#and maybe halfway through it has more to do with sammy killing him than it ever did protecting himself. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

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in support of Texas relief,@whiskeycherrypie donated $25, and requested Sam/Dean, very late seasons, switching. Thank you for donating!

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(read on AO3)

The second hunt, after, is when things start to feel real again.

First job was the shapeshifter and even after just a few weeks of post-almost-apocalypse vacation they were rusty, as much as they ever got rusty. Sam broke his damn finger, which Dean made fun of him for, and Dean limped around on a half-busted shin that Sam can just stop smirking about, any time now, but they felt—like what? Hard to pin down. Like they were stepping out into a strange world. Like they'd fire a gun and didn't know if it'd recoil the same way it always would, because the world was different. New. At least, Dean kept feeling that way, and he thinks he's known Sam long enough to guess Sam was feeling about the same. Every part of that job was—feeling for a step down in the dark, and then being surprised when it was there. Sam flicking through the local paper checking obits, cautious when he pointed out a possible connection, like he hadn't done the same thing a hundred, thousand, times before. Dean going through the trunk and pulling out their supplies and holding a fistful of silver bullets in his hand and thinking—is this it? Sam, getting the motel room after, when they'd been to the Urgent Care to check out Dean's stupid shin that it turns out, okay, wasn't broken after all, and the woman at the counter asking what kind of room, and Sam hesitating, and glancing back at where Dean was propped up in the office doorway.

But it was right, in the end. They did right. They saved most of a day and killed the bad thing and it turned out that after everything they were still the same guys they always were. After the world ended it was supposed to be maybe something else, but, shit, the world didn't quite end after all, and it turned out… Sam gave his stupid shin a few more days to rest up and kept his finger splinted and then after a week there was Sam, laptop open on the table when Dean came in for breakfast, and he said, "Hey, you want to work?" with every expectation that Dean would, and that—that was new, kind of, in the way that Sam wasn't trying to distract himself or Dean, and it wasn't to patch up some broken thing that couldn't be fixed, and it wasn't because they owed anything to anyone. It was because it turned out that after all this was who they were, and Dean looked at Sam over the island while he whipped up some eggs semi-capably (although he never used enough salt) and Sam glanced over his shoulder when the toaster popped and saw Dean looking, and raised his eyebrows like—what?—like this wasn't just the best hope of Dean's life being realized, finally, right here in a hole in the ground at eight in the morning, on the wrong side of forty. "What's the job?" was all Dean said, then, and then—that was it. That was that.

Second hunt's a success, too. Vetalas, in Wyoming. Dean hates Wyoming. Not for the people or the scenery or the weather, even, though the weather can be a bitch, but because you can't get anywhere with a damn mountain leaping up into the middle of the highway and having to drive three hours the wrong direction to get to where you're going. Sam has heard this argument, and rolls his eyes mostly, but this time, this second hunt, he laughs, and stretches out in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and his elbow hanging out, and it's summer and he's stripped out of his jacket and has his sleeves rolled up and he just looks—good. Dean recites his lines: "Lander to Pinedale should be, what, forty minutes, but no, we gotta drive a hundred miles out of the way to get around this stupid—" and Sam sighs and says his line, which is, "Don’t you like driving?" and Dean says, "Don't get facts in the way here, man, that is not the issue—" and it's… the same ruts, the same life, but Sam's face is all folded up in glad creases, his dimple carved in so deep it looks like it's going to set up residence there full-time, and Dean eases off the gas a little, stretches out the drive, even if it's around the same damn mountain they've circled three times, looking for the same damn vetalas. They find them, of course, and they kill them, and they find three men drained of life in the cellar at their cabin but there are two more that Sam and Dean save, and on the drive back to Kansas through the night Sam's not in that same sunshine mood but he's not anything but content, either. Dean had—he'd hoped, in some shriveled part of himself that hadn't really had much luck with hoping—and maybe the last few years he'd gotten some proof, that what he'd wanted was what Sam wanted, too—but to have the proof, right here, it's—he doesn't pray, really, but he says inside his head very clearly thank you, to whatever might be listening. It's all he's got. He hopes it's enough.

They stop for a booze restock, for stuff to make dinner, and back at the bunker Dean's slow, watching Sam unpack his half of the car. His finger's still splinted but it can probably come off, soon. He gets his backpack on his shoulder and his duffle over his arm and the twelve pack in the good hand, and glances at Dean, and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam's eyes narrow in that tiny tiny way where he smooths it out so fast he must think Dean won't notice, but Dean's honest, here, and he smiles without meaning to, and Sam frowns at him but smiles back, confused. Dean claps him on the shoulder and Sam shakes his head, says, "Dude, what?" and Dean says, "Nothing, you deaf? C'mon, let's get the beer in the fridge before it gets any warmer," and Sam shakes his head again and says, "You're the weirdest person I know," and Dean looks over his shoulder and says, "Takes one, Sammy," and he's just—sure. Sure, all through his body, from gut to his heart to his stupid brain, always lurching, looking for the exits. What a thing.

Spaghetti and meatballs, for dinner. The sauce is from a jar but Dean takes his time with the meat. Half pork, half beef, the spices he likes, a bunch of garlic. Sam practically inhales it and gets sauce on his chin and Dean grins at him until Sam colors and says, "Shut up," and swipes it off with the heel of his hand, and then shrugs and licks his palm. They're on season two of Game of Thrones and they watch an episode, and Dean wants Joffrey to die and asks Sam to tell him it'll happen soon, and Sam just smiles and says, "Dude, I'm not giving you spoilers after how long I had to wait to read the books. Hold your horses." Dean mutters, "I'll hold your horses," and Sam raises his eyebrows, but Dean just waves a hand instead of getting into the bickering match they could.

They get fresh beers and Dean says, "Hey, let's—" and so they head upstairs to ground level, and Sam brought two spare bottles each, and they go around to the back side of the big abandoned power plant where there's an ugly concrete bench they hung out on, sometimes. Especially before, when the bunker was fuller than it is now. A place to be quiet, to breathe. To watch the moonrise, as they're doing now, and drink in quiet companionship, their knees touching because they both tend to sprawl, and they've never, ever minded each other's warmth. Even when they were pissed at each other, or when it hurt.

Dean holds his beer in both hands, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Sam's quiet at his side. A three-quarter moon, so it's bright enough to lay white-silver on the planes of Sam's face. His nose, a gleam of that goofy ski-slope swoop. His brow. A light shine on his hair, and brighter on the silver that's started to come out in it. Dean's always been a little entertained by that—Sam's four years and a handful of months younger than him, and it's Sam who's been going grey faster—but he never said anything about it because—well, it's just something, that's all. Sammy, with grey hair. He's so damn lucky to see it he can't really pull Sam's pigtails about it.

Everything else, though: fair game.

"Never have I ever?" Dean says, after who knows how long sitting in silence. They're on their second beers, anyway.

