d let out a long breath.

“I- I’ve told him what I told Bobby and Jo.” She’d mumbled. “There’s something dark, and it’s power and makes me sick and I can’t control it, and there’s something glowing right here-“ She’d poked Dean’s chest, just to the right of his heart, and he was still a little sure She’d somehow branded him even deeper than before. “And it’s white, and it- It’s just there. It’s loud. Strong.”

“Alright.” Dean had held Her gaze. “And what’s it feel like?”

She’d stared at him for another long second—almost as if She was daring him to take it back—better mumbling, “Which part?”

He’d shrugged. “Whichever you want, sweetheart. How about the, uh, that dark thing? What’s it feel like when you do use it-“

“Big.” She’d whispered, before the question was even fully out of Dean’s mouth. “It’s- It all feels really big. It really doesn’t hurt to use, I promise, it’s just- It’s big.”

Dean had nodded, unable to swallow down his next grumble. “Hurts not to use, though.”

“Yeah.” She’d sighed. “But I told you-“

“I know. You won’t use it.” He’d scanned over Her cautious, beautiful features—he always could’ve fucking sworn that She was somehow shining with light from inside, and he’d been right the whole goddamn time—and chose his next words carefully. “What about that- The whole glowy thing, what’s up with that-“

“I don’t know.” She mumbled. “I don’t know any of it, De, it just happens-“

“Then what’s it feel like?”

It took a beat for Her to answer that one. “Big.”

He’d given Her a flat look. “Princess, that’s what you said about the-“

“They both feel big, Winchester.” She’d snapped, narrowing Her eyes. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to tell you, they’re big and powerful and it’s- Sometimes I don’t know what to do with it, and I’ve never thought about this before-“

“Hey- It’s okay.” Dean had pulled Her into his chest as the furrow had deepened, and Her breaths had started to become short. “You’re good, I’m- You’re good.” He’d run his hands through Her hair, because he’d had two months left at the time, and he’d been really sick of not having Her in every way She’d let him. 

And She’d let him have that. She’d let Dean hold Her and touch Her, soothe Her tears and mutter that She didn’t have to answer now. She could think about it, and there would always be later.

They both knew that was a lie, and Dean had pretended not to hear the choked sound She’d made when he’d said it—although he hadn’t been able to stop his hands from holding Her a little tighter—because just then, he’d needed to pretend it was the truth. That he wasn’t being selfish, keeping Her here. That it was fine for Her to break down now—and it was, it always would be, and long as Dean was permitted to be there to pick Her up—as they’d just talk about it later.

And He’d felt it then. Something humming through the air that he’d somehow always missed, made of so much of Her he could drown in it. It had been forged from something stronger than starlight, every single bit of it, and he hadn’t been able to stop his last, low question.

“If they’re both big,” he’d muttered in Her ear, keeping her folded into his chest. “How have you been able to tell them apart?”

She’d sighed again, and buried Her face in Dean’s shoulder. He hadn’t let himself think about it too hard. “They- The white thing doesn’t like the dark thing, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“Yeah.” She’d swallowed. “Sometimes they’re- they blend together. And it’s- That doesn’t feel bad.”

“When’s that happen?”

“When I’m somewhere good.”

When they’d drifted off to sleep, Dean had made a silent vow to himself. 

After they reached the end of this, he’d find somewhere good for Her. Anywhere she wanted to be, even if it was the middle of the woods without TV or air conditioning, or somewhere too hot or cold or dry or dirty, Dean would bring Her there. He’d learn to sail, so he didn’t have to fly, and if there were no other fucking options he’d down a bottle of Xanax and get Her on a plane. 

And he’d stay there, with Her, if she asked. If he dropped Her on pink-sand beaches—he’d seen some in a movie once, and he wasn’t sure if they were real, but they seemed like the type of thing that would make Her happy—and She took his hand and whispered stay here, De, he would. In a heartbeat that was held in Her hands, he’d say yes.

Until then, he just had to do this. Just had to get out.

It was simple, when he thought of it like that.

He just had to get out.

“She ain’t called.”

Dean blinked at Bobby with frown. “I didn’t ask-“

“Don’t try and fool me, boy, you got that fuckin’ look-“ Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face. “I know when you’re gonna ask about her. She ain’t called, Jo ain’t either, and I’m sure they’re fine. Probably just readin’.”

They probably were just reading. She was probably forming blisters on Her fingers from holding the pencil too long, Jo had hopefully gotten Her to at least go to the bathroom, and when Dean got back She’d have only moved an inch from where he left Her.

But there was a faded and burnt film reel—looping in Dean’s head and made of the past few months, plus countless nightmares where She burned on the ceiling—where they weren’t just reading. Where pushing herself to the edge was making Her flicker once more, and She was trying to strange that power in Her body down, and Dean wasn’t there to help. Where they came back and the pages had been ripped from books because She’d lost control—Bobby had mentioned that happening a few times, and he hadn’t managed to hide how She’d stuck her hand in ice water for two hours afterwards—and Dean wasn’t fast enough so calm Her down, from imploding on Herself and moving further and further into a shell.

“Bobby, are you sure the nest is in this direction?” Sam called from a few yards ahead, and Bobby rolled his eyes.

“Course I’m sure, Sam, you’re the one who found the damn leads-“

“Sorry, I just wanted to check, we should’ve been there by now-“

“Well, we’ve been walkin’ real slow thanks to someone’s fuckin’ moping-“

Dean scowled. “I’m dying in two weeks, Bobby.” He muttered, picking up his pace to walk at Sam’s side. “I’m allowed to mope or brood or do whatever the hell else I want.”

“You ain’t dyin’, Dean.” Bobby grunted, pushing his shotgun further up his shoulder. “Let’s find this nest and get the fuckin’ thing done.”

“Plus,” Sam drawled Her name, smirking slightly. “You know you’re not supposed to say that word, Deano-“

Dean’s jaw clenched, and Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Sam, he tries to punch you, and I ain’t gonna stop him.” Bobby paused, giving Dean another firm look. “But he’s right. You ain’t supposed to use that word.”

Dean knew that. He knew it better than anyone. But everything was so fucking dull and heavy, and he missed Her, and they were running out of time. It was starting to feel like iron around his chest, sinking into that pit in his body, how little time they had left.

“Hey, dude.” Sam gave him a cautious, soft look, his voice too low. Too worried. “I’m just messing with you, you know that? She’s- We’re gonna find a way-“

“Say the right thing, Sammy.” Dean muttered, glaring at the mud below his boots. “She’ll find the way.”

Sam sighed, and Bobby cut off any of his words with a grunt.

“I’ve known that girl my whole damn life, Dean. I didn’t train her at huntin’ cause I wanted to, I trained ‘er cause she started sneakin’ around and doin’ it herself after I said no, and she was already better then every damn asshole I’d met. Took her three days to finish a hunt that woulda taken the best I knew, your Daddy included, a damn week and a hundred bullets.” Bobby sighed, giving Dean an odd look he didn’t fully understand. “If anyone’s gettin’ this, it’s her. Then we can all lock ‘er in her room until she gets a month of proper damn rest.”

“And I do have ideas.” Sam cut in with a mumble. “I was thinking we could summon Lilith, do the Devil’s Trap-“

Bobby shook his head. “Won’t work. Lilith ain’t able to be summoned, not by anythin’ human.”

Dean frowned, because he’d heard Bobby say that before. In the kitchen, when She’d suggested the exact same thing, and he’d used to those same words on Her. But She hadn’t just slumped like Sammy was now. She’d frowned, looked at Her hands, and stood a little taller as something flashed over Her face.

Dean hadn’t understood that expression. He’d only known that it was dangerous. That it meant She was thinking something he couldn’t follow, that She was full of resolve and the best he’d ever be able to offer Her was continuing to be Her shadow.

At Her side in the dark. Across from Her on the couch. Always there, always for Her. 

He shouldn’t have goddamn left.

Dean knows he should’ve have left. There’s a rotten feeling knotting in his stomach, a knot pulling at him like a compass, and it’s telling him to turn back. That he has to turn back, go back to Her, go home, because he never should’ve left to begin with. 

It’s been there since they left, and only grown tighter. He’d gone through to motions of the case with it turning in his stomach, and he’d pushed on because if he told Sammy, he’d tease Dean about missing Her before reminding him that She could defend herself. She was a literal force of nature, and she was at Bobby’s with Jo—who allowed herself to use a gun—and She couldn’t be safer if they tried. 

But the knot twisted, when they’d started their climb through the woods. And Dean couldn’t tell Bobby either, because he was already on thin fucking ice when it came to conversations about Her. Bobby seemed to be starkly aware of how, when Dean stared at Her like she was the only thing in the world and still somehow more beautiful than anything else, because she was, there were… less than acceptable thoughts in his head.

He still hadn’t crossed that line. He wouldn’t. Not at least until this was over, and he could touch Her somewhere that was good. 

Bobby didn’t seem to admire Dean’s restraint as much as he should. So going up to him and saying something’s wrong, I shouldn’t have left Her, call the whole thing off cause I never shoulda fuckin’ left her, wouldn’t end how Dean wanted it to. 

To the knot kept tightening and turning—and Dean felt sick and he shouldn’t have left—as they found the nest, and he lost himself in the fight. 

Moving like this—on instinct and nothing more, letting his body do the thing it was best at and never flinching because Dean never damn flinched—usually cleared his head. Usually helped. 

It wasn’t now.

The knot only tightened until it was frayed, when they found the dusty, worn and yellow-paged book. They burned all the bodies, and it was straining and whining.

Then they were cleaning up back at the motel, and Dean’s phone rang like a blaring, horrible alarm. 

Sam raised his brows as Dean scanned over the caller ID. “Is it-“

“Hey, Jo.” Dean grunted into the speaker, and Sam scowled. “Is everything-“

“Dean- Thank fuckin’ Mary and Christ.” Jo’s voice was a little uneven. Dean felt really fucking sick. “Been tryin’ to reach you all day-“

“We were in the woods.” He muttered. “What’s-“

“They found us.” Jo mumbled, and Dean’s grip on the phone was starting to hurt. “The- uh- Hell’s Assassins-“

“Jo.” Dean said Her name, but every word was clipped. Pushed through his teeth. “I need you to put her on the phone-“

“I can’t-“

“What’d you mean, you can’t-“

“I mean she ain’t talkin’.” Jo whispered, a new, raw shake forming in Her voice. “She’s alright, but she ain’t moved in like, three hours, and I’ve been tryin’ everything, but she won’t even shower-“

“I’ll be home in two- hour and a half.” The drive was two hours. If Dean was smart—and about this, he would be—they be back by an hour. 

The extra thirty was mostly for safety. 

Dean hung up without another word, throwing shit in his bag with almost mechanical movements, because they had to fucking go, he never should’ve left—not without Her—so they had to go-

“Dean.” Sam snapped, still on the other side of the room and not moving damn near fast enough. “What was-“

“I got some beer.” Bobby pushed open the door, and Dean started to pull on his jacket. “I was thinkin’ we order, cause I ain’t gonna cook when there’s some good lookin’ Chinese right down the- the hell are you doin’, Dean?”

“Leaving.” Dean grunted, and Bobby snorted.

“This was your damn idea-“

“Jo called.” Sam cut in, and Dean wasn’t sure when he’d gotten up to block the door.

He didn’t really care. 

As long as the kid moved, Dean didn’t care at all. 

“Jo-“ Bobby’s head whipped to Dean, his gaze narrowed and tight. “What’d she say.”

There wasn’t fucking time for this. They never had enough time. 

“Move, Sammy, I gotta-“

“Dean.” Bobby grabbed him by the shoulders, his eyes narrowed. “Tell me Jo said that’s got you all fuckin’-“

Dean spat Her name, shrugging Bobby’s hand away. “She needs me, I gotta get back-“

Bobby didn’t bother to push further. He grabbed the keys, tossed them to Dean, and turned with only a shout over his shoulder.

“Get started on the book, Sam. We’ll come back for ya’ in a few days. Dean, haul fuckin’ ass, boy.”

“Come back-“ Sam gaped as Dean grabbed his bag. “You’re just leaving me-“

“You’re a big boy, Sammy, you’ll be fine.” 

Sam probably flipped Dean off as he jogged out the door. He didn’t care. 

All that mattered was getting back to Her.

