#I'm just fucking around on explorer mode though because I figured it would be easier if I ended up alienating all my companions or somethin

[asimovsideburns]

are you playing bg3 and if so can we see your character 👁️👁️

I am!!! I have started multiple characters but I'm trying to stick with my shield dwarf Dark Urge warlock and actually play the game instead of just playing the tutorial eight thousand times fkjddkf

I was messing with the camera trying to get a good angle on her and then went "oh right maybe if I talk to someone" and the lighting in these woods is honestly not bad, although you can't really see her freckles

(also I'm still in act 1 and taking things kind of wildly out of order I think, so no spoilers please fsjdhfkd)

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

“Hard Boot” - Dean x Reader

Part of the “Control Panel” Series

Rating Mature

Dean x Reader (Newly Established Intimate Relationship)

Tags: Dean Angst and Self-Loathing, Inability to Word, Adult Language, Dean POV

Word Count: 2500

After one night of sexual exploration, a case lured you both back into hunting mode. There was hardly time to breathe, let alone figure out how you were collectively supposed to handle this new aspect of your relationship. Is it any wonder Dean had to go and mess it up? That’s his expertise.

Note: You don’t have to read the first part, Factory Reset, to get the gist of this “What the heck are we supposed to do now? Friends to lovers” trope. But if you’re intrigued by these two, please try it.

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Admit it." square.

Image created in Canva (credit for photo used:  Supernatural/Warner Bros.)

The shot glass tinks atop the counter. It’s barely audible. Dean glances up and the bartender appears, summoned by the tell tale call of a drunk.

Not just any drunk. The Fuck It Up Seven Ways To Sunday kind of drunk. Also known as Dean Winchester.

The bar is deserted. It’s 1:00 pm on a Wednesday outside the touristy parts of New Orleans.

The bartender tips the whiskey bottle in her hand. Dean nods. She pours.

“So, what exactly are you tryna drown, cher? Cause it might be easier to head a little north and walk into Lake Pontchartrain.”

Dean snorts. “Trust me, that’s crossed my mind.”

All the wrinkles in the older woman’s face droop along with her frown. “It can’t be that bad. Unless you’re broke… or your heart is.” 

Dean shifts atop the stool. “My wallet’s full, thanks. Leave the bottle.”

Dean grunts at his inability to put one foot in front of the other trekking down the hallway to the hotel room. The air is spinning around him in a vortex, forcing his body to lean to the right even though his brain tries to rationally push forward. He’s in an anti-funhouse of his own creation. 

He doesn’t remember how he finally gets into the room. Just that he is. He flops on the bed. Breathes in deep and holds it. Staving off the nausea that he deserves.

You should be here. Beside him. Celebrating a win.

He closes his eyes and lets the pain and loss keep him company instead in the late afternoon.

Sleep eludes him. He tosses. Turns. Spends time with his head hanging over the toilet bowl.

He stares at the alarm clock on the nightstand as it ticks over into 10 PM territory. When his eyes peel open again, it’s sometime after 1 AM.

He sniffs the air.

He smells you.

Before he can realize it’s a mistake, he springs to sitting. The hammer nailing together a house in his head takes a back seat to the elation seeing you sat at the foot of the bed.

You look demure in your side saddle position. The patient stare has Dean wondering how long you’ve been watching him sleep.

He wants to ask. But he’s afraid anything he says is going to be wrong. So he just stares back.

Your face is void of any discernible emotion.

And that freaks Dean out more than anything. Because even when he couldn’t read you like a book, he could at least hazard a guess. Even if it was wrong, it was something.

But all he sees now is a shield. A wall that he’s caused.

“I’m gonna head out.” You state in a curt tone that leaves no room for debate.

“You already were out.” The head pounding irritation preoccupies him enough that the sass spills out, uncontrolled. Your lids slit for a second. Well, he got some reaction.

“I-” You straighten up. A sorry attempt at a laugh huffs out. “Forget it.” You’re up off the bed and snagging items dropped around the room. Things are stuffed into your bag with haste.

Dean wants the elation to return to the room. Twenty-four hours prior, you were smiling. Eager to track down the Djinn. It had been a day’s drive from Lebanon to New Orleans, with a 6-hour stop in between at the Cradle Rock Motel.

Dean would have done whatever you wanted in that motel room. All that possibility and you had him flying high on adrenaline. You’d handled him with kid gloves and given him an experience he’d cherish, even if he was still sore. He would have let you strap on Marvin again and fold him like Origami. He wanted that again. He wanted it all with you.

