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doctorbitchcrxft · 6 months ago

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Nightmare | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: mentions of abuse, descriptions of suicide, canon violence, canon gore, mentions of parental abuse (plsplspls heed these warnings and take care of yourself!!)

Word Count: 7370

A/N: Bye me when I scheduled this to post a day early...... goodnight. lmfao. enjoy!!!!

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While Dean drove and you lounged sleepily in the backseat, Sam was on the phone asking for the identity behind a license plate he’d seen in a dream. Sam had come to wake you up from a peaceful slumber in the middle of the night, shouting that you needed to leave then and there.

He didn’t elaborate much until he got in the car, but even then, his explanation was frantic and disjointed.

“Sammy, relax. I'm sure it's just a nightmare,” Dean tried to coax his brother.

Sam was unconvinced. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“I mean it. Y'know, a normal, everyday, naked-in-class, nightmare. This license plate, it won't check out. You'll see,” Dean said calmly.

“It felt different Dean. Real. Like when I dreamt about our old house. And Jessica.”

“But in those, you were dreaming about your house, your girlfriend,” you jumped in. “But this guy… have you ever seen him before?”

Sam shook his head.

“Exactly,” Dean answered. “Why would you have premonitions about some random dude in Michigan.”

Sam sighed. “I don't know.” He perked up when the man on the phone began to speak to him again. “Yes, I'm here.” Sam side-eyed you and Dean. “Jim Miller. Saginaw, Michigan. You have a street address?... Got it. Thanks.” Sam hung up. “Checks out. How far are we?”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth. “At least a couple hours.”

“Drive faster,” Sam ordered his brother.

***

When you arrived at the home of the man from Sam’s dream, you were surprised and dismayed to see police cars, ambulance, and a body bag being rolled out of the garage of the home. You looked up at Sam, who was upset, as you walked over to bystanders.

The bystanders explained that Jim Miller had been found in his garage with his engine going and the garage door closed. It had been ruled a suicide. You knew from Sam, though, it wasn’t. Speaking of whom, he walked away from the crowd and back over to the car.

“Sam, you couldn’t have done anything,” you told him.

“Then why am I having these dreams if I can’t stop it?” He sounded agitated, but you knew it was more at the situation than you.

“Sam, we got here as fast as we could,” Dean responded, approaching you and his brother.

Sam shook his head and sighed. “So what do you think killed him?”

“Maybe the guy just killed himself?” the older brother suggested. “Maybe there's nothing supernatural going on at all.”

The younger one shook his head again. “I'm telling you, I watched it happen. He was murdered by something, guys. I watched it trap him in the garage.”

“Did you see what it was?” you questioned.

Sam got a little worked up. “No. I don't know why I'm having these dreams. I don't know what the hell is happening.”

You stared at Sam for a moment, as did Dean.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you shrugged. “We’re just… worried about you, dude.”

“Well, don't look at me like that!” Sam was becoming more panicked by the second.

“I'm not looking at you like anything,” Dean responded. “Though, I gotta say, you do look like crap.”

“Nice. Thanks.” Sam made a bitchface.

You opened the door for Sam. “C’mon, dude. Let’s pick this up in the morning.”

“We'll check out the house; talk to the family,” Dean continued.

“Dean, you saw them, they're devastated. They're not going to want to talk to us," you told him.

Dean thought for a moment. “Yeah, you're right. But I think I know who they will talk to."

“Who?”

***

“Are you sure this was necessary?” you asked, tugging at the habit draped over your head; hair itching underneath it. You wore a long sleeve shirt with a knee-length dress over the top. Dean had decided to dress you and his brother in nun and priest outfits respectively.

“Just trust me,” Dean answered. He rapped his knuckles on the door of the Miller household where they were having Jim MIller’s wake.

Sam sighed. “This has gotta be a whole new low for us.”

“Yeah, but it’s the most put-together your hair’s ever looked,” you smirked, referencing the copious amounts of gel you’d combed through his hair.

Sam deadpanned at you just as the door open.

“Good afternoon. I'm Father Simmons, this is Father Stanley and Sister Frehley. We're new junior clergy over at St Augustine's. May we come in?” Dean introduced.

The man nodded.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Sam told the man who had let you inside.

“It's in difficult times like these when the Lord's guidance is most needed.”

You could hit Dean. He was really laying it on thick.

The man snapped, “Look, you wanna pitch your whole 'Lord has a plan' thing? Fine. Just don't pitch it to me. My brother's dead.”

“Roger. Please!” a blonde older woman scolded from behind him.

“Excuse me.” Roger left.

“I'm sorry about my brother-in-law. He's… he's just so upset about Jim's death. Would you like some coffee?” the woman, who you assumed was the former Mrs. Miller, asked.

“That would be great.”

Dean sat on the couch next to you and Sam took the armchair. Ms. Miller poured each of you a cup. “It was wonderful of you to stop by. The support of the church means so much right now.”

“Of course. After all, we are all god's children,” Dean smiled.

You shot him a look, waiting for the woman to walk away. “Tone it down, Father,” you whispered to him.

Ms. Miller returned before Dean could reply to you, and he instead spoke to her. “So Ms. Miller, did your husband have a history of depression?”

“Nothing like that.” Her voice began breaking. “We had our ups and downs like everyone, but we were happy. I just don't understand… how Jim could do something like this.”

“I'm so sorry you had to find him like that,” Sam told her.

Ms. Miller looked behind her at a boy leaning against the wall whose face was etched into a scowl. “Actually, our son Max, he was the one who found him.”

“Do you mind if maybe I go talk to him?” Sam asked.

Ms. Miller smiled. “Oh, thank you, Father.”

You looked around the living room as Sam walked away. “You have a lovely home. How long have you lived here?”

“We moved in about five years ago,” she answered.

“Some of these old houses bring all kinds of headaches,” you continued. “Weird leaks, electrical shortages, odd settling noises at night. That kind of thing.”

Ms. Miller shook her head. “We don’t have any of that. It’s been perfect.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Huh. May I use your restroom?”

“Oh sure, it's just up the stairs,” the woman responded.

Dean stood, taking a cocktail sausage on his way up the stairs.

“I apologize for Father Simmons. He’s… still learning,” you sighed once Dean was out of earshot.

Ms. Miller gave as much of a laugh as she could muster. “It’s okay. He’s got a good heart.”

You smiled at her. “Thank you for your time,” you said, and began discreetly heading up the stairs.

When you met Dean and Sam on the second floor, they shook their heads indicating they knew the question you were going to ask.

“Seriously?” you chewed the inside of your lip. “Nothing?”

“Zip,” Dean answered.

“Okay then. Back to square one.”

***

Sam left you and Dean alone in his motel room for a bit to do some research on the Miller home’s history. You helped him clean weapons he’d brought to his and Sam’s motel room.

You took the floor. You always did. You just liked to sit on the floor as opposed to the itchy quilts that normally adorned the motel beds. And it gave you more space to spread the weapons and cleaning supplies out. Without looking up at Dean as you continued to polish Dean’s handgun, you asked, “So, what’re your thoughts on your brother’s sixth sense?”

Dean blew out a huff of air. “I don’t have any thoughts.”

“Dean, don’t lie to me. Spill.”

He hesitated. “I just don’t know. I mean, I’m not psychic. My mom wasn’t. My dad isn’t. So where the hell would he have gotten it from?”

“I’m not sure,” you said earnestly, pursing your lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Does he scare you? I see the look on your face sometimes, especially over the past few days. I can’t exactly place what it means.”

“Honestly? I don’t know,” he sighed. “I mean, I’ve known this kid his whole life. And suddenly he— he’s predicting people’s deaths? Doesn’t it scare you?”

“Well, there’s the difference. It scares me that he’s going through this, but he doesn’t scare me. He’s still Sam,” you answered.

“Well, yeah. Obviously he’s still Sam. I just— I guess I’m less scared of him and more scared for him. I don’t know.” You could practically see the gears in his head turning.

You stared at him as he continued wiping down his weapons and cleaning the chambers of his guns. You decided the reason why your gut had churned over Cassie in Ohio was because you were used to being the only woman in his life. You loved how honest he was starting to get with you; especially because you didn’t even think he was that honest with himself.

“What?” His question broke your train of thought.

“Huh?”

He smirked. “You’re staring. See something you like?”

You scoffed. “You wish. I was thinking.”

“ ‘Bout what?”

“That’s confidential,” you remarked.

He gave you a look. “Mm-hmm.”

Sam came through the door at that moment.

“What do you have?” Dean asked his brother.

“A whole lotta nothing.” Sam sat on the bed next to your spot on the floor. “Nothing bad has happened in the Miller house since it was built.”

“Not even the land?” you questioned.

“No grave yards, battle fields, tribal lands or any other kind of atrocity on or near the property.”

“Hey, man, I told you,” the older brother said, “I searched that house up and down. No cold spots, sulfur scent. Nada.”

“And the family said everything was normal?”

“Yeah, nothing I asked rang any bells for Ms. Miller,” you replied.

“Well, even if there was a demon or poltergeist in there you think somebody would have noticed something?” Dean added. “I used the infer-red thermal scanner man, and there was nothing.”

“So what, you guys think Jim Miller killed himself and my dream was just some sorta freakish coincidence?”

“I don’t know. I'm pretty sure there's nothing supernatural about that house,” Dean answered.

