#about spn fanfiction

[wendibird]

I haven't written a LOT of fanfic (or at least completed and posted) and some of it is shippy so I wouldn't actually want it made canon, but one in particular is gen and I think would make a good episode. https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286014 "The Room of Revitalization" AKA For the love of Chuck can we PLEASE just let Sam have a freaking nap?! (Takes place in S14.)

By "my favorite fanfic" I mean fanfic that you like, but wasn't written by you.

[heliotrope155]

I do think it'd been hilarious to have a truth-serumed or spelled Dean around Cas, just start spilling his guts and flirting worse. But also genuinely think Cas would get so overwhelmed from going zero to eighty on this that he'd duct tape Dean's mouth shut after attempts to tell him to stop confessing romantic feelings kept failing. Final resort, Cas would whoosh away to some glacier and sit there until he'd collected himself.

[maddie0101]

about damn time pt.3

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it @anbernen ! ❤︎

summary: as dean cares for your injury, tension builds, unspoken but undeniable. when you’re finally healed, there’s nothing left to stop what’s been inevitable all along.

warnings: soft!dean, smut (mdni) , sexual tension, cute little moments, fluff, teasing, injury recovery, p in v, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it), dirty talk, praising, pet names, lmk if I've missed anything.

word count: 6.1k

series masterlist

The hunt had ended days ago, but its effects still stuck to you like a shadow. Your side ached but It was healing.

That didn’t stop Dean from hovering though. You didn’t mind it. Not really. Not when it meant his hands were always on you, always brushing against your skin, always stealing kisses when Sam wasn’t looking.

Dean shut the door behind him, tossing his duffel onto the table before his gaze flickered to you. His expression softened, but there was something else there too, something protective. He hadn’t let you out of his sight since the hunt, like he still wasn’t convinced you were okay.

“You need to sit down, sweetheart,” he said, already stepping toward you.

“I can walk, you know,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Dean ignored you completely, his hands already curling around your waist, gently, so careful not to touch your injury as he guided you toward your shared bedroom. Sam sighed behind you, muttering something about grabbing a beer, clearly used to Dean’s newfound obsession with taking care of you.

Dean helped you sit on the bed before crouching in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs. His green eyes scanned your face, searching, checking. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” you said.

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly, not buying it. “Lemme see.”

You huffed but lifted your shirt slightly, revealing the bandage over your stitches. Dean’s jaw tensed as his fingers brushed lightly over your skin, peeling the tape back with careful precision.

He had been checking your stitches constantly since you got back—changing your bandages, making sure there was no sign of infection, and hovering like a mother hen. Except mother hens didn’t usually murmur, "That’s my beautiful girl", every time they looked at you.

Dean inspected the wound, his thumb ghosting just below the stitches. His touch was gentle but his eyes darkened. “S’looking better,” he muttered, carefully smoothing a fresh bandage over your skin. “Healing up real nice, sweetheart.”

His voice had dipped lower, and when you glanced up at him, his gaze was already on your lips.

You smirked. “Y’know, I think I liked it better when you were just bossing me around.”

Dean grinned, leaning in. “Nah. You love it when I take care of you.” His lips brushed over yours in a teasing ghost of a kiss. “And you really love it when I call you sweetheart.”

Heat curled in your stomach. He was right, damn him.

But before you could come up with a witty retort, his mouth was on yours, slow and gentle. His hands slid up your thighs, his thumbs tracing soft circles over your skin. You sighed into him, melting against his touch, your fingers curling into his flannel.

Dean smirked against your lips. “Told you.”

You huffed, but your pout didn’t last long because he kissed it right off your face. His hand skimmed up your waist, featherlight over the bandage before sliding higher, fingers brushing under your shirt. His kisses turned slower, deeper, and God, you could drown in this.

Dean’s hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, ghosting up your ribs. His touch was careful—but the way he kissed you? That was anything but. His tongue slid against yours, coaxing soft, breathless sounds from your lips. His body was so warm, pressing against you, his grip tightening like he never wanted to let go.

But you wanted more. Needed more.

A soft whimper slipped past your lips as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Dean groaned at the sound, his hands flexing against your hips, and then suddenly, you were on your back. He had shifted you both, careful not to bump your injury, but the weight of him over you sent heat pooling in your stomach. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath hitched as you tugged him down, rolling your hips just enough—

Dean swore under his breath, suddenly breaking away. His forehead dropped to yours, his chest heaving. “Shit,” he muttered, his voice tight.

Your stomach clenched at the way he sounded, at the way his fingers still gripped your waist like he was barely holding himself back.

“Dean,” you murmured, reaching for him again.

But he exhaled sharply and pulled away, sitting back on his heels. His hands ran over his face before gripping your hips again, but this time, it was to steady you as he shifted you upright.

“Sweetheart,” he started, his voice softer now, more controlled. “We gotta stop.”

You blinked, still a little dazed, your body buzzing from the heat of his touch. “What?”

Dean huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, eyes flickering to your lips before quickly darting away. “You know why.”

Your injury. You frowned. “It’s been a few days—”

“And it’s still healing,” Dean cut in, giving you a pointed look. “I’m not gonna let you push yourself just because we finally figured our shit out.”

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. “I feel fine.”

Dean’s lips twitched. “Yeah? Then why’d you wince when I touched your side?”

Your mouth opened, then shut. You had winced. You just hadn’t thought he’d noticed. Damn it.

Dean smirked. “Exactly.”

You huffed, but your irritation faded when his hands smoothed over your thighs again, his thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles. He looked at you then and something in his expression softened. “You have no idea how much I want you,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, like he was admitting something dangerous. “But not like this. Not when you’re still hurting.”

Your breath hitched at the raw honesty in his gaze.

“We’ve got time,” he said, his fingers brushing along your jaw, his touch achingly tender.

A few days passed, and true to his word, Dean was taking his time. But that didn’t mean he was making it easy on you.

No—he was relentless. It started small. Subtle. A hand on the small of your back when he passed by, his fingers lingering just a little too long. Sitting too close on the couch, his thigh pressed firmly against yours. His arm draped lazily over your shoulders whenever you walked through the bunker together.

And the pet names? He had doubled down.

“Morning, beautiful,” he’d murmur in that rough, sleepy voice when you shuffled into the kitchen, barely awake.

“There’s my girl,” he’d grin when you walked into a room, his eyes flickering over you like he was drinking you in.

“You need help with that, baby?” he’d tease, watching you struggle with something, knowing damn well he was only offering so he had an excuse to press up behind you, his chest flush against your back.

It was infuriating. But was hot as hell. And Dean knew exactly what he was doing.

But the worst part? He wasn’t even trying to hide it. He wanted to see you flustered, wanted to watch you squirm under his gaze. And God help you, it worked.

Like when he had you backed against the counter one evening, reaching past you for a glass, his body crowding into yours. His fingers skimmed your hip as he leaned in, lips ghosting just beside your ear. “Still blushing every time I touch you, sweetheart?” His voice was a low, teasing drawl.

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your neck, and you hated how smug his smirk was when he pulled back.

“You’re unbearable,” you muttered, shoving at his chest.

Dean only laughed, eyes bright with amusement as he popped the cap off his beer. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You did. God, you did. And Dean loved it, too. He thrived off it, the way you’d turn pink under his gaze, the way your breath hitched when he got too close. He absolutely loved it.

One month later and Dean was still impossible as ever.

The man had always been a flirt, but ever since the night you’d finally confessed your feelings, he had taken it to a whole new level. He did it so effortlessly, like he had been waiting his entire life to treat you like this.

“Lemme see, sweetheart,” Dean said, kneeling in front of where you sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing under your shirt before you could even protest. His hands were warm and every time he peeled back the bandage to check your stitches, his lips would quirk. “Look at that—healing up real nice. Told you I was good with my hands.”

You’d roll your eyes, but it never stopped the heat from crawling up your neck.

And then there were the kisses. They were everywhere. A kiss to your temple when he passed you in the hallway. A slow, lingering press of lips to your shoulder when he caught you making coffee. A teasing graze along your jaw before whispering in your ear, “Morning, beautiful,” in that deep, gravelly voice that left you weak in the knees.

And God, the touching. Dean found every excuse to touch you.

It was subtle at first. A small brush of his fingers against your lower back as he passed behind you in the kitchen. A casual hand on your shoulder when he leaned in to steal a bite of your food. The occasional nudge of his knee against yours under the table.

But then it got worse.

His hand gripping your hip when he pulled you in close—just to murmur some completely unnecessary comment about how damn good you looked in his shirt, his breath warm against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

His palm, broad and warm, sliding over your thigh whenever you sat beside him on the couch, fingers absently tracing slow, lazy circles that had you squirming before you could stop yourself.

And then there was the way he watched you—his eyes dragging over you like he was committing every inch of you to memory. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

“Y’know, sweetheart, you really are somethin’ else,” he’d murmur out of nowhere, his voice low and rough as he leaned against the counter, twirling a beer bottle between his fingers.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Oh yeah? And what exactly am I?”

Dean just smirked, pushing off the counter, closing the space between you in two slow steps. He hooked a finger in the hem of your sleeve, tugging you forward until your chests nearly touched. “Gorgeous. That’s what.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck as you shoved at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

It was relentless. And it was driving you absolutely insane.

Because the tension between you had grown thick, stretched so tight it felt like the slightest touch could snap it in half. And if Dean was going to torture you with all his lingering touches, pet names, and that damn gravelly voice of his, then two could play at that game.

You started off small, an innocent stretch in front of him that made your shirt ride up just enough to expose a sliver of skin. The way you “accidentally” brushed your fingers against his when you passed him something, letting the touch linger just a second too long. The way you sighed his name, soft and breathy, when he handed you a fresh cup of coffee in the morning.

Dean noticed. Oh, he noticed. You caught the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers twitched like he was seconds away from reaching for you. The way his green eyes darkened, heat flashing behind them before he forced himself to look away.

But still, he held back. So you pushed a harder.

One night, stretched out on the couch beside him, you let your head tip back, exposing your throat as you let out a dramatic sigh. “God, I feel so much better now. Fully healed. Good as new.”

Dean didn’t look away from the TV, but you saw his grip tighten on the beer bottle in his hand. “That so?”

You hummed, shifting just enough so that your leg brushed against his. “Mhm. Probably should celebrate. Maybe do something fun.”

Dean finally glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “Fun, huh?”

You bit back a smirk. “Yeah. Maybe something hands-on.”

Dean’s nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched. You watched as he swallowed hard, his grip tightening just so on the bottle.

But instead of rising to the bait, he only smirked, leaning in until his lips barely brushed your ear. “Nice try, sweetheart.” His voice was rough, dripping with amusement—but there was something tight in it, strained, like he was hanging on by a thread.

You turned to face him fully, eyes searching his. “What?” you asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying, it’s been weeks, Dean.”

Dean let out a breath through his nose, setting his beer down on the table before leaning back against the couch, his arm stretching behind you. He turned his head, eyes dragging over your face, your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own before he smirked.

“Baby, when I finally get my hands on you…” His voice dipped lower, rough with something dangerous. He reached up, fingers tracing along your jaw, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip before he pulled away. “I wanna make sure you can handle it.”

Heat rushed through you, pooling deep in your stomach. God, he was killing you. And from the way his eyes darkened, from the way his chest rose and fell a little heavier than before, you knew—You were killing him, too.

But one day, you had enough.

It had been two months. Two whole freaking months of Dean touching you whenever he damn well pleased—his hands on your waist, his lips brushing your temple, his voice low and rough as he called you baby like it was his favorite word. Two months of him holding back, of him teasing you but never letting things go further, always stopping just short of what you both wanted.

But you were fully healed now. The stitches were long gone, replaced by a faint scar along your side. There was nothing holding you back anymore. Nothing keeping Dean from finally giving in.

Except for his own damn self-control. So, you decided to break it.

One evening, as he sat at the table polishing his gun, you casually strolled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but his shirt and the smallest pair of sleep shorts you owned. You made a show of grabbing a popsicle from the freezer, peeling the wrapper away with your teeth before sliding the icy treat between your lips.

Dean didn’t notice at first, too focused on his gun. But the second he glanced up—Jesus Christ. His fingers froze on the cloth, his whole body going still as his eyes locked onto your mouth. His gaze darkened instantly, lips parting as you took slow, deliberate licks up the length of the popsicle.

You pretended not to notice, leaning against the counter as you sucked lightly on the tip, tongue swirling just enough to make Dean shift uncomfortably in his seat. His jaw clenched. “You doin’ that on purpose?”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “Doing what?”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face. His fingers flexed against the gun, like he was imagining gripping something else.

You bit back a smirk, tilting your head as you slowly, slowly, slid the popsicle between your lips again. A soft, pleased hum vibrated in your throat as you pulled it back out, licking a stray drop from the corner of your mouth.

Dean shot up from his chair so fast it nearly fell backward. You barely had time to react before he was in front of you, hands gripping the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in. His eyes burned into yours, his breath coming rough and uneven. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with restraint.

Your pulse pounded in your throat, heat curling in your stomach. But you kept your expression innocent, blinking up at him through your lashes.

“I don’t know what you mean, Dean.”

Dean let out a sharp breath, his fingers twitching against the counter like he was using every ounce of strength not to touch you. His entire body was taut, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might crack a tooth. His green eyes burned into you, dark and hooded, flickering between your lips and the smug little smirk you were fighting to hold back.

Then, something in him snapped.

Dean's mouth crashed into yours, hot and demanding, swallowing your surprised gasp. God—his lips were hungry, rough and relentless as they moved over yours, tongue sliding deep into your mouth like he was trying to devour you whole. He kissed you like a man who had been starving for too long, like he had spent the last two months in agony, holding back, resisting, and now he wasn’t resisting anymore.

His hands roamed over your body, fingers digging into your waist, sliding up your back, fisting in the fabric of his own shirt that hung off your frame. His grip tightening like he wanted to rip the damn thing off. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed against your lips, his voice rough, ragged. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and unsteady. “You really think I didn’t know what you were doin’?”

You grinned, breathless, trailing your fingers up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “And yet, here we are.”

Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head before tilting your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to look at him. His thumb dragged slowly across your lower lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth as his tongue flicked over his own. “You got no idea what you just started,” he murmured, voice thick with promise.