But all you had wanted in the end as you laid in bed was to curl up and sleep in his arms. You wanted to rest before getting back on the road in your separate rides. 

And the simple act of being with you. Static. Stationary. Silent. That was wonderful, too.

There was the promise of staying in bed for days after you took care of the monster together. Lingering lips. Suggestive smirks. Greedy gropes.

All of that was a distant memory now.

You throw the duffle over your shoulder. “Bye, Dean.”

He bungees off the bed. Rushes to the door to wedge between you and the exit. “That’s it?” His stomach roils at the exertion but he pushes it down.

Your voice doesn’t waver. “For now. Yeah.”

Dean holds his ground for another second. Two. Three. Four.

“Don’t make it worse.” You plead.

That reminds him the ownness of this whole mess is in fact on him. And he relinquishes.

And watches you walk out the door.

 

Dean clinks down the iron bunker stairs. Three weeks of hunting non-stop has joints creaking, muscles aching. He plans to beeline it to the showers and let the glorious water pressure ease some of the pain. There’s also an 80-year old bottle of Macallan in his bedroom that will ease everything else.

Sam’s out at Eileen’s. The texts back and forth earlier were short and mainly for informational purposes. Sam gave up trying to find out what was going on with Dean two weeks back. As long as he checked in and provided proof of life, Sam didn’t pester for details.

Dean marches through the war room, into the library, weaves the labyrinth of halls to get to his room.

He keeps his head down when he rounds the final corner. He doesn’t want to glimpse the door marked number 16 at the end of the hallway. It’s your bedroom. Well, whenever you crash at the bunker it’s yours.

There’s a twist in his gut when he realizes you might never sleep in that bed or cross the threshold into the Men of Letters homebase again.

He’s been avoiding returning because of all the reminders of you. The wound is as fresh and festering as it was when you left him in New Orleans. He can distract from the pain during moments occupied with cases and bad guys. This, not so much.

He opens his door, good ole number 11. 

When he left this room last, you were here with him. 

And goddammit. You’re all he can see no matter where his gaze lands.

The duffle drops onto the mattress. Another musty bed in another room in another hallway might be a better alternative tonight.

He considers it. He’ll decide for sure after his shower.

Dean grumbles when he gets back to the room.

It shouldn’t be possible and his mind must be playing tricks on him, but he thinks he catches the scent of you. 

Yeah, he can’t sleep in here tonight.

He runs a hand through his towel dried hair and peels off Tad’s robe. He toes out of the slippers and tugs on a pair of sweats and a well-worn henley. The realization he’s donned the shirt inside out takes a backseat to the more important matter of grabbing the bottle of Macallan.

He shuffles over in bare feet and squats by the cabinet under his desk. His mouth is watering in anticipation of that smooth amber-colored nectar coating his throat.

“What the fuck?” he mumbles in confusion.

The bottle is gone.

“Looking for this?”

Dean stills at the question floating over his shoulder.

The voice isn’t something he expected to hear back at the bunker anytime soon. Maybe ever.

He rises, inhales through his nose. Mentally prepares for when he turns and faces you.

When he does rotate on his heels, he purses his lips into a tight line. He can’t let the impulse to smile win out.

You're wearing one of his flannels. It’s the black, white and gray one he hasn’t worn in ages. And the way the sweatpants hang loose and baggy and obscure your feet; well, he’s pretty sure those are his, too. Leaning against the doorsill, you look as if you’re trying way too hard to appear casual about any of this. The bottle of Macallan in your grip is displayed as a peace offering.

There’s the tiniest grin quirking up your lips. You look at the bottle, then to Dean. “I was keeping an eye on it.”

Dean inspects the liquid level of the scotch as a distraction. If he stares at that mouth of yours a second longer, he’ll forgive you for anything.  “That’s about four fingers lighter than when I left.”

Your brows raise. Mouth opens. Dean knows you're ready to dispute his measurements. But something else clicks in Dean’s head and he doesn’t give you a chance.

“How long have you been staying here?”

You sigh and enter the bedroom. The bottle rests on the tiny corner table. You collapse into the chair beside it. “This’ll be my third night.”

Dean stands there. Blinks. You settling in is hopefully a good sign.

“Sam gave me a heads up that you were coming back some time tonight.”

“Why didn’t you high tail it out of here when you got wind of me?” Dean asks.

Your mouth tilts into a frown. “I came here to wait for your slow ass to return, Winchester.” You thumb at the bottle. “I may have needed some liquid courage during my stay to, you know, stick around.”

