#SPN FANFIC

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

malevolence

part I

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: You've had a crush on Dean for longer than you even remember, but Uncle Bobby told you not to play with fire. When Dean returns home from a hunt, you knew something was off... you just didn't expect it to be this.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 5,887

A/N: Oh my god. This has been in my drafts forever and I'm so happy I've finally put it out. I'm thinking... three parts? If I get all of the story down as it is in my head, then for sure... should be about three parts. It's set not long after John's death, so Dean is still a baby boy. <3 I found these gifs ages ago and I was like, "oh, I need to do a Demon!Dean fic where he's early seasons Dean." because ugh, the potential. You know the drill. If all the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be. Oh, boy, will they be. I hope y'all like this. All the love.

You didn’t remember when it started. Maybe it had always been there, tucked beneath your ribs like a secret. Something soft and patient, biding its time in the dark. A seed waiting for heat and blood and something wicked to make it bloom.

Dean Winchester had been in your life for as long as you’d had a life worth remembering.

Not family, not really. But close. Tangled up in the same blood-and-oil world that raised you. The golden boy in your uncle’s long, strange shadow. Loud, sharp, sunburnt around the edges—he came and went like a storm, shaking dust off his boots and filling every room he entered with too much heat.

He was six years older, which had once felt like a canyon.

When you were ten and he was sixteen, he may as well have been a movie star. Too cool. Too fast. All swagger and sarcasm and smudged knuckles from a fight he didn’t bother to explain. You remembered the first time he called you sweetheart—just a tossed-off thing, barely looking at you as he handed you an ice pop in the middle of a sweltering July.

“Here ya go, sweetheart.”

And you remembered the way it made you freeze. How the word hung in the air like cigarette smoke, thick and confusing and too warm. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know why it mattered. You just knew that your name had never sounded like that before.

He’d swung you up onto his shoulders that same day—hands sure, grip steady, like he didn’t mind your weight. Like you belonged there. You’d clutched fistfuls of his hair and shrieked with laughter while Bobby hollered from the porch to “cut that damn foolin’ around before someone breaks a bone.” Dean had just grinned and jogged faster.

You were twelve when he taught you how to throw a punch. Fourteen when he handed you your first switchblade, silver and wicked and gleaming like a promise in your palm.

“Keep it in your back pocket. If a guy gets too close, don’t hesitate.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed you the sharpest thing you'd ever owned and trusted you not to flinch.

He always trusted you not to flinch.

That was the difference.

You knew what adoration felt like long before you understood it. You knew you liked his voice, liked his hands, liked the way he’d lean against the hood of the Impala and call you trouble when Bobby wasn’t looking. You hated the way your stomach twisted when he brought girls around. Hated the way you’d listen for laughter through the thin walls of Bobby’s house and feel sick when you heard it.

You were seventeen when it changed. When it stopped being something soft.

You’d grown into yourself by then. Still not tall, still not loud, but sharper in the eyes. More aware. And Dean—he’d started looking at you like he wasn’t supposed to.

It was in the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you passed him in the hallway. The way his voice dropped when he asked you how your day had been. The way he smirked when you snapped back at him, low and dark, like he liked it. Like he was daring you to try again.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. But you started wearing tank tops when he was home. You started sitting a little closer on the couch. You let your fingers brush his when you passed him a drink.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Bobby, of course, saw it all.

“That boy’s got too much fire in him. You don’t go pokin’ it just to see if it burns.”

But by then, it already had.

You were twenty-one now. The canyon had closed.

That afternoon, like so many before it, you sat curled in your usual spot on the porch swing, the cushion beneath you faded from years of sun, the book in your lap more of a habit than a distraction. Your bare legs were pulled up under you, one foot tucked beside the other, your back pressed to the peeling white wood of the armrest. The breeze was warm, sticky with late-summer heaviness, and the cicadas sang like they didn’t know how to stop.

Out in the yard, Bobby cursed low under his breath as he wrestled with the rusted insides of a pickup that hadn’t run since the Reagan administration. His ball cap was pushed up on his forehead, sweat darkening the brim, grease streaking his arms all the way to the elbows. There was a glass of sweet tea beside you, sweating rings into the wood, forgotten in the quiet rhythm of turning pages.

The world hadn’t shifted yet. Not that you could tell. Everything was still where it belonged.

You’d been half-asleep in the sun, lulled by the rhythm of cicadas and the creak of the porch swing, when Bobby’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Son of a bitch!”

You blinked, looked up from your book. A moment later—

“Goddamn bastard bolt won’t budge—get in there, ya stubborn piece of shit—”

Yep. Classic Bobby.

You closed your book around one finger to mark your page and leaned forward, peering past the porch railing toward the truck hood and your uncle’s hunched figure.

“You need a hand, Uncle Bobby?” You called, voice lazy with the warmth of the afternoon. “Or want some tea?”

There was a pause. A soft clank of metal against metal. Then, gruff:

“Tea, girl. And ice this time—I ain’t drinkin’ lukewarm leaf water in this heat.”

You huffed a laugh and stood, arms stretching up overhead as your back arched, joints crackling from the hours spent curled on the swing. The hem of your tank top slid up your stomach, bare skin catching the last of the sun as you padded barefoot across the porch.

Your cutoffs were frayed at the bottom, threadbare in the way only your favourite ones could be. Your legs had picked up freckles over the summer. You felt them heat now under the open air as you reached for the screen door.

Inside, the house was cooler, dim and familiar. You moved on autopilot, pulling a glass from the cupboard, grabbing the pitcher from the fridge. The ice clinked softly as you poured. You lifted it, turned—

And froze.

That sound. That rumble. Low. Hungry. Home.

The Impala.

You nearly dropped the glass right there on the kitchen tile.

You turned so fast your bare feet squeaked against the floor. The screen door banged open behind you as you stepped out onto the porch, tea sloshing over the rim, eyes locked on the long black shape pulling into the drive like it owned the world.

She slid to a stop in a slow growl of gravel. The driver’s door creaked open.

And then—there he was.

Dean climbed out like a scene from a movie. One hand on the roof, the other shoving the door closed. His boots hit the dirt and your heart tripped over itself. He looked broader than you remembered. Taller somehow. His hair was longer than it had been last time—curling just slightly at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, and he moved like he hadn’t just been on the road for hours. Like his body didn’t get tired the way other people’s did.

Bobby looked up from under the hood.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, already wiping his hands on a rag. “Where the hell’s your brother?”

Dean just smiled, that lazy half-smirk you knew too well.

And then you called his name.

“Dean!”

His head snapped toward the porch so fast it almost startled you.

And when his eyes landed on you—barefoot, flushed from the sun, standing under the porch roof with your tank top clinging to your ribs and the glass of sweet tea still trembling faintly in your hand—he grinned.

Not like he used to. Not like the soft smirks he’d given you when you were younger, teasing and warm and safe.

No. This one was sharp. Wolfish. Like he’d been starving and just spotted his first meal in days.

“Well hey there, sweetheart.”

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

The second his voice hit your ears, smooth and warm and laced with something low and dangerous, your body moved before your brain caught up.

The glass of tea hit the porch rail with a clatter, sloshing again, forgotten as your bare feet left the wood and hit the gravel, sharp stones biting into your soles. You winced but didn’t slow, teeth catching your lip, eyes locked on him like nothing else in the world mattered.

“Girl!” Bobby hollered from the front of the truck, voice sharp as a whip. “You’re out here barefoot on the goddamn gravel again—what’re you, feral?”

You didn’t answer. Just ran faster.

Dean was already grinning by the time you reached him. One brow quirked, his whole face lit with smug delight like he’d known you’d come running. Like he wanted it.

You could see it in the way he stood, relaxed and ready, arms just starting to open. Like he was expecting to catch you.

And God help you, he did.

You threw yourself into him without grace—without shame—legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. His hands caught you under your thighs, rough palms settling against bare skin, fingers pressing. Harder than they needed to.

He smelled like heat. Like leather and road salt and motel soap and something darker curling beneath it. Something you couldn’t name.

Your voice came out soft, pressed close to his ear as you held onto him tighter than you meant to.

“We missed you.”

His hands flexed where they held you—gripping tight. You felt it. The possessiveness in his touch. The way his thumbs slid just slightly against the crease where your thighs met the curve of your ass. The quiet exhale that ghosted down your neck.

“Speak for yourself,” Bobby grunted from behind, but even that sounded weaker than usual. More bark than bite.

There was a pause. Then:

“Dean,” he said flatly. “Put my niece down. Don’t think I ain’t seen where your hands are, boy.”

Dean turned his head just slightly, that grin never leaving his face. Still holding you.

“Just catchin’ her, Bobby. Can’t help it if she’s a little…” His gaze dragged back to you. Slow. Heavy. “Squishy.”

Your breath hitched. You felt heat rise all the way up your neck.

Dean’s fingers squeezed again. Barely perceptible. Just enough for you to feel it. For Bobby to notice.

“Dean,” Bobby snapped, and this time there was steel under it.

With infuriating ease, Dean let you down. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. His hands slid down the backs of your thighs as he lowered you, only releasing when your feet touched dirt and your balance returned.

You took a half-step back, suddenly too aware of the heat between your legs. Of the gravel under your soles. Of the way he looked at you like you were his to pick up again whenever he pleased.

Bobby was already walking past, muttering to himself and wiping his hands again.

“Damn fool boy…”

Dean just chuckled, low and satisfied. His eyes never left you.

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

The house smelled like garlic and onions and whatever Bobby had pulled from the freezer that morning and declared dinner. The table was set with mismatched plates, forks with dull edges, and two sweating bottles of beer you’d pulled from the fridge yourself. One slid in front of your uncle with a thunk, the other nudged across the table toward Dean with just enough force to draw his eyes back to you.

He caught it easily, grinned like he knew the touch of your fingers on the bottle had been deliberate, and then tipped it in a mock toast before popping the cap with the edge of the table. You pretended not to watch the way his throat moved when he took the first sip.

You took your usual seat to Bobby’s left, legs tucked beneath you, sipping your water slow and quiet. The table was warm and familiar. A little too small for three grown bodies. A little too crowded in the heat.

Dean and Bobby talked like no time had passed at all.

“So where’s your brother?” Bobby asked around a mouthful of food, squinting at Dean like he expected bad news.

“Chasin’ some lead out in Idaho,” Dean replied, casual. “He’ll meet me back on the road. Said somethin’ about needing space.”

“From you or the case?”

Dean just smirked. Shrugged. “Probably both.”

You didn’t join in. Just twirled your fork in your noodles, dragging them across the plate like you were thinking hard about something. You weren’t. You were trying not to look at Dean. You were failing.

He looked good. Too good. Tanned and broad and infuriatingly comfortable, leaning back in his chair like it was his own damn kitchen. Like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You caught yourself staring and dropped your eyes back to your food.

Then something brushed your foot. Just a light nudge. The kind that might’ve been an accident. The kind that would’ve been nothing, if you weren’t barefoot and hyper-aware of every single thing about him.

You froze. Fork paused mid-twirl. Eyes still on your plate. The nudge came again—more deliberate this time. A soft push against your arch.

You looked up. Dean was still talking to Bobby. Still sipping his beer, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

But his eyes cut to you. And he grinned. Slow. Shit-eating. Wolfish.

Your stomach dropped straight to your knees. You cleared your throat and took a sip of water, suddenly warm all over. Bobby was still muttering about Sam, something about demon omens in Ohio, and you tried to focus. You really did.

Dean’s foot slid along the curve of your ankle. A slow, lazy stroke like he was petting a dog. You flinched. He didn’t.

You jabbed him back without looking, your toes kicking out under the table—more annoyed than anything else. But all it earned you was a harder nudge, right against your calf this time, like a shove disguised as affection.

You looked at him again. He didn’t break eye contact. He arched one brow, lips twitching around the mouth of his beer bottle.

What’re you gonna do about it, sweetheart?

You wanted to kick him. You wanted to crawl into his lap. You wanted to do something reckless. But you just stabbed a piece of meat with your fork and tried not to choke on your own pulse.

Bobby looked up, finally catching the flush on your cheeks.

“You alright there, girl?”

You smiled too quickly. “Just hot.”

Dean chuckled. Low and full of teeth. His foot bumped yours again under the table. You didn’t look at him this time. But you could still feel him.

You barely touched your dinner after that. Every bite tasted like heat. Every sip of water failed to cool you. You could still feel the press of his boot against your ankle long after he’d stopped. Like his touch had sunk straight through your skin.

You were the first one to stand when the plates were empty, scraping your chair back with a little too much force.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” you said quickly, already stacking yours and Bobby's plates, trying to busy your hands so they didn’t shake.

Bobby looked up with a lazy arch of his brow.

“Someone’s in a damn hurry all of a sudden.”

You forced a small laugh, ducking your head. “Just trying to be useful.”

“Mhm.”

You were already halfway to the sink, rinsing plates under warm water, grateful for the hiss of the faucet and the hum of muscle memory. Plate, rinse, stack. Forks, soak, scrub. Your feet shifted over the cool tile, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders started to melt.

Behind you, a chair scraped back.

“I’ll help.”

Dean.

Bobby snorted from the table.

“You? Since when do you ever lift a damn finger after supper?”

“Feelin’ generous,” Dean said, all smooth edges. You could hear the grin in his voice. “Must be the company.”

Bobby huffed and pushed to his feet with a grunt, grabbing the last beer and heading toward the living room.

“Well, bless your heart. I’ll be in my chair, pretendin' not to hear whatever dumb shit you’re about to break in my kitchen.”

And just like that, you were alone.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept scrubbing the last plate, shoulders a little too stiff, breath caught somewhere too high in your chest. You heard him behind you—soft bootfalls, the clink of glass against glass as he gathered the empty bottles and his dish.

Then—

Heat. He was behind you. Close. Then closer.

The heat of his chest pressed flush to your back, hard muscle and worn cotton, and you froze. Completely. Your breath caught in your throat. The plate in your hand nearly slipped from your fingers.

Dean reached around you, casually, his forearm brushing the side of your breast as he slid his plate into the sink with a quiet clink.

He didn’t move. He lingered, then stepped back a beat too slow.

“Oops.”

Your whole body burned.

You turned your head, wide-eyed, and found him just watching you. That smile on his face wasn’t sheepish. It was smug. Knowing. Unholy.

You tried to say something—tried to form any kind of reply—but your tongue felt thick and your heart was pounding in your throat.

Dean leaned one arm against the counter beside you, his body angled lazily toward yours. He was close enough that you could see the faint pink line of a healing cut along his collarbone. Close enough that his scent wrapped around you again—leather, motel soap, motor oil, and something else. Something you couldn’t name. Something dark.

“You always clean up this fast, sweetheart? Or just when I’m watching?”

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slow across your face, then down your neck, then back up.

“You've never been shy.”

You tried to laugh. It came out breathless.

“You’re messin' with me.”

Dean’s smile widened, teeth flashing.

“Am I?”

You shook your head—barely. “You don’t… You don’t look at me like that.”

“Don’t I?”

His voice was low. Deliberate.

You turned back to the sink, trying to hide your face, the blush crawling down your throat. Your hands moved automatically, scrubbing at a plate that was already clean.

Dean didn’t leave.

“Been gone a while,” he said, voice softer now. “Did you miss me?”

Your hand paused on the dish. Your voice was almost a whisper.

“Of course I did.”

He leaned in closer again, heat at your back, breath on your neck.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

And behind you, he chuckled. Low and dark and pleased.

“Good.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Dean was still behind you, heat pressed too close, breath ghosting somewhere near your ear—and for a second, it felt like he might lean in further. Might say something else. Might do something else.

But before anything could shatter, Bobby’s voice cut through the house like a crack of thunder:

“You two done makin’ out in there or can I start the damn show?”

You practically jumped.

Dean chuckled—soft, smug, low in his throat like he was deeply entertained by your reaction—and stepped back just far enough to let the heat leave your skin.

You scrambled into the living room a little too fast, like Bobby’s voice had tugged you from the edge of something you couldn’t name. Your skin was still warm, your breath still not quite steady, but you dropped down onto the couch with a half-hearted exhale, like you could shake it off with the right posture. You curled your legs up beside you, pulled a throw pillow into your lap, and clutched your glass of water like it was going to save you.

“Eastwood or MASH*?” You asked, too quick, too light.

Bobby looked up from the remote, squinting at the ancient television like it had personally offended him.

“Whichever channel works. If I get static again, I’m throwin’ the damn thing out the window.”

You smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The house had settled into its familiar hum—floorboards creaking under the weight of time, cicadas still buzzing low through the open windows, the faint clatter of Dean moving around in the kitchen.

You heard him before you saw him.

He entered the room like a slow-moving shadow—easy, casual, like he belonged there more than the furniture. Your stomach twisted.

He didn’t say a word. Just met your gaze for a moment—sharp, amused—and then reached down, hooked his hands under your ankles, and lifted your legs without asking. You startled slightly, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Because it felt so easy for him.

Then, with a slow exhale, he dropped onto the couch beside you, your legs falling across his lap like he’d planned it that way all along. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch, close enough for you to feel the heat of it at your shoulders. The other—casual, lazy—settled over your shin, fingers tracing an idle path along your skin.

You tried not to tense. You tried not to breathe. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.

And Bobby noticed. He turned his head slowly, one eye narrowing as it moved from the screen to your legs across Dean’s lap, then up to the hand that hadn’t stopped moving. His jaw clenched. His beer bottle landed on the side table with a quiet clunk.

“Touch her like that again,” he said, voice low and dry, “and I’ll break your fuckin’ hand.”

Dean didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stop. Just kept rubbing slow, maddening circles along your shin with the pad of his thumb. He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Aw, c’mon, Bobby,” he drawled, the smile curling across his lips like smoke. “Ain’t like I’m doin’ anything wrong.”

Bobby didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

“You think I don’t see it?” He asked, and his voice was sharper now, honed to an edge. “The way you been lookin’ at her since you pulled up? I ain’t blind, Dean. And I sure as hell ain’t stupid.”

There was a pause, a hitch you felt more than heard. Dean’s smile wavered for the barest second. Just long enough for you to wonder if Bobby had struck a nerve.

Then it returned, just as cocky, just as easy.

“She’s not a kid anymore,” he said, casual, like that settled something.

Bobby leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were cold. Steady.

“No, she ain't. Which is exactly why I’ll put you in the goddamn ground if you so much as look at her like she ain’t got a choice.”

Something shifted.

You didn’t understand it, not fully. But you felt it. Something sharp beneath the surface. Something not quite right. Like there was more to what Bobby said than what he said.

Dean’s silence stretched long enough to be dangerous. Then he tilted his head, eyes still on Bobby, and smiled.

“She looks like she can make her own choices to me.”

You tried to move your legs. Tried to pull away, just a little. Dean’s hand pressed down. Not painfully. Just firmly. Deliberately. Bobby was still watching. And so was Dean.

“You touch her like that again,” Bobby said, lower this time, the threat coiled beneath each syllable, “and I’ll remind you who the hell you’re talkin’ to.”

Dean didn’t answer.

The television filled the silence, tinny dialogue from a rerun you couldn’t focus on. And under the hum of it all, Dean’s thumb resumed its lazy stroke against your skin, like nothing had happened at all.

The house was silent, save for the low creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet.

The kind of silence that came only after the heat of the day had broken—after the static between bodies had faded into cool sheets and shallow sleep. Bobby had gone to bed not long before you had, muttering something about his bad knee and early mornings, casting one last look between you and Dean like he was waiting for something to ignite.

But nothing had.

Not then.

Now, it was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. You didn’t check the clock—just blinked awake with your throat dry and your skin too warm beneath the sheets. The house had cooled but your body hadn’t. Something restless sat in your chest like a live wire humming under your ribs.

The floor was cold beneath your feet, quiet in the way old houses only were when everyone else had gone to bed and the world had softened into stillness.

The air felt different after midnight—cooler, heavier somehow. The way it settled in your lungs felt like a warning, though you couldn’t say why. You moved without thinking, sleepy and restless, fingers trailing along the hallway walls as you padded toward the kitchen, drawn by nothing more than the dryness in your throat and the weight of something unnamed sitting beneath your skin.

Bobby’s old shirt hung off one shoulder, worn soft with age, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked. No panties. No bra. Just that and bare skin and the ghost of sleep still clinging to the corners of your vision.

The fridge opened with a low hum. You filled your glass slowly, letting the cool water slide over the ice and kiss the rim, the glow of the open door painting your skin in pale blue light. You lifted the glass to your lips and drank.

And that’s when you heard it.

The creak.

Not the house settling. Not the wind. Not the sound of an old man in the hallway. Boots. Slow, deliberate.

You turned just as the light from the fridge caught the edge of his silhouette, cutting him out from the dark like something carved from smoke and heat and half-formed sin.

Dean.

Leaning in the doorway like he hadn’t been asleep at all. Like he was waiting. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you. And when he did? Something in his expression made your stomach twist—not with fear, not yet, but something so thick and dark and electric it almost knocked the air out of you.

That grin.

It was the same one he’d worn when you were sixteen and he caught you staring at his mouth. The same one he used when he fixed cars with the sleeves of his flannel rolled high and the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Familiar. Easy. Pure Dean.

But something about it wasn’t right anymore. It was too still. Too slow. Too hungry.

“Well,” he said, and his voice was rough in that way it always got when it was late and he hadn’t talked in hours. “Aren’t you a sight.”

You swallowed hard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes dropped down your body. Then rose again. Like he had every right.

You didn’t move. Didn’t cover yourself. You should have.

“You always walk around like that?” He asked, stepping into the room. “Wearing nothin’ but some old shirt and a smile?”

You didn’t answer. The question didn’t feel like a question.

Dean smiled again, slower this time, head cocked to the side as he watched you over the rim of the glass in your hand.

“Bobby know his niece’s struttin’ around like a damn centrefold at two in the morning?”

You flushed hot. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Yeah. I can see that.”

He was close now. Close enough to smell—leather and heat and that undertone you still couldn’t quite place. Something wrong. Something sour-sweet and unplaceable. It made your knees feel unsteady.

His hand lifted—not fast, just steady—and pushed the fridge door shut behind you. The kitchen plunged into shadows again, save for the faint light of the oven clock. He was still grinning.

“Didn’t think you’d grown up this much.”

You laughed, shaky and quiet, trying to ease the weight of his stare. “Been a year.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s showin’.”

Your breath caught.

He took another step. Close enough now that the fabric of his shirt brushed your arm. He tilted his head down, voice dropping just slightly.

“You used to look at me funny,” he said. “Back when you were younger. Always staring. Thought I was imaginin’ it.”

You blinked, pulse pounding. “You weren’t.”

“No,” he murmured, and his eyes flicked to your mouth. “Guess I wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath on your skin. The heat of him. His fingers brushed the side of your thigh—light, just once, and then gone. It burned like fire anyway.

“You’ve really come into yourself, sweetheart.”

He said it like a confession. Like a revelation. Like it was all finally clicking into place.

And you couldn’t breathe.

His voice went softer. Meaner.

“You want me to look at you like this, don’t you?”

You didn’t speak. He didn’t need you to. Because he already knew.

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was his hand on your hip or the tilt of your chin or the way the space between your bodies seemed to vanish all at once—like the air itself had given up pretending there was still a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

All you knew was that you were suddenly there. Back pressed to the counter. Dean’s body crowding yours like gravity had finally remembered what it owed you.

And then he kissed you.

Not softly. Not hesitantly. Not like a maybe. No, Dean Winchester kissed you like he was claiming you.

His hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressed against your cheek, fingers curling behind your neck as he pulled you in and kissed you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like he’d been waiting too. Starving for it. For you.

You gasped into it, lips parting without thought, and he groaned—"fuckin’ finally"—and kissed you deeper, tongue slipping past your lips like he knew exactly how to take what he wanted. And he did.

You were drowning in him. Pressed between cool counter and burning heat, chest heaving, hands fisting into the hem of his t-shirt just to keep from sliding down the cabinets. Your knees had gone weak. Your body was molten.

When he pulled back, it was barely an inch. His breath hit your lips. His grin carved into you like a knife.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice thick and low and already wrecked. “I always knew you’d taste this fucking sweet.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand was already moving. Down your side. Over your hip. Between your thighs.

You gasped.

He grinned harder.

“No panties,” he murmured, dragging the hem of the shirt up your thigh with his knuckles. “You really were asking for it, huh?”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to deny, to confess every filthy thought you’d ever had about him—but then two of his fingers slid between your legs and found you already wet, and the words died on your tongue.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dark and hungry, lashes low. “You’re soaked for me. All this time, and you’ve been walking around just beggin’ for me to get my hands on you.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

He slipped one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate, watching your face as your jaw dropped open around a gasp. Then another, stretching you perfectly. You choked on a sound, back arching, thighs trembling.

“Shhh,” he crooned, lips at your temple now, the hand at your jaw moving to cover your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, sweetheart. Bobby hears you moaning like a whore in his kitchen, he’s gonna come down here and shoot me.”

His fingers curled.

Your eyes rolled back.

You moaned—muffled, desperate—against his palm as he started to fuck you with those fingers like he meant it. Like he’d been thinking about it for years.

And maybe he had.

His hips were pressed against yours, his breath against your cheek, his mouth dragging along your jaw as he fucked you slow and filthy and completely possessed.

“You ever think about me, baby?” He whispered. “Late at night, all alone in your bed? Bet you used these pretty fingers trying to imagine mine, didn’t you?”

You whimpered under his hand, your body jerking with every pump of his fingers, slick and obscene.

“Bet you used to fuck that little pillow, huh? Crying into it thinkin’ about me pinning you down, stretching you open…”

You were going to come.

It was embarrassing how fast it was happening—how quick he’d found every nerve, every want, every buried need you’d never let yourself speak out loud. But now it was all on the surface, raw and exposed, dripping down his wrist.

He growled in your ear, soft and dark and lethal:

“Come for me, sweetheart. C’mon. Be a good girl and come all over my fuckin’ fingers.”

You did.

You shattered—silently, somehow—body writhing against his hand, nails digging into his shoulders, whole frame trembling with the force of it. His fingers didn’t stop, fucking you through it, dragging every last wave from your body until you were limp in his grip, gasping into his palm.

He finally pulled his hand from your mouth, cupping your jaw again, kissing you slow and deep, like the filth he’d just whispered into your skin meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

He pulled his hand away, brought it up to his lips, and licked his fingers. Then smiled.

“Told you,” he said. “Sweet as goddamn honey.” 

Then his lips were back on your neck.

You were still trembling, thighs slick and trembling where he held you, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other back between your legs, slick with everything he’d pulled from you. You were floating, dizzy, pressed between the cool of the counter and the heat of his body, his mouth trailing kisses up your throat like he was about to say something—

And then the kitchen door slammed open. You barely had time to register the heavy feet pounding across the floor before—

Splash.

Dean staggered back with a sharp, visceral hiss, smoke curling from his shoulder where the water hit, his skin bubbling in a flash of red.

You gasped, shoved back into the counter, heart leaping into your throat.

“What the fuck—!”

Dean growled—growled—low and guttural, his spine arching with the burn, lips curling back to reveal teeth that didn’t quite look like his own.

And Bobby was standing there. In boxers and a flannel and socks. Holding an empty mason jar in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Breathing hard. Rage in every line of his face.

“Get. The fuck. Outta my house,” Bobby said, each word like a shotgun blast. “Now.”

Dean turned his head slowly. Eyes flashing black for a moment before shifting back to the green you'd always known.

“Well, shit,” he rasped, voice raw. “Knew you were smart, old man. Didn’t think you’d catch on so fast.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby snarled, stepping forward, “I’ve seen a lot of demons pretend to be worse things. You just happen to be wearin’ a face I liked.”

Dean smiled—teeth too sharp, too wide.

“I’ll be seeing her again.”

Bobby raised the shotgun in his hands.

“Not if I have anythin' to say about it.”

Dean looked at you once. Only once. That same smirk, but now you saw it—really saw it—for what it was. Too smooth. Too slow. Something evil wearing something you used to love. And then he vanished. Not in smoke, not in fire. Just… gone. The air thinned out. The heat left the room. And the absence of him was a screaming thing.

You were still shaking. Still pressed to the counter, shirt rumpled, legs slick, skin flushed. The high hadn’t even left your blood yet. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Bobby lowered the shotgun, then turned to you.

“It ain’t safe anymore.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He crossed to you slowly. Gently. Like approaching a spooked animal.

“That thing,” he said, voice quieter now. “That thing wearin’ Dean’s face? That’s a demon. And he’s been here all day.”

You stared at him. Everything in you recoiled. Denied. And yet—you knew.

Bobby exhaled hard. His hand came up to your arm, grounding you. Steady.

“I’m sendin’ you somewhere safe.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Somewhere he don’t know. Somewhere he can’t get to you. You’re leavin’ in the mornin’. No arguments.”

You were still in Bobby’s shirt. Still barefoot. Still breathless. And now the world had cracked open beneath you. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l <3

[zepskies]

ONE MORE DAY

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized!Reader (Latina)

Summary: You and Dean take a beat to de-stress with a nice hot shower.

AN: Surprise! I know I said this was coming on Friday, but I rearranged my posting schedule so I decided to drop this one early.

Finally, another little story for the Midnight Espresso-verse! This one is going in chronological order, shortly after the end of In Bad Weather, in which she and Dean have retired from hunting, gotten married, and have a family. 💜

(Oh yeah, for those who read If I Stay, their son is also named "Robbie" in this storyverse. 😂)

Posted on Patreon: 3/18/2025

Word Count: 2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Shower smut. Established relationship (married!), grumpy middle-aged Dean, fluff, and a slight twist.~

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Dean’s body tenses under the hot spray of the shower head. His humming stops, his head tilts, and his awareness sharpens in the way that only thirty years of honed hunting reflexes can’t dim, even after ten years of retirement.

The bathroom door creaks and shuts, oh so quietly.

“Robbie, you better not flush that damn toilet, or it’s an old-fashioned spanking this time. I’m serious,” Dean warns. His voice is deep and grousing, laden with the weight of his day. He’s too fucking tired to withstand third-degree burns at four o’clock in the afternoon, just because his son wants to prank the old man (again).

When the shower curtain peels back, revealing your manicured nails and the sight of your little smirk, Dean relaxes in relief.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you tease.

A smile twitches at his lips. “For you? Both.”

You laugh, and it reaches your eyes. They’re still beautiful. You’re still beautiful to him, especially when you have that cheeky gleam in your eyes.

“Can I join you?” you ask.

Dean begins to grin as he gestures with his chin. “Get in here.”

Quickly you shed your jeans, V-neck top, bra and panties, having already taken off your ankle boots. You do that delicate, sexy thing of twisting your hair up into a twisty bun and securing it on top of your head, then Dean reaches for your hand to help you step into the tub. There you slip your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your naked breasts against his back.

“You’re not gonna get soaked up back there, sweetheart,” he says.

“What if I’m already wet?” you reply. You press your smile against his skin.

Dean smirks, watching your hand that’s already wandering south of the border. You graze your nails through his happy trail. It stirs arousal low in his gut. 

“Sounds like you’re ahead of the game,” he says. He tries to turn around in your arms to face you, but you tighten your hold around his waist. Your hands move up to playfully squish his belly.

“Ooh, what’s this little paunch?” you tease.

Dean snorts. “You know damn well. That’s where all your paella’s goin’.”

You giggle and continue to stroke his soft stomach. He feels a bit self-conscious about it, truth be told. There was a time where he could wake up after a bender, eat a double bacon cheeseburger for breakfast, and keep driving for eight hours, just to grab a beef burrito and a plate of nachos for dinner and wash it all down with a few beers. He’s finding the evidence of it now with some love handles that don’t want to straighten out, among other places on him that never used to jiggle.

“Hey, I’m fifty-three,” he says. A number he never used to think he’d hit. “Dad Bod is a rite of middle age.”

You hum in agreement. “I like it. Gives me something to hold on to.”

Dean feels you nip the back of his arm, then soothe the bite with your tongue. He smiles hard, despite the way his cheeks are warming up.

That’s it. He winds back an arm to wrap around your shoulders, gaining leverage enough to turn around and face you. He cradles your cheek in his hand and guides your face up to his for a steamy kiss.