Then he kissed you again. Hard. Your fingers curled into his shirt as he pressed you back against the counter, his body crowding into yours, his heat swallowing you whole. His hands slid down to your ass, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, fitting himself between your thighs. The moment your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips rolled into you, slow but deliberate, and fuck—you felt just how much he had been holding back.

A broken moan slipped past your lips, and Dean felt it, his entire body shuddering against you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his lips dragging down your jaw, nipping at your throat. “You been drivin’ me crazy, baby. Every fuckin’ day.”

His teeth scraped against your pulse, and you arched into him, nails biting into his shoulders. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding under his shirt where it hung off your frame, fingers dancing over bare skin, teasing, but never quite giving you what you needed.

The tension between you had been simmering for months, and now it was boiling over, molten and scorching. You could feel it in the way Dean touched you, in the way he kissed you like he had been waiting for this forever.

His hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt that still hung off your frame, fingertips brushing against bare skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. His body was pressed between your thighs, heat radiating off of him, his breath ragged against your lips.

And then Dean suddenly gripped your hips, his muscles tensing beneath your hands as he lifted you clean off the counter. A surprised gasp escaped you, but he swallowed it with his mouth on yours, his grip firm as he carried you effortlessly.

“Dean,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, your lips ghosting over his jaw as he moved.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with restraint, with promise. “Been waitin’ too damn long for this.”

The hallway blurred past you, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was him, his strong arms around you, his steady, unrelenting steps, the way his lips never strayed far from yours. He pressed open the door to his room with his shoulder, kicking it shut behind him, the sound a final barrier between the rest of the world and the two of you.

He laid you down on the bed so gently it made your heart ache, but the moment your back hit the mattress, he was on you again. His body caged you in, his weight sinking into you, his mouth moving over yours in a way that sent fire licking down your spine.

His hands roamed, slow and deliberate, fingers teasing the bare skin of your thighs before sliding up, bunching the fabric of his shirt higher, exposing more and more of you to his touch. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice rough, his forehead dropping to yours for the briefest moment, his chest rising and falling hard. “You have no idea how bad I want you.”

You gasped as his teeth scraped along your jaw, his lips trailing lower, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Then take me,” you whispered, breathless, arching into him, your nails biting into his shoulders. “I’m yours, Dean. Fuck me." You demanded.

Dean let out a low, guttural sound, his entire body going rigid above you. His fingers dug into your hips, his breathing ragged as he hovered, eyes locked onto yours with something primal, something raw.

“Fuck,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut like he was battling the war raging inside him. When he opened them again, they were dark, blown wide with hunger. Your nails scraped lightly down his back and you arched beneath him, pressing your body flush against his, rolling your hips just enough to feel the evidence of how much he wanted you.

Dean snapped. With a growl, he crashed his lips against yours, devouring every breath, every sound you made. His hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading, exploring the soft curves of your body like he was finally allowing himself to have what he had wanted for so long.

His shirt was yanked up and over your head, discarded somewhere in the room as his mouth trailed down your throat, nipping, sucking, leaving marks that would remind you of this moment tomorrow. His hands slid up your thighs, parting them as he settled between them, his body solid, scorching against yours.

Dean was hard, his length pressing against you, the heat of it burning, even through the thin layers between you. The moment it brushed against your aching core, a needy whimper escaped your lips, your body arching instinctively toward him.

A deep, satisfied groan rumbled in his chest as you instinctively tried to lift your hips, desperate for any friction, any relief. But his grip tightened, holding you firmly in place, dragging out the anticipation until you were nearly trembling beneath him.

“Dean—” Your voice came out breathless, needy, but before you could say another word, his grip tightened, and he leaned in, his lips just barely grazing yours.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “Beg for it.”

“Please, Dean—” Your voice wavered, barely more than a breathy plea, thick with desperation. Your fingers dug into his skin, your body arching instinctively, aching for him.

Dean’s lips crashed back onto yours, hot and demanding, swallowing every breathy whimper that slipped past your lips. His tongue teased yours, deepening the kiss, leaving you dizzy with need. You barely noticed the way his hand slid up your spine, his fingers trailing lightly as they found the clasp of your bra. With one smooth motion, he unhooked it, the straps slipping from your shoulders as his other hand trailed down your side, his touch scorching, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your lips, his voice rough, almost wrecked, as his eyes dropped to your bare chest. His breath hitched, his fingers tightening on your waist like he was trying to ground himself. He’d never seen anything so damn gorgeous, so utterly intoxicating.

"I knew you had some nice tits baby, so beautiful." Dean groaned before he trailed a slow, heated path down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, each one setting your skin ablaze. When his lips finally closed around your nipple, his tongue swirling, sucking, teasing, a broken moan spilled from your lips, your back arching instinctively into his touch.

“Dean—” you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure as waves of sensation coursed through your body, leaving you breathless and craving more. “Dean, please… I need you,” you begged, your voice dripping with desperation. But he only smirked against your skin, deliberately ignoring your plea as he took his sweet time. He wanted to savor this, to make every touch, every sound, every shiver unforgettable, burned into both your memory and his.

A deep, guttural groan rumbled from Dean’s chest as you palmed him through his his jeans. His movements stilled, his breath hitching, before his heated gaze lifted to meet yours—dark, intense, and filled with barely restrained desire.

Dean didn’t utter a single word, his focus solely on you as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, each one leaving a burning path in its wake. When he reached the lace of your panties, Dean let out a low primal sound.

His eyes raked over you with raw hunger, darkening his gaze. His eyes then dropped to your soaked core, his lips curling into a smirk. "Baby… have you been this wet for me the whole damn time?”

You only bit your lip and nodded, still trying to ignore the burning ache between your legs.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Dean exhaled, his voice thick with hunger. His fingers traced slow, teasing circles over the damp fabric clinging to you, barely touching yet sending a shiver rippling through your body. He pressed his fingers more firmly against you, moving in slow circles, his touch teasing. His gaze stayed locked on you, dark and heated, watching as your breathing grew uneven, your lips parting to moan his name like a prayer.

Before you could even begin to regain a shred of control, Dean hooked his fingers into your lace panties and tore them away with a single, impatient motion, sliding the remnants down your legs and leaving you completely bare beneath him.

He wasted no time at all before he planted his mouth onto your pussy. A loan moan ripped through your throat as Dean started to swirl his tounge, hitting every spot that made you squirm above him. Large and warm hands quickly pressed down on your thighs to hold you in place as Dean groans at the taste of you. "God you taste even better than I imagined."

His darkened green eyes locked onto yours, intense and burning with hunger as his tongue flicked and swirled over your clit. Every teasing motion sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you, making your body arch and tremble beneath him. Your breath hitched, turning into desperate, broken whimpers of his name as the coil deep in your stomach tightened, ready to snap.

The rough graze of Dean’s stubble against your slick heat, combined with the sinful things he was doing to you with his mouth, sent you spiraling. A sharp cry tore from your throat as pleasure crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as he worked you through your high, his tongue relentless.

The room filled with the obscene sounds of his mouth on you, your desperate moans mixing with the wet, sinful noises. Your vision blurred, body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure wracked through you. His name tumbled from your lips in a breathless chant, the only thing you could think, the only thing you could say, as you shattered beneath him.

Dean let out a low hum, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Such a pretty little mess for me.”

But you weren’t about to let him have all the control. Before he could even catch his breath, you pushed yourself up, fisting the fabric of his T-shirt and pulling him toward you slowly. Your lips barely brushed his, your heated breath fanning over his mouth as your fingers curled tighter in the fabric.

“You’re wearing way too much,” you murmured, your gaze dark and full of intent.

Something flickered in Dean’s eyes—hunger, challenge, pure fucking need. His jaw tensed, his control hanging by a thread, and damn if that didn’t turn him on even more.

You wasted no time, your hands eager as you helped him tug his shirt over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. Your eyes raked over his bare chest, but impatience gnawed at you as he took his time unfastening his belt.

With a frustrated huff, you reached for the leather strap yourself, yanking it free from the loops before popping open the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down in one swift motion. Dean let out a low chuckle at your eagerness, but you ignored him, helping him shove his jeans down his hips until he could kick them off entirely, leaving him in nothing but his boxers—and fuck, he looked good enough to devour.

As Dean’s jeans hit the floor, your breath caught in your throat. He was gorgeous. Broad, strong shoulders that tapered into a solid, well-defined chest, every muscle sculpted like he was made to be worshiped. His skin was warm and golden, a mix of faint scars and freckles scattered across his pecs and down his arms, each one telling a story, a battle won. Your fingers itched to trace every mark, to map him out like a treasured discovery.

His biceps flexed as he ran a hand through his hair, muscles shifting effortlessly beneath his skin. His abs—God, his abs—were fucking unreal, a perfect set of taut ridges that led down to his V-line, disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers. The thin fabric did absolutely nothing to hide how painfully hard he was, and you felt your thighs clench instinctively at the sight.

Dean smirked when he caught you staring, his green eyes dark with amusement and something hungrier, deeper. “See something you like, sweetheart?” His voice was thick, teasing, but you were too busy admiring the way his lower stomach tensed, the way the muscles in his thighs flexed as he shifted his weight.

Without hesitation, you crashed your lips against his, desperate and starving for more. The kiss was all heat and urgency, a collision of need that had been building for far too long. Every other kiss you’d shared before had been intense, but this—this was different. This time, neither of you held back.

Dean groaned into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine, tongues tangling, breaths mingling as the heat between you ignited into something unstoppable.

You were so lost in the heat of his kiss, the way his hands explored your body, that you barely registered the moment Dean kicked off his boxers. But then—God—his tip grazed against your slick folds, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you.

A needy moan escaped your lips as your body arched toward him, desperate for more, but Dean wasn’t giving in just yet. Instead, he dragged his length teasingly along your slick heat, his touch just enough to drive you insane but not nearly enough to satisfy.

“So fucking wet for me, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger, laced with something deeper—something possessive. His dark, lust-blown eyes locked onto yours, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you squirm.

“Think you can take me, sweetheart?” His fingers traced along your thigh before gripping it, holding you open for him. “Go on—beg for it. I wanna hear how bad you need me inside you.”

“Dean, please,” you panted, your voice breathless and desperate, every nerve in your body on fire with need. “I need you inside me.”

A low growl rumbled from Dean’s chest, his grip tightening on your hips. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with praise and hunger. Then, with agonizing slowness, he pushed into you, stretching you inch by inch, his eyes locked onto yours, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, every little reaction that told him just how wrecked you already were for him.

Then he started to move, his hips snapping forward with a deep intensity. A moan tore from your throat as your nails raked down his back, desperate to ground yourself in the overwhelming pleasure. His name tumbled from your lips, breathless and raw, a plea and a praise all at once.

“So fucking perfect,” Dean groaned, his voice thick with desire. “This pussy was made for me—fits me like a goddamn dream.” His hips drove into you relentlessly, each thrust deep and unyielding. His breath turned just as ragged as yours, mingling with the filthy symphony of skin meeting skin, the room thick with heat and desperation. Your body consumed by the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you.

“Dean, I—” you gasped, but he cut you off, his voice rough and commanding. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

That was all it took. Your vision blurred, eyes rolling back as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Dean’s name spilled from your lips in a breathless chant, your body trembling beneath him, utterly consumed by the intensity of your release—so overwhelming it left you feeling weightless, dizzy, completely undone.

But that only seemed to push Dean over the edge. His thrusts grew frantic, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with reckless abandon. The sight of you falling apart beneath him, moaning his name like a prayer, was all it took. A deep groan ripped from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, his release spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves. His forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, bodies trembling as you rode out the aftershocks together, lost in the haze of your orgasms.

The two of you stayed tangled together, bodies still humming from the aftermath as you tried to catch your breath. A slow, satisfied smile spread across your lips before you finally managed to speak. “Wow,” you breathed, still dazed.

Dean let out a rough chuckle, rolling onto his back beside you. His chest rose and fell heavily as he turned his head to meet your gaze, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Wow is right,” he murmured, his voice still laced with exhaustion and satisfaction. Then, with a grin that was both cocky and utterly genuine, he added, “Best damn sex I’ve ever had.”

You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming as you admitted, “Guess I was right all along… I had a feeling you’d be good in bed.”

“Just good?” Dean raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Sweetheart, I think we both know that was a hell of a lot better than just good.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Need me to prove it to you again?”

“I’m just messing with you,” you said with a playful smile, shifting onto your side to face Dean. His gaze trailed over you slowly, drinking in every curve like he was committing you to memory. But when his eyes finally settled on your bare breasts, his smirk deepened, appreciation flickering in those dark green eyes.

“Jesus, you’re perfect,” Dean murmured, his voice thick with admiration. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like he was memorizing every inch of you. Then, he kissed you, slow and deep, pouring everything he felt into the connection, like he never wanted to let you go.

When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours, intense. “I love you, Y/N,” he confessed, his voice rough with emotion.

A smile spread across your lips as you traced your fingers over his jaw. “I love you too, Dean,” you whispered against his mouth before pulling him into another kiss, this one softer, filled with the quiet promise of everything that lay ahead.

Dean sighed against you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you closer, pressing your bodies together like he needed to feel every inch of you. “Hope you know you’re stuck with me now,” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You chuckled, resting your forehead against his. “Good,” you murmured. “Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

series masterlist

author’s note:

annnd they finally did the nasty 🤭 I honestly tried to write this smut differently from the other works I’ve done but honestly i just can’t help myself. I hope y’all enjoyed this little mini series!

— requests are open.ᐟᅟplease read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off the list) btw I apologize for the small spam…

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission

[its-alittleobsessed]

Stop this is funny to me yall.

[stridingathinline]

Nice! For me, I'm fairly convinced that one way Dean died (that wouldn't be shown on The CW) is jerking it to some cable porn and having a random heart attack. *LOL*

And my favorite au/trope/setting for Wincest... well there's several depending on my mood, but I love pre-series stuff as a setting, for tropes I'm a sucker for "fuck-or-die", and for AU's there was a particularly well-done Hunger Games one done that I really enjoyed reading. But honestly I'm willing to give a lot of au's a chance if they're done well and the characters come through.

For the Wincest Wednesday asks, 6 and 8?

