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supernotnatural2005 · 3 days ago

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The Arrangement - Part Three

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: You and Dean come to an arrangement to navigate what is happening between you. However, is it just a sure fire way to complicate things even more?

Word Count: 5.9k

Warnings/Tags: SMUT!(18+ONLY!!!) like double smut 😅, fluff, the usual idiots in denial, mentions of non-major character death.

AN: Here we are with chapter 3, we finally meet the readers family and delve a little more into her background, as well as her situation with Dean. I hope you all enjoy 💕

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Series Masterlist

You woke with a soft sigh, the morning light flittering in through the gap in your curtain, almost blinding you as you peeped an eye open. You rolled over onto your other side and found Dean still sleeping soundly.

Your stomach twisted.

For some reason, seeing him still here, sprawled out in your bed like he belonged there, sent something unwanted crawling beneath your skin.

It wasn’t supposed to feel different.

It wasn’t different.

After your initial coupling the night before, where the arrangement was made—a deal in which you both could take advantage of whilst adhering to the other’s wants—it had been simple. Strictly sex without the strings. Some would call it a friends with benefits situation, but you found that term a little tasteless, too on the nose.

You’d come up with some rules, boundaries if you will, to ensure things didn’t become complicated. (Not that that ship hadn’t already sailed, but whatever.)

Either of you could call it off whenever you wanted. No hard feelings.

No sleepovers (though last night was an exception).

And most importantly, no matter what, you wouldn’t let this ruin your friendship.

(Though, if you were being honest, that ship might’ve already sailed too.)

But then, somewhere between setting the terms and conditions, one thing had led to another, and before you knew it, you’d been tangled up in him all over again.

There was just something about Dean that made you reckless, made you lose yourself completely. By the time you finally passed out, thoroughly spent, it had been well into the early hours of the morning, the scent of sweat and sex lingering in the air.

And now, Dean was still here. Right beside you, fast asleep, snoring softly.

You swallowed hard, your eyes tracing over him before you could stop yourself.

You had never really had the chance to admire him like this. Sure, you always knew Dean was attractive—it was an objective fact, really—but now, after having him in every way imaginable, it was something else entirely.

The sharp angles of his face, softened by sleep. The light freckles dusting across his nose. The way his hair stuck up in messy tufts, still showing evidence of your fingers tangling in it hours ago.

You shouldn’t be looking at him like this.

You shouldn’t be feeling like this.

You tore your gaze away, exhaling slowly.

This was fine. It was fine.

So what if something in your chest ached? So what if, for one stupid second, you wished this could be more?

It wasn’t. It wouldn’t be. And you knew that.

Dean was still free to date, to go out and find the girl of his dreams. And you?

You’d just be the best friend he screwed a couple of times and nothing more.

That’s what you agreed to.

That’s what you wanted.

Right?

As if on cue, a sign to quell your spiralling thoughts, Dean shifted slightly, his breathing hitching as he rolled onto his back, and your eyes drifted down before you could stop yourself.

The blanket had slipped low on his hips, and beneath it, you caught the telltale shape of his arousal, hard and curving upward beneath the fabric.

Instinctively, your thighs pressed together, and then an idea formed. A bold, shameless, possibly reckless idea.

But the whole point of this arrangement was to indulge in each other's needs, wasn’t it?

Slowly, carefully, you slipped beneath the covers, inching closer until you settled between his spread thighs. The warmth of his skin met your lips as you brushed a kiss along his hip bone.

Dean stirred with a low groan, but it wasn’t until you wrapped your fingers around him - admiring the warm, velvety weight of him before you took him into your mouth - that he truly woke up.

"Shit—" His voice was hoarse, thick with sleep as his hips jerked up. One of his hands tangled into your hair, his fingers flexing, holding rather than pushing. "You tryin’ to kill me, sweetheart?"

You hummed around him in response, sending a shudder through his body as your mouth slid up and down his length, suckling and licking along his shaft. His grip in your hair tightened, and his abs flexed beneath your fingertips. But you kept going, taking your time, savouring every reaction he gave you.

Dean never stood a chance.

With a strangled groan, he came, his muscles going taut as you eagerly swallowed everything he gave, before he finally slumped back against the pillows, chest heaving. You pressed a final, teasing kiss to his hip before emerging from beneath the covers with a smirk.

Dean ran a hand down his face, chuckling breathlessly. "Damn. I think I could get used to this.”

You chuckled as you went to move away, when Dean’s hand caught your arm. You paused and met his dark gaze. “Where d’ya think your goin’?”

You arched an amused brow at his tone. “To shower?”

Dean shook his head, and before you could react, he was dragging you up his body, shifting you until you were kneeling either side of his head.

Your breath hitched, heart pounding as realisation settled in.

His pupils were blown wide as he looked at you—at the most intimate part of you, on full display for him.

His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, palms firm as he cupped your ass, squeezing appreciatively.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick with want. “Look at you.”

Before you could form a response, he leaned up, dragging his tongue in a slow, broad stripe between your folds.

Your head fell back with a sharp gasp, fingers grasping for the headboard as he did it again—this time, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as he tasted you.

“You can lower yourself, sweetheart,” Dean murmured against your skin, his grip tightening as he tugged you down further.

You hesitated, the vulnerability of the position making you self-conscious. But Dean wasn’t having it. He tugged you the rest of the way, making you gasp as you fully settled over his mouth.

Then he went to work.

Dean ate you like a man starved, his grip firm, his tongue relentless. Your hips rocked on instinct, a breathless moan slipping from your lips as the pleasure built, as he guided you exactly where he wanted you.

He groaned beneath you, the sound vibrating against your core, sending another sharp pulse of pleasure through your body.

You barely had time to think—only to feel, only to chase the high he was so determined to give you.

Your thighs trembled around his head, your grip on the headboard tightening as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Dean's tongue worked you over with practiced precision, flicking and circling before dragging slow, deliberate strokes through your folds. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, guiding you into a slow grind against his mouth.

The pleasure was dizzying, a fire licking up your spine, consuming every inch of you. Your breaths turned to gasps, then whimpers, then broken cries as the pressure built, threatening to snap.

“D-Dean—” His name came out in a desperate whine, your body caught between the need to get closer and the overwhelming intensity of his touch. He groaned in response, the vibrations shooting straight through you. And then, with one last flick of his tongue over your clit, the coil inside you shattered.

Your whole body tensed before a violent shudder rocked through you, your vision going white as the pleasure exploded, wave after wave crashing over you. Your hips bucked against his mouth as he held you there, drawing out every last aftershock, every last ounce of pleasure he could wring from you.

Only when you whined in overstimulation did he finally ease up, pressing one last slow, lazy kiss to your swollen, pulsing centre before releasing his grip on your hips. You slumped forward, chest heaving, bracing yourself against the headboard as you tried to catch your breath.

Dean chuckled beneath you, his hands smoothing up and down your thighs, giving them a playful squeeze. “Now that,” he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction, “is one hell of a way to wake up.”

You huffed out a laugh, your body still buzzing in the aftermath as you carefully climbed off him, rolling onto your side beside him. “No kidding,” you murmured, still breathless. “And here I was, thinking I’d be the one in charge this morning.”

Dean turned his head to look at you, a smug grin on his lips, his face still glistening with the evidence of what he’d just done. “What can I say? You inspired me.”

You smacked his chest lightly, making him chuckle. “Well, I think we just broke, like, half of our rules before we even got out of bed.”

Dean stretched, arms resting behind his head, utterly unbothered. “Eh. Rules were made to be bent a little.”

You gave him a look. “Bent?”

He smirked. “Okay, maybe broken.”

You shook your head with a laugh, finally forcing yourself to sit up. “Alright, I need a shower. A very long, very cold shower.”

Dean hummed, reaching over to give your hip a squeeze. “Or… I could join you, and we could keep breaking rules.”

You groaned, throwing a pillow at his face. “Dean.”

He just laughed, catching it with ease. “What? Just putting it out there.”

Shaking your head, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood, feeling his gaze trailing over you as you walked toward the bathroom. You paused in the doorway, glancing back at him with an arched brow.

“Stay put, Winchester,” you warned playfully.

Dean held his hands up in surrender, that damn smirk still on his face. “No promises, sweetheart.”

Rolling your eyes, you stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. And even as the water rushed over your skin, washing away the evidence of the morning’s activities, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you were in way over your head.

By the time you had reappeared, showered and dressed for the day, Dean was - thankfully - fully clothed and plating up some eggs and toast in the kitchen.

He gave you a lazy smile when he spotted you, and placed one of the plates down in front of you when you took a seat at the kitchen island.

“Thanks.” You told him gratefully. After the past twenty-four hours, having arguably the most sex you’d had in almost a year, you’d definitely worked up an appetite. Dean took a seat next to you and you both dug in.

Breakfast passed by surprisingly smoothly. If you were being honest, you’d expected at least a little awkwardness now that you’d both left the bedroom and returned to some semblance of normalcy. But there was none. The easy banter and casual conversation flowed just as it always had, and what had transpired only 30 minutes ago was never brought up.

Not that it needed to, this was how you’d hoped for it to be. Maybe you underestimated yours and Dean’s ability to be actual grown ups about this.

“So, I’m driving down to pick up Sam tomorrow.” Dean told you as he gathered your plates and took them to the sink to wash.

“Drive? Is he not flying in next week?” You asked. Christmas wasn’t until the weekend and Sam was all the way out in Stanford. You assumed flying was the only logical, quicker way of getting home.

Dean turned on the faucet, rinsing off a plate. “He tried, but the earliest flight he could get was the twenty-seventh.”

You scoffed, shaking your head as you got up to help dry and put things away. “Does the kid not know how to pre-book a flight or something?”

Dean chuckled, hands deep in suds. “You’d think with all those brains to get into a school like Stanford, he’d be smarter.”

“Maybe he’s got girl brain.” You teased. “Is he still seeing that Jess?” Sam had mentioned a girl he’d started seeing on his last venture home, he’d seemed pretty smitten then.

Dean nodded, handing you the last dish. “Yeah, I’m picking her up too.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wow. That serious, huh? Guess it’s the real deal if he’s subjecting her to us lot.”

“Hey, speak for yourself. I’m a delight.”

You snorted. “Oh, please. You’re the worst of us all.” You said as you picked up your steaming cup of coffee.

Dean gaped at you in mock offence. “The hell I am!”

You hid a chuckle behind your coffee cup as Dean poured himself another. The playful bickering continued, and despite how nothing about this situation was normal, it somehow felt like it was.

“Well, with you gone for the next day or so, that gives me time to wrap gifts. And yes, that includes the ones you got for your family,” you cut in before he could even ask.

“You’re the best,” he grinned, looking way too pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes. Wrapping Dean’s gifts had become an annual chore—one you’d taken on after watching everyone struggle through layers of newspaper and duct tape one too many times. Now, that particular misfortune was yours alone.

"Alright, I should get going. The old man’s been hounding me long enough," you huffed, slipping on your boots and grabbing your winter jacket from the wall rack.

Because of the lead up to Christmas, everything had been extra crazy at work. Dick Roman, your boss, was very anal about things, your office was probably about the only one still open the week leading up to the holiday’s.

So, for that fact, you hadn’t had much time to visit Bobby lately. And with Christmas bound to be pure chaos—thanks to both your family and Dean’s—you knew today was your best shot at a real catch-up before the holiday madness set in.

“Right, yeah” Dean agreed and looked as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

“You got any plans?” You enquired, noticing his hesitancy and he shook his head.

“Nah, I’ll probably just work on the car, maybe pack a bag. Long drive tomorrow.” He hummed and you nodded.

“Sounds depressing.” You deadpanned and Dean shot you a look.

“Alright, Singer. Get outta here.” He shooed you out the door hearing your laughter as he closed it behind you.

The moderate drive to your family home was a one loaded with thoughts of a certain green eyed man. You knew you were screwed, setting yourself up for heartbreak. However well you and Dean were handling things now, you believed it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. You were a pessimist, after all.

But did that mean you’d stop it before it got to that point?

Not a chance.

Not when you’d just had four mind-blowing orgasms in the span of a few hours. Not when Dean had ruined every other man for you. Because even if this was just an arrangement, how the hell were you ever supposed to let anyone else warm your bed after him?

You’d well and truly screwed yourself. And you had no one to blame but you.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, Dean wasn’t faring much better.

Why the hell did you agree to this again?

Oh, right. Because you’re a goddamn idiot.

Dean sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he leaned against the counter. He’d let his downstairs brain do the thinking instead of the one that actually mattered. And now? Now, he was in deep shit.

Because, yeah, this whole arrangement was supposed to be no strings, just fun. But how was that possible now he actually got to have you. Before he learned just how amazing being with you was— how it was better than he ever could’ve imagined.

Dammit.

He had no one to blame but himself.

The familiar crunch of gravel under your tires sent a wave of nostalgia rolling over you as you pulled up to your childhood home. A modest, two-story farmhouse, nestled a little out of the way, but still standing strong despite the years. Out back, your dad’s pride and joy stretched across the property—the scrap yard, a graveyard of metal and machinery that had once been your playground.

Memories stirred—hot summer days spent weaving through rusted-out shells of old cars, hands stained with grease as Bobby taught you the difference between a carburettor and an alternator. At first, it had been just you, running wild with an overactive imagination.

Then Jo came along, and suddenly, you had a partner in crime. And when Dean joined in, the three of you were unstoppable, turning the yard into your own personal jungle gym, crafting make-believe adventures where you were pirates, outlaws, or world-class race car drivers.

But for all the warmth those memories carried, a familiar pang of sadness settled in your chest as your eyes drifted to the front porch. You had only spent a small part of your life here with your mother before she got sick. She had died when you were five—too young to remember much, but what you did recall was vivid. She was beautiful. She was warm. She loved you. That much, you knew for certain.

Your father had spent the better part of a decade alone after she passed, never so much as looking at another woman. But then Ellen came along—not as a whirlwind romance, but as something steady and unshakable. She had been your distant neighbour for years, and when he told you they were together, it hadn’t been a shock. It had made sense. The kind of deep, unspoken sense that settled into your bones.

Ellen had filled a space in your life neither you nor your father had realised needed filling. She didn’t try to replace your mother, but she became something else entirely—something just as important. And with her came Jo. Not a sister by blood, but one in every way that mattered. You had both lost a parent, and in return, gained a new one through your father and Ellen’s love for each other. It was one of the few things in your life you were endlessly grateful for.

You barely had a second to step out of your car before Bobby’s voice grumbled through the crisp mid-afternoon air.

“Took you long enough to show up,” he muttered, wiping his hands on an old rag as he straightened up from under the hood of a car - that had clearly seen better days.

You smirked, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Traffic,” you deadpanned. “And also, I like to make an entrance.”

Bobby huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. He had always appreciated your sharp tongue—probably because you’d inherited it from him. But beneath that tough exterior, you had your mother’s heart—open, vulnerable, and full of a quiet kind of strength that even Bobby, for all his gruffness, had always recognised.

“C’mere,” he grumbled, his voice as gruff as ever, but his eyes warm. You barely had time to react before his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into one of his signature bear hugs. You melted into it, breathing in the familiar scent of motor oil and worn leather.

“Ellen’s put on a lasagna since she heard you were stopping by,” he said as he pulled back with a knowing smile.

You chuckled. “That woman spoils me.”

Bobby scoffed. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“Hey.” You chuckled, nudging him in the side as he guided you into the house with an arm around you.

The second you stepped through the door, the rich aroma of Ellen’s home-cooked meal wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Your stomach grumbled in response, and mouth watered.

“Man, that smells good,” you hummed.

Ellen turned at the sound of your voice, her face lighting up as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and made her way over.

“How you doin’, darlin’?” she asked, pulling you into a tight embrace before stepping back to cup your face. She gave you a once-over, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re lookin’ a little thin. You eatin’ alright?”

You rolled your eyes, waving her off. “Yes, woman.”

She arched a brow, smirking. “Alright, alright. Just after the other night, I wanted to make sure you’re in good spirits, is all.”

Your stomach twisted slightly. She was, of course, referring to the night you had stormed into the Roadhouse after your disaster of a date with Gary, drowning your frustration in whiskey shots with Jo until the night spiralled completely out of control.

The night you kissed Dean.

It was only two days ago, but it already felt like a lifetime had passed, so much had happened since, and your mind was still trying to make sense of it all.

Bobby cleared his throat, drawing your attention. “Yeah, I heard about that,” he muttered, disapproval evident in his tone, though it wasn’t directed at you. “Glad to hear you gave that jackass what was comin’ to him.”

You smirked. “He shouldn’t have worn white.”

That earned you a chuckle, and as the mid-afternoon bled into the evening, conversation flowed naturally. The usual check-ins—how work was going, plans for Christmas, updates on Jo’s training at the academy. She was top of her class, and you couldn’t be prouder.

Then, they asked about Dean.

You stiffened for just a second—so quick that anyone else might have missed it. But not Ellen.

You kept your answers short, careful. You brought up how the Winchester brothers had already been pestering about Ellen’s famous stuffing, which seemed to distract her enough.

Ellen shook her head with a small, fond smile, despite the way she tried to maintain her hard exterior. “Those boys sure know how to butter me up,” she muttered, shaking her head.

By the time Jo came barreling through the front door, you were well past starving, but the sight of her wide grin made you forget about food for a moment.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show their face,” she teased, dropping into the chair beside you with an easy familiarity.

“You act like it’s been years.”

“Felt like it,” she shot back with a dramatic sigh, earning a scoff from you.

“I saw you two days ago.”

“Yeah, and I don’t remember it,” she admitted with a chuckle. The two of you had always been terrible influences on each other whenever alcohol was involved.

You laughed, shaking your head, then Jo straightened up, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Anyway, now that you’re here, I’ve got some prime gossip.”

With an exaggerated flourish, she tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder like she was about to spill the juiciest secret in the world.

You arched a brow, smirking. “Oh?”

Jo didn’t waste a second before launching into a dramatic retelling of her ongoing rivalry with some guy named Cole. The way she spoke about him—full of exasperation, plenty of complaints, but with just a little too much intensity—made it obvious. She either hated him with every fibre of her being, or she was in complete denial about the fact that she might actually like the guy.

“Let me guess,” you interjected, smirking. “Classic ‘annoy the girl because you secretly like her’ situation?”

Jo scoffed. “What? No! He’s an ass.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He is! He’s—he’s cocky, and thinks he’s the best at everything, and—”

“And you like him,” you finished smugly.

Her mouth snapped shut, cheeks tinting the slightest bit pink.

Ellen chuckled. “I’d say she’s onto somethin’, kid.”

Jo groaned, dropping her forehead against the table as Bobby snorted into his beer.

The house hummed with warmth and familiarity, a stark contrast to the mess in your head. For a moment, just a moment, you let yourself breathe—pushing aside the tangled thoughts of Dean, of what had happened, of what it might mean.

You would deal with that later.

For now, you were home.

It was nearing 7 p.m. when you finally said your goodbyes, somehow getting roped into making a dessert for Christmas. You knew Mary was already bringing her famous apple pie, but Ellen had scolded you at your whining, reminding you that it was only right to have more than one.

