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uncouth-the-fifth · 6 months ago

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pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys.

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel?

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home?

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean.

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him.

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader

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hannibals-favourite-meal · 2 years ago

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Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

John Winchester x plus size reader

Christmas is just like any other day for John, but this year is different, his girlfriend has created a winter wonderland for him and his boys, but he won’t let her stay to celebrate

Warnings: john is a shitty ass parent and boyfriend, angst (honestly Lou can’t you write a fluffy fic for once), insecure!reader, alcohol, fluff

WC: 3.1k

Square Filled: Grumpy during the holidays @spnchristmasbingo

Minors DNI

SPN Christmas Bingo

The low budget motel room had been completely decked out in Christmas decorations. Tinsel over all the lamps and beds, a small tree on the coffee table decorated in cheap bobbles, poorly wrapped presents sitting around it, and fairy lights all around the room. There was even a piece of mistletoe hanging over the doorway to the tiny bathroom and three stockings tapped up under the tv.

Sam and Dean had gone feral when they walked in after school. Their little minds couldn’t comprehend all the lights and colours that you had hung up everywhere. They ran around, studying everything they could before their eyes landed on the arguably massive pile of presents. You had barely stopped the 8 and 4 year old in time before they ripped off the newspaper to get access to their goodies.

And now, after gorging themselves on eggnog and Christmas cookies, they were passed out in your arms, Dean on the left and Sam on the right, their little hands linked across your plump stomach, sleeping peacefully for the first time in a while. You had only been in the boys’ life for a few months, John was extremely protective of them, not letting you meet them until you had been dating for a couple years, but already you knew they were your boys and you would do anything for them. And apparently, that entailed spoiling the shit out of them every chance you could.

Sighing sadly, you looked up from where you had been watching them sleep, to the clock above the small kitchenette. It was well past midnight and yet, John still wasn’t home. You knew Christmas was a hard time for him though, so you just sucked it up and focused on the kids.

“Kitty?” It was the nickname the boys had given you because John insisted it was rude for them to call you by your first name. Glancing down, you were met with wide green eyes, still glazed over with sleep.

“What is it, Dean?” You whispered, mindful of the younger boy who was still dozing away, thumb tucked firmly between his lips. He sat up a bit so he could look you in the eye as a very serious expression came over his little face.

“Do you think dad is with Santa and that’s why he isn’t here?” Sometimes you forgot how truly young Dean was. He was forced to be so mature from such a young age, it was quite easy to not remember that he really was only eight. Cupping the back of his head, you gently guided him to lay down once more. He complied without a fight.

“Yeah that’s right. Your dad is helping Santa give out presents to all the little kids all over the world, but he’ll be back soon.”

“Do you promise?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I pinky promise.” His little pinky curled around your own before his eyes shut and he fell asleep once more.

It was around four in the morning that you were able to slip from the bed. Carefully, you pulled your duffle bag from under the bed and grabbed the last few presents from it. Each was wrapped in colourful (and expensive) paper with bows and neat little tags. Some said ‘from Santa’ but the largest of the bunch you had labeled ‘from Dad’ with your best attempt at emulating your boyfriend’s handwriting.

The sky was turning a light grey with an impending snowstorm when you heard the impala turn into the motel’s parking lot. Quickly, you threw your clothes and toiletries in the now empty bag before pulling on your boots and coat. You finished zipping it up just as the man himself walked through the door.

He had obviously been drinking if the stench of whiskey and smoke was anything to go by. But mostly, he just seemed tired. He was beat down, still fading bruises from his last hunt littered his arms and one of his eyes. “Thank you for staying with the boys.” He said it like you were just some babysitter and not his partner of the last three years.

You nodded at him. “It was no problem, you know how much I adore them.”

“Yeah.” He sighed in a way you knew he meant that he was done talking about it. “John?” He glanced at you but you could tell he wasn’t really looking at you or else he would have seen the heartbreak clearly written across your face.

“Just- just enjoy today. They need it, you need it. Forget the world for once and just be with your boys.” And with that, you kissed his scruffy cheek and walked away, planning on driving to Bobby’s to pick up another hunt. “Merry Christmas John.”

He didn’t even try to stop you.

Bobby handed you a beer as he walked back into his living room. Gratefully, you took it and downed half the bottle in one swig. “Woah, slow down there. Someone might think you were turning into me.”