Happy Wincest Wednesday!!

6. what's one way you think dean died in mystery spot that wasn't shown? hmmm.....it sounds so werid saying it but something that I'm pretty sure could have happened is Dean dying of a staph infection or something.

like say he gets a small cut or something but it leads to a staph infection even though sam cleaned it for him.

8.favorite au/trope/setting for wincest? Ooooh mpreg is always one of my favorites, I love domestic!chesters, late seasons post chuck where they're settled in domestic bliss. I love alpha!dean and omega!sam, I've been thinking a lot of fem!sam lately, I just love thinking of them in all sorts of situations.

[saltcxrcle]

ménage à trois ── . ✶ sam. w & ruby

summary: ruby learns her lesson about popping into motel rooms uninvited

pairings: sam winchester x gn afab!reader x ruby, samruby, bi!reader, bi!rubyノwc: 6.2K warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, no use of 'y/n', fem pronouns are used, SMUT, porn with a smidge of plot, set in late szn 4, threesome f/f/m, oral both fem & male! receiving, fingering, slight sub/dom dynamics (slightly mean dom!reader and sam, sub!bratty!ruby), some degradation, name calling (ruby -> whore, slut), reader is referred to as a 'pretty girl' once, face sitting, manhandling, orgasm denial, rough sex, unprotected p in v (please use protection), kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: here it is, the long awaited and final installment to motel chats! god i need them so bad and idk why i waited for so long to write this but i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i did while writing this! heres the samruby smut freaks <33 sam. w masterlist | ruby masterlist | motel chats verse! masterlist

YOU NEEDED QUIET NIGHTS LIKE THIS. 

You were lounging on the slightly lumpy mattress in the motel room you were staying in, and the sounds of Sam typing away at his laptop would occasionally break the calm silence that the two of you were sharing. 

You and the Winchesters had been stuck in this town for a couple of days after the three of you wrapped up a simple salt and burn. Sam hadn’t been able to find a case for you guys to go on, so Dean decided to plant his feet here since it was a coastal town and it had the best pie in the diner across the street from where the three of you were staying. 

You could tell Sam was getting a little stir-crazy and was dying to leave—wanting to find another hunt or figure out which seal was going to be broken next. Hence, he was tapping away at the laptop, straining his eyes with the blue light emitting from the screen. 

You were reading a random Agatha Christie novel that was buried at the bottom of your bag, and you managed to find it after being bored with helping Sam research. But, you had been rereading the same page for the past ten minutes since your eyes always strayed away from the book and to Sam sitting at the table across the room from where you were. 

You couldn’t help it. Sam's presence was distracting. Your eyes zeroed in on his hands, dragging along the mouse pad of the laptop. Long and dexterous fingers tapped at the keyboard, and you couldn’t help the way that your mouth watered at the thought of his hands grabbing at you and bringing you to your own pleasurable demise. 

You’ve witnessed Sam’s hands being capable of bloodshed and violence, wielding knives and guns as he hunts—but you’ve seen them being in tender ways, a guiding hand on your lower back as you navigate through a sheriff’s office, or when his touch was feather-light on your broken skin as he patched you up from hunts that weren’t kind to you. 

You swallowed thickly as your eyes strayed from Sam’s hands to his forearms, which were exposed. The brown button-up with studs for buttons that decorated his shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and you almost audibly groaned at the sight his forearms. You had to advert your eyes away from them—the prominent veins and rippling muscles in his forearms awoke something primal in you and all you wanted to do was bite them. 

Christ, I’m acting like a Victorian man seeing a bare ankle for the first time. Get a grip! 

You shook your head to try and rid yourself of the lustful yearning that you had for Sam. You could admit that it was a little pathetic that you’d been lusting after him for so long—but it was hard not to when he was built like a god reincarnated into a mortal’s body. God, it was unfair how effortlessly he looked good. Yeah, you were kidding yourself when you told yourself that there were only platonic feelings for Sam.  

You bookmarked the page you were on before tossing the closed book on the bed beside you. You slid off the bed and made your way to the table that Sam was sitting on. You stood behind him as you draped yourself over his back, your arms wrapping around him in a loose hug, and your head was right beside his, looking at the random article Sam had found on his laptop. 

You felt Sam huff a little laugh through his nose, clearly amused at you. You tried not to let the scent of mahogany, amber, citrus, and something that was clearly just Sam distract you. 

“Found anything?” You murmured as you nudged his head with yours like a cat would against your leg. 

“No.” Sam sighed out, leaning back and sinking into your embrace. The hand that was resting in his lap moved to rest on one of your forearms that was wrapped around him, his thumb slowly caressing the skin.  

You hummed as you thought about it. You ignored the sparks zipping through you at the feeling of Sam’s warm hand on you. 

“That’s probably a sign to take a break.” You pointed the obvious out to Sam. 

Sam sighed again. “We have to figure out what–”

“What the next seals are. I know Sam.” You finished his sentence for him as you let go of Sam and moved out from behind him. 

Sam looked unamused by the fact you cut him off, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. He moved to type on the laptop, but you closed it before he could even touch it. 

“Nope,” You shook your head at Sam. “No more researching, you’ve been doing it since we finished the hunt here, and I want to hang out with my best friend without any interruptions or talk of the potential apocalypse, okay?” 

Sam’s jaw clenched. You could see the struggle in his eyes, but you stared down at him with your best puppy dog eyes, and your mouth formed into a slight pout. Sam’s eyes flickered quickly to your lips before meeting your pleading gaze. 

“Fine.” Sam conceded after he blinked and broke the staring contest between the two of you.

Your mouth pulled into a wide smile. “Great! I’m going to go shower and when I come out, you better not be on this laptop and have found a movie for the two of us to shit on okay?” 

Sam couldn’t help but smile at your infectious energy. “Sounds good.” 

You nodded at Sam before heading to your duffle at the foot of your bed, quickly grabbing your pajamas and going into the bathroom. The shower started, and you began to hum to yourself as you waited for the water to warm up.  

Sam kept his eyes trained on you until the bathroom door closed with a click. He glanced at his laptop before he shook his head. You always seemed to pull Sam out of his own head, which he was grateful for since this past year.

It weighed on him like a two-ton car on his shoulders. But you were like a soothing balm over the rough days that he dealt with when grappling with the blood addiction. Guilt brewed in his stomach, wanting to admit to you that he needed the stuff to feel stronger, but he wasn’t sure about how you would react, so he kept it to himself—letting the feeling slowly consume him. 

Sam got up from his seat and stretched out his stiff muscles. He didn’t know how long he was sitting there but could feel the ache in his shoulders and back from sitting on the uncomfortable chair. 

Sam sat at the foot of the bed you were lying on earlier and grabbed the remote, clicking through the channels on the shitty TV that the motel provided. 

You were out of the shower in no time, but as you strolled out of the bathroom, a scowl made its way onto your face. You hated that you recognized the back of the brunette’s head, and you could see the annoyed look that Sam etched into his face as he stared her down. 

“For fucks sake, is there not a day where we aren’t free from your bullshit?” You groaned as Ruby turned around at the sound of your exasperated tone. 

“Well, don’t you sound so happy to see me.” Ruby quipped with a mocking smirk on her face. 

You rolled your eyes at her as you crossed your arms over your clothed chest. Both Sam and Ruby’s eyes followed the movement, the action pulling the shirt taut over your chest and revealing that you weren’t wearing a bra. 

“What do you want, Ruby?” Sam asked, his voice carrying a roughness to it. 

“Can’t a girl drop by and say hi?” Ruby shrugged. Her question was innocent, but both you and Sam knew better. 

“Not when it’s you. Now what do you want?” 

Ruby put her hands up at your irritated tone. “Jeez, here I thought we were getting along.” 

You looked at her incredulously. “When have we ever gotten along?” 

Ruby had a dangerous gleam in her brown eyes—but before she could say anything, Sam moved in between the two of you, going behind you, grabbing your shoulders, and pulling you backward. You didn’t realize that you had been inching closer to her. Feeling Sam’s hands on your shoulders made you relax slightly, grounding you in the moment. 

Ruby looked on the scene with a smirk dancing on her lips. Oh, she was going to have some fun with this. 

“Okay, let’s just cool it for a second.” Sam saw the tension beginning to brew, and he really didn’t want to break up a fight between the two of you. “Ruby, if you don’t want or need anything, then leave.” 

Ruby pouted at Sam. “Awe, you want me to leave so soon?” 

“Yes!” You exclaimed, answering before Sam could. 

Sam squeezed your shoulders, signaling that you needed to calm down. 

“Ruby, Leave.” Sam’s tone was serious as he stared at her. He could feel his skin starting to crawl the longer she stayed, itching for a fix. Sam’s supply was running low, but he knew he couldn’t do anything about it while you were in the room. 

“Ugh, the two of you are no fun.” She looked around the room, not making any moves to leave. “Where’s the third musketeer?” 

“He’s at the bar.” You spat out through gritted teeth. “Is that all you wanted to ask or are you just trying to waste our time?” 

“And what time am I wasting? It doesn’t look like you guys were doing anything important. Or did I interrupt something again like I did last time?” Ruby’s smile was coy and knowing as a mischievous glint passed through her eyes. 

“What-

“You didn’t. Now get out.” You quickly interrupted Sam, sending Ruby a glare that had the heat of a thousand suns. 

The smirk never slipped from Ruby’s lips. “Hmm. That’s not what you said when you were moaning like a whore while our pussies were grinding against each other.” 

The reaction from you and Sam was immediate. Your face flushed with heat while Sam’s hands slipped from your shoulders; shock rendered him speechless as his brain was trying to comprehend Ruby’s words. 

“Shut the fuck up.” You ground your teeth together and had to resist the urge to strangle Ruby and cover your flaming cheeks. Embarrassment flooded your veins, and you were grateful that Sam was standing behind you so you didn't see his reaction. 

Sam blinked in surprise and shock. His own mind betrayed him and conjured up an image of the two of you naked in bed and having sex. Sam had to clear his throat, looking away from the demon smirking in front of him, attempting to tamp down the growing arousal brewing in him at the thought. 

“I don’t know why you’re embarrassed, Sammy here is into the idea of it isn’t he?” Ruby asked as she moved closer to you, like a snake inching toward her prey, getting ready to strike. 

“Ruby.” Sam’s voice was stern, agitated by her words. He moved out from behind you and stood right next to you.  

“Oh, don’t play dumb, Sam.” Ruby met your eyes, an almost malicious smile on her lips at the sight of the frown on your face. “I’ve never seen the two of you come harder to the idea of fucking each other while you fuck me," Ruby said casually like you guys were having a casual chat at the coffee shop. 

Ruby was having fun. That much was sure as she saw the two of you shift uncomfortably right next to each other, refusing to look at the other. It was easy to rile you up, and if she played her cards right, the three of you were going to be in for a fun night. She just needed to push the right buttons.

Sam always took a little convincing, but with her blood on the table, he always cracked and fell to his knees before her. But with you here, Ruby had a feeling you didn’t approve or know about the blood addiction, so she was relying on you. She just had to push a little harder to get you to snap. 

Once you broke, Ruby was sure that Sam would follow in your footsteps. A shiver of anticipation went down her spine as she inched closer to the two of you, only a foot away from either of you. 

Ruby let out a little laugh. “Come on guys, there’s no need to be embarrassed, we’re all adults here, we can talk about sex and having it with each other.” 

“Christ, do you ever stop talking or do you just like hearing the sound of your own voice?” You snapped. You were beyond done with Ruby. 

You were mortified that Ruby just carelessly revealed that the two of you had slept with each other to Sam. You were planning on taking that secret to the grave. You didn’t care about the fact that Sam was sleeping with her; it was a well-known fact between everyone and their mother at this point. But you can’t deny how your stomach fluttered at the mention of Ruby mentioning you while she fucked Sam. 

“You know what exactly you can do to shut me up.” Ruby taunted, wanting you to take the bait.

You stared at her, your fists bawled at your side. You took a glance at Sam. Fuck it. You thought before lunging at her, pulling her into a biting kiss filled with teeth and tongue. Ruby couldn’t help but smirk against your lips and had to hold back the laugh that wanted to escape her at the stunned expression that appeared on Sam’s face. 

What the hell? Sam thought as he saw you lunge at Ruby—he was going to reach for you, thinking you were going to attack her, but faltered when he saw you planted your lips on hers, pulling her into a rough kiss.

Sam thought of himself as a respectful man—but he was a man at the end of the day, and seeing two beautiful people kiss in front of him sent a bolt of arousal down his spine as he felt his cock hardening in his jeans. 

It ended all too soon for Ruby. Her mouth opened to say something, but your hand covered it—smothering any words that threatened to spill from her lips. A fire glinted in your eyes as you shook your head at her before looking at Sam with a smirk.

“Want to help me out here? Since she wants us to shut her up so badly.” 

If you want out, you can leave. I’ll deal with her. You conveyed to Sam in a silent conversation when your eyes met his increasingly darkening gaze, the hazel of his eyes being swallowed up by his pupil. Sam sent you an almost imperceptible nod, making your smirk widen. 

Ruby saw the exchange between the two of you, and she smirked underneath your hand. This was easier than she expected. 

You moved your hand from her mouth, turning her around so her back was facing you. Your hand quickly grabbed the hair near the nape of her neck and pulled her head back roughly, exposing her neck to you and making her stare up at Sam, who was looking down at her with a filthy smirk. Ruby had to muffle the low groan that escaped her lips at the sudden manhandling coming from you and the scrape of your nails against her scalp. 

“You wanna show me how you shut her up? She talked a big game about how you fuck her face.” Your filter was thrown out of the window. Lust had taken the driver's seat of your mind and your words. 

Sam chuckled darkly in a tone you’d never heard before, and you could feel your underwear dampening at the sound. “Yeah, I can show you. She sucks cock like a slut.” 

You hummed. “I figured. That’s the only thing that mouth is good for right, Sammy? It's better used for sucking cock and eating pussy.” You leaned down and nipped at her neck.

Ruby let out a soft moan at the feeling of your lips on her neck before a louder moan at the sting of the pain of your teeth sinking into her neck. 

“Yeah it is.” He agreed, looking at the scene in front of him hungrily. “The only time she’s quiet is when she’s choking on my cock.” 