The drive home wasn’t long, but with every passing mile, anticipation curled tight in your chest. It was a new experience, in some ways, it excited you—the not knowing, the spontaneity of it all. But at the same time, it killed you, leaving you on edge.

When you stepped inside the apartment, Dean was nowhere to be found—at least, not at first. You set your bag down and were about to call out for him when the faint sound of running water caught your attention.

The shower.

And just like that, an impulsive thought struck you again—one you didn’t bother fighting. Maybe you just had a ridiculously high sex drive all of a sudden. Or maybe it was just Dean, but you found yourself standing before the closed bathroom door, teeth sinking into your lip as you hesitated.

Maybe it was too much. Too soon. But there wasn’t exactly a rule in place limiting to how many times you could fuck.

So, without another thought, you quietly slipped inside.

Steam curled in the air, thick and warm, and through the frosted glass, you could make out Dean’s silhouette. His broad, muscled frame, the way water cascaded down his skin—it had your body heating with need in an instant.

He was humming to himself, the tune unmistakably Metallica, as you made quick work of your clothes, letting them pool at your feet until you were completely bare.

Slowly, you padded across the floor, stopping just outside the shower door. With one last exhale of doubt, you pulled it open and stepped inside.

Dean startled, his head whipping toward you, eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and surprise.

“What the—”

Before he could finish, his expression twisted in pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Shit.” He hissed, rubbing furiously at them as soap trickled down into his lashes.

Biting back a laugh, you reached for his arm and guided him under the spray, watching as the water rinsed the suds away. Okay, maybe this wasn’t quite as sexy as you had planned.

When he finally blinked his eyes open, he turned to you, first in disbelief—then in something far more dangerous. His gaze darkened, sweeping over you from head to toe, and fuck. He could never get used to this. To you.

Perfect.

“Well, this is somethin’,” he smirked with a hint of uncertainty, though his eyes didn’t refrain form dragging over every inch of your bare skin, in a way that made you shiver.

“I needed a shower,” you shrugged, trying for innocence, but the way you bit your lip and the heat in your gaze said otherwise.

“Is that right?” Dean hummed, stepping closer, his body crowding yours in the already confined space. Your breath hitched, your eyes flickering from his to his lips, down his chest, and lower to where he was already hardening for you.

Your pussy clenched at the sight, the memory of how good he felt inside you hitting like a lightning strike.

“Just trying to save water,” you added, voice breathless.

“Yeah, smart thinkin’,” Dean murmured, his voice thick with amusement and something deeper. Darker. His fingers brushed along your waist, slow and teasing, before you couldn’t take it anymore.

You crashed together, mouths colliding in a searing, desperate kiss that was all heat and hunger, lips clashing, tongues tangling, breaths turning ragged as the steam curled around you both.

The scent of soap and Dean's skin filled your senses, warm water cascading down his broad shoulders, sliding between your bodies, making everything slicker—hotter.

Dean’s hands roamed, calloused fingers gliding over wet skin, gripping your hips, tracing the curve of your spine before gripping your ass, pressing you closer until you could feel the hard, throbbing heat of him against your stomach. The contrast of his rough hands against the smooth slide of your skin sent a shiver down your spine.

The shower’s spray pelted against your shoulders, rivulets of water trailing between your breasts, down your stomach, before pooling between your thighs—where you already ached for him.

Dean groaned into your mouth, his grip tightening. “You’re fucking dangerous, you know that?” His voice was low, wrecked, barely a breath against your lips.

You smirked, pressing yourself even closer, deliberately dragging yourself along the rigid length of him, slick heat meeting hardened steel. Dean let out a low growl, hands tightening on your hips, fingertips digging into your damp skin.

"You're playing with fire, sweetheart," he rasped, but there was no warning in his tone—only pure, molten desire.

"Then burn me," you murmured back, your lips grazing his jaw as your nails raked down his back.

Dean inhaled sharply, his resolve snapping like a thread. His hands slid down, one gripping the swell of your ass, the other venturing lower, teasing through your wet folds. The moment he found your clit, you gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

"Already so fucking wet," he groaned, slipping a finger inside you, slow, testing. Your walls fluttered around him, greedy, eager for more.

Your breath hitched, head falling back against the shower wall as he added another finger, stretching you, thrusting them in and out in a steady rhythm, curling just right.

"Dean," you whimpered, clinging to him, your hips moving of their own accord, chasing the friction, the heat.

Dean watched you like a man mesmerised, his green eyes dark, hooded with lust as he pumped his fingers deeper, faster, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit. "That's it," he coaxed, voice rough, filled with awe. "Let me see you come."

The fire inside you built to an unbearable peak, and then it snapped. A sharp cry tore from your lips as you came around his fingers, body trembling against the tile, your walls pulsing around the thick intrusion. Dean groaned at the sight, watching every shudder, every twitch, as if committing the moment to memory.

He eased you through it, dragging out every wave of pleasure until you were panting against him, boneless. Then, slowly, he pulled his fingers from you, bringing them to his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied hum.

"Fuck," you breathed, still reeling, still burning.

Dean smirked. "Tastes even better straight from the source."

That snapped something in you. With renewed hunger, you surged forward, crashing your lips against his, your hand slipping between you to wrap around his cock. He groaned into your mouth, bracing a hand against the wall as you stroked him, firm and slow, feeling the way he twitched, the way his breath stuttered.

But before you could take things further, Dean growled, gripping your wrist and pulling your hand away.

"Sweetheart," he warned, voice strained, his restraint hanging by a thread.

You pouted playfully. "What? Just trying to return the favour."

Dean huffed a breath, shaking his head with a smirk before gripping your thighs and lifting you in one smooth motion. You gasped as your back hit the cool tile, the contrast between it and his heat making you shiver. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and as he adjusted his hold, his cock brushing against your bare pussy, sliding through your slick folds.

Dean froze, sucking in a sharp breath. "Shit," he muttered, realisation dawning in his heated gaze. "Condom—"

"I'm on the pill," you panted, barely able to think past the need consuming you. "And I'm clean."

Dean met your eyes, searching, his chest rising and falling against yours. "Yeah?"

You nodded, desperate. "Yeah."

Dean exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours, a small chuckle leaving his lips. "Me too. Clean, I mean.” With that, he adjusted his grip, angling his hips, and slowly, deliberately, pushed inside.

A ragged moan left your lips as he stretched you, deeper than before, bare and hot and thick. The sensation was overwhelming—so intimate, so raw, nothing between you to dull it.

Dean let out a broken groan, his head falling against your shoulder. "Fuck—" His grip on your thighs tightened, his breath ragged against your skin. "You feel... Jesus, you're so fucking perfect."

You clung to him, nails biting into his shoulders, drinking in every inch as he filled you completely. "Dean," you gasped, already shaking, the feeling of him bare inside sending electric pleasure through your veins.

"Not gonna last long like this," he admitted, voice wrecked, strained, his hips pressing flush against yours. "You feel too damn good."

You tightened around him in response, and he cursed under his breath, pulling back just enough before thrusting in again, slow, deliberate.

The drag, the friction—it was maddening. He set a steady rhythm, rolling his hips, each movement deep and slow, making you feel every inch of him. His lips found your neck, sucking, biting, as he moved, claiming you in every way possible.

The hot spray of the shower poured down his back, running between your joined bodies, making every slick movement even more intoxicating. Every thrust sent sparks of pleasure racing through your body, winding you tighter, making you tremble against him.

Dean groaned against your throat, his breath hot and ragged, hands gripping your thighs as he drove into you harder, deeper. The wet sounds of skin meeting skin mixed with the steady patter of water against tile, the air thick with steam, with heat, with the intoxicating scent of him.

“Goddammit, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You feel so fucking good—so tight, so perfect.”

Your only response was a choked moan as he adjusted his angle, his cock hitting that spot inside you that had you arching against him, nails biting into his shoulders. Your body clenched around him, and Dean cursed, a deep, guttural sound that sent another wave of arousal crashing through you.

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing firm, teasing circles that had you gasping.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice thick with need. “Let me feel you, baby—wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

Your body was already unraveling, fire burning hot in your core, the pleasure too much, too good. His fingers worked you in time with his thrusts, his pace quickening, desperate now, chasing that high.

“Dean—fuck—”

“I got you,” he promised, voice rough, desperate. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

And you did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing over you, pleasure tearing through your body in hot, rolling pulses. Your walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, making him groan, his movements stuttering as he chased his own release.

“Shit—” Dean cursed, his head falling against your shoulder, his thrusts turning erratic, rough, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pants.

Then, with one final, deep stroke, he was gone, a shudder wracking through him as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding deep, his groan low and wrecked against your throat.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, bodies locked together, chests heaving, steam curling around you. Dean pressed his forehead to yours, eyes still dark, lips brushing against your damp skin.

“Jesus,” he muttered breathlessly, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “That was—”

You exhaled a soft, breathless laugh, fingers tangling in his wet hair.

“Yeah,” you murmured, just as dazed.

Dean let out a breathless chuckle, still holding you close as he pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder. Then he pulled back just enough to glance at the shower-head, feeling the now lukewarm water cascading over both of you.

“I think your idea of saving water was a damn fallacy,” he teased, with a breathy chuckle.

You laughed, still trying to catch your breath, resting your forehead against his. “Yeah, well… in my defence, I wasn’t really thinking about the water.”

Dean groaned dramatically. “Jesus, you’re gonna kill me.”

AN: Okay this was a steamy one, I hope we're all okay after this one? 😅 Please let me know how you're liking the story so far? And are you just as frustrated as I am with these two? Feed back 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 @fangirlingfromdownunder @cevansbaby-dove @star-yawnznn @piptoost @shadysoulangel @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy

Next Time...

As you neared the building, Charlie shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “You coming to the company Christmas party tomorrow night?” You blinked, nearly having forgotten about the annual bash Roman Enterprises threw right before everyone was released for their so-called ‘Christmas break.’ “Shit, I completely forgot about that,” you admitted, your breath visible in the air. Your mind had been preoccupied with... well, other things. “Well, I’m only going if you are. I can only tolerate these people when I’m getting paid for it.” You laughed at that, shaking your head. “I mean, I guess it’d be the decent thing to show our faces, right?” You shrugged, considering it. “And I do have to admit—Dick throws a damn good party.” “Right? And there’s always a chocolate fountain,” Charlie said, eyes lighting up. You hummed in agreement. “Fuck it. Let’s go. I can grab a new dress on my way home later.” Charlie grinned, clearly pleased. “Oh! You should invite Dean. It’s been a while since I saw that knucklehead.” That made you hesitate. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to invite Dean, but an office Christmas party wasn’t exactly a casual setting. And inviting him made it feel a little too much like... a date. But then again, Charlie would be there. It wasn’t like it would just be the two of you. Three friends hanging out. Totally normal.

#the arrangement series #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #dean x you #dean x y/n #spn #spn fanfic #sam winchester #spnfamily #jensen ackles #abbalina writes

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mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 1 day ago

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She Calls Me Back

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist

summary: a long-distance relationship with dean while you’re at college may be harder than it seems

pairing: (pre s1) dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language, pre-smut

word count: 3.1k

warnings: language, dean has abandonment issues but wbk, john being a horrible father (again, wbk), pre-smut/light smut

author’s note: this is going to be my last dean fic for a long while. i wrote it several months ago but here ya go!

music: she calls me back by noah kahan (with kacey musgraves) —

“P-Promise me you’ll come back, okay?” Dean said, hugging you as if he’d never see you again.

“Of course, Dean,” you replied, squeezing him right back. You were leaving for college, hoping to be done with hunting.

“I love you so much, you know that, right?” he told you.

“I love you so much, too, Dean,” you said. “And I’ll call you all the time, okay? I’ll call you so much you’ll be sick of my voice by the time we see each other again.”

“Not fuckin’ possible,” he countered.

The bus pulled up to the stop and you let go of Dean; “This is where I get on.”

“Stay safe,” he said and kissed your forehead before watching you board the bus. You waved at him through the window and he waved back, not letting himself admit how much this was going to hurt him.

Three days. It had been three whole days and you hadn’t called him yet. Something must be wrong.

He decided to give you a call, but you didn’t pick up.

“Hey, you’ve reached Y/n, sorry I can’t make it to the phone right now, I’m probably being a badass and hunting monsters. Leave a message at the beep. Or don’t, it’s up to you.”

“Hey hun, it’s Dean… but I guess you know that. Uhm, it’s been a few days since hearing from you, just let me know you’re okay,” he said.

He waited another day before he tried calling you again.

“Hey, you’ve reached Y/n, sorry I can’t make it to the phone right now, I’m probably being a badass and hunting monsters. Leave a message at the beep. Or don’t, it’s up to you.”

“Sweetheart, call me back please,” he said. “I’m gettin’ worried here and I need to know you’re okay. If you’re ghosting me on purpose please let me know and I’ll stop calling. I just… I need to know you got to Boston safely.”

It had been nearly a week since he had seen you when he finally got the call.

“Y/n?” he answered his phone on the first ring.

“Hey, Dean,” you replied. “I’m so sorry for not calling you earlier; my phone charger broke on the bus ride, then the outlets in my dorm weren’t working, then–”

“I get it,” he stopped your ranting. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay, Dean,” you admitted

“What? What’s wrong? Did something follow you to MIT?”

“No,” you laughed a little. “I just meant that I’m not okay because I miss you so much.”

“You shoulda specified that way quicker, sweetheart!” he exclaimed.

“Sorry,” you said.

He paused, running a hand down his face as he took a deep breath; “I miss you too,” he said. “Like… a lot.”

“If you wanna come visit me sometime that’d be cool,” you suggested.

“Really? You’d be okay with that? I wouldn’t like… embarrass you in front of all your new friends?”

“Honestly I kinda wanna show you off, you’re like stupid hot, remember?”

He laughed; “Well, I guess I need to find a case close to you so I have an excuse for dropping in.”

“Sounds perfect, handsome,” you replied. “Though, for the record, you don’t need an excuse for visiting me, Dean, you’re always welcome to stop by.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He smiled.

Though his heart clenched, this seemed all too familiar to him. During Sam’s first few months at Stanford, he would make time to fill Dean in on his life—the classes he was taking, gossip that Dean was all too interested in, even what he’d eaten for lunch that day. But that eventually stopped when Sam started making more and more friends of his own, getting himself a whole new world to live in and leaving Dean out in the cold.

He didn’t want the same thing to happen to you, you weren’t just his girlfriend you were his best friend. He loved talking with you for hours on end while you sat in the passenger seat of his beloved car. He loved how you’d turn the radio up when you liked a song, how you’d gaze out the window when Mother Nature was looking particularly lovely, or how you would put your head on his shoulder when you got tired.

He loved you so completely that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Even the thought of you not being right next to him at that moment made his heart hurt; hearing your voice wasn’t enough, he wanted to hold you.

Sam still called his older brother once in a while, just to be sure Dean was okay. But they both knew it was more of a formality at this point. Dean knew Sam was just checking in to know whether he was alive or not.

“Damn it, I gotta go,” you told Dean.

“Already?” He tried to mask his utter disappointment, but you still heard the heartbreak in his voice.

“I’m so, so sorry, hun, I just realized I have this event I have to get to,” you said. He furrowed his brows, listening to the sound of you hurrying to get your things together.

“An event, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s for this math class I’m in,” you said. “I’m really sorry Dean, I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you so much, Dean.”

“I love you too, buh-bye.”

“Bye.”

When you got back from the “math class event” your phone was dead again.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groaned when it wouldn’t charge and made a mental note to buy a new one before the end of the week.

All you wanted was to call Dean, to hear his voice, but at this moment it seemed hopeless. You figured he probably wasn’t staying up waiting for you to call, so you decided to continue with your new nightly routine of showering, brushing your teeth, watching something fun and not monster-related on your new laptop, and hitting the sack.

As you worked through each step of your routine, Dean sat up in his motel bed many miles away, waiting for your call.

He decided to call you and, again, all he got was your fucking voicemail box.

The next day you went out and bought a phone. The first thing you did was put in all of Dean’s numbers. The second thing you did was call him.

“You’ve reached Dean, you know the drill.”

“Hey Dean, it’s Y/n. My other phone is officially broken so that’s why I couldn’t call you last night, I hope I didn’t worry you. Please call me when you get a chance; my first class isn’t until noon today so that gives you about three hours. My last class ends at five but I have another event so I might not be able to talk much later. I love you so much and I miss your voice, so if you get my voicemail just… leave a cute message or something I dunno. I love you, Dean. Bye.”

“Hey, you’ve reached Y/n! Leave a message at the beep.” Your new outgoing message made Dean sigh.

“Hey, gorgeous, I saw you called on this new number, sad I missed you but I guess that’s what I get for sleepin’ in,” he laughed humorlessly. “You wanted me to leave a cute message and I gotta be honest… not sure what that means. I love you though, and I miss you like crazy. Hope you’re not having too much fun over there… joining a sorority… partying with the football team…” He caught himself rambling; “I-I’m sorry. I love you, call me when you can.”

“This is Dean’s other other cell, you know what to do.”

“This is the last number you’ve got, honey, where are you?” you said. “We keep missing each other, how fuckin’ stupid is that? I wanna tell you about one of my professors, he’s very anti-paranormal and it’s hilarious. I’m all set up in my room, I’ve got my landline plugged in and your picture by my bed. My roommate is pretty cool, she has a record player and put up a Kurt Cobain poster today, I think you two would get along. Who knows maybe this living on campus thing won’t be so bad after all. Although, testing to see if she’s a monster was not a great ice breaker and spilling holy water on someone is not forgiven lightly. Tests all went well though, she’s human. I hope Sammy’s doing the same stuff over at Stanford and that he hasn’t forgotten his ‘hunting roots’. Well…” you sighed, “I miss you Dean, and I’ve gotta be honest it’s not that fun over here. Yet, anyway; I know you were joking but I am trying to get into a sorority. Please call me when you get this. Bye.”

“Dean?” you answered the call.

“Oh my god, it’s really you!” Dean exclaimed, making you laugh. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I miss you!” you whined. “And I haven’t made a single friend! Unless you count my roommate, but she’s basically stuck with me, so.”

“It’ll get better,” Dean assured you. “Sammy had trouble too the first few weeks; just give yourself some time and before you know it you’ll be the most popular girl in school.”

“Oh god, I hope not!” you laughed. “What I want is to find some common ground to stand on with these people but I have no idea how to socialize with someone and not bring up monsters.”

“Sammy had some trouble with that too, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But again, give it time. You’ll get used to the college life sooner or later.”

“One thing I won’t get used to is not seeing you every night,” you said. A small smile formed on his lips at the thought of you still missing him. “I feel homesick without you.”

“Really? You miss me that much?”

“...Yeah? Is that silly?” you hesitated to ask.

“No! No, I miss you like crazy, too.” He cleared his throat a little; “I um, I’m actually about half a day’s drive from you. Do you have time to grab some coffee tomorrow morning?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, a little too loudly and he instinctively pulled the phone from his ear for a second. “I mean… yeah, sure it’s like… whatever.”

He laughed; “You’ve already shown your cards, sweetheart and you’re clearly excited to see me.”