“Har har.” You replied sarcastically and took another pull. Your legs were curled up under you on his couch as your eyes fixed on the small fire he had built up in the fireplace. He raised an eyebrow at you, taking his place in the worn recliner beside you.

“Thought you were with the Winchesters for Christmas?”

“You know John, he doesn’t want anyone close to his boys, especially not me.” Your voice wavered with barely concealed tears. The ache in your chest had grown with each mile you drove away from them until you felt like someone had ripped out your heart by the time you had gotten to the scrap yard.

“I don’t get why that idjit pushes you away. You’re good for all those boys, not just him.” You shrugged, keeping your gaze fixed on the fire in some vain attempt to stop yourself from crying.

“I’m not his girlfriend, Bobby. I’m a distraction, a babysitter, a nurse sure, but never his girlfriend. I can’t live up to Mary and he knows it, the same as I do.” You shrugged and finished off the bottle. It had been like that since you started dating. John needed a partner, someone to watch his back and keep his bed warm and he never did anything to change that.

He kept you at arms length all the time and you just accepted it, knowing what he had gone through. But now, it was ripping you apart. You loved those two boys with your whole heart and seeing them but never able to be anything more than an occasional visitor in their lives hurt like a bitch.

“Maybe you should leave.” Bobby bluntly said. “Why stay with a man who can never see how truly incredible you are?” You couldn’t answer him.

The hunter sighed deeply. “Just think about it for a couple days. Figure out if he’s actually worth your heartbreak.” With a friendly squeeze to your shoulder, he left you alone with your thoughts.

——————

John hated Christmas for one simple reason: it had been Mary’s favourite holiday. She went all out, lights, decorations, the works. And it got even better when Dean was born.

After she died, he found it hard to tolerate the holiday. He knew the boys questioned why they couldn’t have a celebration like the other kids at school but it hurt his heart even just thinking about having a Christmas without her. He avoided the day as much as he could with hunts and booze, but otherwise treating it like any other day.

And now, walking into the hotel room they had been camped out in for the past few weeks, John wanted to cry. You put in so much work to make the place look nice, even if you weren’t sticking around (not that it was your choice). His frown deepened as he glanced at the presents by the tree.

Knowing you, you had bought the presents with the scant amount of money you earned from actual jobs instead of hustling or downright stealing. You were too kind for a business like this, too soft.

With a heavy heart, he collapsed on the ratty sofa after pulling a beer from the fridge. His brown eyes occasionally flicked over to his boys, unconsciously making sure they were still alive and well. They would be devastated when they woke up and you weren’t here but he could deal with that.

What he couldn’t deal with was how involved you were in their lives. You had consumed his heart, his soul, his mind and his body. He was terrified of how quickly he had fallen for you. It left him questioning his love for Mary and he hated you for that.

So, like the way he regarded Christmas, he treated you like he would any other woman he had taken to his bed. He knew it hurt you, he could see it in your eyes when he dismissed your feelings or when he shoved you away from the boys. But they were more important, they couldn’t lose another mother and he couldn’t lose another woman he loved.

“Daddy!” He was shaken from his thoughts by a small body landing firmly on his soft stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. Sam’s skinny arms wrapped around his neck in a tight hug. John quickly recovered, hugging his youngest back.

“Hey there Sammy.” He chuckled, holding him as close as he could.

“It’s Christmas!”

“I know it is buddy, why don’t you wake up Dean and you can open your presents.”

“Ok!” As Sam scrambled away, John put his beer down on the ground beside him, purposely keeping it out of their potential eye line. It would do them no good to see him drinking this early in the day. He watched as Dean’s eyes shot open and sprung from the bed.

Soon enough, the kids were surrounded by ripped up paper and brand new toys and books. This is how it should be, John suddenly thought. He had gone four years without giving these boys the joy they deserved, no the joy they needed and he felt like the shittiest person ever.

“Daddy?” Sam was looking up at him with the biggest puppy dog eyes he had ever seen, clutching a gorgeous copy of the Wizard of Oz to his chest. “Where did kitty go?” Now that hurt even more. Dean’s gaze also settled on him and he could clearly see the questions in his green eyes.

“Well, kitty had to go see uncle Bobby for a while.” Both their faces fell.

“But why?”

“He needed her there.”

“But we need kitty here!” Sam insisted as he stomped his little feet as hard as he could. “It’s Christmas! She has to be here for Christmas!”