Sam huffs. "You're kidding," he says. He tips his head on his shoulder, looking sidelong at Dean in the dark. "Anyway, wouldn't you just get… trashed, at that game? You've done everything, right?"

"Very much underselling your weird kinky shit, brother mine," Dean says. Sam's eyebrows jump and Dean's stomach rushes hot, in a way he didn't expect, even if he's been halfway thinking, all day, about how they were going to get here. "Try this: never have I ever… ate out a chick during shark week."

Sam half-scoffs, weak. Dean raises his eyebrows back, and Sam says, "Seriously?"

Dean spreads a hand, expansive, and Sam says, quiet, "This is so stupid," but then, because Dean knows his brother very well indeed, Sam takes a drink, and Dean says "Ha!" out loud and shoves Sam's shoulder, and then says, after a second's thinking, "Dude, seriously?"

"It's just blood," he says, and it's not exactly defensive but there's a shard of it buried somewhere in there. Dean laughs, half-surprised and half-not. "Not like we don't deal with it every day. You should broaden your horizons."

"Oh, my horizons are plenty broad," Dean says. It's bubbling in his chest, now, ready to come out. This is stupid—"This is stupid," Sam says, out loud—and teenage, and dumb, but he feels… "Come on, your turn," he says, and Sam lets out this long exasperated sigh, but even in the moonlight Dean can see that he's smiling, and Sam says: "Okay, fine: never have I ever had a threesome."

Dean sits up straighter. "What, seriously?" he says, derailed, and Sam shrugs, and of course Dean has to take a drink because Sam knows that Dean—and then it's on, really.

Dancing on the edge. The things they know about each other, the things they might could guess. Dean kills his last beer on never have I ever had sex in a movie theater, and he tells Sam after that that he needs to live more, and Sam smiles at him kind of bitchy and then says, "Hang on, stay here," and Sam gets up and half-jogs away, disappears down the recessed hidden driveway that leads to the garage, and Dean sets his bottle down among the empties and rubs his palms over his thighs, letting the warm denim scratch him up, taking a deep breath. It feels too big to say. Even if he's sure. It's too big to even be true, if it's…

Sam comes back, quick, like he ran the whole way. He has two more beers and the bottle of bourbon they bought today tucked under his arm. "Okay, sucker," he says, handing Dean an open bottle and plumping back down on the bench. Their thighs are solid together. He clinks his bottle with Dean, setting the bourbon down at their feet. "Never have I ever…" He licks his lips, shine in the dark. "Slept with a demon."

Dean blinks. He takes a breath. "I don’t think that's how you're supposed to play," he says, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth and shrugs. Maybe he's a little tipsier than he seems, even if they're only three beers down. Sam takes a drink, quick, but his eyes are focused on Dean's face, the moon a little behind his shoulder, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek but drinks, too, and Sam lets out this quick short breath that—Dean doesn't know, what that means. He feels caught at something.

"Did you—" Sam starts, and cuts off. Quiet, for a second. Dean's cheeks feel hot. "I didn't mean… I meant on Earth, not in…" Awkward. The air goes out of Dean, realizing that Sam's trying to give him an out.

"Me too," he says, voice weird in this way he could be embarrassed by but—he isn't, and Sam's face turns away, and even with full moonlight Dean can't tell what that expression is.

He puts his beer down. "Never have I ever slept with a vampire," he says.

Sam's chin ducks down. Dean licks his lips and folds his hands between his knees. Sam puts his beer down, too, and braces on the edge of bench. There's barely enough room between them for his hand to fit; his knuckle presses against Dean's thigh and Dean licks his lips.

"Never have I…" Sam shakes his head, huffs. He looks up, out at the empty farmland spilling out from the back of the plant. His eyes shine, open, though Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. "I've never slept with a guy. On Earth, I haven't."

Dean bites the wet off his bottom lip, dragging, and then ducks down and gets the bourbon instead. Twist of the cap and a glug goes down—christ, hot. He coughs. "I hate the cask strength shit," he says, and Sam says, "Wuss," thin, and Dean could bicker back but it's here. Here. All this stuff he didn't know Sam was thinking about—things Dean kept secret, and things he didn't—and he didn't mean to dredge it all up at once but maybe it's better. Like this, in the dark. The night warm, smelling like grass and the weeds growing up among the fallow field, and Sam's knuckles still pressed up right there, where if Dean put his hand down he'd cover them.

"Do you remember that time in, uh," Dean starts. Swerving around the mountain, the long way through the dark. Sam's head turns towards his, a little. "Montana, I guess it was. Somewhere. You were… seventeen. That July. You got so wasted."

"Whose fault was that?" Sam says. Dean grins, makes sure it's wide and wicked, and Sam glances up at him and huffs again, more of a laugh this time than whatever the last one was. "That was when we invented beer bowling."

"Yeah, and you sucked," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and leans back against the plant wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. They did play, ten-pin with glass shattering because the only ball they had was a half-rounded rock. Then they sat out with Sam tipsy and Dean getting that way himself, only twenty-one and not quite as sure of what he was doing as he is now, and they just… talked. He can't even remember about what. They just sat and they were together and it was about the happiest Dean was that whole year. Like if he could just have that, forever, things would be okay. That was… god, twenty years ago.

"One more round," Dean says, now. Sam's eyes close. Dean leans the bottle on Sam's thigh so he can feel it. "Never have I ever kissed you."

Sam's eyes pop wide when Dean picks up the bottle, and takes a drink. He sits up straighter. Dean lets the burn of the swallow go all the way to his stomach, a bonfire there, and watches Sam's face as the thoughts flicker across it, limned in moonlight. Sam opens his mouth, and closes it, and he's not mad just like Dean knew he wouldn't be mad but it's still enough of a relief that Dean tips the bottle his way, says, "Technically, you did too, so—"

Sam takes it out of his hand but doesn't drink. "No, we didn't. When?"

Dean wipes his mouth, dragging his hand over his chin, and down. Sam's watching him. "After the second trial," he says, finally. Sam frowns. "Your fever was pretty bad. You kept talking about…" He shakes his head. All sorts of things Dean doesn't like remembering. About worth, and right, and being clean. Nonsense, as far as Dean was concerned, though he didn't know how to say it that way, then. With how it was. Instead he leans back against the wall and says, because it's true, and he can say it now: "I just wanted to… I guess, to prove something. How I didn't think of what you were saying the same way you did. How I didn't believe all that crap you were saying about yourself. It was bad and I didn't want you to believe it, either, and I didn't really know how else to… You didn't remember, though, so I guess it didn't do the trick. To be honest, thought I was a better kisser."

Sam doesn't smile. It was a pretty weak attempt. He stares at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder.