Dean crosses his arms, determined not to give an inch. Doesn’t matter how goddamn sexy you look. How your hair’s mussed from laying in bed. How his oversized shirt is unbuttoned enough at the collar to display the lovely expanse of skin from the column of your neck to the round of your shoulder. He prepares for the flailing you must have been wanting to give him so badly that you camped here for days. He tries not to think about how much he’d love to bend over so you can give him a spanking.

You stare up at him from the chair. “Oookaayyy.” Palms run over cloth-covered thighs. “I wanted to explain myself. Back in New Orleans.”

Dean shrugs, his crossed arms lifting up with the movement.

“We were a mess on that hunt.” You start. “All sorts of wrong. Second guessing. Getting in each other’s way. That Djinn got the upperhand on us because we were sloppy.”

Dean scoffs. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You tackled it while I was about to kill the fucking thing.” You counter.

“You were getting choked out WHILE it was lighting up like an electric smurf.” Dean’s voice rises.

“I had the silver knife to its throat UNTIL you hip checked and then rolled around with Mr. Sandman doing the horizontal mambo.”

“Who was trying to pull it off me only to get a nasty throat punch?”

You raise both hands. “Look, my point is we were off our game. And I’ve never, ever had to worry about you having my back. Until that hunt.”

Dean rolls his shoulders like he’s ready to take flight. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Do you think I’m a good hunter?” you ask.

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“A simple one.” A tap on the table precedes your rise. You stroll with purpose towards him. “Do you think I’m a good hunter?” you repeat.

“Of course I do. You might even be the third best hunter on the planet.”

You smile and, dammit, Dean melts a little. You clear your throat and the smile fades. “Then why didn’t you let me do my job?”

Dean stills. He watches your frame relax. The bravado seeps from your posture.

“Things are different between us now.” You sigh. “I hoped that what we did would bring us closer. More in sync on a hunt. But it did the exact opposite.” Another step brings you right up into Dean’s space. You latch onto a forearm. “Your head wasn’t in that hunt with me.”

“It was.”

You shake your head. “No. Your heart was. And so was mine.” Your voice breaks a little. “All I could think about was how I needed to protect you.”

“When do we not think about protecting a hunting partner?”

“That’s gotta go hand in hand with the mission, though; not take over.” The warm fingers drop from Dean’s arm. “I told Sam what happened.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “And what did Mr. Know It All have to say?”

Your shoulder lifts and almost touches your ear. “He said ‘welcome to the club.’”

“Huh?”

“Sam said you must care about me an awful lot if you were constantly undermining my ability to actually get the fucking job done. That sacrificing yourself is part of your DNA.” A full-watt smile - the one that makes Dean’s insides warm up - graces your face. “That you’ll die a hundred times over to prevent the recipient of all that care and concern from even getting a splinter in their thumb.” The snark in your tone is sharp and cutting. “Admit it.”

“Well, that’s just a flat out exaggeration.”

Suddenly, all of the playfulness in your expression is gone. You frown. “You don’t care about me like that?”

“What? No. I mean, yes, of course I care about you like that.”

“Good.” The smile returns. “Because I know for a fact that none of that is an exaggeration where Sam is concerned. You’ve figured out how to make it work with Sam. You and I are going to have to make that happen, too.”

Dean’s grinning back. “Any suggestions?”

“You could follow my lead and do what I say at all times.” You offer.

“I’m all about that in almost every scenario. Except when we’re hunting.”

You nod. “We’re not hunting now.” Dainty fingers clasp over his hand. “I’m sorry I ran away.” You whisper, staring into his eyes.

Your small frame belies your strength and formidable capability when it comes to a hunt. And though Dean’s only had one taste of your dominance in bed, you handled him with care and exerted contained control. But now Dean needs you to know how much he intends on proving his worth to you. He’s more than a deft hand wielding a machete. More than reliable backup. More than a decades long friend who can keep up with the tequila shots. He wants to be more than all of that for you. 

He wriggles from under the grip to clutch your face with both hands. “I wanna tough it out with you.”

Your head tilts up and down in his hold. “Me too.”

You raise on tiptoes as he dips his head. Your lips meet in a gentle brush of skin. Dean’s skin tingles all over.

It’s only a peck. Dean pulls back so he can witness the bliss on your face. Eyes closed, mouth parted. You release a sigh. “Can we…” you start to ask.

“Anything,” Dean murmurs.

“Can we go to sleep? Start fresh in the morning? I missed you.”

Dean thinks his face will crack at the force of his smile. “Absolutely.”