“Whatever,” you continued to tease. “I know you’re excited to see me, too.”

“That I am sweetheart,” he sighed. “I’m gonna see you and hug you and kiss you and… fuck you.”

“Strong words comin’ from a guy who’s still half a day’s drive away!” you mocked.

“Oh I’m closer than you think, sweetheart.”

A loud knock hit your door.

“Hold on Dean, someone’s at the door,” you told him.

“That’s alright, I’ll hold. Just don’t hang up,” he said.

“Of course not!” you all but scoffed. “I’m sure it’s just a package or one of Katy’s friends, she seems to know a lot of people.”

“Katy?”

“Oh my roommate, did I not tell you her name?”

The door to your place didn’t have a peephole so you took your chances with opening the door.

You were met with none other than Dean Winchester himself, standing there with a huge grin; “I’m here to see Katy.”

“My god am I glad to see you,” you mumbled. The phone slipped from your hand, hitting the floor and probably breaking. You didn’t give two shits about the phone, but you gave a lot more than two shits for the man you wrapped up in a tight hug. Your arms wrapped around his neck as his wrapped around your torso.

“Hey babe,” he mumbled against your cheek as he kissed you there. “Missed you.”

“How dare you make me think I wouldn’t see you till tomorrow,” you replied.

“Are you gonna let me in or—”

You cut him off by kissing his plush lips deeply, yours curving into a smile at the familiar touch. You both stumbled through the door, neither wanting the kiss to end, and Dean kicked the door closed, locking it once again.

“Can’t believe it’s only been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen you,” he laughed humorlessly.

“Too long.”

He nudged you onto the bed and you fell backward onto your mattress. He shrugged off his jacket and flannel as you swiftly took your sweatpants off. You took your shirt off next as he rid himself of his as well.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he mumbled, taking in the beautiful site of you in a bra and panties. He didn’t have enough patience to get his pants off and couldn’t help joining you on the bed, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. He trailed his lips down your neck and rested his forehead on your chest; “Wowza, I missed these, how’ve you two been?”

“Dean–”

“Excuse me,” he stopped you, briefly looking into your eyes from where he was hovering over your breasts, “if you don’t mind, we’re trying to have a conversation, here!”

“Oh my god.” You rolled your eyes, scoffing at his ridiculous behavior.

“Now where were we…” He looked back down at your boobs before he began kissing every visible inch of them, leaving marks that you were sure would last for days.

About twenty-five minutes and three earth-shattering highs later, Dean rolled off (and out) of you before resting his head on the pillow next to you.

“Dean, I’ve been thinking…” you started, flipping to your side so you could look him in the eyes.

“Wonders never cease!” he teased, earning a playful slap to his left arm with your right hand.

“Should I bother with this whole college thing? It’s not too late to drop out and go back to hunting.”

“What? Why would you wanna do that? I thought MIT was your dream?”

“It was until…”

“Until what, babe?” He looked back at you, thoroughly confused as he put his left hand on your right cheek.

“Until I realized how much I hate sleeping without you,” you whispered, causing him to smile sadly. “I miss you all the time, Dean.”

“I know the feeling,” he mumbled.

“And we’ve only been apart two weeks! That’s nothing! What’s gonna happen when we have to go two months without seeing each other? How—“

He cut you off with a swift kiss; “We'll figure it out, I promise. Besides, it was just extra hard this time because we couldn’t talk over the phone; once we get a bit of a schedule going, it’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

“But… what if we can’t handle this long-distance thing?” you wondered. “What if things change between us because I’m at this stupid college?”

Dean sighed before he pulled you closer and onto his chest; “It’s not stupid. I know you don’t wanna be a hunter for the rest of your life and this place is your ticket out! It might even be a ticket out for me too, if you think about it.”

“How’s that?”

“Well… fast forward five or ten years; we’re still together, maybe we’re married, and you’re making bank because you’re a genius, so I can afford to be a stay-at-home trophy husband who hunts sometimes if he wants.”

“Sounds perfect to me. As long as you exclusively wear gray sweats and unbuttoned flannels when you lounge around the house, then I’ll spoil you with all my riches,” you teased.

“Think I could manage that,” he laughed lightly.

Picturing a future like that with Dean truly did sound perfect and the idea that he had dreams about that kinda thing made your smile deepen.

“These years are gonna fly past us and before you know it we’ll be able to settle down like that,” Dean said. “So you keep doing your nerd thing and I’ll keep doing my badass thing, okay?”

“Mkay,” you mumbled, burying your face in his chest. “Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“As much as I wanna stay tangled up like this, we should get dressed in case my roommate comes back soon.”

He sighed dramatically as you sat up, quickly kissing his lips before you put your shirt back on.

Timing truly was on your side, because the second you were both presentable your roommate knocked on the door.

“Hey, I forgot my key, could you please open up?” she called from the other side.

You did as she asked and her eyes widened when she saw Dean.

“Katy, this is my boyfriend; Dean, this is my roommate, Katy,” you introduced them.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Dean,” she said.

“Likewise,” he replied, shaking her hand. “Nice record player you’ve got there.”

You’d been at university for nearly six months and had truly gotten used to the life. Your grades were phenomenal and you managed to make quite a few friends.

The one thing that didn’t sit right with you was your relationship with Dean. You both knew it was on the back burner as of right now.

It broke your heart, thinking of Dean all alone out there with his dad. You knew he needed you, you hated not seeing him all the time and you hated how far you two had drifted.

You actually weren’t sure why he hadn’t just called things off with you, you only called him once a week.

But every message he left was still nothing but ‘I love you’s and ‘I miss you’s, which warmed your heart.

Your alarm went off and it pulled you out of your thoughts; it was time for your weekly catch-up with Dean.

“This is Dean, leave your name, number, and nightmare at the beep.”

Of course, you only got his voicemail box.

Dean watched his phone ring, watched your name flash on the screen.

“Don’t answer that,” John said.

“I can’t just…”

“You have to! She and Sammy are no longer hunters Dean,” John exclaimed. “They both chose to leave the life, leave us.”

“But she’s didn’t leave me, Dad.” Dean watched as his cell sent you to voicemail. “I still see a future with her, a life; kids, barbeques, mini-vans–”

“You can’t talk like that,” John snapped at him. “You can’t have that life, Dean.”

“But, maybe–”

“No! You are a hunter through and through,” he said. “And when Y/n went off to college, she killed any future you two had together because she chose to quit hunting! Don’t you get that?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Dean sighed.

“I am.”

“Hey Dean, I guess you’re busy being a badass…” you chuckled humorlessly and Dean’s heart broke as he listened to the message you left.

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 10 hours ago

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@luci-in-trenchcoats

This one was both a little heartbreaking and adorable, but oh my word I loved it! I floundered back and forth between the two, because the situation of the reader not remembering who anyone was made me a little sad, but seeing how Dean took care of her was so sweet 😭

“Keep looking,” said Dean as your hand touched the photo. You flipped the page and found more. One looked it was from inside a beat up diner, Dean sharing a pie with you. Another was of Dean doubled over in laughter while Sam’s face was covered in whip cream. Flipping the pages you saw more and more, pictures of all three of you, the man in the trench coat too. At the end was one of you in a t shirt that was obviously too large for you, a mug in your hand, and your eyes were shining at whoever took the picture. Glancing around the room you saw a few more photos, each with the man sat in the chair, the one sat carefully watching you.

I love the way you described the scrapbook and gave us all a little "montage" of what was inside of it. It really adds on to the emotions in this scene, not to mention the idea that the reader makes scrapbooks and photo albums for Dean had me melting 😭 It's such a cute thing for a reader to do for him, especially because I think Dean is the kind of person who doesn't focus on the good things in his life and has a tendency to "forget" them.

“Maybe not pure in every area of your life,” he said with a smirk before letting it fall away. “But you’re so good I don’t have a clue why you’re with me of all people,” he said as you brought your hand to lay on top of his. “Because you’re what I want and need,” you said, looking at him, feeling your eyes shine like they did in that picture.

Oh my word, the scene where Dean tells the reader what to remember was so well written. It made me so emotional and then the follow up conversation when the reader tells Dean what she would tell him- OH GOODNESS it was so good 😭

This entire fic is so fantastic! Thank you so much for sharing this with all of us 💕

The Blonde Man

Request: Could you write a Dean x Reader where the Reader loses their memory and it’s Dean answering the question, “What would you tell me if I lost my memory?”

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,967

Keep reading

#spn #supernatural #dean x reader #dean x reader oneshot #dean x reader one shot #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader oneshot #dean winchester x reader one shot #dean spn #dean supernatural #dean supernatural one shot #dean spn oneshot #dean spn one shot #dean winchester supernatural #dean winchester spn #spn fanfic #Guys I Read Something! 😱#wonderful mutuals 💕

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zepskies · 2 days ago

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BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: All right, diving into some muddy waters here...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “You Go to My Head” by Tony Bennett

Word Count: 6.5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Angst, (technically cheating—it’s complicated), hurt/comfort, and smut.

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 3: A Moment

Dean sat with you in silence on the bus. While you were still beautiful in your black dress, hat, and veil, you didn’t have the vivacious spark in your eyes like you did back at the club. There, when he held you in his arms, he earned your breathless, giddy laugh by turning you too many times under his hand.

Now, you looked like you were in mourning. Maybe you were.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You didn’t even raise your gaze as you picked at a stray seam on your dress.

“I don’t think I could eat anything,” you replied.

As if on cue, the thought of food made your stomach percolate, uttering a rumble. You froze. Your eyes widened as you bit your lip in mortification, but you were unable to stop yourself from glancing at Dean.

He cocked a brow at the sound. Then, his lips twitched at a smile.

“I think I know a place,” he said.

You were blushing too hard to argue.

And so, you and Dean got off the bus early. You ended up sitting across from him at a steakhouse. It was nice and quiet. Softer piano music played, and you were perusing the menu, trying not to feel guilty about it.

You had to remind yourself that your husband was betraying your marriage in far worse ways than you right now, and in the grand scheme of things, this was nothing. Dean was just paying you a kindness by taking you out for dinner.

“Get whatever you want,” he said, gesturing towards the menu in your hands.

You gave him a measured look across the table. Sure, he could say that, but you still felt bad. He was a soldier no longer on a soldier’s salary.

So you tried to be discreet while you were eyeing the steak side of the menu. Seeing the state of these prices—more than a little outrageous, in your opinion—you turned to the other side. The server returned to your table shortly after.

“Are we ready to order?” he asked.

Dean gestured for you to go first. You once again glanced down at the tiny printed words next to the fancily scrawled prices, biting at your lower lip.

“I’ll have the roast chicken please,” you said.

Dean rose his brows at you. “You sure that’s what you want?”

“Sure. I’m happy with anything,” you said.

A smile played on his lips. “So you really want to have chicken at a steakhouse?”

His amusement was infectious. You couldn’t help but begin to smile too. He leaned in closer across the table, as if conspiringly.

“I’ll get you whatever you want, and I mean that,” he said. Then, adopting a more joking tone, “I may not have a job lined up yet, but I’m not penniless.”

Your smile fell. “Oh, Dean, I know that—”

“Then order something good,” he said, raising his brows. “I dare ya.”

Your lips began to purse, trying not to succumb to the annoyingly charming gleam in his eyes.

“How about the Salisbury steak?” the server suggested. “It’s very popular right now.”

Dean looked to you for confirmation, again popping his brows in teasing askance. You offered a weary smile of defeat.

He ordered two steaks with all the fixings.

Dean was the more natural improvisor, but Sam had become just as good at finding the right role to play in situations like these. With Michael Milligan and his friends, that role was mostly himself: a bachelor, a businessman, but also being “the new guy in town,” looking for friends and a good time.

So Sam was wearing his newest suit and his best watch—a graduation present from his father—and had made sure he looked sharp before leaving the apartment tonight. Though he undid a couple of buttons on his dress shirt and ran a hand through his hair to tousle it up a little, making himself look casual enough to match these guys.

Seeing the shine on his wrist, Michael was generous enough to invite Sam along when they traveled behind the velvet curtain with Dolores Daye and the Cotton Club’s esteemed host, Brady Johnson.

Johnson. Sam recognized the name with an internal jolt. He’d seen it scrawled in Michael Milligan’s handwriting across several checks, dated between 1944 to 1945.

Brady Johnson had a crooked smile that was supposed to be charming as he led the group into a darker, cozier room. It smelled like the smoke of cigarettes and cigars, coupled with the faint must of perfume and cologne. There were a couple of pool tables, a fully stocked bar, and a big round table where he gestured for them all to sit.

Dolores took a seat right on Michael’s lap. There she gave the man a kiss that likely tickled his tonsils.

Sam pretended to be discreet when he looked away, but really, he was trying to sneak his little Canon camera out of his jacket. He stiffened to attention when Brady slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“What’re you drinkin’, Winchester?” he asked. “Scotch? Whiskey?”

“Aren’t those the same thing?” Sam said, injecting some good humor into his smile.

Brady thought about it, popped a brow, then levied a finger his way. “Damn it, when you’re right. You’re right. I’ll get ya both then.”

He reached out and touched Dolores’s side meaningfully, getting her to stop “greeting” Michael and detach from his face.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you get our guests something to drink, huh? Then you can go back to making Michael here feel comfortable,” Brady said, slapping a congenial hand on Michael’s back.

Dolores gave Brady an easy smile and practically hopped out of Michael’s lap with a graceful two-step. She caressed his face as she made her way around his back and away, heading towards the bar. Michael followed the careening path of her hand as she half-turned his head, and he shot her a wink. She giggled indulgently, making him smile.

Then he turned his attention to the game of poker at hand. One of the other men was dealing the cards. Sam glanced at his hand before he looked over at Michael. Specifically, Sam noticed the gold band on the man’s left ring finger.

Michael seemed to feel Sam’s eyes on him, and he followed the path of Sam’s gaze. Michael flexed his hand and tucked it into his pocket.

“So Sam, what’s your poison?” he asked.

“I’m a whiskey guy, I guess,” Sam said, glancing around the room. There was probably an exit out back, but otherwise, the place was secluded and well-contained. So far he didn’t notice any other back rooms, besides a door to what was probably a dressing room. Michael had probably gotten that tour a time or two.

“This is a nice place,” Sam remarked, offering Dolores a polite smile when she set down a fifth of scotch in front of him. She gave him a charming wink before she served Michael his whiskey on the rocks next.

“I don’t come here all that often,” Michael said, adding a quirking grin. “Just on payday.”

The men shared a chuckle. Sam’s gaze was a hint sharper.

“Well, the drinks are good. I imagine the company’s better,” he said, his brows raising slightly when Dolores passed by to serve one of the other men a drink. Michael cocked a finger at him, congenial, but still warning.

“Yep, she’s a sweet one, all right. Sweet for me,” he said, grinning.

Sam nodded in understanding.

“I get it. She’s happily occupied,” he said, though he casually gestured to Michael’s left hand when he used it to bring his drink up to his lips. “Sorry for your loss.”

Michael gave him a look of confusion while he sipped, but when he noticed Sam pointing at his wedding ring, he had to pause and clear his throat.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I assumed you were a widower,” Sam said. He quirked a smile and sipped at his own drink.

Michael hesitated. He rubbed at his left ring finger, over the shining band.

“Yeah, well, sometimes I forget that myself,” he said. His blue eyes dimmed. “It, uh…hasn’t been all that long since she passed.”

Sam almost shook his head. If the man was going to lie, he could at least put some effort into it. He was beginning to understand your pain even better than ever.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Sam offered.

Michael smiled tightly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“All right, we good?” Brady said, now that the cards were dealt. Dolores came back over to sit on Michael’s lap. Sam didn’t get out his camera just yet; the position was incriminating, but not hard proof of an affair. He’d have to wait for a better opportunity.

“Who’s betting first?” he asked.

After the meal, you realized you weren’t quite ready to go home, despite the late hour of the night. Picking up on your reluctance, Dean suggested taking a walk. You held onto his offered arm and led him a couple blocks away to Central Park. You guided him through the walkways you almost knew by heart, even in the shrouded dark of the night.

You were beginning to feel an odd prickle zip across your skin. Deep down, you knew you walked on a thin edge teetering between right and wrong.

He’s just being kind, you rationalized. You were battered enough inside to crave his kindness, more than you would’ve ever liked to admit.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you said, “and for staying out with me. I just…didn’t feel like going home to an empty apartment.”

Dean’s lips twitched up at one side, ruefully. “I kinda know what you mean. We could, uh…catch a picture show or something.”

“Oh no, Dean. It’s all right. Far too late for that,” you said, releasing his arm to wave a dismissive hand. Really, you just wanted to dispel the idea of him treating you to anything more tonight. By the way he was as dinner, you just knew that he wouldn’t allow you to pay for your own ticket to see a show. Nor did you want to eat into his pockets anymore.

Your hands were gathered in front of you now as you walked, holding your purse. A cold rush of wind pushed at you both from behind. It popped up the collar of your winter coat. Dean fixed it for you, laying it back down above your shoulders. You murmured your thanks again as you felt the brush of his fingers across your back and shoulders.

Afterwards, he slid his hands back into his coat pockets. He looked up at the tall trees and nicely trimmed bushes, their little red flowers having opened up.

“This is the only part of the city worth seeing,” he remarked, knocking a small rock ahead of him with his foot.

You turned to him with a frown. “Come on, now. There are a lot of interesting things in the city. There’s the Statue of Liberty and Rockefeller Center, not to mention museums, restaurants, Radio City, plays, and movies too, remember?”

“Okay, aside from Radio City and a couple of old buildings, we’ve got all that back home too,” he said, with a cutting motion of his hand.

“Has Sam shown you everything? Or have you been exploring on your own?” you asked. The question was a bit deceptive though. In your mind, you were thinking of what Sam had told you…

He’s not usually wanting for company.

“On my own, for the most part,” Dean replied. “Sam’s been hard at work. A bit too busy for his hanger-on older brother.”

You looked over at him with furrowed brows. “Dean, I doubt he sees it that way.”

The man shook his head. “Look, I’m…I’m proud of him, don’t get me wrong. He’s trying to build something for himself, and that takes time and a lotta work. He’s created a life here. I’m just trying to catch up, I guess.”

You considered Dean for a moment. Like you, he seemed to be at a crossroads.

“What was it like for you two, growing up? You’re from Kansas, aren’t you?” you asked.

He nodded. He hesitated, but he surprised you by opening up a little, telling you more about his life before the war. It was always before and after. You knew it always would be.

You learned that his mother passed away when he was young, rather tragically due to an illness that came on suddenly and swiftly. He still remembered the deep blue of her eyes, her blonde hair. But most of all, he remembered her voice, kind and pretty when she sang to him until he fell asleep.

John, his father, had become a harder man after her death. Quieter, and stoic. Dean hardly remembered him without a glass of liquor in his hand after that. John had been a factory worker before he enlisted in the Navy. He died a decade later at Pearl Harbor, during the war.

That news came through with a military officer knocking at the front door of their family home. Dean answered it, and so that news hit him first. Afterwards, he had to sit his younger brother down and tell him.

That afternoon, both of them enlisted.