How it was, then. In the hotel, where Metatron was staying. When he found Sam on the floor and about had a heart attack. Sam's skin burning and ice-cold by turns. His body this huge out of control thing, being taken over by something Dean didn't understand. He woke up while Dean was trying to drag him to the bath, but he wasn't really conscious, hardly making sense. Babbling, half-frantic, trying to make Dean understand—how it was okay, how it was fine if he burned, if somehow the trials scoured the marrow out of his bones, because it was just right after all he'd done and all he hadn't, and it was a use for him, when he hadn't been worth anything in so long. Dean had told him no, over and over, and no again, and he'd slapped Sam at some point to get him to shut up, to try to shock him out of the awful monologue, but Sam didn't even register it, clinging to Dean's shirt while the tub filled, the sack of ice Dean had brought bobbing to the surface. It can mean something, Sam had said, nodding, tears in his eyes, trying to smile, and Dean wanted to throw a chair through the window but he grabbed Sam's face instead and he said it does and Sam shook his head, confused, and Dean leaned in against him, ready to cry too, and instead he…

"I thought," Sam starts, and immediately stops. His hands twist around the bourbon bottle. "I dreamed that."

Dean thinks of a joke to make, something about Snow White, but he keeps his mouth shut. He remembers it, clearly. Sam's mouth, hot and dry against his own. His hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and on the side of his neck. Weak and strong at once. If Sam dreamed it, what does he remember?

Sam looks down at the bottle for almost a minute, Dean counting it away with beats of his heart. A breeze picks up, light and warm. A cricket, somewhere, chirping and then going quiet. It could feel bad but it doesn't. It could be terrifying, but it's just—Sam, and him. Like always. Like it will be, always. He knows that, now. No matter what.

Sam smiles, eventually, for no reason Dean can tell. He wipes his thumb over the rim of the bottle and then takes a drink, two long swallows that are loud as they go down, and then he takes the bottle away from his mouth and puts his hand on Dean's jaw and leans in and kisses him. Brief, hot. Not dry. His mouth tastes like bourbon. It tastes just like Dean's.

Sam leans back. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam looks at him, very close, and Dean puts his hand on the side of Sam's neck, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair, and Sam's lips quirk and he nods and Dean leans in and kisses him, again, slower, pressing in soft with his lip plush against Sam's, tipping to make it good, and his jaw's cupped in both big mitts and Sam opens for him and it's…

He pulls away eventually. He must have been breathing, during, but he hardly sees how. Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, weirdly sweet, and his hands drag down to Dean's chest before he pushes back, blinking. "You better remember that one," Dean says, and Sam smiles briefly, but shakes his head, not letting them off the hook.

"I didn't…" What goes there? Dean could guess but he doesn't want to. Sam's thoughtful now, but his hand's on Dean's forearm, because Dean's hand is—oh, still locked there on the side of Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's still, doesn't seem to mind, and Dean lets his thumb brush over Sam's stubble. Familiar. The world new, and not-new.

Sam squeezes his arm. "Did you start the stupid game just to say that line?" Dean shrugs. Sam rolls his eyes, and detaches Dean's hand from his neck, and stands, but pulls Dean up at the same time, and this time when he kisses Dean it's—full, real, Sam holding him close and Dean lifting his face up for it and Sam getting an arm around his shoulders and Dean pressing his mouth open, just a little, licking Sam's top lip and getting a slow, deep inhale where Sam's close enough that he can feel it.

"Sammy," Dean says, and maybe there's more to say. More that should be said, if this is what—but Sam shakes his head, and says, "Come on," and scoops up the bourbon and his empty beers, and so Dean scoops his up, too, and follows Sam around the plant and down the stairs to the bunker and to the kitchen, where they drop the bottles in a rattle of glass into the recycle bin Sam insisted they get, and then Sam looks at him in the light, his hair a little rucked-up at the back from where Dean was messing with it and his mouth a little pink and his expression just… considering, open, honest, and Dean looks back, not trying to hide a thing. How can he? It's Sam.

In the morning, Dean wakes up slow, alone in his room. He has a shower, taking his time, and wraps up in his robe, and comes into the kitchen to find coffee made but no breakfast, and he pours a cup and thinks about eggs, or maybe waffles if he wants to wrestle that ancient cast-iron waffle pan down from the top of the shelf, and he's thinking mainly about the food but he's also thinking, of course, about Sam, and it's only about five minutes of him standing there with his hip against the kitchen island before the door creaks, distant, and then—Sam, in the doorway, shining with sweat.

Dean's stomach flips, very slightly. It's just Sam, soaked and gross after a run. It's every morning, like the last, except, of course—

Sam hesitates for just a second. His mouth turns up at one corner, a little rueful, and then he comes in and grabs his metal bottle from the fridge, and gulps water. Dean turns to watch him, coffee warm in both hands, and when Sam's done he leans against the fridge, breathing deep, and then says, "I don't know, it feels like it should be weirder," like he's continuing a conversation they were in the middle of without interruption.

"Nothing weird about being hot for my bod," Dean says, calm, and Sam snorts. He looks at Dean sidelong, and then turns and really looks at him. Looks, from Dean's mouth to his slippered feet, and it's not much of a view in the robe but Dean spreads his arms out, anyway, and Sam bites his bottom lip, half-smiling. Dean sets his coffee on the island, runs his thumb along the lipstick-red rim. "You know," he says. "It doesn't ever have to be more than this. Just… how we've got it. It's good, now."

"It is," Sam says, easy. He twists the cap back on to his bottle, sets it on the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, and he's still just looking but Dean feels, now, the difference in it. It's just Sam but it's also… maybe a new part, a Sam that Dean didn't really get before, and the consideration there, the curiosity, the attention, it's… He tilts his head back, looks at Sam right back. Sam smiles.

Last night they did nothing more than kiss. Dean stepped close in the kitchen and tipped his head up and Sam met him, one more time, and it was soft and a little strange and a little new, but it felt right, in a way that's been full in Dean's chest, from the first moment of Sam's hand on his face to—well, it hasn't gone away.

"I was thinking I'd make waffles," Dean says, still buoyed in it. "You want one or two?"

"Two," Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam gets the pan down—showing off, tall bastard—and then goes off to shower, and Dean mixes up the batter and butters the pan and pours in the mix and watches for when the steam stops, eyes on the cast iron but his thoughts around the corner of two hallways and down a few doors, and when he's got four waffles stacked on two plates and he's wondering if he's gonna need to send in a rescue team, Sam comes back into the kitchen with wet hair and says, "I'm going to run a marathon," and Dean blinks at him, entirely derailed, and says, "What?"

A marathon. Apparently Sam's been thinking about it for a while. His runs, he says, in the morning, are usually five miles, but he's been running a little longer each time, and he's at seven now without much worrying about the extra distance. He wants to go the whole way. See if he can do it, he says.