But he cuts himself short before you can truly sink into it as much as you want to.

“Wait, where are the kids right now?” he asks, raising his brows.

“Robbie’s at baseball practice, and Cari’s at her friend Tiana’s house. They’re working on a history project,” you supply. You give him a mischievous look that says, You really thought I wouldn’t think of everything?

Dean slowly smiles. “God, I love you.”

The water is starting to losing its steam a little, but it doesn’t stop him from capturing you in another kiss. You breathe into it, and into him as you cling to his hips. Your nails lightly bite into his flesh and drag white lines of pressure across his skin, making him shiver.

“Yeah? How much?” you ask, between kisses; between the wandering of his hands over soft curves he's never gotten tired of. He likes his hands full, especially of you.

Dean chuckles. He secures you with an arm around your waist, then settles you against the bathroom wall. He grabs a good handful of your thigh, encouraging you to wrap your leg around his hip. Then he frees his other hand, so he can drag his fingers through your slick folds.

“Hmm, you were right about already being prepared,” he says, laying a smiling kiss to your forehead. You tilt your head up to him, aiming for a kiss. He ends up swallowing your soft cry when his fingers brush your clit, first just circling the hood, then massaging with more pressure. Precision. Just like the way two of his long fingers slip deep inside your wet channel.

You cling to his arms and whimper against his lips, a wordless plea from your tongue curling and tangling with his. It’s quick and rough, the way he fucks you with his fingers, strokes that sensitive place along the ridge of your walls, and circles his thumb over your clit until he feels it swell.

Then he drags his hand away, smirking against your lips. Some things don't change, and that includes how much your cocky-ass husband likes teasing you. Today he has time, and he's taking full advantage of it.

“Mmph,” you whine, but you don’t let him get far. Your hand moves with intent down his body, from chest to soft stomach, to then wrapping firmly around his thick, solid length. You caress him a few times, smiling at his grunt of pleasure and the way he presses his forehead against yours. His weight and the broadness of his frame pin you to the wall. He’s all you can see, his warm skin all you can feel, except for the cool tile against your back and your ass.

Dean grasps your jaw with one firm hand, slipping his glistening fingers into your mouth. You know what he wants, and you immediately suck on his digits. Your tongue swirls around each one, tasting yourself on his calloused fingers.

“Fuck, wanna feel your pretty mouth doing that on my cock, baby,” he grits in your ear. You release his fingers with a soft slide of your lips.

“I can do that,” you say, but you lead him closer by the hand you have wrapped around him, your thumb teasing the sensitive, weeping head of his cock. “After you fuck me hard enough to split this tile.”

Dean pauses, shooting you an amused look. “You sure about that?”

“Come on, baby. Make me retile the bathroom,” you challenge, half-giggling all the while.

He shakes his head and captures you in a kiss. You’re fucking ridiculous sometimes.

He still takes your challenge (somewhat) to heart though. He takes your hand that still has a firm grip of his cock and guides it to your entrance. Inch by inch, he pushes inside and makes you both groan loudly. He further parts your folds to strum at your clit again, this time to a rhythm of his own making. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he begins to move inside you, inching you higher on the wall. A curse falls from your lips as you cast your head back against the tile.

Dean palms one of your breasts, teases a hardened nipple; the little tingles and zings feed the well of pleasure building in your core. Your fingers rake through his hair and grip him tight. The inner walls of your pussy do the same around his cock. Every deep, hot stroke is like a firebrand of sensation pulsing against your G-spot.

“Oh, fuck—” you choke, grabbing the back of his neck. Dean once again invades your mouth for a deep kiss. He consumes your cries of pleasure as your core pulses with that heady, fluttering warmth.

Ten years of marriage, and he’s still the one who makes you come apart.

The suddenness if your orgasm flooding around him, your inner walls gripping him tight, soon has Dean’s hips stuttering and his body locking up on him. He burrows in deep on reflex, pressing every inch of your body against his.

You hold him just as tightly, with his strong hand helping you keep your thigh wrapped snug around his hip. You even clench around him on purpose while you feel him hot and throbbing inside you. Dean shudders.

For a moment, it’s ragged panting breaths and the shower spray beating down on you both. It’s familiarity, and the anchoring sureness of being home.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. Slowly, he pulls out and releases your thigh. He raises a hand to brush wet strands of hair from your cheek. A grin curves his lips. “We still got the fuckin’ heat.”

“Mhmm,” you agree airily. You stroke his back in turn…until a sudden realization strikes you, makes you almost dumb with shock. Oh, fuck. “Dean.”

He’s busy pressing slow, tantalizing kisses along your jaw. “What?”

“I just remembered something…kind of important.”

Dean pulls back enough to see your face. He’s mostly blissed out, but still sharpens to attention. Did we lose track of time? Does one of the kids need to be picked up? Is dinner burning on the stove?

“I haven’t taken birth control this month...or last month either,” you say, biting your lip. “I was gonna go by the pharmacy later today.”

Dean pauses. He tilts his head as he processes. And then, he snorts and shakes his head.

Of fucking course.

He ultimately drops his forehead on your shoulder in defeat.

You rub his back more in apology now.

“I’m sorry, baby. I forgot,” you say. And you laugh, because that’s what you do when you’re embarrassed.

One little adventure doesn’t guarantee you’re going to get pregnant, of course, especially so soon after being off birth control. But history dictates that Dean is a potent man.

“This is entrapment,” he claims, even though his voice is muffled by your shoulder. Even though you feel the edges of his smile, threatening a smirk.

He finally untangles from you, to the tune of you laughing in earnest. You both clean up under the now frigid water. Dean slaps a hand over the knob to turn it off.

“Aw, come on. We have two already. What’s one more?” you ask, as Dean pulls back the curtain and helps you out of the shower. He’s a gentleman, even when he’s giving you skeptical side-eye.

“Okay. I’m gonna remember that when you’ve got your legs put up in those stirrups and you’re cursing me to high hell,” he remarks.

“Hey, I never once did that, not even with Cari,” you point out while drying off and wrapping yourself in a towel. For some reason, your daughter had been a more difficult birth than Robbie, maybe because she had been your first. Or maybe that was already foreshadowing the way she’d torment her little brother.

“Hmm, I dunno, I seem to remember a lot of never again! And why the hell did we do this? And a lot of other things in Spanish I literally can’t repeat.” Dean wraps his towel low on his hips, his Dad paunch proudly displayed. He grabs you by your waist and tugs you in close while you laugh.

“Well, then you’re remembering wrong,” you say, smirking up at him in amusement. You take his face in your hands and give him a slow, lingering kiss. When your lips break away from his, he opens his eyes and meets you with a wry smile.

“I guess so,” he says, quirking a brow.

The more he thinks about it…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you guys did get to add to this little circus. As much as he’ll admit to becoming a grumpy old man sometimes, you and his children are the best parts of him.  

Soon a heavy breath escapes him, his thumbs stroking your waist.

“One more eventful day of retirement for the books, huh, sweetheart?” Dean teases.

You nod, giving into the urge to rest your head against his bare, dewy chest. His anti-possession tattoo lies in the corner of your vision. You have one to match along your hip. It’ll always brand you both in body and in mind, but for your children, for each other, and for yourselves, you try to remind yourselves that this is real.

It’s yours.

It won’t be taken away.

Neither of you will let it.

“One more day,” you say.

AN: For those of you who haven't dipped into the Espresso-verse yet, I hope you enjoy this little window into their future! 😘 ☕

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

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaleldobrev

@globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @cheynovak @jollyhunter

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom

[lostalioth]

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐭

→ premise: you in those damn jeans, those stupid jeans that fit you just right. your hips, your waist, your thighs. and god your ass in those jeans nearly had sam drooling. it was shameful he knew it but he couldn’t help it, not when your ass looked so prefect.

→ pairing: sam winchester x fem!reader

→ warnings: smut | 18+, anal, caught masturbating, switch!sam? [he’s dominating but also jsut whiny and desperate?], nicknames [angel, baby], no lube or prep really for the anal part [i lowkey didn’t wanna write it lmao], not proofread

→ a/n: kinktober 17

It was pathetic, he was pathetic he knew that and yet he just couldn't care at the moment nor help himself. You looked so good he swore it was driving him clinically insane. So good that it was making his genius brain malfunction, and his downstairs ‘brain��� run on overdrive. 

He couldn't focus, could barely understand a word the witnesses were saying, it was all going in one ear and out the other. His eyes were just glued on you, on your body, on those stupid perfectly fitting jeans you wore. He felt like a hormonal teenager again, getting all worked up over a dumb pair of tight jeans on a woman. It didn't help that Sam has already been nursing a small crush on you that he’s had sense him and his brother met you. 

He had to bail on you and dean in the middle of the interviews, giving the both of you some excuse about not feeling the best and that maybe he needed some extra rest. Though in truth his pants were just getting tighter by the minute and his head getting foggier. He somehow managed to walk himself back to the motel, the short walk doing not a damn thing to clear his head. You in those fucking jeans, those jeans that hug your thighs and your wasit just right, those stupidly tight jeans that made your ass look so fucking bitable it was making him lose his mind. 

Even though muffled by his t-shirt pulled up and tucked between his teeth all that filled the quiet dingy motel room were Sams whines they were so loud. He was a mess the second he unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants and boxers down his thighs. His large hand furiously stroking up and down his aching cock, pulling strangled whimpers and cries from his lips. His precum leaking out from his tip acting as lube for his hand to glide along his shaft faster, squeezing it hard as he goes. 

He was already so close, it only added to his feeling of being pathetic, he really was a horny teenager now, he couldn't even last that long with his fist around his cock and his head filled with thoughts of you. You on top of him riding him as he whines, you under him your limbs an entangled mess as you pant and moan into his mouth. Him with his head buried between your thighs, you on your knees for him with your mouth stuffed full of his cock, any and all different kinds of images of you all over him. “Need you s’bad, s‘fuckin’ bad holy shit….” He hissed through his teeth in a hushed tone as his head fell back in pleasure, cries of your name and whines about how good you looked fall from his mouth like a waterfall the closer he gets to the edge.

“Hey Sam? Honey? you doing okay?” Your voice shattered the daydream going on in his head that was just about to make him cum. In shock and embarrassment his hand stills, inadvertently edging himself. The nickname only makes his cock twitch more as a short whine comes out of his mouth in response. He was caught and it should be embarrassing, humiliating even, you caught him jerking off in the middle of the day. He should be feeling anything else but what he was right now, It shouldn’t excite him that you caught him. But he was too far gone into a desperate type of head space to care at the moment. 

“Oh shit!, i'm sorry i didn't mean to barge in i thought you’d be napping” you babble out, covering your face as heat spreads through your body as you turn around and move like you're about to leave. As you turn sam gets an even better almost 360º view of your body, how the jeans cling to your thighs, the waistband snug around your waist, the denim looks practically painted on your ass, they were so tight.

“Need it s’bad, please i need you s’bad yoou dont have to leave” he whines out, you had already caught him so any composure or decorum he had has been thrown out the window alongside reason. He could be completely ruining your friendship at this moment, you could be disgusted with him and reject him but he was taking that risk cause he was desperate. 

Your body as if moving on its own accord, revealing your own hidden desires turns back around to face Sam, slowly taking your hands away from your face. Your breath hitches in your throat as your eyes scan over his body, his shirt tugged up and stuffed in his mouth exposing his chest, a small trail of hair leading down to where his hand is still wrapped tightly around his cock, a pleading look in his glazed over eyes. Slowly you make your way over to him spread out on the bed, your steps careful as if you were gonna spook him by moving too fast. “What- Uh- what do you need honey?” You question, still a bit confused and extremely nervous. You’d do anything to help Sam, and getting to see him like this all pathetic and desperate was a bonus that was making slick settle in your core and your thighs clench together. 

“I need you, want you s’bad” he whines out dropping his shirt from his mouth as he grabs ahold of your hand when you get close enough. Placing your hand on his stiff throbbing cock with his own, you let out a small gasp at the feeling of his warm cock under your touch. “This is what you do to me, you and ya’ fucking stupid tight jeans” he hissed out, letting go of your hand and taking note of the fact you dont move it off his cock he slaps your ass hard with his big hand resting and gropping at it after it comes down. 

“These damn jeans that make your ass look so good angel, so good that I couldn't focus, baby. Wanna fuck you s’bad, wanna fuck this ass” he was rambling now looking up at you with his signature puppy eyed look that made you melt. He was so hard it was getting painful, especially since he stopped himself right when he was gonna cum.

He's already thrown caution to the wind by this point, there was no going back.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You gave in. 

Willing to do whatever it took to make Sam feel better as well as the fact that all his begging had made you about just as desperate for him. He had you on his lap now, your back pressed against his bare chest. He was quick to strip you of all your clothes, eyes glued to the way he had to practically peel your jeans off your body. Your thighs were spread and laid over his legs that he had bent up, his feet planted flat on the bed. 

Your head was spinning from the feeling of his rough hands exploring every inch of your body. Palming at your tits and his thumb flicking your nipples, squeezing your waist when you squirm in his grasp and grind your ass against him. His lips were mouthing and kissing along your neck, tongue poking out to lick up the side and even behind your ear, sucking patches of small hickies onto the unmarked skin. Your body relaxed more and more in his arms as Sam said; “Need you real relaxed for this angel okay? As bad as i want this i don't wanna hurt ya’” you were certainly relaxed once his thumb started rubbing circles over your bundle of nerves, sighing in a mixture of pleasure and relief. You whine softly as your pussy aches, begging for release already as your folds are dripping in slick, a trail of it sliding down your cunt to your ass even. 

Lifting his hips his tip nudges at the tight ring of muscle of your ass, his precum that hasn't stopped leaking as well as his spit that coated his cock acted as your only form of lube as he bullies his thick cock inside. With a broken gasp in both pain and pleasure at the new sensation you dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm that was wrapped around your stomach holding you against him. “Sam~ Honey- Fuck!” You blabber out in a string of jumbled together moans, losing track of where you were gonna go with your sentence once his cock pushes all the way inside, your hole sucking his cock inside. 

“Atta’ girl, s’good f’me angel. God your ass is so fuckin’ tight” he cries out, he was already still on edge from just his fist but this feeling was gonna send him flying over it faster than he wanted. The pleasure of his cock filing your ass as well as his thumb which hasn't stopped playing with your clit has your pussy clenching around nothing. 

“Baby, m’not gonna last long, it's too much” you moan out as his hips buck up and thrust into you, settling at a fast and relentless pace not giving you any more time to get adjusted. “It’s okay baby, it’s okay, j’ cum, just cum for me angel” he nods his head frantically, moans and desperate cries fill the room and you don't know what sounds are coming from who as you clench down on him. 

Your body tensing up and your eyes screwing shut as your climax washes over you, a loud wanton moan falling out of your mouth. Worry about the other residents hearing anything long since past, Sam even felt a small ego boost knowing they were hearing you scream out his name. His hips not stopping their hard thrusting, Sam too lost in pleasure with his head buried in your neck as his cock pounds your ass making you see stars as you cum. 

“Feel so good angel, holy shit squeezin’ me even tighter as you cum shit~” he groans out, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine as his breath fans across your ear. Your cum leaks out of your pussy, sliding down to Sams cock giving it even more slick for him to fuck up into you harder and faster, chasing his own orgasm. 

“Gonna cum angel, but dont think im done with ya’ when i do, need to fuck that pretty pussy too. Been dreamin’ about that sense we met, need to make you all mine” he cries out as he turns your face towards his and crashes his lips against yours, kissing you like a man starved. His moans are muffled into the kiss as well as more whines of your name as he cums hard.

→ a/n: AHHHH last day of kinktober is tomorrow!! Im hoping i get to post the last day on halloween but i might not so if i dont expect it nov

[wvyik]

tied up in you. d.w. ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

dean winchester x fem! reader

summary; dean in a suit is already a problem, but when you fix his tie? yeah, you’re done for. he’s all smug smirks, teasing touches, and a promise that maybe you’ll be the one taking it off later.

warnings; fluffy, dean being a menace™, teasing, lowkey shy! reader??, mildly unfair levels of attraction, no actual smut, just dean making it everyone’s problem.

notes; listen… dean struggling with his tie? teasing the hell out of you while you try to keep it together? yeah, i had no choice but to write this. i fully blame him and his stupidly attractive smirk. hope y’all enjoy suffering with me <3

words; 541

The hunt called for undercover work, which meant Dean Winchester in a suit — a sight so rare it should’ve been illegal. He knew it, too. The way he stood there, all cocky confidence in that dark jacket, crisp white shirt stretching just right across his broad chest; it was unfair. And you? You were trying so hard to keep it together.

But then, of course, he had to ruin it.

“This thing’s choking me,” Dean grumbled, yanking at his tie like it had personally offended him. “Feels like I’m being strangled.”

You swallowed, watching his fingers fumble with the silk, twisting it into something that barely resembled a tie at all. It was painful to witness.

With a deep breath, one you really needed, you stepped closer, reaching out hesitantly. “Um… here, let me—”

Dean smirked instantly, eyes flicking up to yours. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off me, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks went hot immediately. “That’s not—”

“Shh.” His smirk widened as he tilted his head down, watching you through dark, hooded eyes. “Go on, then. Fix me up.”

You hesitated, your fingers hovering just above the knot. He was so close, the scent of his aftershave and warm leather wrapping around you, making it even harder to focus. With a quiet breath, you carefully loosened the mess he had made, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

Dean let out a low hum, amused. “Damn, sweetheart. If I knew this was all it took to get you this flustered, I would’ve worn a suit ages ago.”

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on fixing the tie, but he wasn’t making it easy. His hands found your waist, warm and steady, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your pulse hammered, your fingers trembling slightly as you adjusted the silk, smoothing it down against his chest.

Dean caught it instantly. His smirk deepened. “Nervous?”

You bit your lip, not trusting your voice.

His voice dipped lower, teasing. “C’mon, sweetheart. It’s just me.”

That’s the problem.

You exhaled shakily, finishing the knot with a soft tug. “There. All done.”

Dean glanced down briefly before his eyes flicked back to yours, glinting with something entirely too smug. “Damn. Looks almost too good to take off.”

You barely had time to process that before he leaned in just slightly, dropping his voice.

“…But I bet you’d like to do that for me later, huh?”

Oh, he didn’t. Your breath hitched. Your entire body went hot.

Dean grinned, watching your reaction like it was his new favorite pastime. “Aw, look at you.” His fingers squeezed your waist just a little. “All shy on me now, sweetheart?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing coherent, at least. Dean’s smirk turned downright wicked.

“Tell you what,” he murmured, straightening up, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “Be a good girl, help me get through this case, and maybe I’ll let you take it off me later.”

Your brain completely short-circuited.

Dean just winked, patting your hip before stepping back. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go play dress-up.”

You stood there, still burning, still speechless, as he walked off— whistling, like he hadn’t just ruined you.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlesoulshine @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @twelveyearsofit @tinas111 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡

[supernotnatural2005]

The Arrangement - Chapter Nine

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Can Dean make it in time to fix things, or has he lost you for good?

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings/tags: Hurt, angst, silly idiots in love, Sam is a lightweight! fluff!

AN: Okay, I know we left the last one off on a bit of a cliffhanger, 😅but here it is, the conclusion. I hope you guys enjoy it ❤️

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist <- Catch up here

For a second, Dean just stood there, stunned. Then Lisa’s tongue brushed against his lips, and something inside him snapped.

No.

This was wrong.

Dean ripped her hands off his jacket, recoiling from the kiss, his lips tingling unpleasantly.

“Happy New Year, baby,” Lisa murmured, her voice sweet, smug, like she had won something, like this was mutual.

His jaw locked.

“What the fuck, Lisa?” His voice came out harsher than he meant, but he didn’t care. He stepped back, shaking his head.

Lisa blinked, her smile faltering. “Dean, come on—”

“No.” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “This isn’t—this was never—”

His pulse thundered, frustration curling in his gut.

He should’ve seen this coming.

He had seen it coming.

And still, he had let it happen.

Lisa hadn’t pulled that kiss out of nowhere. And that was on him.

He wasn’t stupid. Naive he could argue, but he remembers the way she had treated you, the shit she had pulled to get under your skin, to drive a wedge between you. It had taken him a regretfully long time to see it, but when he did, she was gone.

However, she wasn’t entirely to blame in all of this. He was the one who'd led her on, who kept calling her back. Who let her to stay.

Yeah, she had been just a fling, a distraction, someone to fill the time, to fill the space in his bed. But he had let it drag out longer than it should have. Had let her think there was something more—not because he wanted her, but because he hadn’t been ready to face the truth.

That watching you with someone else had gutted him.

And then when you started pulling away, cancelling plans to be with him, he’d let his jealousy, his stupidity, get the better of him. He’d gotten pissy, bitter—let Lisa whisper bullshit in his ear, let her convince him that you didn’t care about him anymore. Almost destroying your friendship because of his denial, his naivety that you meant more to him than he let on.

All because he had been too much of a coward to admit what should have been obvious.

That you weren’t just his best friend.

That you were it for him.

And tonight? He hadn’t been trying to lead Lisa on. He hadn’t wanted this.

He was just trying to do the right thing, because that’s what he did. He fucked things up, and then he tried to make them right. Good karma or some shit.

But Lisa? Lisa had never been interested in just being friendly. And he should have seen that sooner. Should never have accepted that damn drink.

Then you—even after everything—had given him a choice.

And in that moment, he hadn’t chosen you.

All to make himself feel better.

The realisation slammed into him, stealing the breath from his lungs.

His head snapped up, panic clawing at his chest as he scanned the rooftop. Because he knew you must have seen. And he needed you to know this wasn’t what it looked like.

Lisa’s fingers curled around his wrist, trying to pull him back. “Dean, wait—”

He yanked himself free, barely hearing her, barely seeing anything past the frantic pounding in his skull. His eyes darted through the crowd, past the tangle of limbs and laughter, past the drunken celebrations and clinking glasses—

Then he spotted Benny and Cas by the bar.

He stormed toward them, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Where is she?”

Benny sighed, exchanging a look with Cas. Then he met Dean’s frantic gaze, his expression heavy.

“She’s gone, brother.”

Dean hailed a cab, his adrenaline pumping. Gabe had informed him with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder—which only made him worry more, since Gabe wasn’t usually a sentimental guy—that you’d left with Charlie, Jo, even Jess and Sam had gone with.

His knee bounced impatiently as the city lights blurred past. Fireworks still crackled in the distance, each explosion a hollow echo of the pounding in his chest. People were celebrating fresh starts, new beginnings. Meanwhile, he hadn’t even made it an hour into the year before fucking everything up.

By the time the cab rolled up to the apartment, he didn’t bother waiting for change, ignoring the driver’s protests as he bolted inside.

“Y/N?” He called the second he was through the door. Silence answered.

His stomach dropped.

He searched every room—the kitchen, bedroom, even the damn bathroom—each one empty and twisting the knife deeper.

With a curse, he yanked out his phone, dialling your number as he paced the living room, teeth sinking into his thumb.

“Hey.”

His body sagged in relief—until—

“Psych! You’ve reached my voicemail. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

Dean groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face before hanging up. His head was clearer now, adrenaline having burned off whatever alcohol lingered, and he knew he could drive. So he grabbed his keys from the counter and made his way back down to his car.

First stop - The Roadhouse.

It was shut for the night, he knew that. But that didn’t mean you weren’t there. How many times had the two of you snuck in over the years? You, him, and Jo, slipping in through the side door, thinking you were so damn slick—until Ellen inevitably caught you and threatened to tan all your hides.

But when he pulled up outside, the place was dark, lifeless. No sliver of light seeping through the windows, no muffled voices inside. He tried the door anyway, rattling the handle like maybe—just maybe—you’d be in there. That you’d done what you used to do when you were pissed off, sitting on the counter with a stolen beer, cursing his name under your breath.

But it didn’t budge.

A frustrated sigh left him as he smacked the wood with the flat of his palm before turning back to his car.

Next stop - Bobby's.

By the time he reached the front door, he didn’t hesitate before knocking hard. He didn’t give a damn if he woke everyone up. He’d apologise later. Right now, he just needed to see you.

To his surprise, the door cracked open to reveal Jo, her expression set in a hard scowl, arms crossed over her chest, still clad in the dress she wore this evening. Even with her small stature, she could be intimidating when she wanted to be.

“You have some nerve, Winchester.”

Dean barely held back a groan. “Jo, c’mon. Can I see her?”

“Why should she see you?”

He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. He wasn't in the mood for games. “Just let me talk to her. I can explain everything.”

“I think we saw enough tonight.” Jo huffed with a humourless laugh, and Dean had just about had it.

“Look, Lisa kissed me. And if you’d stuck around long enough, you would’ve seen me push her away.”

Jo scoffed. “And what about the rest of the night, huh? Why was she even still around?”

She had him there.

His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. “Because I’m a fucking idiot, trying to fix something that didn’t need to be or deserved to be fixed.” His voice was thick with regret.

Jo studied him, her sharp gaze softening just slightly as she looked at him. Dean had been her best friend once, too. Even though he'd always been more your friend, he'd always looked out for her like she was his own flesh and blood. And she knew the truth, even if he'd never said it out loud.

Dean loved you. He'd always loved you.

“Jo, please.” His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. He was about a few seconds away from dropping to his knees and begging in the dirt. “I know I don’t deserve it, but please let me talk to her. And if she wants nothing to do with me, then tough, I’ll keep trying until she forgives me. Because life without her—it’s like a world without air.”

Jo’s expression flickered, mouth parting in a soft gasp—

“Christ, Jo.” Bobby’s gruff voice cut through the moment, eyeing his daughter with a disapproving look. “Y/N’s not even here. She’s helping Jess get Sam home. College really softened that boy.”

Dean blinked, and Jo’s lips curled into a smug little smirk.

Then the realisation hit him.

“You were messing with me.” He muttered.

“You deserved it.” Jo shrugged and Dean let out a breathless chuckle, relief flooding him as he shook his head.

Yeah. He did.

Bobby grumbled something under his breath, scratching at his beard. “Now, some of us are tryin’ to sleep. So would you quit bein’ a damn idjit and go tell my daughter you love her already.”

Dean’s lips twitched. His heart finally felt like it was beating again.

“Yes, sir.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, sprinting back to his car.

By the time Dean reached his parents’ house, his palms were slick with sweat. His heart pounded hard and fast, rattling against his ribs like a caged thing desperate to escape. He stood frozen on the porch, fists clenching and unclenching as he ran through every possible way to say it.

I love you. I was an idiot. Please don’t hate me.

He exhaled sharply. Hell, none of those felt good enough.

Before he could let doubt sink its claws in, he pushed inside and immediately caught the soft glow of light spilling from the downstairs bathroom.

“C’mon, Sammy, you gotta drink the water,” came your grumbling voice. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Mmm, don’ wan’ it,” slurred a familiar voice.

Dean stepped closer, peering around the corner.

Jess was half-wrestling an absolutely wrecked Sam into an upright position while you, with your lips pressed together in a stubborn line, tried (and failed) to get him to sip from a glass of water.

Dean’s mouth twitched despite himself. Lightweight.

Then Sam lifted his heavy head, bleary eyes scanning the room until they landed on Dean, his lips breaking into a lopsided, goofy grin.

“Deeeeeean!” he beamed, his eyes barely able to stay open.

However, the moment Sam spoke his name, your head snapped up and your gazes locked. And for a second—just a brief moment—everything else disappeared.

There was something raw in your eyes, something unspoken and fragile. Hurt, uncertainty… maybe even the smallest flicker of hope, and it hit Dean harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

His throat went dry. His hands curled at his sides, itching to reach for you, to close the gap, to say everything he should’ve said so much sooner.

But before he could even open his mouth—

“Oh, god.”

The fragile moment shattered as Sam gagged and lurched forward, barely making it in time before heaving straight into the toilet.

Dean winced and you and Jess moved fast, steadying him, murmuring reassurances as he clutched the porcelain like it was his last lifeline. You smoothed a hand down his back, voice softer now, despite the grimace on your face.

“There, there, Sammy.”

Dean shook his head at the sight. Bobby was right. College really had softened the kid.

By the time Sam had finished retching, his face was pale and clammy, eyes fluttering as exhaustion started to drag him under, and instead of continuing to silently judge, Dean took action.

“Alright, big guy, let’s get you upstairs,” He muttered, stepping in before either of you could protest.

Sam let out an unintelligible groan as Dean grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. The guy was all dead weight, a mess of long limbs and bad decisions, but Dean had done this plenty of times before.

“Legs, Sammy,” he grunted, shifting his grip. “Y’know, those things attached to your damn body? Work with me here.”

Sam made an effort, stumbling as Dean all but dragged him up the stairs. He muttered something against Dean’s shoulder—something about the laws of physics and Dean being an asshole—but it was lost in slurred nonsense.

By the time Dean dumped him onto his old childhood bed, Sam was already halfway gone, mumbling sleepily into the pillow. His legs dangled off the edge, one sock missing, the other still half on.

Dean smirked as he looked down at him. “You’re never living this down, Sammy.”

Behind him he heard your soft laugh from the doorway, and his heart stuttered.

Jess sighed, rubbing her temples as she sat on the edge of the bed. “Thanks for the assist, guys.”

Dean nodded, glancing between the two of you. “How’d he even get like this?”

“Gabe,” you and Jess said in unison, and Dean snorted.

Yeah. That tracked.

Gabe was competitive as hell, and drunk Sam? Stubborn as a mule. No doubt Gabe had baited him into some drinking contest that Sam never had a chance of winning.

“You gonna be okay?” you asked Jess as you moved off from the doorway, now standing beside him.

Jess glanced at her unconscious boyfriend and sighed with a small smirk. “Yeah. He just needs to sleep it off.”

Dean agreed, but his attention had already shifted back to you.

You were close, so close he could smell your perfume, sweet and intoxicating. 

“Alright. Well call us if you need anything, okay?” You told her as you pulled her into a hug. Dean shifted awkwardly as you and Jess shared a look when you pulled away. He wasn’t stupid. It was probably to do with him. Okay, it was obviously to do with him. 

“Goodnight, Dean.” Jess offered him a small smile and he returned it as he backed out of the room, with you following him.

Once alone in the hallway, the tension rose again. Thick and suffocating. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, the regret, the guilt, it seeped deeper into his bones, leaving him raw, open, exposed.

Before he could find the right words—if there even were any—you beat him to it.

“We can talk,” you whispered, your voice low and careful, reminding him of his still-sleeping parents. “Just not here.”

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, following you down the stairs and out the back door.

The night air was crisp, cutting through the haze in his head, but it did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. Even out here, he was surrounded by you—by the echoes of your shared past.

The backyard was quiet now, but in his mind, he could still hear the laughter of two reckless kids, daring each other to climb higher, jump farther.

His eyes drifted to the old oak tree where the treehouse once stood—a childhood fortress that had barely survived the years. The planks, now dismantled, sat stacked neatly against the trunk, reduced to nothing but pieces of what once was.

It was almost symbolic. Right now he felt dismantled, homeless. And like the tree still standing, there you were, the foundation. He could only hope it could be rebuilt, that he could find his way home again.

You ran your fingers over the wood, your touch reverent, nostalgic. “It’s a shame it had to go,” you murmured distantly. “A lot of memories.”

Dean hummed in agreement; his throat too tight to speak as he watched you.

Then you stepped closer, drawn to something among the pile of planks. With careful hands, you pulled a single piece from the pile, your fingers tracing over the weathered wood, a bittersweet smile ghosting your lips.

Dean frowned, stepping closer. And then he saw it.

Your initials and his, carved deep into the wood, surrounded by a jagged looking heart.

His breath hitched. He had forgotten about that, and like a flickering film reel, the memories came swarming back.

It was the last summer before you both transitioned into high school, when you had convinced yourself that things would change—that once he stepped into that next chapter, he wouldn’t want you by his side anymore. But Dean had known better. Even then, he knew nothing could tear you apart.

And sure, he made other friends—Cas, Benny, Gabe—but you were never a question. You were the heart of the group. The one person he could never do without.

So, he had taken his pocketknife and left a mark. Something permanent. A promise that no matter what, you would always be his best friend.

A promise he felt like he had broken.