Ruby’s underwear was ruined. She could feel it as arousal flooded her veins as you and Sam talked about her as if she wasn’t in the room with the two of you. 

“Are you guys going to keep talking about shutting me up or actually do it?”  Ruby had to swallow a moan at the feeling of a harsh tug of her hair before she lurched forward and felt the rough carpet against her jean-covered knees. She had to brace herself, Ruby's hands fell to Sam's thighs—her face now being eye-level with Sam’s prominent bulge. 

Your eyes were trained on Ruby’s hands as they unbuckled Sam’s belt and flicked open the button on his jeans. Sam kicked them off as soon as they fell off of his hips, leaving him in shirts and his boxers. 

Ruby looked at him with wide eyes as she leaned in and kissed his cock through the thin fabric. She started to plant kisses along his bulge, licking at the damp spot at the front of his boxers.

His hand landed in her hair, grasping at the strands. “Don’t tease.” Sam growled out as he shoved her closer to his covered crotch. 

Ruby huffed but obeyed him anyway. Her hands grabbed the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down, his cock springing out once they were off. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. It was long and thick, the tip ruddy and leaking, and it was begging to be sucked. 

Ruby licked her lips at the sight of it. It had been a while since she had sucked Sam off, and she couldn’t help but press a soft kiss to the sensitive tip, precum smearing on her bottom lip. 

Sam let a low groan escape his chest at the feeling and let out a soft sigh at the feeling of her warm mouth wrapping around his tip and slowly enveloping the rest of his shaft. 

You let out a low whistle at the sight of Ruby swallowing down Sam’s cock, her nose nestled at the trimmed patch of hair at the base of his dick, reminding Sam that you were still in the room with them. 

His eyes snapped open, not realizing that they had closed and met your blown-out eyes. 

“Come here.” Sam gestured for you to come closer to him, his voice thick with lust. 

Ruby’s mouth started to move on Sam’s dick, her tongue tracing the veins that were on his thick shaft as you moved closer to Sam. He grabbed you by the waist as soon as you were close to him and kissed you hard. It wasn’t as hard as you kissed Ruby, but it was still filled with tongue and passion. Sam moaned against your lips as Ruby started to suck his cock with fervor, eventually making him part from your lips to look down at her—making you follow his gaze. 

“Wow, she really is a cocksucking slut.” You saw how eager she was on his dick, moving her head rapidly, spit pooling at the corner of her mouth as her mouth hollowed around him. 

You saw her hand reach for the rest of him that couldn’t fit in her mouth, but you acted fast, grabbing her hands and pinning them to the small of her back, going on your knees behind her. 

You clicked your tongue at her. “You’re gonna let him fuck your face like the good demon whore that you are.” You murmured into her ear as you squeezed her wrists. 

Ruby let out a low moan around Sam at your words, a groan escaping his mouth at the feeling of the vibrations around his dick, increasing the pleasure he was indulging in. Sam gathered her hair in one of his hands and started to thrust his hips, shoving his cock further down her throat. 

You kept her hands pinned to her back as you shuffled to the side of the both of them, the room filled with the sound of Sam’s pleasured grunts and groans alongside the occasional gag and shlick noises coming from Ruby’s mouth. 

It was pure debauchery as you watched Sam fuck Ruby’s face. Your underwear was ruined at this point—your pussy practically pulsating with need, but you could care less. You wanted to see Ruby get a taste of her own medicine for once. 

Ruby was in pure bliss right now. She didn’t feel the need to use her abnormal strength at all. Ruby was right where she wanted as she savored the taste of Sam on her taste buds. All she wanted next was to taste you. 

You used your free hand to shove your hand in her jeans, feeling her wetness through her underwear. “Shit, she’s soaked. Should have known you’d like being used like this.” You jeered at her as you pressed at her clit through her soaked panties. 

Ruby whined at the feeling of her clit being stimulated and ground her hips into your hand, wanting more friction. You let her, pressing harder against her as you rubbed her through her wet underwear.  

Sam started to fuck her face harder, pushing her face down his cock until he was fully sheathed into her mouth and holding her there. You could see her throat bulging with his length. 

You couldn’t help but groan at the sight and rubbed at Ruby harder. “Fuck, that’s hot.” You muttered as you heard Ruby gag around his dick. 

Sam was breathing harshly at the feeling of Ruby swallowing around his cock. “Such a good mouth, fuck!” He noticed how her hips were moving as your hand was shoved down her pants. “You liked being used by us don’t you?” 

Sam let go of her completely, letting her take a breath, a cough escaping her before it turned into a high-pitched moan. Your hand made its way underneath her panties and shoved two fingers into her sopping cunt—you were met with no resistance since she was leaking profusely. 

Ruby nodded in response, but Sam gripped her chin with his free hand. “Words.” He demanded. 

“Y-yes,” Ruby said through a broken moan. You had brushed against her g-spot and began to attack her neck with your lips. 

Sam used the opportunity of her open mouth and guided her back onto his cock, pistoning his hips at a slower pace than before but hitting the back of her throat with every thrust. 

You could feel her start to clench around your fingers as she moved her hips in tandem with your fingers. Before her orgasm could crest and overtake her, you signaled to Sam, and the both of you pulled away from her completely.

Ruby let out a pitiful whine as she stared up at the two of you through wet eyes. She looked fucked out with her pink lip gloss smeared all over her face, her mascara beginning to smudge and smear down her cheeks as Ruby glared up at the two of you. 

You couldn’t help but smirk at how wrecked she looked. You locked eyes with and sucked her slick from your fingers before turning to Sam and kissing him. He quickly reciprocated the kiss, his tongue diving into your mouth and groaning at the mixed taste of just purely you and Ruby’s arousal on your tongue. 

You quickly broke the kiss—a string of saliva connected the two of you before it broke. You both turned back to Ruby, matching predatory looks in either of your eyes. Ruby felt her stomach fall as you gestured for her to stand up. She stood on shaky legs before you pulled her into you, grabbing another fistful of hair and making her look up at you. 

A smirk that could rival her own black soul pulled at your lips. “Time to learn your lesson about showing up without any warning.” You let go of her and pushed her towards the bed. “Strip.” Your tone left no room for an argument.

“Are you going to let her boss you around too?” Ruby couldn’t help but take a jab at Sam. 

You raised your eyebrow at her, sharing a quick look with Sam. Then, with an unexpected speed for a man his size, Sam lunged at Ruby— pinning her to the bed with a hand around her throat. 

Sam glared down at Ruby. “You know I was going to let you come around my cock. But you had to be a brat.” Sam shook his head, acting disappointed. “We both call the shots tonight, you don’t, so strip.”

Sam looked back at you. “You too.” He ordered before letting go of Ruby and began to shed his shirt, shucking off the brown button-up before taking off the grey v-neck he had—leaving him standing naked in the warm lighting that the lamps of the motel room provided. 

You couldn’t help but stare at the expanse of his tanned skin as you took off the shirt and pajama shorts you changed into after you had showered, leaving you as bare as the day you were born.

Both of you approached the bed from opposite sides. The roles had reversed. Ruby was the prey now, left naked in the middle of the bed, her chest heaving with anticipation as you and Sam had become the predators and waiting for the right time to strike. You and Sam started to plant kisses on her bare skin. Your lips trailed across her chest as Sam’s lips moved down her stomach, moving in between her legs. 

Your hands went to her breasts, squeezing at the soft flesh as your mouth covered hers, kissing her sloppily as Sam began to kiss at her clit softly before swiping his tongue through her slit and spearing her on his stiffened tongue. 

Ruby broke the kiss, letting a moan erupt from deep in her chest as the heat in her lower stomach started to brew again. You began to pinch and twist at her nipples, biting and nipping at the soft skin of her neck and chest, letting her whines and moans fill your ears. 

Sweat began to coat her skin as pleasure overwhelmed her senses. She felt like there were hands all over her body, gripping her thighs, her boobs, and her hips. Ruby could feel herself getting closer. She could almost taste her climax, but so could Sam. 

He pulled away from Ruby’s cunt. It was glistening from the mix of his spit and her slick, flushed, and her clit swollen from how Sam wrapped his lips around it and sucked at it. Ruby let out a frustrated cry, making you chuckle into her neck.

You pulled away from her, and one of your hands left her chest to caress her wet cheek, wiping at the stray tear. “You’ll come. Just until we think you deserve it, okay?” You cooed at her sweetly, but your words carried an undertone of authority. 

“Sam’s going to fuck you and I’m going to sit on your face.” You explained to Ruby with a gentle smile on your face, patting her flushed cheek before you and Sam moved. 

You hovered over her face, your back to the headboard as Sam wrenched her legs apart and teased her with his cock swiping through her slit, tapping his head on her clit teasingly—a low whine escaping her as her cunt clenched around nothing. 

“Use your words. What do you want?” Sam taunted, hearing her whine as his cock prodded at her entrance, the tip threatening to slip inside. 

Ruby ground her teeth together. She slowly regretted letting the two of you hold the power in this situation. Your wet cunt was hovering over her face, and Ruby’s mouth watered, remembering the unique taste of your arousal from the last time you sat on her face and rode it. 

She was aching to be filled by Sam’s cock. “Put your cock in me and sit on my face.” Ruby huffed, her voice strained with want. 

“What’s the magic word?” You couldn’t help but tease Ruby. She was being a brat, so this was warranted in your mind. 

“Please, please fill me up and ride my face.” Ruby broke, and she really didn’t care anymore. She just wanted to come. 

You looked at Sam. “If that’s what she wants.” You had a smirk as you shrugged, lowering yourself on her face. 

The soft sigh that you let out turned into a low moan as the vibrations of Ruby’s moan echoed through you and into your cunt as she started to eat you out, her hands finding purchase on your hips. You stared at how Ruby’s pussy stretched around Sam’s cock, and he let out the sexiest groan once he was fully seated inside of her. 

Sam started to move at a fast pace, giving Ruby no time to adjust to his size as he shoved his dick deeper and harder into her. You let yourself go as you rode her face, eyes fell shut at the feeling of her sucking at your clit—you were pinching at your nipples, sending more sparks of pleasure to your lower belly, letting the warmth bloom throughout your body. 

Your eyes snapped open at the feeling of Sam caressing your sides, moving your hands away from your breasts to knead and holding them in his big hands. You couldn’t help but lean forward, trying to keep your cunt connected with Ruby’s mouth and kissing Sam. 

You were obsessed with the taste of Ruby lingering in his mouth as your tongues danced with each other. Your hand fell and started to rub at Ruby’s swollen clit, making her squeal into your pussy. 

“Maybe we should have done this sooner. Her mouth feels so against me.” You panted into Sam’s mouth. 

Sam let out a breathless chuckle. “She liked that, clenched around me so tight when you said that. You like that? Us using you like our little fucktoy?” 

A muffled moan left her, and you smiled wickedly at Sam as your hips rutted harder down on her face. “Yeah, she does. The best part about this is that we can do as much as we want to her, and she won’t break.” 

Sam’s hips stuttered slightly. “Fuck, she’s clenching around me so tight. She’s close.” 

“Sam, stop.” 

He obeyed, stilling inside of her, and she whined against your pussy, stopping her ministrations. You slapped at her tit when you felt her tongue stop moving against you. 

“I didn’t say you could stop.” 

Ruby internally rolled her eyes at you but continued to eat you out, shoving her tongue in you and fucking you with it. You let out a moan but tried to compose yourself as you gestured for Sam to pull out of Ruby. He looked at you confused but pulled out of her anyway. 

You quickly leaned down, resting your hands against Ruby’s thighs before taking Sam in your mouth, and your eyes rolled back at the mixed taste of Sam and Ruby. 

“Fuck me. Shit, your mouth is so good, taking me in your mouth so well f’me pretty girl.” 

You preened at the praise from Sam, spending some time sucking his cock while letting the coil get tighter and tighter in you as Ruby used her mouth on you.  

As much as you didn’t want to, you lifted off of her face and pulled your mouth away from Sam. You were getting close as well, but you wanted to come around Sam’s cock. You moved your way down Ruby’s body, settling in between her legs and face-to-face with her pussy. 

“Doing so well for us Ruby, such a good little whore. You can come whenever Sam says you can?” You said as you started to softly rub at her clit with your thumb. 

Ruby didn’t care anymore. She just wanted to come already. Ruby was so close to an orgasm that time, but she was at the mercy of you and Sam. This may have backfired on her, but maybe it was for the better. 

You threw a coy smile over your shoulder at Sam, your hips swaying as an invitation as you spread your knees apart, revealing your pussy to him. Sam swiped his fingers through your wet slit before bringing his slick-coated fingers to his mouth and tasting you. 

“You taste good.” He said once his fingers were cleaned. Sam moved to eat you out, but you stopped him. 

“Next time, I want to feel you fill me up.” You promised as you sent him a slightly pleading look. 

You really wanted to be filled—you had been clenching around nothing all night, and you wanted to feel him for days after tonight. Sam nodded and gripped your hips while your face dipped down, and you licked a broad stripe up Ruby’s slit, your fingers entering her as your mouth wrapped around the bundle of nerves. 

You moaned into Ruby’s cunt as Sam stretched you out with his cock—the satisfying pinch of pain bled into pleasure as he filled you up. You swore you could feel him in your stomach, and the feeling intensified as he started to move. 

You tried to finger and eat out Ruby to the best of your ability as Sam fucked you, and sparks of pleasure zipped up your spine. 

Sam wouldn’t have imagined this happening in a million years. This was something that only played out in his fantasies, but fuck was he going to enjoy and wring out every drop of pleasure he could. His hands gripped your hips hard as he pistoned into you. 

“So tight around me, fuck, you feel so good.” Sam praised as he leaned over and planted kisses on your spine. 

You barely heard Sam’s praises over Ruby’s constant babbling and whining, filled with yeses and pleases and a mix of your names blending together in her garbled speech. 

“Can I come? Please!” Ruby begged, feeling her eyes well up in frustrated tears. She was so close but held back, not wanting to disobey either of you and have her orgasm ruined for the fourth time. 

Sam could feel you were getting close too—hell, he was on the verge of it as well. Your pussy was practically choking his cock as he brushed against the spongy spot that only Ruby and yourself could find. 

