#Sam Puppy Eyes Winchester strikes again

[the-dormant-ocean]

Dean gets drunk off his ass in a bar in Lebanon and starts rambling to everyone who will listen about his little brother. About how cute he is, how he has the cutest puppy eyes and it's sooooo unfair because Dean just can't resist them. He also gets emotional talking about how proud he is of the kid and how smart he is.

Then, a freakishly tall guy built like a brick house walks into the bar and Dean beams the moment he sees him and happily calls him "Sammy". The entire bar is stunned because "This is Sammy???". The kid Dean has been talking about for hours and said was "the cutest fucking thing" he has ever seen??? A guy who could probably bend metal with his bare hands??? They thought he would be like 10 at best from Dean's description but this guy has to be in his mid-thirties! He really doesn't fit the definition of cute.

Sam gets on Dean's case for drinking too much and Dean pouts and refuses to leave the bar. "I won't leave until you do the thing Sam" "I don't know what you're talking about" "Yes you do" "Dean no! It's weird!" "D o t h e t h i n g. Or I'm not leaving Sam."

With the biggest, wettest, roundest eyes they have ever seen, Sam asks him softly to please come home with him. Dean groans with pain like a hangover man blinded by the sun, caves in and leaves the bar with Sam. Everyone is left stunned and a little flustered because that was actually cute holy shit! How the fuck did he do that???

[d-hasselhoff]

GRIMOIRE

Dean Winchester x reader

Dean gets put under a spell and suddenly you have to break it to protect him, and the rest of humanity.

Warnings: canon level violence

Dean had gone off to get some beer, a way for him to cool off after Kaia. You and Sam stayed behind, looking through all the books, trying to find some goddamned thing to find Jack and Mary. “D’ya think it’s time to call Cas?” You wondered aloud, stopped by the sound of Dean entering the bunker.

“Sammy, I’m in love.” You narrowed your eyes at the expression on his face.

“Well, yeah, I think we already knew that, Dean.”

“No, she’s, she’s gorgeous. She’s lovely, with these striking blue eyes and long, luscious red hair-I just, she’s perfect.” You choked, watching as he danced around the War Room. Eventually headed toward the box that held the Black Grimoire.

Though you were hurt, you could tell this wasn’t the Dean you married. “What’cha doin with that book, Dean?”

He looked at you as if he hadn’t professed his love and loyalty to you in front of an alter just two months ago. “It’s a gift. For Jamie!” Dean exclaimed, running around with the book.

“Alright, Dean, did Jamie happen to ask for this book by name?”

“Why of course she did! Doesn’t that seem like- we’re like, soulmates?”

You and Sam glanced at each other, immediately knowing what had happened. “Dean… honey, why don’t you put the book down and we can talk.” You tried, standing up cautiously.

“What’s there to talk about, Y/nn, Jaime and her sister are waiting for me at the market, I gotta go!”

“Dean! Stop! Jaime isn’t real!” You shouted, abruptly standing up and pushing your chair out, catching his attention before he was able to make it out the door.

“Well of course she’s real, Y/nn. You wanna come with me to give her the book? You can meet her! Maybe you two can be besties!”

You narrowed your eyebrows again, mumbling, “what the fuck,” as you walked toward him. “Dean, she’s probably a witch; Or a siren.” While you talked Sam grabbed the keys to the Impala, hoping to keep him from going, or at least slow him down.

“No! She’s not! Why can’t you just be happy for me!” Dean yelled, shoving you to the side. Whatever spell he was under seemed to have upped his strength. You tumbled to the side, and before Sam could come to help you Dean smashed him over the head and he fell too, unconscious. Dean looked at you from your spot under a chair before he left, turning away and walking up to the stairs.

You grunted as you pushed the surprisingly heavy chair off of your abdomen before walking over and smacking Sam’s face lightly to wake him up. “Sammy! Dean’s gone, he took the book.”

Sam groaned as he sat up, throwing you the keys before soothing the spot where Dean hit him. “Let’s go get our boy back, huh?”

"Yeah. Is it bad I almost wanna make him walk home?" You asked.

"I mean, he walked all the way there, I don't know why another wouldn't hurt?" Sam suggested, grinning at you as he got into the driver's side.

You and Sam managed to pull up just as Jamie was about to smash Dean over the head with a mallet. The sound of tires screeching and the potential for a witness to the murder made Jaime stop, rolling her eyes. Dean turned around, cocking his head like a lost puppy when his car pulled up.

You and Sam exited the car, Sam's gun out, and pointed directly at Jaime. "Hey! Don't you point a gun at her!" Dean shouted, running and full-body tacking Sam onto the hood of Baby.

"Where is it?" Sam grunted as he and Dean rolled around in the parking lot, you and the witch sisters laughing before you remembered the bitch was trying to kill your husband.

"We should get out of here before the girl makes a move or the one with the hair actually wins," Jaime scoffed. turning around toward their car, Grimoire in hand.

"Oh no, you don't, bitch," you muttered, grabbing Sam's gun off the ground of the alleyway, pointing it and firing, knocking Jaime dead center in the head and turning slightly, firing off another before the sister could even realize what's happening.

At the same time, Sam managed to get the hex bag from Dean's coat pocket, pulling him from the spell. You fired a quick shot at the hex bag, breaking it completely.

The two laid on their backs on the pavement, clearly winded from their fight. "God, maybe you two should start doin' some cardio," you mentioned, picking up the book from where it lay previously between the dead witches.

"Damn, Sweetheart, ya killed two witches for me?" Dean joked, walking up next to you and placing a kiss on the top of your head as a thank you.

"Not you. I want the Grimoire for me," You snarked, leaning into his side as you both walked toward Sam, who was leaning on the Impala, deciding how you all would dispose of two dead women's bodies inconspicuously.

[melanieathene]

Suptober 2022 Day 28 - Animal

Puppy dog eyes. Sam had perfected that look at an early age. One soulful glance was usually all it took to make Dean see things his way. Dean knew he was being manipulated, but he was helpless to resist. After all, it was Sam, his baby brother, the person he'd gladly die to protect.  What did it really matter? He'd do anything he could for his brother anyway.

But, then, after years of observing the Winchesters, Castiel picked up the habit. And that was a whole new ballgame.  One sad glance from those too-blue eyes, and Dean found himself willing to do whatever he could to take that sadness away. And when melancholy turned into a come hither stare?  Well, let's just say Dean was a goner.

In combat, Castiel was imbued with grace and beauty.  His moves were sinuous, his blows landed sure and true, like a striking cobra.  Beneath the covers, Dean learned that this was also the case.  Castiel writhed and wrapped around him like a snake, his tongue (thankfully not forked!) testing, tasting, tantalizing. His hands slithered everywhere, turning Dean's world upside down and inside out, making him come harder and faster than he'd thought possible, only for Castiel to coil around him and start all over again.

Sometimes, on winter evenings, when Sam was out on a date with Eileen and the Bunker felt especially empty and chill, Dean lit a fire in the fireplace and he and the ex-angel cuddled in a nest of pillows on the floor. Castiel's eyes grew heavy lidded, and he hummed in a low, contented tone that reminded Dean of a sleepy kitten's purr.  Their love making was slow and gentle then.

In the spring, Castiel tended to his garden.  Busy as a bee, he flitted from plant to plant, providing what they needed: water, weeding, whatever. All the while he spoke to them in a low tone, encouraging their growth. And grow they did.  Just as 'little Dean' grew when Castiel 's deep voice rumbled “I love you” in the hunter's ear.

Like a bird, Castiel's gaze was bright and curious. He took everything in, missing no opportunity to increase his education.  Dean was all too happy to teach this eager pupil all he knew of the ways of making love.  A master strategist, Castiel was quick to improvise and improve.  Not that Dean found any room for complaint.

“Cas has come a long way,” Sam remarked one day as he and Dean sat at the kitchen table sipping their morning coffee.  “He's one of us now: a lowly mud monkey. As human as you or I. ”

“I quite like monkeys,” Castiel mumbled, shuffling barefoot into the room and making a beeline for the coffee pot. “They're one of my favourite animals.”  He absentmindedly scratched his armpit and reached for a banana.  “What?” he demanded, turning to see the brothers sharing an amused look. “What is wrong with being an animal lover?”

Sam hid his smile behind his coffee mug. “Nothing,” he said.  “We like animals too. Right, Dean?”

“Yeah.” Dean grinned. “Sure do. And Cas is a real animal in bed.”

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Night Crawling

Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~3350

Warnings: Some explicit smutty goodness in a dive bar bathroom, some recreational drug use, some Sam feels. 

A/N: I really thought I was going to write PWP for once. As usual, some feels snuck in. Set at some vague point in Season 5. 

I’ve had the new Miley Cyrus album on repeat all day; inspiration, title, and bathroom graffiti quote all came from “Night Crawling.” Listen to that and “Gimme What I Want” if you want maximum ~atmosphere~ or whatever while reading. 

“Another?” Sam asks, leaning in to make himself heard over the music. He gives me a twisted, wicked version of his usual dimpled smile. There’s a drop of tequila clinging to his lip, and I want to lick it off. He’s so close. 

My head is still spinning from the last shot and from his attention. I shake it off. 

“Bathroom, I’ll be back,” I tell him. 

Sam’s in a fucking mood tonight. Not that I blame him. Time is ticking away, faster by the day it feels like; if Lucifer was after me, I’d take whatever escape I could get. 

Dean’s at the motel, hopefully putting some ice on his twisted ankle or maybe sleeping, and normally Sam would be fussing over him like an overgrown fucking mother hen. Instead, he suggested that we go “blow off some steam,” looking at me with this glint in his eyes, like he was daring me. 

So… here we are, getting fucked up in a grimy rock club, watching some Nine Inch Nails wannabes wail like a porn soundtrack over a dirty industrial bassline. 

Sam fucking Winchester. Always full of surprises. 

It’s one of those single-occupancy dive bathrooms where I don’t want to touch anything or, like, inhale too hard. It’s impossible to tell what color the walls originally were under the layers of concert flyers and graffiti. There’s probably enough cocaine residue on the chipped porcelain sink counter to get an elephant high. That kind of place. 

He wants me almost as much as I want him, I’m pretty sure, but I never thought either of us would act on it. Too many complications, too many ways to fuck it all up… now, though? The entire world is fucked. Might as well get laid before it all goes to shit.

Two lines of red Sharpie scrawl next to the mirror grab my attention: night crawling, sky falling, gotta listen when the Devil’s calling. 

Yeah. Well. 

I don’t think either of us will make it out of this alive, but he doesn’t want to. That’s what this is all about, really. He started this apocalypse. He’ll never forgive himself if he lives through it. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t. 

I wash my hands and splash some water on my cheeks, bracing myself. I can feel the chemicals kicking up my spine, now.

If Sam fucking Winchester needs to indulge his self-destructive streak and get out of his head for a night, I’ll keep him company. Fuck knows I’ll never say no to him. I’ll stay with him til the end, if he lets me. 

It hits me again: this is the end. The world is about to end, and that sweet, sexy, puppy-eyed motherfucker out there is at the center of all of it. Heaven, hell, good, evil… and Sam. If tonight is what we’ve got — if this is all we’ll ever get — I’ll take it. I’ve always wanted more, but… this’ll do. It’ll have to do. 

He’s slouching against the wall, right outside the bathroom hallway. He gives me this dark, hungry grin when he sees me, and maybe whatever was in that pastel blue pill is making itself known, or maybe it’s just Sam that’s sending a wave of prickly heat over my skin… either way, it feels good. 

“C’mon,” he says, passing me a cup of ice water, and then he’s gripping me by the wrist, pulling me into the crowd. 

Sam doesn’t dance, and he sure as hell doesn’t dance with me, but he’s not fucking around: hands on my waist, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at me, cheeks flushed, moving with the beat. I rest my free hand on his upper arm, right where the swell of his bicep flexes against the soft cotton sleeve of his t-shirt, and I can’t help but squeeze slightly, feeling hot skin and muscle under my palm. I swallow hard. 

Sam leans in closer. I can smell him, the natural scent of his sweat under the spice of his deodorant, and it’s so overwhelming that I shiver. 

He gets his lips right up against my ear, the deep rumble of his voice a physical thing that I can feel as well as hear: “Ever just get sick of being yourself?” 

Jesus. 

“Yeah,” I mumble, mouth dry. I don’t know if he hears me but it doesn’t really matter. 

“I think too much. I don’t want to think tonight. Is that okay?” 

I suck in a breath. “Don’t need to explain, Sam. I get it.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, heavy-lidded, golden skin shining with sweat in the flecks of light coming off the disco ball. “Dance with me.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, Sam, anything you want.”

I toss back the cup of water, gulping it down, too eager; some of it trickles down my chin. I don’t care. I drop the cup and run my hand up Sam’s chest. His eyes flutter closed and he licks his lips, sinful, gorgeous. For a moment I think he might say something but instead he spins me around and hauls me closer, my back to his chest. 

The song is filthy, all thudding funk hooks and wild drums. There’s this frantic heat behind it that has me sinking under the surface, swimming through the riff, and the pulse of it wriggles down my spine and works itself out through my hips as I toss my head. It’s the kind of rhythm that’s made for sweating all over a stranger. 

Sam might as fucking well be a stranger right now. I never knew he could move like this. 

His hips swivel and twist, and his hands slide down to my thighs, pinning me against the solid muscled heat of his body. I feel reckless. I feel high and overstimulated and utterly fearless, and I can feel his touch echoing through me, inside me, throbbing down my belly to where I’m empty and suddenly aching. 

As soon as I think about it, the emptiness hits me hard. My cunt is clenching around nothing in time with the gritty slap of percussion. I arch my back and rub myself against Sam shamelessly. 

He’s hard against my ass, hard and getting harder with every shrieking lick of guitar, and the awareness of it sends a thrill down through the core of me, like a bolt of lightning striking between my legs. My breath catches and hisses out of my lungs like I’m a punctured balloon. I feel dizzy. 

It’s all so intense right now. Every inch of my skin is fizzing, and the simple curl of his fingers around my wrist has me shuddering like he’s stroking something much more intimate. 

On any other night I would try to step back, to get myself under control… I’d start thinking, and I wouldn’t be able to stop, and I’d get stuck in my head instead of giving in to the mind-blowingly intimate thrill of his fingertips pressing into my pulse. 

We’re not thinking tonight. I couldn’t think straight even if I wanted to. 

The beat changes, segueing into something low and slinking and goddamn obscene. I’m dripping with sweat — mine or Sam’s? I can’t tell — and my skin is on fire, and I want Sam in this awful, all-consuming way that I’ve never wanted anything or anyone.

So I don’t think about it; I just turn, twisting in his arms until we’re face to face, or rather, face to chest. He’s biting his lip, expression almost pained as he grips my waist and slots a thigh between mine. I snake my arms around his neck and roll my hips, feeling the seam of my jeans dragging up the sensitive spot between my legs, and I’m absurdly grateful for the way the music drowns out any embarrassing noise I might make. 

There’s a drop of sweat sliding down the corded muscle of his neck. It trickles to a glittering halt right at eye level, in the hollow of his throat, and I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I could fall down and worship whatever god invented the v-neck. 

I don’t fall to my knees, but I do lean forward and taste his skin. Salt floods my tongue. 

Sam’s hand runs up my back, cups the nape of my neck, and he doesn’t so much guide me as yank, tilting my head to meet the rough urgent sting of his teeth and the soft slide of his tongue. I groan into his mouth, and his hands flatten at the small of my back, pulling me impossibly closer. I want to shove myself against him until I can burrow under his skin. 

His mouth. He nips and sucks and explores, lips on mine with crushing force one second, whisper-sweet the next. 

I’m melting. I must be melting. 

I hold on for dear life, delirious, drunk on the way he’s kissing me. I’ve imagined this before, but I never imagined it like this. 

We’re still dancing, or something like it anyway; his hips swivel, and I rut against him, my entire body throbbing with animalistic need. Sam shifts his weight, grinding against me, and I can feel the fat stiff length of him right up against my center. I whimper, desperate and wanton. 

One hand slides up my back, around my ribs, up, until he can trace the curve of my breast with his thumb and then pinch my nipple through my bra. When I buck against him, he does it again. My knees don’t want to support me any more. 

I’m a half-second away from coming just like this. I’m shaking. 

“The fuck are we doing?” Sam says roughly. He nips my earlobe.

“Not thinking, remember?” I snap, and then I’m stumbling back, almost falling, tugging him by the wrist as I start to weave through the crushing press of bodies. My heart is pounding. Everything blurs together. My skin feels too cold without him all over it. 

There’s one open bathroom, no line, no reason to hesitate. The heavy door closes behind us and the deadbolt slides home with a metallic echoing thud. 

He’s already crowding me back, hands on my cheeks, tip of his nose brushing mine. I grab at the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in the sweat-damp fabric. My ass hits the counter and I surge up clumsily to kiss him. The angle’s off; our teeth clack together. 

We laugh and fit ourselves back together, bodies like puzzle pieces in that fucking song Sam would never admit he loves, and I could cry with relief at the way he feels under my hands. I can feel him breathing, the harsh rise and fall of his chest, and I can feel the heat of him, blood and sweat and bone, solid and real and here and mine, at least for tonight. 