And then, he watched in slight horror as Dean stood up and hugged his little brother like a parent would hug a crying child. One hand on the back of his small head, the other arm across his shoulders and tugged him into his chest. “It’s ok Sammy, she’ll come back.”

“But what if she doesn’t? What if she doesn’t want us and then doesn’t come back!”

“She always comes back Sammy.”

“I want kitty right now!” And he descended into a truly heartbreaking fit of sobs. Moving quickly, John scooped him up and settled back down on the couch, doing his best to sooth his youngest. But Sam fought back, wiggling almost violently in his grasp. “I don’t want you! I want kitty!” With an all mighty jerk, he tumbled from John’s arms and made a mad dash to the bathroom.

The door slammed and locked shut before the hunter could react. “Sam!” He shouted after him, making a move to follow but a little hand on his forearm stopped him in his tracks.

Dean was crying too but they were silent tears, dripping quickly down his full cheeks. “Why does kitty always leave us?”

His knees creaked as he slowly dropped to his knees. Kneeling before his son, John looked him dead in the eyes. “Sometimes, it just has to be like that Dean. And we’ve got each other, that’s enough.”

“But we wouldn’t even have a Christmas without her.” Dean followed his brother into the small room, leaving John alone with his thoughts and a sinking feeling in his gut.

You would know what to do, you always seemed to have the answers when it came to the boys. The thought ripped through his chest like a bullet. In the seven months since you had known his sons, you had effortlessly become a better parent than he ever had been and yet, you never demanded recognition or love from any of them. You loved them because you could.

And they were right. It was Christmas, the first real Christmas that Sammy had ever had, a Christmas Dean could actually remember. But you weren’t here, because you knew John wouldn’t want you there.

Something came over the hunter then and suddenly he stood bolt upright. His mind was in a haze as he tore down the decorations littered about the room, stuffing them into spare trash bags. Presents were thrown into duffle bags, along with the boy’s clothes.

“Boys! We’re leaving!” The bathroom door opened a crack and both their little heads peaked out. John threw the last bag over his broad shoulder as he grabbed their winter boots from beside the front door. “Let’s go!”

They watched him curiously, confused as to why their father had pulled apart the room and was now in a rush to leave. “Where are we going?” Dean spoke up, slowly inching his way out of the bathroom.

John’s face remained stern but his brown eyes were sparkling with something the boys couldn’t quite figure out. “We’re going to save Christmas.”

——————

The fire had begun to burn out but you didn’t care to add any more wood. Your eyes were fixed on the dying flames as you absentmindedly sipped on the warm beer in your hands. Was being with John really worth it? Could you handle feeling like nothing but a burden or bed warmer any more?

You wanted to stay, you loved all three of the Winchesters so much. Yet, in the cold light of morning, after a night with John worshipping you and your body, when he would ignore your existence and dismiss you like just another one night stand, you felt lower than dirt.

You would give him Christmas, and then, you would be gone forever. The room glowed a dull orange with the sunset and your eyes drifted over to the window beside you. Snow was falling lazily from the sky, covering the junkyard in a layer of peaceful white.

“Kitty!” Your head snapped around and your breath caught in your throat as tears built up behind your eyes. Sam and Dean stood in the doorway, huge smiles on their faces, dressed up as little elves, complete with fake ears and hats with bells.

“Boys? What are you doing here?” Sam looked like he was about to sprint at you but a large hand suddenly appearing on his little shoulder stopped him. You laughed tearfully.

John stood behind his boys, dressed head to toe in a ridiculous red suit with matching hat. He was smiling brighter than you had ever seen him smile before. A full duffle bag was in his other hand, tinsel spilling from the open zipper.

“Now, what did we practice in the car?” He prompted, eyes falling to the children in front of him.

“Merry Christmas Kitty!” They shouted together before Dean took a step forward and held out a piece of paper.

“Santa says you’ve been very good this year so you get a very spectial present.”

“Special Dean.” John corrected.

“Special.” He nodded and then shuffled forward, holding the paper up even higher. Sam was visibly vibrating in his dad’s grip, eager to run at you. You slipped from the couch, landing painfully on your knees but you ignored the pain and instead took the paper from the 8 year old’s hands.

Dean smiled shyly as you turned it over. It was hard to make out at first like most drawings done by a child but as soon as the lines and colourful smudges became clear, the tears broke free.