Sam began rubbing his temples. “Yeah. Well, maybe it has nothing to do with the house.” He paused and took a deep breath, holding his head. You straightened up in confusion. “Maybe it's just— Gosh.” Sam was clearly in agony. “Maybe it's connected to Jim in some other way?”

“What’s going on?” you asked.

He started to groan and sink to the floor next to you. “My head.”

You put your hand on Sam’s shoulder to steady him while his brother crouched before him. “Hey! What's going on? Talk to me.” Dean was desperately trying to get his brother’s attention, but it seemed he was zoning further and further out. Sam’s head would have hit the floor if it weren’t for you and Dean holding onto him when he dropped.

“Sam?! Sammy?!” Dean began shaking his younger brother by either side of his face trying to get him to wake up.

You jumped up to go get him a cold towel for his head. While you were in the bathroom searching for a washcloth to dampen, Sam shot up. “It's happening again. Something's gonna kill Roger Miller.”

***

Sam made you and Dean leave pretty much immediately. Dean was trying to remain calm for his brother on the way to Roger Miller’s apartment, but it was clear to you he was beginning to freak out.

“If you're gonna hurl, I'll pull the car over. Y'know, cause the upholstery…” Dean sassed.

Sam’s jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Just drive, Dean.” Sam looked over to his brother, huffed out a breath, and looked back to the road. “I'm scared, man. These nightmares weren't bad enough, now I'm seeing things when I'm awake? And these, visions, or whatever, they're getting more intense. And painful.”

Dean briefly looked over to him. “Come on man, you'll be alright. It'll be fine.”

“What is it about the Millers? Why am I connected to them, why am I watching them die? Why the hell is this happening to me?”

“We’ll figure it out, Sam,” you assured him.

“We've faced the unexplainable every day,” the older brother added. “This is just another thing.”

The brunet shook his head. “No. It's never been us. It's never been in the family like this. Tell the truth, you can't tell me this doesn't freak you out.”

You looked at Dean expectantly.

“This doesn't freak me out.”

You leaned over the seat and hugged Sam around the shoulders, and you could feel some of the tension leave his body as you did so.

***

You and the boys were just a second too late. Roger wouldn’t let you into the apartment building, so you opted to sprint up the fire escape. In the midst of you running up the steps, you heard metal grating against metal and a wet squelching noise.

“Oh, fuck,” you muttered, urging yourself to go faster. You made it up the stairs just before the other two could and discovered Roger’s head lying below his apartment window in a flower box. Your stomach churned, but you knew you had to get out of there quickly.

“Start wiping down your fingerprints,” Dean told you and Sam, holding out his bandana to his brother, “we don't want the cops to know we were here. Come on, come on!”

You used your jacket sleeve to push up the window of the apartment that led to the fire escape. “Dean, I’m gonna take a look inside. You coming?”

He followed you in to quickly search the apartment before you hit the road once more. Just like at the Miller’s house, you saw nothing.

“I saw something, in the vision,” Sam explained once you’d gotten back to the car. “Like a dark shape. Something was— something was stalking Roger.”

“Whatever it was, are you sure it's not connected to their house?” Dean questioned.

“No, it's connected to the family themselves. So what do you think, like a vengeful spirit?”

“I mean, potentially,” you responded. “Some spirits ‘ll latch onto families, follow ‘em for years—”

“Angiak, Banshees,” Sam added.

“Basically like a curse. So maybe Roger and Jim Miller got involved in something heavy, something curse worthy.”

“And now the something is out for revenge,” Sam continued. “And the men in their family are dying.”

“Hey, you think Max is in Danger?” you asked.

“Let's figure it out before he is.” Dean drove faster.

“Well, I know one thing I have in common with these people,” the brunet continued.

“What's that?”

“Both our families are cursed.”

‘Oh, shit,’ you thought.

Dean huffed. “Our family's not cursed! We just… had our dark spots.”

Sam snorted. “Our dark spots are… pretty dark.”

Dean’s face scrunched uncomfortably. “You're.... dark.”

“I think you guys are just weird,” you laughed.

“You’re… weird.”

“Dean, I feel like I’m listening to your brain short-circuit in real time.”

“Shut up, (Y/N).”

***

You and the boys went back to the Millers’ house dressed in your priest and nun outfits. The shifty boy from the funeral that Sam had talked to opened the door.

“My mom's resting, she's pretty wrecked,” he explained. “All these people kept coming with like, casseroles? I finally had to tell them all to go away. You know cause nothing says I'm sorry like a tuna casserole.”

Sam smiled sadly, and Max smiled back. He gestured to the living room and all of you took a seat.

“How are you holding up?” you asked the boy.

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“Your dad and your uncle were close,” Sam added.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, they were brothers. They used to hang out all the time when I was little.” Max’s tone made him seem uncomfortable, and something about him had you uneasy, too.

“But not lately?”

“No, it's not that. It's just… we used to be neighbors when I was a kid,” Max explained. “We lived across town in this house. Uncle Roger lived next door, so he was over all the time.”

Sam nodded. “So how was it in that house when you were a kid?”

A look of surprise crossed Max’s face. “It was fine. Why?”

“All good memories?” Dean pressed further. “Do you remember anything unusual? Something involving your father and your uncle maybe?”

Max shook his head. “What do ya....why do you ask?”

Red flags were popping up in the back of your mind repeatedly. Your hands clenched your skirt tightly.

“Just a question,” Dean answered.

“No, there was nothing. We were totally normal. Happy.”

“Good. That's good. Well you must be exhausted. We should take off.” Something in Dean’s voice told you that he was sensing the same things you were.

***

Once you were back at the motel and changed, you went to the boys’ room.

“Guys, something is not right about the way Max was acting,” you said.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean responded. “I think we gotta go visit that house.”

***

And so, you did. The three of you headed to the edge of town to visit Max’s childhood home.

You found a man outside of his home tending his garden when you and the boys arrived at the Millers’ old home. “Have you lived in the neighborhood very long?” Dean asked.

The man responded, “Yeah, almost twenty years now. It's nice and quiet. Why, you looking to buy?”

You shook your head. “No, no, actually, we were wondering if you might recall a family that used to live right across the street I believe.”

“Yeah the Millers. They had a little boy called Max,” the older Winchester added.

“Yeah, I remember. The brother had the place next door. So, uh, what's this about, is that poor kid ok?” the man asked you.

You tilted your head in curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Well, in my life I've never seen a child treated like that. I mean I'd hear Mr. Miller yelling and throwing things clear across the street; he was a mean drunk. He used to beat the tar outta Max. Bruises. Broke his arm two times that I know of.”

Your heart clenched. You knew exactly what that was like.

“This was going on regularly?” Sam inquired.

“Practically every day,” the older man explained. “In fact, that thug brother of his was just as likely to take a swing at the boy. But the worst part was the stepmother. She'd just stand there, checked out, not lifting a finger to protect him. I must have called the police seven or eight times. Never did any good.”

“Now you, said step-mother.”

The older man looked off as if remembering. “I think his real mother died. Some sorta… accident. Car accident I think,” the man responded.

Sam raised a hand to his head and grimaced.

You turned your head to him. “You okay?”

Sam winced but nodded nonetheless.

“Thank you for your time,” you told the man you’d been talking to. You then began to help Dean toward the car. Once you’d gotten him settled inside, his head lolled back against the seat. While Dean drove, you leaned over the backseat to keep an eye on Sam.

When he woke back up, he said, “Max is doing it. Everything I've been seeing.”

“What? How do you know?” you questioned.

“I saw him,” the brunet replied.

“How's he pulling it off?” Dean jumped in.

‘I don't know, like telekinesis?”

‘What, so, he's psychic? A spoon bender?”

“I didn't even realize it but this whole time, he was there. He was outside the garage when his Dad died, he was in the apartment when his Uncle died. These visions, this whole time— I wasn't connecting to the Millers, I was connecting to Max! The thing is I don't get why, man. I guess— because we're so alike?” You could see Sam’s mind racing.

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed frustratedly. “What? He’s nothing like you, dude.”

“Well. We both have psychic abilities, we both…”

Dean gruffly cut his brother off. “Both what? Sam, Max is a monster, he's already killed two people, now he's gunning for a third.”

“Well, with what he went through, the beatings, to want revenge on those people? I'm sorry, man, I hate to say it, but it's not that insane.”

“Sam, that doesn’t justify murdering your entire family,” you responded. You knew that better than anybody.

“(Y/N)...”

Dean pulled over in front of the Millers’ current home. “He's no different from anything else we've hunted, all right? We gotta end him.”

“We're not going to kill Max,” Sam protested.

“Then what? Hand him over to the cops and say 'Lock him up officer; he kills with the power of his mind’?” You nearly laughed at Dean’s response despite the situation.

“No way. Forget it.”

Dean turned the engine off and faced his brother.

“Dean, He's a person. We can talk to him. Hey, promise me you'll follow my lead on this one,” Sam pleaded.

The older brother paused. “Alright, fine. But I'm not letting him hurt anybody else.” He removed his signature Taurus pistol from the glove compartment. You grabbed yours from under your seat and shoved it into your jeans.

You and the boys practically broke into the home.

Mrs. Miller and Max were standing in the kitchen. Both seemed upset. “Fathers?” Mrs. Miller asked. “Sister?”

Max gritted his teeth. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Dean said.

“Max, can we, uh, can we talk to you outside for just one second?” Sam asked.

The boy seemed suspicious. “About what?”

“It's— It's private. I wouldn't want to bother your mother with it,” answered the brunet. “We won't be long at all though, I promise.”