He fumbles with the button of my jeans and kisses me like he’s drowning. Then he curls two long fingers up and into me, grinding the heel of his hand against my clit. I lean back, heels skidding on the dirty tile as I try to brace myself and rock my hips up all at once. 

“Need you to fuck me,” I bite out, remarkably steady considering the way I’m trembling. 

“You gonna regret this tomorrow?” Sam asks. He twists his fingers, knuckles stretching me open, so good my eyes roll back in my head. 

Tomorrow… we’re not going to think about tomorrow. 

“Might regret waiting this long,” I groan. Understatement of the century. 

“You ‘n me both. You sure?” He’s staring down at me and he looks wrecked: pupils blown, lips swollen, hair clinging to his temples where his skin is streaked with sweat. 

“Do you feel how close I am?” I grab his wrist with one hand, holding him there, fucking myself on his fingers as I try to pull my jeans down with the other hand. 

Sam’s mouth drops open and his eyes go unfocused for a second. Whatever self-control he had left is gone. He pulls his hand away, and I whine at the loss, but together we get my pants down, and I kick them off as he gets his belt open. He’s just as big as I always imagined, proportional to those sinfully long elegant fingers, and my mouth fucking waters as I watch him stroke himself. 

He bites his lip, chest heaving, and tugs me up onto the very edge of the grimy sink counter. Before I can find my balance he’s right there, hooking an arm under my knee so that he can spread my legs wider, and he’s guiding the hot velvety head of his cock down my center and in, and the slick blunt pressure of it makes me claw at his back, trying to get him closer even though I can barely handle how good that first thick inch feels. 

“Fuuu - unnhhhhh - fuck, Sam, I need…” I choke out, and then all I can do is pant breathlessly, incoherent, as he rocks his hips and starts to stretch me open. I’m helpless like this, no leverage to do anything but sit there and take it, and he moves so maddeningly slow that I’m going out of my skull. 

“God, look at you,” he breathes. “So fucking good. Always wondered what you’d look like taking my cock. Always imagined you begging. Are you gonna beg for me?” 

“If you don’t shut the fuck up and give it to me, Sam, I swear —” 

“Yeah?” he growls. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise.

I wrap my legs around his waist, hooking my ankles together, leaning back on my hands, and then I can arch my back and pull him deeper, working myself onto his cock. 

“Sam —” I start, but before I can say anything else he slams home, grinding in hard and fast, and my voice cracks on a stuttering, incoherent whine. It’s blindingly good. He’s steely-hard and so goddamn thick I feel like I’m about to split open, like one wrong move is going to pull me apart. His first rolling thrust sparks this wrenching wave of pressure that fills me up and shakes me down to the tips of my toes, my entire body rippling with feverish heat. 

“That’s my girl,” he pants. He pulls me against him and twists up, rough and filthy, and I shudder against him, writhing, mindless and overwhelmed. 

“Sam,” I choke out. My voice is high-pitched and squeaky-thin, and the next sharp thrust makes me forget whatever I was going to say beyond, “Nnnnhhhhhyesohgod.” 

“There?” 

“Fuck. Yes.” 

He moans, low and broken, and finds that perfect spot again, grinding into it with eye-popping force.

I can feel it, pleasure cramping through me with every movement, coiling up, building around the deep throbbing ache where he’s fucking into me. I feel like a wild animal, primal and lost.

“Good girl. Fuck, feels so good.”

I clutch at his shoulders, muscles quaking, burying my face in his neck as all that white-hot pressure peaks inside me. I let out an ugly, anguished sob, can’t hold it back, and then all I can feel is the all-consuming spasm of my orgasm, tension rocketing through every inch of me, sending me out into space for a long paralyzed moment. The first pulse of it is so scary-intense that I can’t breathe, can’t control myself, can’t keep track of my own body… 

Then it all comes back at once, and I’m exquisitely aware of Sam against me as he fucks me through it, hips surging forward as I squeeze around him and urge him deeper. 

“Thought about this so many times,” he’s confessing, ragged and raw. 

“Me too,” I gasp.  

He sucks in a shaky breath, moving slower as I start to come down, and I can feel him holding back now. “Think about you so fucking much, I can’t —”

“Me fucking too, Sam.”

He kisses me, gentle in a way that could very easily destroy me. 

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he whispers, forehead sweaty where it rests against mine.  

“Fuck, Sam, don’t — this is —” 

I feel so strange and strung-out, caught between the shivery aftershocks in my belly and the startling tenderness in his voice as he mumbles, “Wanted to take my time.”

“Sam.” 

“Wanted to take my time with you,” he repeats. He moves against me with this slow, snakelike undulation. “Wanted to lay you out and kiss you everywhere and fucking worship you.” 

“We can. We can — I want that.” 

“Never gonna be enough,” he chokes out. “I knew — I knew, if I did this, I’d never want to stop.”

My skin is lit up with the feel of him, liquid heat gathering in my gut as my body responds to every perfect touch, but I’m afraid my ribcage is about to split open with the way my heart is hammering. 

We’re in a goddamn dive bar bathroom, for fuck’s sake, and I’m fucked up, and maybe this will feel cheap and tawdry and silly in the morning, but… somehow I don’t think it will. Somehow this feels like the most important thing that’s ever happened to me. 

“Why’d we wait this long?” I ask. There’s an embarrassing wobble in my voice. 

“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” he grits out. “Because I was scared.” Before I can respond, he kisses me, all teeth and desperation, twisting his hips and swallowing my moan. He slides his hands under my shirt, sliding them up my back, and drags his fingernails down in trails of stinging heat. It’s pleasure and pain and fucking obliteration, and the sensory overload has me spiraling out again. 

“Fuck that,” I half-laugh. My back arches and my voice breaks, and I bite his lip hard enough that I taste copper. 

He groans, full-throated and shameless, and ducks his head, sinking his teeth into the sweat-slick curve of my neck. He sucks, nibbles, and it sets off fireworks behind my eyelids. 

“Close, Sam. So close,” I babble, breathing harsh and heavy. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull, and I can feel him moan. “Never thought it’d feel like this. It’s — this is so much better —” 

He shudders against me, lets out this long, guttural sound, and then he shifts and pounds into me harder, and all I can do is cling to him, pulling him closer like I’m never going to let go. “C’mon, then. Fuck. Tell me what you want.” 

“Please, Sam. Just — please. Please.” 

“I’d do anything for you,” he growls. “You know that, right?” 

“Anything?” 

“Anything.” 

“Don’t leave me,” I blurt out, as the unbearable tension starts to crest. “Don’t leave me, Sam. Please.” 

I know he hears it. He gasps like I punched him. I can feel him jerk, twitch, fingers clawing at my back, cock twitching and swelling inside me as he starts to come. I bite down on the meat of his shoulder as I let go. My orgasm feels like it’s ripping something loose, an earthquake in my core, and I don’t trust myself not to say exactly what’s on my mind. There’s a surge of pleasure, one glowing wave of it then another, and I’m dimly aware of shuddering against Sam as he rocks into me one more time, clutching him close… as if I could get close enough to keep him here with me. 

It’s impossible to be sad right now. I’m chemically incapable of sadness, still soaring high, but this is so much bigger than sadness anyway. I just feel like I’m about to break. 

“That,” he says, with an ugly sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s what I was afraid of. That I wouldn’t ever want to leave.” 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Let’s just — let’s not think about it. Okay? Can we go back to the motel and — can we do that again? Take our time?” 

“Just for tonight?” he asks raggedly. 

“Just for tonight. We’re not going to think about what comes next.” 

He nods. We both know it’s a lie. 

,

,

,

[katelyn--renee]

Out of the Fire (Part two)

Title: Out Of The Fire (Part two)

Fandom: Supernatural AU

Main Characters series: Reader, Lieutenant Firefighter!Dean Winchester, Lawyer!Sam Winchester, Jessica Winchester (Moore), Nurse!Lisa Braeden (Formerly Winchester), Ben Braeden-Winchester, Harper Winchester (OFC), Charlie Bradbury, Firefighter!Benny Lafitte, Firefighter!Jo Harvelle, Firefighter!Castiel Novak, Claire Novak, Mechanic!John Winchester, Firefighter Captain!Ellen Harvelle, Mechanic!Bobby Singer, Doctor!Arthur Ketch, Nick Vaught and many more!

Pairings: Dean x Reader (eventual), Dean x Lisa (past), Reader x Nick (past), Lisa x Ketch (current), Sam x Jessica (current)

Word count: ±2200 words

Series summary: A slow burn romance. Reader is trying to get away from her troubled past and start fresh; a new name, new town, new friends, and a new job. A clean slate. After years of planning and saving, she is able to open her own business. With the help of her best friend and business partner, Charlie Bradbury, and her new flirty firefighter friend, she is hopeful, even when disaster strikes and her past threatens to catch up with her years later. 

Part two summary: Flashback to when you first met your green eyed hero and their budding romance. 

Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fire or mentions of fire, fluff (so much fluff), angst, eventual smut, mutual pining, alcohol abuse, alcohol intoxication, mentions of domestic abuse (physical, verbal), mentions of miscarriage, mentions of adultery/cheating, mentions of death, dangerous or life threatening situations, stress, descriptions of injuries, blood, hospital scenes, character death. 

Author’s note: Here is part two! I hope you enjoy this chapter and all it’s fluffy goodness! :)

A special thank you to @that-one-gay-girl and @deanwanddamons for being the wonderful beta’s that you are! Your feedback is always appreciated! Check out their awesome work and spread some love!

All graphics and dividers done by me! :)​

If you like this story, please don’t hesitate to leave a like, comment and if you’re feeling extra generous, share! Your feedback gives me live and motivation! If you would like to be tagged in the series, please don’t hesitate to ask!

Thank you and let’s enjoy this ride together!

<<-- Read part one, here!

Out of the Fire Masterlist!

Interested in more of my work, check out the link below.

Masterlist

About five weeks ago.

The shop was busier than usual, but being the final days of summer, it was expected. It wasn't anything you or Charlie  couldn't handle, of course, but it sure did make for long days and even longer nights of cleanup. 

"Charlie, table two needs refills, table six never got their vanilla lattes, and table four is ready to pay." You announced as you joined your partner behind the counter with a handful of dirty mugs and plates, having just made one of many rounds through the seating area.

The two of you danced around each other gracefully, moving in harmony as you switched from one task to another. “On it.” She acknowledged, already preparing the missing drinks and throwing in a complimentary pastry for the mistake.

You set the pile of dishes down into the sink before turning to the next customer in line, flashing him a friendly smile. “Yes, hi, how can I help you?” You greeted urgently, looking up to meet a set of stunning green eyes. You faltered slightly, taken by surprise by his strikingly good looks.

He smiled, almost bashfully, as he began to place his order, seeming not to notice your hesitation. “A round of coffees, black, for me and my buddies ,” He motioned toward the booth near the large bay window which was occupied by three other bodies; two men and one woman, all of whom adorned matching uniforms. “Cream and sugar on the side. Oh, uh, larges… or eh, talls?” He added with a sheepish chuckle, clearly unfamiliar with the coffee house lingo.

You couldn’t help but giggle at that, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth to prevent yourself from smiling more and potentially embarrassing him. “Venti.” You corrected him playfully. You saw the confused look on his face, his head cocking like a confused puppy, before adding, “For our ‘large,’” 

You used air quotes to emphasize your point, rolling your eyes at the technical terminology. “It’s venti.” You saw it the moment he understood what you were telling him, and he chuckled again, not missing the way he ducked his head to hide the slight flush to his freckled cheeks.

 “Never too old to learn something new.” He chuckled again and winked at you, the gesture setting butterflies loose inside of your stomach. It was your turn to look away this time, your face hot with a blush. He fished his wallet from his dark blue cargo pants, looking at the assortment of baked goods.

“Throw in a few of those bagels and croissants, too, please.” He added, casting his gaze down at the display case once again. “Oh, and a piece of that cherry pie.” He added almost dreamily, pulling out a couple of twenties. 

Upon further inspection, you took notice of the soot and ash that dirtied his face and darkened his hair in certain places. He had dark circles under his gorgeous eyes, too, clearly exhausted after a long shift. You glanced in the direction of his crew members, finding much of the same. “Long night?” You asked, trying to be friendly as much as you were curious.

“I look that rough, huh?” He teased, a look of mock offense accompanying his handsome features.

 You shook your head, a smile still curving your lips at the corners, “Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that.” You clarified hastily as you calculated his order  into the register, making a point to leave off the coffees; it was the least you could do for him… eh, them, right?  

He winked again and laughed, the sound deep in his chest, assuring you that he was only teasing. “I know you didn’t,” The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, watching your face and the way you tried to suppress your smile. “How much do I owe you, sweetheart?” He asked, glancing down at the display screen. 

The term of endearment made your heart flutter slightly, and you couldn’t keep the smile from creeping onto your face again. You swallowed the feeling down, pressing the enter key before you read aloud his total. 

“That’ll be $19.94, Mr. Firefighter.” He rose a questioning brow at the total, glancing up at the menu prices. “Coffee’s on the house.” You added quickly with a closed-lip smile, your eyes sincere. “It’s the least I can do for your services.” 

Several emotions seemed to make their way across his face, contorting it briefly before settling on gratitude. “Thank you.” He said, his voice genuine. He held out one of the twenty-dollar bills, paying for his order. “That was really kind of you, truly.” He smiled softly, glancing down at the name tag attached to your apron. “(Y/N).”

A smile formed on your lips before you could stop it, and your cheeks flushed at the way he said your name, your eyes finding the name embroidered onto the left side of his dark blue button-up shirt, opposite of a silver badge over his heart. Red patches were on either sleeve, proudly showing off the station they serve. “It’s no trouble, Lieutenant Winchester...” You promised with a sly smile. 

He laughed, appreciating your observation. “Dean.” He insisted as you accepted the bill. Your fingers touched, brushing against each other softly. The touch, however slight, was like an electric shock, igniting every part of your body. 

There was an annoyed grunt behind the firefighter, but the two of you paid little attention to it. You put the money into the till and collected his change, but Dean insisted that he didn’t need it. He walked backwards to his table, his bottom lip drawn up between his teeth. The two of you couldn’t seem to stop watching each other, nor did you want to, silently flirting with your eyes. 

You giggled when he bumped into an unoccupied table, watching as he almost knocked over its contents and awkwardly fumbled with the accompanying chair that nearly fell over. He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled self-consciously, trying to conceal his embarrassment. He ducked his head when he got back to his table, his friends giving him a hard time. 

He hid his face in his palms as a dark-haired man with scruff and blue eyes clapped a hand against Dean’s shoulder, booming with laughter. “Smooth,” You heard the blonde female tease, snickering at her partner. You watched them as you gathered up their order, blushing when you caught him stealing a few glances your way. When finished, you brought their order out to them personally, earning you another wink from the fireman.

The rest of the shift went by in a blur, unable to get those emerald eyes out of your head. Charlie had seemed to notice your distraction and, in perfect Charlie fashion, commented on it as you were closing up shop. “That fireman sure left his mark on you, huh?” She teased, a knowing smile drawing her lips up. 

You scoffed at her and tried to play it off like you didn’t know what she was talking about… and failing. “W-What? No - No, I - Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charlie.” You muttered, locking the doors and placing the keys into your pocket.

She looked skeptical and cocked her hip, propping a hand there. “Uh-huh, sure.” She stated, waving her hands. “And I’m not the Queen of Mordor.” She said sarcastically, “Oh wait, I am.” She said exaggeratedly with her hands thrown in the air, referencing her extracurricular activity of LARPing. 

You rolled your eyes fondly at your best friend; she’d dragged you along to her LARPing weekends on more than one occasion, and you’d humored her, going along with it because it made Charlie happy. “You can’t fool me, sista, now spill the beans.” She insisted, following behind you with the broom as the pair of you cleaned up.

You sighed, wiping down one of the tables and the chairs that joined it, already knowing that you wouldn't win this battle against the feisty redhead. “I don’t know…” You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip as you thought about the encounter. “I can't explain it, I don’t know how to explain it… but there was just something about him… y'know?" You recalled, picking up one of the chairs and putting it on the table. "I just… I can’t quite put my finger on it…"

Charlie giggled, "Bet you wish you could." She teased, clearly hinting at more than she said. You gasped and feigned innocence, throwing the towel at her. Charlie laughed more, catching the soiled cleaning cloth before it collided with her face. "Oh, come on (Y/N)! I know that look in a woman's eye. I’ve seen it dozens of times! You want him. Bad!"

She threw the cloth back, and you caught it with ease. "Jeez, you make me sound so desperate." You grumbled, not denying Charlie's observation, despite the dramatics. 

Charlie hadn't missed a beat, and she grinned, a cocky sparkle in her eyes. "So you do like him." She chimed accusingly, clearly happy to be right.

You rolled your eyes again, moving onto the next table as Charlie continued sweeping under the one you'd just cleared. "Okay. Yeah, fine." You admitted, "I thought he was cute and charming and sexy in that uniform," 

Charlie made an ‘I-knew-it’ face, but you continued before she could make a sly remark, "But it doesn't matter. It's not like I'm ever gonna see him again." You stated with a reluctant sigh, spraying down the next table with the cleaning agent, trying to hide the disappointment lingering in your voice. You began to scrub at a stubborn spot on the table, trying to distract yourself.

Charlie frowned sadly, reading into your mood, and leaned the broom down against the table before closing the space between you. "I'm sorry for being pushy. It's just that you work all the time. When was the last time you did anything for yourself?" You were about to answer when she held up a finger, "Other than this café. This doesn't count, this is work." 