He and Bobby didn’t talk for the first thirty minutes. There wasn’t really much to say. Only low music and the hum of Baby’s engine, working herself hard to get Dean to where he needed to be.

He should never have damn left. He knew better than to leave Her, because that had always been where he’d lost Her. And She was fine, but she’d had to fight alone, and he hadn’t been there. He was supposed to be there, that was the whole damn point, they were safer together. Sam and Bobby could’ve handled this themselves, and Jo still could’ve come over. Dean wouldn’t have gotten in the middle of whatever girl shit they got up to, he could’ve just sat in the corner with his gun and watched Her like a creep, defending Her when the demons arrived and being Her comfort whenever it all became too big.

She’d said it was always too big. During another too long—yet still not long enough—night, She’d said it was always too big. That She’d become everything, when it all got away from Her, and it hurt and She never knew who she was or where She started or stopped, but She was always everything and Dean knew who She was, so he could’ve been there. Been Her shadow. Run his thumb over the bridge of Her nose and muttered that She was okay, it would be okay, She was awesome and good at Her job, and it would all be okay if She just took deep breaths and listened to him and he’d stayed-

“Dean.”

Dean blinked over, and he’d almost missed Bobby’s words, lost into the drums of the song. “What’s up?”

Bobby was watching him with a firm, almost mournful grounded resolve Dean had never seen before. 

He’d seen Bobby be serious, and angry, and determined, and focused. He’d never seen this. He didn’t even have a name for it. 

It was a little worrying.

“Uh, Bobby-“

“I need you to be honest with me when I ask you somethin’.” Bobby grunted. “I wouldn’t be askin’ if it wasn’t important, and a lie ain’t gonna help us ‘ere.”

Dean blinked, glancing between Bobby and the road as the iron settled back over his shoulders. “I don’t-“

“Swear it.” Bobby wasn’t wavering. “Swear it on your mother you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

“On my-“ Dean swallowed, but nodded. “Alright. On my mom.”

Bobby sighed. “You ain’t allowed to repeat this to anyone, Dean. You understand? Not even Sam.”

“Bobby-“

“Yeah, I got it, but Bobby, you’re kinda freakin’ me out-“

“You been…” Bobby paused, saying every word as if they pained him. “Sleepin’ in her room. She still get nightmares?”

Dean blinked, shooting Bobby a frown. “Is- That’s your question?”

“No. Does she?”

“I- Sometimes-“

“She been gettin’ them since I found ‘er.” Bobby muttered, and it seemed to be mostly to himself. “Recognized some monsters too, before I even brought her on a hunt. And she’d wake up screamin’ and grab me with ler little hands, and I’d ask her what happened and she wouldn’t talk ‘till I asked ‘er what she was feelin’, and she tell me the walls were sad I ain’t painted them in a while, and there was a tree a few miles into the woods that was sick, ’n needed puttin’ down.”

Dean’s grip was white-knuckled, and he’d was all but holding his breath, frozen in his seat. If he moved an inch, Bobby might remember who he was talking to.

“I took ‘er with me, to chop that tree down. She pointed it out and told me it was happy I was puttin’ it down, cause I was green and most things ain’t green anymore. Most weeks were like that, when she was little, up ‘till she started losin’ control, and I wasn’t able to-“ Bobby cut himself off with a long sigh, shaking his head. “I know about how she’s been dealin’ with what it does to her. All that magic shit in her body that we don’t got a clue how to handle. She thinks I don’t, but I ain’t blind. I just know it could be worse-“

“Worse?” Dean cut Bobby off before he could stop himself. “I- Bobby, she burns her hands and chokes herself-“

“And she used to bash ‘er head on the wall until her forehead was always lumpy.” Bobby snapped. “I’ve seen ‘er better, and I’ve seen ‘er worse, and I know we ain’t headin’ towards the former. I know nobody ain’t told you yet, but you’re not stupid either, Dean. You worked out how she clued into your little demon deal?”

“Uh…” Dean swallowed, frowning at the road passing them in too quick a blur. “I don’t-“

“Remember what Sam told you? ‘Bout how she thinks she’s been seein’ souls?”

It clicked. In half a second, Dean nearly strangled on the air of the car as the Blade in Her hand, her expression frantic and desperate and filled with fear, and he own screams of what did you do echoed through his head.

“Son of a bitch.” He muttered, and Bobby grunted.

“It’s been gettin’ worse. You know it’s been gettin’ worse, and I don’t-“ Bobby leaned back on the bench running a hand over his face. “You got two weeks, Dean. And when the clock runs up, no matter what we got, how much faith we have, I don’t want her seein’ it.”

Dean couldn’t hide the shock on his face as he looked at Bobby, barely remembering to turn back to the road. Bobby’s face was solemn, serious and resolved and firm, and if She was in the car, she would’ve jumped over the front bench and strangled them both.

“Bobby, there’s not a damn way she’s gonna like that-“

“She doesn’t have to like it.” Bobby grunted. “I- I’m not a big fuckin’ fan of it either, and she can curse me and hate me for the rest of her damn life, but-“

“Don’t say it’s for her own good, she’d stab you-“

“Goddamnit, Dean I know that! And if stabbin’ me is what’s gotta happen to keep her from losin’ her fucking mind, watchin’ your soul, your fuckin’ soul, get beaten up and dragged off to hell, then I’ll hand her the knife myself.” Bobby let out a long, heavy breath. “It’s not for her own good. For her own good woulda been doin’ everythin’ in my power to keep her safe. Haulin’ and packin’ up and movin’ to fucking Mexico eight damn years ago. We’re past the good, and I’m making do with what I’ve fuckin’ got.”

Dean still shook his head. She’d never been a fan of just waiting. If they handcuffed Her, She’d break out. If they locked Her in a room she’d probably just ask the door to open, and it would. “Bobby, she’ll- What if I make it out? She’ll never fucking forgive us for that, what if we keep her in the dark and chain her to a chair or something, and I make it out, and she hates us for the rest of her fucking life-“

“Then you’ll have the rest of your life to make it up to her.” Bobby grunted. “You ready to hear my question?”

Dean shot him another look of shock, his vision almost feeling clouded with confusion. “None of that was the freakin’ question-“

“You ready or not, ya idjit?”

“I’m ready.” He muttered, looking back to the road to avoid Bobby’s glare. “What.”

“Do you really think it’ll be somethin’ she’ll survive. Ignorin’ all the self-pity I ain’t good enough shit, look me in the eyes and tell me my girl is gonna be alright if she watches you get ripped up by a bunch of fuckin’ hell hounds. Cause I know my answer. I known it since you told me, and I had to watch her curl up in my basement a few weeks later and act like nothin’ was wrong. She wasn’t holdin’ it together those two years, boy. I ain’t ready to- I’m not lookin’ to lose her, too.” 

“Bobby, I-“

“You don’t gotta answer now.” Bobby muttered, and Dean could feel his gaze, searing right into Dean’s bones. “You don’t ever even need to tell me it. But don’t lie about it, to yourself. If you’re hell-set on brinin’ her, I ain’t gonna be able to stop both of you. But, if you’re tellin’ the truth and you work out what that truth means, for her, then…”

Bobby didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.

Dean understood just fine. 

And he didn’t know his answer. He didn’t know anything but Her, and She’d never forgive him for that. 

But he’d sworn to himself that he’d do what he needed to, every time, for Her. If didn’t matter what She did, if She ripped Dean’s spine out of his body and used it for goddamn decoration, Dean would still be there. One step behind Her. Making sure She didn’t get herself killed, making sure she could always turn and see him there. Still there. Always there, as long as she allowed him to be.

He didn’t want to think about what that would mean, if none of this worked. 

If She ended up alone, Dean would need Her to know he’d wanted to stay. He’d always wanted to stay. Even that first time, when he’d been trying—and failing—to hate Her and Dad had told him to go, he’d left but he’d never wanted to. And it had never stuck. And every single goddamn time, he’d always thought he’d find Her again. Somehow, he’d stumble onto the right case, walk into the right diner, or just be wandering nowhere at all and She’d fall out of the sky into his arms.

This would stick. 

If everything went south, he’d be alone in the darkest pit available, and She’d be alone, and he hadn’t wanted to entertain the thought but he also knew his answer, and he’d never wanted to be something that hurt Her.

He always had. Dean had never touched Her and not found some new, fucked up way to break Her. 

But She’d come back anyway. And touched Dean every time, and shone brighter than before until he felt fucking seen. He was a shadow, he wasn’t supposed to be seen, but She looked anyway because she seemed to like making things as complicated as possible.

He’d always thought coming back was just how things were. No matter what, in the back of his head, he’d never stopped looking for Her on every street and through every window and in every room, because She might have been there, and they’d had more time.

Dean knew She’d never done the same for him. 

But it didn’t really matter. She was the whole world, and She’d still chosen to look at Dean, and he- 

He was fucking lost in his own pit. He was alone, and lost, and he wanted to crawl out to Her but he’d never had enough will, or strength, or worth.

He didn’t know if She’d cry for him.

All he’d ever been good at knowing was how to put glue on the things he’d broken, and that he was a weapon from the mud that shouldn’t touch nice things.

She let him touch Her.

He was losing his fucking mind. Stuck in a loop. He wasn’t goddamn smart enough to work out Bobby’s freakin’ riddle, didn’t have enough resolve to do something that could ever make Her hate him, was too pathetic to not care about Her and Her safety and happiness, but never good enough to be that fucking thing that made Her happy, and he didn’t know shit but She always did, and She’d said she liked that he was always there, that she could always trust him to let her fall apart and handle what she couldn’t, when she trusted no one else, but he didn’t want to be the thing that hurt Her but he’d always been so good at it-

He didn’t know when he pulled into the junkyard. But he was here now.

Jo was sitting on the steps, watching them will a pallid face and wide eyes.

And it didn’t matter what Dean knew. 

His girl needed him.

“I-“ Jo was talking before they were fully out of the car, her words borderline pleas. “She still hasn’t moved, and I don’t- It’s like she can’t even hear me-“

Dean just pushed past her. He’d apologize later, but there was nothing else to do. He needed to get to Her, explanations could goddamn wait-

She wasn’t where he’d left Her. He turned to Jo with wide eyes, and she pointed up the stairs. 

“In you- Uh- Her room-“

He grunted something that he hoped sounded like thanks, and flew up the stairs, half kicking the door open.

It had been unlocked, and let out a loud bang from the impact.

She didn’t even flinch.

And this had been why Dean felt sick the whole damn hunt. Why he’d known he shouldn’t have left.

She looked horrible. Beautiful—even with tangled and matted hair, slightly grayed skin, and bloodshot eyes that seemed a little unfocused and glazed—but horrible. Blood all over Her clothing, stuck to Her skin and under Her nails as she turned the page of a book. Her knife and the blade at Her feet as She held a stained notebook in slightly shaking hands.

There wasn’t a single light on in the room. Dean was pretty sure none of the blood was Hers, but he didn’t miss how She’d pressed herself to the wall, or the way Her palms were the only part of Her that was clean. Raw and blistered, but clean.

The plate on the floor was half covered in another sheet of notes. The was a glass of water pushed off to the side to make room for more books. 

The furrow in Her brow was deeper than he’d ever seen it.

When Dean crouched at Her feet, she didn’t even look up.

“Hey,” he muttered Her name, fisting his hand to stop himself from reaching for Her. “Demons, huh?”

She touched him first.

She’d always touched him first. 

And there was a strange look in Her eyes, when She scanned over him. That look he’d seen countless times before, where She was looking into him. Filling him with Silver light that made his breathing easier, even as the stench of blood threatened to suffocate him.

“I put the bodies out back.” She whispered. “Burned them.”

He gave Her a small smile. “Smart thinking, Princess. Don’t need any demon ghosts.”

Her lips twitched, but She back down to the book, curling back into Her own body, away from Dean-

“Uh,” he swallowed, scraping for some way to keep Her. Looking at him. Listening. At all. “How many?”

“Six.” She hummed, not looking up from Her book as she took another note. Her hand was still on Dean’s face. Her dominant hand. “Jo was helpful.”

“You’re training her well.”

“She’s just a good hunter. And I think she’d-” She paused, only for a second, still frowning at Her book. “I haven’t tried that yet. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Is Sam back?”

Dean shook his head, unable to look away from that little furrow on Her brow, and She sighed.