“You really hurt me tonight, Dean.” Your voice was quiet, but the pain in it sliced through him like a blade. And when you finally turned to look at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, Dean felt his heart shatter.

“I thought things were different.” Your voice wavered, thick with hurt. “But I can’t even be mad at you, because I started this stupid arrangement. And you didn’t break any of the rules.”

Dean clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue—to tell you none of this was your fault, that it was never stupid, that this was all one big missunderstanding—but you kept going.

“I’m the one that complicated everything,” you whispered.

“Y/N—”

“I broke the rules, Dean.” Your voice cracked, and he flinched. “I let this ruin our friendship because I—” You sucked in a shaky breath. “Because I fell in love with my best friend.”

His world tilted.

“And the worst part is… I think I’ve always loved you.”

Dean’s chest tightened. His pulse pounded in his ears.

These were the words he had spent years hoping to hear, whether he tried to deny them or not. Words he had convinced himself you’d never say.

But before he could speak, before he could reach for you, you looked away. And what you uttered next, that was what ruined him.

“But you never choose me,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“Hey.” He stepped forward before you could slip away, his hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears that spilled over. “Look at me.”

You did, though your gaze wavered, uncertain, afraid, and his heart ached. How could you not see it?

“You’ve always been my first choice,” he rasped, voice thick with emotion. “You made damn sure of that the day I met you—when you convinced me that busting up my knees and elbows was considered fun.”

Despite everything, a breathy, tearful laugh escaped you, and he chuckled with you, though his own eyes burned with unshed tears.

“I hadn’t even known you five minutes, and I was ready to take a leap for you.” His voice softened, and as he looked into your eyes, wide and searching. He decided to be honest with himself for once. “And I’ve been falling ever since.”

He heard the hitch in your breath and pressed his forehead against yours. His grip on you firm—steadying, grounding, holding you together as much as he was holding himself.

He had spent years fighting it, denying it, running from it. But not anymore.

“I love you, Y/N.” The words left him like a prayer, like something sacred. “I love you so damn much. And I’m so sorry about tonight. Lisa—she…” He exhaled sharply. “She means nothing to me. How can I have space for someone else when you’ve already staked your claim?”

"Dean..." Your fingers curled into his jacket, holding onto him like you were afraid to let go.

"It's always been you, Singer." Dean’s thumb brushed over your cheek, the touch trembling as he let the words fall from his lips. He held his breath, his heart pounding, feeling the fragile space between you both like a gaping chasm. "And I’m yours. If you’ll have me?"

His chest tightened as he waited. Because in that moment, you had every right to walk away. To push him out of your life forever and leave him with nothing but his regret. The silence between you was unbearable, and it was like the world held its breath.

And then your lips were on his, and he felt like he could breathe again.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It wasn’t fuelled by alcohol or fleeting passion, or because of some damn arrangement.

The ache, the longing, the love—it all surged between you like a tide he had been swimming against for far too long. He wasn’t running anymore.

He was home.

And this time, for the first time in forever, he was where he was always meant to be.

AN: FINALLY! Am I right!? It took way too long, a lot of idiocy, but we got there in the end. 😮‍💨 Now the next part was supposed to be the finale on this series, the epilogue as such, but, as you will see once it's released, I may have a little surprise, so there will be no sneak peak 👀 Stay tuned 😘

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

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell @nancymcl @happyfxckinghorrors @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @fangirlingfromdownunder @star-yawnznn @piptoost @shadysoulangel @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy @impala67stellawinchester @bonbonnie88 @youroldfashioned @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes @rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[impalaimagining]

Raw

Dean x Reader, really more like an unnamed OFC

Word Count: 9,726

Warnings: torture, gore, death, Stockholm syndrome, loss of virginity, smut (18+ only)

Written for @jacklesversebingo

Square Filled: “I’m not ready to give up.”

gif: x

The silence is the only comfort she finds. Otherwise, her own screams echo through her ears, still ringing even after the men are gone and the blood has dried. It’s caked in sticky streams, rivers running down her arms, deep burgundy stained into her skin. She’s trapped - ankles snared tight in thick, splintering ropes, wrists bound in metal restraints. Her range of movement is less than half a foot in any direction. She’s an animal bound within a cage, left to go insane inside the four barren walls of the cement room where they keep her. 

When they’re gone, there’s not a sound to be heard. Not a creak above her, not the dull thud of footsteps overhead, though she knows she’s underground; she hasn’t seen even a sliver of sunlight since they ripped the cloth from over her eyes. It’s only silence. Inside the silence, she counts the beats of her heart, uses them in an attempt to measure time, but it’s useless.

It could be daybreak or it could be midnight. The sun could be streaming through the Georgia pines, scalding the bright red berries on the dogwood trees. It could be twilight, just after the sun has nestled below the horizon, fireflies twinkling in the backyard while mosquitoes whine in her ear. She doesn’t know, though, and she never will. She’s stuck here, for as long as they keep her alive.

She’s been doing her best to keep track of the days by scratching a line in the concrete with a bloodied fingernail, and she suspects the dim light hanging in the corner of the room is on a timer synced with the sun’s rising and setting. As she scrapes her fingertip against the damp floor beside her thigh, marking the eighty-fifth day she opened her eyes only to find herself here, the realization washes over her. They might keep her alive forever. The only other option is to kill her - or to let her die. To forget about her and to leave her to rot into the room surrounding her. She stares down at the blistered flesh of her fingertip, where the skin has eroded away and left only blood and deep red pulp. It’s raw. She decides then, she’s not sure which fate is worse.

It’s all she’s known for just shy of two decades. They found her when she was eight, crying in her closet full of princess dresses and glittery, plastic, heeled shoes. Frills from long skirts hung in her face, but weren’t enough to hide her. They came up the stairs and into her bedroom, grabbed her from within the closet, and dragged her here. She’s been here for 7,200 days - give or take. She lost a day or two, she’s sure, during the times when they knocked her out cold for refusing to give them what they wanted.

Seven. Thousand. Days. And she hasn’t seen them, hasn’t heard them coming, hasn’t gotten fresh food or water from them - even if it is just a dry bologna sandwich, sometimes spotted with flecks of fuzzy, green mold - for what she can only assume is four days.

On day two, she started rationing her water, fearing it was the beginning of the end. They were leaving her alone to die. The food would no longer come, the water would surely cease, so she rationed. She nibbled her sandwich, sipped her water one capful at a time. She prolonged the inevitable - her death. 

She screams. She screams until her voice gives out completely, wishing for anyone to hear her. Her wails echo off the walls, reverberate in her ears, give her splitting headaches, but still she cries. She weeps for the men who left her, the men who, despite treating her worse than their hunting dogs, she considers family. They’ve left her behind, truly and surely abandoned her. She sobs for herself, for the little girl shoved through the dark, metal door on the far wall all those years ago, who could’ve done so much, who had such a life to live. She whimpers at the memories. They flash through her mind at night, when sleep evades her and she’s alone in full darkness.

Her grandmother teaching her to roll out cookie dough, the stray kitten she found in the barn and begged to keep, the laughter around the Christmas tree every year, casting her pink fishing rod into the water and propping it beside her uncle’s only to catch an eight-inch bass while he came up with nothing. The splintering glass hitting the wood floor when the windows were broken, the shrieking of her mother as she scrambled for the phone to call the police, the muffled voices from behind the masks, the thud of bodies hitting the floor, the wet slice of a knife being pulled from between her sister’s ribs.

Her heart cracks open, shattered by the reality that the men she loves - Alexander, the man she considered her father, Russell, the eldest brother, Justin, the middle child, and Danny, the baby of them all - have forgotten her in the dirt, left her to return to the earth, buried her alive. They took her family from her, her flesh and blood stripped away from her as a child, and now again, they’ve stolen any chance, any semblance of a family right out from under her like a magician ripping off a tablecloth.

At the end of the sixth day, or what would’ve been the end of it for her, as she allows herself to close her eyes and escape the reality that death would find her soon, she hears it.

Footsteps.

“Hello?” Her voice comes out just above a whisper, hoarse without use. She clears her throat and forces saliva down with a rough swallow. “Hello! Please!”

The footsteps draw nearer. But they’re different. Her family - her captors - their footsteps, she’s learned inside and out. She could replicate their exact footfalls if only she put on their shoes. These footsteps are new. Lighter, more urgent. Sneaking. The footsteps she hears belong to someone who isn’t supposed to be here.

She freezes as the footsteps stop outside the door, holds her breath. She hears a voice, whispering. Then another set of feet shuffle beside the first – she can see their shadows in the small crack under the door. The door creaks against the weight of a fully grown man.

“Son of a bitch.” She hears him mutter. Then she hears another sound, unmistakable to her trained ears. A gun cocks, the hammer clicking into place. She covers her ears only a second before the sound splits the barrier between the men and her. The door falls as one of the men kicks it open. “She’s here.”

She’s here.

They knew about her. They were looking for her.

They step closer, slowly, one hand outstretched in warning, or perhaps compassion, from the taller man as the other tucks his gun into the waistband of the back of his jeans. She backs herself as far as she can into the cement wall behind her, trembling at their unfamiliar faces.

“Who-” she chokes on the dryness of her throat.

The taller of the two men offers her a water bottle, but she doesn’t take it. Instead, seeing her fear, he sets it down in front of her, within her reach even with her restraints. 

“It’s alright.” His voice sounds like a boom of thunder in her ears. “We’re here to help.’

“Help?” She feels bold just speaking to him. She hasn’t spoken to anyone other than her captors for almost as long as she can remember. The other man watches her carefully.

“We’re here to get you out. To take you back.” He finally says.

Her scratchy throat releases a humorless chuckle. “Take me back to what?”

The men glance at each other, only for a beat. An untrained eye would miss it, but she doesn’t. She’s learned to catch everything, even the most minute of movements. 

“I have nothing.” She croaks, finally caving after inspecting the unopened water bottle. She takes a long, slow sip, indulging and savoring the wash of it over her tongue. “No one. No home but here. No fami-” she cuts herself off; she’s revealing too much, too quickly trusting these strangers. 

Holding up his hands to her, revealing he has no other weapons in his grasp and isn’t a threat to her, that he has no intention to hurt her, the shorter of the two men crouches down on one knee and studies the ropes.

“I have a knife.” He raises a brow at her. “Don’t be scared. Just gonna…” He gestures to the ropes around her ankles. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he gets to work on the ropes while the other man picks at the metal locks on her wrists.

She’s free. Her wrists and ankles are unbound, but she doesn’t move. 

She looks down at her hands, again bloodied, from the past four days spent banging them on the floor, from balling her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms, from shoving her full weight against the walls in a desperate, frenzied attempt to escape. Her hands match her heart - ripped open, bleeding, raw. She takes a step away from the wall, her first step in days, the shackles removed fully for the first time in twenty years. She collapses against him, the stranger encircling her in his arms as her world fades to blackness.

She wakes up warm. 

Warm.

She jumps, startled by the feeling of blankets surrounding her, a real mattress beneath her. There’s water running, the faint scent of soap fills her nostrils. Slowly, she slides her legs from under the sheets, wincing at the pain and stiffness of her own body. Her eyes widen as she takes in the bandages wrapped around her ankles where the rope used to be. Her wrists are bandaged too, her palms have been coated in a salve and her hands wrapped.

Suddenly, her mind flashes back to the room - the prison where she was kept. The men who freed her. Her eyes dart around the room and land on a few things - a wallet on the bedside table, a leather jacket slung across a chair in the corner, duffel bags set on the end of the other bed.

They’re here. They brought her here.

She moves cautiously, or maybe her slowness is because of the ache pulsing throughout her body. She’s headed for the wallet. She needs to know who they are. Without warning, the room fills with a burst of damp heat, a heady scent.

“Oh. Mornin’.” He drawls as he runs his towel over his short hair. “I didn’t think you’d be up so soon.”

“Feels like I slept a year.” She rubs at her left wrist, careful not to displace the bandage. 

“Water’s still hot if you wanna wash up.” He nods over his shoulder in the direction of the shower. “I’m sure Sam has some conditioner if you, y’know.” He mimes lathering long hair.

“Thanks.” She moves her eyes to the floor and lets her mind wander. 

Sam. 

“He’s Sam?” She looks around vaguely, noting the taller man’s absence.

“He is. I’m Dean.”

“Dean.” She nods once.

“Sam went to grab us a bite to eat. Figured you’d rather stay tucked away than eat in a restaurant full of people on your first day back in the real world.” Dean tosses his towel over the hook on the back of the motel bathroom door.

The corners of her lips turn up in a hint of a smile. It’s thoughtful, kind, that they’d consider her first.

“Should be back soon, but the shower’s all yours.” He reminds her, and she realizes it’s likely because she looks like she hasn’t bathed in years. Truth be told, she hasn’t. A bucket of cold water and a sponge was all she was allowed.

“Thank you, Dean.” Her voice is still scratchy. She takes three steps toward the bathroom, then pauses with realization. “I don’t…” she glances down at herself, her clothes tattered and dirty.

“Oh.” Dean clears his throat before rifling through one of the duffel bags. He pulls a shirt and sweatpants from within, handing them to her. “We can - one of us will go out and get you some stuff later.”

“Thank you.” She repeats, once again heading for the bathroom. She realizes when she’s a step away from the threshold of the door, the bandages need to come off in order for her to wash herself. She stops short of the room containing the shower, leans back against the edge of the countertop surrounding the sink, and starts tearing at the dressing wrapped around her left wrist. 

Dean hears the faint scratching sounds, the attempts at tearing duct tape - it was all they had to secure the bandages - with unpracticed hands. He turns over his shoulder, catches sight of her feebly pulling at the bandages. A small smile tugs at his lips, and he pads toward her after pulling socks onto his feet. His hands cross her field of vision before anything else, his fingers catching hers where she’s scraping the edge of her nail under the corner of the tape.

“Let me.” He looks up and their eyes meet. She swallows roughly and gives a small nod, thankful for this, thankful for all he’s done for her, but without words to express just what she’s feeling. She’s mourning the family she’d lost - the family she found out Dean and his brother had killed - while also being endlessly grateful to Dean for getting her out of that prison they’d kept her in. She’s pulled from her frenzied thoughts as the tape catches on the fine hairs on her arm and yanks a few from their follicles. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, a pained hiss of air that stops Dean in his tracks.

Dean mimics the noise. “Sorry - I’m sorry.” He rubs the pad of his thumb over the soft skin of her wrist. In a bit of a daze, he returns to his task, gingerly removing the tape and bandages from both wrists and hands. “If,” Dean clears his throat, “if you sit on the edge of the bed, I can help you with the ankles too.” She feels her face flush but moves toward the closest bed, the one with duffles perched at the end. She eases herself down and sits on the rough, floral-print blanket. Dean kneels at her feet, and while she’s watching him pull and tear at the tape and gauze on her skin, all at once, she’s struck by just how attractive he is. He’s almost too attractive, his features too symmetrical, his eyes too green, his freckles too perfectly scattered across his face. Suddenly, she’s grasping her right forearm to physically restrain herself from tangling her fingers into the mess of short, slightly spiked, still-damp hair tousled perfectly atop his head.

She inhales with intent, exhales with fervor. She needs to steady her breathing before he notices the stutter in her pulse, the way her chest is heaving with excitement at just the sight of him, at his proximity. She leans back on her palms, instantly regretting the decision, and inhales sharply once more. Dean’s gaze shoots to hers, worry creasing his forehead. 

Her head shakes. “Not you.” She winces as she sits upright again. Dean’s face softens with understanding and he gets back to work. Once her bandages are fully removed, Dean takes her foot in his hand, slowly turning it and assessing what more she’ll need to heal properly.

“Couple more days, I think.” He concludes aloud, glancing up at her through thick lashes. “Then you’ll be good to go.”

Good to go.

Go to… where? Go to… what? To who? She’s alone. 

Except - in this moment, right now - with Dean on his knees in front of her, his fingers wrapped so gently around her ankle, their eyes locked together, she feels the least lonely she’s felt in a very long time.

After a struggle to figure it out, she turns the water on and lets it warm while she assesses her own wounds. The water burns as it runs over her open skin, but she just flinches slightly and lets the heat soak through her skin and into her bones. It’s been decades since she washed her body in hot water, decades since soap lathered in white bubbles over her arms, chest, stomach, decades since steam has opened her pores and they’ve been washed clean, decades since her tangled hair has had a comb pass through it easily, aided by Sam’s conditioner. 

She relishes in the shower, savors every ounce of hot water the motel has to offer until it starts growing cold. Quickly, she shuts the water off and wraps herself in a towel. It should feel scratchy, judging by the look of the fabric, but it feels like a cloud against her hardened skin. Once she’s dry, she lifts Dean’s shirt in front of her. She hasn’t eaten a proper meal in almost twenty years; his shirt will hang from her like a tent, but she pulls it over her head anyway. It falls over her and envelops her in a scent unfamiliar but so warm that it feels like a home she’s never known. She doesn’t know it, can’t place it against anything she’s ever smelled before, but Dean smells like leather, gunpowder, coffee. There’s a tanginess to his scent, and she’ll learn quickly that it comes from his whiskey. She lifts the shirt to her nose and inhales deeply.

After fully dressing, she emerges from the bathroom to find Dean lounged back against the headboard of the bed opposite where she awoke. He’s paying her no mind, eyes locked on the television screen in front of him. 

“Those are much smaller now.” She frowns, examining the screen. “And also… bigger?” She tilts her head and walks around the television. 

Dean chuckles. “They’re thinner.” He nods. “But the screens keep getting bigger.”

She nods too, agreeing with his assessment and suddenly embarrassed that she couldn’t find the words to describe it herself. She hasn’t had schooling since she was eight years old. She doesn’t even know if she could write the alphabet anymore.

“So.” Dean interrupts her self-sabotaging thoughts. “I’m Dean. Sam is my brother.” He explains. “What’s your name?”

Name.

Her name.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t remember. She hasn’t heard her name since before she was captured. The men never used it. Alexander only ever called her “girl,” and “bitch.”

Dean sees her thoughts stuttering. 

“It’s alright.” He sits up and looks at her head-on. “Take your time.”

“It’s not - I don’t…” She blinks and falls to sit on the end of the other bed.

“Hey, okay.” Dean lets his legs fall off the side of his own bed. “That’s alright. We’ll work on it.” He gives her a soft smile. “How about for now we just get you bandaged up again?” He takes her hand in his palm, his touch so light compared to the roughness of his exterior, the way he kicked down the heaviest metal door she’d ever seen, the quickness with which he holstered his gun, like it was a practiced move from years of doing the same. 

He’s gentle. Delicately, precisely, he wraps her wrists and ankles, bandages her palms, and pats her knee.

“Good as new.” His smile washes over her again. He’s kind, she can see it in his eyes, and her own fill with tears. 

How broken is she that someone offering her a bed, food, a shower, things people live with - things they take for granted - every day, is overwhelmingly kind? What a horrendous life she’s lived until now that all of this seems like luxuries she may never have had again.

“Thank you.” Her voice breaks, cracking as she fails to make eye contact with Dean.

His brow furrows slightly. “I told you we’d get you patched up.”

She shakes her head. “Not for that.”

She doesn’t have to say anything more. Dean understands. His eyes meet hers, his full of sympathy and hers full of gratitude. He moves to sit beside her, cautiously, then reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing softly and lacing their fingers together. As they sit in silence, just as the moment begins to feel too long and uninterrupted, the door swings open and Sam walks through, two brown paper bags in one hand and a drink carrier in the other.

Their days continue on together, her staying in, Sam and Dean venturing out for food, drinks, some other secretive reasons they don’t like to discuss in front of her. But they’re always sharing these looks, like they have to keep it from her, or she’ll break.

And she might.

She’s lived with no one for so long that any news from the outside world feels earth-shattering. She’s done her best to adapt as quickly as she can, but she hasn’t seen civilization since she was eight years old. When she finds herself slipping away, unable to come to terms with reality, she finds the smallest bathroom, a shower stall, a dark closet, locks herself inside, and pulls her knees into her chest. She wraps her arms around her legs and rocks back and forth, tears streaming from her eyes as silent sobs wrack her body.

The prison was her own personal version of Hell, but it was her home. It was the only place she’d known for more than twenty years. The small spaces, the darkness, the dampness of the shower. It brings it all back, and she finds herself rubbing her wrists in harsh circles where the restraints used to be, squeezing until her skin bruises where she’s freshly scarred.

She hides it from them, washing her face with cold water before returning to the day. But they know. They know you don’t just move on from what she went through. Sam and Dean are patient with her - as patient as they can be with a fully grown woman who has the social skills of a child.

She still can’t remember her name, and Dean has taken to calling her, “babe.” Sam doesn’t directly address her, really, just kind of fits himself into conversations when she’s already involved so he can avoid it altogether. They’ve given her books from local libraries and secondhand stores, taught her to write, taken her to hobby shops, craft stores, antique stores - places they know don’t get too crowded unless it’s a special occasion. She’s picked up painting, and while the books she chooses are small and look childish compared to Sam’s, she loves to read them. 

One night, while they’re eating dinner in Dean’s car, she sees the brothers share a silent look, and she knows she’s supposed to avoid listening to their conversation. They exit the car and stand at the front bumper. Pretending to be lost with her nose in her book, and fully avoiding looking at them, she reads and rereads the same sentence six times while eavesdropping on them.

“We have to tell her soon, Dean.” Sam’s muffled voice comes from outside the car.

“Tell her what, exactly?” Dean’s voice sounds taught.

“We can’t just let her think this was all normal. People don’t just - she can’t just go on like this.” Sam stumbles over his words.

“She’s doing fine, Sam. I don’t want to throw her back into that hell. She’s moving on.”

Is she moving on? She hasn’t thought about her captors in a few days, which is the longest stretch yet. She likes being with Sam and Dean, likes living with them, even if they are strangely codependent and rarely leave each other’s side. She’s codependent too; she wholly depends on them to support her, but if she lets her imagination wander just a bit, she could swear Dean depends a little on her too. 

The nightmares come back that night, after they check into another motel. In her sleep, she relives the day the men came for her, the day they murdered her family and dragged her to hell on Earth. She relives every day within the confines of those four walls, rats as her only companions. She wakes most nights sweating, crescent-shaped indents pressed into her palms, her head pounding as she tries to unclench her jaw. Tonight is different. She can’t wake up. She feels herself dreaming, knows she’s asleep, but her body locks her into her subconscious and holds her there - a prisoner again, but this time inside her own mind. Her eyes flood with tears, they streak down her cheeks as her eyes hold shut.

She screams.

Sam and Dean bolt awake, Dean running to her from his place on the couch across the room. He holds her shoulders, more gentle than he should be in his panic. 

“Babe?” He rasps, his voice full with the hoarseness of sleep. “Hey, wake up. Come on.” He shakes her softly. His fingers stroke over her cheekbones, move up to just below her eyes, swiping at the tears falling from them. “Wake up.” The tone of his voice shifts. He’s pleading.

Inside her head, the nightmare changes. It’s never done this before, but tonight, as Dean holds her, her brain conjures something new. The door to her cell, the concrete room, opens. Instead of Alexander or one of his sons, a black cloud zooms through the doorway and forces itself down her throat. Her body goes rigid, both in her dreamland and in Dean’s arms.

In the nightmare, she chokes on the black smoke in her throat. In the motel room bed, she thrashes and screams. When the air finally leaves her lungs, her body sags like there’s nothing inside, no bones to keep its shape or support its weight. She inhales sharply, a gasp like she’s been underwater too long and has just reached the surface. As she breathes in, Dean looks into her eyes. His own breath catches in his throat at what he sees. Her left eye, usually a gray hue that seems to match the color of the sky on a rainy day, mirroring the sun fighting its way through the overcast clouds, has turned wholly black.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this before, Dean. A demon possession through a dream?” Sam raises his brows. “There’s no way. Right?” He looks at his brother. “Right?”

“You think I have an answer to that?” Dean snaps. “I’m seein’ the same thing you are.”

“I’ll make some calls.” Sam runs a hand through his hair.

“See if anyone’s had a case like this.” Dean nods his agreement sharply. “I’ll stay here with her.” He tosses Sam the keys, which Sam catches swiftly before he takes off toward the car.

Dean returns to her, her eyes their normal stormy hue again, but the blackness flickers like a loose lightbulb.

She sits on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the side so hard her knuckles are white. Her breathing is shaky, her whole body is trembling, she hasn’t spoken since before she fell asleep last night, since before the nightmare. Dean perches himself beside her tentatively and waits. He sits for just shy of thirty minutes before she moves, before she makes any indication of being conscious of the world around her.

“A demon.” Her words are quiet, her voice matching the quaking she shows on the outside.

“I - I’m not really sure where to start explaining this to you.” Dean admits.

“Maybe you could start by telling me what your brother means when he says I was possessed by a demon in my sleep.” Her tone is new to both her and Dean, a bite behind her words neither of them has heard.

“We don’t know.” Dean’s confession burns his throat. They - he and Sam - have never dealt with this before. Demon possession is usually pretty straight-forward, an exorcism would take them out and send them back to Hell. But this - the demon half showing its face, half hidden - that’s new. “We’re afraid to try anything we usually do because - because you’re obviously still you, and the way we usually handle demons doesn’t, uh - doesn’t end well for the suit.”

“The suit?” Her eyes all but bulge from her head. She’s a suit, being worn by a demon. She shakes her head to rid herself of the thoughts. “So demons are usually…”

“Demons usually inhabit people who are dead or close to it.” He sighs, running his hands down his face. “Or if someone summons them.”

“People… summon… demons…” She forces her eyes shut and clenches her teeth together.

“Since pretty much the dawn of time, I’m afraid.” He grimaces at the truth. He knows it all, it’s nothing he’s unfamiliar with, but bringing it to light like this, to someone who’s never known the darkness that exists in the world - aside from the horrors of human beings - it feels like he’s ripping open a wound in her, and in himself. She shouldn’t have to deal with this. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. Sam shouldn’t have to deal with this. 

“Me and Sam, we try to… handle things like this. Exorcise demons, hunt monsters, put ghosts to rest.” Dean continues his explanation cautiously. “But it’s just the two of us, and we’ll never get them all. They’re still out there, always will be.” He swallows. “And we - we’re gonna take care of this. Of you.” He reaches for her hand, covering it with his own. “We’re gonna figure it out.”

She believes him. She feels his hand over hers and she knows he’s real. He’s telling her the truth. 

She trusts him.

When Sam returns over five hours later, he’s visibly distraught. His fingers have been tangled into his hair, running through it to relieve stress.

“So, nothing, then.” Dean notices the look on Sam’s face, follows him down the bunker’s long corridor of a hallway, then into Sam’s room.

“Nothing easy.” Sam huffs and falls onto his back on his bed. He closes his eyes and lets himself settle into the mattress. “She’s like, a one-in-a-million case.”

“Of course she is.” Dean mutters under his breath. 

“She is right here.” Her sharp tone is back as she eyes them from where she’s leaning against the doorway. “What did you find? How do you… research stuff like this?”

“Oh, Sammy is an expert.” Dean teases, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood while he plants himself firmly in Sam’s desk chair.

“Well, not much of an expert if he can’t find a solution.” She realizes how rude she sounds, especially talking to the men who saved her life not two months ago. “I’m sorry. I - I shouldn’t have said that, I know you’re trying, and I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Sam sits up slightly and glances at her. “You’re welcome.” He brings himself fully upright and turns toward her, long legs dangling off the side of the bed. “I’m sorry I can’t find much, but it was only one day. I’m still looking.”

“I know.” She nods slowly. “I know you are. You’ll find something.”

Dean clears his throat to interrupt them. “What did you find?”

“There’s an exorcism, one different than the one we usually do. That was the first thing I found. In dad’s journal.” Sam explains, eyes moving between the two of them.

“So then let’s try it.” Dean offers. “An exorcism won’t hurt. It’ll just send the demon back to Hell. It won’t hurt her.” Dean finds her eyes. “Thoughts?”

“I - I mean…” She hesitates, obviously unfamiliar with the way things usually go with a demon exorcism. “Sure.”

Sam sends a knowing look in Dean’s direction and shrugs. He moves to his bag in the corner and digs through it, under the clothes, until he finds a flask of holy water, a Bible, and an old leather bound book - the journal he had mentioned, maybe? He skims through the book, finds a page that looks like it’s taken a beating over many, many years, then clears his throat.

“You - you should maybe lay down? Close your eyes? Find a happy place and go there in your mind, or something.” Sam is out of his depth, completely unsure how to make an exorcism more comfortable. “Uh…” He looks at Dean. Dean shrugs and walks toward her, holding out his hand and guiding her into the room, closer to Sam’s bed. 

She takes it cautiously. “Is it… gonna hurt?”

“It might.” Dean offers his honest answer. “I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been through it before.” She nods and he laces their fingers together. “I - I can…”

“Hold my hand?” She chuckles. Dean smiles and squeezes her hand in confirmation. “Thank you.” She makes her way onto the bed, then lays down and Dean sits beside her, their hands staying connected as Sam begins his incantation.

“Crux sacra sit mihi lux

Non draco sit mihi dux

Vade retro satana

Numquam suade mihi vana

Sunt mala quae libas

Ipse venena bibas”

Sam’s voice fades as his eyes flicker between the pages of the journal and the bed where she’s laying. Dean’s gaze never leaves her - her face, her body, their joined hands. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t react to the exorcism, the Latin being spoken over her. Her black eye doesn’t return, her body doesn’t seize; she just remains completely still, eyes closed while Sam recites the words in front of him. When he’s done, he recites it again, flicking the flask, half open, across her body and sprinkling her with holy water. Again, there’s no reaction. Her skin doesn’t sizzle, her eye doesn’t flicker to an onyx abyss, nothing changes. 

She cracks an eye and glances sideways at Dean. “Am I… okay? I don’t feel anything.”

“You’re okay.” Dean assures her. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you’re okay.”

Sam huffs and shakes his head. “I don’t know either. For right now, this is all I’ve got. Give me another few days and I’ll figure something out.”

“Do you need help?” She sits up, fingers still linked with Dean’s.

Sam’s brows jump in surprise as he looks to Dean. “You wanna help check this out?”

“I do. It’s my body.” She shrugs. “I’d like to get this - this demon out of me as soon as possible, and I can read… kind of.” She mutters the last part as quietly as she can manage, but they hear her and give her a look she assumes can only mean they’re skeptical. “I’ve been reading a lot since you brought me here.”

“She has.” Dean nods toward the stack of young adult chapter books in the corner. She brings them to Sam’s room when she’s done so he can return them to the library for her, on the off chance she doesn’t want a change of scenery.

“I swear, I’ll keep my head down and be quiet. I just want to figure this out.” She promises, then her voice falters. “I - I’m not ready to give up.”

Sam narrows his eyes and looks between the two of them, contemplating. “Yeah, alright.” He finally caves, directing his eyes to Dean. “She can come.”

It’s another week before she finds any kind of lead. Despite her unwanted passenger - a demon from the literal depths of Hell hitching a ride inside her skin - the week isn’t entirely unpleasant. She spends most of her hours nestled into a back corner in the Lebanon City Library, rifling through old tomes, searching for any word that even looks like the word demon. 

She finds a few ideas, tries them herself. She dunks her head into a sink full of holy water. She presses wooden crosses to her chest, then switches to pure silver instead. She swallows a handful of salt - admittedly, Dean’s idea. There’s no result, no change in her, not even a glimpse of the black eyeball that haunts Dean’s dreams.

Her dreams, meanwhile, subside. She no longer has visions of the room she spent twenty years locked inside. She doesn’t see the faces of Alexander, or Russell, or Justin, or Danny. They’re not digging their blunt fingertips into her forearms or the sides of her neck. They’re not dragging her along the cold, hard floor despite her being chained in place, they’re not choking the life out of her because she called one of them a bastard. They’re gone. Her dreams seem to be nothing more than a thick cloud of black smoke, and it’s simultaneously the most comforting thing and the most terrifying thing she’s seen in quite some time.