There were four figures carefully doodled on top of various stickers, two of them significantly taller than the other two. One smaller figure had a book in their hands, obviously Sam. While the other was holding what appeared to be a pie or scrambled eggs, you couldn’t really tell. It was Dean.

The bigger people were holding hands with a sloppy heart over their heads. The slightly taller one had a beer beside his feet and a dark beard while the wider person had cat ears on their head. It was you and John.

Written at the top of the paper in very sloppy handwriting was: ‘We love you kitty!’

Suddenly, your arms were full as Sam and Dean launched themselves at you. You pulled them to your chest and cried, your heart feeling so full and yet so broken at the same time. How could you have even thought about leaving these perfect little boys?

Your chest shook with sobs as you held them as tight as you could. There was a thud and then another pair of arms wrapped around you. John’s chin rested on the top of your head, the boys nestled between you. “I love you, I’m sorry I never showed you the love you deserve.” His voice was thick with emotion.

“I love you too.” You murmured back, lifting your head to look him in the eyes. The edge of his lips turned up and he surged forward, capturing your own in a deep and passionate kiss that made you ache for more.

“Ewwwww.” Sam gagged, trying to pull away but you just laughed and yanked him closer. John laughed heartily.

“Get used to it Sammy, kitty is never leaving us again.” You glanced at him curiously but he just smiled mysteriously at you. “Kitty is staying for good.” He gently cupped your full cheek, his thumb tracing the peak.

“I am?” You questioned playfully.

“You are.” He answered definitively. “Because it’s Christmas and family is supposed to be together on Christmas.”

“Yeah!” Dean emphasised, excitedly wiggling against you. “And Santa needs Mrs. Claus! Everyone knows that!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes!” Sam spoke up this time. “And daddy is Santa so you have to be his wife!”

You grinned. “I guess I have to agree then.” The boys cheered and John tightened his grip, tugging you away from them so he could kiss you once more.

“Merry Christmas Mrs Claus.”

“Merry Christmas Santa.”

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#spnchristmasbingo #john winchester x plus size reader #john winchester x reader #john winchester x you #plus size reader #female reader #john x plus size reader #john x you #john x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader #fluff #angst #supernatural imagine #platonic reader #sam winchester x platonic!reader #dean winchester x platonic!reader #bobby singer

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minefield-of-a-ninja · 2 years ago

Text

All fics are 18+ ONLY unless otherwise noted

SERIES

*at least three parts or chapters

28 Days - AU Dean Winchester x several AU SPN characters

Summary: Dean Winchester is an addict and an alcoholic, a USMC veteran, a father, and an older brother. As Battalion Chief with Lawrence Fire & Medical, Dean comes under investigation when he makes a dangerous and impulsive decision, defying his superiors and abandoning the team he is supposed to lead. He is given the choice to go to rehab for 28 days, or jail. His lawyer insists on rehab, and Dean begrudgingly abides.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Emma Winchester, Jack Kline, Victor Henriksen, Jo Harvelle, Gordon Walker, Bille, Crowley, Rowena, Missouri, Meg, Pamela, Gabriel, Lydia, Casey, Jamie, Carmen, Tessa

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, emergency action, fire, drug use, thoughts of death and dying, teen endangerment, references to underage drug addiction and prostitution, partially told through flashbacks

Words: 33K

Author’s notes: Inspired by the film 28 Days and following canon themes from SPN, this is a fic about Dean, a firefighter who goes to rehab, not about Dean as a firefighter.

And Then There Were Three - Winchester brothers x original female character

Summary: Natalie and Dean are in a “not serious” relationship until one night, she and Sam take a step that will change things forever.

Warnings/tags: 18+ONLY, rough sex, squirting, anal sex, butt plug, bondage, dirty talk, orgasm control, double penetration, polyamory, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 13,500

Black Tie Optional: sequel to Plus One - Dean Winchester x Vanessa (OFC)

Summary: The last time we saw Vanessa, she was swooning over Dean’s lasting impression. Now, we fast-forward a year to see what she’s up to.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC Vanessa Martinelli, (eventual) Sam Winchester x OFC Emma Olsen

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, HBO RomCom bullshit

Words: 17K

Combat Baby - Dean Winchester x Jo Harvelle

Summary: canon divergent - Dean’s sweet, but Jo likes him nasty

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, rough sex, biting, dirty talk, brief name-calling, exhibitionism, role play, squirting