“That’s fine, it can just be Jo and I-“

Dean grunted Her name, squeezing Her hand against him. “You can’t do anything until you eat. Clean up.”

“No, I’m okay-“

“You’re covered in blood.”

“So?”

“It’s kinda fuckin’ gross-“

“I don’t care.” She muttered, taking another note. “I don’t have enough time-“

“You gotta make time to- Fuck, to eat and sleep.” He pushed back, and when She didn’t answer, his eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you slept.”

She didn’t answer again. Dean grunted Her name, but She still didn’t answer.

“C’mon.” He grunted, pulling Her forwards, and She shoved him back, still without looking up. “Goddamnit- You can’t just fucking waste away-“

“I’m not-“ Her words were slightly choked, and when She finally met Dean’s gaze, Her voice was pleading. “There’s not enough time, Dean, I don’t have enough time-“

“Maybe, but I’m not worth dying over-“ He cut himself off with a groan, dropping to fully rest on his knees before Her. “Please, I’m- Fuck, just one shower. Sammy’s got that book for you, but one shower, and eat some food, and I’ll clean everything up and go get it for you. I’ll even do all your reading while you take care of yourself, but- Son of a bitch, just eat.” He grabbed Her face between both his hand, forcing Her gaze to stay on his as his voice became hoarse. “I know we don’t have time, Princess. Please don’t just- One shower. All I’m asking.”

She swallowed, looking at him like that again as Her breathing became heavy, and She was going to say no. She was going to waste away for Dean, of all fucking people and he needed to- 

“Okay.” She whispered, and a little bit of the iron raised off Dean’s chest. “I- I don’t-“

“Ask Jo for help.” He muttered. “I’ll keep doing this.”

She nodded, but didn’t move.

And Dean’s thumb moved on its own. Petting down the bridge of Her nose even though Her breathing was even, and there was no hand around Her throat. As if there wasn’t a choice. That was just what he always had to do.

But he chose to lean forward. To press the gentle kiss to Her brow, and linger there until there was a knock at door, and She had to go let Jo pull Her into the bathroom. 

Dean grunted to Jo, before the door closed, to make sure She actually ate and cleaned, to maybe try and force in a nap as well. From the determined nod Jo had given him, there had been nothing to worry about in the first place.

And when he was left alone in Her room, it was still choked in the smell of blood, but under that, there was just Her. 

No matter how far down Dean went, it was always just Her.

The sugar smell was gone. 

The fruit smell never left. Dean could be a million miles away and he’d still smell that goddamn fruit. And it was strong that the blood, but it seemed to be the only thing surviving the war She’d been waging on herself, in Dean’s fucking name. All the books had been ripped off the shelves, every pencil was covered in bite marks and snapped in half, and the bed obviously hadn’t been touched since he left.

And Dean knew his answer, to the impossible thing Bobby was asking of him. 

He wouldn’t be something that hurt Her. If Dean didn’t make it out this, She had to. 

She needed to be somewhere good. Somewhere made for something like Her. Bright and brilliant and good.

Not near hell hounds.

And, if it came down to it, not near Dean.

——————

“What time is it?”

“Uh,” Jo leas forwards in the passenger’s seat, frowning at the blinking clock on the dashboard. “This is sayin’ five, but- It’s still dark out-“

“I don’t think this one is adjusted for daylight savings.” You mutter, frowning at the road ahead. “I should’ve taken Bobby’s pickup, it’s faster-“

Jo snorts. “That pickup ain’t fast-“

“It’s faster.” You shoot her a small, tight-lipped smile. “None of these cars are fast, they’re a million years old.”

There’s a pause, and Jo’s next words are soft in a way that makes the Darkness burst and hum in your body, unable to take being soothed when it knows where you’re headed. 

Of course it knows. You know. And it may take the Blade—tucked neatly into your jacket, just in case—pressing into your skin, but you can’t let the Darkness slip away from you. Not here. Not now. There’s too much on the line, and this is your last fucking shot.

You’ve spent the past two months doing everything. Coming up at every dead end and turning around without blinking, because sorrow and disappointment were luxuries you could not afford. You just had to turn around, keep going, and find another way. 

You’ve read every book on demons you could get your hands on, and looked for every weapon that might give you an edge over Lilith, searched for all her lore and if there was a single, small weakness you could exploit.

There wasn’t. And you still didn’t understand what she’d said to you in the diner. It had all been cryptic nonsense that made the Darkness roll and cry, made you sound important and could give you more clues into what you were, but right now that really didn’t fucking matter. Dean matters. Saving Dean matters, and you’ve got two weeks but that’s not nearly enough time, and everyone can tell you to take care of yourself all they want but they can’t fucking feel this like you can.

They can’t see the brand on Dean’s soul, pulsing and spreading and taunting you. They can’t see the Gold, stained all over Bobby’s books and cups and furniture, tangled in your sheets and sunken into your mattress and on your hands like blood, and they don’t have to wonder if it will fade. 

And they don’t have the spiderweb. It’s not iridescent and full of light that’s being cast around their bodies all the time, but only content and happy when Dean’s there, and they world for them isn’t just simply better when Dean is there, and they aren’t in fucking pain that’s only aided by Dean being there, if he’s not there you don’t know how to make the world Silver by yourself, and you’re supposed to be a good fucking hunter, but what’s the goddamn use if you can’t fucking save Dean-

“The Impala is fast.” Jo mumbles, and you can feel her watching you. Almost testing to see if you’ll shut down again, just at the mention of something in Dean’s proximity.

You won’t. You’re not that fucking pathetic. 

And you haven’t been shutting down. You’ve been focused. Working and working because you can still feel the numb, too big, hollow pain of grief, and you have to make sure that it’s temporary because you can’t lose Dean, and you have to get through this, you’ve always gotten through this, but you don’t know how to live with such a massive fucking pit in the cavity of your chest, with the spiderweb whining and absorbing all it can now before he’s gone, but he won’t be gone because you’ll find a way, because you can’t lose Dean-

You’re getting caught in the loop again. 

You don’t have time to entertain it.

“Of course the Impala is fast.” You mutter, flipping your blinker as you move off the highway, refusing to look over and meet Jo’s eyes, because you know they’ll be full of fucking pity, and it might make something up your spine snap. “Dean takes care of it more than anything.”

Jo just hums, and you lean your head back in your seat, unable to stop the next words from slipping out of your mouth.

“Do you think he’s-“ You swallow, catching yourself before you become too pathetic. “They’re gonna notice we’re gone?”

“I think Dean’ll notice you’re gone.” Jo offers, and you don’t appreciate her not entertaining your game. “Surprised he ain’t called us already, askin’ where you ran off to.”

“I left a note.” You mutter. “And I told Sam.”

“You tell Bobby too?”

You shoot Jo a glare, and she just holds it with raised brows.

“You didn’t, did ya.”

“No,” you scowl back to the road. “He’d work out where we’re going, and he’d try to stop us. Or come with us. Or send Sam with us.”

Jo frowns at that. “Not Dean?”

“He wouldn’t want Dean coming with us for this.” You mutter, slowing down to scan over the street name a little better.

You’re pretty sure you’ll remember where to turn. It’s been years, but you’ve got a good memory, and all these stupid roads look the same but-

There it is.

“You know,” Jo says your name carefully as you turn, leaning forward until she’s in your periphery. “You still ain’t told me where we’re goin’, and if it’s somethin’ Dean shouldn’t be doin’-“

“Technically I don’t think any of us should be doing this.” You give Jo an apologetic, grimacing smile. “Bobby just wouldn’t want Dean coming because he thinks we get reckless about each other.”

You’re paraphrasing. Bobby’s exact word had been you two idjits act like there ain’t nothin’ else in the world, and it’s not safe fuckin’ hunting to see who can get shot for the other first. You think he was being a little dramatic, and the way he’d snapped it implied things you know you felt through your whole body—like lifeblood in the spiderweb, and seeping deep into the Gold that Dean left everywhere, made of a word you couldn’t say aloud, not now, not when it was impossible and there wasn’t enough time—but you also know that, for this, he was right.

Dean can’t do this with you. He’ll get weird about it, and he’ll distract you but just dragging you down into his gravity and being handsome and stupid and amazing, and this needs to go well. 

And maybe this would hurt less, if Dean was here, but it hurts all the fucking time again and the Darkness has never been this loud and desperate in your life—never taken this much effort and pain to keep down, never been just a single crack in your body from exploding into the air, making everything far too big in a way you don’t know you’ll be able to drag back down alone—so if you lose control, Dean can’t be here to see it.

He’d accepted it. He’d looked at you, and stayed, and only been angry you hadn’t told him before you know he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know the depth of it, doesn’t know how it’s not a tool or a weapon or gift, it’s a fucking cancer and it’s trying to spread into him, and you won’t let it.

You’d already failed at that once. The light was still flowing through him whenever the Blade was in your hand, and all you could see was the Gold. He doesn’t seem to have grown sick. You won’t risk it.

Won’t hurt him, not for anything in the world. It would be cruel and wrong and selfish, to save him like that, when there has to be another way.

And this was that other way. You fucking hated it. There’s no turning back—you’ve come this far, and turning back would make this whole thing a waste of fucking time—but you still feel sick, and the pain is still settling so deep in your body you’re shocked you’re still conscious. 

But you have to do this. 

For Dean.

“Y’all do get reckless about each other.” Jo mutters under her breath, and you roll your eyes, electing to not respond. “And you still ain’t told me what we’re doin’. Just like, two sentences will do, but I ain’t Dean-“

That makes you look at her, your brow furrowed tightly together. “What’s that supposed to mean-“

“Means I can’t look at you and know what you’re thinkin’,” Jo drawls your name, continuing before you can push back. “Gimme the plan, or I’m callin’ Bobby now and tellin’ him we’re in- Uh-“

She looks around the seemingly abandoned woods, and you sigh.

“Chicago. Well, near Chicago.”

“Alrigh-“ She pauses, shooting you a frown. “What?”

“You have to promise you won’t freak out.” 

Jo says your name in a cautious tone, shaking her head. “I don’t know-“

“Just- Promise.” You let out a long breath, dropping your head to the steering wheel and frowning at your knees. “Please.”

“I- Okay.” You can hear the nerves in Jo’s voice. When this is done, you’ll buy her a million bath bombs and apologize on your knees. But for now, nothing else is as important as doing this. “Promise. You gonna tell what’s goin’ on?"

You swallow, choosing your every world slowly. Carefully. “You know that book I made the guys get? From that vamp nest?”

Jo goes rigid at your side, a little more guilt eats at your gut. She’s thinking of the wrong part of that day, where the world had turned into the blur as you slashed and cut your way through the demons—they’d tried to taunt you, but you didn’t have enough time—and gone back to reading the moment it was over.

You’d make that choice again a million times. Even if Jo’s worried face kept haunting you is the easier nightmares, Dean had kissed your brow and held you close enough you could hear his heartbeat, and you’d made no progress into freeing him, but you could’ve. There had been a chance.

Most of this has been hinging on there being just a chance. That’s what you were doing here. 

So you’d fucking take it.

“Jo-“

“I remember.” She mutters. “Big fuckin’ tome, ended up bein’ in Turkish or somethin’-“

“Romanian.” You correct, sitting fully back up and folding your arms over your chest. “It’s Romanian. None of us fucking speak or read Romanian.”

“Sam said we could translate it-“

“Sam thinks our only option is Romanian.”

Jo pauses again. You’re worried that, by the end of the day, you’ll have sent her into a shock coma. “I- Ain’t it?”

“Nope.” You shrug, unbuckling from your seat. “I fucked up. Thought that the vamps would have an English copy, and I was wrong.”

“You-“ Jo scrambles out of the car behind you, watching you with wide eyes. “You know, you ain’t even told us how that books gonna help Dean-“

“It has a summoning ritual.”

“We already know summoning rituals-“

You shake your head, pulling your knife out of your jacket and spinning it in your hands. “Not this one.”

Jo snaps your name, glaring at you as she walks through the woods at your side. “What the hell’re you talkin’ about-“

“I’ve read that book before.” You mumble, swallowing down a little bile in your throat. “I remember it, there was- Lilith. The ritual that could summon Lilith, but I haven’t been able to fully remember it, and nothing else I could find has had it, so we need to go get the English copy.”

“And the English copy is…” Jo scans around you with a frown. “In the woods.”