One afternoon, a Thursday, while Dean is out on a “milk run” (whether he’s actually getting milk or not, she’ll never know), she finds something. She runs from the back of the library through the wooden rows of shelves - a hushed scolding coming her way from a middle-aged woman pushing a metal cart and reshelving books - to the front desk, and checks out the book in her hands. After a too-long process of obtaining her first ever library card, she doesn’t bother to wait for Dean to return to pick her up, just bolts out the door and follows what she thinks is the way back to the bunker. 

The way home.

Sam is seated at a table in the war room, Dean insisting he stay in case she needs something while he’s gone. The bunker door swings wide, immediately sending Sam on the defensive. His knife in one hand, gun in the other, he springs upright and takes cover behind a wall. He peeks around it, until he sees her walking through the door. She’s panting - she’s been running - and she’s carrying an old book under her arm.

“I got something!” She calls into the empty room, her voice echoing off the metal walls of the chamber. “Sam! It’s - I think I found it!” 

“Oh my God I almost killed you!” Sam shouts, emerging from his place behind the wall and tucking his gun into the waist of his jeans behind his back. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t!” She reasoned without hesitation. “You didn’t kill me, and good thing, because I think I just found the solution to our problem.”

“Our - you mean your problem.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not the one running around with a dormant demon living inside me.” She looks at him incredulously. “Alright, what is it?”

“We need a mirror.”

“We should wait for Dean.” She watches as Sam gathers what he thinks they’ll need - ropes, gallons of holy water, buckets of salt.

It’s the ropes that get her. They stop her dead in her tracks, make her trip over her words, get her heart pumping nearly twice its normal speed.

“What are they for…” She deadpans, eyes locked on the offending supplies.

“What are-” he stops when his eyes follow her gaze and fall on the ropes. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sam stumbles as he reaches for the ropes, looking for a way around using them. “We - I’ll find another way. I just wanted to - to hold you in case…”

“In case the demon comes out and I try to hurt you.” She nods. “We should wait for Dean.”

But Dean doesn’t come back. Not that night, and not the next morning. 

It’s nearly midnight, on the day after she found a potential answer, when Dean finally falls through the bunker door. His face is caked with blood - not his own, there’s not a single scratch on his perfectly symmetrical face - and he has a knife dangling from his hand like he had to fight his way through something to even approach the bunker.

“Dean…?” Sam finds his way to the door. “Dean, where the hell have you been? I’ve called you like eight times.”

“Yeah, Sammy. I know. It wasn’t as easy as we thought it’d be to summon them and then get the answers we need.”

“Answers?” Her voice comes quietly from behind Sam. “You did this for me? To help me?” Dean’s face falls. She isn’t supposed to know.

“Yeah, babe. We did.” He confesses. “I summoned a few demons, kept them held inside the biggest and most brutal devil’s trap I’ve ever drawn, and I questioned them. I asked them everything I could’ve possibly asked them. They have no idea what - who - could be living inside of you. They haven’t noticed anyone missing, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t missing from downstairs.”

“From Hell.” She begins to understand. It’s slow-going, her picking up on the nuances of what he’s saying. Dean Winchester is torturing demons.

Torturing demons.

It hits Sam at the same time, the realization of what Dean’s doing - what he’s doing again.

“Dean, I think we-” Sam starts, but she cuts him off.

“I think we have the answer.” She glares at Sam. “I think I found the answer. Yesterday.”

Dean’s eyes grow wide. “That’s why you called so many times.” His eyes find Sam’s, and Sam nods.

“We wanted to wait until you came back.” Sam explained. “In case-”

She interrupts him again. “In case the demon came out and I couldn’t hold it back. In case Sam was in danger. In case we needed you to…” Her voice falls to the floor along with her gaze. 

“In case you needed me to kill you.” Dean’s voice is rough, and she’s not sure if it’s with grief at the realization of what he might need to do, or because he’s been torturing demons for the last forty-eight hours.

“In case you need to kill me.” She nods. “Sam - he wanted to restrain me with-”

“No.” Dean jumps in. “No way in Hell.”

The pun isn’t intended, but it does make her chuckle, which earns a scowl from both brothers.

“We - you are not restraining her in any way, shape, or form.” Dean continues after her muttered apology for the chortle. “No ropes, no chains, no cuffs. She will never be tied up again, do you hear me?”

“Dean.” Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Loud and clear, dude. I got it. No ropes.”

“Good.” Dean said sternly. “I’m gonna shower.” 

“Uh, yeah, you should.” Sam sidestepped to clear a path for Dean. “Then we can-”

“Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll talk about it.” He gave a single nod to his brother, then another to her. “We’ll get that damned thing out of you, and if I never see another black-eyed-sonofabitch again, it’ll be too soon.”

Dean disappears and reemerges with reddened skin, having scrubbed fiercely at the bloodstains on his arms and hands. He goes first to the refrigerator and the unmistakable sound of a bottle cap leaving a glass bottle echoes through the silence of the bunker’s kitchen, followed within two minutes by the sound of empty glass clanking against the metal countertop. He makes his way into the room with Sam, looking around for any signs of her.

“She said she wants a minute.” Sam answers Dean’s unspoken question.

“Got it.” Dean nods. “What’s the plan?”

Sam explains what she found, the mirrors, the incantations, the reason he’d considered using restraints. Dean’s on board with all of it - all of it except anything being tied around her wrists or ankles. He’d never see her like that again, so helpless and tied up, desperate for escape. They’d saved her, brought her into their home, given her back a chance at the life she deserved to have. He couldn’t be the one to make her feel like that was being taken away from her again. He knew about the showers, about the closets, about the small rooms she secretly tried to find as an escape. He knew she was stuck inside her head more days than not.

And he also knew about her mother.

About the way her mother had sold her soul. The way it took more than a kiss to seal the deal from that particular demon. The way her mother fell pregnant as the deal was written in the stars. The way the demon came knocking that night, with a crew to back him up, and upturned every ounce of her life. The way they took down her parents, jammed a knife into her sister’s ribcage, found her in that closet, threw a bag over her head, and dragged her to that hellhole of a basement where she spent the next - the last - twenty years.

Every demon he’d summoned while he was gone, they’d told him all about it. They knew it was a button they could push and he’d react every time. She’d become a weak spot for him, and it was so blatantly obvious to everyone but himself.

Sam clears his throat and shakes Dean from his thoughts.

“Whatever we need to do - whatever I need to do - I’ll do it. I’ll hold her back myself.” Dean offers.

“Dean, I can’t let you do that and you know it.” Sam rolls his eyes. “She could hurt you. She could kill you.”

“She won’t.” Dean shakes his head. “She won’t kill me. It’s still her in there, I know it, Sammy. We just have to get her back to her again.”

And they do.

She enters the room. Sam has a mirror, veiled in black cloth, perched against a wall at the far side of the space. She looks at him and nods knowingly, then finds Dean’s eyes. He meets her gaze and walks to her, reaching out his hand. She places hers in his palm and he runs his thumb over her skin.

“We’re gonna figure this out.” He promises, and she nods as he looks into her eyes. She feels it, the charge between them, and it’s Dean who acts on it. His face leans toward hers, tilted just so, and she inverts the position with her own face before meeting him in the middle. Their lips find one another in a gentle brush before the kiss turns needier from both sides. Dean pulls her closer, his hand leaving hers in favor of the small of her back. Her body is against his, a fire within her she’s never known before. Her fire comes from anger, from sadness, from darkness, but this feels like a light.

She pulls back, her eyes lift to his, and Dean grabs her then by the upper arms. He spins her to Sam, to the mirror, and she catches sight of her left eye - fully shrouded in pitch black. She gasps, but Sam has already started the incantation. By the second word, he uncovers the mirror and Dean forces her right in front of it. When she tries to turn away, a growling sound emanating from her chest, up her throat, and finally into the air, Dean wraps an arm around her chest and grabs her chin with his other hand. He wrenches her face back to the mirror and watches as her face melts into a mask of pure, unadulterated pain. She’s shrieking like he’s never heard a woman scream before, and then a flash of red-orange light comes from within her. It outlines her ribcage, her heart, her lungs, the column of her spine, neck. and throat, and then with a whoosh, black smoke pours from her mouth. It fills the room, clouds the mirror, a shrill sound coming from within the column of blackness, and falls to the floor before dissipating back into the depths of Hell.

She collapses against Dean’s body, her eyes closed, jaw slack.

“Shit.” Sam runs to them, crouching so he’s level with her limp body. He reaches up and holds her face, presses two fingers against her neck. “She’s alive.” He glances up at Dean with confirmation in his eyes. “She’s alive.” The relief floods Sam as Dean’s own washes through him, his shoulders sagging when the weight finally leaves them.

Dean lifts her, cradles her against his chest, and carries her back to his room. He lays her in his bed, pulls the blankets over her, and sits in a chair across the room. He stays there, guarding her, keeping watch over her, until her eyes flutter and she wakes with a start.

He’s there in an instant, by her side. “Hey, hey.” He holds her gently. “Hey, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

She crashes into him, her body falling against his chest while she buries her face into the crook of his neck. She wraps her arms around his neck and sobs. He holds her. He just holds her through the worst of it, until she finally pulls back and her eyes find his. 

The gray-blue of them has returned, fully, in both eyes. She’s back.

The adrenaline courses through their veins, the high, then the relief of it all. She lunges for him, crashing their lips together in a fit of thankfulness she doesn’t quite know how to otherwise express. His hands hold her face, fingers pushing into her hair behind her ears, thumbs cupping her jaw. Their breaths mingle, she smells him again, that leather-gunpowder-coffee-whiskey scent, except this time, she can taste it too. It’s on his tongue as it slides over her lower lip and into her mouth. He invades her senses.

She grips the collar of his shirt, pulling him over her as she lays down. His body presses into hers where their hips meet, his pelvis settles between her thighs. She’s never felt like this before - so desperate for someone else to touch her. She needs this, needs his weight on top of her to keep her grounded. She needs him to distract her from the reality of what happened outside this room. She realizes suddenly that it’s not her room, but Dean’s room that they’re in. She takes in the sensation of his soft blankets surrounding her, of how the sheets, especially the pillow, clings to the scent of Dean more than any other place in the entire bunker. His lips are everywhere, kissing from her own lips to her jaw, down to her collarbone. He stops as his lips hover over her soft skin.

“I need to know that - that this is you, that you’re fully aware of what is happening right now.” He huffs, and she knows he’s holding himself back. She can see the restraint in his eyes.

“It’s me.” She assures him. “It’s me, Dean, and I want this. I want you.”

It’s all Dean needs to hear. It’s her - he’s sure - for maybe the first time since they’d found her, for maybe the first time in her entire life, whether she knew it or not.

His hands move down her body, trailing over her ribcage, finding her hips and giving a tentative squeeze, over her thighs. She arches her back, creating a friction between them she’s never felt before. His lips ghost over her skin, teeth scraping, just barely, at the junction of her neck and shoulder, and she’s never realized how sensitive that area is. His hands are on her hips again, but he’s barely holding her. His palms are simply resting over the hem of her shirt.

He’s being gentle. She’s never done this before, but she knows gentle isn’t what she wants, isn’t what she needs. Dean is wound tight - from the summoning, the questioning, the torturing, the exorcism. He needs a release, and so does she, so that’s what she’ll give them both.

“Dean.” She whispers, and he stops moving. His lips cease their assault on her neck, his hips no longer rut against her inner thighs, his hard length no longer strains in his jeans while it presses against her clit through the fabric of their clothes. He pulls his body almost entirely away from hers. “Stop holding back.”

Something snaps inside of Dean, his movements are no longer languid, but rather rushed, choppy, frantic. He’s gripping at her clothes, silently asking to take them off of her, and when she agrees with a panted, “yes,” he’s tearing them from her body. The garments hit the floor, and before he can bring himself over her again, she tugs at his shirt. Reaching up, Dean discards the fabric with one hand, eyes locked on hers before they begin to roam over her body.

“So fucking beautiful.” Dean huffs.

She’s put on weight since they found her, her bones no longer visible on her torso. She’s put on the weight in the right places, too. Her hips have plumped up, something for him to hold onto. Her breasts are fuller, and he takes the time to appreciate that particular fact with not only his hands, but his mouth as well. His tongue glides around her right nipple while the thumb and index finger of his hand pinch the left. After he laves over the hardened bud, he bares his teeth and bites into her sensitive flesh. 

A cry leaves her lips, his name lost on a whimper while he descends her body. His tongue trails down the center of her abdomen, tracing a line from her cleavage to her belly button, circling her navel before dipping into the elastic of her underwear. His teeth scrape at the fabric before catching it between them, then dragging it downward. His hand comes to aid him in pulling them down her thighs, over her knees, until they finally find her ankles and she kicks them off. When he’s back between her legs, she realizes he’s shed his remaining clothing as well. His skin presses against hers, the two of them moaning in sync as their most intimate parts meet. 

She doesn’t know how, but she knows she’s ready. She doesn’t want anything else first - just him. Just the intrusion of his cock pushing into her and stretching her to her limits. She tells him so, and he checks, double checks, that she’s sure, and then there he is. The head of his cock notches against her opening and she whimpers. He’s not even in yet, and she’s barely holding on. 

It hurts, it burns, it’s so much, but it’s not enough. 

“Please.” She writhes beneath him, scared to move too much. “Please, Dean.”

He pushes further, entering her at a glacial speed. The front of his pelvis meets the wet warmth of her as he bottoms out within her. Her head is thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure - or pain, he’s not sure which - until he slowly backs out, dragging his cock within her walls, and she exhales. The sound could’ve come straight from a porno, and Dean’s body reacts as if it has, as if he’s living inside his own personal porn video right now. She’s blissed out, wholly strung out on his cock, and he’s barely even thrusted. She’s so good, so tight, so warm wrapped around him. 

She pushes up to meet his first thrust, slow, but deliciously so. His movements pick up speed, but it doesn’t matter how fast he’s going, how he’s moving, the rock or roll of his pelvis. All she feels is him. He’s filling her so full, stretching her with every move, and she knows it’ll hurt tomorrow, but she wants it. She wants the pain. Pain is all she’s ever known, and for the first time in her life, the pain feels good.

Dean’s thumb first hits his tongue, wetting it just enough, and then finds her clit, circling it with purpose. He’s pushing her to the edge, but she’s already on her way off the cliff. As his finger circles her again, for only the third time, she falls. It’s a freefall into nothing. She’s hanging in the open air while her body shakes beneath him. She’s supposed to feel the crash, she knows she is, but it doesn’t come. She just falls, and then she feels him falling right beside her.

He’s losing himself to her, in her. He’s filling her completely, emptying himself inside of her. It’s reckless, it’s irresponsible, and they both know it, but they don’t care. They can’t find it in them to care about anything other than this moment, right here, right now. They’ve fallen together for the first time, and they both know it’s far from the last.

She looks down then, catches a glimpse of the sheets below them as Dean withdraws himself from within her, and she sees it. There’s blood. 

She’s given everything to him, let him take it all without a second thought, and she knows then, that Dean Winchester holds her heart. And she’d let him rip it to pieces, let him leave her just as he’d found her - just as he’d fucked her - vulnerable, bleeding, raw.

She’s sleeping soundly, Dean laying beside her, but he has no idea what’s raging behind her closed eyes. For the first time in weeks, she has a nightmare. A real, true nightmare, no longer just a cloud of black living in her subconscious. They’re back. Alexander, Russell, Justin, Danny. They’re surrounding her, knives in their hands. Only there’s someone else with them now, a woman. Her brain, even asleep, even on the brink of death, would recognize this woman.

It’s her mother.

She’s weeping, the screeching sound of her sobs breaking through the men’s voices, splitting her ears from the inside out. Then a sound breaks through the shrieking, and she realizes it’s her mother’s voice. She’s speaking, or trying to.

“Run away.” Her mother says. “Run from him.”

From Alexander. 

But her mother shakes her head. “Not them.” Her eyes move to the corner of the room, to a mirror - an exact replica of the mirror they’d used to pry the demon from her body. In the reflection of the mirror, she can see herself, and someone standing behind her. She squints, trying to clear her vision. When she does, she gasps. It’s not just someone standing in the mirror. 

It’s Dean.

His arms are wrapped around her waist, holding her stomach - her pregnant stomach. She gasps and flicks her eyes up to meet Dean’s, but her heart falls to the floor when she sees who - what - is staring back at her. It’s Dean, but it isn’t.

She’s staring into deep pools of nothing but darkness. His eyes are black.

Forever Tags: @atc74 / @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce / @beththedemonhunter / @blacktithe7 / @caswinchester2000

@chelseadanielle19 / @countrygal17a / @danathewitchywoman / @deansgirl7695 / @deanwanddamons

@elizzysnow13 / @ellen-reincarnated1967 / @emoryhemsworth / @esoltis280 / @essie1876

@feelmyroarrrr / @foxyjwls007 / @heartsaved / @hillface89 / @holyfuckloueh

@hunterpuff / @in-deans-arms / @ladylachesis / @lilredniki / @linki-locks11

@mottergirl99 / @mrswhozeewhatsis / @notyourtypicalrose / @plaid-lover-bay25 / @riversong-sam

@sandlee44 / @sea040561 / @shaelyn102 / @smoothdogsgirl / @deanna45

@soulmates8 / @speakinvain / @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester / @spnbaby-67 / @supernatural3002

@superromijn / @tumblr-tidbits / @vicmc624 / @voltage-my2dlove / @wayward-gypsy

Dean Tags: @adoptdontshoppets / @ashki8278 / @cherrycokegirls1 / @clarewinchester / @dean-winchesters-bacon

@deanandsamsbitch / @deansgirl215 / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @iamabeautifulperson18 / @lessons-of-red

@mereka18 / @princessofthefandomrealm / @shamelsslydean / @torn-and-frayed / @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou

♡ Thanks for reading! ♡

Feedback? Leave it here!

Want to be tagged?

[rubyvhs]

show me love [ part two ]

synopsis. you find out dean is dying but he’s just as much of an asshole as he was the first time you met him tags. 0.8k words, major character death, angst, hurt no comfort, fwb,, fills my ‘last words’ jacklesverse bingo square. part one

January 2006

You: I’m on my way, is Bobby there?

Sam: Nah, he’s out getting grub, how far out are you? I can come with the impala.

You: Dean?

Sam: Bingo.

You: Asshole

Sam: Asshole

See? I know you so well.

You: You’re not funny. You’re dying and you kept it from me?

Sam: To be fair it only started a month ago

You: You’ve knows for a fucking month? How did that even happen?

Sam: Demon deal.

You: Why?

Sam: Sammy was dying. I did what I had to do.

Right?

You: yeah, D. Of course you did. How does Sam feel about it?

Sam: He’s pissed and trying to find a way to fix it.

I don’t want him to fix it, the demon was clear and I don’t want him to die again.

You: We’ll figure it out.

Sam: I miss you.

You: Same.

Sam: Is that all I get? ‘Same’?

You: Yeah, cause I hate you right now. You’re the most immature person i’ve ever met and you’ve played with my feelings to fucking much that I thought I was actually going crazy. 

You sleep with me then leave for weeks, no texts in between.

Even fwb don’t act like that!! That’s what the ‘friends’ part is for.

Sam: I’m sorry.

You: Whatever.

Sam: We’ll talk when you get here?

+

Dean: Where are you? Burgers don’t take that long to get.

You: I can’t believe you made me do this again.

Dean: Made you?

You: Not like that but you pulled me in again. And it’s all my fault because I love your eyes and if I look into them while you say anything I automatically agree and I hate you.

Dean: You say that an awful lot before we do something that’s the exact opposite.

You wanted as much as I did, sweet girl.

You: Obviously I wanted you but it’s wrong and horrible for everything other than my lust.

I came here to help you and Sam find a cure, not so we could start sleeping together again, I’m over that, Dean.

Dean: Why do we have to be? You’re my friend but we both want each other, why is that so wrong?

You: You know why.

Dean: And you know we can’t have that, we’re hunters.

You: Oh really? I forgot. 

Dean: I’m serious, why can’t we just be together without that part

It’ll mess everything up

You: How the fuck would it ruin things, Dean? 

You’re dying in a year and you still can’t find it in yourself to look at me like anything other than a convenient lay. 

Dean: Sweetheart you know that’s not what I think of you.

You: I’ll stay at a motel until Sam needs me. I’ll try researching, stay safe.

Burger is coming to your place.

Dean: Hey, c’mon.

That’s not what I meant.

You have to know that.

You: I’ll text you guys if I find anything.

March 2006

Dean: It’s coming faster than we thought. Sam made some stupid mistake and now they’re taking off some months.

You: How long do you have?

Dean: A month. 

You: Are you serious? I didn’t find anything to help, I’m sorry, Dean.

Dean: I don’t want anything, I just want you. I miss you.

You: Dean come on, we shouldn't do anything, you’re going to die, we need to find a way to stop this.

Dean: I don’t wanna stop it. I just want you. 

Please, baby.

You: Location.

+

Dean: Can we meet? 

You: Just to talk?

Dean: Sure, just to talk.

You: Location.

+

Sam: Dean’s phone is off but he said to ask I where you are, we wanna pass by.

You: Sure.

+

Sam: Have you found anything?

You: No

Sam: Okay, can you come by? Dean’s asking for you.

You: Location.

April 2006

Dean: I’m getting real sick which means it’s coming soon.

You: Where are you?

Dean: I love you.

You: What? What the fuck, Dean? What the actual hell! Where are you??

Dean: Doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to see me like that, it’ll just mess with your head. I love you and I’m sorry I didn’t say it before and I’m sorry you thought you were just convenient. 

Still don’t know how you think that, we’re literally never in the same state.

But I love you. 

You: I love you too, but please just tell me where you are.

Dean: I love the way you style your hair too. And your eyes, really love when you just woke up and they’re just half way open. And you looks at me in that way and I just love it. 

You: Are you drunk?

Dean: No, just on the brink of death.

You: Dean please.

Dean: I’m scared.

Is that bad? I did this for Sammy and I’m trying to be strong for him but I’m scared.

You: We’ll get you out. Please please know that.

Dean: I do. 

Dean: I love you. Idiot.

You: I love you more, asshole.

join the taglist. @loverslantern @justwhisperingfantasies @saltcxrcle @blossomingorchids @darling-eos @ltotheucyy @daylighted @1967barracuda @iloveyou2mia @ghost-0rch1d @ladysparkles78 @iliyad @bubbleraccoon00 @spnaquakindgdom

[mrs-pondwater19]

~The Fallout²~

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

-Lucifer Possessed Sam x Fem Reader

-Synopsis: After spending so much time in isolation, you receive a most unwelcome visit by the Devil himself. While he seems cordial, you sense there's more to his arrival than he lets on. Underlying tension, discussions of past experiences, and unearthing deep seeded adoration leave you hurt, confused, and unsure.

WC: 2,049

A/N: Hey my loves, not much to say other than get ready for some angst and mega tension. I highly recommend reading part one before this but if not that's ok too.

Lmk if you wanted to be added to the tag list. Hope you all have a wonderful day and enjoy my lovelies 💗

WARNINGS: S5 SPOILERS, angst, mentions of a weapon, passive intimidation, mentions of past relationships, sweet talking, positive connotations, genuine adoration, preludes to Sam being cognizant.

"Can't escape the fallout

Feel the fire rain down

See the shadows rising all around

Can't escape the fallout, fallout.”

You raised your gun up, pointing the barrel at him, trying to keep a clear head as your breath drew heavy.

You knew it wouldn't do anything if you actually shot him. It would only hurt Sam, but you hoped maybe it'd give you the upper hand.

You had a clear shot. One move of your finger and it would rip right through him.

But then he looked at you.

The soft hazel color you had grown to love staring into your own.

As you stared down the barrel, tears burned your eyes as you tried to find the strength to keep your gun pointed at him.

You took cautious steps towards him, your hands shaking still as you held each other's gaze. Watching his every move as you made your way to the hemlocks. Feeling the flowers brush up against the sides of you. Until you were standing face to face with him. The barrel of your gun pointed directly at his chest. Your eyes locked on the beautiful hazel hue of Sam's eyes.

He could see all the emotions that swirled within you at the sight of him, the anger, the pain, and frustration. The seething disdain for him was prominent in your eyes as you held your weapon to his chest. To see the body and soul of someone you loved so dearly being used by him, Lucifer.

But he could also see the strength that you carried. All the love and passion that lay dormant in your heart. The loyalty you had to those you loved and cared about.

Something he remembered seeing in you when you first met all the time ago.

Something he always admired in you.

And all he could do was smile as you pointed your gun at him.

Which caused your resolve to shatter completely.

Even though it wasn't Sam. Something about it still felt very him. Like he was still sentient somewhere deep down in the murkiness of the Devil.

Once your hardened gaze melted away, you let out a defeated, ragged breath as you lowered the gun ever so slightly. His fingers carefully moved to the barrel, pushing it to the side knowing you weren't going to pull the trigger.

"I must say, that's not the most polite way to greet someone.”

You gave him a sour expression as you let the gun fall slack on its sling. Letting it rest against your front of you as you spoke, bitterness lacing your tone.

"Forgive me for my lack of manners. But the last time we saw each other, you were forcing your way down my friend's throat and took over his body to be your vessel. Doesn't exactly leave a lot of room for being cordial if you ask me.”

His expression hadn't faltered as he smiled still. A hint of confidence in his eyes as he towered above you.

"I understand your position. You have every right to be angry and cautious. But I promise I'm not here to harm you.”

You raised your brow in suspicion. Granted you knew he was never one to lie. And deep down you knew if he wanted to cause you harm he would've done it by now.

But there was always a catch with him.

An end goal.

"Then why are you here?”

“I just wanted to stop in, see how you've been holding up. It's been a while since we last saw one another.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes in disbelief as he said it so casually. As if you two were longtime pals who were catching up with one another.

As if he didn't cause the apocalypse.

“Don't even, we both know there's always more when it comes to you. It's never just pleasantries.”

You spat back.

“Maybe so, but that doesn't make my statement any less true.”

He said calmly as he took a step closer, letting his knuckles brush up against your cheek as he drank in your features. His skin was cold and unfeeling. And yet searing hot at the same time.

You wanted to pull away from his touch, to feel absolutely disgusted by him.

Yet you couldn't bring yourself to move, seeing the way Sam's eyes drank you in. Memorizing every detail of your face. Every mark, every wrinkle, every curve and dip.

Like he was admiring the most beautiful painting in existence.

Your mind was screaming at you to flinch away.

But you just stood there, frozen as you felt his shadow rise and cast over you.

"I can see the weariness in your eyes. Your inner struggles have a strong hold on you. Perhaps you've been alone out here too long. Poor thing.”

That was enough to break you of his trance and gently pull back from his touch. our eyes narrowed, cold and defensive under his gaze.

But he wasn't wrong.

Was your soul so truly transparent that he could see right through you?

"Don't patronize me. You don't know a thing about my struggles.”

"Oh but I do. I know ever since that day, you've been struggling to find your footing. To find where you fit in all of this. To find a place where you belong. And it wasn't with Dean or Castiel. No, you knew your place was out here. Alone.”

There was a hint of mockery in his tone. Almost as if he pitied you for making the decision to live out the apocalypse in isolation.

But you held your tongue, knowing better than to bite back at something like him.

You didn't respond, instead, all you could do was stare at the man in front of you. Your frown fell away from your face, replaced with a more solemn expression.

Feeling absolutely hopeless and hurt at the sight of him. Remembering the man who used to inhabit the body before you.

A sweet, kind, honest man.

A good man.

A man who always had good intentions behind everything he did. Because he was someone who cared about something bigger than himself.

Because he loved so deeply.

And now all of that was reduced to just being a hollow vessel.

"So you've come to mock me then? Is that it?”

His expression softened at the sight of your tears now falling freely. His eyes never left yours as he kept still. Not wanting to scare you off now that he finally found you.

“No, I'm not here to mock you. I'm just stating the facts. Nothing more.”

You didn't have a rebuttal. And as much as you wanted to be angry at him for it, you really couldn't bring yourself to be. And as you stood there holding his gaze you could see the way he looked at you.

While most of it was out of curiosity and intrigue. There was something a little lying beneath the surface. Something more raw swimming in the hazel hue of his irises.

Appeal.

You felt a shiver crawl up your spine at the look in his eyes. Feeling your heart jump against your rib cage, your stomach twisting at the familiar feeling that ignited in your chest. A feeling that you and Sam shared so long ago.

A feeling you chose to forget.

Seeing the way you shifted under his gaze made him smirk ever so slightly. Knowing he was already getting under your skin without even trying. He stepped closer, his arms gently moved up and his hands cupping your face as his thumbs wiped away your tears.

“Just get to the point, the sooner you do, the sooner you can get out of my sight.”

You said in a strained manner, not allowing yourself to break anymore than you already had.

He leaned in, closing the space between you two a little more as his eyes bore into your own as he spoke in a sickeningly gentle tone.

“Hm, you were always so perceptive. Seems that hasn't changed, but very well. I won't waste anymore of your time...So then, where is he?”

A beat of silence.

You knew exactly what he was asking.

He was looking for Dean.

“I don't know.”

You whispered, your voice breaking. The tears continued to fall down your face, coating his thumbs and palms like morning dew.

You watched as he searched your entire being to see if you were deceiving him. To see if your soul presented any form of dishonesty in your confession. Hoping that he could take the opportunity to pry it out of you if he could.

But to his dismay, you were completely honest.

Truly not knowing where Dean was or had been since you disbanded from the team.

It was better that you didn't know where Dean was. It kept him and everyone else safe.

A way to show your loyalty to them, even if it meant becoming estranged.

He chuckled softly as he spoke,

“Still so loyal after all this time. Keeping him safe and the others out of harm's way. Knowing you could suffer dire consequences because of it.”

His hands never moved from your tear soaked, flushed cheeks, holding you in place.

“I’ve always respected that about you. How loyal you are to those you care about. Sam and Dean especially. You were never afraid to put yourself in the line of fire for them. Never afraid to back down even if it meant you'd get burned…”

He paused. Letting a full, disgustingly sweet smile fall on his lips.

“You would've made such a wonderful follower for me had I met you first.”

You scowled at him as you felt your stomach twist at the thought of being one of his pawns.

To be something as vile and conniving as a demon.

“You mean like Ruby?”

He paused at your venomous inquiry. The smile fell off his face, replaced with a serious, hardened expression.

“No. Not even close.”

He stated firmly before he continued.

“From the beginning I knew Ruby had her own agenda, wanting to get into my good graces and to use that for her own selfish gains. It was never about my cause, it was about using those around her to her advantage. About being in a position of power, to have control, and she wasn't afraid to manipulate anyone in order to get what she wanted.”

He paused for a moment.

“But you, my dear. You have always been loyal. From the moment I first met you, from the moment I looked at your soul. I could see your passion and undying loyalty to the Winchesters. It was always about ensuring their safety. Benefiting their cause. Devoting yourself to them. That was the kind of follower I wanted to serve me. To stand by me.”

His hands gently moved down your cheeks to your neck. His gaze darkened as he gently pushed away the collar of Sam's old Carhartt jacket that he'd given to you so long ago now.

The only reminder you had left of him.

He slowly revealed the bare skin underneath the withered material. Watching the skin of your neck flush and pulse.

“They were the lucky ones. Sam especially, having someone as strong and loyal by his side. To love him and support him unconditionally.”

His cold fingers ghosting over your skin as he whispered those words to you. Causing you to feel a jolt ripple throughout your body. Whether it was desire or disgust, you weren't entirely sure.

“Don't.”

His hand stopped at your sharp tone, lingering for a few seconds longer on your bare neck before resting on your shoulders, as if he was trying to break you down a little at a time.

“He still thinks about you. Every now and then I feel his soul stir when there's something that reminds him of you. I can feel his yearning. His heartache. How much he wishes he could hold you in his arms again and never let you go. To tell you all the things he never got to say.”

It all came crashing down when you heard him say that. Hearing that Sam was still in there, that he still thought of you from time to time.

That broke you.

~To be Continued~

•Taglist•

@ratkidcalledallie

[supernotnatural2005]

Gahh Jolly! What a piece 😍

And i feel like you’re in my brain! I am literally going through this at the moment. People might not think so because i’ve been still posting quite consistently, but they’re all fics in my drafts from months ago 😭

It sucks so much feeling this way. I get the readers frustrations. 🫠

And then Dean!