Dean's busy smearing as much butter as he can feasibly fit into the squares of his waffle, but he gives Sam a look. "If I can, he says," Dean mutters, and maybe it's against usual policy to give Sam full credit but it gets a surprised blink and then Sam looking down at his own syrup-free plate with a soft curve to his mouth, so—worth it. Dean cuts a four-square bite and pauses, watching the melty puddles form on the plate. "So, what. Are you going to enter one of those city things? Am I gonna have to drive along the route with Gatorade and applaud from the sidelines? Are you dressing up as a moose for charity?"

Sam shakes his head. "I can donate to charity on my own time," he says, although to be honest Dean's now taken with the moose idea. Sam sees him thinking about it and rolls his eyes. "No. But—I can figure out a route with my phone. Just around here. Anyway, it can't hurt, for the job."

"Yeah, I'll let you chase down the next werewolf," Dean says, shaking his head. Marathons. His brother.

They finish eating about the same time. Sam sips at his coffee while Dean sucks maple from his thumb. "You want to find a job," Dean says, while Sam's piling their forks and plates together, "or do you want to go for another jog? Gotta get up to twenty-six miles somehow."

"Twenty-six point two," Sam says, standing up with the dishes in hand, and then he leans over and brushes Dean's thumb away from his mouth and kisses him, again, and Dean grips the edge of the table and Sam's shoulder, his mouth pushed open on Sam's tongue, sliding in easy like he's got the run of the place and doesn't expect an ounce of resistance. Fair enough. Dean tips his head back and tastes Sam, syrup-and-coffee, and when Sam pulls back his eyes are half-closed and he licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Weird?" Dean says.

"Should be," Sam says, quieter, but he stands up, and lets his thumb drag over Dean's jaw before he steps away, to the sink, and he doesn't say anything more when he puts the dishes in and stands there with hands braced on the edge for—ten seconds, twenty, thirty—before he turns the water on.

Dean could say something but there's nothing to say. It's weird. It's not. That it's not is weirder. He gets up, refreshes his coffee with the hot from the pot, says, "I'll look for a job," and goes to the library, and lets Sam think, with his hands in soapy water, and quiet to do it in.

There are odd stories—news of the weird never fails to deliver—but nothing so pressing as to drag them across the country on an urgent mission. Dean doesn't feel the need to fake anything, either, to yank out of the bunker on a long drive of not talking through the night and too-loud music and burying their thoughts into means/motive/monstrous opportunity. He sends some links to Sam's email and goes and finds clothes instead, finally, and figures—well, today's a day off. He changes the Impala's oil, washes her. Goes through the trunk, sitting on a stool dragged over from the garage's weird little office, and makes notes of what they're out of, what needs replaced. More salt. More holy oil. Or—not more holy oil, since they haven't seen hide or nor hair of angel or demon in weeks and weeks and maybe never again, and he sits, then, with the empty flask turning over and over in his hands, looking into the trunk, thinking about—how the world is, now. How there's downtime. How, incredibly, there are marathons to run.

In the library, later, Sam's reading on his laptop. "That thing in Pierre might be something," he says, without preamble, and Dean nods—it could be—but then Sam says, "I sent it to Jody, to see if she and the girls want to take a look."

Dean sets the empty flask on the table. Sam's eyes barely flick to it. "What are we gonna do, then?" he says, and Sam sits back in his chair, laptop lid half-closed. He half-smiles, looking down at nothing, and then he looks up at Dean again.

They sleep together that night. Nothing complicated. Dean's room, and the lamps all off but the one over on the table by the door, so Sam's half-haloed in amber light this time, instead of the white moon. Dean's shirt comes off but Sam's stays on, and they're still in their socks, and Sam leans over Dean on one elbow, touching his chest, curious. It's not romantic, or urgent, but Dean keeps smiling, and Sam finally catches him at it and whispers, "Shut up," and kisses him when he opens his mouth to protest that he wasn't saying anything. While they're necking Dean gets Sam's jeans open, and slides his hand inside, and Sam bites his lip but he's half-hard, and gets harder while Dean learns the shape of him. Sam rocks a warm palm over where Dean's swelling up and Dean rips at his own belt, unzips, and then rolls them over so Sam's on his back, and Sam grips his hips, looking up, his hair loose on the pillow and his face just…

After, Dean wipes his hand on Sam's shirt. "Dick," Sam says, and Dean says, "Hey, it was already a disaster, I just added to the general—" and Sam rolls his eyes and nudges Dean off, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging it off careful from the back. Dean rolls onto his side, looking. Sam's shoulders, and his back. Muscle and, miraculously, no scars. His skin that same all-over bronze, like he's immune somehow to farmer tan. Sam tosses the shirt in the same vague direction that Dean's went and then looks over his shoulder, finds Dean looking. Half-smiles. He lays back, his head on the pillow, and tucks a hand underneath it, looking up at the ceiling. Dean just keeps looking at Sam.

"It should be weird," Sam says, after a second.

"It's a little weird," Dean says. Sam snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Sam's head tips, on the pillow. He looks into Dean's eyes, then at his lips. He reaches over and presses his thumb against Dean's bottom lip, and Dean lets Sam dent it, pulling, and then he flicks his tongue against Sam's skin. Faint salt, faint bitter. Sam drags his thumb down, wet trail over Dean's chin, and then settles his hand on Dean's chest.

This. This is weird. Sam looking at him, quiet. Sweat's still drying in the middle of Dean's back and he has the sense of what it feels like to have his brother's hand on his dick full in his head. The body part, though, that—matters, of course it matters, but it feels secondary to Sam just... fully present. That they're both in the same weird, weird boat, and that it could go on like this forever, and it wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't want to wonder about it anymore," Dean says. He gets his hand on Sam's wrist, squeezes. "There's—I don't know, man. There's a bunch of crap we should probably be talking about, freaking about. But it's…"

"Beside the point?" Sam offers, and Dean nods. That's it. Sam nods, too, and closes his eyes, and maybe that makes it easier.

Dean closes his, too, and it's just the amber-colored haze of dark, and the kinda-too-warm of the bed, and his hand sticky and needing to be washed, and vaguely wanting a shower. And he's an adult, and he's fucked before, and so it's also that one article about that disappearance in Winston-Salem that he's been half-thinking about all day, wondering if there's more—and then remembering that they're out of milk—and then, when Sam's thumb drags over his pec, under his nipple, the vague jolt of: Sam, and maybe that should be all that fills his head but Sam suffuses every other thought. Dean can't make any more room in himself than he already has.

"Did that woman in North Carolina disappear at night?" Sam says, after another minute.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Shit," he says, to Sam's frown, and they sit up at the same time, and then—it's them, and the job, and nothing's really, in the end, that different.

Sam keeps running. He tracks his step count with an app, figures out mile by mile how far he can push it, how fast he can go. Dean goes into Lebanon by himself one day, hitting the post office and the market and just getting some air, and then he rolls to a stop at the single stop sign and checks his odometer, and then drives—a square, basically, twenty-six miles around the farm-fields both worked and fallow, and he imagines what it would be like to run the whole way. He's run for his life, and he's run for the lives of others, but just to do it for himself—no. He gets Sam, most every way, but this one is gonna stay a mystery, he thinks.