“No. It’s-“ You sigh, running your free hand through your hair and coming to stop. “This is the part where you promised not to freak out.”

“I-“

“Look, I’ll take the lead. And I wouldn’t have brought you if I didn’t think you could do this, plus when Dean and Bobby find out, they’re gonna be really fucking pissed, and it will be better if I tell them I took backup-“

Jo snaps your name, her eyes wide with an almost frantic worry. “You gotta stop talkin’ in riddles, you know I never get what the hell you’re sayin’-“

“We’re breaking into my family’s house.”

Your words are blunt. Fast. They have to be. This has to be like ripping off a band-aid or jumping into ice water. You just have to do it, and then it’s done, and you can head home and never think about it again, outside of a memory of searing pain on your palm and a numbness rushing through your whole body.

“We’re- What?!”

You nod up through the woods, spinning your knife in your hand, just be doing something. “Up through there is the house. It’ll have security, but we’ll get around it just fine, and nobody should be home-“

Jo shakes her head. “You can’t be sure ‘bout that-“

“Yeah, I can. It’s summer, everyone will be on vacation. It’ll be in and out. We just have get the book from the library.” You sigh, giving Jo another apologetic look. “Look, I’m sorry, but this is the only thing we’ve got left. And you can wait in the car, if you want-“

Jo scoffs. “Stop bein’ dramatic, I ain’t lettin’ you go in there alone. But, uh-“ She swallows, nodding to your knife. “You think I’m gonna need to be armed?”

You shrug. “Probably not. I just- This makes me feel better.”

Jo understands. You don’t say it, but Jo knows you well enough to get that it’s not being armed that makes you feel better.

It’s this knife. The knife Dean gave you. The knife that makes the spiderweb shine a little brighter, because it means that some part of his is still grounding you and keeping all the Darkness a little softer in your body. 

And that’s so fucking pathetic. You know that. You’re a grown ass woman, you shouldn’t need a security blanket knife to hold yourself together. 

Knowing still really doesn’t matter. 

You’ll learn your lesson when this is over. When you have time to.

“You got a plan?” Jo asks, and you shake your head.

“Nope. We’ll be fine, though-“

“And you’re sure they still have the book? I know you ain’t been here in years, maybe they threw it out-“

You snort at that. “They’ll still have it. Trust me. You ready?”

Jo nods, following you as you start to move forwards, keeping her voice low, like the trees could hear.

It’s not a bad idea.

They might.

“What’s makin’ you so sure? I mean, I trust ya, but we don’t got a plan and you never talk about ‘em, so I dunno what to-“

“It’s- You’ll see.” You wish you could offer her more, but still don’t have the words to describe them to yourself. “It’s not too late to stay in the car-“

“Yeah, it is.”

You stop at the edge of the woods, the land splitting into an impossibly large, nearly kept clearing, and there it is.

High on the top of a hill, like some sort of fucking castle. Everyone else always liked it. They seemed to the think the clean brick and polished glass—always letting in too much sunlight, always forcing the heavy, velvet curtains to remind drawn—made them like modern royalty. More than modern royalty. Empirical. Privy to knowledge others weren’t permitted to have, knowledge that made them chosen.

You’d never really understood what they meant. The house had been lonely. It had hurt to try and run up the hill, and every room was too dark and cold, and it had always been so fucking easy to get lost. 

For you, it had been a prison. A slaughterhouse. 

You’d never been favored. You’d only been…

Alone. Shouted at and untouchable and carved open and alone. 

“Follow my lead.” You glance at Jo, and she nods, looking between you and the house with wide eyes. “Don’t split up, no matter what, and don’t touch anything.”

Jo swallows. “And you’re- You really fuckin’ positive no one’s home-“

“Yeah. I am.”

You’re not. The Darkness is building and coiling in your body because you’re really not sure. Someone could be. Just a staff worker would fuck this whole thing up, because it’s been almost eighteen years, but you don’t look that different, and if one person sees you that could cause a lot of problems you really can’t deal with right now.

But you need to do this, for Dean. You’re out of options, and you wouldn’t have even thought of this, entertained it in the slightest, if you didn’t think it was necessary. And Jo doesn’t need to be more worried. You’re already asking too much of her, adding to that by telling her that—should there be someone home—this could escalate into blood and mayhem so fast the blur with become more of a blink, won’t help anyone at all.

It helps that no one is home. In a rare, glorious stroke of unfamiliar luck, you get inside the house without dogs barking or biting at your heels, without alarms going off or the Darkness vaulting out of your body as it settles into your bones.

As it really clicks that you’re back here. You’d sworn to yourself that you’d never go back here. That there was never going to be a world where you stepped foot in this horrible fucking cage again, but you’re here.

Every part of you feels fragile. Too small. You can’t tell if the Darkness is trying to strangle the White, or hide inside of it. And the White is pounding at your rib cage, trying to pull you out, get out, this place is horrible and you can feel the stick of blood on your palm and see too many eyes watching you in awe and revolt and relief, and you think you did something wrong but nobody is screaming at you, they’re all staring but nobody is screaming, or touching you, you’re braced but nobody is touching you and why is the floor glowing like that and why won’t everyone stop looking at you, everything is too big and you can feel the whole universe but you’re still trapped in the center of the room-

Jo whispers your name, and you realize that you’d stopped walking. “Are you-“

“I’m okay.” Your words are shorter than you’d meant them as you twist a ring on your finger, and Jo doesn’t flinch at all. “I- Sorry, I can’t remember where we’re supposed to turn.”

Jo nods, glancing down the too long hallway. “Where are we headin’?”

“Library. I think it’s one- No, two floors up-“

Jo catches your arm as you start to walk forward, her mouth agape when you turn with a frown. “This place got a fuckin’ library?”

“Kind of, yeah. It’s not like Bobby’s though-“

“I guessed that-“

“No, it’s-“ You sigh, shaking your head. “It’s barely a library at all.”

Jo blinks as you start down the hall again, pulling her with you. “What’s that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

She should see. If you can find the fucking library, Jo will see.

But this place is just as much of a maze as it had been when you were eight. Maybe more, because when you were eight you knew what halls you weren’t allowed to wander down—you had anyway, and it had never ended well, but you’d known—and been able to do more than you let your feet move on instinct.

There’s too much instinct, still ingrained in your body after so many years. You’re going everywhere but the library, because you’d never been permitted to go there without supervision. 

You’d always touched too many things, and read too many of the books everyone said you shouldn’t be able to, and some part of your body doesn’t seem interested in going to the library, because it’s too close to that room.

You really don’t want to end up in that room. If just being in the house sets off that memory, you don’t think the Darkness will be able to handle being in the room. Looking at the floor and seeing that your blood is—maybe—still stained on the stone.

You’re already seeing too many things you’ve tried so hard to forget. Hearing voices screaming your name down the empty halls when the only other person here is Jo—braced and nervous at your side—and fighting the urge to vomit whenever you open to the wrong door.

The bathroom is the first one. It hasn’t changed since you were there last. 

None of this place has. 

It’s still too clean. Pure white everywhere—marble counter, porcelain bathtub and toilet, stainless tiles and untouched towels—with only a flash of red where no one else can see. Stuck in your head, a weak illusion where you’re small again and it all hurts, hurts more than you’d ever know before, and everything feels so strange but you can’t see anything but blood on your fingers, and you can’t stop crying because why does this hurt, and your mother is shouting that it’s normal, it’s good, you’re a woman, but you don’t want to be a woman, you just want it to stop fucking hurting-

Something shatters in your ears, and it’s just a ghost of the memory—they’ve fixed the crack in the walls, and you think your mother’s hand has likely healed over eighteen years—but you still flinch.

Jo asks if you’re okay. You nod, and keep moving.

Next, it’s your bedroom. 

You don’t linger there long, because you don’t want to throw up but nothing has changed. The furniture, the wallpaper, all the dolls and clothing are the exact fucking same as when you left. Even your sheets are the same.

The bed has been made. There’s no layer of dust over the room.

“Is this-“

“Yeah.” You mutter, closing the door and moving on, tugging Jo behind you. “Let’s keep going.”

You’re close. You keep walking—making sure is Jo stays right at your side, just in case—and you know you’re close because you can feel it, tugging somewhere deep in your gut, but you’re still not entirely sure where you’re going, and what if you’d gone the wrong way and just never fucking realized it-

This hall is a dead end. You don’t remember taking the turn, but your feet had carried you here, and it’s just a fucking dead end.

With two doors. Two identical doors.

“Which, uh-“ Jo glances at you, raising her brows with a weary expression. “Do you know which one we should-“

“No.” You mutter, spinning your knife in your hand as you glare between the doors.

“You think it’s one of them, though?”

“Yeah, but-  No!”

Your scream surprised you more than it seems to surprise Jo. She lurches back from the handle she’d been reaching for as you lunge to stop her, and suddenly the air is too thin.

You’re not allowed in that room. That’s the one room you’d never even dared to poke around into—even when you’d found yourself everywhere you shouldn’t be, all the fucking time—because it just wasn’t allowed. You can’t go in there because you can’t. That’s it, you can’t, there doesn’t need to be another reason because you’re never allowed to go in there-

“Shit-“ Jo snaps your name, and shaking her arm in your grip. “Are you- What was that-“

“Sorry, I-“ You glance down at where you’re still squeezing her, almost certainly too tight, and let go with a ragged breath. “I didn’t- Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I just wasn’t expectin’ it-“ She cuts herself off, tilting her head as you hug your body, your gaze still flicking to the door. “You good?”

“I-“

“And don’t lie.” Jo adds, giving you a pointed look when you glance at her with wide eyes. “I may not be Dean or Bobby, but I know when you ain’t doin’ well. You just lost it over a fuckin’ door-“

You cut off Jo drawl of your name with a shake of your head. “It’s not just- That’s not the door.” You nod to the opposite wall, taking a long breath to steady your voice. “It’s the other one.” 

“But you said you-“

“I know. I was-“ You swallow, letting one hand slide up to hold your throat. Lightly. Just enough to keep the Darkness locked down. “We’re not allowed in there. So it’s the other one.”

Jo blinks at you. “Not allowed?”

You nod, squeezing a little tighter. “That’s- It’s my grandfather’s room. His study. I’m not-“ You feel so fucking small. The walls almost seem to be getting taller, but that’s not possible, and the Darkness is begging to just be released—to be allowed to make your big again, to hurt this whole place the way it hurt you, to make it repent because you can—but you can’t. You won’t. “I’m not allowed in there.”

“You’re-“ Jo says your name with a long sigh, and it’s not sympathy in her voice. Her words are slow and careful, but it’s really not sympathy. “Look, if it’s somewhere you shouldn’t be, doesn’t that mean it’s exactly where we need to be?”

“Jo-“

“You don’t gotta, I won’t make you, but- Think about it.” Jo nods between the doors, crossing her arms as she continues. “As a hunter, what would you be doin’ on any other case? What would you tell me to do?”

You swallow. “Go in the- Fucking Christ, Jo, that’s really annoying.”

She just shrug, offering you a small grin in return. “I’ve been learnin’ from the best.”

“Shut up.” You take a long breath as you step forward, spinning your knife in your hands and glaring at the door. It won’t burn you. Logically, it won’t be able to do anything to you at all, because it’s a fucking door. 

That doesn't stop your skin from itching at the thought.

“Jo-“

“I got it.” You glance over your shoulder to find her right behind you, reaching for the door with one hand, the other holding a-

“I said you didn’t need a weapon.“

“I know, but-“ She holds your gaze, kicking the door open before you have chance to realize that she’d distracted you, and preventing another scream from leaving your chest. “Dean says to always bring a gun.”

You roll your eyes. “Dean’s a fucking idiot.”

“I’m gonna tell him you said that.” Jo hums, walking right past you into the room you’re still not strong enough to look at. “C’mon, I don’t know what I’m lookin’ for.”

You swallow, tucking your knife back into your jacket. You can’t think about what you’re about to do, because it will shut something in your down, and you won’t make it out without ripping into your skin to stay together.

You’ll think about Dean instead. You’re doing this for him. You’ll get through this not because you always do, but because you have to. For Dean.

“He knows I think that.” You mutter, bracing yourself as you turn to face the room. “And he knows better than to bring a gun when I specifically told him not to-“

Jo laughs at that, already scanning over the tall, polished wood bookshelves. “No, he doesn’t. You just always forgive ‘im cause he’s Dean.”