She had a point. You couldn't remember the last time you'd done anything that didn't involve this little shop. "Exactly. I just wanna see you have some fun and that," She thumbed over her shoulder toward the door, referring to Dean, "was fun." You chuckled softly, your cheeks getting warm at the thought. 

"You deserve to live a little,” She put her arms on your shoulders and squeezed affectionately, “Especially after what that snake put you through." You frowned at the reminder, dread coiling inside of your stomach and a frown pulled at your lips at the mention of your ex, Nick. 

Like always, Charlie didn’t let you get too lost in your thoughts, "And who knows, maybe he has an equally attractive sister for me." She added with a playful shrug and a giggle, effectively distracting you. "Fate works in mysterious ways, sista; you never know what she might throw your way." She added mysteriously, wiggling her eyebrows for added effect. 

As it turns out, Charlie was right. Fate did work in mysterious ways because, in the weeks that followed, Dean continued to show up, sometimes with his crew, but mostly by himself. The times he showed up varied, depending on his work scheduled, which you soon noticed was quite busy. Regardless of the hour, he always showed. 

It wasn't long before you memorized his order by heart; a venti coffee, black, and a slice of pie; whichever flavor was baked for the day's special. The flavor never seemed to be an issue for the firefighter, but it didn’t take you long to realize that cherry was clearly his favorite, with pecan  a close second. 

The pair of you flirted and subtly got to know each other as time went on, teetering somewhere between acquaintances and friends. He’d flirt. You’d flirt. But it never went any further than that.

Charlie teased you about it the whole time, of course. She wouldn’t be your best friend if she hadn’t. You’d just roll your eyes or shake your head every time she’d urge you to "grow a pair and ask him out already." 

You wanted to. Of course, you wanted to; you’d be an idiot not to want that.

But you didn't, of course, because you were too embarrassed and too afraid to act on your feelings. You'd done that once before already, and you paid one hell of a price for it. Hell, in a way, you still were. Nick left such a nasty scar on your heart; you weren't sure if you could ever love again. You were in a constant state of fear, afraid of being hurt again.

Charlie, being the wonderful best friend that she is, always tried to remind you that love… true love… would never hurt you. That real love was the stuff of magic and fairy tales. That what you had with Nick wasn’t love. It helped, a little, but that fear never truly went away, you just sort of learned to live with it.

Maybe someday you’ll feel differently.

And there you have it. Part two is complete. I hope you enjoyed that chapter as much as I did. Awkward/adorable Dean is one of my favs. Haha. 

As always, thanks for reading! 

Read part three, here! -->>

Taglist!

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@akshi8278​

Out of the Fire (series)

@vicmc624 // @anotherspnfanfic // @krazykelly // @compresshischest09 // @thefamilybusiness  

[letterstothemidnightsociety]

And so we leave the warm and friendly bosom of the Ghostfacers and descend into the final three episodes of Supernatural season 3. And guys, it’s gonna be a lot of goodbyes.

Welp. We can't say they didn't warn us.

Goodbye Bela. Goodbye Katie Cassidy as Ruby. Goodbye Dean for like, a hot minute. But on the other hand, say hello to that Oh-right!-Sam-has-demon-powers story line!

I’ve mentioned it before and I’ll say it again - one of my fav lines in season 2 is in the finale. Right before he’s destroyed, Ol’ Yellow Eyes leans in to Dean and grumble whispers, “How certain are you that what you brought back, is 100%, pure, Sam?” And just like that, the whole Winchester dynamic that Dean (and we) thought was solid gets reeeeealllly shaky. By the time YED says this line, we’ve all watched sweet, cuddly Sammy cold-blooded murder a guy with a knife, so there’s definitely evidence that something is up. But that...never...quite pans out in season 3. Sam is still Sam. He’s soft and sincere and he’s got those big, open, puppy-dog eyes and he’s always willing to listen to both sides. Season 3 Sam doesn’t make a whole lot of adjustments. It’s possible that by pal-ing him up with Ruby, the writers were trying to say, ooo! He’s different now cuz he’s friends with demons! But that’s still V. On Brand Sam. Of course he’d be willing to listen. He fell in love (I guess?) with a werewolf. He made friends with a coven of Vampires. Given the right circumstances, Sam actually will ask questions first and shoot later.

See? Look at that Listening Face!

Now it’s not anyone’s fault entirely that this plot line never panned out. The Writer’s Strike really did a number on the season, and plotlines that could have been further developed had to get dropped due to the shortened episode count. I’ve been talking about the Writer’s Strike for like, well, the last 4 entries here, but if you’re old enough to remember the strike, you know it was a friggin’ big deal. It did a number on a lot of shows, changed the landscape of scripted and unscripted programming and probably changed the entire course of the rest of the SPN series as a whole. And honestly, with fewer episodes to develop some of the more complicated mythology stuff, it makes sense to simplify and switch gears to focus on Dean’s thing. That’s the important storyline. That’s the one that’s gotta pay off by the end of the season. But I still like to think about what could have been if we’d gotten the Slow Turning of Sam Winchester. It’s no secret Dean is my personal (problematic) fav and I think Ackles’ performance is a big part of why so many people love Dean/This Show. Not that Sam/Padalecki isn’t perfectly solid as a character/performer, but this season especially it occurs to me that there’s not a whole lot for Sam to work with. He’s still acting as the audience stand-in. He’s not someone we’re meant to humanize and analyze the way we do with Dean. He’s a blank slate we’re meant to embody. We’re him, riding in the front seat of the Impala, reading maps and putting clues together and singing along with Dean to the radio. How wild would it have been if we’d seen him slowly devolve into something less than human? And I’m not talking just the snarky brand of Evil(™) we see with a lot of the demon characters on this show. I mean something cold and remorseless and almost robotic - he’s not good, he’s not evil, he’s just focused on one thing at a time, and he’ll do whatever it takes to succeed, and that demon blood means he’s got the powers to do it. This season, that version of Sam is focused on saving Dean’s soul, but what about next season? Where could that Sam have gone?

Anyhoodle, that’s a storyline I’ve been thinkin’ about a lot cuz of Reasons. We’ll see how the whole Demon Powers thing plays out in later seasons, but my memory is that...it doesn’t? Stay tuned.

In the meantime, we’ve got “Long Distance Call”, an episode full of the kind of Dean-Centric Emotional Trauma that I fell in love with this show for. Is it just me or does this episode feel like a recap? Like, if you’re just tuning in now, you’re gonna get a lot of background on our brothers’ and their family dynamics, plus a renewed interest in Dean’s soul drama oh and also a regular-type-case to wrap it all up in. It’s like the show is reminding it’s audience what the show is about like we haven't been following along for 58 episodes already. Maybe it’s just because last episode was a completely different format and they wanted to reassure viewers that the show wasn’t actually changing anything about itself in any significant way. Maybe it’s just because we’re at the end of a season, and moreover, a season that had a surprise hiatus half way through filming so no really, maybe they did need to refresh viewers on a lot of backstory. Isn’t it weird streaming shows that were meant to be watched week to week?

The big fallout from “Long Distance Call” is that Dean realizes that he can’t expect some surprise miracle answer to all his problems to drop right into his lap. He’s gonna have to save his life/soul his own damn self.

I have two things to say to this - 1) uhhh, dude? You’re a Winchester. When has that ever happened EVER in your life? EVER? And 2) Uhhhh DUDE? YOU HAVE A BROTHER AND A SURROGATE FATHER NAMED BOBBY SINGER, SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE TO DO ANYTHING ALONE? In unsurprising news, I find this revelation infuriating.

Ok moving on to “Time is On My Side” and like...I could talk about how wild it is that the villain (played by veteran Hollywood Villain Billy Drago) is not magic at all but in fact, just very good at Weird Science. I could also talk for like, three days about Rufus Turner and his Johnny Walker Blue (played by veteran Hollywood Man About Town, Steven Williams). Instead, though, let’s talk about Bela.

Hello? 2008? Stop doing this to your female characters.

Bela, I will miss you SO much. Because this episode makes it VERY clear that Bella is gone for good. And also that the writers did NOT ship Dean and Bela, no sir, no we did not introduce this character to be a love interest, what are you even talking about? Dean is ruthless with her. He gives more credit to (and feels more remorse over) the demon that Sam kills way back in “Sin City” than he gives to Bela. To be fair, Dean is basically a caged animal staring down the barrel at this point in the season, so you could argue his behavior has more to do with desperation than real anger. But considering the long hiatus and the reworked back half of the season, it’s hard not to connect Dean’s attitude with the writers’ reaction to fan backlash over both Bela and Ruby. It’s almost like they’re telling all the Bela-haters out there “don’t worry, we heard you loud and clear, and yes, Bela’s going away and she’s going away for good.” To make up for it, they show us, the audience, a tragic and understandable backstory for why Bela’s on Team Demon but Dean never finds out any of that. I mean, cool motive, still murder, but they were definitely trying hard to end any Dean/Bela vibes still floating around in the canon. I guess when you’re coming back from a writer’s strike and your show is still on shaky ground, ratings-wise, you make a point to give your fans what they want. But also, fans are idiots sometimes and way back in 2008 we didn’t know anything.

2008, please also stop doing this to your female characters too.

And Dean’s got a similar attitude towards Ruby next episode. Ok, so he’s never been a Ruby Fan, but “Malleus Maleficarum” implied he’d at least come to some kind of mutual understanding with her. I’d even call it a real connection. Now he’s calling her “the Ms. Universe of lying skanks,” and hoo boy. On the one hand that comes off as unnecessarily harsh. On the other hand, that is a terrible burn, like, wow, I guess they can’t all be winners buddy, but sheesh. Is your heart even in that one?

Rolling right along into the finale finale and we finally meet Lilith! Lilith who is both a supreme evil power and also a small child and that’s just the sort of packaging I’d except from the SPN writers at this point you sick bastards!

Yeah, this feels real on brand for some reason.

I’m gonna take a moment to point out that the end of season 3 gives us this trio of women who could be...interesting? I’m probably stretching it a bit if I try to make an argument for a Fates/Triple Goddess/Maiden-Mother-Crone setup. (I mean, who’s who in this scenario?It’s a real reach.) I’ll give this to SPN - they introduced three morally complicated women this season and if nothing else, they were fun to watch. Do they count as recurring characters if the 2 out of 3 that live to season 4 get recast?

To round out this season, the Winchesters lose again. That’s 3 for 3 for anyone who’s keeping track.

That's rough, buddy.

The thing is? Dean...brings this one on himself. Seasons 1 and 2 Winchester have their hearts (and souls) invested in plans that fall apart at the end. They tried their hardest, but they just weren’t good/strong/smart/powerful/etc enough. This season, it feels less like a lack of ability and more like an overabundance of decisionmaking. Season 2 Dean makes the decision to trade his soul for Sam. Early season 3 Dean makes the decision to Not Care and wallow in self destruction. End of season 3 Dean makes the decision to stand on the moral high ground and not make any more deals that could end up with him worse off than he was before. That last one is not a judgement call, it’s just pointing out that there was a way out he could have taken and he chose not to. Dean is, and probably always will be, his own worst enemy.

Yeah, this is on you pal.

In the Year of Our Streaming Service of Choice, 2021, it is interesting revisiting this shortened season. I don’t remember it feeling rushed the first time I watched it, but I’m also pretty sure I watched the entire season in like, a week(...end?) so pacing had no meaning. Now that the average season of “television” is way shorter than it was back in 2008, the rushing on this season is pretty obvious. I think as a whole, it does still work, but we’ve got way better examples of shows with even shorter seasons that roll out smoother and more concise. Where SPN shines is in that balance between one-offs and season-arc episodes. Short seasons go hand in hand with tighter storytelling and less wandering/one-off eps. With a shorter season, SPN could have succeeded by adjusting Fun:Drama episode balance according to their usual ratio. Unfortunately for them, they started writing season 3 unaware that their episode order was about to get cut by roughly 25%.

Onwards to Season 4!

[aerialworms]

Beaten

Read on AO3

Characters:

Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Warnings:

Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Grief, Season/Series 13, Season 13 Widower Arc, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Summary:

Written for Whumptober 2021 prompt #14: Beaten.

Dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms strike again. Set during the s13 Widower Arc.

Drywall splinters under Dean’s back as he’s flung across the room. He lies, dazed, in the debris for a moment before he’s dragged back to his feet by the punk-ass ghost he and Sam have been hunting. He knows he was close to finding its bones a second ago. They must be upstairs; as he moves towards the stairs again he is struck in the stomach and doubles over, wheezing.

‘Dean?’ Sam’s tinny voice comes from the phone in Dean’s pocket. He sounds worried, but he’s been sounding worried ever since Mom and Cas—

Dean forces himself upright and yells to the empty air, ‘That all you got?’

A floorboard creaks behind him and he turns to see a coffee table flying at his face.

---

Sam bursts into the foyer of the abandoned mansion minutes later. Dean’s on the floor, splintered wood scattered around him. Sam can just make out his shallow breaths in the freezing air.

‘Dean?’ He calls, sweeping his shotgun across the room as he goes over to his brother. Dean doesn’t respond. He has a nasty gash on his head. There’s blood everywhere, and Sam wants to yell at him, to shake him awake and tell him he was an idiot for racing off alone, for leaving him, but he’s thrown across the room before he can touch him.

His back hits the wall, hard. Across the room, Dean twitches.

‘Dean!’ He fires a salt round into the distorted air in front of him. It hits, and he recognises the old groundskeeper of the house as he glitches out of sight. Dean blinks and groans at the sound, but the ghost is back already, driving Sam back and away.

Dean’s gaze darts around the room before settling on Sam, and he blinks in confusion before struggling to stand.

‘Sam!’ He points to the stairs, then hurls a nearby bit of wood at the ghost. ‘Come get me, you sonuva—’ He cuts off as the ghost lunges at him again, and Sam goes.

---

Dean takes a swig of the lukewarm beer he’s been holding against his face for the last hour. His arm’s busted, so Sam’s driving, concerned puppy eyes darting his way every few seconds. Dean just knows he’s gonna say something he can’t handle.

‘Dean,’ he starts, and despite the glare Dean throws his way, continues, ‘What happened earlier, man?’

‘Some dick ghost got the drop on me, that’s what happened.’

‘No, it’s not. Why’d you provoke him like that? Did you want to get the crap beaten out of you?’

‘No.’ Dean stares at his own reflection in the dark window.

He can feel Sam’s gaze on the side of his face.

‘You did.’ It’s quiet, sad.

‘Sam—’

‘Is this about—’

‘Don’t.’ He means it as a warning, but it sounds more like a plea. If he mentions Mom... If he mentions Cas...

‘Dean—’

‘Just shut up and drive.’ Dean flips the radio on, loud enough to hurt.

Sam frowns, but he shuts up.

[toria-writes]

Spare Me

Summary: You convince Dean and Sam to stop at a bowling alley.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader (platonic), Sam Winchester/Reader (friends)

Warnings: Mention of family's death

Word Count: 1,677 Words

A/N: This is my very first written and published fic. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do! Feedback is always appreciated!

    “Bowling!” You squealed, as the Impala drove by a neon lit sign on the side of the road. “Can we stop? Please, please, please, please?” you begged the two Winchester brothers in the front seat. 

    Dean and Sam looked at each other, unsure.

    “Oh, come on guys! What else better do we have to do right now?” you pleaded.

    “Get drunk?” replied Dean, chuckling.

    “Perfect!” you exclaimed.”Bowling alleys usually have bars and serve greasy food!” you argued. “Please, can we play a couple of games? If you’re both having a miserable time, we can leave, I promise.”

    The brothers looked at each other again with uncertainty and had one of their silent exchanges back and forth, as you stared them both down, with your best puppy dog eyes. Dean huffed, and said, “Fine. A couple of games, some drinks and food, then we’re heading back to the motel room.”

    You squealed with delight, “Thank you boys, you won’t regret it!” 

    Dean swung Baby around and pulled into the lot of the bowling alley. As the three of you were getting out you rifled through your duffle bag, as the boys waited for you. “Aha! Here they are!” You said as you turned around triumphantly, getting out of the car. In your hands were a pair of bowling shoes, white and light blue metallic in color, with some signs of wear.

    “Do you always carry those around with you?” Sam asked incredulously. 

    “Yeah, why?” You asked

    “No reason,” Sam chuckled.

    “You’re lucky I don’t have my bowling ball with me too,” you chuckled, as Sam gave you a quizzical look. You bounded towards the entrance, excited to experience the sights and sounds of a bowling alley again, after a few year’s absence. The sound of the balls rolling down the shiny alleys, the pins crashing, the sound of the ball return machines. It was a place you felt at home. Your family and you used to go bowling weekly, but that was before a skinwalker, disguised as your new family dog, attacked your parents and sister, eating their hearts. You were next, barely holding it off with a silver plated cake server, but then the Winchesters burst through your front door, guns blazing and took out the skinwalker, with their silver bullets.  You left with them that day,after they eliminated the rest of the pack, and haven’t looked back since. You quickly learned about all things that go bump in the night and decided you were going to become a hunter to help other people from feeling the pain and loss you carried with you everyday. That was the reason your bowling shoes were always with you, they reminded you of happier times with your family. You found you had a natural talent for the hunter’s life, and the boys were glad to have you on their team. 