You captured him so well! 👌🏻The way he just inputs himself into her bubble, but with all that wonderful charm and adorableness 😅

And then you got me with that ending, i wasn’t expecting that lil twist there but i loved it, and of course even if she was the one causing all the problems, he’s thinking of a way to score 🤣

This whole fic was wonderful, i loved it all 🥰❤️

As for my gif contribution:

(I’d argue that’s more Jensen than Dean, but, if the face fits 🤷🏻‍♀️🤣)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x Writer!Reader [Early seasons vibe]

WARNINGS None! No use of Y/N. English isn't my native language.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You're in your favourite diner; Got your coffee, breakfast, laptop in front of you. It's the perfect time to write. If it wasn't for the writer's block that's holding you in a chokehold. Oh, and the guy who has decided to join you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~2k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES This silly little thing's dedicated to all my moots who’ve fallen victim to the writer’s curse just like me. I feel you. We can do this!! We can break the curse!!! 🫂

"Doesn’t suit you." A playful voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

"..Huh?" You look up just in time to see a well-worn leather jacket brush past your shoulder.

The booth seat across from you is being filled as a stranger slides in. A plate in one hand and a spoon in the other. Your eyebrows rise, and for a moment you debate whether to tell him the seat is taken.

But the guy doesn’t seem to notice your thoughts. He’s busy ogling his food, humming a curious ‘hm’, and then shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. All the while he continues to mutter, his words now half muffled, "That thing you’re doing to your face."

You blink at him.

He puffs his cheeks, and green eyes travel up to meet yours for the first time, "Makes you look like the Grinch." His lips quirk into a smirk.

What? The audacity.

You stare at him with a deadpan. "Thanks for the compliment." He continues to chew, the flakes crunching. Accompanied by a content hum. Well, at least someone’s enjoying their breakfast.

"Just sayin’." He purses his lips before he eats another spoon, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk’s and an eyebrow arched. "What’s up with the face, sweetheart?"

"Uh," - is all you can manage at the moment. Too distracted by the way he's guzzling his yoghurt like a starved caveman. All eyes fluttered closed and nodding to himself like he's thinking ‘Finally, some good fucking food’.

He swallows. Tongue darts out to swipe a white dribble off his upper lip. When his eyes suddenly snap open, you avert yours in record time.

Your gaze's now fixed to the edge of the table, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room. Left and right of it an elbow each. Of course you had to drop your gaze right between his arms. Well, this is awkward.

"You working on somethin'?" He suddenly asks, and you startle like a deer.

Your lips part - ready to form an answer - when you watch him splotching your notebook in slow-motion.

Your eyebrows twitch in irritation. You dart out a hand, just managing to pull your papers back before another dribble of his slobber taints your notes.

"Dude, please, you’re eating like a barn animal," you comment under your breath, face scrunched up as you wipe the stain off your paperback. Way to lose ones charm.

"But a handsome one," he quickly retorts. And stuffs another spoon into his wide grin, swallows and jerks his chin at your laptop. "So?"

Okay, fine. Maybe he still does have charm.

Your eyes follow his gaze down to the screen facing your way.

"I’m writing," you reply flatly, trying to hold his curious gaze as you tuck your papers safely under your forearms.

His expression flashes into a surprised one. Probably more at your tone than the answer itself.

Granted, the words 'I'm writing' should have come out enthusiastic. They at least used to. But that was before you’d been staring at a white screen for what felt like weeks.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, the sound muffled as he keeps shovelling the muesli down his hatch. "Can I see?"

"W-what?"

How- how dare he? Only an uncultivated potato would ask that. This is like the biggest No-No. One does not simply ask a writer to look at their unfinished work. You don't stare at a painter when he's still painting. That's like asking someone to strip naked. And then have them bend over.

Let’s ignore the fact that there’s not a single written word to be ashamed of. Because there’s literally not a single written word in your doc.

"No." The answer probably came faster and more obvious of your inner panic than it should have, because to him it clearly translated to; 'Oh? Then I‘ll see it all the more.'

"Aw, c‘mon." His teasing grin spreads, the spoon tipped against his lower lip, "I won‘t judge." Damn it, why does he look kinda adorable?

Before you can react, the guy clamps the spoon between his lips, reaches over the table with his free hand and tilts your laptops screen back down.

"Hey!" you smack his hand away but it‘s too late - his grin just grows and he chuckles.

"Writing, huh? You mean you’ve been staring at a white wall. Here I thought you were writing some spicy stuff about me. What’s all the fuzz about?"

"I- I'm just... I'm still thinking..." you mutter and avoid his gaze behind a hand, trying to cover up the slight tint of embarrassment that’s crept onto your face. "I've got it all in my head, though." You try to back up your answer. He tilts his head back with a chuckle.

"All in your head, huh? For how long this been going?" he quips, lips twitching amused.

"Well, uh-" you begin, then clear your throat with an awkward rub of your neck, "A few days... or... weeks... maybe..." Your voice lowers more with every word until it's reduced to a sheepish whisper.

"Damn, that sucks." he huffs.

"Yeah," you admit with a heavy sigh, "It does."

For a moment you just share a look. His green eyes watch you closely. Calm and curious. But without ever being obtrusive. More like he's trying to get a read on you, like he's patiently waiting, allowing you to open up and reveal more.

And for some reason you find yourself to do just that.

"It's so frustrating, you know?" You begin and slump back in your seat. But he holds your gaze, the entire time and nods subtly, silently telling you to go on. "Like I've got all the ideas in my mind. I can see the scenes play out, can hear the characters talk. But the same moment I try to write it down, it all just-" you break off with a huff, gesturing a 'poof' with your hand.

After a moment, you add another frustrated sigh. "Honestly? Feels like the damn pipeline between my brain and hand's constipated." His eyebrows shoot up at that description.

"You’re an odd one," he laughs and sets the emptied plate down, "I like it."

"Pfff - look who’s talking. Mister 'handsome barn animal'." You jab and can’t help the chuckle. He smirks satisfied at your reaction, tugs at his leather jacket and winks at you.

You roll your eyes with a wide smile.

"What's your name?" You ask curiously.

"Dean," he answers simply. Then leans forward to rest on his forearms, "And you, sweetheart?" Your ears flush when he comes closer and you suddenly become very much aware of the effect his intense gaze has on you.

"I- uh, I'm -" you introduce yourself with your name and he repeats it with a smile, like he's committing it to his memory.

There's a moment of silence again and you don't quite know what to do or say - luckily he seems to have picked up on your inner distress.

"So," he begins, his face suddenly taking an air of - what was it? Business-like? Professional? You couldn't quite tell. "Back to your constipation."

"Yeah? What about it? You interested in my constipation?" You return the question, trying to imitate his new tone.

"Y-yeah," He tries to stay serious, but you both have to bite back a chuckle. "I am, actually."

"What about it?"

"This may sound stupid, but..." He mutters and rubs his forehead like he knows the question that'll follow isn't formulated very well, "Can’t you just, write? You know, like will it through?"

"No- That’s not how it works... it’s - it’s not that damn easy- it's - you don’t understand… It's not that I don't want to. I - I just - ugh-" You groan, face dropped to your hands.

You take a deep breath. The frustration of the past weeks threatening to break down on you again. Your eyes begin to sting and you screw them up in an effort to keep yourself from having a full on breakdown in front of a stranger. In a full diner no less.

"Hey, it’s okay, I believe you." he says with a lower voice now, the flirty attitude gone. The sudden change in his tone and his last words catches you off guard.

Your eyebrows pull together and you lift your head just enough to meet his gaze over the edge of your screen.

The air gets caught in your throat when you notice how close he is. He’s leaned across the table, emerald glinting pools searching your face for a trace of an escaped tear. His hand twitches but he puts it back down before it brushes yours.

"Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s not your fault, ‘kay?" He murmurs. Almost like he’s sharing a secret with you.

"What? What are you talking about..?" And your voice drops to an equally low level to match his.

"You’re doing great, sweetheart. Trust me." He reassures you but avoids your question with another cheeky smile.

Although this one seems different. Genuine. And soft at the corners.

Unfortunately you don't even get to fully take it in when he's suddenly up on his feet. His eyes dart around the diner before they return to you, a hand raised to ruffle through his dark blond hair.

"I gotta go," he mutters, his attention suddenly drawn down to his empty plate, "Ah - Could you pay for that? You're a real sweetheart."

"..What?"

He doesn't wait for your answer as he slides out of the booth and rounds the table. When he's next to you, he stops for a moment and leans in.

"Oh and - Don't do anything stupid, okay?" He whispers. Then straightens his back again, throws you a flirty wink and a wave of his hand while he bounces off with a casual, "See ya~"

"Uh-" your gaze follows him, perplexed, before you echo his words under your breath, "Yeah... see ya."

You kinda hoped you would.

Wait- why would you do something stupid?

The diner door jingles when Dean steps outside. After a glance left and right, he walks towards a taller guy. He looks not much younger than him, but longer brown hair frames his face, his focus on the papers in his hands.

When their eyes meet, Dean jerks his chin at him and he follows him round the corner and out of sight of the diner.

"And? You got a lead?" He asks hopefully.

"Yep." - He pops the ‘p’ - "Looks like it's our lucky day, Sammy. I think we've got our patient zero." Dean takes charge and heads over to a black Chevy, his hands fidgeting in his pants pockets for the car key.

His bow legs bounce off the concrete floor while Sam follows him with long strides.

"You think it's a deal gone wrong? Or maybe some sort of black magic that backfired?" Sam thinks out loud as he flips through the journal in his hand.

"I don't know man. She seemed pretty clueless to me. Maybe Bobby was right, and it is a curse." The car lock clicks and the trunk flings open.

He pulls out a shotgun and props it up against the lid before he starts rifling through the various contents. "I don't even know what I'm looking for." He sighs.

Sam rubs his temple with equal frustration, "Great. How the hell do we get rid of a writer’s curse?"

"Beats me." Dean huffs, then tosses a set of wooden stakes aside and leans back to run a hand through his hair, "Maybe we should call Bobby again…" - he turns to flash a boyish grin at his brother - "...and then check her out some more?"

Sam groans, "Dude, can you not think with your dick, for two seconds please?"

"What? She’s cute. Plus, she’s got that whole ‘tormented soul’ vibe."

"Seriously? Chances are, that she’s the cause for all of this crazy crap that’s going on in this city."

Dean’s smirk doesn’t falter. Instead he shrugs his shoulders unperturbed, "Let’s pay her a visit tonight. If she turns out to be a witch, we just gank ‘er."

"Dean," Sam scoffs and drags a hand down his face, "I know that look." Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

Sam shakes his head, followed by an incredulous chuckle, "Come on, man, you know you can’t charm your way into her pants. She's clearly not the type for a quick fling. And you’re not exactly Shakespeare."

Dean gets the shotgun out from under the lid and throws it back into the boot. "Oh Sammy, you've still got to learn a lot about women," he says, slamming it shut.

Sam rolls his eyes when his older brother turns to pat him on the shoulder, before he takes off to round the Impala. He pulls the driver's door open while Sam does the same on the opposite side.

"Mark my words, Sammy." He laughs and points a finger gun at him across the roof. "Every girl likes it dirty. Some just don’t show it."

If you reblog, I demand at least one gif of Dean that fits the last line. Cuz I couldn't find the one I was looking for and I want to wake up to many many flirty Dean gifs 😂

Dean Tag List

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99

@salemslostwitch @supernotnatural2005 @lamentationsofalonelypotato (I'm tagging you for this because our talk partially motivated me to write this ♡ and to post it even though I hate it lmao 😂)

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

malevolence

part II

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: After finding out Dean is possessed by a demon, Bobby has sent you away to one of his cabins. One you didn't even know existed. One that's supposed to be safe.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 4,886

A/N: Ahhhhh. Need him in a way that's dangerous to my insides. God, I'm so gross. Anyways, I hope y'all like this as much as I liked imagining it ahaha. <3 Again... these gifs. Ugh. The is part two, so... part three will probably be up later (depending on how high my motivation levels stay) but failing that, definitely tomorrow. I'm gonna state now, for the record, that I have literally been typing so fast today (my best is 90wpm, but it's been like 97wpm today... don't know why, and I am not complaining) so I imagine I'm probably gonna post a few more things today/tonight. All the love.

You didn’t talk much on the drive.

Rufus had filled the silence just fine on his own—grumbling about Bobby, cursing the road, complaining about how “the old bastard always pulled shit like this,” like building a secret cabin deep in the woods was a personal betrayal. You’d nodded a few times, given the occasional hum, but your thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Still back at the house. Still pressed to the counter. Still trembling under hands that hadn’t belonged to Dean, even if they’d felt like him.

That was the part that made you sick.

That it hadn’t felt wrong. Not then. Not until later. Not until the holy water. The hiss. The look in Bobby’s eyes when he said the words out loud.

That thing ain’t Dean.

You’d clutched your bottle of water tighter and nodded along as Rufus cursed at the trees.

This cabin wasn’t like the others. You’d been to all of Bobby’s usual places over the years—run-down hunter shacks tucked off forgotten dirt roads, where the walls smelled like smoke and the furniture creaked if you breathed wrong.

But this place… this place felt like it didn’t want to be found.

The drive to it had been nothing more than an overgrown trail, barely wide enough for the truck, weaving through the trees like it had no destination. It hadn’t even looked like a road. Just forest and shadows and the steady hum of wheels over roots.

And then, without warning, the woods had opened their mouth and spit it out.

The cabin was small, sun-bleached, older than it looked. Tucked into the edge of a lake like it had been forgotten there, hidden away from the rest of the world. The water stretched out endlessly behind it, framed by trees so dense they swallowed the horizon. The kind of place that didn’t exist on maps. That didn’t want to be remembered.

Rufus had carried the groceries inside. He hadn’t asked if you were okay.

He hadn’t needed to.

He left with a muttered warning—“Don’t open the door unless it’s me or Bobby”—and then he was gone.

Now it was just you.

You sat on the old couch, knees pulled to your chest, Bobby’s shirt still wrapped around your shoulders. It didn’t feel as safe as it used to. It smelled like the kitchen. Like last night.

Like him.

The silence was thick. Heavier than you expected. There were no hums of traffic. No creak of floorboards overhead. Just the faint groan of the old wood settling and the occasional hush of wind through the trees.

You hadn’t even known this place existed. Bobby had never brought you here. Not once. And that meant something. That meant he was scared.

You reached for your phone, screen glowing too bright in the dim cabin light. One bar. Maybe two.

It’d have to be enough. You hit call and held it to your ear. The dial tone echoed through the room like it didn’t belong there. Like nothing here did. Like you didn’t.

You didn’t know what you were going to say. Only that you needed to hear his voice. Only that you needed someone to tell you it was going to be okay—even if it wasn’t.

The first ring had barely finished before he answered.

“You okay?”

No hello. No soft landing. Just Bobby’s voice, all gravel and bark, tight around the edges like he hadn’t unclenched his jaw since you left.

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay.”

From the other end of the line, you could hear another voice. Faint, indistinct, but familiar. That rhythm, that tone. You knew it.

“Rufus got me here fine,” you added, curling further into yourself on the couch. “Helped me carry the groceries in. Told me not to answer the door unless it’s him or you.”

Bobby didn’t answer right away. You heard the soft creak of wood, the shift of weight. He was moving—probably pacing, probably pinching the bridge of his nose, probably working through ten things he didn’t know how to say.

You hesitated. “Is that Sam I hear?”

“Yeah,” Bobby muttered, like he didn’t love confirming it. “Boy showed up a few hours ago. We’re tryin’ to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on with Dean.”

You pressed your thumb to the seam of the flannel wrapped around your shoulders and stayed quiet.

In the background, Sam’s voice floated through the phone, clearer this time. “Can I talk to her?”

A beat. Some rustling. Then Bobby’s voice again, closer.

“You up for that?”

You nodded before realising he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

There was the muffled scrape of the phone changing hands, and then Sam’s voice—softer, lower, with that same cautious care he’d always had when you were younger and crying in the backseat of Bobby’s car after a nightmare.

“Hey.”

Your chest ached. You hadn’t realised how much you needed to hear that voice.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

“What happened?” He asked gently. “With Dean.”

Your breath hitched. For a second, you almost didn’t answer.

“He… he was flirting with me. Like, really flirting. Touching me like he thought he had some kind of claim.” You paused. “It wasn’t like him. Not really.”

You didn’t say more. You didn’t have to.

Sam let out a long, rough sigh. You could almost picture him rubbing a hand down his face.

“Dammit. He—he made a deal,” he said. “After Dad died. I didn’t know at the time. He didn’t tell me. I guess we’re still trying to figure out the details, but… yeah. It tracks.”

You closed your eyes. Let your head tip back against the couch cushion. Something settled cold in your chest. More shuffling, more rustling, and then Bobby’s voice returned, cutting through the static like a knife.

“Alright, listen to me. You stay put, you hear? You don’t go outside. You don’t open that door unless it’s me or Rufus. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You let the silence stretch a little too long.

“Why didn’t I know about this place?” You asked. “This cabin. I’ve been to all the others. Why keep this one secret?”

You could hear the scoff in his throat before he said it.

“You don’t need to know all my damn business, girl. But this?” He paused. “This is exactly why I got places like that. Tucked away, quiet. In case the world decides to go sideways.”

It already had.

Bobby exhaled into the receiver, and something about the sound made your throat go tight.

“Be safe,” he said, and it landed more like a plea than a command.

“I love you,” you said, barely above a breath.

There was a pause. Then:

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “You too, kid.”

The line clicked dead. And just like that, you were alone again. The silence swelled. The wind moved through the trees like a warning. The lake held its breath. And you sat in the quiet, trying to remember which part of you had wanted him to kiss you back.

You must’ve dozed off somewhere around the second shootout.

The Western on Bobby’s old VHS copy had long since fuzzed into that flickering loop of gunfire and tumbleweeds, the dialogue dipping in and out like the tape was gasping for breath. The couch underneath you was stiff and uneven, the cushions worn thin from age, but you hadn’t meant to fall asleep there. You’d meant to just… rest your eyes.

The creak that woke you was sharp and sudden.

You blinked, sitting up fast, breath catching as you looked around the dim room. The air was cooler now, the lake wind whistling faint through the old cabin walls. The only light came from the television—flickers of orange and white against the far wall as some nameless cowboy fired off another round into the dust.

You exhaled slowly.

It was just the wind. Just the old wood groaning under its own weight.

You stretched, arms lifting above your head as you yawned. Your body ached. Your mouth was dry. You rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand and glanced toward the dark hallway leading to the bedroom.

Time to sleep somewhere that didn’t smell like mildew and motor oil.

You pushed yourself up from the couch. And then—

Knock knock knock.

You froze. Your heart lurched in your chest, sharp and immediate.

What the hell—

Your head turned toward the front door, still half-shrouded in shadow, the porch light outside long dead. The knock hadn’t been frantic. It hadn’t been loud. It had been gentle.

You took a step back without meaning to, bare heel brushing the edge of the rug. Bobby hadn’t called. Rufus hadn’t either. No one should be here.

Knock knock.

Again. Softer. Closer. And then—

“Sweetheart.”

Your stomach dropped.

The voice was low. Familiar. Soothing in the way only his ever had been. That gentle hush he used when you were little and bleeding from a scraped knee, shaking too hard to hold still while he cleaned the cut. The same tone he’d used when he’d called you over to sit on the hood of the Impala while the sun set, a bottle of Coke in one hand, his flannel hanging open.

Like that voice still lived in your bones.

“C’mon, open up,” he said. “S’just me.”

Your breath caught.

You took a step forward. Tiny. Barely there. The kind of step you could pretend hadn’t happened if someone asked.

His voice came through the door like a ghost.

“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you.”

Another step. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, baby. You know that, right? I just… I needed to see you. Needed to talk.”

The TV flickered behind you—gunfire, dust, a man dying in the dirt. You barely noticed it.

Dean’s voice was all you could hear.

“You left so fast. Thought maybe you were scared of me or somethin’.” A pause. A low, breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of. You know me.”

You shook your head—but it was slow, weak, like your body didn’t fully believe it.

You did know him. You knew the curve of that voice. The rhythm of those words. But something behind them was wrong. You took another step anyway.

“Open the door for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, soft as sin. “Let me see you.”

You were at the edge of the rug now. One more step and you’d be on the old wood floor. Another after that and your fingers would be at the lock. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. You knew it wasn’t him. You knew. But God, he sounded so much like home.

“C’mon, sweetheart… please.”

It wasn’t the word that undid you—it was how he said it.

Like he meant it. Like he was standing on the other side of that old wood with his shoulders slumped and his head low, like the world had been too cruel to him and you were the only thing that ever made it better. Like he was yours.

Your throat worked around a breath.

“Dean?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. A whisper. A prayer. And then—God—you heard it.

That smirk. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a bend in the syllables, a smile shaping the air between you. Like he knew you’d say it. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“Yeah,” he said, low and warm. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

Your hand lifted slightly. Your fingers brushed the edge of the doorknob.

“I need to see you. I’ve been lookin’ everywhere. You just… vanished.” His voice dropped, like it hurt to say it. “Thought I lost you.”

Your breath hitched. You stared at the door like it might open on its own.

“I... I can’t,” you said. It came out soft, shaking. “Bobby said not to let anyone in.”

“He was wrong,” Dean said immediately. “That wasn’t me, not really. The demon—it’s gone. It left.”

You froze.

“That’s not possible,” you whispered. “They don’t just leave. Not unless—”

“I’m hurt,” he said quickly. “Real bad. Demon can’t stay in a busted vessel. You know that. C’mon, sweetheart, think.”

Your mind was spinning. The words made sense, sort of—but they didn’t feel right. Still, he sounded like Dean. He sounded like the man who used to carry you on his shoulders, who used to patch up your scrapes and call you kid and ruffle your hair and smirk like nothing could ever touch him.

“I don’t—” You swallowed. “I don’t know if I can believe you.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” His voice dropped into something soft, velvet-slick and breaking. “You know me. You know me. I’ve known you since you were a little thing, running around Bobby’s yard with dirt on your cheeks and that oversized t-shirt draggin’ past your knees. You think I don’t remember that?”

Your breath caught. Your feet inched forward.

“You always climbed into my lap when you got scared during storms. You’d knock on my door at two in the morning just ‘cause you couldn’t sleep. Used to tuck your cold feet under me on the couch like I was your personal furnace.” He let out a small, breathy chuckle. “Used to drive me crazy.”

Your fingers curled around the lock.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you, y’know that?” His voice was quieter now. Closer. Like his mouth was just against the wood. “When I was on the road. When things got hard. I kept seeing your face.”

You pressed your forehead to the door. Eyes closed.

“Please, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Open the door. Just let me see you.”

Your hand tightened on the lock.

“I missed you.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

“I miss you,” he repeated, gentler now. Like confession. Like sin wrapped in satin.

Your thumb hovered over the latch. The lock clicked open with a sound that felt too loud in the silence. Your hand fell away like it didn’t belong to you anymore, your body moving without permission, chest tight and limbs heavy as the door creaked open to reveal him.

Dean.

Leaning against the doorframe, bruised and dusted with blood, eyes catching the moonlight in that soft, impossibly familiar way. Hair mussed. Jeans low on his hips. Flannel half-unbuttoned and clinging to a sweat-slick chest.

He looked like he’d crawled out of a nightmare just to find you.

And he smiled.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And then—he was on you. Strong hands grabbed the backs of your thighs, palms squeezing hard enough to bruise as he lifted you like you weighed nothing, slammed the door shut with his boot, and pressed you back against it—hard.

Your breath punched out of you on impact.

He shoved his hips forward, grinding into you through his jeans, his chest flush against yours, mouth dragging along your throat before you could even make a sound.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped against your skin, voice pure velvet and filth. “I knew you’d let me in. You've always been a good girl.”

His tongue licked up your neck, slow and hungry, like he could taste the guilt trembling beneath your skin.

“That’s it,” he whispered, hips grinding harder as you whimpered. “You missed me, didn’t you? All alone up here, touchin’ yourself thinking about me.”

You shuddered.

“You… you lied to me,” you breathed, fingers curling into his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

He groaned low in your ear, like the accusation turned him on.

“Yeah,” he said, no apology in it. Just smug, satisfied heat. “Sure did.”

His mouth was on your throat again, teeth grazing, lips dragging open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck as his fingers dug harder into your thighs.

“But you opened that door anyway,” he murmured. “Didn’t you?”

You gasped.

“You’re not—” Your voice broke. “You’re not Dean.”

He pulled back. Just an inch. Just far enough to look at you.

The expression on his face made your blood run cold—mock-hurt, mock-surprised, like he was wounded that you’d even suggest it. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, lips curling into that crooked, devastating smirk.

“Ouch, baby.” He said, soft as sin.

You stared at him, searching his face for the man you used to know—the man who used to call you kid and ruffle your hair and carry you on his shoulders.

But the man in front of you? He looked the same. He felt the same.

And still, he wasn’t.

He leaned in again, lips brushing yours.

“You think I'd let a demon wear me like a goddamn suit, sweetheart?” His voice dipped darker. “I made a deal.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, grinding his cock up into the heat of you through thin cotton as you gasped.

“I’m still me,” he whispered against your lips, breath warm and full of smoke. “Just... better.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” You whispered, breath catching in your throat as his hands gripped tighter, his hips still rolling slow and devastating between your thighs.

His mouth brushed your jaw, breath warm as sin.

“Why I did it doesn’t matter,” he said, like the answer wasn’t worth your time. “All you need to know is I don’t have that pesky guilt in the way anymore. Nothin’ holding me back.”

He thrust forward just right—hard enough to grind against that perfect spot between your legs, and a sharp little whine slipped out of you before you could stop it. God, you hated that sound. Because it was real. It was need. You hated yourself for it.

“You’re a goddamn fool,” you spat, but your voice was thin. Weak. Your body wasn’t moving away—it was pressing in, arching, wanting.

He laughed—low and delighted, like the sound had been waiting in his throat since you opened the door.

“Yeah?” He murmured, lips brushing your cheek as he nipped at your skin, gentle but stinging. “Well, maybe I’m a fool for you.”

His fingers dragged up the back of your thighs, under the flannel and over the hem of Bobby’s old shirt, bunching it at your hips.

“You think I didn’t see this coming?” He whispered, breath thick and warm in your ear. “You think I didn’t know what I was doing? Leavin’ little touches here and there, letting you catch me looking?” His hand slid between your legs, cupping you through your panties, palm heavy and hot. “You were always gonna be mine. All I had to do was wait.”

You gasped, hands curling into his shirt, your knees trembling where they locked around his hips. You wanted to push him away. You wanted to scream. But instead, your head tipped back as he ground into you again, your breath hitching on a moan.

“You wanted this too,” he rasped. “Didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because your body already had.

“You know what the best part is?” He breathed, rocking his hips into you slow, dragging against the soaked cotton between your legs. “You don’t even know how fucked you are.”

You shivered.

“Bobby tried to keep you out of all this,” he said, tone thick with mock-affection. “Kept you tucked away in his little salvage yard like some precious thing. Thought he could keep the world off you. Thought he could keep me off you.”

His hand slipped beneath your panties. Two fingers dragging through your slick like he already knew what he’d find.

“Guess he was wrong.”

You whimpered. He groaned, forehead dropping to yours, mouth open against your lips.

“You’re soaked for me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and reverent. “Fuck. You were made for this.”

His forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing close, breath warm and uneven as his fingers dragged slow and steady between your thighs, slick and unholy. Your pulse fluttered in your throat, shallow and fast, like something caged.

“Tell me,” he whispered, the words grazing your mouth. “You wanna finish what we started last night in the kitchen?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

You should say no. You know you should. Bobby’s voice still echoed in your head. All his warnings. All his rules. But all you could do was stare into Dean’s eyes—those wild, dark eyes burning with something you couldn’t name. Something ancient and wrecked and his. And he was looking back at you like you were already his prize. Like he’d already won.

He slid his fingers deeper—still teasing, still slow. Your hips jumped against his hand.

He chuckled against your lips. “You always were too fuckin’ cute for your own good.”

You whimpered. God. You hated yourself for it.

His mouth curled, cruel and soft at once.

“I’m only gonna ask one more time,” he murmured, voice low and sweet and merciless. “And then I decide for you.”

You swallowed hard. Tried to form a word. Tried to say no, even if you didn’t mean it. But all that came out was a soft, desperate sound—broken and breathless.

Dean smiled like a wolf.

“Good enough,” he whispered, and then he bit your bottom lip—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan—and slid his fingers deep, curling them just right.

Your head slammed back against the door with a gasp.

“Oh, that’s it, baby,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw. “That’s my girl. Fuck, you’re tight. You were made for me.”

You whimpered again, breath hitching, thighs twitching around his wrist.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Comin’ apart already. You like this, huh? Like being pinned up like some sweet little trophy, legs spread, crying on my fingers while you pretend it ain’t what you wanted.”

You shook your head weakly, but it was already too late. Your hips were rocking down into his hand, chasing every thrust, every curl, every filthy word like they were gospel.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he crooned. “Taking me so good, sweetheart. Fucking perfect.”

Your body was shaking, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The pleasure was white-hot, crawling up your spine like fire. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in, eyes wide with helpless need.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let go. Wanna feel you fall apart for me. C’mon, sweetheart. Gimme everything.”

And then you did.

You came with a choked cry, body spasming against the door, thighs clamping down around his wrist as he fucked you through it—low groans and breathy praise spilling hot against your throat.

“Just like that. Fuck, that’s it. That’s my good girl. So fuckin’ pretty when you come.”

You were still panting, still reeling, when he eased his fingers free and caught you as your knees buckled.

He sank to the floor with you—dragged you with him—and pulled you into his lap, your legs straddling his hips, the old flannel riding up high on your thighs.

His hands smoothed up your sides, slow and greedy, like he needed to memorise the shape of you. And then he pulled you down, mouth crashing into yours. Hot. Hungry. Possessive. You kissed him back like it might save you.

And maybe it already ruined you.

You kissed him like you were drowning. Hands gripping his shirt, thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and shaking as you let him drag you down against his lap like it meant something. Like this was still the boy who used to drive you to the gas station for slushies and let you win at poker even when you cheated. Like this was still Dean.

But then the heat started to fade. Then the weight of what you were doing settled sharp in your chest. You pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to breathe.

“I can’t,” you whispered, voice raw. “Dean, I—I shouldn’t…”

His eyes snapped open, green and molten, his hands still gripping your hips. And then he smiled. Soft. Sweet. Deadly.

“Shhh,” he whispered, smoothing a hand up your back. “You don’t have to do anything, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You froze.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your cheek.

“You know that, don’t you? I’ve always wanted to protect you. Always wanted to keep you safe.”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers curling around the edge of your panties, pulling them aside so slowly it felt like sin.

“You don’t need anyone else,” he murmured. “Just me. Only me.”

Your breath hitched.

His cock was hard against your thigh, already freed from his jeans, thick and heavy and hot where it pressed against you. You should’ve moved. Should’ve run. But his hands were on your hips again, guiding you, lining you up like he’d done it a hundred times in his head.

And maybe he had.

“I only need you,” he whispered, like a prayer. “Been needin’ you for years.”

You whimpered—low and helpless—as he dragged your hips down, just enough to let the head of his cock catch at your entrance, slick and throbbing.

“Dean—” Your voice cracked.

“I know,” he said, eyes on yours. “You’re scared. But you don’t have to be. You’re safe with me.”

And then he pressed up into you.

You gasped—choked—as he sank in slow and steady, stretching you wide, pulling you open inch by inch while his hands gripped your thighs, holding you there like you were something holy.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”

His eyes flickered. Just for a second. Black. Sharp and bottomless. And then green again—bright, burning, feral.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, hips thrusting up hard, dragging a broken sound from your lips. “You were made for this.”

You shook your head weakly, but your hips rocked into his anyway, body moving on instinct.

He grinned—mean and hungry.

“Yeah. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, pulling you down harder as he fucked up into you, thick and deep and filthy, his voice a constant hum against your skin.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said, panting, his brow furrowed in that same reverent way he used to look at you when you curled up next to him during old Westerns. “You’re mine now.”

You whimpered, hands clinging to his shoulders like they were the only thing holding you together.