You scowl, walking into the study with uneven steps. You can’t think about it. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

“It means what it means.”

“That’s not an answer, Jo.”

“Don’t need to be, you know what the answer is anyway-“

“No, I don’t-“

“C’mon,” Jo drawls your name, shooting you a grin as you start to comb over the desk, your every touch of the wood too light. You aren’t allowed to do this. You have to. For Dean. “You can lie to yourself, and you can lie to Dean-“

“I can’t, actually.” You mutter, pulling open a drawer with too cautious fingers, and Jo frowns.

“What’d you mean, you can’t?”

“I mean what I mean.”

Jo rolls her eyes. “Oh, fuck off- Holy shit.”

You’re at her side in half a breath, grabbing the Blade and bracing yourself for a fight, to throttle the Darkness but still make it out alive, because Jo trusts you so you can’t let her get hurt-

“What-“

“Is that you?”

You follow Jo’s gaze up, over the impossible fancy and likely unusable fireplace to the perfectly clean mantle, to the-

“Fuck.”

That is you. A small, seven-year-old you wearing a neat little dress you remember leaving a rash on your skin, your hair done in an elaborate style you don’t think you could duplicate if you tried, a book open on your lap that you remember being taken away after an hour, because you’d kept trying to read it when you were supposed to be staying still. 

There’s joy in your eyes, in the painting. More ease over your features than you’ve maybe ever known, and a small smile that’s too soft to be yours. And maybe it’s just a trick of the light—somehow breaking through the curtains, casting over the painting but only really shining on you—but there’s more color in you than your family.

They all seem to be static. 

You could swear you could see silver, shifting around the oil paint, humming in your body.

But that’s not what caught your attention. What washed you with heavy relief and a white-hot dread all at once, and made your throat tighten as your grip on the Blade became impossibly tight.

There it was. Old and worn, not a single speck of dust, waiting for you.

Not the same way the blade had been waiting—forged for you, designed for you, better in your hand than anywhere else—but still waiting for what you were. 

Like Lilith. 

The thought makes you a little sick. You entertain that later.

Jo tugs at your arms, her voice filled with nerves once more. “You’re- uh- you were a cute kid-“

“Yeah. I know.” You glance over at Jo’s soft, easy, light blue, and let out a long breath. “Get ready to run.”

Jo’s blue widens and tenses, all at once. “What-“

“When I grab the book. Ready?”

“I-“

You don’t wait for the full answer. She’s ready. You can see it all over her soul, bright and tensed and ready to burst.

So you grab the book, and the blur begins.

Out. You have to get out. You have to go and only look back to make sure Jo is with you, you have to get to the car and take off without looking in the rearview mirror. 

And the blur should’ve ended there, but it doesn’t. It hasn’t been.

You haven’t told Dean. You haven’t told Jo, or Sam, or Bobby, or anyone that this has felt like fighting for something more than your life. That you get up in the morning and it’s like gliding and wading through a swamp, following the trails of light—hidden under the water, promising to deliver you home—until you’re more lost than you began, and Dean pulls you out.

It gets through the haze, when he’ll take your hand and move you to bed, or hold your hand and mutter that you have to eat. You’ll hear him and, more often than not, let him guide you to bed. Somewhere safe, until you get up the next day, remember that there’s a little less time today than there was yesterday—Dean asleep across the bed, Golden and peaceful and branded, in fucking danger—and the blur begins again.

So the blur doesn’t stop when you get out of Chicago safely. It doesn’t stop when Jo opens the book and her voice—too far away for you to properly respond to—tells you that this isn’t in English. If anything it picks up as you only glance over, see the words shifting around the page in a way you can read, and look back to the road. It becomes impossibly fast when the engine sputters out in Wisconsin, and doesn’t slow when you pull over for the night—the truck barely holding on until you park—and settle in a shitty, flea-bed motel. 

You think Jo is calling for backup, or a ride, or something. You still can’t really hear her, because the blur is too clouding over the world for you to do anything but focus.

It’s not clear down long you’ve been reading for when the door opens. All you know is that your eyes are heavy and every breath stings, but you can’t stop because you can’t lose Dean. Just another page might be the answer. Just another note might make something click and fall into place, might fix this, you can’t stop because there’s nothing else to do but this, and someone is saying your name but that won’t save Dean, so it doesn’t matter.

You whine like an animal when someone tries to pull the book away, but you can’t think to make another sound.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Since we got out of that place, I ain’t heard her say a word, but- Mom, it was so fuckin’ creepy-“

“I’ll bet it was, look at the state of her. You gotten her to eat anythin’?”

“No, I- It never works ‘less Dean asks her-“

“Dean ain’t here right now, is he? C’mon, get her in the car and we’ll get some food in her.”

They don’t pull you out—the two people guiding you to your feet and speaking so far away—but they aren’t hostile. They won’t hurt you or anything you love, so it’s okay to let them move you somewhere else, as long as they let you keep the book. 

And they do. It stays in your hands when you sit once more, the words still shifting off the pages and none of them leading you anywhere safe.

The world starts to sting with your breathing. Everything is so dark, and you can’t tell if it’s simply what’s around you—dimming out a light you can’t afford to not have—or what’s inside of you, leaking out and infecting the world.

“Should we be tryin’ to take that book away from her-“

“No, I’ve seen her tire herself out, and- She tried to bite me once.”

“Bite you-“

“Not really, but I thought she might. Mom, I- I’m real worried about her-“

“I know you are, baby, but there’s nothin’ we can do but- I don’t even know, prayin’ ain’t right, but Dean don’t got a lot time left-“

Dean. Dean doesn’t have enough time. 

You can’t let the weight and haze and sting wash over you and put you down because Dean doesn’t have enough time-

The sky is big.

It’s one of the first things you’d ever learned. That the sky was big, and he was watching, and if you were lucky, maybe, one day, he’d swallow you whole. 

Your mother calls him an important name. Says he’s got plan for your family, that you’ve been chosen by him more than the tribes in that old book you hate memorizing, that one day, hopefully, the sky will eat of one of your children.

You’d told her that the sky wanted to eat you. That sometimes he makes himself white where you can see it, and promises to take you up to somewhere he calls good, but doesn’t sound it. It sounds lonely. Cold and lonely and too clean, like the blank walls of the bathroom.

“He won’t want you, darling.” Your mother had sighed, tucking a little hair behind your ear. “You’re- It won’t be you.”

She always said that kinder than everyone else. She always tried a little, where everyone else has all given up. 

Because it doesn’t matter how many times you insist that you’ve met the sky, they all chalk it up to you, being you, and putting yourself where you don’t belong.

You’ll be lucky if they can pawn you off at all. If some fool of a man ever looks over to your corner of the field, and decides that they want the girl who won’t stop talking about the colors and the sky, or crying about how the spiders are all so afraid of the shoes, but the shoes feel disgusting, and the grass doesn’t want to be stepped on anymore. 

It’s why your corner of the field is so small. So the grass doesn’t have to keep hurting. 

You’re under the trees, because then it’s harder for the sky to see you.

And you’re alone because it’s easier to put you here, where you can’t ruin the party by telling your aunt that she’s incredibly dull and washed out, as is her husband, but he has the same stains of neon that make up the babysitter.

Someone says your name, and suddenly you're not small anymore. The sky is still too big, but he’s further away. Just watching. 

But the sky becomes nothing, when you turn to see who called you. 

“Dean?”

“Hey, Princess.” He grins at you, glancing around the field with raised brows. “I, uh, have we been here before?”

“You haven’t.” You shrug, glancing back out towards the ribbons and balloons of the party. “I have.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “What?”

“This is- It’s my cousin party, I think.”

“What, she have a birthday?”

“No, she-“ You pause, hugging your body as you stare at the people—all suddenly your size but weaker, moving between tables and laughing and worth nothing at all—and try to remember what you’d all been doing here.

You think something happened to her, and she was celebrating before they had another party, that you hadn’t been invited to.

She’d tell you, a few nights later, that she was certain it was going to be her. That she’d made a cup fly across the room, and the sky would want her more than anyone. 

You’d told her you saw her throw that cup, and the sky wouldn’t want her because she was the color of vomit and it was gross. 

That was why you hadn’t been invited to the other party. 

You really don’t remember what either of them were for.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean taps you on the nose, and you blink at him with a slight wide expression. “You still with me?”

He’s not the color of vomit. He’s golden and beautiful, and you don’t know why your cousin had ever bothered with the sky when Dean was real, and here. 

Maybe because he was yours, and your cousin ever popped up and tried to take him, you’d carve out her eyeballs with the knife he gave you.

You hadn’t been able to do that, during this party. You’d really like to do it now.

“Yeah, uh- I don’t think so. The party was for something else.”

“Huh.” Dean shrugs, looking back to the people running around the grass. “They got beer?”

“Yeah, it’s in the cooler. Tastes like shit.”

“It-“ He stares at you, eyes wide. “You drank it?”

“Today, yeah.” You rub your thumb over your palm, holding Dean’s gaze as you speak. “In ten minutes my uncle is going to give me a beer, and I’m going to drink it, then break it into my brother’s face because he was laughing at one of the housekeepers, and she always brought me new crayons.”

Dean chuckles, bumping his shoulder with yours. “So what I’m hearing is that you’ve always been this violent.”

You roll your eyes, wrinkling your nose at his smug, pretty face. “I am not violent.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t say ‘uh huh’ like that-“

“I didn’t say it like anything-“

“No, you said it like you do when you’re making fun of me-“

“Princess, I’ve never made fun of you, I happen to like life-“ He side-steps your shove with ease, his grin only growing. “And I like you even more. I’d never tease you. Not once.”

You scowl, raising your chin at him. “You’re full of shit, Winchester.”

Dean scoffs. “Just cause Sammy’s been saying I want to die doesn’t mean I want you to kill me, sweetheart.“

“No, that’s not-“ You swallow, his words sinking a little too deep under your skin, your voice becoming softer than it was before. “You want to die?”

“Not lately, nah.” 

“Lately?”

“About six months.” He mumbles, kicking a rock with his foot. “Since you got back, really.”

The air feels hot. You can’t really feel anything, not here, but the air is hot. “Me?” You whisper, your voice barely a breath, and Dean just shrugs, his voice a little lower than before.

“Course you, Princess. Never been anything else, has it?”

You swallow, and nod, because he’s right. It really hasn’t. And he holds your gaze until you’re looking into him, and he’s golden and shining and bigger than the sky. 

You’d trade the sky for him in a heartbeat. You’d trade the world for him even faster.

The sky rumbles at that. It doesn’t like that idea, you trading everything for Dean. And you don’t remember it raining during this party, but it’s beginning anyway. Heavy, cold rain that falls on your skin like bullets, swelling in the grass and turning into a flood in only seconds, splitting the sky with white before you can grab Dean, and he’s swept away and you can’t fucking breathe, and Dean, he was here and you lost him in half a fucking second, where’s Dean-

Your throat already hurts when your eyes open, as if you’ve been screaming for a while. 

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe-“

You’re not safe. Dean’s not safe. You don’t know where he is, but he’s not whoever is holding and speaking to you, and where’s Dean-

“He’s back at Bobby’s, kid, he’s alright.” The owner of the voice is stroking your hair, and their touch doesn’t wash through your body like Dean’s, but it’s not wrong. You don’t have the energy to fight it anyway. “We only got a few hours ‘till I drop you back, ’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You don’t know why, but you don’t believe them. The Darkness is balking and rioting all at once, and the spiderweb is screaming for Dean, and you- 

It’s not going to be okay. You don’t know what to do, and you don’t feel well, and you can’t- 

“Dean.” You whisper, your voice hoarse as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to drag a little control back into your body. “I- Where’s-“

“Bobby’s.” The voice repeats, smooth and controlled. “Sleepin’, probably, it’s well past midnight. And he’ll be glad you’re home,” the voice drawls your name, and that Ellen. Only she says your name like that. “He ain’t happy you ran off like that. Gonna be askin’ about where you were, so I suggest you and Jo start gettin’ your story straight.”

You blink your eyes open, still slightly blurred for the tears you know are still stained across your face, and you’re sitting at Ellen’s side, half-curled into her side like a child as you sit in the back of the car.