    You approached the front desk and a young twenty-something woman greeted you. “How can I help you?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at Sam and Dean.

    “Can we have a lane for three, please, and shoes for two, I have my own,” you said, holding up your pair. 

    “Sure,” she replied. “What sizes?” she asked as she looked at the boys.

    “Uh, 11, replied Dean. 

     “12,” replied Sam.

    The girl turned around to grab the two pairs in the correct size and stared into Sam’s eyes as she placed them on the counter in front of them. “Hmm, big feet,” she said, raising her eyebrows as she said it, with a smirk. Sam stared back at her and said with a wink, “That’s not all.”

    You saw the girl’s breath hitch as she spluttered out, “Uh, um, lane four.” Her cheeks and ears tinged bright pink. 

    “We will need a menu too, please,” you asked the poor flustered girl. She handed you one, while in a daze, never once taking her eyes off Sam. “Thanks,” you replied.

“N-no problem,” she stammered as you all turned to walk toward your lane. 

    As you got out of earshot of the front counter, you turned to the younger Winchester. “Sam!! That poor girl,” you admonished. “She almost passed out!” 

    “Sorry, (Y/N), it’s been awhile,” Sam said sheepishly while rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.

    “Well, Sam, strike while the iron is hot! You better go back and at least get that girl’s number, It’s bad manners to leave her hanging like that!”

    “Uh, yeah, I’ll, uh, meet you guys at the lane,” Sam said, as he jogged back towards the desk.

    “It’s the least you could do, after ruining her panties,” you muttered under your breath. Dean burst out laughing to your right. You blushed and said, “Didn’t think you heard that.”

    “Oh, I heard you alright, Sweetheart,” Dean said, still chuckling.

    You both found your lane and sat down to put on your bowling shoes. You and Dean were picking your bowling balls from the racks as Sam bounced back over to the two of you. 

    “She gets off at ten,” Sam announced proudly. 

    “Way to go, Casanova!” Dean guffawed as slapped Sam on the back.

    You were putting your names into the computer to keep your scores, as the waitress came over to take your order. Without looking up you said, “Two pitchers of beer and 2 large pizzas, one meat lovers and one veggie, please?” 

    “Sure, coming right up,” she said as she spun on her heel to go put your order in. 

    When you turned around Sam and Dean were staring at you. “Whaat?” you asked. “It’s classic bowling alley food, and I want you both to get the full experience. The meat lovers is for Dean and the veggie is for Sam, obviously.” You heard Dean chuckle to your right. “And, I’ll eat either one,” you stated matter of factly. “So,” you said turning around. “I’ll go first, then Dean and then…”

    “Sammy?! Really, (Y/N)??” Sam asked, giving you his best bitch face, while reading the screen overhead. You started to giggle as Dean burst out laughing. Both of you knowing he preferred to be called “Sam”.

    Just then the waitress returned with your 2 pitchers of beer and 3 glasses. “Here you go, let me know if you need anything else,” she said, placing them on your table. You poured the three drinks for you all, and took a big gulp of yours. Dean doing the same.

    “Now that’s what I'm talking about!” he said.    “Let’s bowl!” You got up, grabbed your ball and took a deep breath. You approached the foul line and as soon as the ball left your hand, you knew. CRASH!! A perfect strike! You turned to look at the boys grinning, only to find them both mid-sip with their mouths hanging open, staring at you.

    “What?” you asked. “I was in a weekly league for 13 years!”  you said, smiling. 

    “You never cease to amaze me, Sweetheart!” said Dean as he got up to take his turn. Luckily, he didn’t see your face turn bright red as you blushed furiously at his compliment.

“Um, t-thanks,” you stuttered out as you caught Sam’s eye, and he gave you a knowing look.  

    For the next couple of hours you and the boys had fun bowling, drinking beer, and eating pizza. It was a perfect day and you made sure to take many pictures with your phone. Including one of you drinking straight from the pitcher, as the boys laughed, cheering you on. You even got one of the bowlers on the next lane to take a few group photos of you three. 

“Let’s just stop for a moment, and really enjoy this day for what it is,” you said, to the boys, as they looked at you quizzically. “A day where we just get to enjoy living, without the weight of saving the world on our shoulders,” you said with a whimsical smile.

“Hells yeah!” Exclaimed Dean. “I’ll drink to that!” He raised his glass and you and Sam did the same, clinking them together and all taking the last sips of your beers. 

“We should definitely do this more often (Y/N),” said Sam.   

“Yeah, it seems a great place for you to pick up girls Sam,” you said teasingly, smirking.

“Speaking of which, it’s almost ten now,” Sam said, checking the time and walking away from the two of you. “I’ll meet you back at the motel later tonight...or tomorrow!” he said, laughing as you both watched him walk away, shaking your heads. 

“So, what now Winchester?” you asked Dean. Your (e/c) eyes meeting his green ones. 

“Well, I could think of a few things to pass the time,” he said suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You wish, Winchester,” you scoffed, trailing your finger down his muscular chest. “Seems Sammy is the only one getting lucky tonight,” you said in a breathy voice. He quickly hid the disappointment on his face. You definitely had strong feelings for Dean, with his charming good looks, big caring heart and his fierce loyalty, but you did not want to ruin the perfect set up the three of you had. You refused to be another notch on his bedpost, just to ruin your little “family” you had made for yourself.”How about a beer and snack run, then a movie night back at the motel?” you suggested, trying hard to keep your breathing even.

Dean’s face lit up. “That sounds perfect Sweetheart! Who says Sammy is the only lucky one tonight?” he said with a wink.

“I’ve got the perfect movie in mind, too,” you said with a smile. “Kingpin,” you said proudly.

He looked at you and smiled, “Any movie with Bill Murray in it, is a win in my book!” As you walked out he put his arm around your shoulder and said, “My girl sure knows how to pick ’em!” 

    You walked out of the bowling alley with a grin on your face, seriously debating if you made the correct decision to remain platonic friends.

[the-wounded-healer05]

What did you do? 

Supernatural ~ Destiel (Dean X Cas) Fluff 

Dean x Cas, (fem pronoun) reader, Sam 

Summary: Y/N needs a heart to heart 'bestie chat' with Cas... and a test-dummy for some new makeup.

Word count: 1,474

'Castiel, angel of the Lord, hear my prayer. I need a bestie chat... please?' Y/N's thoughts rang out, hoping her chosen angel could hear her. 

Not a moment too soon, the flap of his wings startled her, it was still hard to get used to Cas' mode of transport. 

"Hey Cas." Y/N spun towards him with a warm smile and open arms, dragging the poor defenceless angel into an affectionate embrace. After a moment's hesitation, he returned the favour. 

"You said you needed to talk?" Cas cocked his head to one side, worry catching at the corner of his eye. Y/N pulled herself away from him, wandering towards her desk and the contents of a makeup bag that had been laid out. 

"Yeah, I feel like it's been ages since we last hung out and I thought we could chill out together and that... erm, well..." Y/N swiveled round to face Cas with a cautious smile, a seemingly ginormous eyeshadow palette held against her chest. 

"And those are to go on me?" Cas asked, receiving a very enthusiastic nod from Y/N, "Very well, but I'm sitting on the bed this time. The chair was far too uncomfortable the last time we talked like this." Before taking a seat, Cas removed his trench coat and suit jacket, folding and placing them gently on the bedside table. He came to rest with his back against the headboard as he waited for Y/N to join him. 

After some faffing, and nearly dropping a glass bottle of concealer on the floor, Y/N plopped herself next to Cas. It had been several months since the last time they had spent time together, alone, but once the conversation began to flow, it was as if it was only yesterday. Y/N recalled some of the cases she and the boys had been on, mostly complaining about Dean's inability to follow instructions or Sam's overinflated ego whenever he was right. Castiel chimed in every now and then to add to her point or recite an anecdote from when he had hunted with the boys. 

As they chatted and chuckled, Y/N worked the makeup over Cas' angelic features. She avoided any form of foundation or concealer, envying her friend's perfect complexion. Mixing tones of bronze and orange with a highlight of shimmering Gold emphasised the striking ocean blue of Cas' eyes. 

"Hold still." Y/N hushed as a steady hand ran a flawless wing of black eyeliner across one eyelid and then the other. "Are you going to let me add lashes this time, Cassy? Please?" She begged, trying her best to replicate Sam's iconic puppy dog eyes. 

"Very well," Cas agreed, gaining a happy squeal from his companion, "Dean will not approve of this." He mumbled, shoulders dropping slightly at the memory of the first time Dean had caught him in makeup. 

He had come over to help out with a case, not long after Y/N had joined the Winchesters, and she had begged him for over an hour to try her makeup on him. Eventually, Cas had caved and had, surprisingly, rather enjoyed it. Upon leaving Y/N's room, he had come face to face with Dean who, after a long moment of silent shock, proceeded to shun Y/N for "making a pansy out of Cas". The angel still didn't quite understand what the man had meant by his phrase, but he did not want to upset him again. Since then, the duo had left their makeup antics to the midnight talks and weekend when the bunker was empty. 

"Don't worry about him, darling," Y/N pulled Cas back from the depths of his thoughts, "He just can't comprehend how absolutely gorgeous you are!" Her smile was infectious, taking over Castiel's worry and replacing it with a warm, fuzzy feeling that he still didn't know the name of. 

They sat in silence as Y/N applied the finishing touches, a matte bronze lipstick to tie the look together, before stepping back to admire her work. 

"Damn Cas!" She whistled, taken aback by her own handy work, as she handed a mirror to Cas, allowing him to see himself for the first time in nearly an hour. "What do you think?" 

Castiel pulled his friend into his arms, hugging her close against his chest. 

"I love it, thank you," He whispered before pulling away, "but we'll have to take it off soon, I don't want to get you into trouble again..." Cas looked away, allowing his head to fall and his shoulders to sag. 

"No," Y/N commanded, lifting his chin with a gentle finger, "You're going to march your sexy arse into that library and you're going to make Dean freakin' Winchester realise just how stunning you are!" 

Before he could protest, Y/N had rushed around the bed, taken a hold of the angel's hand and now dragged him in the direction of the library. 

"Y/N, I do not believe this is a good idea. This will not end well and I do not want you in trouble because of me." Cas' words had no affect on his friend who was hell bent on seeing her plan through. 

"Dean Winchester," Y/N called, grabbing Dean's attention as she turned the corner to the library, hiding Cas on the other side of the doorway, "If you dare to tell this angel he is anything but gorgeous, I will personally see that you have the crap beaten out of you!" 

With that she pulled on Cas' hand, pulling him into Dean's eye line before letting go and walking to sit beside a greatly confused Sam. 

Castiel hesitated, scared to look up from the hole he was attempting to bore into the ground with his eyes alone. It took a deep breath to calm his nerves before he was able to bring his eyes to meet Dean's gaze. As soon as they made eye contact, Cas' body took over; he straightened up, raked a hand through his already messy hair, and took several long, confident strides into the room. He came to a stop at the end of the long table, a few feet away from where Dean was sprawled out across two chairs. 

Dean's mind was racing as he took in the man before him. His disheveled hair, stunning makeup, long lashes, full bronze lips and half tucked in dress shirt had the hunter lost for words. He couldn't comprehend how a bit of coloured powder and lipstick could make his Cas so- so breathtaking. 

"I- Cas... wow- I... What- what did you do?" Dean stuttered, tearing his eyes from the mesmerising angel before him, turning towards Y/N. 

"I only did what Cas was comfortable with," Y/N raised her hands in mock surrender, "I asked him before I added the lashes or the lipstick so don't come at me. This is all angel boy's choice, and a damn good one too." She winked at Cas, causing the nerves, which had been building within him, to disappear. 

"Is this true?" Dean whipped his head back to the man before him, unsure of what to believe. 

"Yes." 

"Wow," Dean whistled, taking a deep breath as he rose to his feet. With careful steps, he moved towards the seemingly frozen angel, only coming to a stop when he was inches away from him. Slowly, Dean raised his right hand to the side of Cas' face, watching as his angel leaned into the touch and smiled up at him. 

"You're stunning..." the once cocky hunter breathed out his words, worried that anything louder than a whisper would frighten the fragile angel. They stayed like this for what felt like an eternity, staring into each other's eyes, lost in the beauty of the moment. 

And then it was broken. 

The rustle of movement from the other occupants in the room drew the attention of the lover's to Sam as he pulled his wallet from his jeans. The younger Winchester huffed as he pulled $50 out of it and shoved it into Y/N's eagerly awaiting hands. 

"I can't believe you were right, Y/N/N!" Sam huffed, annoyed that he had lost yet another bet to her this month. So much for getting his own back. 

"Oh Sammy! You should know by now: Cas' messy 'I just had sex' hair and my mad makeup skills will always destroy Dean's weak façade of being straight." Y/N spoke with such confidence that both her and Sam keeled over as laughter overtook them. 

Dean and Castiel were still a few steps behind, still stuck on the fact that money had been lost and won at their expense. They voiced their confusion in unison, each word spoken in exactly the same tone... 

"You bet on us!?" 

[saventhhaven]

Breaking and Entering

Pairing: None

Tags: scared!reader, tired!reader, awkward!Sam, baseball bat

Word Count: 1,528

A/N: Thanks to @spn-imagines-nation​ for the prompt!

(Gif not mine)

It had been a hellish day at work. After your eight-hour shift had turned into a twelve-hour shift, you were about two seconds away from quitting your job and becoming a stripper instead. Hell, that had been your backup plan for as long as you could remember, but lately, you were more serious than you ever had been. You couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. As soon as you got a raise at your full-time job, you were gone. Quite frankly, that day couldn't come soon enough. Even as part-time, retail was ridiculous. The number one rule was "the customer is always right," and they knew it, too. The especially difficult ones would come in with an un-returnable product and then throw a fit when you couldn't give them anything back for it. In your opinion, someone should put a law in place that forced everyone to work a retail job for at least a year. Maybe then you wouldn't be treated like shit so much.

You were exhausted when you got home - too exhausted even to eat, which was seriously saying something. As soon as you got back home, you had gone upstairs, taken off all clothes aside from your panties and bra, and collapsed into bed. Thankfully, it was a Friday night, and you had the next two days off. Your weekend plans consisted of sleeping from Saturday to Sunday if needed, and pretty much nothing else. That is until a noise from downstairs had your eyes popping open. Instantly, you were wide awake, despite your tiredness when you lay down. For years, your dad had nagged you about installing an alarm system in your house, but you never had seriously considered it, unfortunately. It would definitely come in handy right now.

As you reached over to grab your phone from your nightstand, your heart sunk in your chest. Seriously? Where the hell was it? Obviously, not where it usually was, but still, you couldn't believe your luck. You had to bite your tongue to keep from swearing as you remembered the location of your cellphone. Last night, you had plopped it down on a console table next to the front door with your keys. Peachy. If anything else happened, you were going to start thinking the misfortune of all those busty girls in the hoaky horror movies were for real. Here you were, alone in your house, in your underwear, and your phone was downstairs along with the intruder. Really, this was just perfect.

Swinging your legs over the side of your bed, you were careful not to let the floorboards creak beneath you. You were pretty much already toast, but even more so if you made any noise sneaking up on said intruder. It was moments like these that always made you question your life decisions. For example, not owning a gun, or even a FOID card, for that matter. No, instead, you were stuck with an old aluminum baseball bat from when you were in middle school. Not the worst weapon, in retrospect, but definitely not your first choice either.

As you padded down the (thankfully) carpeted stairs, you tried to keep your heart from beating too loudly, without much luck. At this rate, if your knees knocking together didn't give you away, your loud-ass heartbeat sure as hell would. You glanced around the corner of the wall at the bottom of the staircase, straining your eyes as you peered into the dark living room. The silhouette of a hulking figure moved around the back of your couch, facing away from you. You could tell by the build of the figure that he was a man, but what was he looking for? Too bad for him, it was going to be lights out before he found it. You reared up your bat above your shoulder, letting out a battle cry as you rushed him. Hearing you come up behind him, the man whirled around, ducking your makeshift weapon in the nick of time. You made a note to yourself: no battle cry in the future.

"Scumbucket!" you screeched, swinging the bat around wildly.

"Y/N, hey, it's me!" As the tall man dodged your strikes, something clicked in the back of your brain. You knew that voice.

“Sam?" As you finally realized who was in your home, you flicked on the light.

"Hi," he said with an awkward wave. Narrowing your eyes, you allowed the bat to fall to the floor with a loud clang.

"'Hi?'" You smacked him hard in the arm several times.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, backing away.

"You scared the shit out of me!" you hollered at him.

"Yeah, I can see that," he replied. He gestured to you, clearing his throat uncomfortably as he made an effort not to look. "Y-you... you're, ah..." You glanced down at yourself, half-surprised to see that you were still in your underwear. You had sort of forgotten about that part. Squeezing your eyes shut, you made a face as you shook your head.

"I just can't catch a break, can I?" you muttered. Sam reached for the pile of clean laundry you had been meaning to put away, snagging a shirt and pair of shorts.

"Here," he said, still not making eye contact. You smirked at him as you took the clothes, pulling them on.

"Oh, come on, Sam," you teased. "It's not anything you haven't seen before." The man went beet red.

"W-well, that's-" he stammered. "I-I mean, I-" You snorted.