"What took so long?" Sam says, when he gets home.

The milk's still mostly-cold. "Estelle wouldn't stop hitting on me, man," Dean says, hauling in his half of the load, and Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean slots the barely-frozen pizza into the freezer and stocks the eggs into their holder and then, when Sam's done putting the cans onto their spot on the shelf, tugs at Sam's belt-loop and gets Sam surprised and then leans up and kisses him, pressing him against the dry goods, and Sam kisses back good and pleased and open and then, when Dean sets back down on his heels, touches the back of Dean's ear and murmurs, soft, "If I knew angry old ladies got you hot I would have tried something different, last night," and gets Dean laughing, unexpected, tucked into the corner of their kitchen.

They've been slow with each other. Dean has more experience but he didn't realize how much more. Sam's not uncertain, not nervous—incredible, how not-nervous Sam is, and Dean got finger-shaped bruises on his triceps one day when Sam just held him down and kissed and kissed and kissed him, body-confident and knowing, smiling pleased and half-smug when he pulled back and Dean was nearly dazed with wanting him. Little shit. Still: Sam's not a virgin, not by half, but he was being honest when he said he'd never screwed a guy—on Earth, that is, and Dean knows exactly what he meant by that qualification, and it was a very very brief conversation afterward ("It doesn't count," Sam had said, firm and honest there too, and Dean had nodded because, after everything, he trusts Sam to be honest), and they left it at that.

It's Sam who brings up more. Dean's content to follow. It's Sam who gets Dean's jeans open one night, petting at the base of his dick and sliding down to cup his balls, long fingers and big broad palm, and it's good but it's Sam who hmms, and then says, "Mind if I—" and crawls backwards down the bed—Sam's bed, the mattress tipping with Sam's weight—and Sam who bolsters Dean's dick up out of the split of his fly and breathes there, eyes flicking up the length of Dean's body where he's propped on his elbows, briefly dazed. "Go ahead," Dean says, voice coming from somewhere approximately at the center of the earth, and Sam snorts, and fists Dean capably from root to tip, and then leans in and licks, flat and deliberate up the spine of it, a wet warmth that shocks in Dean's thighs and between his shoulders and sparking in his hands, making him fist into the blanket. Sam's eyes are closed, like he's concentrating. Dean tips his knee out wide and touches Sam's cheek, and Sam's mouth tips up at the corners, and he shifts forward and takes the head in his mouth and—oh, that. He doesn't quite know how to get his mouth around it at first but he figures it out quick, and he sucks the tip and licks under the crown and fists the rest and when Dean's close, clenching, Dean says, "Come up here," and Sam opens his eyes after who knows how long and they're black, practically, and he crawls up over Dean's body still jerking and Dean kisses him, licks the taste of himself out, and Sam breathes hot into his mouth and groans when Dean comes, looking down at the spill over his fist, and he says, "Fuck, that's good," rough and true. Dean pants through it for a few selfish seconds before he squirms down to return the favor, and Sam's mostly-hard just from sucking Dean, and he's weirdly a gentleman when Dean goes down on him, hands off and careful until Dean lifts off, gulping, and says, "Like you mean it, dude," and Sam laughs and then grips him and that's how they learn that Sam likes dick just fine, in fact, and that Dean likes even more how much Sam likes it.

Sam runs farther. Dean paces him, one day, when they fell asleep in the same bed and mostly managed to sleep through the night together, except for some moment around three a.m. when Sam kicked too hard and Dean threatened blurrily to murder him or dump him out of the bed, one or the other—and way too early after that, Sam nudged him awake, lacing up his running shoes, said, "Come on," and Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head and then, well, he came on.

Seven in the morning, autumn settling over the farms. Cold enough that Sam's breath fogs and Dean rubs his hands together, sitting in the idling car with the window down while Sam stretches his hamstrings. "You look ridiculous," Dean says, just to say something. Sam ignores him, of course. "How far are we going?" he says, instead, and Sam says, "Thirteen," and Dean checks the odometer and says, "Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, you just say—" and Sam says, "Go," and takes off, and Dean rolls his eyes and lets off the brake, and the Impala rolls forward, chasing Sam down the farm road, the sun glinting behind them so the whole damp stretch of gravel sparks silver. Nine miles per hour is the pace Sam asked for and Dean keeps it going, on the far side of the road while Sam lopes along on the left shoulder, and it's boring but not as boring as he thought it would be. He keeps an eye on the speedometer, makes the turns just behind Sam as the roads weave around the cornfields, the soy beans, the farm that's just gone to dead-dry grass that waves in undulating strange patterns in the morning breeze. He goes through Zepp one side one, side two, switches to AC/DC and cranks it during Big Balls so loud that a bird startles up out of the bushes by the road, and Sam laughs, coughs, keeps running. His pace doesn't slow, not by a step.

Sam stops, finally. An hour and a half, and Dean has to piss. He parks, turns off the car, while Sam breathes hard with his hands on his knees. "How was that?" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, still panting, and Dean can't wait any longer and goes over to the other side of the fence post and communes with the morning.

"Dude," Sam says, vaguely accusatory, but Dean only shrugs, and zips up when he's done. When he turns back around Sam's leaning on the car, sweat slicking his hair back behind his ears, and Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "That was good," he admits, finally. He's drinking the water bottle Dean's had sitting in the passenger seat the whole time. "Too fast to go the full twenty-six, but—yeah. Good."

He looks—content, again. Not smug, not even really glad. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, leans back against the car. Looks out over the little pond, the trees around it. Dean smiles, while Sam isn't looking, and then says, "Well, I left my gold medals at home, but if you want you can run back and get it—" and Sam rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger side, and Dean gets to fake-bitch then about Sam's stinky sweaty ass on the vinyl, and it's a good morning, like they all are, anymore.

On the way home from a hunt—Ajo, Arizona, and vampires, in what Dean insists is the most ironic job they've ever been on—Sam has Dean stop at a drugstore. Two in the afternoon. Dean heads for the booze aisle and gets a six pack, and swings through the specialty candy and gets some pre-Christmas stocking filler, and then he walks around the aisles looking for Sam, and finds him in—

"Condoms?" he says. Sam glances up at him, holding a box, unfazed. Dean feels the black orb eye of the security camera on the back of his neck and feels—surreal. He tips his head. "I mean, not to go all sex-ed, but it's a little late, don't you think?"

Sam snorts. In lieu of responding he turns the box around in his hand and—not condoms. Astroglide. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and watches an old lady go by with her little cart on the far end of the aisle. "Yeah?" he says, and Sam lifts a shoulder, says, "You have a preference?"