Dean told the story matter-of-factly, but you felt and saw the emotions hidden behind his eyes. You saw the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, both as an older brother, and as the eldest son. You had to quickly swipe away a tear before he turned your way. He offered a small smile.

“Ah…enough about all that. What about you?” he asked. “How’d you grow up?”

You took a steadying breath, and you told him.

“Well, I’m from a small town in South Dakota. Sioux Falls,” you said. “Mom’s a schoolteacher. Dad works in a steel mill, and my Uncle Bobby owns an automotive towing company there.”

“Well, that’s a decent job,” Dean said.

“Have you thought about what you want to do?” you asked. He nodded, and the two of you stopped to sit together on a bench in the park. You had a view of tall skyscrapers like Empire State in the distance, and the night sky above the arching trees.

“Yeah, a lot actually,” he said, carding a hand through his hair absently. “Like, uh, talking about cars, I’ve always liked them. The hum of a good engine. My dad could hear a car running from a block away, and he could tell you what was wrong with it, just by the sound of it.”

He punctuated his words with a sweeping gesture of his hand. You could imagine a road laid across the path of it, along with a rumbling car and his father’s perceptive, judging eye.

“Heh, matter of fact, we used to take his old Chevy apart, put it back together again,” said Dean, smiling a little. “I like working with my hands, I guess.”

You admired his hands as they rested casually in his lap. They were larger than yours, with long fingers. His hands look strong and capable like the rest of him, even though they were always considerate when they touched you.

“Then you should do something you like doing,” you said. “Fixing cars! That’s good, honest work you can make a living out of.”

Dean looked over at you. “You think so?”

You nodded your encouragement, smiling bright. “I know so. You might be a bit of a flirt, but you also look like someone who can accomplish whatever you set your mind to.”

When those words slipped free from your mouth, you realized how he might take that little accusation, let alone how overeager you sounded. Your gaze fell away from him as you felt your face getting warm in a blush.

Dean’s smile widened, showing teeth. “I’m a flirt, huh?”

“Well…” You bit the inside of your lip and tried your hardest not to look at him for a while. “At least you’re an honest one.”

Dean laughed freely at that. He wasn’t offended, just amused at the way you got embarrassed, even though you didn’t take it back just to save face.

He appreciated your support and the way you talked, straightforward and earnest. There was nothing frivolous about you. You meant every word you said, and you said it with conviction.

“Do you enjoy your work then?” he asked. You dimmed a little.

“Well, I’m a secretary. I work in an office,” you said, chuckling slightly. “Nothing exciting there.”

“You mean, compared to being an army nurse,” Dean pointed out.

You nodded begrudgingly. He saw through you too well.

“It was never boring,” you joked, even if it was a weak one.

A sigh escaped you. The truth was, you saw things on the battlefield that revived behind your eyelids every time you went to sleep. It kept you up some nights, and it made it incredibly difficult to sleep alone. Sometimes you’d craved Michael’s arms around you, even if he was too deep in sleep from being drunk the night before. Sometimes it was too hard to be alone all night in your bed, even if you wanted to be.

“That’s how Michael and I met,” you confessed. “I was trying to stitch him up after his plane was shot down. He was lucky to be alive, frankly. Had a nasty head wound. I also helped the doctor set his shoulder, horribly dislocated…”

You two fell in love in that one month you were stationed in the same town together, where France was falling apart. The combined forces of French, British, and American units were able to finally liberate Paris from being occupied. Michael was honorably discharged due to the wounds he’d sustained there.

The next time you and Michael had shore leave at the same time, you got married here in New York City: October 10, 1944.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you were my nurse,” Dean said, breaking you out of your thoughts. You sent him a wry, sidelong smile.

“You can’t help yourself from flirting, can you?” you quipped.

The way he waggled his brows made you laugh, and then duck your blushing face. He was too much.

“I’m serious though,” he claimed. One of his hands went to his right shoulder. “I’ve still got a twinge over here. Think I tore some kind of muscle from hauling ammunition, but it never really healed right.”

Your head tilted in concern. The nurse in you couldn’t help it. You turned to him more fully on the bench.

“That shoulder?” You pointed at his right one. Dean nodded. You got up and moved to his other side, and he made room for you on the bench.

“Can you peel back your jacket for me?” you asked.

“Not a problem,” he said, with a note of sensuous teasing in his voice that you chose to ignore. He revealed his white dress shirt, black waistcoat and brown leather suspenders. That was a familiar sight, but you tried to ignore the feeling of defined male muscle underneath your hands, instead focusing on finding the problem. You knew you struck it when Dean flinched, uttering a reflexive grunt of pain.

You murmured an apology, massaging the spot of muscle deep in the joint of his shoulder through his clothing. A fellow nurse with more experience in the medical field had taught you about each muscle in the body, and how to relieve tension around scar tissue. After a while, the stiffness in Dean’s frame began to relax. His neck lolled to one side as he groaned in relief.

Then he chuckled. “You some kind of miracle woman?”

“I might be,” you said. The corners of your mouth inched upwards.

When he was fully relaxed, you stopped your ministrations and let your hands fall away from his shoulder. Dean stood up from the bench along with you, yanking his jacket back on. Soon it was the two of you standing together in near darkness.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Feels much better already,” he said. There was something warm, and a hint gentler in his voice. Even he realized it afterwards, not knowing quite how to feel about it…until you looked up at him with that smile. His heart thudded a bit harder in his chest.

“What should I charge for a miracle?” you asked.

Dean pretended to think, humming in consideration. He knew what he wanted to give you in exchange, but he settled for something more gentlemanly.

“How about you let me take you home?” he offered.

You nodded. “That works for me.”

You continued walking with Dean through the park back to the entrance, with only a few scattered lampposts and the stars above to light your path.

Once again, you and Dean made it to the front porch of your apartment building. Despite your better judgment, you invited him in for a night cap and a snack. To be fair, he would have a long way home. You just wanted to repay him at least a little bit for his kindness.

He followed you up the stairs to the second floor, Unit 21B. Inside was a modest, cozy living room, a hall leading to the kitchen, and further down, the bedroom. You poured two glasses of whiskey and sat beside him on the couch.

“Didn’t take you for a whiskey girl,” Dean remarked.

“Yes, well, it’s one of those nights, I guess,” you said. You didn’t quite smile as you took a small sip.

By now it was past midnight. You wondered if your husband didn’t intend to come home until the morning. It had happened before, but it still made you so very angry now that you’d seen it with your own eyes. You drowned out that sick feeling with more whiskey and conversation.

Within the hour, you and Dean had nearly polished off the bottle. You were more than a little tipsy.

You laughed a bit harder than you should’ve at Dean’s stories, but he liked the sound of your laughter and the way you were letting loose around him. It was the first time he’d seen you smile so much, and it was a good look on you. He was glad to be able to get that out of you.

“I almost missed my own birthday party when I was ten,” he said, laughing a little. He was spurred on by your infectious grin. “Sam and I, we got it into our heads to jump off the roof of the shed out back. See, I had a towel tied around my neck.”

“A cape,” you giggled.

Dean pointed a finger at you. “Exactly. So I can fly.”

You shook your head. “Naturally.” You could imagine him as a precocious child, with ruddy cheeks and small freckles spread across them.

“My brother had a ‘cape’ too, but he was a skinny kid at six years old. Small for his age for a long time, if you can believe it.”

“A-huh…”

“Well, I jump off first, and I manage stick the landing, just shaking a little when my boots hit the ground,” Dean said, making a show of wobbling his legs a little. It looked odd while sitting on the couch, but you could imagine it so clearly, it made you smile harder.

“Sammy, not so much. Poor kid broke his arm,” he said.

Your smile dropped.

“No,” you gasped, a hand flying to your mouth.

Dean nodded. “I had to take him to the clinic on my bike. He rode on my handlebars all the way there. We agreed not to say a word to our dad, you know, but of course, it’s kinda hard to hide sling.”

“What did he do?”

“He took one look at us, at me. Mom was fretting over Sam, and Dad just shook his head.”

“Was he mad?”

“Of course he was, but at least he never took it out on us. Not with his hands, at least. He cussed up a storm about us damn kids and had to walk it off.” Dean chuckled and swiped a hand through his hair. “That was some birthday.”

You erupted into more giggles. He smirked at you, but it slowly faded.

“You know where I was on my last birthday?” he asked.

You sobered along with him, sensing his tone.

It took him a moment to continue. He didn’t know why he started to open his mouth about this. After he set foot in his house again after the war, he resolved to leave all that behind him, try not to think about it or talk about it, if he could help it. But after what you’d told him, he thought you might understand.

“I was in Eastern Europe. Knees deep in snow and blood in the Ardennes, caught somewhere between Belgium and uh…Luxemburg, they told us. The weather was sh…it was terrible,” he corrected himself before he caught himself saying something too vulgar. It had been a while since he’d had to watch his mouth around a lady, even though he had a feeling you’d heard it all in the crumbled depths of France.

“But it finally let up enough that we could start fighting back for real,” he continued. “It was grueling. A knockout, drag out dog fight in the worst cold I’d ever been through in my life…”

You listened to the rest of his story with rapt attention, your chin held in hand as you leaned against the back of the sofa. Not only did you like the sound of his deep voice washing over you, but you realized that he was trusting you with something; with a part of himself.

When his story was done, he seemed to be reliving it all in his mind. His gaze was far away. You rested a hand on his arm to let him know that you had listened, that you had heard him, and that he wasn’t alone. He’d taken his coat off long ago, so you felt the warmth of him under the fabric of his rolled up dress shirt.

Dean came back to himself. He looked at you and grasped your arm back in thanks. But that small connection slowly began to change into something else. His hand slid up your bare arm, over the black sleeve, and across the neckline of your dress. He leaned in closer.

He smelled good, of a woodsy cologne and of spicy whiskey. He was sporting a couple days’ worth of stubble, but as you took in his face, you realized that it looked good on him. You’d only ever been taken with clean-shaven men before. This man, however, was continuing to be a pleasant surprise.

Dean cradled your cheek in his hand. You allowed him to draw even closer. You subconsciously leaned forward yourself, until his plush lips were one warm breath away from yours.

Dean held himself back though. He knew there were more things muddling your mind than the whiskey. But you held his hand to your cheek so he wouldn’t let you go just yet. You tried your best to blink back the sting of tears.

“Please,” you whispered. You weren’t exactly sure what you were asking for. At the very least, you knew you couldn’t stomach another rejection. “At the risk of sounding entirely brazen…please, don’t kick me while I’m down.”

Dean sighed. His stomach twisted in both conflict and desire. He soothed his thumb across your soft cheek.

“Sweetheart, I’d love nothing more than to kiss you. Believe me,” he said. His voice was low with grit and tinged with longing. “But I gotta wonder if this is really what you want.”

Your mouth trembled. Your heart was battered and frayed, your mind spinning with this isn't right. And yet, you had a fire in your belly, familiar, though you hadn't felt it in so very long. It churned a heady blaze when you stared into his eyes. Something compelled you to reach out and touch his lips with gentle fingertips.

“He doesn’t…touch me anymore,” you confessed, swallowing. “It used to be, whenever we passed each other in the house, it was a touch. A moment.”

Your hand ghosted over Dean’s chin, down his neck, and shoulder, and down his chest over wrinkled fabric and buttons. He had to try and calm down his own breathing, the heavy patter of his own heart in response to your touch.

“Like I had an anchor, reminding me that I was loved, and that mine was appreciated,” you said. Your voice barely rose above a whisper. “But now it’s…it’s rushed. Everything is rushed, and distant, and forgetful. That’s if it happens at all. No matter how much I work at my job, and cook, and clean, and take care of him, it isn’t enough. He’s not the man I thought I knew. That’s what hurts the most.”

Dean’s heart clenched under your palm. He was angry for you. He was sad for you. But most of all, he was starting to hate the thought of you sharing the same bed with that man, being touched by him, and worst of all, him taking from you without satisfying you.

“Rushed, huh?” Dean asked, his fingers curling to brush against your jawline. You nodded. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, and he raised his brows. “Everything?”

Your watery eyes met his as you bit your lip. You released it with a trembling breath.

“Everything,” you said.

Dean couldn’t help but treat you gently, drying your tears and kissing your cheek. He hadn’t known you long, but he knew you didn’t deserve what you were going through. He saw that you weren’t just pretty. You weren’t just tenacious and headstrong. You had a soft heart behind that iron wall.

So he took your chin and guided you to his lips, and into his kiss. You inhaled in a sharp breath, but you soon melted into him with a faint moan. He cupped your cheek and kissed you again, this time a firmer touch.

You matched his intensity and gripped the front of his shirt for balance, especially as his hand began to slide down your arm and around your waist. He pressed at the small of your back, bringing you flush against his chest. You had no choice but to take his face in your hands and meet his seeking tongue with your own.

A groan sounded in the back of his throat at your eagerness. He pushed you down to the end of the couch, where you laid on a few throw pillows. There he found his way between your legs and took your heels off, one by one.

Then his touch was heavy and warm across your hip, running down your thigh. After a while, he veered away from your lips to kiss his way down your neck. It earned your shallowing breath. Your hands roamed his shoulders, slipping down his back as far as you could reach. You wanted to feel more of him.

And the feeling was mutual. His kisses blazed a path along your collarbone and between your breasts, dipping below the neckline of your dress. His hand came up to gently palm one of your breasts, thumbing at your nipple hardening under the fabric. You whimpered, clinging to him tighter.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, his own breathing labored as well.

“You are touching me,” you whispered.

“You know what I mean, baby,” he said. For a moment his usual grin took over his features, but he leaned up to steal a kiss, nice and slow. “Want to make you feel good. Give you something to remember me by.”

You found yourself nodding and uttering a broken moan. It almost didn’t matter to you what he meant. His hands and the weight of his body on top of you felt so very good, you would take whatever he wanted to give you.

Your breath hitched when you felt his hand slipping upwards along your inner thigh. His thumb brushed between your legs, across the dampened fabric of your underwear. You whimpered, nodding again.

Dean reassured you with a kiss. Then he hooked his fingers on the waistband of your pantyhose, along with the silk and lace covering you underneath. He slid them down carefully, as not to rip anything (even though he’d like nothing more).

When it all bunched around your ankles, you kicked the rest of it off. The wad of sheer fabric and satin panties fell across the coffee table, over the forgotten drinking glasses. You giggled against his lips. Dean smiled too, though he gently nipped your lower lip to keep your attention. Your fingers curled up into his hair, nails grazing his scalp. The sensation made a shudder run down his spine.

He decided to return the favor, now that he was able to feel your bare thigh under his hand. He stroked your skin while he waylaid you with deeper, sloppier kisses. But all the while, his hand slid higher, closer to your throbbing core.

Finally, his fingers brushed between your legs against the bare seam of your sex. You inhaled sharply against his mouth. “Dean…”

“I gotcha, sweetheart. Promise,” he said, just a whisper of his lips with yours.

Two of his fingers slipped inside you first. You were already wet and pulsing around them when they sunk into your heat. You whimpered in his ear, especially as his fingers began to explore you, working you open, and curling upward against the most sensitive of places within your inner walls. You cried out gratefully, clenching a hand in his hair. Your core was already beginning to flutter around his fingers.

“Hmm, right there, huh?” Dean said. His voice was a bit rough; his own desire was straining in his pants, begging to be touched, but he was focusing all his efforts on you. He wanted to see you come apart, hear you gasping his name like it was the only thing you were able to remember.

His thumb began to massage tight circles over that small, sensitive bud above your entrance. You moaned and writhed against his hand. Your voice in his ear was heaven, especially when he got what he wanted. A few more deliberate strokes deep inside, and you were gripping him tight, throbbing from the inside, and coming all over his hand. He felt the rush of wetness, but he still kept pulsing his fingers inside your quivering walls, drawing out your release.

You cried out his name and fairly trembled against him. Your lower belly clenched as another wave hit you, making your inner walls flutter tightly around his fingers again.

His heart was beating as fast as yours when it all finally subsided. You fell back against the pillows, gasping for breath. Dean raised his glistening fingers up to your mouth. You were shocked to see the evidence of your own release there.

He pressed the pads of his fingers to your lips. It was downright obscene, but you gave into the urge to slide your lips over his fingers, tasting yourself when you sucked around his digits.

Dean’s green eyes were dark with arousal and satisfaction as he watched you. Feeling your tongue around his fingers made him imagine another use for your pretty mouth, making his cock throb in the confines of his slacks. But for now, it was enough to see the remnants of your lipstick come off on his mostly clean fingers.

He licked off the rest from his fingers himself, then bowed his head to kiss you thoroughly. Your hands began to explore him, the expanse of his chest over his shirt, and traveling down, below the belt. Dean slowed the pace of things, grabbing one of your hands.

You frowned in confusion. “You don’t want me to return the favor?”

Dean groaned, and he chuckled. He pressed a kiss to your hand.

“I’d go for that in a heartbeat, I really would. But tonight’s about you, sweetheart,” he said.

What was more, he didn’t want to take advantage of you. You’d had quite a lot to drink. You both had.

But I want to do this right.

That thought stopped him for sure. It surprised him, even if it was the truth. He just didn’t want to examine it too closely just yet.

He swore you looked disappointed though. It was even more difficult to make his arousal subside. He took in a deep breath, clearing his throat as he shifted off of you. He helped you tug your dress back down your thighs and tried thinking of anything that might help him calm down.

Picturing that time he accidentally walked in on his father in the bath ultimately did the trick, accompanied by a small body shudder.

“Are you cold?” you asked, rubbing his arm.

“No, I’m just fine,” Dean replied. He gave you a smile and tucked a wily strand of hair behind your ear. “You feel okay?”

Your smile was more demure, almost shy. If he were a betting man, he’d say you were blushing.

“More than okay,” you murmured.

He chuckled and swiped his thumb across the apple of your warm cheek.

With a more genuine smile, you leaned up and checked your watch resting on the coffee table. Your eyes widened.

“Michael could be coming home any moment,” you said.

The thought rekindled the wellspring Dean’s anger. His brows furrowed with a frown. He’d like to be here when Michael came home. Maybe Dean would get the chance to sort the man out, get one or two good hits in.

Instead, he let out a heavy breath. He got up and allowed you to walk him to the door, where he grabbed his coat and straightened up his clothes. He paused at the door when he glanced back at you.

You looked too damn much. Your lips kiss-swollen, your dress sleeves hanging further off your shoulders, your hair a tousled mess. He slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you back in for a kiss goodbye. You breathed in, then you melted into him, your fingers slipping through his hair. That kiss was everything.

However, like this night, it had to come to an end. You pulled away first, slowly. You touched his chin with gentle fingers.

“Go,” you whispered, “before I lose myself.”

Dean chuckled. “You took the words right outta my mouth, sweetheart.”

He forced himself to break away from you and step out of the apartment. Releasing a sigh, you shut the door behind him.

AN: Okay, you're probably having mixed feelings lol. I don't blame you! Honestly, I'm not advocating cheating here (even if we think Michael deserves it). It's just an added layer of complexity to the story in this case. 😬 Get ready for more of that in Part 4, where we catch Sam's side of things...