“Might as well stop fighting it, sweetheart,” he growled, thrusts getting rougher, sloppier, meaner. “You don’t wanna fight it. You never did.”

He was right. God help you—he was right.

You didn’t even have time to scream. One second you were in his lap, his cock still buried deep, your body trembling from the stretch of him—

And the next? You were on your back, flat against the cabin floor. Hard. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped—but nothing came. Your mouth opened wide, your chest convulsed, and still—no air.

You stared up at him in stunned panic, lips parted, eyes wide, lungs heaving like they’d forgotten how to work. And Dean—Dean—just grinned down at you, all wicked teeth and devilish delight, his chest rising and falling above you.

“Well shit,” he chuckled, his voice smug and low and wrong. “Knocked the wind right outta you, huh?”

Your fingers clawed at the floor, body twisting underneath him, but he only pressed in harder, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your thigh and pulling it higher, opening you wide.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then he thrust—deep and brutal, knocking what little breath you’d managed to drag in right back out.

“Clenching up on me so damn tight,” he growled, eyes flicking black, staying black. “Can’t even breathe, and you’re still squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

You whimpered—half from fear, half from pleasure, all of it ruined.

He laughed again, meaner this time, low in his throat like it thrilled him.

“You scared?” He asked, panting as he fucked into you harder now, hips snapping into you with sharp, feral thrusts. “That little panic making you feel even tighter?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely even think. Your whole body burned. Every nerve raw. Your vision blurred around the edges.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours as he pounded into you. “Like heaven. Like fuckin’ home.”

Tears prickled in your eyes. It was too much. All of it. And then—his voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and reverent and evil.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna fall apart with my cock inside you?”

You shattered.

Your body arched off the floor, your mouth fell open in a silent cry, and your cunt clenched around him so hard he snarled, fingers bruising your hips as he held you down, fucked you through it, let you ride the edge until your vision went white.

“There she is,” he growled. “That’s my girl. Pretty little thing, takin’ my cock like it’s the only thing she’s ever needed.”

You couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop shaking. And still—he didn’t stop.

“Cry all you want,” he breathed against your cheek. “I'm not done.”

He didn’t slow down. Even after your body stopped convulsing, even after your voice had gone hoarse from the sobs caught in your throat—he didn’t stop. He moved like a man starved, like a beast let loose, like he was trying to bury himself inside you so deep no one else would ever find you there.

And then—he bit you.

Right at the curve of your neck, where your pulse fluttered wild beneath the skin. His teeth sank in, deep and deliberate, until you cried out again—not from pleasure this time, but pain. Sharp. Real. Tearing.

You felt the sting of it, the warmth of blood welling up against your skin.

His tongue followed. Slow. Lapping.

“Told you,” he muttered, voice thick, forehead pressed to yours as his cock throbbed inside you. “You’re mine.”

Another thrust. Brutal. Final. And then he groaned, loud and guttural, as he came deep—hot and heavy, spilling into you like a curse.

You gasped, body twitching beneath him, mind blank with overstimulation and the weight of him still pressing down.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his breath ragged against your throat.

“You’re never goin’ back,” he whispered, mouth still wet with blood. “Bobby ain’t getting you. Sammy can fuck off. The whole goddamn world can burn for all I care.”

His fingers stroked your cheek, too gentle for the wreckage he’d left behind.

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just laid there—broken and full, neck slick with blood, thighs sticky and trembling—while the wind whispered against the cabin walls and the lake sighed in the distance like it already knew what you’d done.

And somewhere, deep down—past the ache and the guilt and the shame—you didn’t feel scared anymore.

You felt claimed.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @jesstherebel <3

[ih21506]

Quiet

Pairing(s): Dean Winchester X Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warning(s): None

Summary: A supernatural AU where Lucifer is in his vessel (Sam) and he won the fight between him and Michael. Now, there are few people in the world, and you and Dean lead a group of survivors.

——————————————————

Today had been a long day of runs for resources and upping defences. In other words, everybody was ready to turn in for the night.

After dinner, you and Dean returned to your shared room. You quickly changed into a pair of shorts and one of Dean’s shirts, before you got into bed, then Dean was in bed soon after.

He laid close to you and rested his head on your chest, breathing in your scent as his body relaxed against yours.

After the long day you both had, he just needed this… he needed quiet, which he didn’t even need to tell you. Understand his need for quiet, you just laid in a comfortable silence with him.

Your hand moved up to his hair, your fingers threading into his hair and you heard him let out a soft, satisfied hum.

“I love you.” Dean broke the silence, his voice a whisper but you heard him, and all it took was those three words to make the butterflies flutter in your stomach.

“I love you too.” You said back in the same, soft whisper.

——————————————————

[wvyik]

not alone. d.w. ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

dean winchester x gn! reader

summary; after weeks of watching you withdraw, dean’s worst fears come true when he finds you hurting yourself. heartbroken and terrified, he holds you close, vowing to never let you suffer alone again.

warnings; self-harm!!! suicidal thoughts (implied), depression, emotional distress, descriptions of injuries, hurt/comfort, heavy angst with a comforting resolution, trust and healing, non-linear healing process, implied mental health struggles, affectionate!dean, reader withdrawing emotionally, dean blaming himself, mentions of isolation, light fluff at the end, the notebook slander (how dare anyone??)

notes; today is almost the first year anniversary since i stopped self harming :3 as much as this hurt to write, it also soothed me sm. mental health struggles are real, and it’s so important to know you’re never truly alone. if you or anyone you know is struggling, please reach out. you are loved, and you matter. based on this c.ai bot..

words; 1512

To say that Dean was concerned about you would be an understatement.

It had been weeks— weeks of watching you slip away from him. Not physically, no, you were still there, but emotionally? It was like you had built a wall so high he couldn’t even see over it.

You still smiled at him, still responded when he spoke to you, but it was like muscle memory, not real. The spark in your eyes had dimmed, and it scared the shit out of him.

Dean had tried everything. Small things at first; making your coffee just the way you liked it, putting on your favorite music while driving, cracking dumb jokes to get you to roll your eyes at him. But you just gave him a soft little smile and said, “Thanks, Dean.” That was it.

He started pushing more after that, pressing his hands against your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “Sweetheart, talk to me.” But you always reassured him in that quiet, almost distant voice, “I’m fine, Dean. I promise.”

But you weren’t.

And now, staring at you in the dim bathroom light, he knew just how bad it had gotten.

There was blood — fresh, trailing down your skin in shaky little lines. Your hand was still trembling, the razor blade clattering to the tiled floor. Your wide, tear-filled eyes shot up to him, panic flooding your face like you had been caught doing something awful.

Dean’s chest clenched so tight it physically hurt.

“Jesus, baby, no—no, no, no.” His voice broke as he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands reaching out but not wanting to startle you. “Look at me. Look at me, sweetheart.”

You hiccuped, tears slipping down your cheeks as you tried to yank your arm away, ashamed. Ashamed. As if you had done something wrong, as if you thought he would be mad at you when all he could think about was how much pain you must’ve been in to do this.

He caught your wrist gently, eyes scanning over the wounds, his heart breaking into a million pieces. They weren’t deep—thank God—but they were still there, still fresh, still proof that you had been suffering alone. And that? That was worse than anything.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked as he pressed his forehead to yours. “Sweetheart, why—?”

You shook your head, more tears spilling down. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered.

Dean’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Bother him? As if you weren’t the single most important thing in his damn life? As if you weren’t the reason he got up in the morning, the reason he still had any light left in his world?

“Baby,” he exhaled, voice breaking. “You could never be a bother to me. Never.” He brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles, your palm, your wrist—anywhere he could. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve noticed, I should’ve—”

“It’s not your fault,” you murmured, voice still a bit shaky.

“But it’s not yours either,” he said firmly, pulling you into his arms. You melted into him, clinging, fingers curling into his shirt as a sob broke free. Dean held you tighter, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other rubbing your back. “I got you, baby. I got you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He stayed like that for as long as you needed, whispering promises against your hair. That he wasn’t going anywhere. That he would help you through this. That he loved you more than anything.

Because you were his sweetheart. His baby. His whole damn world.

Dean didn’t let go.

Not when you shook against him, sobbing into his chest. Not when your fingers clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. And not when you finally went still, breath evening out in little hiccups, like the exhaustion of it all had finally caught up to you.

He just held you, his big, calloused hands running up and down your back, as if he could soothe the hurt away by touch alone.

How did I miss this?

Dean had always been good at reading you— he knew your tells, your moods, the way your face lit up when you were happy, and the way you bit your lip when you were worried. But somehow, somehow, he hadn’t seen how deep the pain had gotten.

That thought gutted him.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmured, shifting so he could carefully pull you into his lap. He leaned back against the bathroom wall, cradling you close, your face buried against his neck. “Just breathe, sweetheart. I got you.”

Your breath hitched. “I’m sorry.”

Dean’s chest tightened. He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands cupping your face. Your eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks damp, lips trembling— so damn small in his hands.

“Don’t.” His voice was firm but gentle. “Don’t say sorry. You hear me?”

Your gaze dropped. “I just—I didn’t know how to tell you. And I didn’t want you to think I was—”

Dean caught your chin, tilting your face up. “I think you’re human, sweetheart. That’s what I think.” His thumb brushed away the stray tears still clinging to your lashes. “And I think you’ve been carrying way too much on your own.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding just a little. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Baby, you scared the hell out of me.” He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours. “I can’t— I can’t lose you, okay? You mean everything to me.”

The words seemed to break something in you, because fresh tears spilled over. Dean didn’t hesitate, he kissed them away, his lips warm and soft against your damp skin.

“Sweetheart, listen to me.” He pulled back, eyes searching yours. “Whatever’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours.. you don’t have to deal with it alone. I’m here. Always.”

You let out a weak, teary laugh. “That sounds like something from a rom-com.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, shut up.” But there was the smallest, fondest little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You know I’m right.”

You nodded again, this time leaning into his touch. “Yeah.” Your voice was quiet, but there was a weight in it, like you wanted to believe him.

And that? That was enough.

Dean kissed your forehead, then your temple, his lips lingering. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Then we’re gonna talk. And if you don’t feel like talkin’, that’s fine. But you’re not shuttin’ me out anymore, baby.”

You hesitated, but then, slowly, you nodded.

And Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

You’re still here.

He wasn’t gonna let you go through this alone. Not now. Not ever.

It had been a month since that night.

A month since Dean found you in the bathroom, since his entire world nearly shattered in his hands. And in that time, he had done everything in his power to make sure you never felt alone like that again.

He didn’t push. Dean knew better than that. He knew you needed space sometimes, needed to process things on your own. But he made damn sure you always knew he was there.

And it showed.

You were still healing, he knew that. Some days were better than others, but today? Today was a good day.

Dean was lying on the couch in the bunker, one arm behind his head, the other resting on your back as you sprawled across his chest. The Notebook was playing on the TV (your choice, obviously), and he was half-watching, half-tracing circles against your spine.

“You’re actually watching it,” you murmured, tilting your head up at him with a little smile.

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “Nah, sweetheart. Just resting my eyes.”

“Dean, I literally just caught you reacting to the sad part.”

He huffed. “Listen, just ‘cause Noah’s a stubborn idiot doesn’t mean I care or nothin’.”

You gave him a knowing look, and he groaned, dropping his head back. “Oh, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” you teased, poking his cheek.

And then you did something that made his whole world stop.

You leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to his jaw. Out of nowhere.

Dean barely had time to react before you settled back down against him, curling up like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But it wasn’t. Not for the past month. You hadn’t initiated anything since that night; no kisses, no hand-holding, nothing. He hadn’t minded, of course. He was willing to wait as long as it took. But now?

Now, you were coming back to him.

Dean swallowed thickly, tightening his hold on you just a little. Not enough to startle you, just enough so you’d know.

Know that he felt it, too.

Know that he’d never take it for granted.

Know that he loved you.

And when you looked up at him again, smiling just a little?

Dean knew everything was gonna be okay.

for anyone who might need it, i’ve included a list of mental health hotlines. <3

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlesoulshine @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @twelveyearsofit ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡

[zepskies]

After getting to the end of this chapter I almost have no words at that TWIST. 🤯🤯😭😭

But first off, that trip to Walmart was hilarious loll. Dean struggling with his overprotective alpha-ness, and reader just dealing with it with good humor tickled me. 😂

...Followed by so much incredible hotness. 🥵🥵🥵

But OMG THAT POV SWITCH!! So creative to have it finally shift to the reader's POV there after the claim. Not only was the claiming moment so visceral, but I've never seen that done in omegaverse where each of them experience/see each other's worst moments. 🥲

Already from the sneak peek we're seeing Dean's predictable self-loathing, and I can't wait to see where to take this next with these two. 💗💗

TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 7

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 6.7k words

Chapter Warnings: SMUT including knotting, claiming, and marking; language, references to past sexual abuse, fluff, Dean being an overprotective alpha, soulmate bonding

A/N: *Holdsbreathandhitspost*

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over, arms leaning on his thighs, Dean twisted the small pill bottle in his hands, listening as each tablet fell to the bottom. There weren’t many, six at most, and they rattled around in there, waiting for him to open the lid and take one out. 

Or man up and throw them in the trash like he’d planned.

The problem was, he knew how his body would react to not taking the daily suppressant. He’d experienced it before. And if his inner alpha was overprotective of you now, it was about to turn into a possessive dick the second the drug’s effects wore off in T minus twenty-four hours, if he…

No. 

Not if. 

He was doing this. He was gonna claim you and make you his.

Which is why even though the trashcan was only three feet in front of him, he still sat there unmoving from the memory-foam cushioning his ass…

Fuck. Why was this so hard? 

He put the pills down on his bedside table and leant back into the mattress, fishing his phone out from his jean pocket. The denim hugging his hips was too tight, and he had to lift himself up a few inches to yank the device free, unlocking it with a couple of taps and a swipe up.

His fingers continued to work the touch screen, locating contacts, flicking down to the letter J, and hitting the green call button. At least there was one thing he wasn’t hesitating over.

He heard the click and a familiar voice fondly speak his name before he’d even brought it up to his ear. 

“Dean Winchester.”

“Hey, Jody. How’s it going?” Dean stood up off the bed and moved to the closet. 

“Good. Although I’m a little surprised to hear you ask me that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The door creaked in protest, as did his back, though it cracked more than creaked when he arched over to reach his green duffle he’d thrown on the floor after the hunt in Iowa. The couple of weapons he hadn’t bothered to put away hit against each other as the bag swayed and gravity played with their weight.

“Just that you don’t call me unless you need something or someone’s dead. Oh god. Is Sam okay? What have you boys gotten into now?”

“Alright, first off, that’s insulting.” He emptied the contents onto the bed, pulling out a shirt that had wound its way around his shotgun. “And second.” He brought the fabric up to his nose for a sniff test. It needed washing, or burning with added salt. The remnants of nameless monster guts clung to the collar, and he didn’t hesitate to throw it out. Those pills though... “Everything’s fine. Sammy’s alive last time I checked.

“I wanted to know how you were. What’s wrong with that?” He caught the phone between his neck and shoulder, freeing his hands up to open the chamber of his prized weapon. The racking was rather loud when he closed it back again, and he grimaced. Jody was going to notice that.

“Nothing,” she said. “But that’s not why you’re calling.”

Why did he attract people who could see right through him? “Well, ah, to be honest, I need a favour.” He took a long breath in, preparing himself to deliver his news. “I met my soulmate and—”

“What?” Her high-pitched squeal had him dropping his shoulder and her. “Are you sure?”

Seriously! It’s like she was trying to cut him deep. “What do you mean, am I sure? I know my own damn initials,” he shouted down at his phone. Luckily, it had only landed on the bed. He did not have the patience or time to get a new one.

He ditched the shotgun and picked up Jody, bringing her back to his ear. 

“So you’re no longer running solo, huh? Finally claimed someone! What are they? An omega, a beta? Or another alpha like you?” She chuckled. “I’d love to see that.”

‘Bitch.’

‘Dude. This is Jody.’

‘She’s insulting our mate.’

‘No, she’s insulting you, you dick.’

“Ah, an omega, and I haven’t claimed her yet,” Dean said, cringing when his inner alpha interrupted him again. His eyes searched for the pill bottle and gave it a once over. No, no. This was gonna be hell, but he’d grin and bear it. “That’s why I was calling—”

It was mid-afternoon when he pulled up in the expansive car park the next day. Dean had chosen a space at the back of the lot, leaving at least two free ones in between the Impala, and nowhere near the return bays. The last thing he needed was some asshole being careless with their cart and scratching Baby’s sleek paint job.

He shifted the stick into P, shut her engine off, and released a loud, drawn-out sigh, before turning to you and your smiling face. It was the only thing making the inevitable onslaught of other people and his first ever venture into Walmart worthwhile. 

If he had his way, you’d be sitting out front of a secluded Gas n Sip. There was nothing wrong with gas station snacks and take out. At least that’s the argument he’d used against you. Needless to say, he’d failed. You had the doe-eyed look down pat and gave even Sammy a run for his money.

The leather squeaked beneath him as he reached over you and opened the glove box. He dug through the fake IDs and old maps that had no hope of leaving the small compartment anytime soon and retrieved his 1911, tucking it into the waistband of his pants like usual. When he sat back up, he found you staring at him in disbelief. “What?” he asked.

“You’re taking that?”

His jaw tightened. “I always carry it with me. You know that.”

“Yeah, but…we’re getting groceries. What are you expecting to happen in a grocery store?”

“Nothing.” Try everything. “But you can never be too careful.” Wolves like Garth had to buy their raw steaks from somewhere. Not that the ordinary bullets he’d pre-loaded into the gun would kill anything other than a human. They’d slow the rest down, though. That was enough for him, and he’d keep telling himself that.

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, searching for the door handle.

Before he could squeeze his fingers against the cool metal, however, you had reached for his right and tugged at his arm. “You can wait here if you don’t want to go inside. I’m happy to—”

“Nope.” He gave one very forceful shake of his head. “Absolutely not.” There was no way he was letting you out of his sight with your impending heat. Screw his rut. 

Your pheromones had been changing by the hour, making you smell the sweetest and most enticing you’d ever been. His inner alpha was driving him crazy, and had done the entire drive, chanting, ‘Mine,’ ‘My omega,’ and now it told him to ‘Bring the machete.’ 

If only he could. 

‘I can’t hide a blade that big under my clothes,’ he reasoned. Although the demon knife wouldn’t hurt. It was a shame opening the trunk, with the devil’s trap on display in a place like this was bound to raise a few eyebrows. He did not want to draw any more attention to you.

Fuck. This was gonna be worse than hell. The rearview mirror was full of bodies and cars coming and going, and that was just the outside of the gigantic building. 

Who knew how many more people were still inside? Plenty by the stench of it.

It was too late to change his mind, though. He looked at you, holding your purse all ready to go on your lap. Frowning when it finally dawned on him that of all the things you had to wear today, you’d chosen a dress that accentuated your curves. 

He’d appreciated the view at lunch, but that was at a small town diner, somewhere off of route eighty-one. Now it was a different story, but you were clearly excited and while he didn’t for the life of him know why, he couldn’t just demand you waited here instead. That was as bad as you going in alone.

“C’mon,” he said, and climbed out of the car, shutting the door behind him with the usual creak and groan.

Dean would rather chow down on burgers than run for ‘fun’ like Sam. He wasn’t afraid to admit it. But on that day, in the middle of the Sioux Falls Walmart’s parking lot, he jogged even though he wasn’t being chased for the first time in his adult life, scooting across the gravel to intercept you before you crossed the safety of the meaningless lines.

Your eyes traced over him, studying him with a wry smile, your scent spiking along with it, as did his interest.

He could hear your heartbeat if he listened carefully. It thrummed in his ears as quick as his was, but unlike him, you seemed to contain it well. 

“Just think of it this way.” You patted his chest. “The more we buy, the longer we won’t have to leave Jody’s cabin.”

Now that was something he could get on board with, and though he thought it impossible in a place like this, his own mouth grew wide, drawing his blood back up and away from the conspicuous semi he was sporting.

The change didn’t last long.

“Woah.” He gripped your hand tighter and yanked it, making you stop. That fucking douche in the station wagon had come way too close to the curb for his liking. “Watch where you’re going, jackass!” he spat. His head following the rear bumper, oblivious to the other “dangers” the car park held.

‘She was almost hit.’

‘She’s fine.’ 

Your thumb moved to stroke the tops of his knuckles. “It was nowhere near us, Alpha.”

He turned to you with a furrowed brow at first, only picking up on your discomfort from his death grip when your other fingers started squirming under his. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said.

Your arm retreated with a shake of your wrist and he went for your lower back instead, guiding you with a gentle nudge and an extra look left for any more assholes who didn’t know how to drive.

The automatic doors opened as you both stepped onto the oversized mats and Dean beelined for the shopping carts grouped together on the side. Naturally, he needed to push yours. He’d be a purse-bitch if he had to, too. Anything to stop himself from acting rash and ripping your arm off again.

He let go of you, and yanked one out, swinging the steel trolley around with ease as if he were figure skating with it and reached for your waist when he had the thing facing in the direction of a second set of automated doors. The place was like airport security. 

“Are they gonna let us leave when we’re done?” he whispered to you.

“Not if you break something with that.” Your hand came up to his shoulder and tugged on his flannel, veering to the right while pointing to a large sign that said fresh produce. “Come on. I wanna go here first”

Great. Vegetables. Not to mention the abundance of people wandering around there and the just as many aisles and fruit he’d never seen before.

How many apples did you need?

Because you passed by red and green ones, mountains of them, and even then, they were apparently all different. Grandmas. Mount Fuji’s. What the hell did golden delicious mean and would it go into a pie?

You stepped away from him to look at a display that was labelled Pink.

They weren’t like any ladies he’d ever seen. The colour didn’t come close to anyone’s, including yours.

In each subsequent aisle after, Dean was both awestruck and dumbstruck at the amount of variety the place had. 

You led him past an entire rack of peanut butter, through a row of refrigerators that had him breathing out cold air from his nose, and he was still in doubt over what was in those cans that claimed to have a whole chicken in them. He was thankful you hadn’t stopped there to find out.  

Soon enough though, your cart filled up to the point he found himself playing Tetris with its contents after discovering Walmart also sold booze. 

Even if he didn’t drink it all on account of his rut, the case of his favourite beer he’d selected was coming with you and he was determined to make it work, with only a single banana being harmed in the process as he rearranged it all for a third time. He ditched the fruit on a shelf displaying margarita mixes and the two of you headed for the cashiers, his arm still wrapped around your waist.

He’d become a pro at steering the metal cage, though honestly, he could drive anything, and he was proud to say, you could leave the store as he’d had no accidents and no alpha had been harmed for looking at you.

Yet.

“Are you sure we need all this stuff?” he asked as you passed another couple with only half the things you had.

“This coming from the guy who had two slices of pie on top of his burger at lunch?” 

Point taken, he supposed, but you’d eaten just as much. You’d had more than him, come to think of it. Lunch, breakfast, the night before. So when you patted his stomach, and he looked down at you grinning at him, he couldn’t help but return a knowing smile.

“You’ll thank me later,” you said.

He knew he would. In more ways than one. 

Still on your way to the front, you passed the nesting department located opposite the cash registers. Of course, it was just another convenient ploy to gain some extra impulse buys from naïve omegas who hadn’t realised they needed that new blanket or another stuffy until they saw the giant pile of fluff.

To Dean’s distaste, you were also won over by the gimmick and he was pulled along for the ride. 

Yes, he was annoyed. He wanted to get you home, maybe taste your pink lady before things really started, and definitely not add more crap to your cart. But he couldn’t help but smirk as he watched your hands glide over every piece of fabric that piqued your fancy. 

Your fingers preened the threads. They stroked the tassels and the weird little fuzzy balls that stuck out like skin tags on an old person. Everything was falling into place, and he pushed all his grumbles aside.

Soon. Tomorrow at the latest, you would be his officially.

But while your inner omega delved into the world of fuzz and all things fluffy and he stood back contented with watching you, an elderly alpha whose back would snap if the wind blew at him too hard was also eyeing you as you picked up a certain colourful blanket that looked very familiar to Dean. 

The fucking perv was hanging around, preying on omegas such as you. He had to be. And he had the nerve to walk up to you and ask your opinions on the thing, as if he was interested in buying one. 

You humoured him, but Dean? He saw right through him.

So did the dick in his head. It was sending messages to his pants and his fingers flexed over the plastic handle of your cart, pulling his knuckles in and out of focus under his taut skin.

“I’ve had this before, but I used it in the living room when I wasn’t nesting too,” you said. “I find it holds scents better—”

As the old guy’s arm reached over to touch the blanket you were holding, Dean stepped in. That was too close for his liking and his inner alpha snarled, “She’s mine,” leading to the more sane version of himself, regretting not bringing the cart closer so he could push him with it. The floor was waxed enough for the wheels to slip and be blamed for any accident.

“This is your alpha?” the Master Roshi wannabe asked, looking Dean up and down. “But you haven’t—”

“Your nose works just fine, asshole,” Dean said through his teeth. “We’re here to get supplies for it, so fuck off.”

Dean turned his back on him and focused on you. His blood was boiling and had he been anywhere else, and that dick been any younger, he would’ve clipped him one. 

As it was, he could feel the old guy still hanging behind him and he dared not turn around for fear of really doing something.

He took the blanket you were holding from your hands and inspected it before placing it on the edge of the pile. It wouldn’t do now that he’d put his mitts on it.

Your mouth opened, about to protest, but Dean flashed you a grin, picked up another that he pulled from the very centre. “It holds people’s scents, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then this is the one. Only touched you and me,” he said.

He was about to place the bundle on your piled shopping cart when he saw you pout. His hesitation, giving you the chance to pluck it out of his hands and into your arms where it stayed as he paid and drove, taking you to your final destination. A little cabin about thirty minutes north of the small city.

The first thing Dean noticed when he opened the door to Jody’s cabin was the pungent smell. “Is that…lavender?” he asked. His arm balancing the precious case of beer he’d found at Walmart.

“I’m surprised you know what it is.” You chuckled.

So did he, but it wasn’t like he selected the shampoo Sam bought. He just used whatever was on the shower shelf at the time and now recognised the word along with the purple packaging that meant the same flavour old folks and museums liked to spray in their bathrooms was contained inside. 

This didn’t suit Jody, though. She was a badass, and sure she enjoyed chick flicks and bubble baths (he assumed, because who didn’t), but… “She’s too young for this crap,” he muttered as he ran his free hand over the wall, searching for the light switch. 

At first, nothing besides the place smelling like grandma seemed out of the ordinary, but as he readjusted his load and stretched his bow legs over the threshold, it wasn’t the moaning of the floorboards underneath him from the weight of the glass bottles and their contents that caught his attention. It was the spots of something on the floor further inside.

Blood is what his mind went to. What else would a hunter with his skills think? 

Jody had become rather renowned for her side profession and could’ve pissed off a few dicks. Plus, this far into the woods would be an ideal location for wolves or even a nest to squat, and this town had seen its fair share. 

Of course, that wouldn’t explain the stench, or the fact she’d left the key for him under the mat and would’ve noticed something was amiss already, so unless whatever potential threat who was presumably squatting liked pot-pourri and hoodoo, it was a far stretch. 

Then again, witches? Maybe. But also, fuck, not again. Especially when he was this close to going into rut.

Dean looked over his shoulder and, “Wait here,” he said, moving only when your head acknowledged the instruction. 

Those same bow legs carried him down the wide hallway, his free arm kept right next to his side, ready and waiting to draw his gun. If it came down to it, he’d risk the booze, but he soon realised he didn’t have to. Whatever was scattered on the floor cast shadows over the wood grain and smelt just as nasty as the lavender.

The light from the entry wasn’t enough to see clearly even with his keen eyesight, so he lunged the case onto the small dining table with a thump and a tinkling from the glass and searched for another light switch.

Click.

The exposed bulb overhead flickered on, and Dean’s eyes went straight to the ground to be met with… petals? Red ones? 

Huh.

“S’okay, sweetheart. You can come in now. It’s just a bunch of flowers.”

Your steps across the floorboards barely made a noise over the crinkle of plastic from the shopping bags you carried. 

Dean strode over to you, pried the handles from your fingers, and lifted them up beside the casing of beer.

“Flowers and wine,” you said, and Dean flicked his head in the direction you were now headed.

On a small coffee table in the centre of a brilliant brick fireplace and a couple of old couches, two bottles of the stuff and what looked like a card had been placed. 

You picked the piece of folded paper up and read it aloud. “Congratulations, and enjoy your time alone together, J.” You handed the note to him as he approached with a sly smile. “We should buy her a gift before we leave town as a thankyou.” 

“More shopping? We got all that stuff so we wouldn’t have to go anywhere.”

While he was snarking, he scoped out your home for the next week, maybe two, noting the floofy pillows that would suit your needs for a few scenarios. 

“Later. Not now,” you said, and his arm pulled you close, wrapping tightly around your waist.

“It’s a nice idea.” The other scooped between you and shucked up your dress. “Enough about Jody. How’re ya feeling?” he asked against your mating gland, inhaling your scent. Sweet apple, spicy cinnamon, and a touch of whisky nipped at the edge of his throat. “Any changes?” 

Dick’s marks had completely gone. As had any traces of what he’d done to you and Dean was met with options. The right side, or the left for his claim. Maybe even both.

You leaned back with a quirked brow as his fingers ran over your underwear. “Not yet.”

“But you’re wet.” He brought you closer. You weren’t the only one excited. He found the elastic of your panties and slipped inside, skimming through your folds and your warm channel.

“Shouldn’t we get the groceries,” you said, but there was a hitch in your voice at the end when he dipped his middle finger further again.

“Can wait.” He breathed into your ear, pulling you closer to the fireplace and his lap on the couch.

Soon one touch led to another, and despite the many things that still needed to be done around the place before you settled in for the night, they were long forgotten, along with the rest of your groceries in the Impala. It was cold enough out in the woods that an hour wouldn’t hurt, and he would deal with the sigils and logs for a fire later. 

Dean wasted no more time sinking into you, meeting each rock of your hips for a thrust on the worn sofa by the fireplace, clothes still on. 

Best. Decision. Ever.

Even though the wooden frame creaked under your weight and he felt the need to plant his boots firmly into the shaggy rug beneath them to keep the thing upright.

His hands snuck up your dress and cast aside the cups of your bra to knead your slick covered tits. Your panties, pulled to the side, created an extra layer of friction as the elastic caught on his growing knot. 

An ever better decision than he thought, and he sat back, enjoying the show and the little gasps of pleasure you gave him when your clit hit his pubic bone at the perfect angle and ground against it.

“Dean, fuck.” Your hips buckled with one forceful slam.

“Feel good, baby?” He knew you were close. Your muscles fluttering around him and the fresh wave of your juices coating his twitching balls kinda gave it away. “You gonna come on my cock? Let me knot you?”

You were too lost in the moment to answer him. He didn’t care. He revelled in your grinding, how you were growing desperate, and by the way your eyes sparkled when he spoke of his knot.

“Alpha. Need your—” But you didn’t finish your sentence because your body finished on him. 

The climax ripped through you, drawing tremors from your legs, tickling his thighs and lower stomach. 

His hands took yours and pulled them to his neck, soothing your taut arms from your wrists to shoulders, grounding himself in the process. 

His balls were heavy, his sack on fire. Your cunt had sucked his knot inside and the pulses and trickles of your release had his instincts screaming to plough into you. But he wouldn’t. Not yet.

When his fingers moved to your hips and raised them up so that only the tip penetrated your core, your forehead dropped to his. Sweat mixing with sweat. Panted breaths warming his cheeks and lips. 

“Think you can give me one more?” he rasped.

Your laugh was airy. It came out as a shudder. Your skull rocked against his as you shook your head with it, and your hair tangled into his short brown tufts.

“Yeah, you can.” His eyes stared into yours, bouncing emerald green off of the pearly white that surrounded your own vibrant irises. 

His hand moved to stroke your clit with the rough pad of his thumb. 

“Fuck,” you whimpered, and Dean’s chest swelled with pride. 

“Yeah?” he asked with an air of confidence and pressed harder over the sensitive nub.