Words: 3,073 WORK IN PROGRESS

God Only Knows - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: One weekend, years ago, lives rent-free in both of their minds. Three-part mini-series.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, pining, clothed sex, couch sex, hungover sex, fluff, roomies to lovers, idiots in love

Words: 5,500

If We Make It Through December - Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

Summary: Donna is horrified to learn that the boys have never had a proper Christmas, so she invites them to her house for the holiday.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Donna Hanscum, Sam Winchester, Jody Mills, Claire Novak, Kaia Nieves, Patience Turner, Alex Jones

Warnings/tags: there was no rebar, 18+ ONLY, fluff, light angst, domesticity, holiday celebrations

Words: 12K

The Kinda Girl You Like - Winchester brothers x original female character

Summary: After Sam reveals to Sofie his sub that he likes to watch, she decides that they should act on it. Then he tells her what exactly it is that he likes to watch…

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, sub-sharing, bondage, rimming, the jockey is my favorite sex position, dirty talk, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 6,500

Leaving Heaven - Dean Winchester x Taziana Smith (OFC)

Summary: Tazi is a bounty hunter of mostly human things. She isn’t firmly seated in the supernatural world, but she’s familiar enough that she’s recruited by an old friend of John Winchester’s to capture and deliver a brief acquaintance of her own.

Characters: MOC/Knight of Hell/Demon Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Lee Webb, original characters

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, brief dub-con, mentions of the foster system, references to past rape, commiserating over childhood trauma, threats of sexual violence

Words: 16,500 WORK IN PROGRESS

The Mud On Your Boots - Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

Summary: Dean and Donna finally give in.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, dirty talk, fluff, consent is sexy, period sex, fisting, blood as lube, shower sex

Words: 8k (permanent hiatus)

Plus One - Dean Winchester x Vanessa (OFC)

Summary: Vanessa hates weddings until she meets a handsome stranger who agrees to help her mix things up for the night.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, fingery things, squirting, and Dean has no refractory period bc this is fic

Words: 9,600

Pretty Reckless - MOC Dean Winchester x pre-slayer Faith Lehane

Summary: AU where s10 Dean stumbles upon another hunter so much like himself. When their connection grows inexplicably stronger, they find an answer they never thought existed.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Faith Lehane, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley, Cain

Warnings/tags: 19+, rough sex, prostate massage, magical bond

Words: 15K

Run Me Like A River - AU Dean Winchester x AU Jessica Jones

Summary: AU wherein Jessica Jones is super-powered by gov’t experiments to create elite soldiers, the Winchesters are military officers in humanity’s War Against Evil, and they have all gone AWOL from their assigned roles. Dean and Jess embark on a relationship that ends abruptly and explosively until Dean calls her for help on a very personal case.

Characters: Jessica Jones, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Arthur Ketch, Malcolm is Jess’s cat

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, major character death, unhealthy relationship dynamics, bondage, rough sex, anal sex, ptsd

Words: 14K

Seasons - Dean Winchester x unnamed female character

Summary: She is his safe haven, untouched by anything else or anyone.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, canon divergent - no Cassie or Lisa, non-linear storytelling, four seasons, angst, hurt/comfort, references non-con unprotected sex, loss of a pregnancy

Words: 12K

Temporary Scars - Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum x Benny Lafitte

Warnings/tags: 18+, Angst, Donna has intimacy issues, Dean’s the sweetest, self-sabotage, sort of established relationship, Benny’s swoony as fuck, Dean’s in love, polyamory, pregnancy kink

Words: 4,500 (permanent hiatus)

Unopened At Your Feet - AU Sam Winchester x female narrator, AU Dean Winchester x female narrator

Summary: This is the story of how I broke my own heart.

Characters: Female Narrator, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Becky Rosen, Meg Masters, Benny Lafitte

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, weed-smoking, canon-compliant date-rape/roofie (Becky), love triangle

Words: 12,470 WORK IN PROGRESS

Where Is My Shiny Gun? - Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum (voyeur Sam Winchester)

Summary: canon divergent - Sam finds himself in a quandary when he realizes he has feelings for Donna by way of the obvious mutual attraction between her and Dean.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, Sam is kinky, Dean is adorable, so is Donna, Dean likes to give Donna massages, Sam directing while masturbating, brief spanking + breast slapping, brief knife play - no blood, W*ncest adjacent