Next Time:

“Well, you could say I’ve inherited a business of my own,” he said. “I run a meat packing plant down in the district.”

Sam’s attention piqued. There had been a meat rationing throughout the war, even some rumors and propaganda about “meatleggers,” black market operators.

“How’s it been with the rations?” Sam asked. “Been hard to even find a good carton of eggs lately.”

Michael gave him a slight smile. “Been on the turnaround, actually. I’ve been able to make some connections with vendors outside the city. A little grease on the palms makes a little go a long way, if you catch my drift.”

Sam slowly nodded. A little grease on the palms, huh?

“Do what you gotta do in the times, ‘s what I say,” Sam agreed.

Michael snorted. “Now you’re talkin’. That’s all we can do, you know. Try to make a thing work, with whatever scraps we get. Try to stay afloat.”

“Try to stay alive,” Sam rejoined.

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janicho88 · 1 day ago

Text

Know When To Let Go Part 2

Pairing- Dean, x Female!Reader.

Word count- 4,774

Warnings- A lot of ANGST, Dean is a bit of jerk, fighting, Supernatural level violence

Summary- You almost lost Dean to a heart attack, now after one phone call there is another threat from the past that could come between you two.

A/N-I know this isn't one of my ongoing series, but this has been in my drafts for years. The first 2 parts are a rewrite of the Route 66 episode. I'm trying to get back into writing, I promise. If you would like to be removed or added to the tag list let me know. Not Beta'd, all mistakes are mine

After another rough night on the couch, Sam wakes you, telling you you need to hurry. A quick look around told you Dean never made it back last night. Apparently the mayor was killed the night before on property he bought a few weeks ago. This changes up the truck’s pattern. You hurry to get ready, while Sam calls Dean to tell him the two of you will meet him there. You arrive at the crime scene before Dean, and go over to talk to the police. Every bone in the mayor's body was crushed, internal organs turned to pudding, and the cops? No idea, it was like the guy was run over, but again no tracks. Both of you immediately think of the truck.

When Dean finally walks up to join you, Sam holds up a badge and tells another cop he was with the two of you. You back away from the guys as Dean moves over to talk to Sam. You hear Sam ask where he was last night, since he didn’t make it back to the hotel, and did they work things out between them? Specifically the obvious tension.

“Wait, you actually slept with her?” Oops, you didn’t mean for that to actually be said out loud.

Dean turns to glare at you. “Yeah, I actually did. It was pretty great too. Best night I’ve had in a very long while.”

You turn away from them trying to hold back the tears as you walk back to Impala. This shouldn’t hurt like it does. As hard as it was to believe, but for once in your life, you can’t wait to have some distance between you and Dean.

The guys are talking as they walk back toward you. Dean saying they need to figure out why the ghost truck broke the pattern and how it all fits together. You just roll your eyes.

“It’s obvious, jackass. It all comes back to Cassie’s family. Which, by the way, you were supposed to figure out the why last night. Let me guess, you were too busy to do your job.” With that you yank open the Impala’s door, getting in and slamming it behind you.

Dean sends you a nasty look through the windshield and heads toward his door. Sam grabs his arm and pulls him away first, the two talking for a few minutes, occasionally one of them will look back at you. You turn to face out the side window ignoring them, and close your eyes for good measure, so you won’t have to see him either. Then you try and work on calming yourself down.

Apparently, the guys decide to split up during their talk. Sam is going to look up courthouse records of who had owned the property, and you are going with Dean to the newspaper office. When you try to get out at the courthouse Dean won’t let you, saying you were coming with him. No one checked if this was alright with you.

At the office, Cassie makes tea for herself and Dean, sitting down extremely close to him, while he explains to her what you are busy looking up. So this is why you were with him, to do the research. The bitch hasn’t even caught on to the fact Dean hates tea. She obviously really cares about him, at least Dean is behind you and isn’t able to see your eye roll this time. Dean hasn’t even noticed or doesn’t care you are no longer speaking to him, too wrapped up in Cassie.

“We are trying to find a link between the killings in the ‘60’s and the ones going on now. There wasn’t much in the paper,” he begins explaining.

“That’s not a surprise,” you hear her respond. “The police probably didn’t do much work on them either. Back then there wasn’t much equal justice under the law around here.”

“That’s Sam,” Dean says, picking up his ringing phone and putting it on speaker. “Yeah.”

“The courthouse records show the Mayor and his wife bought an abandoned property. The last owner was the Dorian family who had it for like 150 years.”

“Wait, did you say Dorian?” you question.

“Yeah.”

You start looking up the Dorian family, when Dean asks Cassie if they were the ones who used to own the paper. She tells him they did, along with most of the other businesses and buildings around town. You open a link on the computer as Dean looks over your shoulder then pushes your chair away. You just glare at the back of him from where you and your chair stop rolling.

“That’s interesting,” he says after reading for a minute.

“What?” Sam, still on speakerphone, wants to know.

“There was a Cyrus Dorian, who vanished in April of ‘63. They investigated the disappearance but never solved the case. Round the same time as the murders were happening back then.”

“I pulled up a bunch of info on the Dorian place. It musta been in awful shape when the Mayor bought it.”

“Why’s that?” Dean presses taking Sam off speaker in the process.

Apparently Sam must have told him something about demolition, because Dean asks Cassie if the Mayor had the Dorian house knocked down. Looks like it was some big deal. It even made the front page of the paper. The boys realize that the day after the house was torn down, the monster truck began its terror. Dean looks through a few more things while talking to Sam. Unfortunately, Cassie decides to use that time to come over to you.

“What’s your deal?”

Keeping your mouth shut, you just send her a glare. You aren’t up to another fight with Dean right now. She keeps pushing and making little comments about you being Dean’s little lost puppy who doesn’t know her place. Finally having enough you break your silence. This was the horrible woman you remember Dean going out with.

“You are, you were awful to Dean and hurt him for telling the truth. He tried so hard for you, and you didn’t care. Now you want to wiggle your way back in, claim the hero for yourself. Why, just so you can throw him away again? You always were a stuck up bitch, Cassie. Leave him alone, Dean doesn’t need your drama.”

Dean stands up quickly, closing his phone, thankfully, not having heard anything between the two of you. He grabs the articles he has printed out, telling Cassie he needs to check some things with Sam. You follow Dean to the Impala to go pick up the other Winchester. He never says a word when you get in the backseat instead of the empty shotgun.

Inside the motel room, the two of them are going over notes, and old articles. You are gathering up any of your loose belongings in Baby to pack away in your bag. You are closer to the end of this case and your time with the Winchesters. Patting the top of the car, you make your way into the room. As you are adding the new items to your bag in the room, Dean’s phone rings. He jumps up hearing the caller speaking, grabs the Impala’s keys and tells you both to move it.

When he finally hangs up, he tells you both the caller was Cassie, she is at her parents’ house. Apparently she was with her mom and the two of them saw the truck. Great, now she really gets to be the victim and cuddle up to Dean. He drives quickly to get to her, pulling up outside the house, the Impala is barely off before Dean is racing inside.

Getting inside both women are spooked. Dean is sitting beside Cassie with his arm around her, while her mom is shaking in the chair. It hurt how much Dean still cares for Cassie after everything she did to him. You have always been there, but he never cared about you that way. After the last few days, you knew he never would. Sam goes to make them both a cup of tea while you stand off to the side. She asks Sam to put a couple shots in the glass when he hands it to her. Sitting down in the other chair, Sam asks if they caught a glimpse of the driver.

“It didn’t look like anyone. Everything was going so fast, and then it just disappeared. Why didn’t it kill us?”

“Whoever’s controlling the truck wants you afraid first,” Dean told her.

Sam turns to her mom, “Mrs. Robinson, Cassie said that your husband saw the truck before he died.” The poor woman is unable to answer, she is just shaking.

“Mom?” Cassie tried.

“Oh, Martin was under a lot of stress. You can’t be sure about what he was seeing.”

Dean’s arm tightens around Cassie before he starts talking, which had you turning away. “Well after tonight I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck. With what happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked. Okay? You both could die. So if you know something now would be a really good time to tell us.” Cassie tries to stop Dean from pressing her mom, until the woman speaks up.

“Yes, okay he said he saw a truck.”

“Did he know who?” You ask, involving yourself for the first time tonight.

“He thought he did.”

“Who was it?” The poor woman is getting terribly upset as she prepares to answer your question.

“Cyrus, It was a man we knew named Cyrus.”

From the corner of your eye you see the brother’s exchange a look before Dean grabs something out of his bag. It is the article from earlier, about Dorian’s disappearance, he shows it to Mrs. Robinson, asking if that is Cyrus.

She turns away from you all, whispering that he had died more than 40 years ago.

Dean looks at Sam before quietly asking “How do you know he died, Mrs. Robinson? The paper just said he went missing. How are you sure he died?”

“We were all very young. I had dated Cyrus for a while, but I was also seeing Martin. In secret of course. Inter-racial couples didn’t go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus and he found out about Martin… I don’t know. He changed. His hatred, his hatred was frightening.”

You look up at Sam, what she is saying suddenly clicked. “The murders.”

The poor woman sounds like she is trying not to cry as she continues on. “Yes, there were rumors. People of color disappearing into some truck. Nothing was ever done. Martin and an... Martin and I were gonna be married in that little church near here, but at the last minute we decided we didn’t want the attention.”

“What happened then, with Cyrus?” You gently asked.

She is really crying now, and you feel awful for her. “The day we set for the wedding was the day someone set fire to the church. There was a children’s choir practicing in there. All of them died.”

“Did the attacks stop then?”

She completely broke down talking through her tears, you really feel like giving her a hug right now. “No! There was still one more. One night that truck came for Martin. It was Cyrus, he beat Martin something terrible. But Martin got loose, and he started hitting Cyrus back and just kept hitting.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?” Dean cuts in.

“Don’t forget, we are talking about 40 years ago. He called his friends, Clayton Soames, and Jimmy Anderson. The three of them put Cyrus’ body in the truck and rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land. Those three kept that secret all of these years.”

“Now all three are gone.” Sam said.

“So is the Mayor,” Dean interjects.. “Now we heard him say that you of all people would know he is not a racist. What made him say that?”

Mrs. Robinson looks away before looking back at all of you. “He was a good man. Back then he was a young deputy back then investigating Cyrus’ disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the others had done he... he did nothing. All because he also knew what Cyrus had done.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cassie cries.

“I was trying to protect them. Now there is no one left to protect.”

“Yes, there is.” Dean retorts a little rougher. He is looking at Cassie, of course he is. This is what Dean does, protect the hurt and weak. Be their knight in shining armor. You couldn’t take it and head outside for some air. Maybe the truck will come after you, at this point you just don’t care.

You lean against the trunk of the Impala facing away from the house trying and failing to keep the tears at bay. A few minutes later, you hear a voice behind you. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Are you going to be okay?”

“I just want to be done with this Sam. I can’t stay around him any longer. I need space to get my head on straight, and finally accept he doesn’t see me like that, and there will never be anything more between your brother and I.”

He joins you leaning against the trunk. “I really don’t want you to leave. But after all this, I understand if you do need to go. Just promise to check in with me every once in a while, okay? I promise I won’t tell Dean.”

“I’ll do my best, Sammy.”

“I’m only letting you get away with that name this one time.” He gives you a sad soft smile and you both go quiet, waiting for the older Winchester to appear.

Sam is the first to move when Dean’s footsteps are heard coming from the house. “You know, my life was so simple. Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms.”

“So you’re saying I saved you from a boring existence? You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, well I occasionally miss boring.”

“Anyways, we got a killer truck.”

“I miss boring conversations that didn’t begin with a killer truck.”

You just shake your head wanting to get this over with. “Alright, so this Cyrus guy is so evil that it even infected his truck. The swamp became his tomb and he went dormant for 40 some years. What woke him?”

“The start of construction, or in this case destruction on the house, it can awaken the spirits and make them restless.” Sam answered. “It went after the Mayor, who tore down the house and kept Cyrus’ murder quiet.”

Continuing to face away from the boys you ask with a grimace, “Does this mean we have to dredge the swamp for him?”

“Yep, you ready to go swimming?” Dean responds with a sarcastic tone.

Deciding to ignore him, you stay in your position until you hear Cassie telling Dean her mom is asleep, and wanting to know what is happening next. Turning around quickly you respond “No way in hell is she coming with us.”

Dean glares at you before leaning down and talking to Cassie. You really didn’t want to know what he was saying, mostly because you don’t believe your heart can handle it. It gets even worse when Cassie smiles at him and leans up to start kissing him. It hurts knowing what happened between them last night, but having it play out right in front of you, torture. You quickly get in the backseat and slam the door so you won’t be forced to see or hear anything else.

Sam opens his door saying something to Dean as he gets in. “Y/N, I’m so sorry.” You just nod and stare out the window, tears once again falling.

When Dean finally slides in the car you keep your focus to the side, never sparing him a glance. There are a few moments you can almost feel him looking at you.

“You know, you didn’t have to be so rude to her. She’s had a stressful night.” He breaks the silence in the car.

You never acknowledged his comment, and the two brothers began working on a plan to dredge the swamp.

Thankfully there is still a tractor on the property where they have been working on repairs. The boys manage to get a chain hooked on the truck and the tractor pulls it up. You are standing near the Impala out of the way, since they didn’t seem to need your help at the moment. After Sam is satisfied the truck was far enough out of the water to work on, Dean shuts the tractor off and gets down making his way over to the Impala. Sam follows behind.

“Now I know what she sees in you.”

“What?” Dean responds, rummaging through the back of the trunk.

“Come on man, you can admit you’re still in love with her.” Really Sam? Did he forget you were standing right here? You didn't need him to add salt to the wound too.

“Can we focus on this please?”

“Fine, what do we need out?”

“Gas, flashlight, lighters.”

“Got ‘em.”

“Alright, let’s finish this.” Dean shuts the trunk, looking over at you, and they head to the cab of the truck. When he opens the door, what you believe was once Cyrus falls out. They set to work salting and burning him. They haven’t needed or spoken to you, so you remained leaning on the driver’s side of the Impala. You hear Sam ask after a short time, if that should do it. You all have your answer seconds later when the ghost truck appears.

“I’m guessing that’s a no Sam.” Dean answers his brother.

“So burning the body had no effect on that thing?”

“Sure it did. Now it’s really pissed, and at us.”

“But Cyrus’ ghost is gone, right Dean?”

You begin walking toward the guys when Dean starts walking back to the Impala. “Apparently not the part that’s fused with the truck.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Sam calls out.

“We are goin’ for a drive. Gonna lead that thing away from here. You gotta burn that busted piece of crap.” Passing you Dean grabs your arm and pulls you with him back to the Impala.

“How the hell am I supposed to burn a truck, Dean?”

“I should help Sam.” It’s the first time you have spoken since you arrived here.

“I don’t know, figure something out,” Dean answers his brother, turning to you he just growls out “No.”

Dean threw something at Sam and you could hear him muttering behind you as Dean pushes you in the door and over to the passenger seat. Throwing Baby in reverse, he speeds off through the property and down the road. The ghost truck is quick to follow. You don’t think you have ever been in a car with someone going this fast. He pulls out his phone and dialing a number puts it on speaker.

“Hey, you gotta give me a minute,” Sam’s voice comes over the line.

“We don’t have a minute! What are we doing?” Dean is shouting at him.

“Ahh, let me get back to you.” You couldn’t believe Sam hung up on you guys at a time like this.

“Get back to me?” Dean is muttering next to you.

It is a tense few minutes until Dean’s phone rings, you are praying Sam has a way to end this.

“Answer it,” Dean tells you.

You answer it and put it on speaker so Dean could hear his brother.

“All, right Dean?”

“This better be good.”

“Where are you?”

“In the middle of freaking nowhere, with a killer truck on my ass! It’s like it knows I put the torch to Cyrus.”

“Listen, this is important. I have to know exactly where you are.”

“Decatur Road,” you fill in, seeing the passing sign.

“About two miles off the highway,” Dean adds.

“Headed East?”

“YES!” Dean yells, just before the truck rams into the back of the Impala sending it skidding. He fights to get the car back under control. “You Son of a bitch!”

Trying to hold tight you shut your eyes for a moment, feeling the Impala flying down the road underneath you. This is so not how you saw your life ending.

“Turn right, turn right, just up ahead.” Dean quickly makes the turn as Sam asks if he did so.

“Yeah, I made it, we need to move this along a little faster.”

“Alright, do you see a road up ahead?”

“No! Wait, no ah yes.” The truck is catching up and almost on the Impala’s left side now trying to run you all off the road.

“Turn left.” Dean had to hit the brakes in order to turn which had the truck sailing past. After you turn, go seven tenths of a mile and then stop.”

Did he say stop? Sam can’t seriously want you to stop with that truck so close can he?

“Stop?” Apparently, Dean feels the same.

“Yes, at exactly seven tenths.”

Dean is watching the speedometer closely, reaching his destination he spun the car around and moved to where Sam had wanted. Looking around, you are surrounded by the remains of an old building. The truck suddenly appears on the road in front of you. Sam comes over the line asking if Dean is still there and what was happening. Dean tells him it is just staring at you both, and Sam wants the truck to just come to you. When the truck revs its engine and suddenly comes barreling toward the Impala you see Dean grab the steering wheel as you close your eyes and hold tight to the seat preparing for the hit. It suddenly goes quiet and slowly opening your eyes you notice Dean looking around, but neither of you see the truck anywhere.

Sam’s voice comes from the phone, “You still there? Guys?”

“Where’d it go?” You ask, not really sure what happened.

“I don’t know.” Dean is just as confused as you.

“You guys are where the church was.”

“What church Sam! There isn’t much here.” Dean was a little on edge and wanting answers.

“The one Cyrus burned down, and all those kids died. The church is hallowed ground, whether the church is still there or not. Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground, and sometimes they’re destroyed. So I figured, maybe, that would get rid of it.”

Listening to Sam, Dean is nodding his head along before suddenly stopping, “Wait, maybe? Did you say maybe? What if you were wrong?”

“Huh. Honestly that thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

Dean hangs up on his brother mimicking Sam’s last sentence before threatening to kill him.

The drive back to Sam is rather quiet, both of you reflecting on your recent near miss. The inside of the truck is salted and lit on fire. Dean is in the tractor with water in the bucket from the swamp if the fire gets out of hand. The remains of the truck are pushed back into the swamp.

The three of you head back to the hotel to get cleaned up. Looking back over tonight and the past couple of days you have come to a decision on your future. Even with your lives on the line, Dean has barely spoken six words to you all night long, that tells you where you rank to him.

You're the last one to shower, probably because you had done the least amount of work tonight. The sun is starting to rise, and the boys want to get out of town before anyone says something about what they may have seen last night.

Checking the room one last time, you are sure nothing is left behind. You have already searched through the Impala, and retrieved your favorite gun and knife from the trunk. Dean has gone to grab breakfast for the road, but Sam has an idea of what you were doing and silently watches you going over the room.

He speaks up after a few minutes, “I want you to know, I’m really going to miss you. My brother’s a major idiot.”