"Relax. I'm kidding." Sam seemed relieved, letting his shoulders relax. "Listen," you started again. "Not that I'm not happy to see you - I am, seriously, I'm super glad you're not a burglar - but what are you doing here at..." Glancing at a clock on the wall, you sighed. "Four in the morning?" For the first time since he arrived, you got a good look at him, squinting in confusion at his apparel. "And why are you in your FBI gear?" Suddenly, it all clicked, and you held up a finger at him. "Oh, no. No. You did not come here and break into my house at the ass-crack of dawn, by the way, for a case!”

"Look, I'm sorry I scared you," Sam apologized, "but you were a huge help last time, and I could use a hand." You shook your head again as you began to pace. The last time you helped the Winchesters, things got ugly. Like, had to lay low for two months and move away ugly. Because of them, you had to totally uproot your life and start over, and that was something you were not doing again. But the last time you helped the Winchesters, you also saved lives. You helped people, you killed a bad guy, and the world had become a little better because of it. You couldn't just sit idly by knowing that more people might die if you didn't help out.

"And this case is in town?" Sam nodded.

"Yeah. It's the owner of that general goods store down the road." He laid a hand on your shoulder as he looked you in the eye, forcing you to come to a halt. Damn him. He knew you were a goner for those puppy-dog eyes. "I've gotta be honest with you here. It won't be easy, and I hate that I would be putting you in danger," he confessed. "But I can't do this by myself." You gnashed your teeth together.

"And your brother can't help you?"

"No," Sam replied. "He's in Oregon dealing with a poltergeist." You would be lying if you said you weren't at least a tiny bit intrigued.

"What is it?" you questioned. "Vengeful spirit? Ghoul?"

"Vampire," he answered, earning a surprised look.

"Vampire?” you echoed. "Huh. That's a new one." You had to admit, ever since the boys had left town, life had been painfully boring. "Damn it," you grumbled. With a final huff, you pushed his hand from your shoulder and headed toward the kitchen. "All right." You reached for the coffee pot. If you were going to do this at this hour, caffeine was a must.

"Does that mean..?" Sam asked, hopefully from the living room. You had to hide your eagerness as you turned back around to face him.

"Yeah, I'll help you." Instantly, he let out a breath of relief. "Get in here and give me the rundown before I change my mind and go back to bed." Seeming to call your bluff, he tilted his head, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Well, if it's really too much trouble, I can just go," he offered. As he turned to leave, you grabbed onto his wrist to keep him in place.

"All right, you got me," you revealed. "I'm weirdly excited. Things have been too... normal since you and your brother left." Sam chuckled. "Now sit your ass down while I make some coffee." Once the coffee began to percolate, you sat down across from the youngest Winchester at the kitchen table, allowing your enthusiasm to show in your eyes. "So. Tell me about our monster."

Thank you for reading! <3

As always, links to my masterlist, taglist, and inbox (requests are open!) are in my bio!

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[mattzerella-sticks]

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 20: Unfortunate Soul Marks

           Dean knew two things since he was born – his birthmark was in the shape of a dick, and his soulmate was a complete and total one. Because the mark isn’t only embarrassing, it’s impossible to hide. Which explains the latter. Who else but a total jerk would lay their privates on someone’s forehead? And, in true Winchester fashion, that kind of man would be the love of his life.

           He lowers the brim of his hat, cursing as wind whips across the sandy beach. “Fuckin’ beach,” he grumbles, “fuckin’ outdoors…” Having a dick stamped on his face meant Dean preferred not leaving his house. Growing up, he was the definition of an indoor kid. When he did leave his house, Dean practiced safety measures like having long bangs, wearing bandanas and hats, using concealer; it never worked as well as he hoped. Countless times these measures failed and exposed his shame to the world. Made school all the more difficult once the other kids realized what that shape meant.

           Dean never had many friends. No playdates, parties, or sleepovers. Not many people wanted a human unicorn hanging around them, despite how Mary tried encouraging him. All he could do was count the days until he graduated high school. Started working at his uncle’s auto shop soon after, as promised. Keeping his head buried under car parts saved him from many social interactions, where eyes could stare at his forehead and turn every conversation awkward. There was no need for him to ever leave the safety of the little bubbles he had.

           Except Sam. Used his intense puppy dog eyes, convinced Dean he would like the beach. As if being abandoned by his little brother and his soul mate were what he always wanted. They had a cute story. Sam took sign in college. One day, his tutor reached over during a lesson. Corrected the bend of his pinkie finger with her thumb and pointer. Sparks flew while the grey blobs of their marks darkened before disappearing immediately. A flip switched, and both he and Eileen knew what it meant.

           That’s probably the only part Dean looks forward to, when meeting his soulmate. The cause of his suffering was also who can save him from it. Once the shadow dick vanishes, maybe then Dean could enjoy the beach. Or his life. Although starting over at twenty-five seems too daunting. Better he sticks with what he knows.

           Like how he hates being outside. Especially at the beach. This close, winds from the sea blow with all their might in their attempts to steal Dean’s hat. Straw shield billowing from each impact. Dean keeps a hand firmly fixed atop his head as he wandered, protecting it. Pushing down hard enough he caused a minor headache not even kicking wet sand and trickling surf could heal.

           Dean also hates this hat. It’s not something he would wear, better for old women in gardens on sunny days. However, of his collection the straw provides perfect concealment.

           If it would just stay on.

           A few kids run past, Dean tipping its edge further down until he cannot see. Waiting for them to pass. He knew the earful that waited should one of them catch sight of his mark, and then raced off for a parent. Asking questions, pointing, getting Dean in trouble for something he had no say in.

           They leave with no trouble. Dean sighs in relief, body untensing. As this happens, a sharp gust strikes from behind. His hat tumbles out of his grip, skipping across the sand.

           Dean waits a beat. Then, he races after it.

           Chasing, one hand stretched far but never quite there. The other plastered over his forehead like an awkward bandage. If he used both, snagging his runaway hat would be much easier. It’s too risky, though. So Dean continues with his self-inflicted handicap. Blindly following as the accessory leads him towards a far part of the beach.

           It’s close. His fingers are nearly around it. Dean needed a burst of speed, and it would be in his grasp. He adds –

           Slam!

           Down. Darkness. Dean groans, dizzy from the collision. A sharp hiss greeting his own voiced pain, telling Dean he slammed into another person.

           Collateral damage, a Winchester specialty.

           “I’m so sorry,” Dean says, forehead burning. He wonders if hitting another person could cause blunt force trauma. At least enough for skin to break. A bloody wound is the last thing he needed. “I was chasing my hat and –“

           “I noticed,” the stranger says, deep voice sending chills down his spine. “Just as I was getting out of the water.”

           “Again, sorry.” He rises, “I’ll just be out of your…” Dean trails off, finally opening his eyes. The first thing he focuses on is a large, familiar shadowed dick. Then, he sees its true color reveals itself as grey transitions into tan. Which means… “Holy crap.” Dean looks at the other man. “Your soul mark was on your dick?”

           “I… yes, it…” He blushes, blue eyes comically large at Dean’s blunt observation. Running fingers through wet locks, he stammers, “I’m sorry, that you had to hit into – you were bent over, so of course – wait. What do you mean by was?”

           “As in… not there anymore?”

           The man looks at his dick, choking on a gasp. Seeing what Dean does. “It’s gone,” he says, glancing back at Dean, “I thought that was only supposed to happen when you met your –“

           “Yeah.” He doesn’t seem like a complete and total dick. His soulmate is awkward, confused, slow on the uptake. He’s also gorgeous, fit… and, well, Dean already knew how gifted he was. Although that doesn’t explain why. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

           “Uh…” he frowns, head tilting sideways, “this is a nude beach.”

           “A… a nude beach,” Dean scans the area, noticing many others who have chosen limited clothing for their stay. Many of them watching Dean and his soulmate with interest, heads turned their direction. Judgment hidden behind shaded lenses. He shrinks under their stares, rubbing at his forehead. Not that he has to worry, his mark should be gone. Years of practice are hard to overcome. “Is there anything on my forehead?”

           He studies it for Dean, shaking his head. “Why should there be?”

           “That’s where my mark was,” Dean explains, “where… your dick was.”

           “That’s… awful.”

           “You don’t know the half of it,” Dean says, leaning back. Hat miles away by now, not that he cares. His hands settle in his lap as he kneels, waves crawling forward and rushing over them. “I can fill in the blanks, though, over some food?”

           Smiling, finally, the man agrees. “I’d love to…”

           “Dean.”

           “Dean,” he says, tasting the word in his mouth. Enjoying it, if the curl of his lips means anything. “My name’s Cas.”

           “Cas.” Dean mirrors his expression, “I like that.” And he thinks he likes Cas. They… clicked. Hopefully the other man can prove having his dick on Dean’s forehead for twenty-five years was worth it.

           Dean has no doubt it was.

(Day 19 - Flipped?)

[wantstoflyafraidtofall]

3x16 from Dean's perspective and the rescue from Hell

TW/CW: graphic depictions of Dean's death and what Demons look like.

read on Ao3

Tags: @kinda-not-really-vibing, @i-dont-even-wanna-know, @chris-krat

(fic under cut)

All that he has learned was how fragile and replaceable it all was. Every one of us gnats played a role but there were still too many for each one to matter. So why does Dean’s life seem matter more than the rest? Dean has been brought back more than anyone should be already, and it’s taken its toll. His soul is in tatters, held together by scotch tape and super glue, because he needed to be here longer for all the other souls that he could save.

And now it’s time to save them.

That’s what Dean had thought when he sold his soul for his brother, what he told himself so he wouldn’t feel like shit for bringing his brother back because he can’t stand to be alone. Now he wasn’t so sure that he had truly saved anyone.

The clock chimed, the black metal cutting across the white face of the clock to point its jagged claw at the twelve. The bell’s toll rang through the room, and Dean couldn’t help but to stare. It rang again and again as to mock holy churches and their white steeples filled with bronze bells being tugged into making music by their ropes.

The dark pillar of the grandfather clock melted into the shadows behind it, the pendulum swinging side to side with a smooth grace, pulling the chains and making the weights lift and fall, lift and fall, behind the clear crystal glass and thorny inlay.

The bells kept going, the sounds being knocked out of their bronze hollows. Each time the clapper struck the inside of the bells, making them shake to produce the beautiful symphony of noises, Dean couldn’t help feeling like those were more like melodic screams than music. He couldn’t help but feel like a bell, constantly knocked around to make harmonies for the pleasure of others.

When the dogs came, with their blood stained teeth in feral grins, dead white eyes framed in decaying flesh and matted fur, smelling of smoke and rot, Dean felt the miniscule vibrations of the bells deep in his bones, melting the marrow inside into a paste for the the dogs to lick out of each ivory shell.

He ran from the beasts who followed on legs of scorched bone and chunks of pulsing muscle that bent in all the wrong ways and places. There was no hope of keeping the things out now that he saw them, but he frantically poured the goofer dust in lines on the windowsills anyway.

Sam and Ruby stood by the door, Ruby asking for the demon knife and Sam debating handing it over. Dean’s body wretched when he saw Ruby’s face, skin hanging off the gnawed bones in fleshy, burnt ribbons. Patches of hair remained on the purple, white, and red skin and bone of her head, and her jaw was cracked and crooked, dangling from it’s socket, yellow, splintered teeth showing through the rotten holes in her cheek. When she spoke it jerked around, pulling the frayed tendons and clacking her crooked teeth together in sickening movements. But her eyes…

“Wait!” Dean finds his voice.

“You wanna die?” The demon turns to him, the scratchiness of her voice clawing out of her tongueless, flopping mouth.

Dean swallowed the rising bile in his throat as he watched her talk. “Sam, that's not Ruby,” He took a breath, “It's not Ruby!”

Lilith raises the remnants of her arm, launching Dean onto the desk in the back of the room, knocking the air out of his lungs and pinning Sam to the wall.

“How long you been in her?” Dean gasps out.

A vile grin twists the skin around her mouth in what Dean would assume would look like a childlike smile if she had more skin.

“Not long,” She gestures to her middle where light pink organs spilled out of the gaping holes in her skin, pulsating as they struggled to perform. “But I like it. It's all grown up and pretty.”

“And where's Ruby?” Sam interjected.

She tilted her head, the vertebrae of her back and neck clicking together in unnatural angles to make a sickening crunch. “She was a very bad girl, so I sent her far, far away.”

“You know, I should have seen it before... but you all look alike to me.” Dean grits out with a smile.

She glares at him before turning her attention to Sam, sauntering as well as a decaying corpse to Dean’s brother.

“Hello, Sam.” Lilith grabs Sam’s face in her rotten fingers, forcing him to look at her. “I've wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

Dean watches Lilith kiss his brother with her bloody lips, the muscles of her face convulsing under the thin, translucent skin where it remained on her face.

“Your lips are soft.” She whispered and Dean felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.

They wouldn’t have to deal with this if Dean had just left well enough alone. Sam has spent every waking hour(which was most hours) in pain trying to save Dean. Dean brought him back so he could keep living, and Sam isn’t even living. Now he has to watch his brother die.

“Right, so you have me. Let my brother go.” Sam snarled.

“Silly goose. You wanna bargain, you have to have something that I want.” Her body seemed to shake with her glee at the situation. “You don't.”

“So, is this your big plan, huh? Drag me to hell. Kill Sam. And then what? Become queen bitch?” Anger bubbled in his breast as he looked at the demon.

“I don't have to answer to puppy chow.” She hissed and a fresh wave of pain shot through Dean’s body, making him grimace and bite back a groan.

Lilith walks back to the door to the room where the hellhound sat outside. An exhilarated look took over her deteriorated features and blank eyes as she wrapped her fingers around the handle. “Sic 'em, boy.”

“No! Stop!” Sam screamed, still pinned to the wall.

The huge beast sprung through the open door, it’s scaldingly hot paws pinning Dean’s arms to the floor where he had dropped. It sunk it’s barbed teeth into Dean’s shoulder, ripping through the flesh with ease.

Dean screamed, squirming underneath the dog. Sam kept screaming while Lilith watched from the sidelines, a smile on her face.

The dog let it’s claws glide across Dean’s chest. Sam screamed again. Dean needed it to stop. He needed to tell Sam it’ll be okay and that he was sorry, but when he opened his mouth, he could only gargle through the hot blood bubbling up his throat.

The dog continued to tear at him, pulling his skin apart to bite at the soft organs inside and knaw his ribs. The pain melted together until everything felt like it was on fire and his vision was as red as the crimson puddle he was lying in.

Dean’s last thoughts before it all stopped was that he was that he deserved this. He deserved to go to hell and all the pain he’ll experience for the rest of eternity. And then the pain ended, only to be replaced in concentrated points where the beast gripped his soul, dragging him down through the earth.

He clawed at the dirt but it burnt his hands. He tried to scream but his lungs filled with ash and smoke as waves of scalding heat pummeled over him as they got closer to the waves of fire licking at the shores of ground up bone coating the ground. Hooks were driven through his limbs and the meat of his torso, jerking him up in the air above the lake of flames.

It was so loud. The roar of fire and cacophony of screams coming from the racks of mangled bodies. The cries from the bodies chained in the air or tied to the sizzling black pillars of stone holding up the inky black sky of smoke.