“Yeah, shit, you can come,” Sam ordered Ruby, and she all but broke apart on your fingers and mouth. You tried to work her through her orgasm, but you were distracted by Sam now rubbing at your sensitive clit while thrusting harder into you. Your forehead came to rest on her still convulsing pussy as you fell apart Sam’s cock. 

“Where?” He managed to say through gritted teeth, having held back his orgasm to let you get through yours, but with how you were pulsing around him, Sam was close to releasing you. 

“A-all over us.” You managed to say before Sam pulled out.

You lay beside Ruby as Sam got on his knees with you guys on the bed and started to stroke his cock rapidly with your lingering arousal as lube. He came with a long groan, spurts of his cum landing on both your and Ruby’s tits and chests as you both looked up at him. 

Sam’s breathing was harsh as he let go of his spent cock. He cursed underneath his breath when he saw you collect some of his cum and tasted it for yourself. You hummed at the taste. He was a little salty, but nothing too bad. You turned to the demon next to you and kissed her, your tongue coated in Sam’s essence. 

Sam’s cock twitched at the sight. It was really hot, but he knew he had to wait until he could get going. 

You pulled away from Ruby. “Learned your lesson yet?” You asked with a smirk on your lips, caressing her cheek with your free hand. 

A mischievous glint passed through her brown eyes. “I might need another lesson to ram it home.” 

You tore your eyes away from Ruby to look at Sam. Your gazes met, and a silent conversation passed between the two of you. 

“Round two it is.” You said, still looking at Sam before turning back to Ruby and straddling her. 

Ruby saw the dangerous look flash in your eye and saw the matching look in Sam’s eyes. She knew she was in for a very long night. 

[lonely-moons]

♡୭something good | sam winchester x reader, pt. 1

title: something good, pt. 1 (read pt. 2 here)

pairing: stanford!sam winchester x socially anxious!reader

warnings: lotssss of overthinking, reader is awkward and a nerd but also lowkey a little cool, social anxiety, sam winchester being a cutie patootie, references to fandoms i'm not in rip lotr fans and dnd players my bad

summary: when you're forced to tackle a group project, you briefly debate throwing yourself in a pit of fire - you're not much one for working with other people. but maybe this is something you needed after all

wc: 2,412

masterlist

when your professor first mentions the words 'group project,' you have to physically bite down on your tongue to avoid groaning. they're the bane of your existence, and you allow yourself a moment of wondering whether education is really worth all of this. but you force it down as your class ends and make your way to where the list of names has been tacked to the wall, a sigh crawling its way up from deep in your chest.

you find your name next to one you can't place a face to. it's not surprising - you don't really have any friends in college, something that's followed you through from school even after you'd tried so hard to evade it. the college emails of each student are in a column beside the names, so you take note of it and hope to god that whoever sam winchester is, he's at least going to pull his weight.

you get the email from him before you're done with classes for the day, a simple one asking you when you'll be free to discuss the work. you both decide on tomorrow evening in the library, you moreso hoping to just get this over with rather than being particularly eager.

the time rolls around quickly, and at 7 p.m. the next day, you're heading to the library with a dread roiling in your gut. it's not that you hate meeting new people - you're just bad at it. you never quite know what to say, and even if you think you do, it always seems to come out wrong. like the words somehow scrape along the sides of your throat as they crawl their way up, get tossed about on your tongue until they're coming out completely unrecognisable from how they started. it's something you've always dealt with, but it seems to get worse as you get older, while everyone else prances ahead and you're left behind in the dust.

you don't have much hope as you're greeted with the musty smell of the library, your eyes scanning around for someone who looks like they could be there for a group project. you spot three candidates, three guys on their own, but two of them you vaguely recognise from classes.

it's a brief moment, but the panic sets in so entirely that the seconds seem to stretch on for minutes. you're so desperate to escape the embarrassment of going up to the wrong one that you consider leaving, sending sam some message about an emergency coming up and hoping that this goes better next time. but then one of them turns around, his eyes catching on you, and he smiles in your direction.

he shifts in his seat to face you a little more, his hand raising into small wave. your panic flushes out entirely, and you mentally chide yourself for being so dramatic. you're okay, you tell yourself as you head for the seat at table. you don't need the adrenaline levels of someone being hunted for sport.

"hey," he says when you're close enough, slinking your bag off of your shoulder. "y/n, right?"

"yeah, hey." you send him a smile that you hope looks okay. in your head it's still tinged with the remnants of some of your previous panic. "sam, i hope?" you wince; who the hell else would he be at this point?

but his smile remains intact. "yeah. it's nice to finally meet you. i mean, i've seen you around in classes and just on campus, but you usually look pretty busy."

you've slid into your seat, the uncomfortable wood making you want to shift around, but you remain still. if you were on your own, you'd probably have your feet up on it by now, shimmying around to find some kind of position that works. but you are not alone. "busy time of year." you shrug, knowing that he probably hasn't seen you around and is just being polite - maybe he has, but you're positive he wouldn't remember. you've never been one to make much of an impact.

"hey, i get it," he says. "sometimes it feels like they expect us to just give up on sleep entirely."

you think of the dark circles under your eyes that you'd half-heartedly tried to cover with make up. "tell me about it."

he perks up a little, remembering something. "by the way, speaking of, i got us some fuel." with the pen in his hand, he gestures to the share bag of m&ms that's beside his water bottle. "apparently chocolate helps with concentration levels."

you look at the bag, and somehow your simple comment of thanks turns into - "isn't it dark chocolate that does that?"

sam doesn't miss a beat. "yeah, well dark chocolate would make this even more miserable."

your lips twitch slightly. "fair."

"so, anyway, you wanna get started on this?"

you begin to look at the project guidelines, silently reading over the instructions even though you've done it about ten times today alone. but you appreciate the minute to gather your thoughts, trying to keep your eyes on the paper and not glancing at sam.

he's sweet, is the first thing to come to mind. you've witnessed plenty of college boys who act as though they run the place, who treat anyone different than them as lesser creatures. you thought people were meant to grow out of all that crap after high school, but evidently they had missed the memo.

you think that sam would be a nice friend to have, if only you knew how to go about doing that. the entire future of your interactions play out in your mind: you'll meet up a couple more times to do this project, maybe say something to one another in the class where you submit it. at most, any passing greetings will last a week before he manages to shake you off, and then you'll be back to another face in his class once again. even if you did ask for his number under the guise of project work, you know you'd never be able to text him after it was submitted. he wouldn't text you either. not only would you be a forgotten name, but also a random set of digits in his phone. the thought feels heavy in your head, refusing to budge.

"hey, are you okay?"

you blink, startled slightly, and find sam looking at you. there's a small crease between his eyebrows that makes it look like he genuinely wants to know.

"yeah." you clear your throat, wondering how you'd managed to zone out for so long. not for the first time, you wish the ground would swallow you whole. "yeah, i'm good. sorry, just got lost in thought."

"no, don't worry about. have you thought about which sections you want to cover?"

you spend the next few minutes dividing up which of you will cover the different topics of the paper. he's sweet about that too, always letting you have the first choice and triple-checking that you're okay with what you've landed with. by the time you're getting ready to move onto the next step, he's opened the packet of m&ms.

you worry that he's noticed your glance in their direction, because he takes a few for himself and then nudges the bag in your direction.

"concentration myth might be a bust, but they do taste pretty good."

you let a reluctant smile crawl up your face and grab one to pop into your mouth. turning it down would feel mean and, besides, you do really want some.

"so what classes are you taking?"

you glance at sam, not that surprised. the typical round of polite questioning has happened before, mostly during the first weeks, but they still pop up occasionally. especially when you don't have your crowd and every exchange is with someone new.

you list off your modules like second nature. "and for extra credit this semester i'm doing occult studies."

his eyebrows raise, like he's a little surprised at the fact. "occult studies, huh? like supernatural stuff?"

your polite smile turns a little sheepish now. "yeah. i've always kinda been into that kinda thing and they had space, so..."

he nods a little, like he finds it interesting, like it answers something he's been wondering. "oh, i get it."

"get what?" you ask, taking another m&m if mostly just to give yourself something to do.

"you're a nerd."

you crunch down on the shell in your surprise at his words. but they're not laced with mockery or any kind of insult. if anything, they're just a little teasing, interested, and the grin on his face makes you believe he doesn't mean any harm.

you look down at your outfit on impulse. "was it the spider-man shirt or occult studies that gave you that impression?"

you hadn't noticed that his grin was a little tight, but now it loosens completely. he seems glad that you're leaning into this. "actually," his eyes flicker down to your backpack, "it was more the 12-sided dice key chain."

"technically it's a die because it's only one -" you cut yourself off at the amused look on his face, wondering why you were becoming so free with trusting your mouth to open. it's all his fault, stupid sam winchester and his stupid smile. "never mind."

"no, tell me about it. you play, uh..." he thinks for a moment, "dungeons and dragons?"

it's the first time you've given in to shifting in your seat. you know how people view the game, how often people make fun of it. your small group in high school hadn't even lasted two years before disbanding. you'd kept it up as a solo hobby ever since, even if it'd been way more fun with the extra three people.

"... a little." you hate that it comes out almost defensive, like you've been conditioned into having to explain yourself. you wait for a follow-up comment, something you'll dissect late into the night as you look from every angle at how it's further ruined his perception of you.

"what's it like?"

your pre-prepared wince isn't needed. "the game?"

he nods.

you wonder if he is genuinely curious or just that good at acting. "oh, um... it's fun, i guess. kinda like an interactive book or something, you know?" now you get to use that wince.

"you like to read?"

"you've already called me a nerd, i think you know the answer to that."

his laugh comes out as a huff of air. "i'll join the club, then, i like to read too."

"what kind of stuff?"

"oh, you know, just the classics. i don't really go near anything written after the nineteenth century."

"oh." you clear your throat, any hope of relating vanishing. "that's, um... cool."

"i'm kidding," he says lightly, eyes flickering to your hand that's still clutching the pen you haven't even used in fifteen minutes. "i like lord of the rings."

your hand clenches, the ring on your finger suddenly feeling heavy. for your last birthday your parents had gotten you a replica of the one ring. you wore it almost every day. you're surprised sam had noticed.

"you like fantasy?" it comes out more bewildered than you'd like, but you really wouldn't have guessed it to even be in his top three genres.

"yeah, i've read a lot of it."

"huh."

"what?" he raises an eyebrow, amused.

"didn't take you for a fantasy guy."

"why not?"

you know your real answer, the one that remains firmly locked inside your head: he's attractive. annoyingly so. and, yeah, you know that looks don't dictate what's inside and all that crap, but from your experience, people who look like him don't go for that kind of stuff. then again, lots of people who look like him aren't generally so nice either.

you shrug. "you're a law guy. that usually means pretentious."

"we take the same classes, you know."

"which means i've witnessed all that pretentiousness first hand."

he releases a small laugh and something about it warms your chest. it hits you then that you're really just having a normal conversation. maybe it's sad, but it's been a while since it's come this easy. you blink and go for another m&m so that you can tear your eyes away from his face.

"you're something else," he says.

your hand pauses for just a second in the bag and you ask, as though the answer doesn't even matter to you, "is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"good," he answers, like he hadn't even considered the alternative. "it's definitely good."

you grow a little uncomfortable under how genuine he sounds, and it certainly doesn't help that his stupid smile is still there, still directed right at you.

"you'll take that back once i've eaten all your m&ms." you steal another for good measure.

"well, what chocolate do you not like? i'll bring that next time."

the dig is what registers first, which you're glad for as your body automatically releases a mock gasp. it's a much better reaction than being surprised he wants to meet up again, which is what sinks in now. this project doesn't focus too much on the group aspect; you easily could've gone your separate ways and just emailed one another if you needed to check anything. one more meetup, max, if any problems came up, but nothing long enough for a study snack. you half assume he just said it for the joke - you usually would - but there's something that tells you he means it.

"and here i was thinking you're not half bad."

his smile is more of a smirk now. "is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"bad." your expression half matches his. "definitely bad."

the conversation keeps up until before you know it, the librarian is ushering you out for closing time. you don't even know how it happened, but somehow underneath those fluorescent lights and across from sam, you actually enjoyed meeting someone.

sam asks for your number before you head your separate ways. you try not to act surprised, but something about the way his own smile widens at the light in your eyes makes you think that he knows you'd been hoping for it.

you go to bed that night the lightest you've felt in weeks, with sam winchester's number in your phone and his stupid smile ingrained in your mind's eye.

[youchangedmedestiel]

Friend: What are you doing right now?

Me: I have a lot of projects.

Friend: Oh so cool, what are those? New job, new business, new home, new relationship?

Me: Ok, I have a lot of SPN/Destiel projects.

[daisukekaza]

I love sub!Sam content, I do, but I also love the idea that Sam is actually an amazing dom. He's gentle, but he has all the control—something his real life usually lacks—he's commanding but not mean, he can see all the signs of his sub being on the edge of what's comfortable.

Similarly, Dean wants to let someone else be in charge, for someone to take the reigns and tell him what to do, to stop having to be the only leader. And once Sam finally leads him into the bedroom and shows him that he can fully trust himself to Sam's care? He practically falls into subspace. Peaceful, happy, cared for.

[tortured-poet-of-thursday]

“in every other universe” is cool, but what about “only in this one”?? what about “this is the only universe where it happens, that’s why it’s so precious and even more important. it’s not a product of fate, of circumstances, it’s us, just us and we made it happen. it’s rare and unique and beautiful and this universe will be the only one to witness it.”

what about it?

[plutoswritingplanet]

Ring Of Fire (Lucifer x Female!Reader)

a/n: again, no one asked for this, but i've been rewatching supernatural and there is something about season 5 Lucifer that just hits the spot for me. this one will be multiple chapters (i swear), a bit on the darker side. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (nothing too scandalous), Soulmates (but not really), follows season 5 storyline, Kinda Depressing, Strongly Inspired by "Preacher's Daughter" by Ethel Cain

Summary: Knowing God has an actual plan for you would be comforting for most people. You, however, seem to be always down on your luck.