Max nodded and went to follow you out the front door. Before Dean could open the door, the doorknob pulled out of his hands.

“You're not priests!” Max yelled. Dean went to draw his pistol, but Max pulled it away with his powers and slid it across the floor to himself. He pointed the gun at you and the brothers, and you quickly drew yours.

“Max, what's happening?” Ms. Miller asked, voice shaking.

“Shut up,” the boy gritted through his teeth.

“What are you doing?”

“I said, shut up!” Max flung his step-mother across the room, and she hit her head on the kitchen counter. The blonde crumbled to the ground unconscious.

“Max, calm down,” Sam urged, trying to gesture to you to put your gun down.

“Who are you?” Max’s eyes pooled with angry tears.

“We just wanna talk.”

“Yeah, right, that’s why you brought these!” He indicated the gun he was holding as well as yours.

“That was a mistake all right? So was lying about who we were. But no more lying Max ok? Just please, just hear me out.”

“About what?” the teen’s voice calmed down only slightly.

“I saw you do it. I saw you kill your dad and your uncle before it happened,” Sam explained.

Max faltered.

“I'm having visions, Max. About you.”

The boy laughed coldly. “You’re crazy.”

“So what, you weren't gonna launch a knife at your stepmom?” Sam tapped his eye. “Right here? Is it that hard to believe, Max, look what you can do. Max, I was drawn here all right? I think I'm here to help you.”

Max began to cry harder. “No one can help me.”

“Let me try. We'll just talk, me and you. We'll get Dean, (Y/N), and Alice out of here,” Sam said.

“No way,” you and Dean said in unison.

The chandelier above you began to shake. “Nobody leaves this house!”

“Max, c’mon, dude, let Sam and I talk to you. We’ll send Dean and your stepmom upstairs, and I’ll put this away,” you said, referring to your gun.

“Look, Max. You're in charge here, alright, we all know that,” Sam told him. “No one's going to do anything that you don't want to do but we’re talking five minutes here man.”

“Five minutes?” Max looked over to Dean. “Go.”

Dean rushed to Ms. Miller and gently brought her upstairs. Dean took one last look at you and Sam before going upstairs.

“Look, I can't begin to understand what you went through—”

You cut Sam off. “I can.”

Max looked at you, surprised and angry. “How?”

“My parents did the same thing your dad and stepmom did to you,” you explained. “But I’m not gonna kill somebody over it. This has to stop, dude.”

“It will, after my stepmother—”

“Do you really think that’s gonna stop it?” you asked. “Really?”

He stared at you, and you felt you were beginning to get through to him.

“Does it feel different now that your dad and uncle are gone? Do you feel better?” you pressed further.

“No, but it will,” spat Max through his tears.

“I don’t think so, kid,” you replied. “It doesn’t feel different for me. My parents are dead and gone, and it still fucking hurts.”

“Yeah, but at least you don’t have to look at them every day.”

“Can I be honest with you though? I wish I could. No matter how many times my dad hit me, I still want his approval. I still want to see him again.”

Max shook his head. “Not me. I’m happy my dad’s gone. You haven’t been beaten in a while, huh?”

You replied, “No.”

“Try last week.” He lifted up his shirt to reveal a large bruise littering his ribcage. “My dad still hit me. Just in places people wouldn't see it. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said softly.

“When I first found out I could move things it was a gift. My whole life I was helpless but now I had this. So last week Dad gets drunk. The first time in a long time. And he beats me to hell, first time in a long time. And then, I knew what I had to do,” Max explained.

“Why didn't you just leave?” you asked.

“It wasn't about getting away. Just knowing they would still be out there. It was about… not being afraid. When my Dad used to look at me, there was hate in his eyes. Do you know what that feels like?” Max asked you and Sam.

“Yeah, I do,” you replied.

“He blamed me for everything. For his job, for his life, for my Mom's death,” Max continued.

Sam’s interest was piqued. “Why would he blame you for your Mom's death?”

Your breath caught in your throat when Max gave his explanation. “Because she died in my nursery, while I was asleep in my crib. As if that makes it my fault.”

“She died in your nursery?” Sam questioned.

“There was a fire. And he'd get drunk and babble on like she died in some insane way. He said that she burned up. Pinned to the ceiling!”

You discreetly looked to Sam.

“Listen to me, Max. What your dad said, about what happened to your Mom. It's real,” Sam told the boy. “It happened to my Mom too, exactly the same. My nursery, my crib, my dad saw her on the ceiling.”

Max laughed coldly. “Your dad must have been as drunk as mine.”

“No, no. It's the same thing, Max. The same thing killed our mothers.” You could tell Sam was excited by the missing puzzle piece being filled in. “This must be why I'm having visions during the day. Why they're getting more intense. 'Cause you and I must be connected in some way. Your abilities, they started six, seven months ago, right, out of the blue?”

“How'd you know that?” Max tried to remain calm, but you could tell he was intrigued.

“Cause that's when my abilities started, Max,” Sam went on. “Yours seem to me much further along but still, this has to mean something right? I mean for some reason, you and I… you and I were chosen.”

Max’s tears subsided. “For what?”

The younger Winchester sighed, “I don't know. But (Y/N), my brother, and I; we're hunting for your Mom's killer. We can find answers, answers that can help us both. But you gotta let us go, Max. You gotta let your stepmother go.”

The boy thought for a moment. “No. What they did to me? I still have nightmares. I'm so scared all the time, like I'm just waiting for that next beating. I'm so sick of being scared all the time, I just want this to be over!”

“Max, it won’t. Don’t you get it?” You were incredulous. Had he not been listening at all? “The nightmares won’t end, dude. They still wake me up screaming. Killing your stepmom isn’t gonna fix anything. I know, dude. Trust me on this one. Please.”

“I’m sorry.” The tears returned to his eyes and a twisted smile crossed his features before you were flying through the air and into the closet. The doors slammed shut on you, and you saw a heavy piece of furniture covering the place where the two doors met.

You and Sam began banging on the doors. “Max, no! Goddamn you!”

To make matters worse, Sam started holding his head and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. When he came back-to, he shouted, “No, NO!” And the heavy furniture moved from holding back the closet doors.

You and Sam froze, staring at each other for a moment before pushing the doors open and sprinting up the stairs. You busted through the door to the bedroom you could hear Dean’s voice coming from.

“No, don't! Don't! Please. Please,” Sam begged him. You noticed the gun trained on Dean who stood in front of Ms. Miller. “Max. Max. We can help you. Alright.”

“Kid, I know it fucking sucks,” you continued. “But this, what you're doing, it's not the solution. It's not gonna fix anything.”

Max was suddenly a mess. His shaking hands and sweating forehead became more apparent to you as his face contorted in agony. Suddenly, he relaxed. “You're right.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, but way too soon. The gun swung around to point at Max and he shot himself squarely between the eyes.

“No!” Sam cried, and you covered your mouth with your hand.

Ms. Miller began to cry looking at her stepson collapsed on the floor. You looked up at Dean and held his gaze before crossing the room to hug him. You felt his body relax for a moment before you pulled away from him. You moved to Ms. Miller.

“I’m so sorry,” you told her. You opened your arms to her and she collapsed into you. You held her while Sam and Dean called the police and paramedics.

You helped Ms. Miller down the stairs to her couch to answer questions for the police, and sat by holding her hand the whole way through. The woman seemed unable to focus her vision as she spoke. “Max attacked me. He threatened me with a gun.”

“And these three?” The officer gestured to you, Sam, and Dean with the end of his pen.

“They're… family friends. I called them as soon as Max arrived, I was scared. They tried to stop him. They fought for the gun.” She looked over at the boys and squeezed your hand.

“Where did Max get the gun?”

Ms. Miller began to cry and looked up at the ceiling. “I don't know. He showed up with it and—” The poor woman began to break down.

“It’s okay, Alice,” you told her, bringing her back into a hug.

“I've lost everyone,” she sobbed into your shoulder, and you smoothed a hand over the back of her hair.

The cop addressed you next. “We'll give you a call if we have any further questions.”

You nodded. You looked to the boys. Sam’s face was set in his puppy-dog stare, and Dean had a look on his face you couldn’t quite read. Dean jerked his head to gesture toward the car before leading Sam out of the home.

You gave Ms. Miller one final hug, and told her to call you if she needed anything. As her tears subsided, she thanked you. You left her alone in her house, and your heart broke for her. As broken as her family had been, she was truly all alone now. That wrecked you completely.

“If I'd just said something else; gotten through to him somehow…” you trailed off once you’d made your way to the car.

“Don’t do that,” Dean told you.

“Do what?”

“Torture yourself. It wouldn't have mattered what you said, Max was too far gone.” You didn’t find comfort in that at all.

“When I think about how he looked at us, man, right before. I shoulda done something,” Sam added.

“Come on, man, you risked your life. I mean, yeah, maybe if we had gotten there twenty years earlier,” Dean sassed.

The three of you moved to your respective sides of the Impala.

“Well, I'll tell you one thing. We're lucky we had Dad,” Sam said.

Dean was astounded. “Well, I never thought I'd hear you say that.”

The younger brother laughed. “It could’ve gone a whole other way after Mom. A little more tequila and a little less demon hunting and we would've had Max's childhood. All things considered, we turned out ok. Thanks to him.”

Dean looked back to the Miller’s house. “All things considered.”