He deserves this.

~~~~

Long spiderwebs of cracks rocketed down the bedrock pillars as the ceiling of Hell ripped open. Dean dropped the rusted knife he held in his hand, the tatters of his soul reaching towards the creature pushing through the hole in the smoke. He watched as the white-blue being flew through the fire, the flames bending away from its many heads and hands. It opened its mouths and a high pitched screech overpowered the screams of the tortured souls.

Bolts of lightning struck out with each flap of the beings mighty wings, bending in arches and bouncing expertly off the many weapons brandished by the creature as it soared towards Dean, striking down the legions of demons rising to attack. It landed near him, shaping into a more human figure but remained haloed in bright light.

Dean let it approach him and wrap its arm around his chest, its hand burning into the skin of his shoulder as it took off, flapping its great wings and propelling them towards the bright gash in the smoke ceiling.

The creature was warm, not like the fire of hell, but warm like the distant memories Dean had of earth he held locked away where the black tendrils of hell would never reach. He let his soul reach out to the creature, wrapping itself in the soft feeling.

“DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED.” A deep voice rumbled through all of hell.

He was saved.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Handshake

Sam Winchester x Harry Styles (Yes, really.) 

Word Count: ~1k

Warnings: Nothing, really? Some suggestive dialogue?   

A/N: So a while ago @deanwanddamons​ requested a rockstar AU, and my brain ran the fuck off with that, leaving all the original details in the dust and giving me this cracktastic pairing instead. @fookinghelljensensthighs​ sent me a picture of Harry Styles in a collar and encouraged me, so I think this is mostly her fault. Idk. Rockstar AU! 

You can now read more in this ‘verse (with more coming soon!) right over HERE. 

The afterparty is in someone’s hotel suite, and as far as these parties go, it’s a little mellower than Sam expected. Not that there aren’t any dilated pupils in sight, obviously, but nobody’s dancing on a table yet, or anything. 

Sam feels high enough on the adrenaline of the show. He’s just been sitting on one of the couches talking drum equipment with one of the techs and he still feels giddy in that warm, floaty, really-good-Ecstasy way. Cas is listening to something Lindsey is saying, with rapt star-struck attention, and he doesn’t seem to notice his empty glass. Charlie’s flirting shamelessly with a pretty girl Sam hasn’t met, drinking water as usual. 

Dean’s pacing himself pretty well, too, sitting across the room playing acoustic duets and occasionally sipping on his whiskey. He’s wide-eyed and twitchy, but it’s just from excitement. Stevie hasn’t come in yet; Dean sneaks a glance at the door every few minutes, looking breathlessly excited, and it makes him look like a teenager again. 

Granted, they haven’t had the best luck with Christmases, but when the invitation came in to open for Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden, Dean’s expression was everything Sam imagined a normal kid might look like on Christmas. Puppies and candy and Christmas, all over his face. 

Sam’s at the makeshift bar someone’s set up when the door opens, and there’s Stevie herself, sweeping through the door in a whirl of black fringe. She’s shepherding a younger guy who looks vaguely familiar, but Sam can’t place him; he’s half-hidden behind his long hair, slouching, head ducked like he’s trying to be inconspicuous. 

Stevie looks a little different from the poster of her that hung over Dean’s bed for a decade, but she’s still striking, and she’s the sort of person who lights up the entire room with her smile. She shakes hands with Cas and leans in to whisper something to a very overwhelmed Charlie, and then she heads for Dean. She kisses him on the cheek as he greets her, clearly complimenting him, and Sam’s slightly concerned Dean will pass out from happiness. 

He watches Dean for a minute before smiling to himself and turning back to the table, looking for the whiskey. Someone else reaches for the bottle at the same time, and Sam gets a glimpse of blue nail polish and chunky rings before a low, accented voice is apologizing. 

“No, go ahead,” Sam says bemusedly, looking down at the guy who’d come in with Stevie. He’s young enough to be her grandchild. Sam debates asking if that’s the case, for a second, before reminding himself of the cringeworthy time he’d asked a similar question to someone who turned out to be a Rolling Stone’s wife. 

“Here, then,” the guy says, with a little smile, and he fills Sam’s glass before grabbing his own. 

“Thanks.” 

Sam’s slightly distracted by his outfit; there’s lace involved, and a sturdy leather cuff on each of his wrists that bears the stamp of one of Sam’s favorite companies. It’s a company that makes bondage gear, to be specific. Sam’s torn between being a little bit turned on (he tells himself it’s just Pavlovian conditioning to the sight of those cuffs) and being even more curious (and mildly concerned) about how this kid knows the band.  

“Cheers,” the guy says, and lifts his glass in a quick toast. 

Sam clinks it with his own and takes a sip. “I’m Sam.” 

“Yeah, I know,” the guy says, looking up through his lashes and smiling. 

Sam’s more than a little taken aback, at both the smile and the recognition. He loves being able to hide behind the drum kit, not least of all because of the relative anonymity he enjoys from casual fans. 

Besides, those dimples are pretty startling. So are the eyelashes. Huh. 

“Good show,” he says thoughtfully. “I like what you guys did with ‘Woman In White,’ changing it up like that. Keeps the old stuff fresh.” 

“Thanks,” Sam says, grinning. Apparently the surprises are just going to keep on coming tonight; most of the sort of people who end up backstage at Madison Square Garden don’t actually listen to the opening band. He hesitates and asks, “How do you know her?” 

“Stevie? I was just a big fan,” he says, with a familiar hero-worship sort of smile evident on his face. “I brought her a carrot cake, we got to talking. She was nice enough to give me some advice. You know.” 

Sam doesn’t know, because that’s not the sort of thing that just happens to people.

“Cool,” he says. Sam doesn’t ask the biggest question on his mind, which is who the fuck are you? People who are that sort of famous tend to get huffy when they’re not recognized. 

This guy just looks amused. As if he knows exactly what Sam is thinking, he says, “I’m a musician. Well, I sing, mostly... and play guitar. Can’t drum, though. That’s probably obvious.” 

“Obvious?” 

“Soft hands.” It sounds like a secret in his quiet, husky voice. He holds one hand out between them, palm-up. “Can always recognize a drummer. It’s the calluses.” 

“Ah,” Sam says, and holds up his hand for comparison. 

“Speaking of, I don’t think I properly introduced myself.” He takes Sam’s hand, now, and shakes it slowly, holding eye contact in a way that makes it feel almost outrageously flirtatious. 

“No, you didn’t.”   

“Sorry, was excited to meet you, forgot my manners,” he says, without letting go of Sam’s hand. “Harry.” 

“Mind me asking if I’d recognize any of your music?” 

“I don’t mind, no,” Harry says. The sparkle in his eyes makes Sam feel like he’s missing a joke. “But… probably not.” 

“Why do I feel like you’re lying?” Sam asks, with a teasing smirk. “Nice cuffs, by the way.” 

Harry’s eyes light up delightedly for a split-second, but he just laughs, finally letting go of Sam’s hand to tuck his hair behind his ears. 

“Nice to meet you,” Sam adds, and means it. 

.

Follow-up is here! 

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If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave a note here! 

.

[caranfindel]

Fic: Nothing to win and nothing left to lose

gen, s10 | about 2000 words | R for violence and language | characters: dean winchester, sam winchester, castiel | 

Written for the following anonymous prompt in the Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon: Sam: “Please, Dean… Please, just… Just hit me.” This probably isn’t what you had in mind, Nonny, and I kind of hate posting it as a fill for this prompt because it became so Dean-centric. And honestly, even I think it’s a bit much. But here you go. Pure whump without plot, hurt without comfort. Takes place during the end of season 10, when the Mark of Cain is ramping up Dean’s violent tendencies.

+++

Sam has been standing in Dean’s doorway for five minutes. Dean has been ignoring him for five minutes. He’s aware Sam is there, of course. Hyperaware. The Mark on his arm is like an extra set of eyes and ears, an enhanced version of his consciousness of Sam’s location that normally only kicks in when he’s in full-on hunting mode. But nothing is normal now. The Mark wants to know where Sam is at all times. Dean does not know why the Mark cares so much. He does not question it. He upends the whiskey bottle with a trembling hand, drains the last of it, and does not ask Sam what he wants.

“Talk to me,” Sam finally says. Soft. Tentative. “Tell me what’s going on.”

The thing is, there are things Dean can't tell his brother.

He cannot tell Sam that when he looks at him like that, with the puppy dog eyes full of sympathy and concern and a bit of fear, Dean cannot tell him he has a vivid sense memory of putting his hands on the sides of that face and pressing his thumbs into those sad eyes, pushing until he feels the pop, rendering Sam incapable of giving him that look. He cannot tell him Alastair used to bring him boys who looked like Sam, boys he’d made to look like Sam, and laugh with glee when that was the first thing Dean did to them, every time. No, he cannot tell him that.

What he can say is “Sam, you need to not be here.”

“Where else do I need to be?”

Dean runs one hand down his face. The other clenches into a fist. “Just not here, okay? You don’t know what’s going on.”

“I do, Dean. I know more than you think.” Sam steps closer, still tentative. He’s not quite within Dean’s reach. The Mark is very aware of the distance. “I know that whatever the Mark is doing to you, it builds up. I see the shaking, and the drinking. I know that after a hunt, after you kill something, after you… after you hurt something, you’re better for a while. And I know… I know you shouldn’t be hunting right now. Not the way you are right now.”

Something hot flares up behind Dean’s eyes at that, because hunting is the only thing that helps the way he is right now, and Sam knows that, and here he is saying don’t. The Mark throbs its angry assent.

“So I was thinking,” Sam continues. “If you need to hit something, if that’s what helps. Hit me.”

Oh. The Mark’s reaction is orgasmic. Yes, yes, yes.

It’s an effort of will to tamp it down. “No, Sam. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do, Dean.” Sam’s wearing his earnest face now. “I do know. This would let you release some pressure, or whatever you want to call it. And no one else needs to be involved. No one else will get hurt.”

But Sam doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know that if Dean starts hitting him, he might never stop. Dean stands, as much to distract himself from the Mark’s bloodlust as anything else. “This is crazy. I would hurt you. Bad.” And… he wants it.

Yes, the Mark shouts. We will hurt you. Bad. And it will feel so fucking good.

Sam takes one step closer. “Cas will be back soon. Whatever you do, he can fix it. Please, Dean… please, just… just hit me.” He takes another step. He’s in striking range now. As Dean’s shaky hands clench and unclench, seemingly of their own free will, Sam takes a deep breath, plants a hand on Dean’s chest, and gives him a shove.

The reaction is half Dean and half Mark, and it’s instantaneous. Sam’s head snaps back, hair flying, as Dean slams a fist into him again and again and again. His jaw, his shoulder, his abdomen, his ribs. Sam manages to stay upright, staggering backward until he’s backed into the wall. He doesn’t raise a hand, not to shield himself, not in self-defense. He flattens his palms against the wall as Dean relentlessly pummels him. The Mark hums in pleasure at the blood dribbling from the corner of Sam’s mouth, at the satisfying crack of his ribs, at each wordless grunt of pain. Another blow to the face makes Sam’s head bounce off the wall, leaving him glassy-eyed and wobbly.

Dean grabs Sam by the collar and drags him to the desk on the other side of the room. He clutches a fistful of hair and slam’s Sam’s head onto the desk. The delicious crunch of his brother’s nose breaking doesn’t satisfy him, though. It only makes him want more. He yanks Sam’s arm behind him, pulling until he feels the shoulder pop out of its joint. Sam cries out in pain but remains limp, pinned to the desk.

Dean flips him over, keeping him bent backward at an almost impossible angle against the desk. Sam scrabbles for a foothold. Blood flows freely from his mouth and nose. It’s beautiful. The Mark wants more. Dean wants more. He picks up the empty whiskey bottle and smashes it into the wall. Sam flinches at the spray of shattered glass, and his eyes widen in fear when Dean puts the broken edge against his throat, but he still doesn’t try to save himself. It’s infuriating. The Mark wants a fight, not a punching bag. Dean grabs Sam’s hair again, pulling his head back to expose his throat. “Is this what you wanted, Sammy?” He presses the jagged glass against his brother’s throat, breaking the skin. “Are you happy now? Think you fixed me?”

Sam stares, still glassy-eyed, looking for something in Dean’s face and not finding it. He sighs and closes his eyes. Like a lamb to the fucking slaughter. But then he kicks out, sweeping Dean’s feet out from under him. Dean laughs even as he falls to his knees. Yes, the little shit is finally fighting back. This is good.

Sam stands up with a groan of pain. Not completely upright; he’s hunched over a little, favoring his cracked ribs, cradling his useless left arm against his chest. Still, in this position, he could easily kick Dean in the face. He could make a run for the door. Instead he stands there, bleeding, wheezing, watching like Dean’s gonna smile and say thanks, that was good, I’m done now.

But Dean is not done. He gets up slowly, watching for a reaction that never comes, moving between Sam and the door. If his brother had any sense at all, any instinct for self-preservation, he wouldn’t let Dean block his exit. But then, if he had any instinct for self-preservation, he wouldn’t have thrown himself at the Mark, would he?

Dean moves forward. Sam retreats, one step for each of Dean’s, until his back is against the wall again. Dean doesn’t even know what he’s going to do next until he realizes he’s still holding the broken whiskey bottle. He pins Sam to the wall with a forearm to the throat. The broken glass makes a quick jagged slash across his already bruised cheekbone. Sam’s only reaction is a hiss of pain. In fact, he looks like he’s struggling to remain conscious. He is heavy on Dean’s arm, as if the arm against his throat is the only thing holding him up. His breaths are quick and shallow. His blood-spattered lips are starting to turn blue. His broken ribs have probably punctured a lung, and in another life Dean would have to do something about that. In another life, nothing would be more important.

But in this life, oh, in this life Dean sees the pain and sorrow in those glassy eyes. Those fucking puppy dog eyes. And he wants it to stop. He could take care of it now, could make sure he never has to see that look of fear and pity again. He rests the edge of the broken glass against Sam’s temple and slowly carves a path toward his left eye. Slowly, because he wants Sam to have time to catch his breath, to realize what’s going on, to put up a fucking fight. “Sammy?” he says, grinning as he inches the glass forward. “Aren’t you even gonna try to stop me?”

But the horrified cry of Dean! comes from behind him, not from his brother. It’s Cas. Looks like the fucking cavalry has arrived. The angel grabs his arm, forcing him to drop the whiskey bottle. Dean is shoved across the room before he has a chance to fight back.

Now that Sam is no longer pinned upright by Dean’s arm, he slides down the wall and hits the floor with a quiet gasp of pain. Cas drops to kneel at his side. “Why would you do this?” he murmurs, pushing a clump of bloody hair out of Sam’s face. “I told you what would happen. I told you it was an insane plan.” He turns to flick cold blue eyes briefly in Dean’s direction. “Leave us alone, please.”

“It’s my room,” Dean growls.

Cas turns back toward him, furious and somehow even colder. “I will remove your brother from your room once I have healed him to the point that he can walk. Until then, leave us.”

Dean’s tempted to scribble a banishing sigil. God knows there’s enough blood on the floor and on his hands to do it. But, well. He’s out of whiskey anyway; may as well go find a refill. He looks down on his broken brother, slumped on the floor, barely conscious, surrounded by blood drops and sparkling shards of glass. Sam’s a fucking wreck. And it’s his own goddamn fault.

“Don’t do that again, Sam.”

Dean leaves before Sam can respond.

...

Cas finds him in the library, half a bottle of whiskey later. He stands silently, angrily, waiting for Dean to speak.

“He okay?” Dean says. He knows Sam is okay. Cas wouldn’t be out here if Sam weren’t okay. But it feels like he ought to ask.

“He’s resting,” Cas answers. “I healed his concussion. And his fractured nose and cheekbone. His orbital fracture. His broken ribs, his internal bleeding, his dislocated shoulder. Oh, and his punctured lung. He’s fully oxygenated now. I thought you’d want to know that.”

“Okay, Cas,” Dean sighs. “I get it.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because you almost killed him, Dean. I knew it was a stupid idea. I told him it was a stupid idea. But I still never believed you’d go so far. I’m sure he didn’t imagine you’d be willing to beat him to death!”

(Dean cannot tell Sam that in his dreams, he chases him through the bunker with a hammer in his hand. That in his dreams, no one comes to the rescue. That in his dreams, Sam drops the knife because he thinks there's something in Dean that will stop him, and that the despair in his eyes when he realizes he’s wrong makes the sensation of swinging the hammer against his skull that much sweeter. That he’s had these dreams ever since Sam thrust the demon cure onto him, but the difference is that he no longer considers them nightmares. No, he cannot tell him that.)

Tomorrow, or the next day, the guilt will set in. Tomorrow or the next day he will remember the way Sam’s bones cracked under his fists, remember Sam’s cry of pain when his shoulder was forced out of its socket, and he’ll want to vomit. But right now he wants to enjoy the afterglow. He picks up the bottle and heads for his room.

He makes one stop on the way. Sam’s door is partially open. Dean stands inside the doorway for a few minutes and watches his brother pretend to sleep.

“I mean it, Sam,” he says quietly. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Sam doesn’t respond.

(Dean cannot tell his brother that he never stopped thinking about ripping his throat out with his teeth, feeling the hot arterial spray against the roof of his mouth as Sam gurgles and chokes and gasps and grabs for him as if he could still save him, as if he would still save him. No, Dean cannot stand over Sam with Sam’s blood in his teeth and Sam’s hands weakly clutching at him and tell him that; he absolutely cannot.

But oh, dear God, he wants to.

And if Sam’s not careful, he’s gonna find out anyway.)

...

(The title is from “With or Without You” by U2.)

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part four Word count: ±5600 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part four: With reluctance Zoë decides to patch up Dean, but when the older Winchester tries to find out why she became a hunter, tension rises. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.  Music: Heartbreaker - Led Zeppelin Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank: @coffee-obsessed-writer​​, @soupornatural​​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​​ & @winchest09​​ who are deciphering the recent version. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     The thunderstorm has passed on, a low, grumpy rumble sounding from twenty miles away, as the midnight rider pulls over at Motel 6. Red and orange colors of dawn paint the horizon in the east; the sun will rise within an hour or so.      As Zoë puts her bike on the centerstand, Sam parks the black Chevrolet next to the Harley. Swiftly, he gets out of the car and walks around to help his brother, but Dean already managed to get out, muttering that he can do it himself. 