PT.2

The foliage is damp with the night's air, water seeping into the fabric of your jeans, as you sit in the low bushes, watching. Smoke still fills your lungs, and grief still fills your heart, Jo and Ellen's faces etched just beneath your eyelids. Tears stain your cheeks, drying slowly on your skin, forming an uncomfortable crust. It's been such a long time since you've experienced loss such as this. One that rips something out of you and refuses to give it back. You must've grown too comfortable since Dean has been brought back, life needed to bring you back down. Your hands hurt from the tight grip you hold on a branch of a nearby tree, nerves locking you in place, as you watch Dean approach the Devil. Except, you're not there anymore. 

It's warm inside Bobby's home, and you've changed out of your past outfit, scattering it on the floor, never to be used again. Still, you can feel phantom moisture on your knees, elbows, on the palms of your hands. Coldness, like nothing you've ever experienced, seeps deep into your bones, taking root within you. No candle, no prayer, no ancient exorcism can cleanse you of the revelations you've seen tonight. Your head feels heavy, when you drop it onto the pillow, as if some weight is pressing you further down, through the comforter, through the bed and the wooden floor. Through all the layers of Earth, until you're right where you're supposed to be. 

It's unfortunate, you thought back then, compelled to reveal yourself from your hideout by one command you couldn't ignore, he looks just like any human. Tall and lean, with a little softness to his body. His clothes were unassuming as well, casual. As if he just took a stroll through the woods from a supermarket. No one told you the name of his vessel, who he was before he said yes, why did he do it. His eyes were ordinary as well. Blue and gray, aged, tired. Human.

It would've been so easy to pass him on the streets, not knowing. He could've been one of the patrons in the countless bars you've visited while on the hunt. Handsome, yes, with an aura of a beaten dog around him, that, in any other circumstances would've made him irresistable to you. You could never refuse a hopeless case, now you supposed you knew why. 

Sam made you tea. It sits untouched on your night stand, steam flowing in dancing ribbons into the ceiling. Somehow, you can't seem to force yourself to drink it, even if you know the intention behind it has been kind. You couldn't eat as well, the smell of cooking coming from Bobby's kitchen reminded you too much of the smell of smoke coming from the exploding hardware store. And his smell. 

Burning coals, cedar wood, jasmine, all of them were pleasant once. Now, you know they will always be stuck in your head with only one association. Lucifer. 

Even thinking of his name brings a wave of shivers running down your back, as you curl into yourself on the bed. Your fingers scratch at skin of your jaw, trying to regain some sense of autonomy. Still, you can feel a phantom of his icy touch, where he grabbed your face like his hands were meant for it. And in a way they were. At least, that's what he told you. 

The demons gathered around the mass grave didn't even react, as you ran out of your cover, pushed to reveal yourself by the sight of Dean's flying body. Because how else would he coax you out, if not through the hurt of your boys? In hindsight, you were glad Dean was unconscious for the most part of this ordeal. After the night's events, it was hard to look him in the eye, you didn't need him witnessing your downfall over your head as well. Sam tried to make his way over to you, feet sliding cautiously through the grass, but suddenly Lucifer's eyes were on you, and you could feel your fate get sealed then and there. 

He clasped his hands in front of him, pursing his lips as he took you in, cowering on the ground, trying hard to find Dean's pulse. 

- You boys brought me a gift - he mused, eyes crinkling with some strange emotion - You shouldn't have. 

One gesture later, you're up on your feet, limbs trembling as he abandoned his shovel in favor of making his way towards you. You're frozen, fear seizing you in a tight grip, and you can't seem to think straight, as you watch him approach. Last day on Earth, you muse, life flashing before your eyes, when he raises both his hands. And then he grips your face, gentle yet confident, and the world around you spins. He's cold, so cold it's unnatural. Your lips fall apart in a silent gasp. 

- Do you know who you are? - he asks in a quiet voice that suddenly makes you understand why he's temptation incarnate - Do you know why you were put on this Earth?

All you can do is stare, confusion creasing your eyebrows. His breath reaches your collarbones, as he lowers his head slightly. You can hear him chuckle to himself. The sound makes you shudder, fear and anticipation mix within your gut. 

- All those years of hunting, struggling... - your life seems so trivial, coming from his lips - It all lead you here, to me. Doesn't that sound lovely?

It doesn't. It most definitely doesn't. Tears of confusion prick at the corners of your eyes, your breathing quickens. Panic settles into your nerves like a paralyzing blanket. Because here stands a threat of magnitude you couldn't even dream of. The Satan, the Devil, Bible's biggest villain. And he knows something about you, that you cannot comprehend. 

- It's really quite pathetic, when you think about it - he muses, hands leaving your face in a flash, as he starts to pace in thought.

Swaying in your place, you risk looking at Sam, his confusion mirroring your own. Dean is still unconscious beside him. There's a thin smudge of blood running down his forehead, and you want to move so badly. You've spent years caring for these boys, being there for them, whenever they needed you. Yet, at this crucial moment all you can do, is stare in horror.  

- My Father's last ditched attempt - Lucifer turns to you with a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes - To give me my own special little bag of worms. To own, to care for, to change my mind. 

- What?

Your own voice sounds foreign to your ears. Lies. Those had to be lies. He's Satan after all, manipulation was his forte. Yes, that had to be it. Just another, messed up way at getting an upper hand over Sam. 

This time, you nearly scream when he advances towards you, his cold hands immediately finding purchase on your face, covering your jaw and your cheeks. He presses against your face so hard, you have to take a step back as he comes closer still. Sam's figure flashes out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly you feel the rough surface of a tree bark digging into your back. 

- You - for the first time you can hear some tension in his voice, something more than cold indifference - You were made for me, Honey. Just like Sam is destined to be my vessel, you're destined to be by my side. To own, to care. - he repeats those words like a mantra, and you want to throw up at how genuine he sounds.

He smiles at your terror. Tears start to flow freely from your eyes, falling on his cold fingers, skipping down his arms in smudges. His hands start to move, a perversion of a caress, as he ruffles your hair. Your head bounces off the tree, and you try with all your might to free yourself out of his grip. Your limbs flail at your sides, and you crane your neck so far back, your muscles start to strain. He doesn't let go, pressing himself closer, one of his hands coming up to grip your hair. Your nails dig into his cotton shirt, as you push against his chest to no avail. 

- No - you whisper, your rejection falling flat against his unaffected stare - I'd never...

- See, but that's the best part - his sudden enthusiasm scares you deeper, than any passive stare ever could. - Unlike Sam...

You backpedal into the tree again, as he leans closer still. His cold breath mixes with your short, panicked ones, and your stomach churns, when he tilts his head in curiosity, as if he's experiencing this intimacy for the first time. And in a way, you suppose he is. Then, his eyes meet yours, gray captivates you, and you hold your breath on instinct.

- You don't have to say yes to me. 

You're not even allowed the decency of taking a gasp of air, when his lips press into yours. It feels beyond weird. He's unnaturally cold, and there is a sort of unpracticed sloppiness in the way he fights for your mouth to fit against each other. Reminding you of your first, inexperienced romances, he smashes your faces together until you feel both sets of your teeth through the flesh. Then, he pulls back just a smidgen, taking in your terrified face. Something flashes through his expression, and he sighs, leaning back towards you, stopping just short of your left ear. 

- Kiss me like you mean it, or I'll make Dean eat his intestines. 

He looks at you, just once, letting you know this is not a game. Your heart stops. 

Dean's unconscious body starts to move by the tree, and never in your life have you felt so helpless. So, when Lucifer unavoidably leans back down, you give him all you've got. Your body arches, hands come up to his hair, and you will yourself not to feel grossed out by the feeling of his cold tongue slipping past your teeth. It's a fight for survival, you remind yourself, as his hands move to your back, rubbing your skin like a horny teenager in a bathroom stall. The short supply of air you've been granted runs out quickly, and as pressure builds in your lungs, you start to push against the Archangel's chest. He doesn't register what you're doing, not at first, confusing your sudden unwillingness as some sort of late attempt at rebellion. That is, until you bang your fist against his shoulder, letting out a muffled scream. 

Finally, he detaches himself, hair even more disheveled than before. You take a heaving gasp of air, as you brace yourself against the tree, your vision swimming ever so slightly. Lucifer watches you, his body hunched over, as if he's observing some middle schooler's science project. There are new tears in your eyes, just waiting to fall. Your hair is disheveled and your lips are puffy from his unpracticed assaults. His right hand comes up to his face, and he bites on his index finger in thought. 

- You really are human - he muses to himself, and with every fiber of your being, you try to explode his head with your brain - That's no fun, you'll break so easily...

- Fuck you - your words make his eyebrows raise, and he straightens out with a flourish.

- Fuck you - he repeats, mocking your tone - Yeah, I probably will - you watch, disgusted, as he sends a wink towards Sam.

Then, he's back to his shovel, back to his mass grave, where he completes the ritual. 

You can't move, not really, even when Sam tugs on your shoulder. Your head runs empty, realization of your current predicament far from registered in your brain. You stay frozen in your spot, when Castiel arrives, taking the three of you back to Bobby's house. Only, when the Angel's hand pushes against your rib cage, only when you feel Enochian symbols burn into your bones, do you lift your gaze. Apologetic doesn't really cover the way Castiel looks at you, and the pity painted on his face drags you down more than any Devil could.  

Sam is the only one to truly understand, when you fall to the floor, shock, anger and dread spilling out of you like a broken faucet. He's the only one that truly knows how it feels to have your bodily autonomy stripped away by the literal Devil. How it feels to have a threat of such magnitude hanging over you, every day. Which is why, he's the one to lift you in his arms, and get you to the guest room, lead away by the concerned glances of the rest of the men. He's the one to make you tea, bring you fresh clothes. He opens the window when the smell of dinner makes you retch. And finally, he's the one to explain, what really happened back on that hill to the rest of the group.

From your fetal position on the bed you can hear Dean curse, throw something somewhere. All the ways he knows, how to show he cares. Despite everything, it makes you smile, face pressed to the pillow that smells like cigarette smoke and beer. You're doomed. There's nothing you can do against God's plan, and you can feel that thought take root in you like an invasive species ready to destroy every crop in it's path. Still, despite it all, a sense of security falls upon you like a decieving blanket. 

- What sort of a messed up game is this? - Dean screams somewhere in the house, you assume it's at Cass, the only one even remotely aware of your destiny. 

The idea, that God made you specifically to be Satan's personal therapist sounds far fetched at best, but given how the last couple of months have been going, you're more inclined to believe in the absolutely worst scenarios. You don't even need to hear Castiel's response. The sound of glass breaking is telling enough. Then, a door slamms somewhere, and the house falls into heavy silence.

You can't think. Can't allow yourself to fall apart more than you've had already. So, you focus on the sound of your own breathing, interlinked with your heartbeat. Steady, alive. Your eyelids are heavy, eyes burn with drying tears, so you close them and sigh. Exhaustion pinns you in place, sinking you into the blankets. Darkness welcomes you like a long lost friend.

Your boys will find a way, they always do. And Lucifer can't find you, not with the wards Castiel has put on you. You'll have to thank him i the morning, you think, and it's the last conscious thought you have, before slipping into sleep, shivering like an abandoned child. 

[heliotrope155]

Dean teaching Cas to drive is good, but I need to know how many people understand my perspective on it. Because Dean would put his hand over Cas's on the shifter and squeeze Cas's fingers under the pretense of helping him drive stick, which he insists is very complicated.

[jasprboi]

Alright say it with me now..

“Just because one of them is short! Doesn’t make them the bottom!!”

[maddie0101]

about damn time pt.1

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it @anbernen ! ❤︎

summary: you had a normal life, up until an encounter with the impossible nearly killed you. now, your best friend, dean winchester, has pulled back the curtain on what really goes bump in the night. when you finally convince him to take you on a hunt, he gives in. what could possibly go wrong?

warnings: reader had a normal life, protective!dean, worried!dean, best friends to lovers, cute shit, cussing, underlying sexual tension, smut ish? (contains reader & dean taking care of themselves) , pinning, fluff?, nicknames bc it’s dean, lots of tension, probably way more but i suck at tags.

word count: 6.6k

note: this was supposed to be a short little oneshot but if you guys know me then you know how insane I am. yeaah…now it’s a three part mini series :) enjoy!

series masterlist next part

Dean had never been good at making friends.

Sam was always the social one, the kid who could walk into a new school and have a lunch table full of friends by the end of the week.

But Dean? He had people he joked around with, kids he’d nod to in the hallway, maybe the occasional drinking buddy once he got older, but real friends? The kind that stuck? He never let himself have those.

Until you.

He met you in some small town, one of the many places he and Sam passed through, another forgettable stop on their never-ending road trip.

But you weren’t forgettable. Not even close. You were the first girl he ever looked at and thought, Damn. And then, almost immediately thought, Don’t even think about it.

Because somehow, despite all the walls he kept up, despite knowing he’d be gone sooner rather than later, you wormed your way in. You didn’t just laugh at his jokes, you made him laugh, really laugh, the kind that made his ribs ache. You didn’t just tolerate his music, you argued about which Zeppelin song was best. And you didn’t just exist in his world, you carved out a space in it, one that felt so natural, he forgot it hadn’t always been there.

For the first time, Dean had someone who wasn’t family but felt damn close. And he wasn’t about to screw that up.

So yeah, you were drop dead gorgeous and yeah, maybe sometimes he let his eyes linger too long when you weren’t looking. Maybe sometimes his mind wandered into dangerous territory late at night when it was just him and his thoughts.

But friendship? That was something real.

Something he didn’t have to leave behind. And Dean didn’t get to have nice things, but he’d be damned if he let himself ruin this one.

Dean didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, you became his best friend.

It started off slow, stolen afternoons in diners, late-night phone calls, the kind of bond that built itself brick by brick. He couldn’t remember exactly when it had happened, when you’d become his person, but looking back, it felt inevitable. Like gravity.

Whenever he was anywhere remotely close to your small town, he made excuses to swing by. A refuel, a food stop, needing a place to crash—any reason to see you, even if it was just for a few hours.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a friendship. Just a little bit of normalcy in the middle of his chaotic life, but he knew better.

Dean didn’t do normal. And yet somehow, with you, it felt easy.

It was late nights in that little diner off Main Street, the one with the shitty coffee and the old jukebox that never worked right. You’d sit across from him, stirring too much sugar into your cup while he ate a piece of pie, and you’d talk for hours.