You leaned against the car’s door and curled up on your seat. Your mind raced from the scene you’d just left. Ms. Miller reminded you so much of your mom. And now, she was alone. Then there was Max. If only you could’ve said something else. And your brother. You thought of him, too. Maybe he realized that even though your parents were dead, the memories didn’t go away. Maybe that was the reason he took his own life, not the fact that you’d killed your parents. Maybe if you would have spoken to him differently, he would still be here. You wouldn’t be all alone, just like Ms. Miller. Maybe if you’d—

“(Y/N), I’m sorry about your dad,” Sam broke you out of your thoughts.

You shook your head. “It’s fine.” You didn’t mean to come off rudely, but you knew your tone had been cold. You could see Dean looking at you in the rearview mirror out of the corner of your eye. You chose to ignore him, and kept looking out the window.

You and the boys arrived back at the motel soon after. Night had fallen, and the three of you decided you needed some sleep before hitting the road. Once you’d showered and changed into your pajamas which consisted of an oversized band t-shirt and underwear, you heard a knock on the door.

You opened it to reveal Dean, and surprise overtook you. “What’s up?”

Dean raked his eyes over your body briefly and realized you’d forgotten to put pants on. “Uh, nothing, I just— uh.”

You quirked a brow at him. “You just?”

“Sam told me what you told Max. Thought maybe you’d wanna talk about it.”

“Aw, Dean, how sweet. Are we gonna hug?” you threw a line at him he’d used on you and Sam multiple times.

He rolled his eyes and scratched the back of his neck. “Nevermind,” he muttered and began to walk away.

“Wait,” you said. He turned back to you and you let him into your motel room. You and Dean sat on the floor and leaned against your bed.

“So…” you began.

“So…” he echoed.

“What do you wanna know?” you opted for asking, not sure how to begin this conversation.

“What happened to you?”

You sighed. “My dad was just… way too hard on me. And Bubba, too. He just… if we weren’t doing something right, he’d give ‘physical punishments’ to help us correct our form. He said it was because he wanted to keep us safe. Like, when I was learning to shoot and I would miss, he’d hit my hands with the butt of whatever gun I was shooting with. Hard. He said I’d remember the feeling and it’d fix my aim. And I hate to say it, but he was right. I rarely miss a shot.” You paused, thinking of another example. “When he’d go to hit Stevie, though, I always got in the way. Which he’d then hit me for another reason. He said it was because he needed to teach my brother a lesson and I shouldn’t get in the way of the natural consequence. My brother was always bigger and stronger than me even though he was two years younger. He made us spar all the time. And if he saw either of us holding back, my dad would spar us. And he didn’t hold back at all.” You drew in a shaky breath. “I was always the smallest in the family. He made sure I stayed super thin when I was little so I could always squeeze into tight spaces. I’m pretty sure that had he not, I’d be a lot taller than I am. Maybe could pack on some more muscle, too.”

Dean just stared at you, unsure of what to say.

“And you wanna know the worst part?”

He nodded.

“I don’t even hate him for it. I wish I could. But he’s my dad, y’know? The good times were always really good. I know he cared about me and Bubba. I just… he didn’t know how to show it, is all.”

“(Y/N), I don’t know a damn thing about love, but that sure as hell ain’t it,” Dean responded.

“I don’t know, Dean, I really haven’t seen much better examples anywhere else in my life,” you laughed uncomfortably. “I mean, hunting isn’t exactly a profession you can have relationships in. And hookups just aren’t for me; they make me feel like garbage.”

“I get it,” he answered.

“No, way, dude. You’re king of hookup kingdom,” you sassed.

“I’m serious! I wasn’t always. I’ve always… loved girls, y’know, but I didn’t always know what to do with ‘em. And some of ‘em you can just tell are using you. Even if I’m doing the same thing to them, it doesn’t feel great.”

Your gaze softened. “Then why do you keep doing it to yourself?”

“It’s a great way to blow off some steam. Besides, it’s so fun, why the hell would I stop?”

“Good point,” you shrugged.

The two of you sat in silence for a minute.

“How the hell did we go from talking about my dad hitting me to your sex life?”

He laughed. “I have no idea. But, uh, I’m sorry all that happened to you.”

“Meh, I’ll get over it. Eventually,” you shrugged.

“I know you didn’t tell me the worst parts, though,” he said.

“How?”

“You get this look on your face when you’re talkin’ about something that really upsets you. Like your parents’ death. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen you hurt that bad,” Dean explained. “Anyway, if you ever do wanna talk about it...”

“I know,” you smiled softly. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

You and Dean talked for hours on the floor of your room. His shoes were abandoned somewhere, his button-up had been abandoned, and you were several rounds of Texas Hold-Em deep. You played with bullets instead of poker chips; it was all you had on hand.

You laughed at some stupid joke Dean had made as you called. A ten of hearts, seven of clubs, and nine of clubs laid before you and Dean on the ground.

He hummed. “Raise.”

You flipped up the top card. Ace of spades. ‘Fuck.’ But you wouldn’t let Dean win.

“Bet.”

“Raise.”

You flipped up the last card. Six of hearts. You fought the smile trying to work its way onto your face. “Bet.”

Dean eyed you, and you eyed him right back. You stared at each other intensely until he finally said, “Fold.”

“Yes!” You said triumphantly, falling back to the floor.

“Yeah, whatever, we’re not even playing for real money.”

“You’re just butthurt you got beat, Winchester,” you retorted. “Don’t be a baby.”

He made a face at you. “I’m not.”

“You are totally pouting right now, dude, just admit it.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Fine,” Dean conceded. “It’s just ‘cause I’m tired; that’s the only reason you beat me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure. Then let’s go to a casino together sometime. We could definitely use the cash. And you’re not half-bad.”

He smirked at you. “You’re on.”

You walked him to the door after having decided he needed to go to sleep since he was driving.

“Goodnight, Dee.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You ignored the way his nickname was beginning to make your heart flip.

***

You and Dean had apparently not decided to go to bed early enough, and you both yawned as you packed up the car.

“Dean, I've been thinking,” Sam told his brother.

“Well that's never a good thing,” he yawned in response.

“I'm serious. I been thinking, this demon, whatever it is. Why would it kill Mom, and Jessica, and Max's mother, you know? What does it want?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, you think, maybe, it was after us? After Max and me?”

“Why would you think that?”

“I mean, either telekinesis or premonitions, we both had abilities, you know? Maybe he was, he was after us for some reason.”

Dean slammed the trunk shut. “Sam. If it had wanted you, it would've just taken you. Okay? This is not your fault, it's not about you.” He headed back into the motel room, and you and Sam followed him.

“Then what is it about?”

“It's about that damn thing that did this to our family. The thing that we're gonna find, the thing that we're gonna kill. And that's all.”

“Actually there's uh... there's something else too.”

Dean turned back around. “Ah, jeez. What?”

“When Max left me and her in that closet, with that big cabinet against the door... I moved it.”

“Huh. You got a little more upper body strength than I gave you credit for,” Dean remarked.

“No man, I moved it. Like, Max.”

“He’s not lying,” you affirmed.

Dean paused for a few moments. “Right.” He picked up a spoon from the nightstand. “Bend this.”

Sam deadpanned, “I can’t just turn it on and off, Dean.”

“Well, how'd you do it?”

“I don't know, I can't control it. I just— I saw you die and it just came out of me, like a, like a punch. You know like… a freak adrenaline thing.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure it won’t happen again,” Dean replied.

“Yeah, maybe. Aren't you worried, man? Aren't you worried I could turn into Max or something?” Sam was unconvinced.

The older brother shook his head. “Nope. No way. You know why? ‘Cause you got one advantage Max didn't have. Two, actually.”

“Dad? Because Dad's not here, Dean.”

“No. Me.” He smirked. “And her. As long as we’re around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you.”

Sam smiled a little and his puppy dog eyes returned.

Dean slung his bag over his shoulder and began pushing you and Sam out the door. “Now then. I know what we need to do about your premonitions. I know where we have to go.”

“Where?”

“Vegas.”

Sam rolled his eyes and walked out the door to the car.

“What? Come on man. Craps tables. We'd clean up!” Dean tried.

You laughed. “Dean could use your help with Texas Hold ‘Em, too.”

“Can it, (Y/N).”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @davina-clairee @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @stephshaww @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @here-for-the-extravaganza @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @rei0812 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural series rewrite #spn series rewrite

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deancaspinefest · 9 months ago

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Books, Pies, and Roommates

Author: seidenapfel | Artist: Kit Shay

Posting on Sunday March 17

Everything seemed so easy when Castiel landed a job in Lawrence as a literature professor at Kansas University. He even found a place to stay with his cousin in Topeka, less than thirty miles away. But the daily commute quickly gets on his nerves and he begins looking for a little room in town. When he finally lucks out on a house, it comes with a catch. His mysterious landlord/housemate works and lives in Topeka during the week, and will only be in Lawrence for the weekend while Castiel is back at his cousin’s to honor a promise he made. When Dean walks into his favorite pie shop, the new sales assistant takes his breath away. Steve is gorgeous, and part of the owner’s family. Dean doesn’t even mind that Steve picks up Gabriel’s stupid moniker for him. After all, Deano has one syllable more, and Dean will do anything to hear Steve’s voice just a little bit longer. Though, as breathtaking Steve might be, he isn't Angel. If only Dean's book-loving best friend for over a decade weren't a mystery in himself — a guy who Dean has only met online, but who has slowly taken his heart away. And it seems that Dean isn't alone in his feelings. When the lines blur and fantasies merge three guys into one, disappointment and heartbreak seem to be inevitable.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

“Dude! You did what?”