     The Winchesters approach to the entrance with Zoë on their tail, who keeps a sharp eye, more a habit than a necessity, trained to always be aware of her surroundings. But when she glances at Dean - who keeps a tight grip on his shoulder as he stumbles towards the door - she sighs, annoyed. It’s a guy thing, isn’t it? Feeling so sorry for themselves about ending up with a scratch or a bruise. And they truly believe they are the superior gender? She would like to see either one of those whiners live through childbirth.      Without warning, Zoë walks up to Dean and smacks him against the back of his head.      “Ah! You b--”       “Don’t you dare call me that, or it will be your face my hand hits next,” she warns.      “What’s your fucking problem?!” he snaps.      “You’re acting like you're already seeing the white light. Stand up straight, let go of your shoulder and stay behind your brother,” she barks at him, while passing the two men on their way to the foyer. “Just don’t make a scene, okay?”      “Do you have any idea how much this hurts? You put a bullet in my arm!” the older Winchester exclaims.      “Be glad I didn’t put it in your heart, darling.”

     Narrowed eyes flashing with sarcasm land on him, before Zoë grips the door handle. She’s about to push it open when Dean challenges her again.      “You can give me all the attitude you’ve got, sweetheart, but you do realize you’re a fucking amateur for shootin’ another hunter, right?” he chuckles mockingly.      With an eye roll, Zoë turns on her heels, fiercely glaring at the older Winchester brother, while biting the inside of her lip. This guy is seriously starting to piss her off. Does he really believe he can outsass her? That’s adorable, actually.      “Let me tell you something, Winchester. Firstly, it’s called a warning shot, since you’re not dead. Secondly, I believe I was the one you didn’t see coming inside that house, I was the one who shot you and not the other way around. So tell me; who’s the amateur here?”      She arches her eyebrows at him victoriously, then turns back to the door, whipping her hair round as she twists. The door falls shut behind the huntress before Dean can even think of a good counter. Sam huffs, shocked and yet impressed with her accomplishment. Who would’ve thought it was possible? She just shut up his brother. With his lips pressed together in a thin line, trying hard not to laugh, the younger Winchester follows Zoë, but Dean notices his suppressed smirk anyway and gives him a push in the back as they enter the lobby. 

     The door closes just as the thunder roars louder than it has all night. Dean,  although reluctantly, does as told and stays in Sam’s large shadow, so the man behind the counter doesn’t notice his injury.           The old man looks up from his magazine. He hasn’t done much, because the paper wrappers and the soda bottle still lay scattered across the desk. He did have coffee, though, probably to get through the quiet night.      “At least I’m not just sitting here to become part of the furniture, thanks to you, Mrs. Johnson,” he comments, as it’s the third time in a few short hours she’s entered the lobby.      “It won’t happen again tonight,” she promises, taking the room key after he hands it to her.      “That’s easy for you to say, considering it’s morning,” he responds, unimpressed. 

     The man is not wrong. The clock on the wall is about to strike seven AM and she hasn’t had a minute of sleep in the past thirty six hours. While yawning, she continues her way to her room, leaving behind the Winchester brothers. Sam clears his throat loudly and Zoë looks over her shoulder, only then realizing she’s forgetting something.      “Oh, right. These are colleagues of mine, they need a room,” she adds.      “Sorry, no can do.”       The manager flips the page, not even bothering to look up. Sam and Dean await an explanation with confused looks upon their faces.      “Why not?” Sam asks.      “Lots of folks coming for that Texas Hold’em Poker Tournament this weekend; I’m fully booked,” the old man explains.      “Great…” Dean sighs, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.      Sam pleadingly glances at Zoë, but she doesn’t blink.      “I guess we have to find ourselves another motel then,” he concludes and intends to turn around.      “Good luck with that, but you won’t find a bed at this hour. I think your best option is to take a few hours sleep in your car,” the manager advises, without looking up from his magazine.      “Well, you heard the man; good luck with that.”       Zoë walks on, not feeling even a bit responsible for the two men. Dean follows her to have a word, as Sam tries to talk to the manager.      “Sir, isn’t there some sort of arrangement we can make here? Me and my brother, we’ve been on the road for quite some time and we haven’t slept on a decent bed in days,” Sam explains politely.      Puppy dog eyes and a friendly smile; Sam’s secret weapon to get what he wants. His words are calm and friendly, but this time they are not enough to do the job. The hundred dollar bill the hunter slips the manager is, though. The man stands up and leans on the counter, biting on the plastic spoon from his empty coffee container, thinking through some kind of option.

     “I don’t have any rooms left, but I tell you what,” he says as he turns over to Zoë and Dean, who are arguing down the hallway. “Room 82 has a double bed and a couch. If Mrs. Johnson doesn’t mind, I will allow you two to spend the night,” he suggests, while looking between the boys and the owner of the room.      “What? Like... share?” she returns, her nose crinkling with disgust.      “That’s what social people do,” Dean whispers, so only she can hear him.      Ignoring his snarl, she looks over at Sam. There they are again, hazel eyes begging her. Her gaze trails back to Dean who hints at his shoulder. The blood is coming through his denim jacket and has started to drip down his arm; he needs treatment. No matter how much she detests sharing a room with the Winchesters, Zoë can’t let him sleep in the car. That would be a little too cruel, even for her. Although she doesn’t like Dean’s attitude, she was the one who did this to him. And so she sighs and nods, approving.

     “Alright then, that’s settled. Now, I don’t want any trouble, this is off the books, so if anything happens…” the manager warns.      “We understand. Thank you very much.” Sam gives him a grateful smile before he joins his brother and the huntress.      The three of them walk through the hallway together, but as soon as they turn the corner, Zoë smacks Sam against the shoulder. She would have rather aimed for his head like she did with Dean a minute ago, but she doesn't, simply because he's too tall for her to reach.      Sam puts his arm up in defense. “Hey!”      “Why do you think I let you walk in the middle?” Dean comments.      “What were you thinking!” she hisses with a lowered voice.      “Don’t worry about it, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Sam offers when they halt by room 82.      Zoë huffs, unlocking the door. “And let him sleep next to me? Not in a million years.” 

     She enters the room and switches on the lights, but before she can turn around, Dean claims the bed. With a sigh of relief, he settles against the backboard and props his feet up on the sheets, not bothering to take his boots off first.      “Get off,” Zoë barks, the moment she catches sight of his actions.             “I’m actually quite comfortable,” he nags, pressing the drenched, bundled scarf on the injury in an attempt to slow the bleeding.      “You are fucking up my research,” Zoë persists.      “I’m tired, hungry, and my shoulder hurts like hell, thanks to you. So if you have a problem with me crashing on the bed, you can bite me.”           As Dean rants, the huntress raises her brow and cocks her head back. What did he just say to me?      “Excuse me? Whose room do you think this is again, you ungrateful little shit!? Because I could’ve sworn that--”      “My God, woman! Can you tone it down and cut me some slack here?” he interrupts agitated, hinting at the shot wound. “You’re giving me a headache on top of all this.”       “Do I look like I care?” she snaps, turning back at Sam. “You two are either sleeping on the couch or on the ground. Figure out who sleeps where.”

     She drops her helmet down on the table and takes off her worn biker jacket, which she hangs to dry on the back of the chair. Dean’s eyes follow her as she crosses the room, but then land on the metal briefcase, swallowing apprehensively when he beholds what’s inside. Right, getting shot was the easy part.      Meanwhile, Sam takes a look at the Macbook Pro on the bed, kneeling down in front of it to observe the piece of technology.      “This is cool,” he comments, letting his finger glide over the touchpad, enlarging the icons at the bottom of the screen.      Zoë, who has started cleaning her surgical equipment, warns him. “Hands off. I just got it.”      Cautiously, Sam backs away from the laptop. He’s not surprised by her hostile response, though. He barely lets Dean touch his own computer, let alone allow a stranger to work it, so he understands where she’s coming from.      “You know, it just occurred to me -” Sam sits down on the side of the bed facing her, clears his throat and puts his hands together, leaning forward, “- I don’t think you ever answered my question.”      Zoë doesn’t even look up, apparently not intrigued. “What question is that?”      “How did you two meet?” Sam asks, curiously.      Before she even says a word, Zoë looks up at Dean. Clearly, she doesn’t feel like answering herself. Dean keeps a hold of her gaze, his brow slightly furrowed. She nods, approving; he can tell Sam what happened.      “Zoe was a case, about four years ago. Right after you left for Stanford,” Dean starts off.      “A case?” Sam repeats, stunned.      “She was possessed by a Diligo Vesco demon. Nasty son of a bitch, believe me,” Dean elaborates.      “I read some lore on those. Don’t they feed on the loved ones of their host?” Sam recalls.      “Sure do,” Zoë answers shortly, obviously not happy about the fact she’s the subject of this conversation.      “We hung out a bit while Dad was working the job. He took care of it,” Dean tells.

     Abruptly, Zoë gets up from where she was seated, gritting her teeth. Tension a little more evident in her walk, as she moves over to the kitchenette. After activating the electric kettle, she opens two cabinets.      “Fuck.”      Dean, who just wants this day to be over, sighs annoyed. “Now what?”      “I’m out of whiskey,” she declares, closing the cabinet doors.      “Well, I don’t know ‘bout you, but a beer will do just fine,” he comments.      “Not to drink, brainless,” she responds, placing her hands on her small waist as she shifts her weight on one leg. “To fix you up.”      “Right.” He clears his throat, but then suddenly realizes what she’s saying. “Wait, you’re gonna fix me up?”      She can read the doubt in his facial expression, even though he tries to hide it. Before she can answer his question, Sam intervenes.      “I can patch him up if you wanna get some sleep,” he offers.      “Can you stitch up an axillary vein? Because I blasted his into oblivion,” she responds with an attitude.      “No. Can you?” Sam counters.      “She can, annoyingly enough,” Dean answers before Zoë can. “She studied medicine.”

     Sam snaps his head to her now, surprised by the revelation. He expected Zoë to be smart, considering she managed to ambush them, but somehow he can’t picture the biker as a student. She is a hunter after all, and hunters don’t get to go to college, let alone university. He has first hand experience to prove that theory.      “You’re a med student?”       “Was a med student," she corrects, walking to the bathroom to get a towel and a bowl. “Sam, do your brother a favor. Go down the 52 into Rochester and take the first right. You’ll find a 24 hour shop with a liquor department on 55th Street.”      “Got it.” Sam needs no further explanation and heads for the door.      “Johnny Walker Black Label. If I take a sip it might as well be good,” she adds.      “And while you’re at it, bring me a cheeseburger,” Dean also requests. “Extra onions.”      “Make that two.” Zoë’s hollow voice sounds from the bathroom, but then she walks out. “There’s a Wendy’s around the corner.”      “Anything else?” Sam grumbles, feeling used.      “Yeah, I’d like fries with that. And if you deliver in ten minutes or less, there’s an extra tip in it for you,”  Zoë answers smartly.

     Dean smirks while his brother shakes his head. When the door slams shut, Sam leaves what should be an awkward silence, but Zoë doesn’t seem even a bit intimidated by the Winchester brothers. Without a word, she fills the bowl with hot water. With a clean towel in one hand and the bowl in the other, she walks to the bed and spots Dean’s grin.      “What?” She frowns at his expression.      “I have to say, you are way more of a smartass than you were back then,” Dean recalls, as he removes the bloody fabric from the entry wound.      She sits down on the bed next to him and dips the towel in the sterile water. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still the same smart ass you were back then. Take off your shirt.”      Dean looks at her sideways, pleasantly surprised by the sudden authorial demand.      “Don’t get any ideas,” she responds with an icy stare.      “Alright, but I normally don’t do this until the second date.”      He opens the buttons with one hand, then takes off his flannel. A grunt leaves his throat when Zoë carefully rolls up the short sleeve of tee, the fabric comes loose from the wound. The huntress feels his pain, although she will not admit it, of course. It seems like a pretty clean shot, but there’s too much blood for it to be that simple. She presses the towel against the wound, letting it absorb the crimson red. Dean swallows thickly and looks away, grinding his teeth. He feels uncomfortable.

     “This is fuckin’ embarrassing,” the hunter mutters under his breath.      “Why is that?” Zoë takes away the towel, flips it over and presses it firmly against his shoulder again.      “I got my ass kicked by a chick and guess who’s patching me up,” Dean admits.      She grins now. “I can see how your pride got damaged.”      “You’re enjoying this, aren’t ya?” he notices.      “Totally,” Zoë chuckles. “But I would much rather be sleeping.”      “That makes two of us.” Dean flutters his lashes, fighting the fatigue which decided to team up with the pain; blood loss probably has something to do with it.      “You could have ended up far worse,” she remarks.      “Dead, perhaps? You won’t get rid of me that easily.” He smiles cocky.      “That’s not what I mean.” Zoë takes a closer look at the wound, careful not to touch it without gloves. “Sam might be the clever one, but my guess is that he couldn’t have fixed this vein.”

     He looks aside for a moment, examining her. He remembers her hair being a lighter shade of brown, when the Californian sun still dyed her locks with gold. Now the color is more intense, darker, much like her eyes. Her skin seems soft, but there’s something about her that gives her a tough appearance. It’s a vibe he didn't pick up last time he saw her. Back then she was this innocent rich kid from Orange County; naive, nice, cute, clueless. Quite the opposite of how she comes off tonight.      She grew up delicately, left the girl in the Sunny State and became a woman. If he’d spotted someone like her in a bar, he would make a move. Why didn't they end up between the sheets together? Now that he thinks of it, a previous boyfriend comes to mind, not that something like that ever stopped him from reeling women in. He came on to Zoë while working her case back in 2001 - despite her relationship status - but she declined, the good girl. Something tells him she’s anything but a good girl these days, which makes her even more interesting.

     “Thanks,” Dean says, barely audible, somewhat out of the blue.      Zoë glances at him with her brows curved, clearly not expecting any sign of gratitude. “Did Dean Winchester just thank me?”       “Don’t push it.”      A subtle smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. It’s the first time he sees a glimpse of the O.C. surfer girl he met back then.      “Here, hold this.” She lays his hand on the towel still pressed to his shoulder and gets up. “It’s way too quiet in here.”

     When she walks towards the radio on the small table next to the bed, Dean checks her out and nods approvingly without her seeing it. Definitely. He would definitely make a move on her. Heartbreaker by Led Zeppelin comes on the moment she turns on the radio. With a swing in her walk, clearly liking the tunes, she moves to the small kitchen and opens the fridge.      “Beer?”      He nods and she hands him a bottle. Waiting for Sam to return with the good stuff, she doesn’t open one herself, needing a steady hand for the procedure. Instead, Zoë searches the small fridge for something to eat, bending forward to shove some cans and bottles aside in the back, fortunately for Dean. He can’t help himself. Whoa, you could bounce a quarter off that--      “Dean, do me a favor and stop staring at my ass.”      Zoë surprises him with a sudden and piercing glare as she closes the door. He quickly averts his gaze.      “I - I wasn’t staring at your--”      “Yes, you were.” With a grin she tears the wrapper from a chocolate bar. “Like I said: you haven't changed one bit.”      He looks up at the huntress and can’t help but chuckle. She used to be so shy. Past Zoë would’ve felt embarrassed if she caught him checking her out. She would’ve kept quiet and certainly wouldn’t have called him out on it. But not the new version of herself. Zoë 2.0 doesn’t take any shit. 

     His eyes roam over her features as she sits down next to him and takes a bite of the chocolate treat. A few scars add to her tough appearance without taking away any of her beauty. Typical combat injuries: small white lines run down her eyebrow, barely visible scar tissue on the corner of her full lips and her chin. She puts away her midnight snack and dusts off her hands, after which she cleans them in the bowl of warm water, washing up thoroughly with betadine before attending the wounded hunter. Long lashes frame her brown eyes as she focuses on her hands as she scrubs them; they obviously have seen their fair share of fights, knives, and rifles.      She has been hunting.      It’s not just her skin that gives her away, it’s the tainting darkness lingering over her. Zoë has seen the worst.      “You’ve changed.”      She looks back at Dean, then averts her gaze, not knowing how to act or behave. His gaze penetrates her thick armor, the hint of pity in it confronting. She only spent two weeks with him, but she knows these moments are rare for Dean Winchester. The guitar solo of the Led Zep song sets in and gives an awkward feel to the moment, which Dean decides to break up.      “So…” he starts off, nodding at the research on the bed behind him. “Hunting now, huh? Finished med school?”      “Nope. Dropped out.”      Again an unpleasant silence, the tones from the guitar strings echoing through the room as Dean searches for words.      “That’s a shame.” Dean takes a swig from the bottle and continues. “What I understood from your sister, you were the best student in your class. I never thought you would--”      “- end up like you?” she interrupts him.      He nods. She ponders.      “Too much happened to ignore and continue with my simple little life.” Zoë looks away, her gaze fading into a thousand yard stare for a few seconds. She doesn’t think about that period of her life very often.      “Bullshit,” Dean argues while shaking his head. “You were on your way to becoming a top surgeon; there is nothing simple or little about that. You could’ve helped people your way, y’know, without the motel-to-motel lifestyle, a life expectancy of thirty and no pay.”      “Where’s the fun in that when you know what’s really out there?” the huntress bounces back.      “Big ass salary, white picket fence, a perfect career,” he fantasizes. “Don’t get me wrong, I dig what I do. I just never thought this would be the life for you.”      Neither did I, Zoë thinks to herself, but she doesn’t admit it out loud. Instead, the woman who should have been a doctor bites on the inside of her cheek as she begins to clean the surgical equipment for a second time, trying to get rid of the frustration building inside her. Dean is poking the bear, but trying to provoke her to talk might not be his best move. Fact is, though, his question is spot on. The hunters’ world isn't her scene, yet she got stuck in this loop of endless cases.