Long time since Dean's had to think about it. He hitches the six-pack onto his other hip and comes and stands next to Sam, looking at the options. Fire & ice, spermicidal. Water-based. Sam's radiating heat, enough to feel six inches away, and Dean thinks about Sam thinking about this: driving through the cold desert, both of them tired after a night of chasing down the vamps, planning to crash in Amarillo. A motel, in Amarillo. He feels boring, normal. Shopping, with a bag of red-and-green Kisses in hand, and the wall of intensely pink pads and tampons looming at his back, and his—brother, waiting, while Dean reaches for the silicone-based KY he used to buy, when he used to have to buy it. The packaging's different but he's guessing the product's the same. He puts it in Sam's hand and Sam looks at it with his cheek sucked in on one side, and then Dean says, "You want something with, I don’t know, electrolytes?" and Sam says, "Yeah," and so Dean goes back to the wall of coolers and pulls out two Powerades, and Sam meets him at the cashier with rolled bandages and aspirin to replace what they used up out of the kit during this hunt, and the woman at the counter glances at their faces as she's ringing them up and Dean says, smiling, "Can I get a two-pack of lighters, too, miss?" and she's like seventy if she's a day but the charm offensive still works, and she's over-the-top as she hands them their receipt and tells them to be well, and Sam's giving him a sidelong look as they take the bags out to the car but, shit, Dean's had enough people giving him looks in his life, and Sam gets to but just about no one else does, now.

A motel, in Amarillo. Raining in west Texas like it never does. They get tacos and margaritas at a hole in the wall and it's still early, when they get back to the room, and Sam checks the stitches on Dean's shoulder—still holding—and Sam takes two aspirins to help with all the bruising on his side, and then Dean eats a Kiss from the mess of the Walgreens bag, and then he tosses the box holding the lube onto the closer bed, and he says, "So," and Sam shrugs, and says, again, "You have a preference?"

Shadow of a smile on his face. Dean gives him a look and Sam raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and Dean says, "You're a dumbass," and goes over and pulls Sam in by that godawful orange jacket and kisses him, and then he goes into the bathroom.

He takes his time. Showers, cleaning up. Leans his forearm against the wall and leans his head against his forearm and pushes his fingers inside, on the thin glide of the little complimentary bottle of conditioner, reminding his body that this is—yeah. This is good. He comes out with a towel loose around his waist and finds Sam mostly-stripped, leaning back on the bed with the TV on mute and his hand in his boxers. Dean glances at the screen—ESPN, showing basketball highlights—and says, "Jeez, you got a kink you haven't told me?" while Sam snaps the TV off, and Sam says, flushed, "Not my fault you took forever," and Dean says, frank, "Figured you wouldn't want any Mr. Hanky guest appearances on our first trip on the backroads, but if you'd rather—" and Sam says, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean grins like an asshole, and Sam rolls his eyes, and—

Sam's screwed women like this before, turns out, and knows to go slow. Dean's on his back, his one leg caught over Sam's arm and the other curled around Sam's hip, and he's not sure slow is slow enough. "Fuck," he says, grinding his head back against the pillow, and Sam kisses his jaw, murmurs, "Sorry," and Dean grips his shoulders and says, through a groan, "No, you're not," and Sam smiles against his skin. Dean knew it. Little shit.

Sam lifts up on one elbow, touches Dean's cheek. He drags his hips back, pushes in. Dean breathes shakily out and Sam's expression changes. "Is it—" he says, but thankfully doesn't ask the stupid question. He leans in, tilting Dean's hips to a new angle, and pushes again, and Dean drags a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam's watching his face, he knows, watching everything, learning him, figuring out what he likes, like he has with every new thing they've tried—probably cataloguing it on some insane chart, like he's been doing with the running—but just now, Dean doesn't care. He didn't realize how much he liked this, or how much he could. "God," he says, gripping Sam's hip, "go—" and Sam, thank christ, for once does what he's told.

Sam sucks him, to finish him off. When Dean's spent, Sam spits to the side, and then slides back up, kissing Dean's nipple and then the sweaty angle of his collarbone and his jaw and his cheekbone and the very end of his eyebrow, for some reason. "Freak," Dean sighs, content, and Sam cups his other cheek and says, "Back at you," quiet, and Dean tips his head in towards Sam's and breathes with him. Sam's mouth tastes like dick and it's a combo Dean is extremely fond of, but that's not, anymore, anything new. He reaches down and holds Sam's dick—still slick, because this is indeed the good lube—and half-hard, and sensitive apparently after doing its work, from how Sam hisses, and squeezes his forearm. Dean says, "If anyone gets to complain," and Sam lifts up then, and watches Dean's face while he slides a hand back between Dean's thighs, and presses gently. Dean bites the inside of his lip but lets Sam try it, and after a second Sam—slides a finger inside, where he's busted Dean open, and Dean lets his knee fall wide with the slick sting, and wonders. How much he could take, if Sam asked.

In the morning, Sam goes for a run. Dean stays very firmly in bed. "How'd it go, Romeo?" Dean says, drowsy in bed when Sam finally gets back, and Sam says, "You know that makes you Juliet?" but then, while Dean's frowning and trying to dredge up a comeback, he says, "Sixteen miles, mostly eight miles an hour, and I brought back coffee," and Dean lifts up enough to see the carrier on the table, steaming, and says, "You're forgiven for the Juliet thing."

He has Sam drive. He's feeling—hard to pinpoint, how he's feeling. Still cloudy, over Texas and then over Oklahoma, and Sam's driving a regular level of fast so they're going to get home around maybe dinnertime. He's thinking about steak—they could stop at that butcher in Smith Center—when Sam says, "Hey, let me ask," and Dean grunts, and Sam says, "What's it like?"

No guessing what he means. Dean says, "I mean, my ass is sore," and Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not being a dick about it or anything, and Dean thinks about how to answer. What's it like.

What came before doesn't matter, so much. They already talked about how only Earth counts, and that's true for a bunch of reasons, but on a physical level there's just no comparison. Even on Earth, though, this was different. What came before was mostly something Dean was okay with, either because he wanted it or because he needed it or because he had a job to do, and he's not someone who dwells on shit that could be different, and he doesn't really wish any of that was different. No point in it, and it doesn't bug him. It was always better, though, when he liked the person, and he got that sometimes, and when he got that it was… good, but. Maybe what he and Sam have isn't romance, isn't some big sweeping thing like from a movie—if Sam tried to sweep him off his feet, or vice versa, they'd probably just bicker and then fall over—but. But. What was it like?

He's been quiet too long. "It feels good," he says, honest. Lame, and Sam knows it, from how he glances across the seat. Random section of I-35, while Sam passes a semi. Dean watches the approaching road rather than look at Sam. "I don't know, man. Hard to describe. When you're with someone and you're figuring out what works, what makes the fireworks, that's the same from either side. But it's…"

Quiet, again. In the corner of his eye he can tell Sam looks at him, and he shifts his weight. His ass does hurt. Sam's got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, in the jockstrap department. That he can get used to; the weird feeling under his breastbone, this thing he's been carrying all morning, that's going to take a little longer, maybe.