You go over to hug the giant. “I’m going to miss you too Sam, keep in touch when you can. Good luck finding your dad, I’m sorry I can’t go along with you anymore. If you need me to look into anything on the downlow, shoot me a message. Take care of yourself, and that moron too.”

As you pick up your duffel and backpack he speaks up again. “You too. Where are you headed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dean will be back in a minute, we can drop you off at the bus stop, just wait.” Halfway through his sentence the motel door opens and in walks the other brother. Sam is slightly relieved, he is hoping now that the case is over Dean will have calmed down and can talk you out of leaving.

“Why are we going to the bus stop?” He questions.

“I’m going to the bus stop, you don’t need to.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Leaving Dean,” he stares at you with a bewildered expression.

“Oh, so you’re not over being a little bitch, huh? I thought you didn’t desert the people you care about, guess that was wrong, or maybe you don’t really care about us?”

“I don’t stay where I’m not wanted Dean! You don’t want my help, and your life doesn’t concern me, ring a bell? I’m leaving so I won’t interfere with your life anymore, and you can go screw whoever you want, without hearing any comments from me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to grow up! Just get in the car, no need to throw a hissy fit.”

“You wanted me gone, I'm leaving.”

“Then don’t come crying back!”

“Dean! Stop!” This isn’t going the way Sam was hoping it would, not at all.

You turn your back on the only man you ever truly cared about, took a deep breath, closed your eyes and willed the tears away till you could walk out of the room. Passing Sam you give him one last side hug, ruffle up his shaggy hair, and tell him to take care as you walk out of the room and the Winchesters’ lives.

“What the hell is her problem lately?” Dean looks to his brother to explain your recent behavior.

Sam turns at him in complete shock, before explaining. “You are Dean! Man, you are a bigger idiot than I thought. She’s been in love with you for years, your best friend for almost twenty years. You threw all that away for some chick you spent a few weeks with years ago, who then turned her back on you. We both know Y/N has never been like this before, something was really bothering her. You could have just talked to her and asked why she was behaving this way, but you just kept yelling at her, and throwing Cassie in her face.”

Dean is frozen in place, staring at the door hearing Sam’s words. He’d been harboring feelings for you for years, but didn’t believe you would ever see him like that. You deserve so much better than him, he is just going to drag you down. So he has one night stands to try and take his mind off you for a little while. You two had gotten even closer when he almost died on the last hunt, he didn’t want to face the hurt of you rejecting him if he said something. Instead he saw Cassie’s call as a distraction, a way to push his feelings away again, that’s all. He remembered what she did, how you put him back together. He knew he should have kept this case professional and was fighting internally with himself the whole time, that’s why he kept snapping at you. In the end, he didn’t think you would actually leave. He should know better, everyone leaves him.

“She can’t leave.” It takes him a moment, but he rushes out the door to make you come back inside. Looking around Dean doesn’t see you anywhere.

“It’s too late, you really hurt her, Dean. Now, you have to let her go,” Sam tells him from the doorway.

Punching the roof of the Impala, Dean slides down next to it on the pavement. Head in his hands, he realizes he finally pushed too far, he hurt you, and now he lost you.

Thank you for reading!

Part 3 coming soon

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#supernatural #dean x female!reader #dean angst #dean x reader #dean winchester

48 notes · View notes

alliceolivia · 2 days ago

Text

Haunted (Dean)

Part 2 of It wasn't supposed to end like this...

TW: Mention of $uicide

word count: 1398

requested by @elianamarie-blog

After your death, Dean was broken. He wouldn’t eat, he quit hunting, quit going outside at all really, just shut himself in his room. At some point, he even contemplated selling Baby. That was when Sam understood that Dean had hit the bottom. That Dean needed help.

But for Dean, the worst thing was sleeping. The nightmares that would plague his mind were almost too much for him to handle. He would dream of you. Everything you’d done together. Everything you should have done together. One of his favorite memories kept recurring. You'd had a day off and you had decided to go to the beach. On the way back to the motel, you leaned out of the passenger window. Your legs resting in his lap, hair flying crazy in the wind. You'd looked so beautiful, and it was the moment he'd accepted that he had a crush on you.

Then, the memory would melt away like old film and flashes of your burning body would start to take over. The sound of the gunshot, the thud when you hit the ground echoed in the background. And then he would wake up in an ocean of cold sweat.

But you were haunting him. Not only in his sleep. When he was awake too. But this was a ghost he didn’t want to leave.

He saw you in the corner of his eye. He would catch a glimpse of you in the review mirror, sitting in the backseat of Baby. You would sit at the end of his bed when he woke up in the middle of the night. Your voice distant and distorted as you spoke to him. As if you were speaking to him from the other side of a long tunnel.

“Shhh…” You would reach up and caress his cheek. He would close his eyes. Your touch like a cold breeze, “It was just a dream,”

When he opened his eyes again. You'd be gone.

A ‘sleep paralysis demon’ the psychiatrist Sam had forced him to get called it. The psychiatrist had given Dean a prescription for some pills that would prevent “the demon” from showing up. But all Dean could think was, “You weren't a demon”. And even though it hurt seeing you like this — not being able to touch you, and only being able to see you in his peripheral — he didn't want it to stop. It was a version of you that he might not have, but he at least hadn’t lost.

Dean started sleeping more and more. The nightmares were bad, but it was all worth it when he got to see you when he woke. Hear your whisper, feel the ghost of your fingers on his cheek.

“It was just a nightmare”

“It's fine, Dean”

“you're alright,”

“I'm right here,”

“Shhh…”

That's what it started like in the beginning. Short sentences comforting him in his distress. Then, it turned into something else. Almost like… Small cries for help?

“Don’t take the pills, Dean.”

“They are making you sick.”

“Sam doesn't like me, he wants me gone,”

“They make me weak, Dean”

No. That wasn’t right? Sam loved you just like he did. But he didn’t want you to disappear. Never again. So he quit taking them.

“Dean, please help me”

“I miss you, Dean,”

“I need you to do something for me”

“I love you,”

“I need you to follow me”

“Help me come back”

Your words burned into his brain. ‘Come back’. You could come back? Could he hold you again? His want, his need to feel more than the ghost of your fingers on his cheek was overbearing. So, one night, he woke up. Saw you sitting on the edge of his bed

“Show me where to go,” He begged, “Please”

You didn’t say anything, but you stood up and walked out to the hall. Dean followed you. Followed your shadow as you disappeared behind corners and through doors. He followed you out of the front door and down the road. He didn’t think about where he was going, he just kept his eyes on your form so he wouldn’t lose it. The door closed with a loud bang! and Sam woke up.

Sam walked groggily through the bunker, checking for what made the sound. When he couldn’t find anything he poked his head into Deans room to check if everything was fine before he went back to sleep. But Dean’s bed was empty and it went cold down Sam’s spine.

“Shit-” Sam said and ran through the whole layout one more time to look for Dean. When he couldn’t find him he ran outside and down the driveway. “Dean!”

He didn’t know where he had gone and just had to pick a way and hope it was the right one. He couldn’t have gotten far.

Eventually, luckily, he saw him down by the bridge.

“Dean! Dean, Stop!” Sam’s voice shouts as he runs to keep up, “Dean, step back!”

“No… no, I need to follow her,” Dean says desperately, “She’s gonna tell me how to get her back, I just need to-” When he turns back to look at you. You’re gone. He feels himself panic.

“No… Y/n? Y/n!” He shouts, tears prickling down his cheeks, “Y/N, come back! Where did you go, I need to-… I just- where did she go…?”

“She's not real, Dean” Sam said worried, “We burned her bones, remember? She can't come back”

That fact slammed Dean back to reality. It was like someone punched him in the stomach. He looked around and found himself standing on the rail of a bridge, a small step away from the edge. What was he doing? Was he going to jump? How did he get here? He didn’t know. He just needed to get down.

On shaky legs, he got down from the railing. Sam quickly stepped forward, catching him. Sam hugged him. And Dean hugged him back, desperately clinging to Sam. He had lost you… again.

“I- I can’t breathe,” Dean heaved

“Shhh… it’s going to be fine…” Sam whispered. He didn’t know what else to say.

---

The therapist later explains that Dean’s depression, and his longing for you, have been so severe that it caused him to hallucinate, his mind twisting reality just to keep him from breaking down completely. But as his suicidal thoughts worsened, the hallucinations changed. They tangled with the visions of you, warping into something darker. Something dangerous.

It took time, but Dean is okay now. At least, that’s what everyone says.

He takes his medication. He sleeps enough. He eats full meals. The weight in his chest isn’t as crushing as it used to be. The world didn’t feel as crushingly dark as it had. The road stretches wide ahead of them, summer heat shimmering off the asphalt, and the roar of Baby’s engine gives Dean life. This is good. This is what he knows.

But sometimes, in the quiet, he feels the ghost of your fingers against his cheek. Barely there, but enough to make him turn his head before he catches himself. The touch never lingers. It never lingers, never stays long enough for him to be sure if it’s real.

But of course, it never is.

Dean keeps his hands on the wheel, his grip firm. Sam notices that Dean doesn’t hum to the crackling music from the radio, some old Kansas song, as he usually does.

“You good?” Sam asks, keeping his voice casual.

Dean doesn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, “You want me to take over?”

They had agreed that Sam would be allowed to drive so Dean wouldn’t burn himself out too fast. But Dean shakes his head.

“No… I got it.”

And he does. Driving is easy. It keeps his mind from going places it shouldn’t.

His eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Just a glance. Routine. But he isn’t looking at the car behind them.

He’s looking at you.

Leaned out of the window, your legs spread out in the backseat, hair flying crazy in the wind. You looked so beautiful.

His breath stutters.

His fingers twitch on the wheel, itching to reach for something he can’t touch.

He knows you’re not real. He knows.

Dean inhales sharply. His grip tightens.

His heartbeat thuds in his ears.

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

But you don’t disappear.

#short story #dean supernatural #dean winchester #dean x reader #supernatural #female reader #angst #imagine #one shot #fanfic #spn #the winchester brothers #happy ending? no #haunting the narrative?

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syrma-sensei · 3 days ago

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Oooooh, that was a good read 😍

Beautifully-written as always, Zep!

The banter, the writing style, the smut! I'm in love 🥰 And the papaya's line, cracked me up 😂

And Dean's fascination with the reader's body 🥹 God, I love that man...

Midnight Espresso

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader

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

AN: The muse hit me hard on this one last night lol. I felt like "Midnight Espresso" was catchier than the working title, "Midnight Coffee Shots."

Thanks for the encouragement and inspo: @deanwinchesterswitch @iprobablyshipit91 @freewastelandstrawberry

Song Inspo: "2 Be Loved (Am I Ready)" by Lizzo

Word Count: 7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, mutual pining, body insecurity, ass appreciation, supernatural shenanigans, naughty language, bad bitch o’clock and thicc thirty.

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

When you spot the caller ID on your buzzing cell phone, you have to smile. You answer the call.

“Well if it isn’t Dean I need a favor Winchester,” you tease. You hear his genuine chuckle, deep and smooth in your car speakers.

“Hey, sweetheart…” He hesitates, which makes your lips curve wryly.

“Yeah, Dean? What’cha got?”

“I need a favor.”

You sigh dramatically. “So fucking predictable.”

“Sorry, but look. We really do need you…we’ve got a situation.”

“Oh, a situation? How specific,” you chuckle.

“All right, smartass,” he says, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. “Just listen…”

When he tells you the lowdown on the case he and Sam are on, you have to change directions—all the way to a dusty little town in the south of Texas.

There you find the brothers Winchester outside La Cantina Libre.

You greet Sam first, stretching up to meet his hug. He’s friendly and warm when he rubs your back.

“Good to see you,” he says.

“You too, lumberjack,” you reply, noting the new layer of scruff he’s sporting on his face. Sam gives a dry chuckle and rubs his bearded chin.

“I keep tellin’ him to shave that ferret off his face,” Dean remarks. You turn to him with a grin just as he pulls you in next.

“Aw, he looks good,” you say, giving Sam an encouraging look behind Dean’s back. The taller Winchester sports a good-natured smile.

But you revel a bit in Dean’s warmth when he holds you tight, then let out a little breath when he pulls away, grasping your arms.

“So do you,” he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and playfully hit his shoulder. “Right. Eight hours of cross-country grime really becomes me.”

But you can’t help blushing a little at his smirk. Always a fucking flirt.

You turn your head to the bar in front of you.

“What’s the deal with this place?”

“The husband of one of the victims is inside,” Sam explains.

According to the police report, his wife returned home from a night out with her friends three days ago. She sat down in the middle of the living room, on the ground. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t eat.

When Hector Rivera brought his wife to the hospital, neither fluids or medication helped her sleep or retain any nutrients. The official cause of death was starvation and dehydration.

It was a baffling case, both for the doctors and the police, who never found any criminal evidence to support a murder investigation.

“Okay, have you talked to Hector?” you ask. Dean raises his brows at you.

“That’s where you come in,” he says. “The guy only speaks Spanish. Neither me or Sam got the chops to Duolingo our way through.”

You can certainly believe that of Dean, but you still make sure to tease Sam on your way inside the bar. He’d studied Latin in high school, but hadn’t bothered to take Spanish?

“Definitely a white boy move,” you tease, which Sam accepts with a chuckle.

But you realize that the guys really would’ve been at a loss here. Most of the bar patrons are Spanish-speaking Latinos (you are a mere stone’s throw from the border of Mexico, after all).

You ask around for Hector and find him at the end of the bar, drinking alone. He’s early forties at most, dark hair, tan skin mere shades lighter than yours. He has three shots down in front of him, and he’s working on picking up his fourth. Sam and Dean trail after you as you slide into the stool next to Hector.

“Señor Rivera,” you greet him in your native tongue and pull out your fabricated police badge. “Good evening.”

He glances at you, then your badge with furrowed brows.

“What do you want?” he asks in Spanish, just a hint slurring.

“I’m very sorry about your wife. I know you’ve already given your statement, but we’re looking further into the circumstances surrounding Nina’s death,” you explain.

He perks up at that, his brown eyes briefly lighting with something other than cold, hard grief.

“The doctors couldn’t explain it, he admits. “They couldn’t do a damn thing. I just don’t understand…”

He glares down at his hands, at the glass of liquor between them. He fights to control himself, but you can see it’s a losing battle. You rest a gentle hand on his arm, and when Hector meets your eyes, you know he’ll find genuine sympathy.

“I want to help you,” you tell him. “At the very least, I can look for a real explanation on what happened to Nina. Can you tell me what you know?”

A moment later, he pats your hand on his arm. And he tells you.

Dean watches from his spot behind you while he and Sam blend in, each drinking a beer. Dean admires how easily you connect with people. How genuine you are in wanting to help them.

He knows you’ve spent years in this job. Maybe not as long as him, but long enough to get jaded. You aren’t, and you care.

Dean thinks it’s part of the reason why you always answer when he calls. You’ve never said no to him, always been there when he and Sam need you. And that, he somehow feels guilty about.

Because what the fuck has he really ever done for you, other than put you in danger?

“Dean,” Sam says, nudging his side.

It brings Dean back to the present when he sees you’re getting up from the bar. Despite his inner conflict, he can’t help but notice the curve of your ample ass in those tight jeans. An enticing ratio of thick thighs to smaller waist, and generous cup size to match.

But when you turn around, it’s your sad smile that grabs his attention. You draw near, and Dean forces himself to stay relaxed when your warm hand rests on his forearm.

It’s a familiar, comfortable thing for you to be touchy. You’re an expressive person, always talking with your hands, full-body animated when you tell stories.

Sometimes you’ll grab his wrist playfully, or brush your hand along his back when you pass by. Or you’ll grab his shoulder to steady yourself, and lean into him when you’ve had too much to drink.

Dean likes it—all of it. In fact, he finds it endearing as hell.

But it’s also a problem. A unique kind of torture to keep himself in check around you…

Frankly, he doesn’t think you know what your touch does to him.

In fact, he knows you don’t, because while you’ve got your smooth, tan hand on his arm, you’re more looking at Sam when you say:

“I think I know what this is.”

“El Sombrerón,” you repeat yourself as you flip through a book on South American lore.

“Shouldn’t you be an expert on this already?” Dean teases as you rifle through the pages. “I thought Latin American legends were right up your alley.”

The three of you are back at their delightfully crap motel of the week. You and Sam sit at the two-seater table while Dean leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

You shoot him a wry glance. “I’m Cuban, not Guatemalan. Though apparently, El Sombrerón appears in Mexican mythology as well.”

Hector said that the night his wife went to the bar with her friends, her friend Jennine saw a man with a black jacket and a hat to match.

She said he flirted with Nina, a sweet but introverted soul. She turned him down, of course, but he tried to cajole her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and touch her cheek. That’s when Jennine stepped in and cursed the guy out, threatening to break his nose if he didn’t back off.

They didn’t see him again that night, but you suspect the damage had been done the moment he touched her…

“All right, so he’s a boogeyman of sorts,” Sam says, gesturing at the vivid illustration in the book he’s holding. You peer over at the page and nod.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the cautionary tale. A man dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat—”

“Like Zorro,” Dean supplies. You give him an amused grin.

“No, not like Zorro,” you reply. “Instead of being a fine-ass caped crusader with a voice deep and gritty as sin, El Sombrerón likes to lure women into the woods.”

Dean raises a brow at your description (Deep and gritty as sin, huh?), but you continue.

“Specifically, he’s got a fetish for long hair,” you recount. “Here it says El Sombrerón’s voice and touch are a curse, rendering his victims unable to eat or sleep. Eventually, they die.”

That falls between you all like hot lead. Until Sam voices the question you’re all thinking.

“So how do we find him?”

“For the record, I’m against this fucking idea,” Dean mutters to his brother. Once again, they’re patrons of La Cantina Libre, each nursing a beer.

“Yeah, you’ve made that known a few times now,” Sam replies in a low whisper. “She’ll be okay, Dean. We’re right here for her.”

They’re just on standby, watching you ignore flirtations from men with a coy smile. You leave a delicate ring of red lipstick on your straw while you nurse a Tequila Sunrise.

Dean subtly (to Sam, not so subtly) watches you. His elbow rests on the counter, chin in hand, hand over mouth, while his eyes roam down your simple black dress. Your ankles are crossed under the bar counter. The toe of your platform heel bouncing against the foot rail is the only thing telling Dean that you’re a bit nervous.

You’ve let your hair down on purpose, trying to entice the “Zorro” monster with the smooth waves running down your back.

On any other night, Dean might’ve enjoyed this place. He has a good beer in hand. There’s some live music tonight, in the form of a man playing a shiny silver guitar, crooning into the mic. You turn your head to watch for a moment, and Dean sees the way your gaze sharpens on the musician.

The man wears a black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, tucked neatly into his dark wash jeans. His black hair is long and a little wild, almost brushing his shoulders. While he holds out a smooth note, he looks up and finds your gaze. His lips curve on a smile.

Your face heats up at the attention, but you find yourself captivated by those eyes. They’re intense, almost black under the stage lights. And as the musician’s song comes to a close, you feel a trill of something run down your spine when he sets down his silver guitar.

Then he makes his way toward you.

He settles into the free seat next to you and orders two tequila shots.