     “How’s Abigail doing these days?” Dean picks up the conversation again, when the silence drags on too long.      Zoë shrugs, seemingly careless. “Wouldn’t know.”      “You girls aren’t talking?”      He raises his eyebrows at the information, remembering the bond between the Sullivan sisters well. Witnessing them was bittersweet, because the two reminded Dean so much of him and Sam, who had just bailed for Stanford at the time. Abi and Zoë couldn’t be close to one another while his dad was working the case, the risk of the demon manifesting and claiming even more lives too large. It hurt them both, like neither of them knew how to function without the other by their side. Much like how he felt while his brother was gone. 

     “You were thick as thieves,” he recalls when Zoë remains quiet. “Seriously, what happened after we hit the road?”      Again her reaction lacks both compassion and emotion. “I became a hunter.”      Dean narrows his eyes, reading her. “Yeah, but why?”      “Why? Like being possessed by a demon wasn’t enough?” she returns.      “No, most people would try to forget it ever happened and move on with their apple pie lives,” he claims.      “Well, I’m not like most people, am I?”      A deadly glare comes his way, and Dean is caught off guard by her sudden change of character. He’s making her feel uncomfortable, all the more reason to dig deeper.      “You used to be.”      “People change.”      Annoyed, she drops the surgical instruments on the sterile sheet, the metal clattering. Dean keeps an eye on her, carefully observing her reaction. There’s more to this and she’s not telling him.      “What happened?” he asks directly, but calmly.      “Jesus Christ, Dean! Could you just fucking drop it?” she snaps, as the door of room 82 opens.      Sam walks in and detects the tension between the two. Dean keeps looking Zoë in the eye with determination in his expression; he’s not planning to let this go. The huntress on the other hand, stares back at him and doesn’t need words to tell him to shut the hell up.      “Okay… awkward.” Sam closes the door behind him and breaks the silence by holding up the bags. “I have booze and burgers.”      “Ah, good, I’m starving.” The presence of food has Dean snap his eyes away from the hunters, reaching out for the paper bag, but Zoë snatches it away.      “You’re not eating anything ‘til I’m done with you,” she decides, obviously trying to get back at him.      Dean watches her walk away with the burgers, his jaw slack and mouth watering from the smell of grease drenched fast food alone. She’s got to be kidding him, right?      “Ah, come on! That ain’t fair!” he complains, frustrated.      The hunter frantically looks over at Sam who has trouble hiding his grin while watching the scene play out. He’s not going to back up his brother, though; he has learned quickly that Zoë doesn’t appreciate being countered.      Not giving Dean’s objections any attention, she leaves the Wendy’s bag on the table, sits down next to him on the bed and pulls the chair by the wall in position to set up her instruments. First, she takes away the soaked through towel. Sam frowns when he sees the pierced skin where the bullet entered, pulls the whiskey out of a bag and places it on the chair.      “Good luck with that,” he comments, glad he’s not the one going through it, nor being the one having to patch him up. That shot wound is no joke.      “Yeah thanks, bro,” Dean returns sarcastically.

     Zoë takes a serious look at his shoulder, making an unsatisfied sound with her mouth.      “Sam, get me an empty glass,” she orders without shifting her eyes.      Items are shoved in the sink cabinet as Sam tries to find what Zoë asked for. The noises from the kitchen disturb the music on the radio, but also the silence between Dean and Zoë. He hesitates; shall he continue his questioning? He decides to wait. After all, she still has to patch him up.      As Sam comes back with clean towels and a glass, she checks in with his brother. “Do you want a local anaesthetic or are you gonna bite the bullet?”       He sighs reluctantly. Although a sedation does sound tempting, he decides otherwise.       “I’ll bite the bullet,” he replies.            “I’ll be honest with you,” Zoë starts off, the tips of all five fingers gently pushing into his chest, beckoning him to lean against the headboard. “This will hurt like hell, but I need you to keep completely still. Without an X-ray I can’t tell for sure where the bullet is. It could be holding a damn finger in the dyke.”      As the hunter lays back, he gulps. By now, her patient is getting somewhat nervous.      “You do know what you’re doing, right?” Dean questions carefully as she puts on a pair of latex gloves.      “Of course I know what I’m doing. You just need to hold still and shut up,” she replies, agitated.      When he looks aside at his brother, Sam sees doubt and a slight trace of fear in his eyes. He decides to jump in to help.      “Have you done this before?” Sam asks calmly, just as she takes a set of forceps in her left hand.

     She stops, but doesn’t look up at him; this time her reaction isn’t as rapid as previously. Of course she could tell them she dug a bullet out of her own flesh only hours ago, but that would involve admitting she got hurt. Besides, a shallow shot wound isn’t comparable to this injury; the bullet tore his shoulder to pieces.      The Winchester brothers wait for her to respond, but she decides to ignore the question all together and intends to go to work. Dean pulls away, looking her straight in the eye.      “Before you stick that thing in my arm, answer the fucking question,” he demands.      “I did this before, chicken shit. Happy?” she answers, annoyed.      “On a human being?” Sam wonders, on to her.       Again silence.           After rolling her eyes, she sighs and shrugs. “On a dead pig, okay? What’s the difference?”      “Hey!” Dean says, insulted, until he realizes what she’s actually saying. “Whoa, wait… You’re actually gonna do some difficult procedure on me that you’ve never done on a human being before?”      “It’s not that difficult,” she claims, not even a bit worried. “I know what I’m doing, you just have to trust me.”      “Trust you?!” Dean exclaims. “You shot me!”      “Dean, calm down,” Sam tries, without result.      “I am calm!” he argues, raising his voice even more.      “Hey, asshat!” Zoë calls Dean back to reality, forcing him to face her by grabbing his chin and turning his head. “You listen up. I don’t see another option here, unless you wanna go to a hospital.”       “What do you care?” he returns.      She scoffs and cocks her head back, staring at him stunned as she lets go of him. “You know what? You’re absolutely right! I don’t give a fucking shit.”      Mad, she gets up and throws the instruments back in the briefcase and tears the gloves from her hands. She slams the lid and heads for the door, which she pulls open and holds for them.      “Zoë, come on. Wait a minute,” Sam says, desperately trying to repair the damage.      “Nope. Now get the fuck out,” she orders.      “You’re kicking us out? You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Dean says, dazed.      “Do I look like I’m kidding?!” she returns the question angrily. “Maybe if you would stop being such a fucking jerk, I--”      “Okay, fine.” Dean grabs his jacket and his shirt next to him and gets up, while Sam looks over from one to the other, startled and completely helpless.      “Can’t we talk about this, guys?” he tries.      “No!” both Dean and Zoë answer at the same time.

     Dean shuffles towards the door, pressing his shirt against the wound. It’s clear he isn’t feeling well, but neither he nor Zoë even flinch, too proud to ever admit they have crossed the line. Despite his injury, they are about to go separate ways, purely because they are both so arrogant, that they can’t tolerate each other.      “Okay, this is ridiculous!”      Now it’s Sam who gets frustrated. Dean turns around and Zoë frowns; finally the younger Winchester has their attention.      “Listen to her, Dean,” he claims.      “Seriously? You’re on her side now?” Dean reacts, betrayed.      “That’s not what this is about, damn it! There are no sides, we’re all hunters and we have a job to do. Fighting like cats and dogs isn’t helping!” Sam responds. “She has a point. We’re in Minnesota, remember?”

     Dean needs a moment to think, but then recalls the case they worked about five years ago, in Lafayette, a little over a hundred miles west from here. The local police caught him and his father with the victim of a poltergeist, they had a clear view of his face before he escaped. When they started digging, they found a list of scams, carjacking, robberies, suspect of several more crimes and now murder to top them all. If Dean walks into a hospital and is listed as a patient, it won’t be long before the cops take him in. Even if he uses an alias, the chance of getting busted is a reality.      “Fuck,” he curses, realizing Sam is right; he has ‘wanted’ written all over him.      His brother looks over at the woman in their company, who leans against the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her.      “Can you fix him up?” he asks, calmly.      “Of course I can. I don’t get myself into shit I can’t handle,” she replies snippy.      He nods approvingly and looks deep into her eyes.      “Please,” he pleads. “I know you won’t do this for him--”      “Obviously not,” she interferes pissed, shooting daggers at Dean.      “Then do this for me. Please, fix him up?” Sam begs.      The huntress watches Sam, still mad, but her mind settling down. Dean realizes that for his best interests, he better keep his mouth shut. Then she sighs and steps away from the door, which she closes.      “Cut it out with the puppy dog eyes. I’ll do it,” she mutters.

     Dean slowly sits down on the bed while Zoë opens her briefcase again, getting out the things she needs.      “Thanks, Zo,” Sam says, grateful, words that Dean can’t possibly get out of his mouth.      “Don’t mention it.”      She puts on a fresh pair of gloves and takes her patient’s arm, as he leans back against the headboard again. His eyes tell her he would’ve rather gone to the hospital and figure out a plan to bust out later, but at least he isn’t saying it out loud. Considering it’s Dean Winchester, that has to count for something.      “If you fuck up, I’ll kill you,” he warns.       She glares at him, but finds a coy smile on his face.      “Not if I kill you first,” she returns, a slight grin on her lips.      He swallows apprehensively and mentally prepares himself. She steadies her hand, the forceps an extension of her fingertips. Both take a deep breath; here goes nothing. And she goes in...

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part five here!

[shirtlesssammy]

2x08: Crossroad Blues

Welcome to this season’s real hellatus! We’ve got a little theme for the episodes we’re recapping. Try and guess what it is :D Also, we have some good news and bad news. Good news: We’re going to do a whole week of recaps towards the end of the break! Yay! Bad news: They’re all episodes that we hate. We need to get them off our recap plate before the show ends. Enjoy the hellatus (*crying noise*).

Then:

Sam Winchester, professional puppy dog

Now:

Greenwood, Mississippi

August, 1938

Robert Johnson plays Crossroads Blues on a stage to a crowd at a bar. He briefly hears growls but continues to play. He stops again when he sees shadows race outside. The crowd looks confused. Robert runs outside after hearing barks. He races to a shed, but the unseen source of the barking follows him. He kneels to await his fate. 

The door bursts open to find a woman and two men from the bar. The men run to find help and the woman pleads with Robert to stay with her as he mutters, “Dogs, black dogs.” He dies in her arms. 

Sam and Dean are at a diner and Sam’s researching how much of an outlaw Dean is. Sam is upset because it’s going to make their job harder now that the feds have them on their radar. Well, they have Dean on their radar. Dean thinks Sam is jealous. 

Sam’s got a case. An architect jumped off a building he designed, after calling animal control about seeing wild black dogs in his condo. 

There’s a ton of lore on black dogs. Dean brings the real insight to the situation when he tells Sam, “Bet they could hump the crap out of your leg.” AND I MISS THIS DEAN SO MUCH SOME DAYS. 

They interview Gunner Lawless his business partner under the guise of writing a tribute for Architectural Digest. His partner is resentful but admits that the man was a genius. He wasn’t always that way though. He wonders why people with true talent die young. 

The brothers’ next stop is at an area animal shelter. Dean flirts his way into learning more about black dogs in the area. Dean Bean got Carly’s MySpace address too. 

They next head to interview all the people that reported the black dogs. The first on their list is Dr. Sylvia Pearlman. She hasn’t been home in two days. Dean notes that she’s chief of surgery at her hospital, a position she’s had for ten years. She’s only about 42, so she’s very young for that position. They also find a connection to their vic and the doctor. They both visited a place called Lloyd’s Bar. 

Meanwhile, the doctor is hiding out in an early season dingy motel room. She’s frazzled and petrified when someone knocks on the door. The motel staff is there demanding money for another night’s stay. She grabs her money and turns to the man in the door,  only to see his face warp unnaturally. 

The boys find Lloyd’s Tavern next. On the cross road outside the joint, Dean notices yarrow flowers growing alongside the road. These flowers are used for summoning rituals. They put things together and start digging a hole in the middle of the crossroads. They find a tin with various items in it.

People have been summoning and making deals with a demon. “Y’know cause that always ends good.” EAT YOUR WORDS DEAN. Sam says that these people aren’t seeing black dogs, they’re seeing hell hounds. 

Meanwhile, the doctor meets her end with a visit from her own date with the hell hounds. 

Rosedale, Mississippi

1930

We witness Robert Johnson make his crossroads deal with a demon. 

Sam notes that whatever they’re dealing with is a lot like the Robert Johnson lore. Dean notes that Johnson’s music is full of references to hell hounds, demon deals, and the occult. Dean’s barely-tolerating-this-bullshit eyeroll is truly a wonder. (Objectification Sidenote: Damn, Dean’s pretty in this scene.) 

Anyway, they have a picture of another person that made a deal, George Darrow. They head to where he lives. They notice pepper on the doorsill. George answers his door but doesn’t want anything to do with them. They reveal that they know about the supernatural and tell him they want to help. Sam asks about the pepper and George tells them that it’s actually goofer dust. It keeps out demons.

George talks about making his deal and reveals that the demon stayed around Lloyd’s for a week making deals with other people. George mentions the architect and doctor. There’s one other person that also made a deal ten years prior, a man named Evan Hudson. George is resigned to his fate and tells the brothers to leave. 

Evan Hudson works in his home office late at night and flinches at hell hound barks. His wife peeks in before she heads off on a trip. 

As she’s bidding him farewell, her face warps into a dead zombie howl. WHEE HALLUCINATIONS!

Sam and Dean arrive at Evan’s house. Dean opens with asking about Lloyd’s Bar, and Evan immediately slams the door in his face and retreats into his home. That went well! Dean kicks down the door and I’m FINE WITH THIS and not objectifying him at all.

The Winchesters corner Evan in his office. Yes, he knows hell hounds are coming for his soul. Dean’s bitterly dismissive of Evan’s distress, joking about potentially frivolous reasons for him to bargain his soul away. Evan reveals that his wife was dying of cancer, and he made a deal for her health. While Sam melts into a puppy-eyed puddle, Dean still reacts to this with anger. “You ever think about her in all this?” Dean asks. “I think you did this for yourself. So you wouldn’t have to live without her. Well guess what? She’s gonna have to live without you now.”  

Dean’s anger is...counterproductive. So Sam pulls Dean away and they consult in the hall. Dean instructs Sam to spread George’s goofer dust around while he high tails it to the crossroads to summon himself a demon. He’ll exorcise it, and that will buy them a little time. Sam calls this out as a reckless plan and speculates that Dean’s only doing it because he thinks their dad made a deal. “What if he struck a deal?” Dean asks. “My life for his soul?” OH this SWEET EMOTIONAL TORTURE! He heads out to summon the demon.

Dean buries his offering in the crossroad and turns around to find a woman smirking at him. She’s a crossroads demon! They take turns objectifying each other and then Dean invites her to meet in his car for a little privacy. Classic serial killer pickup line. 

Dean tells the demon his terms. He wants Evan released from his deal and he’ll barter himself for it. “You’d sacrifice yourself for someone else?” she says with a devilish smile. “Like father, like son.” 

DRAMATIC MUSIC BREAK

The demon gleefully taunts Dean about John’s deal. When Dean tries to usher her into his car, she balks at the edges of the devil’s trap she sees peeking out from under Baby. Nice try, Dean Bean!

Meanwhile, Evan does his best dramatic chipmunk (prairie dog) impression. 

The hell hounds are now growling from INSIDE THE HOUSE! Sam and Evan watch the doors warily. 

While the hounds close in, Dean gets emotionally traumatized by the demon. (Side note, her breath is visible in this scene and she’s wearing a short sleeved, thin dress. I’m cold in sympathy.) She taunts him about his man-pain and terrible guilt about John’s death. She has the power to bring back John. Dean seems...interested.

The hell hound at Evan’s house stops rattling the door and the room goes silent for a moment until...the hound bursts through the ventilation grate! What a smart doggo!

Dean wants to learn more about the potential to bring back his dad and mopes under a wooden structure until the demon joins him there. She tells him she can give him a ten year deal: John’s life for Dean’s, and they get ten years together before Dean heads below. She plays Dean like a fiddle, and we get a callback to Dean’s feelings in Faith - that he’s not supposed to be alive. Dean experiences VERY LARGE EMOTIONS before wandering out of the structure. “You think you could throw in a set of steak knives?” He directs her attention upward, where he’s painted a devil’s trap on the underside of the structure. What a smart Dean Bean! Excellent misdirection. 

Dean reels off HIS deal: Evan lives, and the demon goes free. If she doesn’t strike a deal, she gets exorcised. (Which is SO embarrassing amirite?) 

Dean starts the exorcism and it starts a fierce wind to howling. The wind gusts into Evan’s house and blows away Sam’s goofer dust circle. Sam and Evan run for safety. The hell hound barks fiercely...until it doesn’t.

Cut to Dean angry-kissing the demon. A kiss seals the deal (apparently all demons like to slip a little tongue). (Insert crack headcanon that this is Crowley in an alternate vessel, when he first gets heart eyes for Dean.)

The demon tells Dean that her word is her bond, but if Dean breaks their deal then the first thing she’ll do when she escapes Hell is tear into Evan like he’s wet paper.

The demon can’t resist one parting shot. Dean should’ve taken the deal. John Winchester’s torture is unimaginably bad. Dean charges for her, the demon smokes out, and Dean’s left with a scared woman in the middle of the crossroads and way too many feelings.

Driving away, Sam and Dean listen to the blues and contemplate John’s deal. Sam tries to focus on the people John saved, but Dean’s stuck in a sadness pit of his own making. Sam asks him if he considered actually making the deal. Dean doesn’t answer, instead just turning the music up.

Oh, Dean.

The Quotes Bark at Midnight:

Dude, I'm like Dillinger or something

I bet they could hump the crap outta your leg

MySpace, what the hell is that?

Somebody goes over Niagara in a barrel, you gonna jump in and try to save 'em?

You're lucky I've got a soft spot for lost puppies and long faces

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