You’d tell him about your day, about the things you wanted out of life. Sometimes he’d tell you about his too—leaving out the monsters, of course. He told you about the road, the places he’d been, the things he’d seen. He spun half-truths, made his life sound like some endless road trip instead of the bloody war it really was.

Because you weren’t supposed to know that part of him. He wanted to keep you separate from it, untangled from the darkness that followed him. So he never told you the truth. Never let you too close.

But the thing was—You already were close.

It was the late-night phone calls when he was too wired to sleep after a hunt. He’d call just to hear your voice, just to feel something real on the other end of the line. You’d answer every time, no matter how late, your voice groggy but warm.

“Dean? You okay?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Just… wanted to talk.”

And you would. About everything and nothing. Until his pulse settled, until the world didn’t feel so heavy. It was the way you always knew when something was off.

“Where are you?” you’d ask, suspicion laced in your voice when he was being too vague about where he’d been.

“Oh, you know. Here. There. The usual.”

“Uh-huh. That’s not an answer, Winchester.”

You were relentless, prying without even knowing it, but he loved that about you. It meant you cared. And god help him, he liked being cared about. It was the fact that, without even trying, you’d become the one person he couldn’t stay away from.

And maybe, just maybe—he didn’t want to stay away.

So he kept coming back. Kept sneaking away to see you, calling when he couldn’t. You had no idea how deep he was in it, how badly he wanted to tell you the truth—how many times he almost had. But every time he thought about it, all he saw was you getting hurt.

So he kept lying, pretending. Because with you, he didn’t have to be Dean Winchester, the hunter.

He could just be Dean.

But not all good things last forever. Especially not for Dean.

For a while, it had almost felt too easy—sneaking into your little town, slipping into your life like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t just a drifter passing through. He let himself believe, even if just for a little while, that this could last. That you were safe. That the world he lived in, the nightmares he fought, wouldn’t touch you. But monsters didn’t give a damn about what he wanted. And one night, everything changed.

It started with a phone call. His phone buzzed against the cheap motel nightstand, the sound barely cutting through the quiet hum of late-night TV. Dean almost ignored it—he was tired, had been driving for hours, and the last thing he wanted was another case dropping in his lap.

But when he saw your name flashing on the screen, something in his chest tightened.

You never called this late.

The second he answered, he knew something was wrong. There was no teasing remark, no easy “Hey, Winchester” to greet him. Just heavy breathing and the faintest shake in your voice when you said, “Dean?”

He sat up immediately, muscles tensing. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”

Then, in a panicked rush, you told him. About the thing that had broken into your apartment. How it had your face. How it moved like you, talked like you—how for a split second, you thought you were losing your damn mind.

Dean was already yanking on his boots, keys clutched tight in his fist. “It’s a shifter,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. He needed you calm. Needed you alive. “Listen to me. Do you have anything silver?”

A rustling noise sounded from the phone's speaker. Then, “I—I think. There’s a necklace in my dresser—”

“Not good enough. You need a weapon.”

“Dean, it’s coming.” He heard it then—a noise in the background, the sound of something moving, the faintest creak of floorboards. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “Get a knife, anything,” he ordered. “Aim for the heart, go for the kill shot. Don’t hesitate.”

“Dean, I—”

The line went dead and Dean's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. “Shit.”

Dean was out the door before he could think, speeding through the dark streets, his heart hammering against his ribs. The entire drive, all he could think about was getting to you in time.

But when he got there—He was too late.

Not too late, not in the way that mattered most, but—The door to your apartment was wide open.

Dean barely registered the sound of his own boots pounding against the floor as he rushed inside, gun drawn, instincts screaming. He had played out worst-case scenarios the entire drive over—found you dead, found you gone, found whatever thing had come for you still standing over your body, smirking in the way only monsters could.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

You stood in the middle of your living room, drenched in blood.

It was everywhere—splattered across your face, streaked down your arms, soaking into the fabric of your shirt. The knife in your trembling grip dripped with something dark and wet, forming a thick pool on the hardwood floor beneath you.

And at your feet was the body—the fucking body.

It was wrong. Twisted. A half-shifted mockery of you. Your own face, but not. The features warped and melting, frozen mid-transition as if the thing had died trying to wear you like a second skin.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

You weren’t just shaking. You were trembling. Your breath came in short, erratic gasps—eyes blown wide, wild, as if you couldn’t quite process what you were looking at. Or maybe, more terrifyingly, that you could.

You swallowed thickly, eyes locking onto his. Your voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and broken “What the fuck was that thing?”

Dean’s grip on his gun tightened. He had been too late. Not too late, not in the way that mattered most, but—fuck. You weren’t supposed to see this. You weren’t supposed to live this.

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you stared down at the body like if you looked long enough, maybe it would make sense. Like if you blinked, it would disappear, and you could wake up from this nightmare.

But it didn’t. And you wouldn’t.

Dean took a careful step closer. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low, steady, the way he would talk someone off a ledge. Because that’s where you were right now, teetering at the edge of something dark and sharp and permanent. “You with me?”

You let out a shuddering breath, barely nodding.

But you weren’t, not really. He could see it now—the thousand-yard stare, the way your fingers clenched and unclenched around the knife like you still weren’t sure if you needed to fight for your life. The way you stood, knees locked, barely breathing, as if one wrong move might break you.

It had been self-defense. It had to be.

But that didn’t mean it hadn’t fucked you up. Killing something was one thing. Killing something that wore your face? That was a whole different kind of horror.

You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself, but when you lifted your hands, your gaze snagged on the blood. Not the shifter’s. Your own.

A jagged gash ran along your forearm—shallow, but deep enough that the crimson dripped in slow, fat droplets down to your fingertips. You flexed your fingers, watching them move like they weren’t even yours. Like you weren’t sure if you were still real.

Then, barely above a whisper, your voice cracked “It said something about how I’m connected to the Winchesters now.” You swallowed hard. “What does that mean?” Your voice wavered, still raw, still shell-shocked. “And how did you know how to kill it?”

Dean froze. The words settled like lead in his chest, heavier than they should’ve been. He didn’t let things get personal. He didn’t let people get close.

But you? You had slipped past every wall he had without even trying. And now, something had noticed.

His jaw clenched, a slow, creeping anger coiling under his skin like something toxic. Not at you. Never at you.

At them. At whatever son of a bitch had set its sights on you. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn't let you become another name to carve into his ribs, another ghost to carry.

Which meant you only had one option. Dean exhaled, voice tight. “Pack a bag.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re coming with me.”

Your brows furrowed. “Dean—”

“No arguments.” The words came sharper than he intended, but he needed you to listen. Needed you to understand that this wasn’t up for debate. “If something out there knows your name—knows me—you’re not staying here.”

You hesitated, glancing around—at the blood, the wreckage, the body still caught between stolen faces. The realization settled in your expression, something raw and shaken but understanding.

Your life, as you knew it, was over.

There was no going back.

And when you finally nodded, Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Because from this moment on, whether you liked it or not—You were in this life.

And he wasn’t about to let anything take you from it.

The bunker was a freaking labyrinth.

From the moment Dean led you inside, duffel slung over his shoulder, exhaustion written all over his face, you felt like you’d stepped into another world. The place was massive—high-arched ceilings, endless hallways, dim overhead lighting that flickered just enough to make the shadows stretch long. It smelled like old books and gun oil, metal and dust.

And it was quiet. Unnervingly so.

Dean tossed his bag onto a table in what he called the war room—a massive space with an old map of the world lit up across the table, covered in notes, scribbles, and markings you didn’t understand.

“Sit,” he said, pulling out a chair for you. He didn’t sound tired anymore. If anything, his voice had that clipped, serious edge you weren’t used to, like he was preparing to lay something heavy on you. Which, as you were quickly learning, was exactly what was about to happen.

And so, for the next two hours, you got the crash course on what the hell Dean Winchester really did for a living. He didn’t sugarcoat it at all. He told you everything. The good, the bad, the ugly.

That monsters were real, actually, fucking real. That the thing you killed in your apartment? A shapeshifter. That there were demons, ghosts, werewolves, vampires, witches, things that went bump in the night that you weren’t supposed to know about. And angels. That was the one that almost made you laugh. “You’re shitting me.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Wish I was.”

Your head spun. You wanted to call bullshit, wanted to believe that this was some sick prank or a fever dream or something that would make sense in the morning.

But it wasn’t. Because you had already seen it. You had watched a creature with your your face shift try to kill you. You had stabbed a fucking thing in the heart with a silver knife and watched it die, twitching at your feet like a broken machine.

And now, you were sitting in a secret underground bunker, hearing about how this was Dean’s life.

It took a while for it to sink in, honestly. But once it did, you realized something else—this was your life now, too.

At first, you kept busy. You had to, or your own thoughts would eat you alive.

Sam was more than happy to dump research on you, burying you in lore books, faded manuscripts, and half-legible scribbles from old hunters long dead. He taught you how to read Latin, how to dig through old archives for the weirdest shit imaginable, how to trace supernatural patterns in a way you never would’ve noticed before.

But Dean? Dean was different. He had other plans.

“You’re not just gonna sit around playing librarian all day,” he told you one afternoon, his voice casual, but his expression anything but. Before you could ask what he meant, something came flying toward you.

Your hands shot up on instinct, fingers fumbling around the object before you finally got a grip on it. A second passed before you looked down, realization settling in.

A wooden practice knife. You raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he echoed, arms crossed over his chest. “If something comes after you again, I want you to be able to defend yourself properly.”

There was no arguing with that look—the one that told you he had already made up his mind.

And so, Dean trained you. You hated him for it at first because he didn’t go easy on you. Not even for a damn second.

The first time you squared up with him, he didn’t even hesitate. One moment, you were gripping the knife, determined to prove yourself, and the next—you were flat on your back, the wind knocked clean out of you.

Dean towered over you, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I’m not a real monster. You’d be dead already.”

You groaned, staring up at the ceiling. “Maybe just kill me now.”

But he didn’t let you quit. He made you throw punches until your knuckles ached, made you dodge and block until your muscles burned, made you repeat the same damn moves over and over again until you got them right.

“You’re thinking too much,” he told you after you failed to land a hit for the third time in a row.

“No shit, Sherlock,” you snapped, breathing hard, sweat sticking to your skin.

Dean smirked. “Cute.”

God, that look he gave you—the cocky, infuriating, hot as hell smirk that made you want to punch him in the face just to wipe it off. He was all rough hands and sharp words, pushing you harder every day.

You weren’t the worst student he’d ever had, but still, he had no idea how the hell you’d managed to take down that shifter on your own. Luck? Instinct?

Either way, it wasn’t good enough.

And you could feel it—the tension thickening between you both with every training session. The way your bodies moved around each other, the way your breath mixed as you dodged each blow, the way he would grab your wrist, pulling you flush against him when you got too sloppy.

One afternoon, he had you pinned against the wall, his forearm pressed against your collarbone, holding you still. Your chest rose and fell against his, breathless, your skin burning where he touched you. “You keep dropping your left side,” he murmured, voice low, rough.

You swallowed hard, staring up at him. “I know.”

His eyes flickered to your lips—so fast you almost missed it, almost. But then, just as quickly, he was gone, stepping back, that damn smirk back in place. “Then stop doing it.”

That night, you spent an embarrassing amount of time lying awake, thinking about the way he had looked at you.

The boredom was killing you. And at first, it wasn’t so bad.

The bunker was massive, filled with books older than your grandparents, weapons you weren’t even allowed to touch without supervision, and endless hallways that you swore led to nowhere. You had training to focus on, bruises to ice, whiskey to steal from Dean’s stash when he wasn’t looking.

But ready or not, boredom came creeping in like a goddamn sickness. Because every time Sam and Dean left for a hunt, you were stuck. Alone.

The first few times, you didn’t mind. It was kind of nice, actually. Peaceful. You could sprawl out on the war room table, pick up one of those dusty old lore books, and pretend you weren’t completely out of your depth in this life. You started teaching yourself different languages, then flipping through pages of exorcisms just to pass the time. You memorized sigils and symbols, even started picking up bits and pieces of other languages such as Enochian, ancient Sumerian, shit you’d probably never even use.

But after a while, the silence got to you. The bunker was too big, too still. With no goddamn windows, no way to tell if it was day or night without checking the old clock on the wall. You used to love having all this space to yourself, but now? Now it felt like the walls were closing in. Like you were rotting down here, waiting for something to happen.

So you cleaned-- And cleaned--And cleaned some more. Until every single room in the bunker was spotless. Until you’d done all the laundry—yours, Sam’s, and Dean’s, just for something to do. You even took the time to fold their clothes because, let’s be honest, those two were a freaking mess.

You weren’t looking for them, honestly.

It wasn’t like you set out to dig through Dean’s stuff with the intent of uncovering his most embarrassing secrets. You were just trying to be nice—helpful even. Laundry was one of the only things keeping you sane while the guys were gone. It gave you a purpose, something to do.

But this? This was a fucking goldmine.

You held up the offending fabric, eyes widening in absolute horror before the laughter burst out of you, uncontrollable and borderline manic.

Dean Winchester, the badass hunter, feared by demons, monsters, and even some angels—owned underwear covered with hot dogs.

Your stomach hurt from how hard you were laughing, tears actually pricking at your eyes. And just when you thought you could breathe again, you reached back into the laundry pile and—Oh, oh, it got better.

Bright red socks, obnoxious and ridiculous, with the words 'SEND NOODS' printed across them in bold white letters. And the kicker? They had little cartoon ramen noodles on them.

You actually had to sit down on Dean’s bed to take a second and regain your breath.

Because of course this was Dean. Tough, rugged, walks-like-he-owns-the-room Dean, the man who could kill a monster without breaking a sweat, but who also shoved extra packets of hot sauce into his pockets every time you got takeout because he might need them later.

The same Dean who grumbled about bad movie plots but still secretly loved them, the same Dean who would throw a flirty wink at a waitress and then turn around and give his leftovers to a stray dog outside.

He was a contradiction. A mess of sharp edges and soft spots, of cocky grins and stupid jokes mixed with genuine, heart-wrenching moments of kindness.

And you loved him for it.

The realization had hit you like a truck. Dean wasn’t just your best friend. He wasn’t just the guy who had saved you, who had trained you, who had made sure you weren’t alone in this life.