Word Count: 7,800

ONE-SHOTS

A Fight For Love & Glory - Winchesters x you (female)

Summary: You’re struck by sex pollen, so Sam and Dean agree to help you out.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, sex pollen, feelings of guilt, ass play, dirty talk, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 2K

Bad Girls Underneath - Ruby 2.0 x Dean Winchester x Jo Harvelle

Summary: Ruby and Jojo get hit by a sex curse again; this time, they need Dean’s help.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, magical-dick/male-gaze bullshit, probably too much commentary and emotional complication, why am I like this, I’m sorry, sometimes I can’t help myself, fisting, brief choking

Words: 2,600

Cactus - Dean Winchester x Meg Masters x Castiel

Summary: Post-battle, exhausted and wanting, Dean and Meg and Cas take care of each other.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ ONLY, dreamlike sex, a little choking, Dean’s always hungry

Words: 3,200

Caveat Emptor - Dean Winchester x original female character

Summary: Gabriela Cruz invests in a Victorian mansion in the middle of America where the rule of Buyer Beware is absolute. When her twin sister goes missing, a couple of federal agents show up. Lucky for Gabi, Dean and Sam Winchester are on the case.

Characters: Gabriela Cruz, Camila Cruz, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Ed Zeddmore, Harry Spangler

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, language, mentions death of family members, cursed object, mentions of blood + gore, sarcasm, twin dynamics, explicit sex

Words: 4,600

Crazy On You – Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: You’ve had a shitty day, but this beautiful, unfamiliar boy will make it all better.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, Impala Sex, there’s a knife but not in a bloody way

Words: 4K

Crossroads and Bound - Dean Winchester x female demon reader

Summary: He agreed to this.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, femdom, Dean’s tied to a chair, wearing a cock ring, face sitting, things might get a little rough, but it’s all in good fun, squirting

Words: 2,250

The Curve Of Your Pretty Gown - Dean Winchester x female reader

Request: Hey hon! Ok, so it’s my birthday today, so maybe a story about Dean surprising me/ the reader by turning up unannounced to wish me/the reader a ‘happy birthday’ and there’s lots of smut ❤️

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, a little angst

Words: 2,200

Deep - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Dean shows you more about pleasure than ‘deep’.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Dean being perfect, sensual massage, Dean being the best lay ever, biting, Dean being a fairytale prince, the jockey is my favorite sexual position, try it, it’s amazing, talking during sex, gratuitous use of terms of endearment bc it’s Dean

Words: 3K

Discord and Rhyme - Knight of Hell/Demon Dean x female reader

Summary: He’s on the prowl.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, rough anal sex, crying during sex, blood during sex, there’s a lot of purple prose and excessive descriptions of taste and smell here, sexual coercion, dirty talk

Words: 1,750

Ennui - Knight of Hell/Demon Dean x unnamed female character

Anonymous Prompt: “I really want demon dean stalking someone but I don’t know how to do that with consent? But guh just the thought of him.

Characters: Knight of Hell/Demon Dean Winchester x unnamed female character

Tags/warnings: 18+ only; this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester; stalking; exhibitionism; voyeurism; dirty talk; horny on aisle 3; fuck it, we ball

Words: 2,400

Equilibrium - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: They have balance.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, established relationship, cock warming

Words: 1,400

Get Down, Make Love - Winchester brothers x original female character

Summary: Steph decides to cut loose and push the envelope with her favorite fellow hunters.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, hot tubbing, drunk sex (consensual), dirty talk, mfm spitroast, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 3,200

Hark and Hush - Purgatory Dean x wolf spirit in a female body

Summary: This is the story of how Dean Winchester hunted, became enamored with, and slew the ancient spirit of the Big Bad Wolf.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, stalking, blood, gore, rough sex, character death

Words: 2,200

Hide Your Love Away – Dean Winchester x female hunter reader

Summary: Mutual hunters seek comfort for a night and a lifetime of memories.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, ass play

Words: 3,600

His Sword - Michael/Dean x female prostitute

Summary: Michael takes some time to remind Dean who’s in control.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, edge play, bondage, knife play, blood play, choking, rough sex, name-calling, character death

Words: 2,300

Just My Imagination - Dean Winchester x female Zanna

Summary: After Mary leaves the boys a second time, Dean needs a reset, or to blow off some steam – something. He heads out on a snowy evening the night before Christmas and finds just the right thing.