“I found you a new roommate,” Sam explained and Dean knew his brother was rolling his eyes. “As you asked me to.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Dean muttered. “And well, I did, but duh? Did you take the first one that came along?

The silence at the other end of the line was enough of an answer.

“Seriously? The first one? You pick the first Tom, Dick, and Harry that walks into my home?” Dean couldn’t believe it. “You didn’t even—”

“His name is Castiel. And he’s nice,” Sam cut in, defending himself.

Nice?

Before Dean could interrupt him, Sam continued, “So, get this, Castiel is actually in the same predicament as you are. He lives in Topeka, but teaches at KU and he’s already fed up with his daily commute to campus.”

“Castiel? What a mouthful of a name is that?” Dean grumbled.

“As far as I know it’s the name of an angel,” his brother answered calmly, taking none of Dean’s shit.

“Angel?” Dean huffed while another Angel came to his mind. Shaking his head to clear the thought away, he went on, “You telling me the guy is some religious weirdo?”

Sam laughed and Dean could literally hear another eye roll. “Don’t worry. I don’t think that should be a problem. Quite the contrary. He seemed very interested in our library. Or, more precisely, /your/ part of the library.”

Dean huffed. “That’s most of it anyway, dude.”

Groaning, Sam ignored him and went on. “I don’t think he realized how obvious he was when he skimmed through the titles of your collection of gay pulp.”

“Hey, it ain’t gay pulp, not all of it,” Dean protested.

“Pulp, romance, literature — whatever. You can’t deny it’s kinda gay.”

Dean laughed before teasing, “Just kinda?” Even though his brother couldn’t see him, he wiggled his brows.

“How would I know? I haven’t even touched half of it,” Sam backpedaled and Dean laughed even louder. “Somehow I need to keep my sanity,” his brother shot back. Then it hit Dean. “Wait, you showed this guy, this—”

“Castiel,” Sam offered helpfully.

“Whatever,” Dean snapped. “You showed him the library?”

“Dean, he lives there now. Of course, I showed him around. Besides, how do you think I should have hidden the shelves in the living room? You’re not very subtle with your interests.”

Subtle? Dammit, it was his home, for fuck’s sake. “Still, the library? And you let him stay? Alone at home?”

“Yes, because that’s what happens when you rent your house, dude.” Dean could see his brother’s bitchface in his mind. “Do I need to remind you that you were the one who asked me to take care of the viewings?”

“Goddammit, Sammy,” Dean grouched. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath before giving in, “Yeah. Sorry. I did. But that didn’t mean that you decide who lives with me.”

“I don’t know. He just seemed… perfect.”

(continue reading on Ao3 on Sunday March 17)

#destiel #deancas #destiel fic #deancas fic #destiel art #deancas art #pinefest 2024 #pinefest previews #2024 Dean/Cas Pinefest #author: seidenapfel #artist: Kit Shay #Two Person Love Triangle #Roommates #Idiots in Love

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zer0expektation · 2 months ago

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" “Where are we?” Cas asks, brows furrowing further, “When are we?”

Dean continues contorting his young and smooth face, “Wait, you don’t think we were actually sent back in time, do you?” Cas makes a good impression of Sam’s bitchface through the mirror, “Hey, maybe we were just magically put into our hotter younger selves.”

“Dean.”

Dean pulls himself away from the mirror and sighs, “Okay, if we are in the past then let's damn hope we’re in no-time important.” "

Cas and Dean get sent back in time to the day Dean took Sam out of Stanford by a Rit Ziem (Angel). Dean is determined to make everything right.

Chapter 1: I don't remember that being there. At least, not yet.

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hexedwinchester · 2 months ago

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Supernatural S03E12 Jus in Bello

I don't like Bela. She is selfish and untrustworthy. Really, really don't care what shaped her into this horrible person but she never evolves

Do you think if Sam ever wonders that he could have been a successful lawyer but here he is in chains, treated like a dangerous fugitive and probably heading to supermax?

Henrikson: I shot the sheriff

Dean: but you didn't shoot the deputy *Sam's bitch face surfacing in the back* 🤣🤣🤣

Ahh the antipossession tattoos!

i had an interesting thought. So Ruby randomly shows up to offer help claiming she fought off demons on her way in. Now, I feel the demons outside were her army. So, she comes in, makes up a spell that involves killing a virgin by cutting her heart out. Dean of course goes ballistics but Sam almost agrees because one against thirty. This is also the first time we see Sam picking Ruby over Dean. Somehow Dean manages to talk Sam out of considering Ruby's plan but when she finds out, the way she talks to Sam is odd. She tells him she's disappointed and she says it like a parent would to their children. Also when she leaves, the demons just let her. I mean didn't she say she fought her way in? All part of her plan to be honest

why are the demons indulging in hand-to-hand combat instead of throwing everyone around and pinning them to the wall?

They made Sam record the exorcism, probably because he can recite it better 🤣🤣🤣🤣

i love how Ruby is already Manipulating Sam using the exact things she knows will get her through him. She guilts him and Dean that their plan got people killed and it's better if they listen to her next time!

Confession: initially I used to be pissed at Henrikson but I've come to realise, he was just doing his job and he still had a wayyyy better character development than Dean ever got

Going for limited gifs with this because Tumblr keeps showing JiB con instead. But hey at least I got Sam's bitchface!! 🤣

#sam winchester #dean winchester #Ruby 1.0 #Sam girl #supernatural #spn #S03E12 #Jus in bello

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lost-between-letters · 2 years ago

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Breaking Point

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Reader (she/her)

Requested by: @maddiebwrites

Word Count: 1,668

Warnings: blood and gore, violence, ANGST, death, spoilers for season 11 because mentioned characters

Summary: Hunting ghosts was nothing new for the three of them. Still, Dean had a horrible feeling about this one that he couldn't shake ... he should have listened to his gut

A/N: me delivering a request half a year too late? Sounds about right. This is one of the angstiest pieces I have written so far so be warned

It was supposed to be a harmless little ritual.

Sure, Y/N was the one to start it - a random salt and burn where she had reached for his hand the very second before they entered the kill zone. Her fingers had weaved between Dean's easily and held onto him for the duration of the hunt. He was pretty sure that only her grip on him had ensured that they got out of there alive.

So, since then, it was Dean's lucky charm. Whenever a hunt was made out to be risky (for their standards), he took the time to squeeze Y/N's fingers until she was laughing and demanding him to stop. Made him feel calmer. Grounded. Sam would say he was reassuring himself of her presence by reaching out to touch - and Dean thought it was exactly that. Not that he would ever say that out loud.

But this hunt was easy right from the beginning. They knew what attacked the vics, the M.O. was more than accurately pointing to a bunch of restless spirits that the men of letters had encountered before, and most importantly, Y/N and Sam were right by his side.

Still, Dean couldn't shake the queasy feeling that had settled deep in his stomach the moment they had gotten out of the car. He hated it with a burning passion. His damn gut was always right, and today, it was telling him to pack Y/N and Sam up and get the hell away from this crap house.

Obviously, that wasn't an option - people were in danger, and Dean would sooner make amends with Zachariah than let innocents die because he got a tummy ache. At least he could hack into some spirits. To take the tension out of his brain or whatever.

"Dean?" Y/N glanced back, rifle slung over her shoulder, "you okay?"

He didn't even have to fake the smile that hard. His girl with a gun she could use with her eyes closed. Jesus, that shouldn't be as hot as it was. "Just peachy, Sweetheart."

She chuckled. Then, she took a closer look at his face and paused. Thought for a moment. Reached behind herself without looking. "Just take my hand. You know you want to, I know you want to, and Sam is checking out the building. Your masculinity is safe with me."

"You know how to sweet talk a man, baby." Dean aimed for sarcasm, but her hand was a solid weight in his palm, and she was looking at him with those eyes, and yeah, maybe he should shut up now.

"A kiss for good luck, too?" He asked innocently (as if her presence wasn't the best good luck charm he could ever get).

Surprised laughter spilt through her composure, and Y/N leaned closer.

"That can be arranged."

Unfortunately, it was nothing more but a short peck as Sam rounded the last corner.

"They're in the back," he informed them, breath coming shorter than usual. And then - "One's been following me."

So yeah, it got pretty hectic from there. Dean lost Y/N's hand when she aimed and shot a round of rocksalt into the spirit threatening to take Sam's heart. In the literal sense. Yikes.

With the first one fended off, the rest was quick to follow. They had to burn the bodies asap.

"You got a look on the graves?" Dean shouted in the general vicinity of his brother.

Bitchface nr. 53 hit him. "Behind the building!"

"Y/N!"

"Right here." Her shotgun dissolved the ghost that apparently had been about to jump his back.

Huh, still a turn-on when his girl was being badass. But Dean had more important things to focus on. "You gonna help me dig up some corpses?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she replied with a savage grin and grabbed for his hand again.

With only one arm each to defend themselves, they made their way to the backyard.

Dean could already see the graves when he felt Y/N's hand being torn out of his grip.

He swerved just fast enough to shoot the ghost of an english gentleman in the stomach that had been twisting Y/N's arms to the breaking point.

She fell forward with a gasp and Dean caught her just before the ground received a round of kisses.

"'ve got some bodies to burn," Y/N said through her teeth as she pulled herself back upwards.

"Let's get to digging then."