Your walls clamped around him again, just as he’d hoped. “Alpha, please,” you cried.

As much as he loved the idea of you begging him for it, the pressure down below was reaching boiling point, and he knew a couple of thrusts would do it for him. 

He lifted his ass off the cushion, and sunk halfway into you, tipping the sofa by the weight of his shoulders alone. His fingers on your hip gripped tighter, bruising the flesh below, as he steadied himself and in one fluid motion slammed you and him back down into the seat.

The furniture groaned in protest. 

Your moan was more of a high-pitched cry, and when he raised you up and down again and again in a vicious pace, and his thumb continued to press into your overstimulated clit, it turned into the best version of his name he’d ever heard.

“Omega,” he grunted. 

Your pussy was an inferno. That heat, the friction from your panties and your folds rubbing against him, and the vice-like crush from your inner walls on his shaft soon had him seeing white behind the eyes, leaving his other senses to pick up the slack. He felt each drop of blood pump through his body, from his ears to his knot. 

When it popped and thick, creamy waves of his release flooded your insides, dousing the flames, he swooped in for a searing kiss. 

Your lips were tart and sweet. If he didn’t know better, he’d say you’d been sipping that wine already or chowing down on strawberries, but he’d sat across from you at every meal that day and watched you like a hawk at Walmart so he knew exactly what you’d done and eaten. “Tell me that’s your heat coming on,” he said when he slumped backwards to look at you. 

“Likewise.” Your fingers twisted through his hair. “You feel warm, Alpha.” 

Dean’s boyish chuckle was breathy. “Sweetheart. It’s a house fire down there and that ain’t on me. I already tried putting it out.” 

You didn’t let him down. Your snort was adorable, and he gave you his best cheesy grin in return. 

His inner alpha was not so light-hearted, however, and even after it had gotten its fix and his knot was still very much stuck inside of you, it continued to grumble in the far reaches of his mind, wanting more.

The chant that he should claim you was growing old. He fucking knew that, but while your heat was close, it just hadn’t set in yet, and chomping down on your mating gland now was gonna hurt you unnecessarily. No. Dean would wait, focusing on what you needed in the moment, like any good mate would.

His hands moved to your thighs, grazing his fingers over your sweat lined skin. It was heated, and you shivered at the new sensation, but he wasn’t surrounded by copious amounts of slick and you seemed to have no discomfort. That was part of it, right?

“How’re you feeling?” he said again, and your whole body tensed. Even your inner walls, that had relaxed some, squeezed him tight once more.

“You really wanna know all the nitty-gritty details?” Your eyes narrowed on him. Your frown only deepened the intense gaze you were pulling, and Dean swallowed.

“You’re my mate.” He flashed a grin. “Claim and paperwork pending.” And when you shook your head and sunk into his chest, his lips brushed over your hair, moving his arms to wrap around you and pull you in tighter. “Tell me.”

“Fevers coming,” you mumbled. “Probably smell different?”

He sniffed the air. The usual cinnamon, a touch of vanilla, plus the apple and whisky, sex, and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on infiltrated his nostrils. Your scent was still as intoxicating to him as it had been the very first day you met. “You smell good,” he said, realising how terrible that sounded only after it had spewed from his mouth.

“I should hope so.” You swatted at him, and he hummed in amusement.

“What else?”

“Back aches. My whole lower half, actually.”

On that, Dean moved his hands and began kneading your heated flesh where he could only guess the worst discomfort was. He may not not have claimed someone, but he’d helped the odd omega through their heat, and he knew a thing or two.

“Here?” he asked, but your purr and a contented sigh answered him, and he smiled with reverie.

You fell asleep on him after that, allowing the impending fever to take over your body. He’d have preferred you to have eaten something or even made a trip to the bathroom, but he reminded his inner alpha that you both knew what you were doing.

Not that it was listening.

As he dead locked the back door and drew the last of the salt lines at the base of the wooden frame, it whined, and had Dean looking down.

“You scratched the circle.”

Yes, he was standing on the devil’s trap he’d drawn earlier, but there was not a scratch in sight.

“It’s fine,” he said, not bothering with internal thoughts, though his ears did prick for any hint he’d disturbed you in your sleep. He turned himself around to peer at your form on the other side of the room, but you were still on the couch where he’d left you.

Even from here in the kitchen, he could see the sheen of sweat on your forehead and your cheeks, now a different hue. Your oncoming heat had indeed brought on a fever and he knew when you awoke it would be game time.

The groceries had been brought in, beers sat in the fridge, and he’d even moved the mattress from the master bedroom and set it down before the roaring fire he’d started in the fireplace.

His body and mind were prepped, too. He just wished things would hurry along because you and the flames weren’t the only things heating up the room.

The tip of his cock was a painful red. It was swollen and oozing pre-cum, and though he’d emptied himself into you a couple of hours earlier, as he opened the fridge door and leant down to retrieve a beer, a few drops left his slit and dribbled down his shaft to pool at the dip above his knot.

Fuck. He was overflowing now.

He’d almost come twice in his pants from your scent alone, and after the second occurrence, he ditched them, choosing to wear just his boxers and undershirt.

He reached down and wiped his hand over the soiled underwear, hissing from pleasure and pain as his palm swiped over the sensitive head. But when more leaked from his slit, he gave up and removed them instead, leaving them on the floor to clean up later with the spill.

He grabbed his drink and shut the door, turning back around to find you sitting up, staring at him, and time stopped.

You were awake…

And he was…

“Omega.”

The switch somewhere deep inside of him flicked, and he found himself falling into a familiar place in the backseat of his mind.

Dean was no longer in control of his body, but he still saw, heard and felt everything. His heartbeat, his feet padding across the floor, and the irises in your eyes as he drew closer, sparkling from the flicker of light in the fireplace.

And when your voice said, “Alpha”, just as his had been replaced by the low rumble he knew as well as the back of his hand, yours had changed to a softer, more melodic version of the one he recognised as yours.

You were on him the second he stepped up to you. Your fingers wrapped around his agitated cock, and Dean’s growl reverberated low in his chest as the sweet flavour of apple flooded his senses. “Omega. Mine,” his alpha rasped.

He could practically taste you on his tongue. He could certainly feel your heated skin on him as you worked his length, but the massaging did little to douse the flames in his pulsing sack, and his slit continued to weep.

“Alpha,” you purred, as his seed created a trail down onto your hands. 

‘Fuck.’

Dean licked his lips and grabbed at your dress, yanking at the fabric to get you free. He wanted to see you. To feast his eyes on your breasts and, more importantly, bury himself in your dripping cunt again and again. 

His hands pawed at your neckline, growing flustered when it didn’t budge, and red marks from the edging cutting into your skin from his tugs appeared.

“Let me.” You touched his cheek, nodding your head with assurance when his alpha glowered with his pride. 

The thought of needing assistance and less friction on his hardened flesh had his temper rising. “Fine,” he spat. “But hurry up.”

Your breasts pushed towards him as you reached behind yourself to undo the zip. Each click of the metal prongs being pulled apart met his ears, but it was far too slow for his alpha’s liking and soon Dean was pawing at the garment again. 

Once it was loose enough, he plucked it from your body and threw it along with your bra and panties over his head, corralling you where he saw fit.

He planted your chin, chest and calves into the mattress. He forced your rear into the air, presenting your glistening folds, much to his delight. The copious amounts of fluid Dean had imagined earlier engulfed your entrance and laced the inner creases of your thighs.

His nose honed into your centre, breathing in the tangy slick as he ran his lips through yours. The pad of his thumb found your clit, and it flicked against the small bud, eliciting moans, whimpers, and gasps, all stroking his ego. All urging him to continue.

When you shuddered, his mouth curved at the sides. His alpha taking everything it wanted from you, pulling more and more of your release from deep within your body. His dick throbbed at the sight.

If you were making a mess, he’d created an oil spill. Pre-cum continued to leak from his tip, and soon even he was begging the beast in control to do something about it. 

‘Claim her. Make her ours.’

He’d agonised over claiming you since you’d met and now that the opportunity presented itself, he didn’t wanna draw it out any longer. He needed you in more ways than one, and the alpha obliged. 

With a feral smirk, his fingers ran back over your folds, earning another whimper from your lungs and another wave of slick to surge from your body. The same hand came up and took hold of himself, pumping once, twice, three times, before lining up and ramming into you. 

Your hips buckled at the intrusion. Yet when he pulled out again so that only his head sat warm and snug inside, you inched back onto him, demanding his attention.

“There’s my beautiful omega.” He chuckled, as you continued to drag your pussy over him. “So perfect, and still hungry for more.” His fingers dug into your hips and he pushed into you again, giving you what you both wanted. “You need your alpha to knot you, baby girl?”

Your response was to moan, and the sound urged him on. “Yeah, you do,” he grunted. His thrusts, hard and fast. “You need your alpha to put out the fire.” 

Every piece of him enjoyed the view of you taking him in, from the tip to his swelling knot. Your walls kept squeezing and pulling him in deeper. “So fucking good ‘mega. Gonna fill you up and make you mine.”

He relaxed his grip on you and crawled up your spine, pushing your body down further into the mattress, and himself further into you. “Say it. Tell me you wanna be mine.” 

“I wanna be yours,” you said between pants, and Dean groaned against the edge of your hairline. He was so close to your mating gland, he could taste the sweet blood below the surface. 

He pulled your hair to the side and traced his tongue over the delicate skin of your neck, licking and sucking a path to his goal. He inhaled your scent when he found the pulse point and rubbed whiskey and leather and a hint of buttery pastry onto you before his teeth moved to scrape over the sensitive flesh. His body froze above you.

The canines broke the thin barrier first, and when his incisors sunk into you next, the metallic warmth of your lifeblood rushed into his mouth and trickled down his throat. 

As he swallowed, and continued to press his bite into you, a wave of electricity spread over him. Every nerve, every hair, every drop of sweat tingled and while his arms and legs grew heavy, his head lightened and memories long forgotten climbed to the surface and flashed before his eyes.

Amongst them, Bobby’s death, and his time in hell before it. The agony of losing Sammy to the cage when Dean knew what awaited him. The mark taking over his life and losing people because of it. Their screams. Their cries. The hatred as his own weapon carved into them. The Steins, Abbadon, Randy.

But then the voice of a female overtook them. One so familiar, yet one he couldn’t quite place. Her pleas cut him deep, churning his insides as if each organ were drowning in a sea of acid.

“No, no. Please don’t.”

“I swear, I’ve never seen him before.”

“He just helped me, that’s all.”

“Baby, please.”

The more he heard her words, the more his face cut into Dean’s memories, and “Ritchie, stop! Please!” stood out amongst all else.

That’s when he realised who the cries belonged to. The tears, the pain, the dread. They weren’t his, they were…

…yours.

Brilliant green eyes stared back at you as your alpha licked at the wound on your mating gland. He’d started thrusting again, and while the pressure deep in your gut begged for his knot and his essence, your mind was more focused on those eyes.

Their sparkle that you’d come to know was lost, faded, and full of pain. He was being tortured. Fire and chains reflected in them and on his freckled skin, marred by blood and scars so fresh, you couldn’t place them from what was before you now.

Dean was hurt. He was—

“Sammy!” he yelled.

“The mark isn’t gonna kill me,” he spat.

But when you tried to call out to him and soothe the ache you felt, he couldn’t hear you because your inner omega was in the driver’s seat. And while she cared for you as much as you did for her, for Dean, she was more concerned with the alpha’s thrusts. With mewling. With encouraging him. With drawing his knot in.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

And there we are ✌️

I've been agonisingly waiting for this one, and I do hope you were surprised. I’m rather proud of the POV switch up. We will still get in Dean’s head, but we’ll also be in hers which is perfect for what’s about to come.

Remember how I keep mentioning not to get too comfortable, well, here we are. Do you think they'll pull through all this new information?

The next chapter will potentially be triggering for some readers. Mentions of pregnancy loss is included amongst what we've already seen and explored, but things are going to come out in more details including how extensive Dick’s abuse was.

Chapter 8: Disconcerting 11/04

You.

You weren’t supposed to be a part of that chapter in his life. He’d planned to keep you at a distance from all of it. He…

He.

He looked up so that he wouldn’t see your face through the kaleidoscope of colours that his wet eyes brought with them. “I—” All he could do was squeeze you tighter.

“Dean. It’s okay.”

He still didn’t have the words to continue his apology. Nothing could ever make up for what you’d seen, and his voice caught in the lump that had manifested in his throat. By the time it did reach the surface, it sounded more like that of a small child, then that of a grown man.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“S’not. This is what I was trying to keep ya from.” 

He was dangerous. He was a grunt. He was mud on the sole of his boot, and you? He’d brought you into this shitty life of his. “It’s bad enough you had to go through what Dick did to you. But he did it ‘cause of me. I’m poison, and if you hadn’t met me, you—”

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

@hobby27 @aylacavebear @stellawritesstories

If you’d like to be tagged in anything, please let me know, or you can add yourself HERE

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 3 - Man walks into a bar

Mark of Dean series master list

18+. 10.9k words. Attempted sexual assault (brief). Explicit sexual content. Some graphic violence. Dubious consent. Unhealthy relationships. Age gap.

You’re pretty sure you’re going crazy. No, that’s not an overstatement. You actually are.

It’s late morning when you walk into the library. You slept in, which you don’t do usually, but you just couldn’t get up once your alarm rang. There’s a cup of coffee in your hand, and Sam and Dean are at the table. Sam leaned forward over a book, Dean with his own cup, feet resting on the table, long legs stretched out. Both greet you when you come in and you greet them back with a smile.

Last night, Dean found you in the kitchen. It was late and you were doing the dishes, feeling like you’d slouched around all day. You’ve been having those kinds of days lately, where you can’t seem to get anything done, because every second is occupied with thoughts of Dean.

He came up behind you, your hands still in the soapy, warm water, his running over your hips.

“Not here,” you said without turning to him, without making any move to stop him. It’s become how you do things.

Dean didn’t stop. He never stops. It’s not like you’re really trying to get him to stop. He knows you want him to keep going. So he does.

His hands wandered over your sides for a few minutes, just long enough to get you antsy for him to really start touching you. Your hair was up and your neck exposed, and you could feel his hot breath on your skin. You couldn’t help but shift around as your breathing started picking up. You could hear a low chuckle leave Dean. So far you haven’t begged him to keep going. It feels like the last thing you’re not willing to give to him, your last hold-out. So you wait him out, wait until he can’t stop himself.

That’s what happened this time as well. Soon his hands were running over your stomach, then higher, just teasing at your breasts. Already you were pressing yourself back against him. When his hands wandered to the waistband of your pants, he started grinding himself against your ass. It never takes long.

He doesn’t undress you, and you think you’re grateful for that. Someone walking in on you stark naked would be impossible to explain. Instead, one hand down your jeans, two strong fingers pressed into you, your head leaned back against Dean’s shoulder, his other hand finger-fucking your mouth in a mirror image of what is going on below - would that be easier to explain? No. But the illusion is part of it. 

Because if Dean took you to his room, or yours, if he undressed you and himself, if you did anything but steal quick fucks in any of the common rooms of the bunker or his car or a few days ago a bathroom stall at a diner - then you would have to admit what you’re doing. What is really going on.

And that’s impossible, because sometimes you can barely believe it’s true. You walk in on a morning like this and Dean acts so casual and normal that you’ve almost convinced yourself you are, actually, going crazy and imagining this all. That this is some kind of obsession, your masturbatory fantasies seeming so real that your brain can no longer tell them apart from reality.

Except you’re almost sure you can still feel how Dean pulled his fingers from your mouth when he could feel you were getting closed, and instead wrapped them around your throat. You still remember the small thrill of fear, like it’s still sitting in your spine, as his hand tightened there. Only a little. Only giving you that slight, tight high. Only letting you know he was there. And then when he breathed into your ear: so fucking beautiful. All mine.

You were done for shortly after. 

And now you’re here, sitting in the morning hours with the two people you’ve elected to spend your life with, and looking at Dean you wouldn’t know that anything’s happened at all. You wonder if you seem different, if anyone else can tell that something is going on with you, even though if you had to explain what exactly is different about you, you’re not sure you could name it. You have a secret, yes, but more than that, it’s like someone opened a door inside you to a dark, magical, terrifying room and all you’ve wanted from the first second you stepped into it is to move in and never leave again.

You clear your throat, involuntarily, focus on the laptop in front of you. Scrolling through news articles, trying to find anything relevant at all. Sam’s phone rings, and he looks at the screen, smiles, then gets up and walks a few steps away before he answers. 

Dean doesn't speak, but you can't help throw him a quick glance. He's just taking a sip from his cup, brow slightly furrowed but then his gaze snaps to you. As if he's able to feel you on his skin. He puts the cup down, briefly licks his lips, his eyes both leaving you.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

I didn't, you want to say. I was thinking about you. I thought I could escape the constant fantasizing but when I closed my eyes, there you were. You're everywhere.

Instead, you smile a little.

“Good,” you reply and Dean nods. “And you?”

Dean purses his lips a little, looks at the table, like he's thinking of something amusing to say.

“I dreamed about you,” he says, and your heartbeat picks up immediately. The thought that you are real to him, a thing his brain occupies itself with, even in sleep…

“Oh yeah?” you ask, trying not to sound too curious but burning with the need to know.

“I dreamed,” Dean says as his hand runs over a nearby notepad, his skin against the paper sounding just like skin on skin. “I dreamed that there was this huge field. All yellow. Pretty sure it was barley or wheat or something.” 

Dean shifts where he sits, his hand still going over the notepad, the movement and sounds hypnotic.

“And I knew you were somewhere in the field,” he continues, “and I kept trying to find you. I called your name and I heard you answer but I couldn't tell where your voice was coming from. And then I did and you were…”

He looks up at you and he almost seems… shy? It gives you whiplash. How can he be this one thing and then this other thing immediately after? He shrugs, a boyish gesture.

“You were there and you… smiled at me. Not particularly deep I guess,” he says, making it sound almost like an apology. You can't help the blushing smile that you know appears on your face.

“No, I–I like it,” you reply. “Sounds like that scene from Gladiator. ” Dean looks up, almost surprised, then chuckles, while he looks to the side again. You keep looking at him. The way he becomes right then - that’s exactly how you were imagining him, before all of this started, how you wanted him. Could you have him, like this? This darker side of him, the one that feels constantly hungry and restless, is that only the Mark? Is it part of Dean amplified? Is it that part that drives him to you, and is this version, this side of the coin, the one who has to live with the consequences, like some sort of Jekyll and Hyde situation?

You’re interrupted when Sam walks back to the table, having finished his call. Dean turns his head to him.

“Who was it?” he asks, just as Sam sits down again. 

“Charlie,” Sam says, putting his phone on the table. Dean widens his arms.

“Why the hell is she calling you?” he asks. “Lemme guess, something nerdy?” You chuckle and Dean throws you an amused look - you and him, teasing Sam. It almost feels like before. Sam just raises his eyebrows in the way he does.

“Yeah,” he says, tone sarcastic, “ super nerdy.” Dean nods, like his suspicions are confirmed, but then he looks back at Sam, obviously expecting an honest answer now. Sam gets comfortable in his seat, turns back at his laptop, and only looks back at Dean a few seconds later when he notices his brother has been staring at him.

“What?” Sam asks, face suspicious.

“Why did she call?” Dean asks. “I’m gonna guess she didn’t just want to chat.” Sam shifts around, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He throws you a brief look, then looks back at Dean.

“It’s about the Mark,” he finally says. 

Dean’s expression doesn’t change much, but the difference is obvious to anyone who knows him intimately. It slackens, then takes on a different kind of tension. 

“What about it?” Dean asks. He moves his arm, the thick scar visible under the end of his sleeve. He blinks twice, his expression changing again into something more challenging. You can see the change in Sam immediately. He becomes careful around Dean when he’s like this. Cautious, doesn’t want to upset him. It breaks your heart to see the tall man shrink like this.

“Well,” Sam says, trying to sound casual, “Abaddon’s dead. That was the whole point of you getting the thing, right?” Dean shrugs, his expression becoming dismissive.

“Yeah,” he says, “and we know that that just means the next mean son of a bitch is right around the corner.” Sam flexes his hand, presses his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

“We agreed, Dean,” he says, keeping his gaze..

You keep looking between the two, suddenly becoming aware of your own nerves. It’s funny - for as long as you’ve known the two, Sam and Dean have always had their strange tensions, the decades of history building up around them like sedimentary rock. You can only see the top layers, but there is so much beyond it that you might never understand, despite having used both hands to dig deep into them.

Sam’s the one to break the staring contest.

“Charlie’s on a case nearby,” he says, eyes flicking across the table, “the least we can do is meet her down there and hear what she found.” He looks up again, eyebrows moving closer together, creases forming on his forehead. You look at Dean as well, unwillingly holding your breath.You can see Dean clench his jaw, and then suddenly he stops.

“Sure,” he says, sounding friendlier again. “Would be good to see her.” 

With that, Dean gets up and walks towards the hallway, looking back at neither of you. Sam takes a deep breath, and just before he turns back to his laptop, your gaze meets his. There’s worry in his eyes, but you don’t know what is in yours.

The drive is quiet, the awkward tension thick in the air still. It makes your stomach churn, and you don’t understand how Sam and Dean do it - to keep up this tension. You’re not the type. You would be searching resolution already. Absolution, maybe. Even if you didn’t do anything. It’s an uncomfortable knowledge.

What Charlie’s working on might be ghouls or a shapeshifter, it seems weirdly unclear. It’s neither here nor there for you - you simply look forward to seeing her. Someone else to split up the intense strain between Sam and Dean - and also, potentially, the strain on all of you - seems like exactly the right thing right now. 

“It’s called the Book of the Damned,” Sam is just saying from the passenger seat. “It was written by a nun who had so-called visions of darkness. She locked herself away, and– oh.”

“What?” Dean asks, not taking his eyes off the road in front of him. Sam lowers his laptop, sets it on his lap.

“Apparently the pages are made from her own skin and it’s written in her own blood,” he continues, making a face.

“Well, that’s just lovely,” Dean says under his breath. You lean forward.

“Did Charlie say where she found it?” you ask. Sam throws a look back at you, then closes the laptop. The corners of his mouth twitch.

“A monastery in Spain,” Sam explains. You huff, drop back in your seat.

“Why don’t we ever get to go to Spain?” you ask. “Instead we just get to go through Wisconsin for the seventieth time in a row.” Dean raises one hand.

“Hey,” he says, “there will be no badmouthing the state that invented cheese curds in my car.” He throws you a grinning look in the rearview mirror. It nearly makes your heart burst out of your chest. You return the smile. Dean looks out front again and you take the moment to let out a slow breath.

“So this book, it can, what,” he asks, throwing a look at Sam, “it can get rid of the Mark?”

“It looks like it,” Sam says, seeming a little surprised at Dean’s casual tone. “There is one issue, though.” Dean chuckles.

“I would have been disappointed if there wasn’t,” he says. Sam shifts in his seat, turns a little bit towards Dean.

“The Mark might not want to be close to the book,” he explains.

“What does that mean?” you ask. Sam turns, looks at you, thinks about his reply for a second.

“It looks like the book is the only thing that can destroy the Mark,” he explains, “and the Mark… knows that. Being in the book’s proximity might make it act out… or, Dean, in this case.” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Act out?” he asks. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says. 

Dean blinks, looks back at the road. You see his hand go up, scratch at his lower arm. Sam sees the same and when Dean notices his gaze, quickly looks away. There it is again. The air so thick you could cut it with a knife.

The three of you get to the motel, but Charlie’s still talking to some witnesses on the case she’s working. While you unpack the basics, such as your FBI get-up, Dean speaks up. 

He needs to blow off some steam, is all he knows. His skin feels itchy. Maybe it’s the closeness of this Book of the Damned business. Maybe it’s being cooped up in the car with you for hours. All he knows is that there’s a deep empty pit in his stomach and he needs for it to not be there.

“So if Charlie’s got this thing on her, this book,” he says, trying to make his voice sound casual, “I guess it’s best that I keep some distance, at least until we know what it really does. Would be a shame for my head to explode.” He grins a half-hearted grin. He’s sick of trying to make everyone feel at ease.

Sam’s just kneeling to take something out of his duffel, but straightens with a concentrated look. 

“Yeah,” he says, stumbling over the word a little. “I mean, I guess you’re right.” Dean nods, and then pretends he’s coming up with what he’s saying right there on the spot.

“So how about you go meet her,” he says, and then motions to you where you’re standing, “and we hang back, do some research on the case?”

Sam plays over it well, but Dean sees the moment of doubt. He’s not sure if his brother suspects what is going on between you and him, and if he does, he hasn’t said anything. But Sam’s smart, observant. Maybe the only thing stopping him from guessing what is really going on is his lack of imagination. Or perversion, Dean’s mind unhelpfully comments.

“Why don’t the three of us take a look at the book,” Sam says, trying to sound equally casual about his suggestion, “and you hang back?” Dean widens his arms.

“And do research all by myself?” he says, making his face twist into a mask of desperation. “Come on, man, don’t be evil. Besides, you and Charlie are the book nerds, if you two can’t figure it out by yourselves, there’s no hope anyway.” Sam huffs, but he still looks worried.

“Dean’s not wrong,” you pipe up suddenly, and Dean turns to you, trying to hide his surprise. “At least one person should be on research duty that can actually, you know, read.” He tilts his head.

“You’re a comedian, you know that?” he asks and you grin a small grin that makes a tight fist of tension build in him immediately. To distract himself, he looks back at Sam. His little brother shifts around for a moment, but he knows there’s no solid reason he shouldn’t agree to it.

“Fine,” he says and Dean needs to suck in his cheeks to hide his intense grin.

The reason he’s surprised at you speaking up in favor of staying with him is that what you have been doing is you pretending you don’t want him - at least to a certain point - and then him convincing you that you do. 

He likes it - he’s not gonna pretend he doesn’t. Watching your resolve, no matter how fake it is, slowly break down under his hands sends him into a frenzy that it takes every single molecule of self-control he possesses not to give into. Once he draws that first moan from you, feels your muscles twitch, sees your forehead crease in pleasure - it’s intoxicating. 

He understands, to a degree. He’s been with other women who feel wrong about asking for things, wanting to be fucked hard and rough and taken by him like he’s some kind of animal, but felt shame about asking for it. So he’s not new to this game, although it’s never been as exquisite as with you. The forbiddenness of it all adds to his, and he assumes, your pleasure. You’re not allowed to get caught. He’s just a dirty old man taking advantage of you, and you love it.

It’s a game, and it’s satisfying, but Dean keeps searching you, in those moments, for the reality behind it. When he had you in that bathroom stall a few days ago - his cock twitches and his balls ache at the memory - he looked deep into your eyes, or tried to. But you avoided him - closed your eyes, turned your head to the side. You held on to him just enough to keep yourself up, but in no way seemed to want him closer . That’s always his job.

So the fact that you’re now sitting across from him, actually doing research, when you should be taking apart this motel room, when you should be screaming and whining at the end of his cock, isn’t really surprising. But it’s still disappointing.

He keeps looking at you, for long stretches of time, but you pretend you don't notice. You go back between files and your laptop, tapping away. A big part of Dean wants to initiate, wants to do something - walk over, drag you out of your chair, flip you over and drive himself into you until his name is the only thing in the world you can think of. But part of him also just wants to see if you will let this opportunity to have him to yourself pass if he doesn’t do anything.

It seems to be heading that way - Sam’s been gone for an hour and Dean would like to crawl up the walls. Blood keeps leaving his head at the smallest things you do - hand going to your hair, roll of your shoulders, stretching, sighing, the fabric of your shirt moving over the globes of your breasts that he just wants to sink his teeth into. He has half a mind to go into the bathroom, make himself come, loud enough for you to hear him. Surely that way you would finally give in, right?

He looks at his watch, scratches at his skin. He feels so damn restless. One hand goes under the table, running over the outside of his jeans, at his half-hard dick there. How he would love to see his tip disappear between your kiss-swollen lips, eyes staring up at him and begging to give all of himself to you–

Dean clears his throat, shifts, trying to dislodge the fantasy, and you finally look up. Maybe accidentally, but you still do.

“I can’t focus on this stuff anymore,” he says. You frown at him.

“We’ve barely even started,” you say. Dean shrugs.

“It’s ghouls,” he says, “Charlie knows it’s ghouls, Sam knows it’s ghouls, you know it’s ghouls. It’s ghouls.” You nod.

“Yeah, but we should–” you start but Dean interrupts you.

“Let’s get a drink,” he says.

“Dean,” is all you reply. When you don’t continue, he raises his eyebrows at you.

“What?” he says. But then he decides he doesn’t care, and simply gets up. Reaches for his jacket slung over the back of his chair.

“I’m getting a drink,” he announces while he shrugs on his jacket and you stare up at him, unbelieving, not the way he wants you to stare up at him, not the way he knows you can stare up at him. “And you can stay here and read some more about ghouls, or you can come with me.”

He sees the brief battle raging in you. Sees you weighing the options. Sees you thinking about pretending you don’t want to come with him. He really does want a drink, and maybe he can get you back into a stall, back to your legs wrapped around him, back to his lips latched against your neck and you trying to be silent until you can't, maybe this wide open motel room where you wouldn’t have to be quiet and careful isn’t what you want anyway.

“Fine,” you say with a sigh. “One drink. Then back to work.”

The bar is seedy, as seedy as they come. Dark, smells of smoke. Dean seems to feel right at home, but you immediately tighten your jacket around yourself.

It’s strange, being alone like this with Dean. Not having sex, when you could be. You don’t know what to make of it - he didn’t initiate anything earlier, didn’t come on to you the way he usually does. It’s how you do things, the ritual you’ve developed, and the fact that he is going off-script confuses you.

Dean orders you two drinks, then comes to the table you’re already sitting at, looking around. He places it in front of you.

“Remember when I used to need to sneak you this stuff?” he says as he sits down with a nostalgic smile. “I’d get you a ginger ale and when Sam wasn’t looking, pour in some of my drink? Wasn’t that long ago.” He briefly inclines his head, then raises his drink to his lips, takes  a sip.

Why would he say that? Why would he point this out? Is he trying to tease you? 

“Yeah, I remember,” you say, reaching for your own, now legal drink, sip it, the burn pleasant and anchoring you in the moment.

“I used to think you were too young for all this,” Dean continues, and you focus on him, but he’s not looking at you, is also looking around. Despite it not being late in the day, the place is pretty full, rowdy loudness coming from several corners. “That it was my job to convince you to choose a different life.” He shakes his head at his own words.

“You don’t think that anymore?” you ask, immediately taking a sip to hide whatever expression your face is betraying. Dean looks back at you, thinks for a second.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m the best authority on this whole right and wrong thing.” His words are heavy with meaning, of course. You swallow.

“Because of the Mark?” you ask. Dean purses his lips, looks over your shoulder.

“Because of me,” he finally says, looks back at you, something like amusement on his face. “I don’t know that I’m the best person to be making those kinds of calls.”

Something strikes you then, something sudden. Is Dean breaking it off with you? Is this what this is? You shift around, suddenly nervous, no, terrified .

“I think you do a pretty good job,” you say, but your voice is quieter than you mean for it to be. Dean only scoffs.

“Is that what I’m doing?” he says. “A good job? ” His eyes go over you quickly, then land in your face. It’s clear what he means. You don’t know what to say, so you remain quiet.

“Truth is,” Dean says, after another sip, “ever since Sam first mentioned that book I’ve had half a mind to find that thing and burn it myself.” You blink in surprise, watch him. Dean’s back to looking around the place, the statement left there without further commentary.

“I just don’t understand,” you say, slowly shaking your head. “You know what the Mark is gonna do to you. What would happen if you were to die, and how it will… affect you in the long run.”

“I do,” Dean says, sighing, then taking another sip.

“So why don’t you want to get rid of it?” you continue. Dean puts the drink down, stares at where he runs his finger over the glass for a moment.

You can see from Dean’s face that he’s deep in thought. For some reason, it moves you to see him like this. To watch him reach into himself to find an answer to your question. 

“Nothing’s ever easy,” he says, his voice almost surprising you. “Nothing’s ever clear or straightforward.” Dean shakes his head.