“Where’s-“

“She’s gettin’ you some food. Says you like the fruit gummies and those purple sodas.” Ellen raises her brows at you. “Anyone ever tell you that shit ain’t good for you?”

“Bobby has.” You mumble, picking at your fingernails. “I told him drinking wasn’t good for him.”

Ellen chuckles at that. “I’m takin’ you won that one.”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips, and Ellen mutters your name.

“He’s worried ‘bout you too, you know. Called me a few weeks back to say you won’t sleep ‘less Dean’s with you.”

You look up at her, swallowing it frantic, wired feeling over your skin. “I- Dean and I- Bobby-“

“He ain’t stupid. If he didn’t figure it out with his eyes, he’d put it together with his brain. He right?”

“Is he-“

“You not sleeping without Dean?”

You swallow again—you think you’re going to choke on nothing at all—and nod.

Ellen lets out a long, slow sigh. “You tell Bobby you went to Chicago?”

“No.” You whisper. You’re starting to bleed, a little under your nail. “He’d- he’d know what that meant. He’d try to stop me.”

Ellen hums. “Should he have?”

You shake your head. “Dean-“

“Honey, I don’t care about Dean right now.” Ellen squeezes her arm around your body, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Should you have headed back there?”

You shouldn’t have. It’s still like a noose around your throat, and now you have to worry about your family knowing you’re alive, and stealing their books, and had been in their house.

But you’d do it again. For Dean, you’d do it in a fucking heartbeat.

“I-“ You swallow, pulling your knees into your chest. “I- I don’t know what to do.”

Ellen mutters your name but you shake your head, your every word becoming rushed and frantic as it slams back into you.

There’s not enough time. You can’t eat or sleep and there’s not enough time, and Dean is- You can’t- He’s Dean and you-

“I can’t- I don’t know what to do- Please, I- I don’t know what to do and I can’t- what if- I need him, I can’t- If this doesn’t work then I can’t-“ Your voice becomes strangled. Weak. Almost fucking pleading. “Please, I- I don’t know what to do-“

“Oh, Jesus.” Ellen holds you a little tighter, muttering your name, “’S gonna be alright, sweetheart. You’re smart ’n strong, you’ll be alright.”

It’s a labor to hear her. Your nails are leaving little marks on your skin and you’re not really breathing, but the Darkness is howling in your body and you can’t use it, you can’t hurt anyone but it may be the only way and you don’t know what to do-

“I- The book-“

“In your bag.” Ellen mutters, squeezing you one last time before pulling back. “We’ll all take some time to look at it, once we get you home, alright?”

You don’t think they will. Jo had said she couldn’t read it. You nod anyway, and Ellen gives you a soft smile.

“You wanna talk to Bobby.”

You nod again, and you feel like a child. You don’t know if it was Chicago, or how you’re almost out of time, but you feel small again. The Darkness is going dormant not because you feel better, but because you’re simply too fucking small.

Sitting on the curb of the parking lot, rubbing your calves and biting the inside of your cheek until it bleeds as you dial Bobby’s number. Like a kid who had too much to drink at a party, or got kicked out of a sleepover, the air sticky and hot on your skin and every breath too wired in your lungs-

It’s past midnight, but Bobby still picks up after three rings. 

You don’t wait for his greeting before the words start to spill out of your mouth like vomit.

“Bobby, I- I’m sorry, I need- I didn’t want to, but I, I don’t feel that good-“

Bobby grunts your name. “You alright?”

“I- Yeah.”

“You comin’ home?”

You nod, rubbing your hand over your throat. “I- I’ll be home before dawn, I think.”

“Good.” There’s a long, static pause, and when Bobby speaks again his words sound careful through the phone. “If I ask ya’ somethin’, I don’t want the details, or the why, or to hear anythin’ about it again. Okay?”

“Ok- Bobby, what?”

“You wanna talk to Dean?”

The spiderweb bursts like a firework at the idea. 

You’re too tired to pretend it doesn’t. 

“Yes,” you whisper, your nails digging into the skin of your neck. “Please.”

It doesn’t take as long as you thought it would. Bobby grunts and shuffles around on the other end of the line, snapping and muttering low words you can’t really hear no matter how hard you strain, and then Dean’s voice is strong and clear through the speaker.

He says your name, as if he’s not sure you’re really there, and you have to take a long, slow breath before you answer.

“Dean.” You whisper, and he lets out a sigh you can hear through the phone.

He doesn’t ask you where you are, or why you left, or what the hell you’ve been doing for the past day, picking up and driving off without warning. 

He just asks if you got it—you’re not even sure he knows what it is—and moves on when you mumble a yes.

“That’s good.” There’s a pause, and when Dean keep talking, it’s far too casual for all of this. “You know, Sammy says you can see our souls or something.”

“Yeah, I-“ You swallow, frowning into the mostly abandoned parking lot. “I can.”

“That’s pretty fucking awesome, Princess.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s weird, but our whole damn lives are weird.” You can almost hear the frown on his face, picture his adorable look of confusion. “Are they like, bright?”

“Some of them, yeah.”

“Huh. Are they squiggly?”

You blink at the air. “Squiggly?”

“Yeah, like shapes and shit-“

“They’re souls, De, not playdo-“

“Would be cool if they were playdo. You know Sammy used to eat that stuff, I had to make dad stop buying it. And if they’re not squiggly, are they just, like, in us?”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “They all have a core, but it’s in a different spot for everyone. Then they just kind of… spread. Like paint.”

“Alright.” Dean pauses, and you realize you’ve stopped choking yourself right before he speaks. “Where’s my core?”

“In your chest.” You answer without thought, because you might know Dean’s soul a little better than your own. “Near your heart.”

“Huh. And is it just like, over me? All they all just glowing- Nah, you said they weren’t all bright-“

“They’re all different colors.” You say, smiling into the air as you cut off his rambling. “And some of the colors are bright, or metallic, or neon. Depends.”

There’s another pause, and Dean’s voice is suddenly softer when he speaks again. “What color am I?”

“Yellow.” You mumble, and Dean hums.

“Okay, I can work with yellow. Am I-“

“You’re metallic.”

“So I’m like, gold?” You can hear the slight joy in his voice. 

And you know what he’s doing. You’re not forcing the Darkness down, and you don’t feel good but you’re not small anymore either. He’s distracted him.

You’re almost out of time.

You can’t lose him.

“Yeah. You’re gold.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “Dean?”

“Yeah-“

“Can you please tell me it’s going to be okay.”

He pauses, tone lowering slightly as he mutters your name. “I don’t-“

“Even if it’s a lie.” You draw your knees tighter to your chest, and he’s just a voice in a phone right now, but you can feel him all the way down and through the spiderweb, and it’s better than anything in the world. You need him. “Please, just say it will be okay. Please-“

“It’ll be alright. I pr- I know you’re gonna be okay, Princess.” Dean’s voice is a little hoarse. 

You really want to go home.

“You’re gonna be okay.” He repeats, and you should be.

You should get through this. You always get through this.

But you need Dean. 

And as you watch the lights of the gas station flicker, you don’t believe him.

End Note: do you guys think I qualify for witness protection for a fanfic.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[jessjad]

Behind the shadows

Series Masterlist

Summary: Y/N's life hasn't been easy for a few weeks. She has to take care of her sick mother and has no time for herself. Too bad the mysterious Dean Winchester suddenly appears. She keeps running into him, and he's just to much! Y/N doesn't know that Dean will soon be the new mafia kingpin, and he doesn't have time for new encounters either. So why do they keep bumping into each other?

Pairing: mafia!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+!!! Mafia dynamics, death, smut, enemies to lovers, tension, angst, perilous situations, grief, mutual pining, fluff and some heartwarming moments too.

A/N: Yeah, that's right. It's happening! And I solely blame @waynes-multiverse for it. 😂 It's your fault that this story hasn't left my mind. So, be ready for this mafia!AU, y'all!

My Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

This will come to you in May!

You wanna be tagged? Just let me know!

[supernotnatural2005]

The Arrangement - Chapter Eight

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: It's New Year's eve, celebrations are in full swing and you have a plan. However, could an unexpected run-in with a blast from the past jeopardise everything?

Word Count: 6.1k

Warnings/tags: Angst, swearing, drinking, jealousy, cliffhanger.

AN: This chapter was something.. let me tell ya 😅 But omg guys! Only two more chapters after this!! 😫 And I don't know how to feel about it! (gif not mine, found on google)

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Things had changed.

This time, you were certain of it.

In the days following Christmas, you and Dean had returned home with something different between you—something unspoken but undeniably there. And for once, it didn’t feel one-sided.

It was in the little things, the effortless ways he pulled you closer. How his hand would find yours absentmindedly, tracing circles against your palm as you sat together. How he’d tug you against him in the middle of the night, murmuring your name in that half-asleep rasp that made your heart ache.

It was in the way he kissed you, not to start something, just because he wanted to. How he stood a little too close when you cooked together, fingers brushing against your waist as he stole pieces of whatever you were making. How when you relaxed on the couch together, his arm was always open, waiting, inviting.

It felt like everything had shifted. Like somehow, without either of you saying a word, you’d slipped into something more than just casual.

Neither of you had put it into words, too afraid to break whatever fragile bubble you were living in. There was a weight to it, a meaning that neither of you dared touch. Because acknowledging it meant facing it, and facing it meant risking the chance that it could slip through your fingers.

But you knew where you stood. Or at least, you hoped it was obvious.

You didn’t want to push him. Dean had only ever had one girlfriend, and even that ended abruptly, and then years of flings and one night stands followed. Just because you’d been best friends forever didn’t mean this didn’t require a level of commitment—one you weren’t even sure he was ready for. And if he wasn’t? If he decided this wasn’t what he wanted? It would hurt like hell, but you’d survive. Because he was worth it. Because you loved him. As a friend, yes. But also as something more.

So you waited. And waited. And waited.

But Dean? He just... stayed in this in-between space. Not pulling away, but not pushing forward either. And that limbo—are we, or aren’t we?—had your anxiety climbing higher with every passing day.

So by the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, you’d made up your mind.

You were going to be all poetic and cliché, and kiss him at midnight.

You were going to tell him.

Tell him that you were in love with him. That you always had been. That you wanted out of this arrangement. Because you didn’t want casual. Charlie was right, it wasn’t you. 

You wanted him. All of him.

Consequences be damned.

Gabe had invited you all to a new club in town—a swanky place that had just opened, already gaining a reputation for its exclusivity. He’d pulled some strings with one of the owners (you didn’t ask what kind of “business” he’d done, because it was Gabe), scoring VIP access for the night. They were doing a rooftop firework display to ring in the new year, the kind of event that had already been dubbed "the real deal".

It was the perfect setting. The perfect moment. The nudge you needed to make the jump.

You took your time getting ready, determined to make tonight count. The dress you’d chosen was sleek, short enough to tease but classy enough to fit the upscale club scene. The fabric clung to your curves in all the right places, a deep, shimmering shade of blue that caught the light with every movement. Paired with strappy high heels that made your legs look longer than ever, you felt good—sexy, confident, and ready.

And Dean’s reaction didn’t disappoint.

When you stepped out of your room, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, finishing off a beer. He was dressed in a fitted denim button-up with the sleeves rolled up just enough to tease his forearms, black jeans that hugged his thighs in a way you tried not to focus on, and his usual worn-in boots. He looked good. Too good.

But the way his eyes darkened when they landed on you? That was something else entirely.

It was the same way he’d looked at you the night of the Christmas party, and that night, weeks ago, when you’d been dressed up for your date with Gary. His eyes had roamed over you just like this—like he couldn’t help himself. But this time, he didn’t just look.

He moved.

“You look…” He exhaled, stepping toward you, his gaze dragging over you from head to toe, slow and deliberate.

“Nice?” you teased, tilting your head playfully.

He shook his head. “Fucking edible.” His voice was low, rough, almost reverent.

Your breath caught just as his hands found your waist, strong fingers slipping around to the curve of your ass as he pulled you flush against him.

You gasped, palms landing against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your touch. His breath ghosted over your throat before he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse point, his stubble scratching deliciously against your skin. Your head tipped back on instinct, lips parting—

And then his mouth was trailing upward, over your jaw, toward your lips.

You barely had enough willpower to stop him, but you did, pressing a teasing finger against his mouth. “If we go there Winchester, you’ll ruin my makeup,” you tsked. “Do you know how long it took me to get these wings just right?” You fluttered your lashes to exemplify your neatly applied eyeliner.