“I have a drink, thanks,” you say. The man only smiles.

“You’ve been holding onto that Sunrise for two hours,” he says. “I just thought you might like something stronger, before the sun actually comes up.”

Inside, you want to roll your eyes at the cheesy line.

Instead, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and his gaze is drawn to the motion. You notice it with mounting suspicion.

“Maybe I do,” you reply. “What’s your name?”

“Miguel,” he says, offering a charming smile. “And yours, amor?”

You consider him with flirtatious eyes and a tilt of your head. You’re fairly certain you have your target.

You lay a hand on his arm, over his jacket. You lean in close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Do you really need my name?” you ask in Spanish.

Miguel smirks when you lean back. He offers you his hand to help you off of your stool. Wary of actually touching his skin to yours, you try your best to be graceful and sensuous as you slide out of your seat and onto your heels without his help. You then walk out of the bar through the back without waiting for him to follow you (hoping that he does).

Your instincts are right, however. When you make it out of the bar, Miguel is indeed closing in behind you. You glance over your shoulder, offering a coy smile. But when you look ahead, you have to utter a gasp.

Miguel is suddenly there to grab you and pull you in by your waist.

“When will your friends be joining us?” he asks, trailing a finger down your cheek. It makes you shudder, but you pretend to be confused.

“Friends?”

“Dumb and dumber, watching you like a hawk,” he says, raising a brow. “Oh, mi amor. I know a pack of hunters when I see them.”

Sam and Dean watch the musician run back for his guitar, slipping it carefully in its case before he takes off after you.

“Get the guitar. Got a feeling about that thing,” Dean says to Sam. “I’ll follow ‘em.”

The moment Dean walks out the back of the bar, he stops short and draws his gun. His body tenses and his face falls into a glare when he sees Miguel holding you close (and against your will). But Miguel catches sight of Dean.

He forcefully turns you around and wraps an arm across your chest, pulling you back as you struggle.

“Good evening,” Miguel greets with a smirk. He nods at the full moon. “Beautiful night for a lover’s serenade.”

His voice alone is a threat, Dean knows. And by the way your eyes widen, so do you.

“Shut the fuck up, Mike,” Dean snarks. “Mind if I call you Mike?”

He raises his gun, but Miguel tsks at him. You grit your teeth as he pulls your hair back away from your cheek. His breath is hot an unpleasant in your ear, causing you to shudder.

“I do wish we had more time, amor,” he says, trailing a hand down your ass and thigh. “I like to play with my food.”

A hot lance of anger runs through Dean, but it runs even hotter through you, igniting your temper and making your patience run right the fuck out. You snap your head back and catch Miguel in the nose. He wrenches back with a pained cry.

You try to ignore the resulting ache in your head and reach for the silver knife in your thigh holster, beneath your dress. But Miguel grabs you by the hair. Suddenly his face has become grotesque, revealing its true form with a mouth filled with sharp, needle-like teeth.

You gasp as a trill of magic runs through your body from his touch. It paralyzes you as he wrenches your neck back and prepares to bite a chunk right out of your neck.

But Dean shoots a warning shot by the creature’s head, all-too close to yours as he approaches.

“Hey!” Sam calls out. He attracts everyone’s attention, even Miguel’s. Sam holds the silver guitar.

“This is what you use to play Pied Piper, right?” Sam asks. Miguel’s face hardens, but before he can do anything about it, Sam smashes the guitar to smithereens on the gravel road.

Miguel lets out an outraged hiss. While he’s distracted, Dean takes another shot that hits the creature in the shoulder. It gives you the opening you need to grab your knife and stab him in the leg.

Miguel cries out in pain, but before you can scramble away, he grabs your face. His sharpened nails bite into your skin, making you wince. You manage to kick out his knee. It forces him to release you, unless he wants to eat the ground hard.

Sam is there to catch you while Dean closes in. He shoots, the creature evades, grabbing Dean’s wrist and punching him across the face. The hunter goes down to the gravel with hands held out to brace himself. But he has a large knife on his belt that he retrieves next, only to be knocked out of his hand when Miguel bears on him.

He throws off Sam’s attempt to pull him off Dean, throwing him hard against the dumpster in the alley.

While Dean grapples bare-handed with the monster, trying his best to evade gnashing teeth in his face, you find his discarded knife and bury it deep into Miguel’s back.

He howls with pain and tries to throw you off. He manages to backhand you in the face and shove you away. You nearly roll an ankle on the small rocks rolling under your heels, and you end up on your back with the wind knocked out of you.

But Dean’s able to kick Miguel off and finish what you started. Dean pins the man on the ground and twists the knife deeper. And he doesn’t let go until the creature below him stops twitching.

Dean takes in deep breaths to account for the way adrenaline has set his blood pumping. He still sits on the ground with the body next to him. But then, he finds you kneeling next to him in your now dusty dress. Your eyes are worried when you grasp his shoulder and lay another hand lightly on his scuffed knee.

Dean reaches for you on reflex, grabbing your arm. Both of you manage to ask your burning questions at the same time—

“You okay?”

“Are you all right?”

You crack first with a giggle. Dean quirks a grin and thumbs at your cheek.

“Yeah, all good,” he says.

Your relieved smile reaches your eyes, and it warms him. “Good.”

Behind you both, Sam hides his own knowing smile.

Sam and Dean invite you to stay over at the bunker after the hunt, instead of making the even longer drive home. You’re too exhausted to say no.

By the time you get to the bunker, you’re dead on your feet, practically swaying down the stairs.

“I’m so fuckin’ tiiiired…”

“Come on, stop whining,” Dean teases as he helps you down. Sam has dropped your duffel bag on the ground floor and gone on ahead to shower, leaving you and Dean to figure this out.

“Why don’t you just take off the heels?” he wryly suggests.

“Hell no,” you refuse with a stubborn shake of your head.

You don’t want to contemplate how much monster guts have glossed the stairs of this bunker, via the brothers’ boots.

Maybe it’s a silly reason to suffer, but is it really suffering if you have Dean Winchester escorting you with both hands down the stairs?

His hands are warm and you trust the strength of his hold, but when your heel wobbles on the edge of a step, you still go for the railing rather than sink all your weight on Dean. He laughs at you, and you maturely stick out a tongue at him.

“At this point, it’d be faster if I freakin’ carried you,” Dean remarks. He reaches for you, but you stop him with a heel in his sternum.

“Eh-eh! Don’t even try,” you laugh. “I totally got this.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but you lower your heeled foot and manage to climb down the last few steps of the rickety staircase…at least, what your exhausted brain thinks is the last one.

You almost go ass over tea kettle when you miss the final stair with a yelp—but Dean is there to catch you.

His arms are like steel bands around your frame, curving around your lower back and pulling you flush against his chest. You gasp and cling to his arms. When you look up at him with wide eyes, you find his amused face…and maybe something else in his eyes. He tilts his head down at you.

“Well, well. Look who keeps falling for me?” he remarks.

You blush at the flirtatious edge of his tone. The gleam in his green eyes; you take it for amusement only, not realizing that he’s barely resisting the urge to claim your lips.

“Right,” you laugh him off with a pat on his chest. “When was the first time again?”

You make sure your heels are firmly on the ground before you push away from Dean. As you thought, he doesn’t try to keep you. He still looks amused as he lets you go.

He flirts with anything, you remind yourself, when disappointment starts to carve a hole in your heart. Don’t take it so seriously.

You say goodnight before you take up your duffel bag and go to find a free bedroom (and a hot shower). All the while, you bite your lip against a deep-seated feeling of uncertainty.

Dean watches you go, and you don’t see the way his mask of a smile fades into a frown.

After a nice hot shower and changing into your pajamas, that moment with Dean has unsettled you enough that you're not quite ready to go to sleep. Maybe you’re in the mood for a midnight snack.

You take out a couple of supplies from your bag and head over to the kitchen. There you set up your little cafetera coffee press with water, and a generous few tablespoons of Café Bustelo grounds of espresso. While that brews on the stove, you make some popcorn in the microwave.

You don’t realize that the rich smell reaches Dean all the way in his room. He sniffs the air in interest, then in confusion.

She’s making coffee at midnight?

He gets up out of bed and pads down to the kitchen where you’ve taken over. A large bowl of popcorn is ready and waiting for him to snatch a handful, while you’re checking the little metal carafe you have going on the stove.

“What’cha up to, sweetheart?” he asks. You greet him with a smile.

“Café con leche,” you reply.

Coffee with milk, he mentally translates. That much, he can work out.

“You drink coffee at this time of night?” he asks.

“My people invented it. I’ve been inoculated to this stuff since I was eight years old,” you quip. “Want some? Believe me, you’ll love it.”

He shrugs. “Sure. But if I end up too wired to fucking sleep, be prepared to suffer with me.”

You laugh. “I’m sure we’ll figure out something to do.”

Dean’s not sure if you meant that as flirtatious as it sounded. But by your briefly widening eyes and blushing cheeks, maybe you just realized it. He smirks and draws closer while you break out two mugs from the cabinet.

He notices your chosen pajamas with secret appreciation (a large threadbare Journey shirt over spandex shorts). You fill the little shorts out well.

Though Dean spots several small holes in the shirt. He teasingly sticks his finger through one in your short sleeve.

“Lose a fight with a pair of scissors?” he jokes.

You shoot him an amused glance over your shoulder.

“You are the reigning king of dad jokes. I’ll have you know, this is my lucky shirt.”

He snorts in response. “What makes it lucky?”

You just bite your lip and focus back on your task at hand. With the coffee done percolating, you measure out two steaming shots of espresso into each mug.

“Hey, you brought it up,” Dean reminds you.

You sigh, and after you pour in the sugar and the evaporated milk into each mug, you turn around and lean against the counter.

“I’ve never had a bad dream while wearing this shirt to bed,” you confess. His teasing gentles at that.

When you turn back around to put the finishing touches on what you’re doing, Dean’s expression becomes more fond as he watches you.

You then offer him his Batman mug with a brighter smile.

“Buen provecho,” you say.

“What does that mean?” he asks predictably, taking the mug from you.

“Enjoy! Like bon appetite, basically.”

“Ah,” he raises his brows before he takes a sip. Then they raise even higher as he hums in pleasure. “Ooh, it’s sweet…and strong. Shit.”

“Very,” you say with a chuckle, taking your own sip. You make a sound of delight, complete with a little “happy dance” shimmy. “Almost as good as my grandma makes it.”

Dean smiles in amusement at your antics. The two of you sit at the kitchen island, where there are three stools and the bowl of popcorn. The salty snack is just the right balance for the sweet coffee.

“She taught you how to make this?” he asks.

You nod. “Yep! She’s an amazing cook too. Learned everything I know from her.”

“Hmm, might need to sample something of yours sometime,” Dean says, peering at you over his mug. His tone is deceptively light, but you read the double meaning in his eyes.

You hide the way your mouth falls open behind your own mug. Instead of answering, you nod and take a delicate sip. Your gaze veers away from his as you blush.

He’s in a good mood tonight, you think in bemusement.

“So tell me. What are the best curse words in Spanish?” Dean asks.

You have to laugh. Your head ducks as you reach for his arm. His eyes briefly go to your hand, and he smirks.

“Of course that’s the first thing you want to know,” you tease. You take back your hand and think about his question. “Hmm…I mean, there are the basics. Coño, carajo. Like 'damn it,' 'fucking hell,' and so forth.”

“Come on, you can do better than that,” Dean says.

“Well, yeah,” you say with a grin. “Comemierda is a Cuban fan favorite.”

“Which means?”

“Literally? Someone who eats shit,” you laugh. “A stupid asshole, basically.”

Dean’s grin deepens. “Nice.”

“The best one of all time is probably…ugh, my mom would wash my mouth out with soap for even saying it.” You cover your face with both hands, but Dean nudges your elbow.

“Come on, give it to me,” he teases. You peek out at him from between your hands. Then you stage whisper to him.

“Hijo de la gran puta,” you say. It rolls off your tongue in such a way that, even though Dean knows it’s vulgar in some way, the ease in which you say it raises the hairs on his arms.

“I like that,” he says.

You giggle at him. “You don’t even know what the fuck it means.”

“Don’t matter. I just like how it sounds,” he says. “Gimme the Google Translate.”

You shoot him a narrowed look for that one. “It means son of the grand whore. Literally, the chiefest of them all. The grand poohbah of whores.”

Dean splutters with laughter. His hand slaps the table, and you shush him, reminding him that Sam is probably sleeping by now.

“It’s literally one of the worst things you can say to somebody,” you say, though you’re also choking on laughter. By the end of it, you and Dean are chortling like fools and getting high on espresso and sugar.

You teach him how to roll his r’s, and at his request, more slang. You explain how certain Hispanics and Latino cultures use different words for the same thing (at times, very confusing), and how something innocent to an American, like a papaya fruit, means something very different for Cubans.

For Dean’s part, he’s genuinely interested in what you have to teach him. But he also just likes hearing you speak the language. It rolls off your tongue gracefully, effortless and sensuous without you meaning to. He likes it enough that he tells you his honest thoughts.

“It all sounds incredibly hot, I’m not gonna lie,” he says with a chuckle. You blush at that, something he finds endearing.

“You sound like my ex,” you say in amusement. “He only went out with me to help him with his Spanish.”

Dean sobers a bit at that. “What?”

“Yeah.” You chuckle dryly. “He was trying to land some job as a strip club bouncer, but we were in Miami at the time. They needed someone bilingual.”

Dean doesn’t like the resigned tone of your voice.

“Yeah well, the bouncer?” he remarks, trying for a teasing bump of his hand against yours. “Come on. You should at least be aiming for the owner.”

You flash him a brief smile and nod. “Ah, so I set my sights too low. Got it.”

It’s then that Dean starts to wonder about the kinds of guys you’ve gotten with in the past. Not that he has room to judge, but he can see that there was no love lost there for you.

Dean has a thought, deep in his bones, that you deserve someone who sees how special you are. How kind, funny, loyal, caring…

“Seriously,” Dean says. “You can do better.”

“Right,” you laugh. But he’s not laughing. You raise a brow at him.

“What?” you ask.

His lips purse, but he thinks better of what he wants to say.

“Nothing. ‘S none of my business,” he says.

You stare back at him and frown thoughtfully. You think you’re lucky to get a date, the way you constantly move around.

You don’t have stability, and even though you try to keep in shape, try to avoid the shittier fast food, it’s been a challenge to maintain yourself. You worry that you’ve gained five pounds in diner food alone in the past couple of months…

Okay, mostly, you’re happy with your curves. But the way Dean’s looking at you now, you can’t help a flutter of hope that rises in your chest, making your heart beat faster.

Maybe you’re finally ready to know how he really sees you.

“Talk to me, Dean,” you nod, and you reach out a hand to grasp his wrist.

He looks down at your hand. After a moment, he sighs and lays his own over yours. He meets your gaze.

“Look, I think I hear what you’re not saying,” Dean says. “And you’re sellin’ yourself short, sweetheart. That’s all.”

It takes you a moment, but a soft smile spreads across your face. It warms him in a way he doesn’t expect, but maybe he should.

Biting your lip with a bit of embarrassment, you squeeze his hand before you get up to take the two empty mugs with you to the sink.

“Que hombre tan pendejo, hermoso,” you mutter. “Ni siquiera sabes lo que me haces.”

You don’t realize that Dean actually hears you. He perks up, standing from his seat and approaching you from behind.

“What was that?” he asks.

You jump slightly, and a blush burns down your neck as you turn off the sink and spin back around. Dean is there, crossing his arms and staring you down with a raised brow. A hint of a smirk begins to edge around his mouth.

“What?” you ask.

“Oh, no. You said something just now,” he says. Like a dog with a bone, he’s not going to let this one go.

Your lips threaten to smile, but you shake your head stubbornly. “You’ll just have to invest in that Duolingo subscription.”

Dean joins you by the sink. His hand braces on the kitchen counter.

“Well, either you’re insulting me, or you’re flirting with me,” Dean says.

His lips then edge into a smirk. “The first one I could forgive, but the second…might require some retribution.”

Your eyes slowly widen. “What, why?”

Dean has to chuckle, because your expression is all but an admission of guilt. It’s too damn adorable.

“Because you can’t flirt with me without me knowin’ about it,” he says. “That’s just rude.”

His hands brace the counter on either side of you, trapping you in. The only way to get through him is to tell him the truth, or suffer the consequences.

You gaze up at him with wide eyes and a full flush across your tan skin. Is he actually doing this right now?

Your heart beats loud in your ears like conga drums.

“So which is it, sweetheart?” Dean asks. His playful, but singularly focused green-eyed gaze tells you he really does want an answer.

“Well, it was kinda both,” you say with a shy, but mischievous smile. Dean’s smirk deepens.

He tucks a finger beneath your chin and lets his thumb brush your full lower lip…

Then he leans down to kiss you thoroughly. His plush lips move over yours, hot, wet, and sinfully good.

But it’s also short—much too short for your liking when he parts from you to gauge your reaction. He seems to like what he finds in your eyes.

“Was that the punishment?” you tease. “Kinda weak.”

Dean raises a brow. “Consider it a start.”

He pulls you into him by your waist and continues where he left off, with another searing kiss. You hum with pleasure against his lips as your fingers delve into his hair.

His hands move down your back, making a shiver of delight coarse through you. They land on cradling your ass, squeezing and pressing you into him.

You gasp into his mouth. You can feel his length already hard against you. That alone trills anticipation down your spine, and a dizzy feeling, the fact that your touch is turning him on. You nip at his lower lip in response, licking into his mouth. It elicits a sound deep in his throat as his touch becomes more demanding.

He then bends down to reach behind your thighs, and before you know what’s happening, you squeal when he lifts you up on the counter.

You grab his shoulders like a cat clinging to the edge of a bath.

Damn, he’s strong!

“What’s the matter?” he laughs.

“I’m just not used to being manhandled,” you quip. “These hips don’t lie, but they definitely don’t fly.”

Dean snorts. “Says who?”

“My ex, for one thing,” you joke again. Though it isn’t actually a joke.

Dean, again, isn’t laughing.

His hands aren’t large enough to span your thighs, but it’s not for lack of trying. His firm touch burning up your parted thighs is distracting, warm over your skin, and over your thin shorts. His thumbs dip between your inner thighs, making you breathe a bit more shallowly.

“I get the feeling that you’ve been with some ain’t shit guys,” Dean says. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lump me in with the rest of ‘em.”

Your eyes widen. Dean grins down at you and takes the opportunity to kiss you again. His hand disappears in your hair and he presses kisses down your neck. A pleasant tingle breaks out across your skin as you tilt your head for him, giving him access.

Your fingers begin toying with his collar and glide down his chest. Unlike you, everything about him is firm, you think. But you start to think that he likes your softness, the thickness of your curves.

You didn’t take him for an ass man, but he seems very happy to get a fistful of it. It’s as flattering as it is arousing.

“I’ve wanted to get this perfect ass in my hands since the day we met,” he says. His voice is deep, full of grit and desire, but what he says next surprises you even more.

“Wanted to ask you out that night,” he confesses.

You pause at that. You met Sam and Dean two years ago already. The fact that he’d wanted to ask you out was one thing, but he’d been holding onto this for two years?