"Jessica used to say she felt like she was taking care of me." Said—casual. Dean stares across the bench seat, can't help it, but Sam's just looking out at the road. One hand at ten, the other at about five thirty, his hair tucked behind his ear. His jaw clenching and then unclenching. "I don't know. I didn't get it—felt the other way around, to me—but I always… wondered, I guess."

Taking care? Maybe that's it. Dean finds he's holding his hand over the weird feeling in his chest and shakes his head. Last night: Sam's head bent next to his, Sam's chest against his, his back drenching sweat against the bed, his body loose-open finally to Sam's dick after so long of the punishing stretch. Sam's hips grinding in against his hard and low, and his arms around Sam's shoulders, and his eyes closed and just—taking, feeling the slick parted jolt and feeling Sam quicken and feeling, deep, in this jolted raw way, how Sam was getting close and Sam was winding tight and how Sam was coming, how he hitched and crushed in and breathed strange and didn't make any other sound but held Dean still and close and tight while he unloaded. With other men Dean was tired or sore or impatient, wanting his turn. Last night, he held Sam's shoulders and felt Sam's face duck in to his throat, and Sam's lips pressing there, and he put his fingers in Sam's hair and twined his leg around Sam's and wanted it to go on and on. Perfect.

"Guess you'll have to try it and find out," Dean says, after way too long.

Sam glances at him again, and pulls into the right lane, and settles in for the long drive. "Guess I will," he says, and he's watching the road, and so maybe doesn't notice the deep breath Dean takes, and lets out slow.

It turns out a marathon is not, in fact, twenty-six point two miles. "Technically," Sam says, while Dean's on his back under the Impala, "it's 26.21875 miles."

Dean rolls out on the bench to give that the incredulous look it deserves. On the stool, Sam shrugs. "Why," Dean says, "on earth, ever, would anyone care."

"It's the rules set by the competition," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and slides back under the car. "It's just the length. Same reason a football field's a hundred yards."

"Isn't it the length of the run that Greek dude did?" Dean says, later, chopping up potatoes for salad. Sam looks surprised, but not as annoyingly surprised as he's looked other times. "Did the length of that change, somehow?"

"Dean," Sam says, patient, "I hate to say it, but I am not in charge of the rules committee for marathons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

During dinner Sam's doing math. 26.21875 isn't that much longer than 26.2. In March he did twenty-five miles in three hours and fifty-five minutes, looping back from the pond and then running way out to town and back again, and he's nearly there. "What's the difference between 385 and 352," he mutters, and Dean doesn't bother even attempting to work it out in his head before Sam says, "Thirty-three yards."

"Doesn't seem worth making a whole-ass rule about," Dean says, but Sam's just ignoring him at this point, probably looking at his dumb running spreadsheet, and that's fine. Thirty-three yards, Dean thinks.

There are weird old surveyor tools in one of the archive rooms. One morning when Sam's back from his run, soaking off the ache in the shower, Dean figures out how the hell to use the damn wheely thing, and he walks it off. He drags his boot in the dirt, right in front of the stairs down to the entrance, and then walks it out: ninety-nine feet, up the driveway, out to the gravel road. Almost exactly the length to the gate. Dean smiles, and walks back from the gate, and then marks ninety-nine feet precisely, with his boot and then with three stones, so he'll know.

Sam's planning for May 1. Dean doesn't ask why; he figures he can guess. They find a job, April 21, and it's a family of ghouls that's gross and shitty and time-consuming to put down, but they manage it on the seventh day, at least, so they don't overshoot the deadline. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat while Dean drives straight through all the way back from Pensacola. When they get back to the bunker it's two in the morning and Dean has to shake him awake, and he blinks in the barely-moonlight, and Dean has to say, "Up and at 'em, Sasquatch," for Sam to rouse, and Sam follows him down the stairs and into the bunker and through the dark halls and then, quiet, straight into Dean's bed, barely kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket before he curls over the pillow, sighing into the mattress. Dean stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him. Then he goes upstairs, and does the thing he's been thinking of doing for weeks, and when he finally gets back to bed he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and slides in right up against Sam's back, and Sam doesn't wake up but he does make this tiny sound in his chest, when Dean's arm goes around him, and Dean sleeps, finally, like the dead.

Thursday's a slow day. Sam's not running again, apparently, until Saturday—he ran pretty flat-out a few times during the hunt, and Dean guesses that's probably training enough. Because he is, in fact, supportive, Dean makes food that Sam actually likes—chicken breast and broccoli and some stupid grain thing that he read was good for slow-release energy, and Sam says, "I didn't know you knew what farro was," which proves that in fact it's Sam who's the dickhead, but then Sam practically inhales all of it, so. Success. They watch Chariots of Fire so Dean can remember the stupid song, and Sam goes and does his weird yoga stretching after that, and then they sit together in the workroom and make silver rounds for a while, since Dean got a load of pawned shitty jewelry in and it's one of those chores that falls down the priority list when bullets are flying, and then when they've packed up the bullet boxes, and there's really nothing else left to do with the day, Sam stands up and stretches with his fingers reaching way up and his body arching, pulling long after the hunched work, and Dean's mouth goes wet, and he says, without much thinking about it, "Hey, Sam," and Sam says yeah without hardly paying attention, and Dean says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Sam looks up at him. Dean lifts a shoulder and Sam takes a visible breath, and he says, "Smooth, Dean," but it's not a no.

Dean shaves, while he's waiting. He takes a whore's bath in his sink, and waits in his boxers just like Sam had, that first time, sitting on the little loveseat in his room. Sam comes back in a t-shirt and unzipped jeans and bare feet, his hair barely wet at the ends, and he frowns at first at the empty bed before he sees Dean, sitting, and Dean says, "Took you long enough," and Sam says, "Don't start."

He's not nervous. He lets Dean kiss him slow, though, laying together on the bed, and with Dean's hand in his jeans, and he's hard all the way and wet at the tip and a tight grip locked on Dean's hip before Dean finally slides his jeans down, feels. Damp, and a little soft, and small, and he rolls his hips back against Dean's thumb, making this deep sound in his chest. "How do you want it?" Dean says, and Sam shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. "However," Sam says, honest, and Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him and then pulls his jeans all the way off while Sam pulls his shirt over his head, and Dean gets him on his knees, then, pulls his hips back, and applies his mouth to Sam's asshole, and that's not entirely new but Sam yelps, flinching, and Dean has to hook an arm around his hips and hold him in place to lick in deep, like he wants to.