Dean huffed humourlessly as you slipped away, and when you reached for your coat, you stretched just a little extra to give him an ample view of your ass, and he let out a low, suffering sound.

"Now that was just evil."

The moment you stepped inside the club, the atmosphere swallowed you whole. The place oozed luxury—dim lighting casting a sultry glow over everything, sleek leather booths, crystal-clear glasses lining the bar. Strobe lights pulsed in time with the deep bass of the music, filling the air with electric energy. It was packed but not overcrowded, just enough people to make it feel alive.

Gabe hadn’t been exaggerating—this was "the real deal".

As you and Dean were escorted upstairs to the VIP section, familiar faces came into view. Your friends were already gathered, drinks in hand, and the moment they spotted you, a chorus of greetings erupted.

“Finally!” Gabe called sarcastically, throwing his arms wide like you’d kept him waiting for hours. “The guests of honour arrive.” He slung an arm around your shoulders as you reached him, grinning.

As usual, he looked effortlessly sharp—probably wearing something expensive but casually unbuttoned enough to make it seem like he didn’t care.

Benny let out a low whistle. “Look at you, Cher.” He took your hand, giving you a playful twirl before you swatted at him with a laugh.

Dean rolled his eyes, playing it off as if it didn’t bother him—but the slight clench of his jaw said otherwise.

Charlie was on you next, pulling you into a tight hug. “You look so hot,” she said, matter-of-factly, before glancing at Dean and smirking. “And you—predictable as always.” She snickered. She was always teasing Dean for his constant jean and shirt combos. 

Dean scoffed, placing a hand over his heart. “How dare you.”

“Only speaking facts Dean'o.” She winked before turning back to her drink before he could respond.

Cas then greeted you with a warm smile, pulling you into a brief but firm hug. He’d gotten over your little admission from a few nights ago, finding it more humourous than shocking.

“Took you guys long enough,” he chuckled, stepping back to greet Dean next.

Dean scoffed. “Would’ve been faster if she didn’t spend three hours getting ready.” He jabbed a thumb in your direction.

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, elbowing him as you turned—only to be caught in a firm hug from Sam. He squeezed a little tighter than usual, enough to make you stumble slightly before he let go.

“Jesus, Moose, I like my ribs unbroken,” you teased, laughing as you steadied yourself.

Sam grinned, his cheeks flushed, clearly drunk. And Jess, tucked comfortably against his side, shook her head with an exasperated smile. “That’s only his second beer, by the way.”

Your brow shot up. “Wait, this is Sam on two beers?”

Dean, who had just walked over, gave his brother a look of sheer disappointment. “Now that’s just embarrassing.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Bitch.”

Dean smirked. “Jerk.”

You shook your head as Dean went off on a tangent about him being a lightweight, and then Jo looped her arm through yours, smirking. “See? And you doubted my taste.” She fingered the material of your dress.

She wasn’t wrong. You’d been unsure about the dress when you first pulled it from the rack, but Jo had insisted you would look “fucking hot.” Turns out, she knew what she was talking about.

“Yeah, yeah, you were right,” you admitted with a chuckle before taking her in fully. You let out a low whistle. “Damn, you look amazing, though.”

She grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “I know.” She did a little twirl, showing off the fitted red number that hugged her petite frame perfectly, paired with sleek, black heels that made her legs look impossibly long.

After finishing your hellos, you all settled into the large booth, conversation flowing as easily as the drinks, laughter and usual banter filled the air, with the deep bass of a generic pop beat pulsing around you.

The night had barely started, but already it felt like one you weren’t going to forget.

Tonight, everything was going to change. 

Four drinks in, and you were feeling the perfect buzz—light, warm, and just uninhibited enough to let loose. You’d spent the night bouncing between your friends, sipping your drinks, and genuinely enjoying yourself.

Even Dean, who had been hovering around you all evening, had somehow managed to pull you onto the dance floor for a little friendly—or maybe not-so-friendly—dancing.

His hands had settled on your hips, his breath warm against your ear as you moved together in a way that felt entirely too natural. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that you had finally let yourself stop overthinking for once, but you’d melted into him. Your body responded to every little shift of his, and for a fleeting moment, you were certain he was going to make a move.

But the moment passed, and now here you were, walking toward the bar with him at your side, your skin still tingling from where his hands had rested.

Then, as if the universe had a cruel sense of humour, as you were walking, someone bumped into him, severing you connection with his hand on your waist. 

“Lisa?”

Just hearing her name made your stomach twist. It couldn't be? But then you turned, and were met with none other than Lisa Braeden. 

She wasn’t an ex, not really. She was more of a long-term hookup who had convinced herself she was something more—clinging, scheming, and bitter whenever Dean’s attention wasn’t solely on her. And if there was one thing Lisa had absolutely despised, it was you.

You weren’t just another girl in Dean’s life. You were his best friend. His constant. And Lisa had made it her personal mission to change that.

At first, it had been subtle—harmless jabs, little digs about how much time you and Dean spent together, passive-aggressive smiles whenever you ran into her in the morning after one of her nights with him. Then, it had escalated. Almost to the point you thought you were going to lose him.

Until he finally saw through her lies and games and ended it.

That was over three years ago. You hadn’t seen her since.

Dean stiffened beside you, clearly just as uncomfortable as you were, but ever the gentleman, he greeted her politely.

Lisa, for her part, had perfected the art of playing sweet. "Dean! Oh my God, what are the odds?" she gushed, her voice dripping in forced delight. Then her eyes landed on you, and for the briefest second, her smile faltered. It was so quick that anyone else might not have noticed—but you weren’t anyone else.

"Y/N, hi! Long time, huh?"

The way she said it, so full of faux surprise, like she genuinely didn’t expect you to still be around, made your jaw clench.

Before you could react, she pulled you into a hug, her arms looping around you as if you were long-lost friends. You stood there, stiff and uncomfortable, before awkwardly patting her back. She smelled expensive, and the hug lasted a beat too long, like she was staking a claim.

She pulled back with a sickeningly sweet smile.

“How crazy is it to run into you guys here?” she giggled, as if this was some fateful, cosmic coincidence.

Crazy was one word for it. 

Dean, to his credit, looked wary. “How are things?” he asked, remaining polite but distant.

Lisa exhaled a dramatic little sigh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Really great! Just out with my girlfriends.” She gestured across the room to a group of women who were now very obviously staring at you. Their once-casual chatter had paused, and you caught the way they were looking at you—up and down, sizing you up. Judging.

Your frown deepened. What the hell was their problem?

Lisa, completely ignoring the awkwardness, continued. "Look, I know things ended a little… unorthodox.” She huffed out a small laugh, clearly struggling to even admit that much. “I was young. I was going through a lot. I know that doesn’t excuse how I acted, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Her voice was soft, just the right amount of remorseful. The kind of apology that made you pause.

It sounded genuine, and had you second guessing yourself. 

Yet, call it experience, or PTSD but, something about this didn’t sit right.

Dean, on the other hand, softened instantly. You saw the shift in his expression, the flicker of guilt. “It’s in the past now,” he said, his tone warmer than you expected.

Lisa’s smile stretched a little too wide, and continued. "Honestly, I knew what I was getting into," she said, shaking her head as if this was all just some big misunderstanding. "You were honest with me from the start. I was the one who took things too far, let my feelings get the better of me."

Dean, being Dean, laid a comforting hand on her arm.

And just like that, jealousy flared in your chest, sharp and hot.

“For old times sake, how about I buy you both a drink?” Lisa offered, though you had a feeling that the invitation extended to you was merely for show.

Dean, to your utter disbelief, nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

You blinked at him. Was he serious?

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably, but you forced yourself to play it cool. This was just Dean being Dean—letting his martyr complex get the better of him. He wasn’t an idiot. He remembered what she was like.

Right?

Still, you had no desire to sit through a drink with her.

“You know what? You guys go ahead,” you said, forcing a light chuckle. “I need to talk to Jo about something. Sister things.” You lied, flailing a hand with a nervous chuckle, trying to appear casual, and not like you were screaming internally.

Dean frowned slightly, like he didn’t quite buy it, but you waved him off. “I’ll meet you after?” you added, your voice softer now, laced with an unspoken meaning.

A promise.

His lips twitched into a small smile. “Yeah, okay.” His gaze lingered, but before either of you could say anything else, Lisa placed a hand on his arm, effectively snapping the moment in half.

You turned on your heel and left, already feeling the unease settling deep in your stomach.

You slipped into the bathroom, the heavy door swinging shut behind you, sealing you away from the noise of the party. For a brief moment, you just stood there, taking in what was probably the most upscale restroom you’d ever stepped foot in—marbled countertops, gold intricate designs, glossy floors reflecting the soft glow of chandelier lights. It was a little excessive, but your mind was elsewhere.

Your heart was still hammering, and not from the alcohol or dancing this time. You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to move toward the sink, gripping the cool edge of the counter as you met your own reflection in the mirror.

Your makeup was still intact despite the hours of laughter and sweat from dancing with your friends, but your expression was harder to ignore. You looked composed on the outside, but the longer you stared, the more the old doubts crept in, seeping through the cracks, flooding you with unwanted memories from three years ago.

How Lisa started twisting things, planting doubts in Dean’s head, feeding him lies about you. You weren’t sure what her end goal was, but it was clear she didn’t want you in his life.

Things only seemed to worsen the moment you’d met Patrick—the cute paramedic who patched Jo up after she sprained her wrist at some roller disco she’d dragged you to, during oner of her ‘let’s try something new’ phases.

He’d been sweet and funny, and you were single, so when he'd asked for your number, you’d said yes. 

However, you’d notice then Dean had started pulling away, and that was when Lisa’s visits became more frequent. He began questioning things you’d never said or done. And it was like she used this thing with Patrick. Twisted it. Made it sound like you were the one who had been pulling away from him! And Dean, already caught up in whatever spell she had over him, had let her. 

It hurt like hell, knowing he even considered believing her. 

Thankfully, things ended between them, but your friendship had taken a hit, one that took a long time to mend. But Dean had put in the work and you trusted him, you knew he knew better than to entertain her advances again. 

Right? 

The door swung open then, the noise of the party briefly flooding in before being muffled again. You turned just as Jo, Charlie, and Jess walked in, laughing to themselves—until their eyes landed on you. Jo’s face immediately shifted to concern as she closed the distance between you.

“Hey, you good?” she asked, her grip steady on your arm as she scanned your face.

You tried to nod, brush it off, but you couldn’t.

Jess and Charlie flanked you on either side, their worry evident, and before you could stop yourself, it all came pouring out.

Your feelings for Dean. The arrangement. The plan to finally tell him at midnight.

Charlie, of course, already knew—she had sussed it out at your work Christmas party. But Jo? The knowing smirk creeping up on her lips told you she wasn’t surprised.

“I mean, it took you long enough to finally fucking realise,” she huffed, shaking her head at you.

Despite your stress, a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“I swear you’ve been in love with the kid since he went all superhero on your ass and carried you home after you broke your arm.” She teased.

Jess, who hadn’t heard this story before, let out a dreamy sigh. “Wait, that’s so cute.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately.

You could still remember it—twelve years old, being the little daredevil that you were,  climbing to the highest point of the brand-new jungle gym at the park, daring yourself to stand on top of the structure. Instead, you had lost your balance and tumbled down, landing hard with a sickening crack in your arm.

You had cried that time, the pain overwhelming, but then there was Dean—his freckled face scrunched in worry, and he scooped you up without hesitation, carrying you the entire block back to his house, muttering assurances the whole way.

“That’s not everything,” you sighed, your stomach twisting. “Lisa’s here. And she’s with Dean.”

Silence.

Then, in perfect unison—

“What!?”

Charlie and Jo’s reactions were instant. They had been there when you almost lost Dean to that possessive, manipulative woman. Jo, in particular, had been the first to knock some sense into him—literally. She had tackled him at the Roadhouse one night, launching into a tirade that made half the bar stare. It had worked, though. Had given Dean the wake-up call he needed.

You quickly recounted the whole interaction—bumping into Lisa at the bar, her invitation to drinks, and your hasty retreat to the bathroom.

Charlie gaped at you, scandalised. “And you let him just go with her?!”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “I didn’t want to cause a scene. And she seemed… I don’t know, genuinely sorry.”