It was no use distinguishing the graves - there were maybe seven of them and six ghosts swarming them, so Dean went straight for the first one. No matter which bones they burned, it'd be the right ones.

For now, they were alone, so they went to work in grim silence - thankfully, an old shed supplied them with rusty shovels. Soon, they both were drenched in sweat.

They collected the bones in a messy pile. If they wanted to haunt them together, they should burn together.

Dean stood in the last grave as Y/N pulled the lighter fluid out of her jacket.

"Let's burn some ghosts, baby," she said with a wink and flipped the zippo open.

Dean watched the bones turn up in flames from his lower viewpoint - they illuminated a wild grin on Y/N's face while the fire was crackling and distant screeches tore through the night.

Only that one was closer than the rest.

It was all the warning Dean got before Y/N disappeared from his line of vision, a smoldering cloud in her place.

She screamed like he had never heard her scream before.

Dean was out of the grave in seconds, gun in his hand, and aimed at the grey smoke. But he couldn't shoot anything, Y/N was right in the center of whatever this ghost was becoming.

And made noises Dean never wanted to hear again. That was the worst part of it all - he couldn’t see a thing beside the burning remains and the smoking creature that was wrapped around his girl.

With the next scream of pain, he grabbed the nearest iron, and stabbed it into the burning ghost.

It disappeared with a hiss and destruction in its path.

"Y/N?" Dean whispered and fell to his knees next to her crumpled form. Her clothes were burnt, there were ashes all over her skin, and blood ran down her neck. It coated her shirt.

There was so much blood that Dean was afraid to even touch her.

She couldn't -

"Dean?" Her voice was scratchy and nothing more than an exhale, but he heard her.

That was all that it took. She was alive. Breathing and talking to him. He couldn't see where she was hurt, but it couldn't be that bad if she was still talking. Even if her shirt was wet with her blood. They could fix it.

Dean all but crumpled over her, his hands reaching to cup her face. "I got you, sweetheart. We're gonna get you out of here and we're gonna get Cas to heal you up and-"

"Baby." Cold hands wrapped around his heart in time with her hand covering his own. It shook from the exertion of raising it, her facr paling under all the blood.

He refused to listen to his gut once more tonight. "No. You're gonna be fine. We're gonna get you out of this goddamn graveyard and you're gonna get a nice warm blanket-"

"You're the strongest person I ever met, do you know that?" Y/N grimaced but reached up to put her hand on his heart. "And I don't mean the physical part alone. You're kind and caring despite everything that happened to you, you never think of yourself first - you're the best man this world has to offer. And I'm so grateful that I could call you mine."

"Stop." He didn't recognise the voice that came from his lips.

But Y/N did, and she didn't listen. There were tears running down her face, washing off the blood, and she would be looking just fine if it weren't for the pale skin that it revealed.

"I love you so much." Her voice broke, and she hissed in pain. But she kept going. "Nd I'm going to give Chuck hell until you come and join me."

"Please-"

Dean knew that he was begging on a lost cause. Perhaps he had known from the moment that he heard her scream. That didn't mean that he had to take it lying down. He wouldn't lose her, not to a ghost - not to anything.

So he started praying to every angel he knew, commanding them, bargaining with them, flat out begging them to heal her.

No one came.

And Y/N kept talking.

"Don't let this break you. The world needs you, Dean - I need you to stay alive and yourself. Please don't let me break you." The words had dwindled down to nothing more than soft breaths she squeezed out between flashes of pain.

"Sweetheart, I-"

Her grip on his hand relaxed, and the hand on his heart fell down. On her own unmoving chest.

Y/N wasn't breathing anymore.

Dean gripped her hand, pressed it against his chest again. Praying that something else was happening. Anything else than reality. "Please, Y/N, don't do this. We can fix this, sweetheart, c'mon, show me your eyes."

Water dripped down on her unmoving cheeks - Dean was crying.

"Look at me, baby. Please"

It was no use. Y/N didn't start breathing again. Her blood didn't stop seeping into his jeans where he was kneeling, and she didn't open her eyes.

Don't let me break you.

What she hadn't known was, that he had always been broken - way before they met. Dean was nothing but a pile of sharp edges of broken hopes and jagged pieces of lost dreams. And with her last breath, Y/N had ripped the bandages off that held them in place.

The world would pay for what it did to her.

Dean would make sure of it.

General Taglist: @immrbrightsideee, @fandomfoodiedancer, @lovesfandoms, @nyotamalfoy, @stixnstripesworld , @foxyjwls007 , @amythedoctor , @alexxavicry

Dean Taglist: @tiggytaylor, @akshi8278, @mrsjenniferwinchester , @mrspeacem1nusone, @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes , @AlohaStitch0626, @jayheartswritting, @cinderellacauseshebroke , @xoxokiaraaxoxo @theslawster @thecubanator2

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angelsdean · 2 years ago

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okay so this is not to be petty or anything because these are things I'm genuinely interested in tracking throughout my rewatch so i've been thinking about this ask i got earlier today which said that one of the reasons people think early seasons Dean is misogynistic is because "tried to fuck anyone with boobs and the minute a woman did something he didn’t like he turned around and called them a bitch."

Now, like I said in that ask, I don't remember many moments of him ever aggressively trying to sleep with anyone. He flirts casually, he openly checks out women, sure. Often in an over the top, exaggerated way, which as I've also said, in my personal reading and interpretation I view a lot of that as him overcompensating. But anyways, I was hung up on the "he turned around and called them a bitch" part of the ask.

@swordofsun reblogged the ask and mentioned that in their rewatch so far (up to 1x13) the only time Dean's used the word "bitch" toward a woman is in the pilot toward Constance, the woman in white. I decided to look further, even though I'm only on 1x08 in my rewatch right now. Using this tool which searches all the episode transcripts for specific keywords I looked up the word "bitch." This is just every time the word is used, including in descriptions within the transcript. So descriptions of Sam's "bitchface" are also included in these results lol.

Here are the results of the search:

(i suggest clicking the image or opening it in a new tap if you're on desktop to see better)

So, I'm only focusing on s1 right now but I used those episode numbers to look up each individual transcript and do a ctrl-F search of "bitch." Then I made a spreadsheet lol.

The first column lists the episode number. The next column asks: Does Dean say "bitch" other than “Jerk / Bitch” or “son of a bitch.” Following that is a column for examples if yes. And then the final column asks: Is this example toward a woman? Here are the results for s1:

(again open to see better)

Dean says the word "bitch" in contexts other than "Jerk/Bitch" or "son of a bitch" a total of six times out of fifteen episodes in which the word "bitch" shows up in the transcripts. Of those six times, only 3 times is the word directed toward a woman. Once toward Constance, the woman in white. And twice toward Meg. Not once does he use the word toward a woman he's flirting with. Granted, this is only s1 and I'm not saying he never calls a woman a bitch but it's interesting that many have a perception of early seasons Dean being a "ladies man" that is derogatory towards women. But as these numbers show, at least in s1 with the instance of the word "bitch", he does not direct that word toward anyone he's flirting with or interested in, only toward the "villain" or "monster of the week."

TLDR: Despite claims that Dean calls women "bitches" when they reject his advances, at least looking at season 1, Dean only uses the word "bitch" outside of "Jerk/Bitch" or "son of a bitch" contexts only six times, and of those six times only 3 of them are directed toward women, once toward Constance the woman in white, and twice toward Meg.

Anyways! I'm going to continue keeping track of this and digging through the transcripts because it's interesting to me. And I'll keep looking out for instances of Dean actually flirting with people and if he's actually trying to sleep with anyone or just casually flirting as I continue my actual rewatch.

#sorry i am treating this rewatch like a university course as i've said dhfdjk #long post #vics spn rewatch #dean studies #vic.txt #spn data #mymeta

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rqgnarok · 1 year ago

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catalogue - sam wilson

fandom: marvel, the falcon & the winter soldier

wc: 4,368

warnings: implied smut, mentions of injuries and scars, blood and bruises. neutral pronouns, no use of (y/n).

summary: you and sam don’t get to see each other often, but when you do, there’s a ritual you insist on going through to deal with your time apart.

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

You’re a sight for Sam’s sore eyes.

He hasn’t seen you in over six months. It’s an occupational hazard, he knows, but it’s the worst. Being the Falcon made his personal life take a step back in his list of priorities, and becoming Captain America meant setting the list on fire and declaring Sam Wilson’s downtime practically nonexistent. As far as he’s aware, Sarah and the boys are the only exceptions to the rule.

It’s not all on him. You’re an Avenger, too, even if you’re semi-retired. Semi, because the new kids still look for guidance as much as they can and you still keep a room at the Avengers compound because of it, even if scarcely decorated.

You make your entrance by scaring the shit out of him because of course, you have to.

“Is this what you call watching your six?”

Sam puffs out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. It’s always an interesting mix of emotions with you, Sam has never felt so safe and yet unbalanced than when he’s in your presence. It creates a sort of vacuum in his belly that has him feeling like a kid with a crush, but he’ll die before he ever admits that to anyone. Especially you.

“You know you don’t have to sneak up on me every time.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, raising your brows and extending a hand that Sam takes to haul himself back on his feet. You click your tongue. “Gotta say, though, it’s a little less charming now that you’re Captain America. Where does that leave national security?”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard he’s about to give himself a headache, dusting off his ass and giving you a quick once-over, taking advantage of your sudden closeness to do so freely. “Thank Jesus the world still has you, then.”