He moves his jaw, and then it seems like he disappears somewhere for a moment. You use the opportunity to watch him - the way he gets when he forgets to worry that people are looking at him.

“The Mark makes things easy,” he suddenly continues. “It makes me feel like… like a drink does. Sure of myself, of the choices I have to make. I don’t… doubt myself as much.” His eyes flicker up to you, almost as if he’s embarrassed about what he just admitted. Embarrassed at his own simple humanity. 

“Well, that doesn’t sound horrible,” you say, trying to bring some humor into your voice. “I mean, I can see the appeal. But it’s not worth the damage it will do in the long run, Dean.” He chuckles in reply. A deep and erotic sound.

“Is it not?” he says, and suddenly his voice sounds harder, cold. He looks up and into your eyes. “Not like I was gearing for a steady job and mortgage anyway.” You take a slow breath, keep his gaze, even though it’s hard.

“This is what I’m good at,” he says. “Fighting, killing. Let’s not kid ourselves, okay?” You blink.

“I think you’re good at–” you start. Other things, you want to say. So, so many other things, but Dean interrupts you.

“Every shit thing that has ever happened,” he continues, his voice more intense, “everything that has gone wrong? It’s always been because I wasn’t able to make a decision. Or because my priorities were skewed. Because I couldn’t pull the trigger on some things I should have simply pulled the trigger on.” His jaw is clenched but his voice sounds sure.

“And this thing, ” he continues, vaguely motioning towards where the Mark is, “it makes me good, no, it makes me perfect at doing what I need to do. Why the hell would I want to get rid of that?” He takes another sip, some of the intensity disappearing off his face. You realize his glass is already near empty.

You’re both quiet for a moment. Dean staring at his drink, you staring at Dean. He felt so close a second ago, and now he feels as far away as he’s ever been. 

“Did you have doubts about…us? Before the Mark?”

You say it the moment the thought builds in your head. Dean blinks, looks back up at you. He keeps that hardened look for a moment longer, and then his face relaxes. It doesn’t make him look friendly, exactly - it makes him look like someone has pulled the plug.

“There was no us before the Mark,” he says, matter-of-factly. 

Something like a mental twitch goes through you, and you’re not sure it shows outwardly. 

“You never thought about me, that way? ” you ask. Dean looks down at the table again and you can see his tongue playing behind his teeth.

“Before the Mark,” he says, slowly, like he’s thinking about his words, “I probably would have thought that what I’m doing is… well, if some other guy was doing this to you, I would have told him to take a hike. Maybe given him a black eye to remember the message by.” You feel yourself frown.

“You mean fuck me?” you ask, making Dean look up at you again. “If some other guy was fucking me? Why, because you’d be jealous?” It sounds so desperate. Dean and you haven’t talked about what you’ve been doing at all, and now you’re asking him to reveal himself to you. It’s too quick, it's a childish wish and the worst part is you can see the answer on his face before he says it.

“Because I would have known that it’s wrong, that’s why,” he says, his tone like that of an adult trying to make a younger person see reason. Oh wait, you think, that’s exactly what it is. 

Something builds in you, something uncomfortable, something that is spreading outward from your heart and you don’t want to know what will happen if it hits your brain. It’s hurt and it’s anger, and the hurt is bigger but the anger is faster.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with that information?” you say through clenched teeth. “What am I supposed to do now? You can’t just…” You stop, swallow. Halt, for a moment, hoping the right words will come to you.

“I’ve never had something like this,” you say, not sure if you’re making sense, “with anyone. I don’t– You know what, fuck you, Dean, for saying that.” Dean watches you, calmly.

“I’ve never had this with anyone either,” he says. You take a sharp breath.

“Don’t lie,” you say. “Don’t make fun of me.” Dean shakes his head.

“I’m not,” he says. He’s not. He’s just told you he never really wanted you. Has he? Is that what he said? There’s a tornado in your brain, all words just whooshing around, and you’re not sure of anything anymore.

A group of people nearby that has been loud the whole time suddenly cheers, and then there’s the sound of glass breaking. Dean’s head snaps in the direction, a habit to assess the danger. 

You use the moment to stand up, quickly. You’ve grabbed your jacket with one hand by the time Dean turns back to you. You think you see him open his mouth to say something before you turn around and rush outside.

Tears are burning in your eyes before you even reach the door. You don’t know if you should look back, hope - dread? - that he is coming after you. You push past two men standing close to each other just outside of the door, no regard for how your shoulder connects with the arm of one of them. 

“Woah, easy there!” one of them says, but you just keep walking. It’s not like you, because you have manners. Because you would turn around, normally, apologize - or, no, you wouldn’t have run into them in the first place, because usually you’d be smarter than to bump into strange men in some seedy dive bar. But not today, apparently. 

You stop your stride for the first time when you’re outside, as you’re putting on your jacket. Look down the street, in the direction you came. Dean drove you both here, but it wasn’t a long drive from the motel and you’ll simply walk, which is what you start doing. You make it across the street, away from the busy bar, and no further.

“Hey!” you hear a voice behind you and, stupidly, you turn around. It’s a man you don’t know, walking towards you, a frown on his face. “You just spilled my friend’s drink.”

You narrow your eyes, take him in. He’s a head taller than you, but not built very broadly. Anger simmers in your blood, irritation, but you try to calm yourself. No point in picking a fight when you don’t have to.

“I’m sorry about that,” you say, trying to make your voice sound like you are. “It was an accident.” The man stops at about arm’s length from you. Maybe he was expecting more of a fight, because his features soften, then change, as he settles from one leg to the other. 

“All good,” he says, and you don’t miss the quick flick of his gaze over your body. A small smile appears on his face. “Why don’t you come back inside and buy him a new one?” 

The request takes you by surprise. Something tugs at you then, something you’ve never felt before. Maybe you should . Maybe you should go back inside with this stranger, buy him and his friend a drink, or better even, have them buy your drinks. Just enough of them that you can get up the courage to take one of them home, or both of them. Let them take turns on you or maybe both at the same time.

You blink yourself out of your thoughts. What in the world was that?

“No,” you say, breathing through your nose. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer to you, still that smile there. “I swear we don’t bite.” 

The image flashes through you, is gone as quickly as it came. Your teeth, breaking the skin of his neck. Him trying to get you off him, but not succeeding. 

Without thinking about it, you take a step closer to him, tilt your head up so you can look at him.

“Get the fuck ,” you say, teeth clenched, skin prickling, “away from me.” With that, you turn around, start walking.

He pushes you before you’ve even taken a second step. You fly forward, hands going to catch yourself as you stumble, but you just manage to keep upright. 

“Fucking bitch, ” you hear him say and when you spin around, he’s already turning to walk away from you.

It’s not a conscious decision. You’ve never been this mad, this angry, this filled with seething hate that you have no idea where it comes from. You kick him in the back of the knee - a move you learned from Dean, coincidentally - and his leg buckles and he falls. He lands on his elbows with a grunt. You’re just looking up to see if anyone saw, when a closed fist hits you in the side of the head.

All lights go out for a second as your eyes flutter and a high wave of pain explodes in your skull, and then someone grabs your hair, a fistful of it, and shoves you to the side. Your shoulder meets a wall, or the ground, you’re not entirely sure for a second, before you’re shoved again.

“You okay, man?” you hear another voice, and then someone grunts something affirmatively. You finally manage to open your eyes, immediately opening your mouth, moving your jaw and then flinching as new pain floods you. It’s not like you’ve never been punched before - it kind of comes with the territory - but you’ve never been blindsided like this. It feels like something’s rattling in your brain.

Just as the world before you comes into focus, someone steps up to you and pushes you, your back meeting a wall behind you. This shouldn’t be happening, some part of you thinks. You’re in the middle of the street - except you’re not, or not anymore. The wall your back meets is that of a smaller alleyway just off the street you were just on, the one you were shoved away from.

You see him now, the second man, the one whose drink you spilled. He’s right in front of you, too close, your back to the wall, and it makes a red light in your head go off, a siren sound accompanying it. Whatever happens, you suddenly remember Sam teaching you, don’t let yourself get backed into a corner. Except he was talking about vampires.

You have training, but the panic in you is immediate. Still, you manage to get your hand up quickly, scratch at the man’s face. He roars back, flails his arms and in his effort to stop you from hurting him, manages to grab your wrist. There’s a bloody streak on his face, you see, from your nails, and then he squeezes the hand around your wrist and you cry out in pain. You bring your knee up, a good attempt, but completely miss his groin, instead getting a fleshy thigh. He leans his body in close to you to stop your thrashing.

It’s like someone laying a slab of marble over you. His sheer strength makes it completely impossible for you to move, except for one arm that you hit against him, form a fist and punch his side but you might as well be fighting him with words.

“What are you doing!? ” he grunts, and just when your panicked brain wonders if maybe you got it wrong, maybe this is all a big misunderstanding, he turns his head.

“We should teach this whore a lesson,” he says over his shoulder, and it all rushes into you again. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

But there’s no response to his statement. You notice just as the man notices, and he turns his head a little further, without letting go of you.

“Hey, where are you?” he says and then you see Dean over his other shoulder only a split second before he realizes someone’s standing behind him.

The good thing is that he gets his weight off you, steps to the side to face this new player, but he doesn’t let go of your wrist. He turns around, snarls at Dean. There is no expression on Dean’s face. It’s completely void of any emotion.

The man’s eyes flicker down and yours do too, as you see his friend, the one you kicked in the leg, lying on the ground. His eyes are closed. If your brain wasn’t still vibrating with panic and adrenaline, you would guess that he was choked out.

“Let go of her,” Dean says, completely monotonous, before he takes a step closer.

“Fuck you, dude,” the man holding your wrist says. “This is a private matter.”

To your surprise, Dean smiles then. A shiver goes over you. It’s a dangerous smile, but only if you know him - only if you don’t know what his real smiles are like, how genuine and full and unguarded. This one is forced. It makes you feel like you’re smelling gunpowder. It’s the smile that on the surface is placating, but really, it’s a challenge. Make your move , it says. Give me your worst . But the guy just barks at him.

“What are you, her dad or something?” he asks. 

Dean throws his head forward and you gasp, while the other guy’s head snaps backwards. You have no idea what happened for a second, but then his free hand, the one not grabbing you, goes to his face, and a second later blood is spurting out between his fingers.

He lets go of you, stumbles to the side, trying to get away from Dean. He doesn’t get far. 

Dean is on him immediately. One hand grabs his collar, while the other builds a fist, a fist that meets his face with a horrible sound. Dean’s arm moves back again, and the second sound is even worse. He’s not brawling. Not even fighting, really. What he does is meticulous, mechanical. He’s pulling back his arm for a third time when you shake yourself out of your stupor.

“Dean!” you call out, and for a second, you think he’ll stop. His arm remains there, stretched all the way back, caught between action and inaction. But then he does it again.

The other guy’s head is already lulling back and forth, and Dean lets go of him when his fist connects with his face, and he goes plummeting to the ground. He lies there, unmoving, face covered in blood. Dean straightens, flexes his shoulders, then he turns to you.

The look on his face confuses you. Not happy, not angry, none of the emotions you expect. He looks completely neutral again. 

When he moves, you just stand there for a second, and when you realize he’s moving towards you, you briefly imagine him holding your face, looking at you, looking for wounds. You’d tell him you’re okay and he’d say are you sure? Or he’d tell you it isn’t that bad, that you’ll be right as rain before you know it. That sweet, caring way he looks after others. But that’s not what he does.

He walks up to you, and you don’t stop him. One arm goes around your waist as he presses you back against the wall behind you, your back meeting the stone. He’s pressing his lips to yours, roughly, the next second. You make a sound, but he either misinterprets it as lust or doesn’t care. 

One hand, the one he held the man’s collar with, goes to your face, thumb on one side of your chin, the rest of his fingers splayed on the other. The hand he beat him with goes to your breast, squeezes it roughly through the fabric of your shirt. 

You freeze for a moment, too surprised to do anything. Dean is kissing you deeply, pushing his tongue into your mouth while your eyes are ripped open wide. Should you be enjoying this? Should this be what you want right now?

Then Dean’s hand leaves your breast and goes to his front, his fly and that makes you twist your face out of his grasp, take a loud, shuddering breath.

“No–!” you gasp, trying to pull yourself away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. “Dean, don’t! Stop!”

Dean stops. He pulls his head back, looks at you, a slight frown on his face. He studies you, eyes dead and mouth slack, for a second, and then he blinks. It’s as if he’s a husk filled with sudden life. He closes his mouth, swallows.

“I’m sorry, I thought…” he says, but he doesn’t say what he thought. He looks to the side, to the men still lying on the ground, both unconscious. Then he looks back at you, something dawning on his face.

He takes a step back, lets go of you. Involuntarily, you wrap your arms around yourself. You have a hard time meeting his gaze. And then you realize you’re trembling. 

“Can you take me back to the motel?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Dean says after a moment. 

You push yourself off the wall, start walking back towards the main street, not looking back to the men lying on the ground, not looking back to see if Dean is following you. 

Anxiety is thick inside of your veins on the way back to the motel. Dean isn't looking at you. He is staring straight ahead without so much as acknowledging your presence. You can't shake the feeling that you've done something wrong, and at the same time you are wildly pissed at him.

Kissing you like that, and the alleyway? He shouldn't have done that. You know that on some abstract level. That Dean should know that after being attacked, after walking away from him because of the things he said in the bar, that you wouldn't be in the mood . And yet his silence, the quiet with which he has decided to punish you, makes shame feel thick in your throat.

When you get back to the room, you walk inside ahead of him, stand in the middle of it. There’s no sign of anything having changed, so Sam and Charlie must not be back yet. You listen as the door falls shut behind you and only then you turn around to him. Your arms are crossed over your chest but you have a hard time looking at him.

“I want my own room tonight,” you say, your voice set and clear. Dean looks up, his expression unreadable.

“Okay,” he says finally, “I can move my stuff.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head slowly. You can't believe how fine he is with this, how easily he accepts your request. He must not want you anymore. He must not want you anymore? Is that your conclusion? Is that your biggest worry right now?

“I want the other room,” you say. “You can stay here.” Dean nods again, still a picture of neutrality. He looks at the keys to this room, still in his hand.

“I'll go up front and get your keys,” he says. He stands there another second, then moves back towards the door, opens it and without looking at you again, walks outside.

Deep, raw panic spreads in your chest. Discomfort, but worse. You shift from one leg to the other, arms tightening around you further. Something is building inside you, something that could be a scream or something else. Something that will rip you apart on its way up, cut you open.

You begin pacing. Forwards and backwards, left to right. Anything to get this energy out, but it’s not going, it’s not disappearing. You feel powerless, you realize. You could leave, walk out the door. But your legs refuse you.

Dean is back a few minutes later. He’s pocketing his phone when he comes in, and you turn back to him. It must look to him like you haven’t moved. He looks up at you and you can see a second set of keys in his hand.

“Sam just texted,” he says, like you’re in the middle of a conversation, and while his voice is still somewhat neutral, somewhat careful, it makes heat boil in you. “He and Charlie are heading to the graveyard, to burn some bones. Apparently it was ghosts, not… not ghouls.” 

Dean’s speech slows as he keeps looking at you, moving the keys around in his hand. Then he seems to snap himself out of his thoughts, clears his throat.

“He sent me the address, so we should probably drive there, help ‘em out,” he finishes. Both of you are quiet for a moment while Dean looks down at the floor in front of you. Something is building on his face, some kind of confusion or turmoil.

“Of course you don’t have to go,” he says, slowly nodding. “Not after– I can go by myself, if you want. Or I can stay. They’ll manage on their own.” He looks down for a little longer, then up at you, as if he’s expecting an answer.

“I don’t–” you start, unsure what to say. You shake your head, frowning. “Whatever you want to do.” Dean takes a deep breath. He’s beginning to look uncomfortable. Great. He probably wants to get out of here. He wants to get away from you. There’s that skin prickle again. Like you’re walking through a cloud of mysterious heat.

“I’ll stay here,” Dean says to your surprise. He takes his phone out of his pocket again, then looks at the keys in his hand, lays them down on the table, then uses his free hand to type out a few quick words. When he’s done, he lays the phone down on the table next to the keys. He looks at you, then briefly away, then back at you.

He’s nervous, you realize, as you narrow your eyes at him. All the neutrality, all the cold aggression, gone from him. All rueful. That switch again. It makes you furious.

He pushes his hands into his pockets while you just keep looking at him. He’s probably gonna ask if you don’t want to go to your spanking new room in a second. You flex your hands. There’s a violent sadness, under all the anger, but you hope you can keep it where it is.

“You know what,” you say, voice sounding venomous, “I’m tired. And you should probably go, maybe back to that bar.” Dean frowns at you.

“So you can, you know,” you continue, “maybe find someone else to fuck. Someone it’s not wrong to be with.” Dean looks down again, his features twisting briefly.

“I didn’t mean–” he says, but you interrupt him.

“No, that’s what you said,” you continue, then widen your arms before you let them drop at your sides. “I mean, why the fuck have you been pursuing me? What do you want from me, Dean?”

He looks up, drags his hands from his pockets, takes a careful step towards you.

“I want you, ” he says, shaking his head slightly, and you hate and love what it does to you to hear him say that. You take a sharp breath through your nose, forcing yourself to keep your defenses up.

“No, but that’s wrong, remember?” you say, tone almost mocking. “But poor you, you can’t tell the difference. Or you can and you don’t care. You sure didn’t seem to care every time you came after me.” Dean steps forward again.

“Please,” he says, but you shake your head.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s not fair. You act like nothing’s different when everything’s different. You act like everything’s still the same, but it’s not. It’s not!” You sniff. Dean takes another step forward.

“I thought you wouldn’t want anyone to know,” he says, then swallows. “I thought…” He stops, shakes his head.

“No, that’s not what I thought,” he corrects himself. “ I didn’t want anyone to know.” You laugh, humorless and Dean looks back at you, expression soft suddenly.

“I’m just a dirty fucking secret,” you say, waves of emotion making your skin feel like it’s boiling. You quickly try to rein yourself in. “You can just do all these things, and we can just do all these things, but you don’t actually have to act like it happened. Because it’s wrong! It’s bad, right!?”

You’re almost yelling on the last part, and suddenly Dean is closer than you expect him to be, he’s right in front of you, and just as a single tear falls from one of your eyes, his hands go up, both cupping your face as he drags you towards him, kisses you, uncoordinated.

His soft lips press against you, your tongue and his meeting as you press yourself against him, just try to be closer.

“It’s sick, it’s sick,” you moan and your hands are fisting the fabric of his shirt, and you don’t know how they got there, only that you’re tearing at him, blindly, pushing him away or pulling him towards you, you’re not sure.

“I don’t care,” Dean pants as he presses himself close to you, “I don’t give a shit, I fucking need you.” You gasp, eyes that at some point closed flying open.

“Dean, no! ” you say.

He stops immediately, or as immediately as possible with how entangled he is with you. It’s suddenly deadly quiet in the room as you watch him, seemingly in physical agony, as he leans away from you. His hands are still holding your face, but he distances himself.

He’s so beautiful. How can that be? How is this possible? You watch him as he blinks, as if he’s waking from deep sleep. He does want you. But he hates himself for it. You swallow, your mouth dry as he focuses on you, looks at your face. And stops.

His breathing slows, and yours does too. It’s the only sound in the room, and you’re pretty sure it’s the only sound in the world. It must be. It’s too loud for it not to be.

“Dean,” you say, your voice quiet but filling the universe. “Keep going.” 

He looks at you only for a second longer. Then he does.

He leans forward, his lips meet yours and he’s sucking on you, his nose pressed against you, breathing you in. Then his mouth leaves you and he moves one hand, wraps his arm around you to pull you in, while his mouth goes to your neck. Presses against the spot under your ear where you’re sure he must feel your pulse, but more than that, you’re sure you can absorb him best. The hand exploring you squeezes you so hard everywhere that it hurts, and you wish he would squeeze harder.

“Stop,” you say, but it’s more of a breath than a word. Dean tenses, stops kissing you. Holds his breath for a second, then almost grunts but finally moves away. He pulls back far enough to look into your eyes again. You look back, and then you know.

You step backwards and he lets go of you. You don’t break eye contact, and when you’re at what you roughly think is an arm’s length for him, you raise your hands to your jacket. 

Still looking at Dean, you pull it off your shoulders. Slowly, not sensually exactly, but as if there is no hurry in the world. He watches you, chest rising and falling. He looks rough, like he just ran or got out of a fight. Like his body is a wire of tension, and yet the only movement you see in him is a twitch of his fingers when your jacket hits the ground and you move on to the buttons of your shirt.

That’s how you undress - slow, torturously slow. Once your shirt is off, you kick off your shoes and socks, push down your jeans. Dean shifts where he stands when he sees your underwear, but remains where he is. You pull your t-shirt over your head and while you are blinded by the fabric going over your face, you half expect Dean to be right in front of you when it’s gone. But he’s not. He stays where he is. Because you told him to.

Your hands go behind your back, undo your bra and you let it slide off your arms. Dean stares at your breasts, breath stuttering. You begin peeling down the waistband of your panties, and he looks and sounds like he’s in physical pain. It’s beautiful.

You step out of them, closer to him. He looks into your face, pupils wide, lips slightly parted, and you slowly raise your hand, run it over the side of his face. He closes his eyes at the feeling.

But your hand continues, further down. Over his chest, down to his crotch. You lay your hand over him, feel him there, and for a second you’re sure you can feel him pulsing, straining. 

You undress him in almost the same order you did yourself - jacket, shirt, shoes and socks. His jeans don’t simply drop down despite the fly being undone, so you drag them lower, go to your knees. When they’re around his ankles, you look up at him, at his face. Then you lean forward, press your opened mouth against his clothed erection. Dean makes a strangled noise, twitches. You move your head so he runs along your cheek, your chin, moan at the feeling. It’s an involuntary sound, but at this point, you don’t care.

His t-shirt goes next. You run your hands along his arms, fingertips bumping over the smooth, raised skin of the Mark. Then to his front again, both pushing into his underwear. He’s rock hard. You drag the fabric down, then step back again.

You look at your work, admire it. He stands there unmoving, slave to your command. You walk to one of the beds. You turn, get on it, on all fours, at the edge of it. Remain like that, unable to see him anymore.

“Tell me you want me, Dean,” you say. This way, you don’t have to see his face. This way, you don’t have to know if he’s lying.

But instead, you hear him walk up to you. For just a second, you tense, but all he does is walk up to the bed, stand close behind you.

“Do you really think I don’t want you?” he asks and you press your lips together. It’s like he read your mind.

“Tell me,” you say, voice steady. He moves closer, you think, so close that you can feel his body heat. 

“I want you,” he says, and you need to take a breath. But then, to your surprise, he continues.

“I always wanted you,” Dean says, or pants, more like it, with how hard his breath is coming. “I always wanted you and it fucking killed me, the guilt, the disgust in myself. Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you needed to know? That you’ve fucking ruined me?” 

Your brows draw together, and a thick, viscous, bittersweet pain spreads through your chest.

“Dean,” you say, your body so heated and ready that it nearly kills you. “Touch me.” 

One of his hands lands on your hip and he leans over. He’s running so warm, like he has a fever, and then he’s kissing your shoulder. It surprises you since you were expecting something else, and you gasp, but it turns into a moan. His front, his strong chest, is pressed against your back, encompassing all of you, it feels, as he presses close to you. He breathes on the part he just kissed, then kisses again close to it, hard, needy, like he wants to burrow into you, needs to press himself through the outer layer first. 

He steps slightly to your side, one knee going on the bed for balance, and then the hand on your hip wanders over your front, spans over your breast, gently squeezing, then finding your nipple, runs dizzying circles around it. At the same time, his other hand runs over your ass cheek, grabbing it hard once. You’re distantly aware of his erection pressing somewhere against the outside of your thigh and then he’s pressing two fingers into you.

You moan, loudly, louder than you have ever been able to be, been allowed to be. Dean moans too, at your intense wetness, which you’re sure must be running over his hand. He pushes his fingers deeper, right where he knows they need to go, and you push yourself back against him, roll your hips.

“More,” you whine, balance on one arm and drag Dean’s arm from your chest up to over your throat, where he has you in a chokehold. At the same time, Dean presses a third finger into you.

You buck, but he holds you in place. His mouth is somewhere behind your ear and you can hear his panting, but only barely over your own crying out. You feel drunk. You feel high. You feel all of these things and a million more you could never name.

“H-harder,” you pant, only barely able to get the word out, but Dean hears you. His arm tightens around your neck and his finger keep pressing into you, fast, hard, deep, precise, your eyes rolling up. It’s so hard it’s painful, but you’re too close, you can’t stop now. You need to jump and Dean is the cliff.

Dean’s name comes out of you, and his grip on you tightens yet again. There’s heaviness all over you, you’ve never been so inside your body, and yet you’re about to float away. Dean’s hard breathing is all you can hear. And then his words.

“I want you,” he says. “I want you more than I ever fucking wanted anything in my life.”

You come, scream silent while your body contorts, fighting and twisting against Dean’s hold. Your brain is on fire and you will never return from this. At last, like your lungs bursting free, a cry tears from you, something that could be a scream for help or of ecstasy.

You drop forward, but Dean holds you, his arm back across your chest rather than your throat. You’re whimpering between breaths and feel him shift behind you. He pulls his fingers from you and then you feel something else press into you, briefly bumping into the crease of your thigh, searching, finding, smooth thickness pressing between your lips, promising to fill you up–

“Stop,” you gasp, lungs still begging for air. And Dean does.

His hand falls off your front, fist pushing into the mattress to steady himself. The head of his cock is inside of you. The hand he’s not holding himself up with is on your waist, squeezing your flesh while he drops his forehead between your shoulder blades.

He’s breathing so hard you’re sure he’s about to collapse, his chest and stomach pressing against your back in an unbalanced rhythm. He’s sucking in air through his teeth, and he almost vibrates with the strength it takes to not keep going. 

But he does stop. He stops, because you told him to.

You push forward a little, so that he drops out of you and then you turn yourself around.

He feels like a live wire and when you touch his face, he flinches, looks at you. A muscle under tension, a gun with the trigger half-squeezed. A leather belt snapped straight, in the split second before it makes that cracking sound. That’s what he is. And still he stopped.

You gently stroke his cheek, look into his eyes. Dean looks back, looks into you and through you.

“I want to see your face,” is all you can say and his eyebrows twitch. You press yourself up, kiss him as gently as you can.

“Fuck me, Dean,” you whisper against his lips, as quietly as you can say. He halts only for a second.

He grabs you, drags you further up the bed. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, no way to fight him if you tried. But he would stop if you told him. You know that now.

He kisses you again, roughly but you tear your lips away from him, move your face into the warmth of his neck and bite at the skin there. He grunts, grabs your shoulders and pushes them down against the bed. He’s breathing so hard you’re almost worried, but he’s too busy grabbing the insides of your knees, pushing your legs up until you are good and open. You use one hand to help guide him into you.

He thrusts forward, hard and sudden, and your head drops back with a sound as if someone punched the air out of you. There’s no time to adjust, no time to get used to him. It’s this or telling him to stop, and you don’t want him to stop - not for anything in the world.

Dean begins fucking you hard and fast immediately. You can do nothing but take it, this exquisite torture, can do nothing but moan and whine and nearly scream at what he does.

He drops forward, hooking your legs over his arms, holding himself over you, studying your face in sick fascination. Involuntary, helpless sounds are still leaving you, but you look up at him, keep his gaze as your hands grab his arms, trying to steady yourself..

“This is what you wanted to see?” he pants, and you’re not sure he’s making sense but then you’re not sure you would. “This is how you wanted me?” You barely manage to nod.

“Y-yes,” you groan. “Yes, just like that.” Your hands go up, grabbing his hair instead, fistfuls of it, and Dean groans loudly when you pull it, drag him towards you.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue while Dean keeps fucking you, his skin slapping against yours and you can feel him tense, can feel his intense twitching inside of you, so you lower your hands to his back and just as he squeezes his eyes shut, you drag your nails down his back, hard. You’re not sure if you split skin.

Dean groans loudly, the vibrations traveling through his body into yours. While he’s still coming, one of his hands grabs the back of your head, hair caught tight in his fist and he drags your head back, exposes your neck and bites hard into the soft skin over your clavicle. You cry out loudly, but it only makes him press his teeth harder against you. He must be drawing blood, you think. You couldn’t care less. It feels perfect.

Dean lets go, brings his mouth up to yours and there is blood on his lips. You lean up, kiss him, kiss it, anything to get to him. He grunts, then drags your head back again.

I’ll fuck you until it kills me, you think you hear him say, but his lips don’t move. I’ll fuck you til it kills us both.

It’s what he nearly does.

You both lose yourselves, somewhere in there, in that mess of skin and blood and come and slick and sweat. Dean feels like he has never felt before and, he thinks, never will again. Or maybe this is just the beginning.

At some point, many hours in, he drags your face close to his. You’re both bruised, slapped, bitten, squeezed. But he looks deep into your eyes.

I love you, he thinks he says. The Mark says it too, the scorching hot skin around it pressed against you. 

I love you, you say, and the Mark screams brighter, hotter, until it burns you both alive.

[rubyvhs]

SPN FIC RECS : MARCH

— omg two months in a row!! i’m on a roll. show these authors some love and comment on their fics if you read !!

@chxrrywines : crybaby — my only sam fic cause i’m not into him that much these days but this is blondie we’re talking about so of course i loved what she wrote instantly and was holding back tears. author’s synopsis : inspired by the song crybaby by searows

@sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth : but at night I'd have these wonderful dreams — most relaxing read ever and i really needed it when it showed up on my dash honestly author’s synopsis : Dean tells you about his retirement plan: "a beach somewhere, toes in the sand. Couple of little umbrella drinks, Hawaiian shirts, obviously."

@maddie0101 : wanted — the angst. that’s all i have to say. author’s synopsis : you went looking for something real, only to come back broken. But this time, Dean won’t stay silent—because you were always his.

@supernotnatural2005 : happily ever after — literally all her fics are my fav thing ever and this one was just so so beautiful, i love tension before fluff. author’s synopsis : Set after 'Carry on'. Dean is alive, and you all decide to hang up the hunting life for good. Sam has moved on and you're waiting for your next chapter with Dean. However, the way Dean has been acting lately is making you doubt if you will ever have one.

@honeyryewhiskey : rhonda hurley — all i have to say is that EVERYONE has to read this. i will personally read it to you if you haven’t read it. author’s synopsis : Rhonda Hurley. . . we were nineteen. She made us try on her panties. They were pink. And satiny. And y’know what? We kinda liked it.

@honeyryewhiskey : morning brew — in love with anything involving both brothers because i can’t pick sometimes. i adore the flirting between both of them, so fun. author’s synopsis : if you’re opening up the cozy cup café, you can count on the winchesters being your first customers of the day.

@saltcxrcle : sober thoughts — read drunken words first but i was stupid so i did it out of order but it was still incredible. guys can you tell i like angst yet? probably not… author’s synopsis : avoiding dean seemed like the best course of action after embarrassing yourself by confessing your feelings to him

@sacr1ficialang3l : sad and stressed — more like a drabble but i wanted injected in my veins. you don’t understand, i wanna snort it. does that make sense? get me a needle. author’s synopsis : crying in older!dean’s arms.

@chevroletdean : you always meet twice — reread bcs i love it. this is my fifth reread or something. expect it in next month’s recs too basically.

@chevroletdean : leather jacket and pumpkin spice latte — another reread but it’s critical.

@wendichester : the substitute — reader was written in such a cute way and it really really stood out to me. made them seem engaging and guns and i wanted to be their friend. or my friend, whatever. also, the tension y’all !! author’s synopsis : the real winchesters come to join the supernatural musical

@deanwritings : baby, we’ve got a problem — first series on here! read it all in like two days, such a light read (at least the beginning is) and it really paints baby coming to life in a great way. author’s synopsis : The reader faces some trouble when Baby isn’t just a car anymore.

@figthoughts : bsf dad jensen — i will do absolutely ANYTHING to have him come to life. please. please. please. absolutely so well written. author’s synopsis : jensen catches you tipsy in his kitchen after a night out with your friends.