He was the man you wanted.

And not just in the sweet, romantic, oh, let’s go on a date and hold hands kind of way.

No. It was the kind of want that made your skin burn, that kept you up at night with images of him pressed against you, mouth hot and claiming, hands gripping your waist like he needed you.

And it wasn’t just a one-time thing either.

It was constant.

Like when he walked around in nothing but a towel, fresh from the shower, water still dripping down his broad shoulders, the scent of his soap—god, that soap, clinging to the air.

Or when he leaned over you at the library table, arm brushing yours, voice low and gruff in your ear as he pointed something out in the lore book, and you had to physically stop yourself from turning your head just to get a whiff of his damn cologne.

And then there were the moments that really tested your willpower.

Like when Dean was working on the Impala. God help you, when Dean was working on Baby.

It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing, shouldn’t have made your mouth go dry or your stomach twist into knots. But damn if it didn’t.

There he was, under the hood, sleeves pushed up, exposing those strong forearms—the ones you’d stared at countless times and never got tired of. The muscles in his back flexed beneath his Henley as he leaned over, hands expertly twisting a wrench, brows furrowed in concentration.

And then there was the grease. Smudged across his forearm, streaked along his jaw, a little bit on his cheek. It shouldn’t have been hot, but it was.

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck as you watched him, completely entranced. You tried to be subtle about it, really, you did. But your thighs pressed together on instinct, trying, failing to find some kind of relief.

Dean had always been a gorgeous man. That was just a fact. His sharp jawline, the freckles dusting his nose, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. And that voice—gravelly and rough, especially in the mornings or when he was pissed off.

You’d always been attracted to him, but it had been manageable. A quiet, buried thing. At least, it had been. Because lately? Lately, it was getting bad. Like the time he caught you blushing—really blushing.

It was nothing, just a stupid little moment in the kitchen. You were making coffee, minding your own business, when Dean strolled in, half-awake, wearing nothing but his boxers. He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, his abs tightening, that faint happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband.

Your eyes snapped away, cheeks on fire, and you could feel his smirk before he even said a word.

“Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?” His voice was still thick with sleep, rougher than usual.

“Nope.” You turned your attention back to the coffee pot, praying to whoever that he wouldn’t press it.

But of course, this was Dean. He stepped up beside you, close enough that his body heat was noticeable, close enough that his scent—leather, whiskey, and oil wrapped around you like a goddamn trap.

“You sure? ‘Cause you’re lookin’ a little pink there.”

You scowled, keeping your eyes firmly on the coffee. “It’s warm in here.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Stupid smug bastard. You rolled your eyes.

But that was nothing compared to the other time. The time he really, really pushed you over the edge.

It was late. You were both in the library, going over lore books. Nothing exciting, just another normal night. And then—he did it. Completely unintentional, completely innocent.

He was leaning back in his chair, flipping through a book, and at some point, he rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms behind his head, muscles shifting beneath his Henley. And then he let out this low, satisfied groan.

And that was it. Game over. A pulse of heat shot straight to your core so fast it actually took your breath away. You squeezed your thighs together hard, trying to curb the ache, trying to breathe, but it didn’t help. It didn’t do anything.

Thankfully, Dean didn't notice. He just kept reading, oblivious to the fact that he had just wrecked you.

You barely made it to your room before you lost it.

The second the door shut behind you, you pressed your back against it, heart hammering, breath shallow. The heat pooling in your belly was impossible to ignore, the ache between your thighs maddening.

Jesus Christ. Dean Winchester was going to ruin you.

You swallowed, chest rising and falling as you tried to steady yourself. But it was useless. The second you closed your eyes, all you saw was him from that time you watched him work on Baby.

The grease smudged across his fingers, the way his biceps flexed as he worked on Baby, the sweat rolling down his neck in the heat of the garage. That sharp, smug smirk when he caught you staring too long. The way his voice roughened when he was exhausted, dropping into a low, gravelly drawl that sent a shiver down your spine.

If he ever figured it out, he’d destroy you.

A quiet, frustrated sigh left your lips as you squeezed your thighs together, but it wasn’t enough. The pressure only made it worse.

Your fingers moved before you could think, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweats. The first touch sent a shudder through you, an exhale leaving your lips as your body immediately reacted. But it wasn’t your own hand you were imagining.

It was his.

Calloused fingers skimming over your skin, teasing you, dragging over your sensitive flesh like he had all the time in the world. “Look at you,” his voice rasped in your head, the deep, husky tone laced with something dark, something possessive. “Knew you’d be sweet for me.”

Your breath hitched as your fingers moved faster, chasing the phantom sensation of his touch.

Dean, pressing you up against the Impala, his hands gripping your hips, pinning you there. His breath ghosting against your neck before his teeth scraped against your pulse. Your other hand clutched the fabric of your shirt, nails digging in as the pleasure built.

“Tell me how bad you want it, sweetheart.”

A quiet whimper slipped from your lips as you imagined him, imagined those same rough hands holding you down, spreading you open, teasing you until you were trembling, begging—And God, you would beg.

Your back arched, the pleasure coiling tighter, your body wound so tight you thought you might snap—

“Dean—” His name left your lips in a ragged gasp as you unraveled, waves of heat crashing over you. Your muscles tensed, thighs shaking, your own hand barely enough, because fuck, you knew nothing would ever compare to the real thing.

You stood there for a moment, skin flushed, heart still pounding. But as the high faded, another thought settled heavily in your chest.

This wasn’t just lust. Wasn’t just some reckless attraction. You didn’t just want Dean Winchester.

You were in love with him. Hopelessly, dangerously, in love with him. And if you weren’t careful? You were going to get burned.

But even that wasn’t enough to keep the boredom away. After all the cleaning, the laundry, the books, the languages—you had nothing left.

And it wasn’t just boredom anymore. It was loneliness. The bunker was too damn quiet without them. No sarcastic remarks from Dean, no long-winded research rants from Sam, no arguments over what food to order.

Just you. You wanted out. Wanted more.

And so, one night, as Dean was packing up his duffel, getting ready for another job, you finally snapped “I’m coming with you.”

Dean didn’t even look up. “No, you’re not.”

Your hands curled into fists. “Dean.”

He sighed, zipping his bag before finally turning to face you. “Look, I get it. You’re sick of being cooped up. You want to do something. But hunting isn’t a goddamn road trip, sweetheart.”

“I know that,” you shot back. “You think I haven’t been paying attention? I’ve trained. I know how to handle myself.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “It’s not the same.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “How the hell would you know? You never let me come.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a second, something flickered across his face, annoyance, maybe? or something deeper, something more hesitant. “Because it’s dangerous.”

“So is staying in the bunker and losing my mind,” you shot back. “I’ve been stuck down here for months, Dean. I research, I train, I do everything you ask—but I have no idea what it’s actually like out there. I want to see what you do. I want to understand it. And I want to understand you.”

That made him freeze.

It wasn’t the argument he was expecting. He was used to hearing, I can handle myself, or I just want to be useful, but this? You weren’t just asking to hunt. You were asking to know him.

And that scared the shit out of him.

Dean swallowed hard, running a hand over his jaw as he turned away, pretending to busy himself with his duffel bag. He needed to shut this down, fast. You had no idea what you were asking for.

“Look, I get it,” he muttered. “The bunker’s boring. But this life? It’s not what you think it is.”

You shook your head. “I don’t think it’s glamorous, Dean. I know it’s brutal. I’ve seen the aftermath, I’ve seen you come back with bruises and stitches and that dead look in your eyes. But that’s exactly why I want to go. Because I feel like I only know part of you. I see the guy who fixes cars and drinks shitty beer and argues with Sam about movie references—but I don’t know the hunter. And if I’m going to be part of this world now, I want to understand all of you.”

His stomach twisted. Because you already did know him. You knew him better than almost anyone. And maybe that was the real problem.

Dean had spent years forcing himself to keep his distance, making sure he never let anything slip.

But it was getting harder.

Every damn day, it got harder. Because the real truth? He didn’t just love you. He was in love with you.

It had started as something small—just admiration, just attraction. But then it grew, creeping into every part of him, sinking its claws deep. You were the only person, besides Sam, who made him feel like he wasn’t just some soldier marching toward an inevitable end.

And the worst part? You had no fucking clue.

Dean couldn’t risk telling you. Couldn’t risk ruining what you had. So instead, he locked it down, buried it beneath sarcasm and forced nonchalance, kept his hands to himself even when he ached to pull you close.

Sure, hunting was hell. Dean had been through it all—bloody fights with creatures that could tear him apart, near-death experiences more times than he could count, nights spent in shitty motel rooms with nothing but whiskey and nightmares for company.

But the bunker? Christ, it was torture now.

There was nowhere to hide from you. No distance to put between himself and the way you unknowingly drove him out of his goddamn mind. You had no clue. No fucking idea what you did to him.

It was the little things, the casual, effortless way you existed in his space, like you belonged there. Like you’d always belonged there.

The way you walked around in his shirts sometimes—shit you probably didn’t even think twice about. But Dean did, he thought about it constantly.

Because his shirts swallowed you up, the fabric hanging loose off your shoulders, barely covering your ass, and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to stare. Not to imagine what it would be like if you were wearing nothing underneath, if he could just slide his hands up those bare thighs and fuck you senseless.

Fuck.

And then there was the stretching. It wasn’t even intentional, wasn’t like you were trying to kill him, but fuck if it didn’t wreck him. Like when you’d wander into the kitchen first thing in the morning, hair a mess, still sleepy-eyed, and reach your arms over your head in a slow, lazy stretch that had your back arching just right.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst was when you’d yawn, soft and content, lips parted slightly, making these little noises that sent Dean’s brain straight into the gutter. Because all he could think about was how you’d sound if he had you underneath him—if he was pulling those sounds from your lips himself.

And if that weren't enough, thats when the heat would settle low in his stomach, spreading like wildfire, and before he could even think about stopping it—bam. Instant boner.

But then came the real problem, hiding it. Which was a hell of a lot harder than it should’ve been.

Like the time you flopped down next to him at the kitchen table, stretching with a soft groan, and he nearly choked on his coffee because holy shit, that sound went straight to his dick. He’d had to shift in his seat, subtly adjust himself under the table, and pray to every goddamn angel in existence that you didn’t notice.

Or the time you asked him to pass you something from the top shelf, and when you reached up to grab it, your body brushed against his, just barely, but fuck—he had to back up so fast he nearly knocked over a chair.

And then there was the absolute worst moment.

The time you hugged him. You’d been in a good mood about something, probably after kicking his ass at poker and you just threw your arms around him, squeezing tight, your body pressed right up against his.

And Dean? He fucking froze. Because all he could think about was how warm you were, how you fit against him perfectly, how easy it would be to slide his hands down, grip your hips, pull you in even closer—

And then it happened again. Another traitorous, fucking boner. Dean had never panicked so hard in his life. He patted your back stiffly, pulled away before you could notice, and immediately sat down at the nearest table, praying you wouldn’t ask why he suddenly had to stay seated.

Jesus Christ, he was a mess.

And it wasn’t just the physical frustration—it was you. It was the way you felt like home. The way you didn’t even realize you’d completely wrecked him.

And the worst part? He didn’t think he’d ever stop wanting you. He’d have to force himself to look away, think about something else, anything else, but it never worked.

And that’s how he found himself here. In the shower, water scalding hot, one hand braced against the tile while the other wrapped around his painfully hard cock. He bit down on his lip, squeezed his eyes shut, and let the images take over.

You, sprawled out on his bed, looking up at him with those wide, teasing eyes. You, wearing his damn shirt, nothing underneath, your skin soft and warm as he slid his hands underneath the fabric.

You, gasping his name as he finally got his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting—

A deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat as he came, pleasure crashing through him so hard his knees nearly buckled. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, forehead pressed against the cool tile.

And then, like always, came the guilt. Because you weren’t his and you had no idea how fucking badly he wanted you to be.

But then there was Sam. And Sam, Dean's annoying little brother? He saw everything.

“Dude,” he’d said once, shaking his head as they packed up for a hunt. “You’re pathetic.”

Dean scowled. “Excuse me?”

Sam just grinned, tossing a knife into his bag. “You gonna tell her, or you just gonna keep sighing longingly every time she walks by?”

“Shut up.”

But Sam didn’t shut up. Ever. Especially not when Dean constantly checked his phone on hunts. The moment he and Sam rolled into a new town, Dean was texting you, calling you, making sure you were okay.

Sam would tease him relentlessly. “You just talked to her an hour ago.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re like a clingy boyfriend.”

“Eat a dick, Sammy.”

But Sam wasn’t wrong. And now you were standing in front of him, looking at him like he was some goddamn puzzle you were trying to solve, and it was taking everything in him not to crack.

Because you wouldn’t let this go. You were relentless, you'd bring it up every damn day, and the more you would push, the weaker his resolve would get.

But the worst part about it all? You were right. You should see all aspects of him. If you were really going to be part of this life, you needed to understand it.

That didn’t make it any easier but Dean let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine.”

You blinked. “What?”

“One hunt,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Just one. No arguments.”

A triumphant grin spread across your face as Dean groaned. “I already regret this.” But so did his gut because something about this felt wrong, and it was too late now.

series masterlist next part

author’s note:

let’s say it in unison now, maddie is fucking insane! lmfaooooo. I honestly just kept thinking of more stuff to write and before I knew it I had an 11k fic sitting right infront of my face. I didn’t want to make the ‘oneshot’ too long so I decided to split it up into three parts, hence the ‘mini series’ :)

also, special thanks to @aylacavebear for helping me with this little mini series. I don’t know what I’d do without you!

I really hope you like it @anbernen ! if you don’t like smut you can always skip the third part :) I just felt like this story needed a little smut so I went ahead and wrote it lmfao. hehe, enjoy! ❤︎

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off the list) btw I apologize for the small spam..

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[its-alittleobsessed]

Me rocking back and forth and twitching in a corner — is this good characterization? Have i made him too ooc? Would he say this? Is this good characterization? Is this good characterization? Is this

[faramirsonofgondor]

sometimes i want fix-it fics but sometimes i want break-it fics where everything gets worse and every good thing that happened in canon gets destroyed, obliterated, and decimated.