Warnings/tags: mature, Hallmark channel fuckery

Words: 2,800

One Night Only (23 in 1) - Dean Winchester x Mila (original female character)

Summary: While on a job in the middle of America, Dean enjoys a rigorous night of mutual gratification with a local art student.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, ass play, shower sex, dirty talk

Words: 5,500

River - Dean Winchester x Ty (Original male character), Dean x Benny implied

Summary: It’s Dean’s first winter after sending Benny back to Purgatory.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, implied underage prostitution, semi-public sex

Words: 1,600

Rules Are Rules - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Dean hasn’t been himself lately. The Mark has seen to that.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, hand around the throat, rough sex, squirting

Words: 2,400

Shattered Like A Stone - Demon Dean Winchester x original female character

Summary: The Mark is demanding, and the demon in Dean can’t deny it any more than he can deny her; it just might get everything it wants tonight.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, rough sex, bondage, multiple object insertion, suicidal ideation, darkfic, self-destruction, bloody sex, sadism and masochism, anal sex, Jameson as lube, spit as lube, face fucking, Daddy as title, misogynist language, choking, strangulation, assisted suicide

Words: 6,800

Some Stranger’s Hand - 2009 Dean Winchester x 2014 Risa (The End)

Summary: He lost everything.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, plush pink pillow lips for my Eloise

Words: 1,700

Spark, Flicker, Blaze - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Somewhere along the line, her life became something she didn’t like. On her 35th birthday, she makes a decision to change all of that.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, overly descriptive orgasms, Dean’s the best birthday present ever

Words: 2,200

Stuff & Thangs That Are Awesome… And Not Awesome - Dean Winchester x female character (1st person POV)

*TWD Crossover

Prompt(s): 1) Dean has been arrested twice for indecent exposure – once was in a grocery store. 2) Jensen or Dean x Reader, a small public place, he pins you to the wall, covers your mouth and fucks you.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Rick Grimes, Shane Walsh

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, Rick Grimes eye-fucking, Shane Walsh having a pissing contest with a young, cocky Dean Winchester

Words: 1,300

Supernova - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Since Dean’s had the Mark and the Blade, he’s pulled away from you, afraid of hurting you. You miss him, and you’ve had it. One night you push him to the edge.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, bondage, blood play, biting, bruising, knifeplay, rough sex, dubcon/mindfuck

Words: 2,500

Triptych - Dean Winchester x bisexual female couple

Summary: Dean’s on a case and meets two beautiful women. One of them is recently divorced, and the new couple invites Dean to help them kick off their new life together.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, sex toy, Dean’s real good at sex

Words: 4,700

Wait Till My Brother Gets Home - Winchester brothers x female reader

Summary: She wants to lose control.

Warnings/tags: 18+ Only, rough sex, hair pulling, mfm spit roast, bruising and chafing during sex, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 2,450

When We Fall Then We’ll Know Each Other - Dean Winchester x Benny Lafitte (voyeur Castiel)

Prompt: “There’s nothing wrong with women, but a woman can’t hold you down and fuck you like I can.”

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, cum and spit as lube, anal sex, voyeurism

Words: 1,400

QUICK AND DIRTY

*1K words or less

Barbed Wire Carnival - Choose your own Winchester

Summary: Absence of feeling.

Warnings/tags: mature, angst, dark descriptions

Words: 300

Brimstone - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: He’s exactly what she wants.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY surprise, bitch

Words: 450

Bring It On Home - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Let’s pretend Dean wouldn’t be terrified to welcome love into his life.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, established relationship, comfort, fluff, handsy Dean

Words: 1K

Communion - Dean Winchester x female reader

prompt: Fluffy dean or Jensen smoking weed plz, ty

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, marijuana use

Words: 1K

Crash Through The Surface - Dean Winchester x Jasen (original male character)

Summary: Dean remembers his First.

Warnings/tags: mature, bi-sexual Dean, references to prostitution

Words: 800

Custard Pie - Dean Winchester x female reader

Prompt: Dean/OFC based on Led Zeppelin’s ‘Custard Pie.’

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY oral sex

Words: 800

Drag You To The Shore - Dean Winchester x GN reader

Prompt: Dean Winchester settled in between someone’s legs on the bed. Like his back to their chest, their legs wrapped around him, heels keeping his thighs open while they jerk him off, explicit but soft vibes.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY

Words: 800

Fall Away Into - Dean Winchester x Ruby 2.0 x female reader (voyeur Sam Winchester)

Prompt: “Dean x reader x Ruby 2.0 with Sam watching from the corner.”