“Only half time,” you shrug, unaware that Sam knows you’ve spent more time at the Avengers compound than your own apartment lately. If he has a few eyes that check up on you when you’re there, well. It’s only cause he worries. “You and Barnes playing in the Big Leagues leaves a lot of unfinished business for little guys like us.”

“Says the little guy who’s been to space,” Sam uses the same argument he always does when you try to downplay your importance in the job you do. It’s like a script, these meetings of yours, always under the excuse of responsibility until it’s not– until the conversation flows into what Sam has been aching for since the last time he saw you.

You roll your eyes like he knew you would. You’ve been an Avenger since before they had the name for it, so if anyone deserves the semi-retirement, Sam concedes, it’s gotta be you. He won’t pretend it won’t be a big hit when you choose to walk away completely, though. Whether that’s to the business or Sam’s life, well. That’s another conversation.

He misses you. It’s hardly a crime.

“And they’ve still got us doing intel like we’re rookies,” you shrug, lessening your significance anyway. As if you weren’t up there in the cosmos chasing after freaking Thanos, but Sam won’t argue with you about this. You already spend so little time together to waste it building conflicts between you.

“Please,” Sam’s a professional, so he doesn’t make a bitchface and say girl with disbelief coating his tone, but judging from the amusement that glints in your eyes, you read through the lines with ease. “Like we’d let the children anywhere near this.”

“Okay, Dad,” you snort. “How are Torres and Barnes anyway?”

“The kid and his grandpa are fine,” he goes for annoyed but his grin is boyish and unrestrained. “Jealous they weren’t authorized to drop by. This is practically a vacation, you know.”

You shake your head, but all in good fun. “If your bosses have you thinking that then you desperately need some real downtime.”

“This is as close as it gets, these days.”

Torres had flown him all the way to Switzerland just so Sam could go and spend a few weeks in a rustic, semi-abandoned town on the outskirts of the city where an old SHIELD safehouse still stood against all odds.

Why he had to go to the other side of the world for some intel, he asked and got no answer. Now it comes to mind how he has no idea where you– his contact– have been stationed lately nor what kind of work you’ve been pulling for whoever it is you answer to these days.

You don’t tell him about it, and he’s quit on trying to ask. Whether it’s because you don’t think he’ll approve of what you’re doing or because it’s strictly classified, Sam doesn’t know.

“Blink twice if they’re holding you hostage,” you say in all seriousness, and he peels his eyes at you without blinking, getting close to your face. You laugh, pushing him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re one with the nation. Let me show you these files and see what Mr. America makes of ‘em.”

The physical files you actually bring with you are minimal, and most of the data you’ve been ordered to skim through is kept in a USB you hand to Sam as soon as the coffee has kicked in. Neither of you are exactly sure what it is you’re looking for so you’re stuck in the studio of the tiny, look-at-me-wrong-and-I’ll-crumble safe house for over three whole days before you finally start gathering some worthy intel.

“I was told we’d known when we found it,” you shrug, not visibly bothered by the fact that you’ve most likely been sent on a wild goose chase. “Or if we didn’t. We might go back empty-handed after all.”

It’s not encouraging but it’s what you’ve got, even if Sam isn’t sure he’s able to be out of commission for that long. He’s realized people get antsy when Captain America isn’t seen somewhere in the world after a few days, but despite how hard he tries he’s not able to be in two places at once.

“Yet,” he tells you when you take a food break and you allow him to rant about these troubles. “Haven’t figured it out yet, but Steve kind of managed it after a few years, right?”

“Steve was superhuman,” you remind him helpfully behind your coffee cup. You’d found some old whiskey at the back of a cabinet and doused your drink with it, so you make a face when it goes down.

“You don’t think I’m super?”

“I think you’re something, alright.”

“Aw. That was almost a compliment.”

“Can’t let it get to your head, hotshot. Ego’s already too big for your body.”

It’s so fucking domestic Sam feels the ache of it in his teeth. You, sitting at the table in your tiny kitchen while he sits on the counter, each drinking your coffee how you like it as the sun sets through the window above the sink. Talking for hours until you realize you’re practically sitting in the dark as the afternoon flew by while you were taken with each other’s company.

But then you go back to looking at intel until your eyes are burning and you excuse yourself to pass out on the couch. You do it almost half an hour to the dot before Sam gives up himself, and he’s pretty sure you know enough of his tells to know when he’s getting tired and make an early escape so he doesn’t take the couch himself.

“You take the bed,” he’d offered the first night, having a little trouble not making it sound like an order. By how you’d raised your eyebrow, he’d failed by a mile. “God knows where you’re sleeping these days. It’s the least I can do after dragging you all the way out here.”

“You’re the one who keeps saying he’s on vacation,” you take your bags from his hands and drop them unceremoniously on the coffee table, marking the living room territory as yours. “And I’m sure the US government will kill me if I bring you back with a fucked up back.”

He almost suggested you could share. You have before, both out of necessity and leisure, but Sam’s sure that topic’s on the list of Things Not To Talk To You About. It might be the first one up there, in all caps and underlined with bright red.

Sam has both held you down to fuck your brains out and held your bleeding body in his hands, pressing against a gunshot wound to keep blood flow to a minimum. It’s a fucked up type of intimacy he doesn’t share with anyone else, but he’s still hesitant to bring it up. Somehow both events keep happening whether he intends for them or not.

It’s like he’s waiting for the shoe to drop, and it finally does on the fifth day of your assignment.

You ultimately get a lead from the USB. It guides you to search for a random code you insist it’s on a file you’d read through already. You make a noise of victory under your breath when you spot it across the table and when you shift to reach for it, your breath hitches.

It’s a quiet thing Sam wouldn’t be able to acknowledge if he weren’t good at his job, but he is.

“What is it?” he asks, suddenly alert, fingers twitching with the urge to hover over you worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. Whatever shadow of hesitance had fallen over you is pulled back into place, tucked away for Sam to blissfully ignore.

You both know that shit won’t fly, but Sam thinks it’s cute you try anyway.

He stares at you and you avoid his eye long enough, face buried in the file, to know you know he’s noticed. It’s a silent request to let it pass.

Tough fucking luck. Sam calls your name, admonishing.

“Sam,” you say right back at him in the same tone, still not looking at him. Sam grinds his teeth in annoyance, jaw tight.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine. You know how it is.”

It’s not a no.

“I do know,” Sam agrees, but his mood’s a short fuse. “Are you grounded? Is that why you’re here? Because you’re hurt?”

Fucking jackpot. You exhale through your nose and tighten your jaw at the question but refuse to answer. You’re a couple of feet apart, divided by the desk filled with files and information, but somehow this is the closest he’s felt to you since you got here.

You’d been hiding something since the beginning; taking the couch when you could’ve been sharing the bed from the start, touching him less than usual so things wouldn’t go further, and moving around the house with rigid, calculated movements.

“Manning the desk,” he says with a little too much bite, and he can physically watch your hackles rise; the annoyance in your eyes when they finally meet his, the biting of your cheek to stop yourself from rising to his sudden passive-aggressive hostility. “Handing me files, giving me intel. You’re flying halfway across the world to keep yourself out of the field.”

“Sam,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You’re hurt,” he replies, not a question, nodding at your torso. It’s all suddenly painstakingly clear, the past week flashing through his mind like a movie from a different point of view. “And you’re hiding it from me, for some reason.”

“Is that all, Captain?” you ask, creating distance with the use of his new title in a way he despises and you know he does. You’re good at that, finding where it hurts and pressing methodically until the skin gives. Sam’s just not used to the trick being used on him. “Or is there something else about my person that you’ve figured out and have yet to enlighten me about?”

“Let me see,” he ignores you. It's easier than trying to match your level of cruel cleverness. He stands to cross over to your side of the desk, staring down at you expectantly with arms crossed. “Come on, show me.”

“No,” you deadpan, but the way you wrap your arms carefully around yourself shows the defensiveness underneath your nonchalance. “Sam, come on, what the hell are you doing?”

“If you’re not hurt, then show me,” he insists but doesn’t reach to touch you without your permission. It’s a line he won’t cross.

“Is that an order, sir?” you snap.

“I’m not your superior,” he replies, even though he is, technically, but not when you’re alone. Not when you’re hurt. “I’m your friend. And right now my friend is in pain, I’d like to be able to do something about it.”

“Like what?” you ask, and it’s as exhausted as it is conflictive. Thunder rumbles outside the house and inside Sam’s chest, two storms coming in. “Huh, Sam? What are you gonna do? It’s part of the damned job. Don’t tell me you’re injury-free right now.”

Sam isn’t. Both old and newer scars put a heaviness on his body he’s not supposed to carry, but he’s not the one hiding right now.

“I can hold you,” he offers and watches the way you look away, imagining the sting in your eyes as they glisten with sudden tears. You very visibly refuse to shed them, tightening your jaw and passing saliva like it’s gravel. “If you’d let me. Let’s not pretend we haven’t done it before.”

“It’s different now.”

“Why?” he wonders, brow furrowing. He does his best to relax his stance and reaches to touch your tight fists where they lay on your lap. With his fingertips barely there on your skin, the tension bleeds out of them like magic almost against your will. “Because I’m Captain America? Because you won’t tell me where you’re stationed half the time?”

“It’s–”

“Classified,” he finishes for you, unmoved. “But you’re still you, and I’m still me. As far as I’m aware, that doesn’t change a damned thing.”

You close your eyes like the words pain you, resolve crumbling right before Sam’s eyes. “I don’t wanna fight with you.”