Even as you said it, the words felt flimsy—like an excuse rather than an explanation.

Jo crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Y/N. Come on. You and I both know Lisa’s full of shit.”

“You know what she’s like,” Charlie added, her voice softer now. “You can’t really believe she’s suddenly had a change of heart.”

You sighed, fingers tightening on the sink. “I don’t know, maybe” you shrugged sheepishly.

The two of them didn’t look convinced. And, honestly?

You weren't sure you were either, but you were not about to let it get the better of you. In the last three years you had changed a lot, and maybe Lisa had to. 

“Look, I trust Dean,” you continued, firmer now. “And if I start telling him who he can and can’t talk to—making his decisions for him—then I’m no better than her.”

Jo exhaled through her nose, clearly still displeased.

“Just please,” you added, levelling her with a look, “don’t make a scene.”

You aimed that more at Jo than Charlie.

She scowled, arms still crossed, but when you took her hands in yours and gave her your best pleading look, she let out a dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” she huffed.

You smiled a little, despite everything, grateful for these women in your life—your protectors.

“But,” Jo added, pointing a firm finger at you, “if she so much as breathes wrong, I’m throwing hands.”

Charlie grinned. “And I’ll be right behind her.”

You laughed, shaking your head, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

The girls left the bathroom before you, with your promise to meet them back at the booth, while you actually did use the facilities. You did a quick fix-up of your makeup, fluffed out your hair, and blew out a deep breath.

You got this. You prepped yourself, even if it was fragile.

With that, you slipped out the door, making your way down the short hall toward the main room, when you suddenly stopped short. Familiar voices drifted from around the corner—low, intimate, just barely audible over the music.

“Do you not miss it?” You recognised Lisa’s voice. Soft, almost wistful as she continued. “Miss us?”

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you crept closer, and peered around the corner, your stomach dropping when you spotted Dean. However, curiosity got the better of you, and you couldn't help yourself as you pressed your back against the cool wall and listened.

Dean hesitated. Just for a second. But it was long enough for something sharp to wedge itself between your ribs.

“I’ll admit, we had a good time.” His voice was even, maybe even reluctant, but it wasn’t an outright no.

Lisa took a step closer—close enough that you could feel the way she was invading his space, twirling her hair, tilting her chin up at him like she already knew the answer. “But?” she prompted.

Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We weren’t right for each other, Lis’.” 

“But now?” she pushed, almost desperate. “I’ve changed, Dean. I know I messed up before, but love makes you do crazy things sometimes.”

Did she just drop the L-bomb?

Silence.

You swore you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Dean didn’t immediately shut her down. Didn’t laugh in her face or tell her to fuck off the way you wanted him to. Instead, another long pause stretched between them, weighted and thick, and it felt like the air had been sucked from your lungs.

He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head, and you could see the way Lisa took that as something more than it was—an opening, a possibility.

She reached for his arm, fingers just barely skimming his sleeve. “We were good together. I know you know that too.”

Your stomach churned.

Dean still wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t moving away fast enough, and you waited, silently begged for him to deny it.

Then suddenly, a loud commotion shattered the moment.

A group of rowdy guys stumbled through the hall, their voices cutting through the tension like a blade. A few of them stopped as they passed, giving you once-overs and whistling appreciatively. You rolled your eyes, but it drew attention to your presence.

“Y/N?”

You closed your eyes briefly but decided to pretend you hadn’t just had your heart ripped out and stepped on. Instead, you turned with a smile, masking the pain of the knife in currently penetrating your heart.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Dean breathed out, clearly still shaking off that conversation as you stepped up next to him.

Lisa’s expression barely wavered, but you caught the flicker of irritation before she forced a tight smile.

“Yeah, just needed to use the restroom,” you said smoothly. “Was on my way back to you guys.” It wasn’t a lie—you just left out the eavesdropping part.

Dean nodded, glancing at Lisa before placing a guiding hand on your back. His touch was warm, grounding, but you ignored it as you started toward the booth. Lisa’s footsteps following close behind.

When you got back to the table, Jo immediately clocked Lisa trailing behind you, her expression darkening as she leaned back in the booth. “Oh. Great,” she deadpanned.

Lisa’s seemingly ignored her comment, her smile all faux sweetness. “Hey, Jo.”

Jo didn’t return the greeting, just took a slow sip of her drink and side-eyed you.

Lisa cleared her throat, shifting awkwardly. “My friends kinda ditched me,” she explained. “Dean said I was welcome to join you guys.”

Jo’s head snapped toward Dean so fast you thought she might give herself whiplash. She looked at him like he’d just told her he ran over her dog.

Then, she turned to you, eyes blazing.

Are you fucking kidding me? You silently read.

You gave a subtle shake of your head. Don’t.

Jo clenched her jaw but said nothing.

With all the seats taken, the only available spot was next to Dean. You hesitated for half a second before sliding in beside him. The second you did, he shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours like he could sense your unease.

Conversations flowed easily enough. Benny, Cas, and Gabe didn’t hold anything against Lisa—they hadn’t been in the trenches of that breakup, didn’t know all the details. Even Sam, while clearly unimpressed, was too drunk and too wrapped up in Jess to care much.

But Dean’s attention was on you.

Even while he spoke with the others, even as Lisa tried to inject herself into conversations, his focus never fully left you. Every so often, his knee would bump yours, or his fingers would drum lightly against the table like he wanted to reach for you but stopped himself.

Then, like he couldn't hold back any longer, a warm hand found your thigh under the table.

Your breath caught at the initial touch, but you didn’t move away.

Dean leaned in then, his voice low, meant only for you. “Sorry about this,” he murmured. “She looked kinda lost, and I felt guilty ditching her too.” 

Of course he did.

Dean Winchester, the ever-obliging martyr. It didn’t matter how shitty someone had been to him, how much hurt they left in their wake—he was a firm believer in forgiveness, good karma and all that. And God only knows what tale she'd spun in your abscence to get him to feel sorry for her.

Maybe it was that hero complex of his, or maybe he just didn’t know how to say no without carrying guilt like a weight around his neck. He was just a good person, how could you fault him for that?

But you didn’t believe for a second that Lisa had been truly abandoned, however, Dean was already looking at you, like he wanted your silent approval, and what were you supposed to do? Call her bluff? Make a scene?

Yes. Came Jo's snappish tone. But unfortunately, you didn't have the backbone like your tough nut sister.

So, instead, you plastered on a neutral smile and nodded. “It’s okay.” 

The smile he gave you made your insides warm. And the longer his hand rested on your thigh, the more those earlier doubts started to fade.

Because even now, even with Lisa sitting on his other side, trying to worm her way back in, Dean was still here, still touching you, still looking at you like nothing had changed.

Like everything was okay.

At least, that’s what you hoped. 

With just thirty minutes left until the new year, one of the waiters approached your group, a polite smile on his face as he announced, “VIP guests will now be escorted to the rooftop for the fireworks display.”

A collective cheer rippled through the group, excitement buzzing in the air as you all stood, gathering your coats and drinks before following the designated path.

The moment you stepped outside, the winter air bit at your skin, crisp and invigorating, but the sight before you was enough to steal your breath.

The rooftop was strung with fairy lights, casting a warm glow against the dark sky. Tall fire pits flickered, evenly spaced around the terrace, drawing groups of people together for warmth. Beyond the railing, you could see the setup for the fireworks display—rows of canons lined up on a separate platform, ready to light up the night sky.

But what really caught your attention was the oversized digital clock hanging above the terrace bar, its bright red numbers ticking down the final minutes of the year.

Twenty-seven minutes.

It was almost time.

No going back now.

More drinks were ordered, more laughter spilled into the air as everyone settled in, chatting, toasting to the last stretch of the year. Benny handed you a fresh glass of the complementary champagne with a wink, and you took a grateful sip, trying to steady the anxious flutter in your stomach.

But no matter how much you tried to focus on the moment, your eyes kept drifting to him.

Dean stood near one of the fire pits, beer in hand, laughing at something Gabe had said. The glow of the flames cast golden highlights over his face, making his freckles stand out, his green eyes flickering in the light. You wanted to be next to him, to get a quiet moment alone before the countdown.

But Lisa was always there.

She hovered just close enough to be a presence, laughing at his jokes, lightly touching his arm when she talked, making sure she was never too far. Never giving you the opportunity to slide in beside him, to steal him away for even a second.

It was grating, the way she lingered, the way she acted like she belonged there.

You turned back to the girls, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass.

Jo nudged you. “Hey,” she said softly, reading your expression in an instant. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Charlie nodded, her confidence unwavering. “You and Dean? This is happening. There's no way the universe would let all this all go to waste.” She slurred a little, here finger flicking between you and Dean. You held her finger when it got too close to your face and chuckled.

“Exactly." Jo cut in. "You two are meant to be. You need to ignore her. Better yet, I can gag and hog tie her if you need me too?” She suggested so seriously you were almost worried she would. 

“Jesus, Jo.” You huffed out a laugh with a shake of your head and she just shrugged.

“Then you get it done.” She points at you like a scolding mother.

Their reassurances soothed some of your nerves, but the weight in your chest remained. There was still time. Still a chance to pull him away, to get him alone before the moment hit.

One minute.

People started gathering closer to the centre of the terrace, positioning themselves near the railing for the best view of the fireworks. The crowd thickened, bodies pressing in as excitement filled the air.

You turned, eyes locking on Dean. He was near the edge of the group, still by the fire pit, but the crowd had shifted, pushing in, blocking your path.

Then the last ten seconds began.

Ten.

Your heartbeat matched the ticking clock, pulsing in your throat as you pushed through, weaving between bodies.

Nine.

You caught glimpses of him—his profile in the flickering firelight, the curve of his mouth as he took a sip of his beer, the way he turned his head, scanning the crowd—was he looking for you?

Eight.

You pushed forward, murmuring apologies as you squeezed between groups, your heart hammering now, thundering in your ears.

Seven.

The crowd was thick, voices rising in anticipation, the excitement electric. You were so close now. Just a few more steps.

Six.

Dean was right there, only a foot away. He turned slightly, and your breath caught. His gaze flickered over the crowd, past Lisa, eyes searching. And then-

Five,

Your stomach twisted.

Four

Lisa shifted closer to him.

Three.

She reached for his collar—

Two.

Pulled him down—

One.

Happy New Year!

The crowd erupted in cheers, firework cannons popped, and before you could blink, before you could breathe—

Lisa kissed him.

Right in front of you.

The fireworks exploded overhead, but the ringing in your ears drowned them out. Everything slowed, blurred—the pop of champagne bottles, the chorus of laughter, the flashes of light against the midnight sky—

All you could see was Dean.

Lisa’s hands curled around his jacket, her lips pressed against his. And Dean? Dean wasn’t pushing her away fast enough.

Your stomach lurched as the cheers continued, voices blending into a muffled hum, but it didn’t matter.

Because suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

AN: Okay, please don't hate me! 😅 I know it's a shitty way to end it, but there will be more to come in the next chapter! 💕

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

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell @nancymcl @happyfxckinghorrors @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @fangirlingfromdownunder @star-yawnznn @piptoost @shadysoulangel @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy @impala67stellawinchester @bonbonnie88 @youroldfashioned @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes @rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

Next Time...

Dean hailed a cab, his adrenaline pumping. Gabe had informed him with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder—which only made him worry more, since Gabe wasn’t usually a sentimental guy—that you’d left with Charlie, Jo, even Jess and Sam. His knee bounced impatiently as the city lights blurred past. Fireworks still crackled in the distance, each explosion a hollow echo of the pounding in his chest. People were celebrating fresh starts, new beginnings. Meanwhile, he hadn’t even made it an hour into the year before fucking everything up. By the time the cab rolled up to his apartment, he didn’t bother waiting for change, ignoring the driver’s protests as he bolted inside. “Y/N?” He called the second he was through the door. Silence answered. His stomach dropped. He searched the apartment—kitchen, bedroom, even the damn bathroom—each empty room twisting the knife deeper. With a curse, he yanked out his phone, dialling your number as he paced the living room, teeth sinking into his thumb. “Hey.” His body sagged in relief—until— “Psych! You’ve reached my voicemail. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

[easytiger-xo]

date night

with dean winchester

[bajablastlover1]

the urge is so very strong