“Really?” you ask.

Dean reads your incredulity, huffing a laugh. “You’re really finding that hard to believe right now?”

He rocks against your clothed core so you can feel his reaction to you. You instinctively gasp and hold onto him. You slide your arms around his back to keep him close, even though you’re blushing. He holds you back, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“Well, why didn’t you then?” you ask. But he hesitates to answer you.

“Dean?” you press.

“It…never seemed the right time,” he says. “And to be honest, you didn’t seem all that interested.”

Until now, goes unspoken. But you frown up at him.

“You don’t really believe that,” you say.

Dean leans back a bit, so you move your hands to his chest, gripping the fabric of his undershirt to he doesn’t go too far. He looks down at you, a bit uncertain for the first time. You can’t believe that he could possibly be insecure about your interest and affections.

“I attract a lot of crap in my life,” he admits. “Shit you want no part of.”

You soften further at that. Someone who was just going to hook up with you once and never call you again didn’t consider things like that. You grab onto the lapels of his plaid shirt and press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Well, that’s a stupid reason,” you say. Is this the real reason he only calls you when he really needs the help?

Maybe it’s his convoluted way of protecting you…while maybe, still wanting to see you.

“It’s really not,” Dean shakes his head. “Truth be told…I’m no good for you either.”

That disheartens you.

You’re in this job too. And while you know that Sam and Dean are often at the center of a lot of Apocalypse-level shit, you still don’t think it’s an excuse to keep both you and Dean from possibly…being happy.

His gaze is steady, until it starts to lower away from you. You take his face in your hands, picking him back up to meet your eyes. Your thumbs caress the prickly stubble along his cheeks.

“Apparently I get with a lot of ain’t shit guys,” you reply, “but you’re definitely not one of them, Dean.”

He flickers at a smile, but he still isn’t convinced you two should do this after all.

So it’s up to you, you realize.

You bring him down to you for a kiss. It’s slow at first. You ply him with short, sweet presses of your lips to his. But then you both inhale as you deepen the kiss, tilting your head and prying his lips with your tongue. He can’t help but welcome you in, and he takes you back into his arms.

You smile against his lips, letting your hands run down his chest and under the top layer of plaid. He shrugs out of it, then the undershirt as you help him tug it up. It falls in a heap on the floor, followed closely by your hole-ridden Journey shirt, then your little shorts.

Dean takes in the sight of your flushed skin, the rise and fall of your breasts, and even the hesitant downturn of your lips. You’re a bit self-conscious, bared for him for the first time, but he doesn’t give you a reason to have any reservations.

His hands cup your breasts, squeezing and kneading, rolling his thumbs over the hardening buds. You let out a shaky breath against his lips, and you veer away from his mouth to burn a hot, wet trail down his neck. His voice rumbles, and you smile, nipping playfully and touching him wherever you see fit.

“Tell me what you said before,” he rasps into your ear.

You remain playfully tight-lipped as you continue to shower his bare skin with affection. But your breath hitches when a hand leaves your breast to once again slide up the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that?” he says. “That’s why I need you tell me…”

You lean close to his ear and whisper. “Nope.”

Dean’s chuckle shakes his frame. His other hand cups your cheek, slipping into your hair. You hold him to you, and for the first time it’s skin to skin, with your breasts pressing against his chest.

“All right…you sure I can’t convince you?” he asks. There’s a note of warning that you’re just a bit too slow to detect.

His fingers swiftly bypass your panties, pushing them aside so he can tease the seam of your pussy.

You bite your lip and lean back enough to see his face, to see the mischievous edge of his smirk. You inhale sharply when two of his fingers slip in and probe in your wet heat, but don’t go further than your entrance.

“Dean,” you whine. “Please…”

“Tell me,” he insists, “what you said.”

His lips graze your cheek, down the column of your neck. You feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin. Meanwhile, your pussy is pulsing with need, all but chasing his fingers that do no more than brush and tease. Your nails accidently bite into his shoulders in frustration.

He sucks in a pained breath. You gasp and apologize, soothing over his skin.

Dean just laughs and noses along your throat. He knows exactly what you need, but he wants to win the game.

At this point, you just want him.

So finally, you admit it. You confess into his ear the things you whispered in your mother tongue.

“I said, you dumb, beautiful man,” you say, smiling with your cheek pressed against his. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Dean grins into your neck. You really don’t realize it. But to him, your voice is rich as black velvet, and sexy as hell. Doesn’t matter what language you’re speaking.

Two of his fingers sink deeply into your pussy. You whimper, squeezing gratefully around his hand.

“Please, Dean…”

“I got you, baby. Just relax,” he says with a grin.

He explores your inner channel and begins to discover what you respond to, what angles make you grip onto him tighter, make your voice keen higher, especially when his thumb circles over your clit.

You cling to him for dear life, gripping his hair, uttering encouragements (not all of them in English), and finally praises when that hot coil within you snaps and releases.

Dean holds you while you come over his hand. You’re squeezing the shit out of him, really, in every way possible. But when that dam breaks, all you can do is lean against him and try to catch your breath.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he chuckles. He rubs your back, pets your hair.

“I’m…” you trail. You lean back and take his smug face in your hands, and you kiss him. You put into that gesture what your voice fails to confess.

And when both of you run out of breath, Dean pulls back just enough to see your eyes.

“We’re not done, by any damn means,” he says. That coffee still has him wired. And at this point, his cock is throbbing with need. “But let’s head over to my room.”

“Yeah, I think I need to help you with this before you implode,” you tease him with a gentle hand along his rock-hard length. He utters a strained sound that makes you sympathetic.

But before anything else, you caress his cheek fondly. Tonight matters to you, and you think it matters to him too. Dean flashes you a rare, boyish grin that has you smiling even harder.

Damn it. You might just love this man.

He helps you down from the counter, though his arms stay wrapped around you because of your jelly legs. His resolution is to pick you up over his shoulder.

“Let’s fly, baby!” With a swift spank of your ass, he carries you the rest of the way to his room. You squeal and try to stifle your giggles all the way there.

One thing’s for sure. Sam is going to hate you both in the morning.

AN: 😂 Well, that was fun! Please let me know what you thought.

**Just to preface, I am in fact a plus-sized Latina (Cuban, Puerto Rican and Dominican)! 🌶️🌶️

And I just want to say, I wrote a specific plus-sized body type here, but we're all different and equally beautiful in our shapes, skin tones, and otherwise outward trappings.

I like to think of us as a box of lovely assorted chocolates (not the cheap factory-made bullshit either. The chocolatier, handmade assortments that cost an arm and a leg, shipping not included).

Each delectable and unique, with something extra special inside. 😘

Keep Reading:

Yes, this has become a series! Next up is Touch Me:

Summary: Dean isn’t used to how “touchy” you can be, but he never said he didn’t like it.

▶️ Next Story: Touch Me

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#midnight espresso #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #spn #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you #dean winchester x plus sized!reader #dean winchester x latina!reader #dean winchester x plus size!reader #dean winchester x poc!reader #poc!reader #latina!reader #plus sized reader #midnight espresso verse

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bajablastlover1 · 2 days ago

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dean in the wendigo episode did something to me

#god damn #he’s so hot #dean x reader #dean winchester #wendigo #supernatural #jensen fucking ackles #jensenedit #jensen ackles

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dianawinchester03 · 2 days ago

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dean and y/n aesthetic p3;

someone once told me that dean gives doberman vibes while y/n gives black cat and i’ve been thinking about it soooo i took that as a sign to make another aesthetic board XD

Based on ‘Genesis Primis: A Supernatural Series Rewrite’ of ‘The Old Testament Series’

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural fandom #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #dean girl #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x female!reader #aesthetic #doberman #black cat

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dulcescorderitas · 2 days ago

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Heyy!!<3 Hope you're doing well today!

Was wondering if you could write up something about Dean x girlfriend reader smoking💚 I don't think Dean is an every day stoner, but I think every now and again he partakes just to keep his mood in check, clear his mind and find some peace for a while. I'm imagining like sitting on the trunk of the Impala, staring up at the stars and sharing a blunt while talking about life and laughing<3

the impala's parked on the side of some deserted backroad, miles away from the neon glow of city lights. out here, the stars feel closer, like you could reach up and pluck one right out of the sky if you wanted to.

dean’s sitting on the trunk, legs spread out like he’s got all the time in the world, one arm draped over his knee while the other holds the blunt between his fingers. he’s already taken a hit, exhaling slow, letting the smoke curl up into the night like it belongs there.

“you ever just think about how fucking small we are?” you ask, leaning back on your hands, staring up at the sky.

he lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “not when i can help it.” but he passes you the blunt anyway, watching as you bring it to your lips, inhale deep. the burn hits first, then the slow roll of warmth through your veins, spreading like honey, thick and sweet.

“you should,” you say, holding in the smoke before letting it go. it drifts between you, hanging for a moment before the breeze takes it away. “kinda makes everything feel less important. all the bullshit, y’know?”

dean hums, tilting his head like he’s considering it. “or it makes everything feel worse. like, if none of it matters, why the hell do we keep fighting so hard?”

“’cause we don’t got a choice,” you say simply, taking another hit before passing it back. “but just for tonight, maybe we don’t have to think about it.”

he looks at you then, really looks at you, and there’s something softer in his expression, something unguarded. “yeah,” he says, bringing the blunt to his lips again, “maybe.”

the two of you sit in silence for a while, the only sounds the rustling of the trees and the distant chirp of crickets. everything feels heavier and lighter at the same time, the way weed has a habit of making things. you lean into his side, your head resting against his shoulder, and he doesn’t move away. just lets you be there, lets the warmth of him settle into you.

“you remember that time we got stuck in that shitty motel in kansas?” he asks suddenly, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “the one with the vibrating bed?”

you burst out laughing, the memory hitting all at once. “oh my god, yes! you put a quarter in just to see if it worked and the damn thing almost threw us off.”

“i still think that place was haunted,” he says, taking another hit. “no way in hell that bed moved that fast on its own.”

“or maybe you’re just bad at physics.”

he scoffs, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “watch it, sweetheart.”

you smirk, stealing the blunt from his fingers, letting your lips brush against where his just were. his gaze flickers to your mouth, just for a second, before he looks back up at the sky.

“so,” he says after a moment, voice a little rougher now. “you ever think about just... running away? ditching all this hunter crap and going somewhere quiet?”

it’s a dangerous question. one you’ve both thought about but never dared to say out loud. you glance at him, see the way his jaw tenses, like he already knows the answer.

“sometimes,” you admit. “but it wouldn’t last. we’re too deep in it.”

he nods, doesn’t argue. just watches as you take one last hit before stubbing the blunt out on the metal of the impala’s trunk.

“yeah,” he murmurs, voice almost lost to the night. “i know.”

he shifts then, turning towards you, his eyes dark and a little hazy, his lips parted like he's on the edge of saying something. but he doesn’t speak—just reaches up, fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“been thinking about this for a while,” he admits, voice low, rough.

before you can say anything, his lips are on yours, slow at first, tasting of smoke and warmth and something undeniably dean. his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer as the kiss deepens, the air between you thick with heat, with need.

his fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand gripping your hip as he pulls you flush against him. the kiss grows hungrier, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before he deepens it, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. the heat coils low in your belly, a delicious, lazy burn that makes your head spin.

you let out a quiet sound against his mouth, and he groans in response, his hand tightening on your hip. he breaks the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, his forehead pressed against yours.

“guess we’re not thinking about anything else tonight, huh?” you whisper, lips still tingling.

dean smirks, his thumb brushing over your cheek, then trails lower, his fingers skimming the bare skin beneath your shirt. “not a damn thing.”

tags:@soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume

#𖣁 dulce req #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester drabble #dean winchester imagine #dean x reader #dean winchester angst #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean x y/n #supernatural #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic

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furiousdinosaurdestiny · 3 days ago

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Exasperated Dean is over your shenanigans and can’t decide if he should just shake his head at you or put you over his knee

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 5 hours ago

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How To: Work from Home

This fic will cover the Safe Word square on my @spnaubingo card.

Summary: What happens when you and Dean try to bring just a bit of Mr. Smith and Ms. Y/L/N home with you?

Pairing: Dean Smith x Reader (You) (Brief use of Y/L/N - your last name)

Warnings: Smut. Dom!Dean Smith. Sub!Reader. Implied sex. Oral Sex (F receiving). Multiple orgasms. Use of handcuffs. Talk of spanking, nipple clamps, and dom/sub switch. Use of safe word. Some fluff.

Word Count: 1,373

A/N: Okay, so I'm continuing with part 3 of 4 in my little "How To:" series. If you want to read them,

Part 1 is here: How to: Dress for the Position You Want

And Part 2 is here: How to Avoid Distractions in the Workplace

Just an FYI that I envision this fic taking place about 6 weeks or so after the original. Y/N and Dean have a somewhat established relationship now. You'll see how that plays out. Hope you all enjoy. ❤️

Dean One Shots || Dean Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

The divider below was created by @talesmaniac89

You could barely catch your breath; your nails clawed at Dean's shoulders and he moaned but grabbed hold of your wrists to slam them at your side yet again.

“I mean it, sweetheart,” he warned as he looked up at you from the apex of your thighs, “if you can’t keep your hands where I put them, I’m gonna cuff you to the bed."

You whimpered and nodded, and Dean went back to torturing you with his tongue.

Last night had been the first night you’d ever stayed over at Dean’s; until now you’d shared your time at work and had a dozen or so evenings of dirty fun on his couch or yours.

But last night you’d actually gone to bed with Dean (Mr. Smith being left at the office). The night had consisted of hot, steamy sex followed by cuddles and sleep, and you woke up to Dean’s mouth on your neck. As soon as he knew you were awake, he’d skimmed his way down your body and took up residence between your thighs.

He’d been there for the better part of an hour, bringing on countless orgasms, but refusing to let you touch him. It was his way of holding on to a bit of the dominance of Mr. Smith and you absolutely loved it.

But his smooth, taut, tanned skin kept calling to you, and the intoxicating roll of his muscles as he moved over top of you simply begged to be touched.

What choice did you have?

So, as he once again enticed a screaming climax from you, you once again, buried your hands in his short hair, pulling a grunt of pain out of him before he disentangled your fingers and then threw your hands away as he stood up.

“That’s it.” He said in rough tones. A thrill raced through your body. All your fooling around and sex at home had been fairly vanilla, but since Dean was the hottest man in the world, and used his mouth and hands like lethal weapons, you certainly had no complaints.

You’d agreed early on to keep Mr. Smith and Ms. Y/L/N as kinky work personas, so on your down time, sex had been kink free. But now…

Dean pulled a pair of silver cuffs out of the top drawer of his bedside table and you tried to turn your grin into a pout. He yanked you into position so that he could pull your hands together over your head.

He clicked one cuff into place and lifted your chin so you were looking directly at him. “I warned you, sweetheart. Can’t keep your hands to yourself? Then this is what you get.”

You nodded contritely even as your body flushed with excitement over what kind of pleasurable punishment he was planning on doling out.

After clicking the second cuff in place, Dean crawled back into bed beside you and began slowly running his hands across your skin. The pads of his fingers were slightly rough and created the most incredible friction as he applied perfect pressure in all the right places.

His lips followed, satiny as they skimmed over your skin. His teeth were nipping and his tongue was flicking, setting your body aflame. Everything was progressing perfectly until you instinctively went to put your hands on him, and met the resistance of the cuffs.

Something about the unyielding metal and the way it bit slightly into your skin, immediately made a thick kind of panic sit low in your stomach, but you ignored it, trying to focus again on Dean’s extraordinary skills.

But you couldn't help straining against the cuffs, and the way your muscles fought to be free of the bondage without any success, the way you couldn’t feel any give in the restraints, increased the panic and began to make you hyperventilate.

A panicked gasp left your lips, but Dean must have heard it as pleasure because he just chuckled and kept going. Your mind began screaming, but all you could squeak out through your tightened throat was one word. Your safe word.

“Mississippi.”

Dean froze and his head whipped up from where he was teasing your belly button. When he saw the look of frozen fear on your face, he jumped up.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

All you could do was yank at the handcuffs as tears began to fall.

“Oh, fuck.” Dean said quickly, scrabbling for the key in his drawer. He got the cuffs off as fast as possible, but it was enough time for you to lose your composure completely so that by the time you were free, the dissipating fear had you burying your head in Dean’s shoulder and shaking.

Dean tossed the cuffs aside and pulled you close. You felt ridiculous and embarrassed, but he just shushed you when you tried to apologize.

“Hey, no, Y/N. You don’t apologize, understand? That’s why you have a safe word, and you used it exactly as you should.”

He let you calm down a bit more before he pulled away slightly and brushed the hair back from your face.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I had no idea cuffing you would cause that kind of reaction.”

You shook your head. “No, me neither.”

A puzzled frown was etched into Dean’s forehead. “I’m a little confused though, I’ve held you down before, held your hands behind your back, pinned your wrists. Did that bother you?”

He seemed worried by the possibility that he’d done something to hurt or upset you previously, so you shook your head vehemently.

“I know, and I’ve loved it. Trust me, it’s never bothered me before. I don’t know why the cuffs brought this on, but it just felt different than when you’re holding me. Maybe it’s just that I like the feel of your hands on me so much, I never noticed. Or maybe…” You blushed slightly. “Maybe no matter how tight your grip was, I felt safe with your hands on me. With the cuffs, it’s just hard metal with no give, and they cut into my skin a little. I don’t know.” You shrugged, still embarrassed by your panic.

Dean nodded. “That’s possible.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “And I'm glad you feel safe with me. None of this works otherwise. You know, we never really talked about any of this. Like, hard limits, things like that.”

Your cheeks got pinker. “Cause we just sort of fell into it, and I didn’t want to ruin the fun with some kind of conference about rules.”

Dean shook his head. “No, see, cause I think there could be a lot of fun in having that conversation. Cause we get to talk about what’s a hard no, sure, but we also get to talk about what we want to explore more. For instance, I now know that for you it’s a definite no to any kind of bondage, but an overwhelming yes to spanking your ass till it’s flaming red. Also, how do you feel about nipple clamps?”

He reached out to tweak your nipple roughly between his thumb and forefinger and you gasped and then grunted in pleasure.

“I’m gonna take that as, ‘willing to try’.” Dean said with a grin.

You laughed and then reached over to flick his nipple with your fingernail. “And what about you? What kinds of things are you willing to try, either at home or at the office?”

A dark blonde brow quirked up as he contemplated you. “Actually, I think it might do me some good to try being in your position a time or two.”

Your eyes flew open in surprise. “You wanna be spanked?”

Dean chuckled. “I mean, maybe? But I was just thinking about trying some time as a sub? What do you think? Any interest in taking on a dominant role for a bit next Monday?”

You thought about it. Being dominant had never interested you, but until Dean came along, or until Mr. Smith had come along anyway, you’d never realized how hot you could find being a sub either. So you nodded.

“I’d definitely be willing to try. But,” you held up one finger, “no leather bustiers or spandex bodysuits.”

Dean laughed. “Deal.” He said, sealing it with a kiss.

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