“Then don’t,” from Sam’s perspective, it’s as simple as that. “Let me see. Let me be with you, please. The last week has been torture.”

You let out a breath of a laugh that’s a little too miserable. “You’re telling me,” you say, and the slope of your shoulders falls from its tense, defensive curve. Sam takes it as the green light it is.

You stand straighter as he kneels in front of you, his hands hovering over the hem of your shirt. He looks to you for permission and you give him a tight nod, staring at the wall instead of him, gulping down your anxieties.

Sam’s breath catches when he lifts your shirt and sees your torso, skin showered in black, blue, purple, and green bruises. “Jesus.”

“It’s worse than it looks,” you say automatically. Sam can’t see how that’s true. It looks like it hurts to even breathe, it’s unbelievable how you were able to hide it from him for so long. “Nothing’s broken, I swear.”

“What the hell happened?” he asks even if he knows you can’t– or won’t– answer. You sigh, and he watches blemished skin shake with the effort it takes.

“I’m alright,” you say instead of the answer he wants, but your voice has softened and lost all fight response. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve been with him since you arrived and it has nothing to do with showing your skin. “Hey, I’m okay. That assignment’s over for good. I’m not going back there, I promise.”

The sigh of relief Sam lets out is shaky and doesn’t relinquish all the tension he’s been carrying. The possibilities of what must’ve happened are gonna haunt him long after this mission’s over.

“I hate it,” he says, and he knows you know what he means. Not knowing where you are, spending more than half the year apart with zero contact, this unease between you that doesn’t let you be honest.

You say, tired. “I know. Sam–”

Sam isn’t touching you– not yet. He’s careful so there’s no skin-to-skin contact, and you look at him with guarded eyes when he lowers your shirt back into place, standing up and towering over you.

“What?”

You breathe air out of your nose, frustrated. “You know.”

A beat. “You sure?” he says, as plainly as he can with the tension that’s grown between you pulling him forward.

“Yes.”

He hums.

“Oh. You gonna let me touch you now, then?” he asks, still under the excuse of medical purposes only. But Sam can’t help the way his voice deepens, molten like honey. His eyes trail over skin that isn’t blemished: the curve of your neck, the lines of your arms, the slope of your fingers.

You shiver under the attention, helpless to hide such a reaction to his voice. “Mmm? Honey?”

“Fuck you,” you say automatically, already opening your legs slightly for Sam to slip in between them, reaching for your jaw. You close your eyes at the touch, sighing away whatever tension remained in you.

You’re too fucking easy, despite the fight you insisted on going through before letting yourself be touched, and something in Sam’s belly tightens at the idea of it being just for him.

Sam’s hands remain on your jaw and throat as he tilts your head up for a kiss, slow and deep, lingering. It’s not long before you open up for him, his tongue sliding into your mouth like it was always meant to be there, coaxing a whine from you while you search for steadiness and settle your hands on his belt. Not pulling, not searching for more– not yet– but keeping him close.

The storm comes and goes and the files in the studio remain forgotten. Sam finally gets you on the bed and, better yet, with him in it.

He’s a little too careful, hands cupping your ribs with extreme caution after finally getting rid of your shirt for good and laying you down against the sheets. You roll your eyes fondly and grab onto his wrists to direct him where you want him.

He doesn’t complain as he takes your directions. The man will greedily take anything you give him in calloused, expert hands as he does his best to pull sounds out of you that are music to his ears.

After it’s over, you both lay in bed, naked and breathless. You find a new scar on him and trace the ragged line of skin gently with your fingertip, touch featherlight, almost nonexistent. It’s been over half a year since you last did this, but only a couple of months since he got himself injured and stitched up by Bucky in the Brazilian jungle. “This one’s new.”

It had been a quick job, good enough considering the circumstances, which is to say Sam now has an ugly, uneven scar a couple of inches above his hipbone that saved him from bleeding out on his partner.

The memory holds no gentleness, but your fingers do. The haze of his previous orgasm leaves Sam pliant under your touch, melted against the sheets and uncaring of your scrutiny. “Barnes?”

Sam makes an affirmative noise, a valid enough question since sometimes he’s admitted to doing patchwork on himself for the sake of the mission, uncaring of how bad it hurts as long as it’s quick and efficient.

“Did it hurt?”

“Like hell,” he admits, feeling safe enough to do so in the cocoon you’ve built for yourselves. Sam runs a hand up and down your naked back as if trying to soothe the brunt of the memory. “Did the job, though. Got us out alive.”

At that, you lean to kiss the skin, only slipping a bit of tongue into it. Sam sighs, ignoring the prick of discomfort that’s trying to crawl up his spine and leaning towards the softer, more tender sentiment that takes over him whenever you get like this. It’s not easy for him to accept such gentleness, to let himself be cared for and lay there, unable to give something back.

He will, in a minute. But he knows you like him like this, and that alone pins him down in his place to let you work. It’d be hypocritical of him, he thinks as his hips twitch with renowned interest, to not let you fret after him when his own worry is what got you here in the first place.

After you’re satisfied, you trail the path Sam’s grown accustomed to, the very same you follow every time you sleep together after a terribly long amount of time:

The knife scar under his pec from when they were chasing after Bucky, still the Winter Solider, superficial enough not to have caused concern at the time. The mark from when he got his appendix out, thinking nothing of the stabbing aches to his belly until he was doubling over in his bed and waking up half his platoon as he retched in the bathroom.

The dot on his finger where Riley accidentally stabbed him with a pencil once, sleep deprived and with two shots of whiskey on him. The wound had healed with ease but the mark made a permanent home on his skin, barely visible unless you leaned in close enough to look for it.

The scab on his knee from falling off his bike when he was six. Sarah had screeched bloody murder until their parents came out of the house to see what all the fuss was about. The scar left behind by a bullet on his right shoulder during his second tour in Afghanistan.

The cut on his lip he got shaving for the first time is always last on your list. Sam has long stopped calling you out on it, how convenient it was that the cataloging of his scars always ended with a thorough, slow kiss to his mouth that usually bloomed into a second round.

He found that you got skittish when he did so, pulling back into yourself and laying tensely in bed for a couple more minutes before you started looking around for your clothes, called out.

Now Sam only cups your jaw, tugs a little so it opens your mouth and he can slip in his tongue and steal a taste of your sigh. He wants you like this for as long as possible; vulnerable, unguarded, desperate to touch him and be touched back. Safe enough to know that you never have to ask for something he wants to give you so willingly.

You always forget. The second you meet again, you have to start the whole dance over. Fish for excuses to meet each other in the middle, hoping for new scars to lengthen your time together.

Sam isn’t a masochist by any means, and he’s not an adrenaline junkie asshat who chases the danger just to have proof on his skin that he can take all the grievances life throws at him.

But. But–

“We’re alright,” you say against his mouth, body warm and seeking on top of his. He’s mindful of your injuries but can’t help himself, the urge to touch you overrules any other instinct he owns. It makes him weak, on the field, but happy off of it. “Aren’t we? We’re gonna be alright.”

“‘Course we are, honey,” his southern charm pops out and you’re both parts equally pleased and unamused, a funny expression on your face that has him laughing as he cups the back of your neck to bring you in for another kiss. “What? What’s with the face?”

“Nothin’, pumpkin,” you imitate his accent and Sam focuses his ministrations on your jaw and neck, trying to get you to break character. “We’re gonna be just fine, sugar plum. You’re sure lookin’ very pretty tonight, peach fuzz.”

Sam splutters out a laugh. “Peach fuzz?”

“That’s what you sound like!”

“See if I ever call you something nice ever again.”

“You can’t resist me,” you say seriously, though a smile keeps trying to break your facade. “You literally lasted five days before taking me to bed. That’s on being weak, Wilson.”

“Some might say it’s a world record for me, baby,” he says, poking at your face until you show teeth, happy and at ease in his arms. “The six months before that were a little bit of a stretch, too.”

Your mood dampens a little but Sam won’t let it, nudging his nose against yours to catch your attention again. “Hey. What did I just say? We’re gonna be alright. Five days, six months, five years, it’s nothing. They mean shit when I get to see you again.”

The mention of the Snap unguards you further. He’d been gone while you tried to keep your life together, ignoring the Sam-shaped void in your surroundings. The first time you got together after he came back had been tainted by the grief of losing three of the best people you’d ever known, and he’d done his own reconnaissance of your skin as he took in new scars, new hurts that had happened and healed while he was gone.

You smile again, but it’s softer, fonder, a tender tilt of the lips for the man you managed to find in this chaotic line of work that became your whole life.

In another five days, you’ll once more be on opposite ends of the world without any idea of when you’ll see each other again or what new marks you’ll have on your skin that describe your time apart. You haven’t even put a name to this– this relationship that both of you are still too hesitant to define as such, but that’s okay.

It’s okay. It’s more than enough. The path of scars will be there to take when you meet again, permanent proof that you’ve survived to find the way to each other over and over and over again. The map that leads to you, every goddamn time.

___

hi!!!

hope you like this one! i’ve been putting this fic on the back burner for almost a month now, but i’m so glad to finally have finished it! i hope to put out the tommy miller sequel for dial drunk next week before school starts :)

thank you for reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, etc.!

#sam wilson x reader #sam wilson #anthony mackie #marvel fanfic #reader insert #captain america x reader #captain america and the winter soldier #catws #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #joaquin torres #danny ramirez #falcon x reader #leo writes #sarah wilson #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier

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