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY drug-induced sex, OOC Dean, mff spit roast, use of the word bitch during sex, rough sex, hate sex, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 530

Foxholes - Annie Hawkins x Bobby Singer/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Summary: Annie recalls time spent with each man and what their facial hair told her about them.

Warnings/tags: mature language and references to sexual activity

Words: 349

The Gazelle - AU Dean Winchester x AU Benny Lafitte x female reader

Summary: They aim to please.

Warnings/tags: mature, power exchange, Denny apparent

Words: 1K

The Good Slayer - Dean Winchester x Faith Lehane

Prompt: Dean and our girl Faith. (This is a sequel of sorts for Pretty Reckless.)

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, talking during sex

Words: 800

Hollow - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

prompt: Would anyone be willing to write something with Dean [or Jensen] x reader to the song Love on the Brain by Rihanna

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, dirty talk, rough sex, angst

Words: 1K

I’ll Keep Them Still - Dean Winchester x Jo Harvelle

Summary: Dean remembers promises and pictures in his mind. And he remembers her.

Warnings/tags: mature, songfic, angst, dream/afterlife sequences, purple prose, I’m sorry

Words: 1K

Just One More Peaceful Day - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

Prompt: angsty Dean with the line “I can still remember just the way you taste” from the song “It’s been a while” by Staind

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, blood play, knife play, mentions of addiction

Words: 700

Laissez Les Bons Temp Rouler - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: He’s got a dirty mouth when he’s drunk.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, dirty talk, a dirty public bathroom during Mardi Gras

Words: 600

Lifting the Veil - Choose Your Own Winchester

Summary: You’ve been missing something of paramount importance - until now.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, infidelity, squirting

Words: 1K

Mind Blown - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Mind-blowing orgasms can sometimes be literal.

Warnings/tags: mature, transient global amnesia after sex, dirty talk

Words: 560

Nihilism - Knight of Hell/Demon Dean x female reader

Prompt: Can you tell me about the morning after going several rounds with Dean he rolls over in bed and adjusts the covers, causing you to forget your shift to be his good girl a couple more times?

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother's Dean Winchester, name-calling, rough sex, nihilistic themes, Knight of Hell Dean, fantasies of being fucked to death? Idk it’s one of mine, might as well be yours, you’re female AFAB in this scenario

Words: 800

One For Tomorrow, One Just For Today - Dean Winchester x female reader

Prompt: before leaving on a hunt, Dean sings “Love Me Two Times” to his lady.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLT, Dean can actually sing, and he does it during sex

Words: 660

The Prerogative To Have A Little Fun - Donna Hanscum x Jody Mills x Winchester brothers (kinda)

Prompt: Donna’s visiting Jody for the weekend and the boys swing by on their way home from a hunt. Dean mows the lawn, Sam fixes a leaky shower head, Dean makes dinner, and they both do the dishes. Meanwhile, the ladies sit back and enjoy the domestic display.

Warnings/tags: mature, men doing manly things, inspired by Shania Twain’s song “Man! I Feel Like A Woman”, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 1K

Recompense - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Dean is sorry for hurting the ones he loves.

Warnings/tags: mature, angst, Dean saying hurtful things then trying to make up for it

Words: 500

Scream - Dean Winchester x past-female reader

Summary: Dean tells us the real reason he loves “All Saint’s Day” as much as he does.

Warnings/tags: mature, references to coming untouched, getting turned on by scary movies

Words: 320

Soft Cell - Dean Winchester + teenage female

Prompt: Dean + reader dancing in the bunker

Warnings/tags: one F-bomb bc Dean

Words: 720

Through The White Night - AU Dean Winchester x original female character

Summary: 18th Century matrimony isn’t as simple as it is today.

Warnings/tags: mentions of wall sex and finger-y things

Words: 560

Wish - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: You want it to be love – but it isn’t. You want him – but you can’t have him.

Warnings/tags: mature, sepia-toned angst ™ @boondoctorwho

Words: 765

With Pleasured Hands - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: He’s got secrets she has yet to uncover

Warnings/tags: mature

Words: 500

#dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x original characters #dean winchester x jessica jones #dean winchester x faith lehane #dean winchester x spn characters

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