"Tell me," Dean says, and Sam groans. He's reaching past Dean's arm, fisting his dick. His balls warm and heavy, and his body—open, yeah, from the shower, from prepping himself, from knowing how—from watching Dean do it, from doing it himself, sliding his fingers in and working the muscle soft and learning how it can be good. Sam's hips push back and Dean breathes out hot, ducks his head down, suckles one of Sam's nuts and then licks back up over the flattened-wet hair and the crinkle of his hole and scrapes his teeth over one asscheek, and Sam's hand reaches back and grips his shoulder and Sam says, deep, "Are you going to fuck me, or what," and Dean slides up, kisses between Sam's shoulderblades, presses his dick swelling up in his boxers against Sam's ass.

It'd be easier if he kept Sam on his knees. He turns him over instead, and Sam's—god, hot for it, his dick huge and curving up to his navel, his chest flushed in that deep way it gets when he's nearly ready to come, his eyes heavy. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Dean lube himself up, and when Dean slots a slick thumb inside Sam—still tight, christ—Sam's eyelids dip but he just pulls his knee higher, and reaches down and feels Dean's dick, fingers slipping over the head. He gathers his balls up out of the way while Dean pushes up between his legs, and he's watching down between them, avid, for the moment it happens. Dean watches Sam's face instead, and on the push inside—Sam's lips part, and his jaw loosens, and his breath stills, and his eyes—Dean pulls back an inch, slides in deeper, and Sam's face tips up and he meets Dean's stare, dragging in air, gripping Dean's thigh, arching. Dean gets a hand on Sam's jaw and holds him there, their noses brushing, and he feels it, the moment Sam's body ripples. How Sam lets him in.

Sam doesn't come from being fucked. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean holds his balls and kisses his jaw, his mouth, lets Sam bite his lips, while Sam jerks his own dick, and when Sam finally spills he groans, his thighs twitching around Dean's hips and his asshole rippling. Dean slides his hand up, following Sam's, squeezing and getting the wet over his own fingers, and finally his dick slides free from Sam's body. Sam says, low and surprised against his ear, ah, and Dean loves him, is all, and always has, and always will, and now is, really, no different.

"So," Dean says, much later. His head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam's fingers in his hair. "What's it like?"

He'd watched Sam clean up. His nose wrinkling as he wiped between his legs. Sam had said, "You like this?" and Dean had said, "The proof is in the pudding," and Sam had stared at him and then said, horrified, "Never talk again." He'd gone and got them both beers as repayment, and now those are gone, and they've cooled off but the bed's still kind of gross and smells like sweat and jizz and, honestly, Dean's about as comfortable as he ever is.

Sam's fingers go still in his hair. "Huh," he says, after a few seconds' thinking.

"Told you," Dean says.

Sam pulls, what little he can pull, at the top of Dean's head where he should really trim it up. "I'll think of something," he says, and Dean says, "Sure you will, Wordsworth," and Sam says, "I don't know why I thought this would make you less annoying," and Dean says, "It's a gift," but he's smiling, tipped in against Sam's side, and he can't see it but he'd bet that Sam is, too, or at least that Sam's got that dimple tucked into his cheek. Sam's hand spreads, cupping the back of Dean's head, and his mouth brushes Dean's temple. Yeah, Dean decides, warm. Dimple. Maybe two.

On Saturday, Sam goes for the run. His route's pretty simple. Looping west away from the bunker and back for thirteen miles; looping east and back for the other thirteen. The point two gets sorted out somewhere in there, as Dean understands it. He offered, a few months back, to pace Sam in the car if he wanted, and Sam looked surprised but then shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, and Dean knows it's true. Still, he set out water at few-mile intervals—no one's out here, so unless a rabbit stole one of the stashes Sam should get the benefit—and Sam's pace is pretty damn consistent, so Dean knows when he'll hit the various markers, and knows when he'll be home, when it's done.

Sam stretches easily, on the stairs by the entrance. "If you twist your ankle a mile out, call me, but give me time to laugh," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his one foot and pulling up the other. "Do you want me to grab a pistol? Starting gun, or whatever?"

Sam shakes his head, and pulls out his phone. "See you in a few hours," he says, and presses a button, and takes off, and Dean watches him go, down the driveway, to the gate, and then turning and running from the morning sun. Nine a.m. Dean checks his watch, and says, "Okay," to no one, and goes back inside to at least do something with the morning.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Dean's leaning on the gate, drinking a beer, when Sam comes running back up the road. "Woo!" Dean calls, sort of sarcastic and sort of not, and Sam's breathing hard when he comes up but he steals the beer right out of Dean's hand, takes a few deep swallows. "Hey!" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, burps abruptly, says, "Thanks for the water," and takes off again, and Dean checks his watch—right on time. Maybe faster. He finishes the beer, tasting Sam's salt on the rim, and then goes and sets up his minimal surprise.

He disassembled the bench those weeks back. Too heavy to move any other way. While Sam's completing the second half, Dean moves the pieces out of the side of the plant where he'd moved them, and puts the thing back together. Big concrete supports; concrete slab, that he about gets a hernia hauling back up into place. He's sweating, when it's done, but it's right at the end of the drive, just in front of his three-stone marker.

It's where he's sitting, forty minutes after noon, with a bottle of the whiskey Sam actually likes on the step, and two glasses waiting to be filled, and the sun coming down soft and easy, not yet hot or humid, not like it'll be later this summer. He stretches out his legs, propped on his arms, and watches down the lane while Sam comes around the corner again. Sweaty, tired, but keeping pace, and Dean doesn't mock or call out or say any of the dumbass shit he could say. Sam pulls out his phone, as he's running down, and Dean knows because he paced it exactly how many steps are left, exactly how far Sam has to go. Sam slows, as he's approaching the marker, and when his sneaker hits the stone he presses something on the phone and it beeps and he says, "Done," and takes a huge deep breath, panting.

He tips his head back on his shoulders, eyes closed. Dean watches him. His heaving chest, the sweat darkening his hair to black at the temples. His body.

"You set up a cheering section," Sam says, finally. "I'm touched."

Dimpling. Dean cracks the bottle, pours two glasses. "What can I say," he says, while Sam tips his head back down, tired. "I'm a fan."

"Sure you are," Sam says, tired. He sits down, finally, and takes his glass from Dean. Their shoulders together, and Sam's knee tipped against his. "Whiskey's probably the opposite of what you're supposed to have after a marathon."

"Well, good thing I'm not a stickler for the marathon rules," Dean says, holding his glass up to toast.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling, "it is," and lets their glasses clink. They drink, quiet, looking out together at the warm day.

#ffcc #wincest #switching #my writing #trying a slightly different style here #idk if it worked but #it was an interesting experiment #i hope it satisfies

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haikyuuhimbosandhypebeasts · 3 years ago

Text

Heliotrope

Here’s my submission for the Forget Me Not collab for Anisylum! Please note the TW as it is VERY heavy. This piece is entirely SFW though!

Ship: Tsukishima Kei x GN! Reader Genre: Angst, but some fluff in some places. Word Count: 2.2k Trigger/Content Warnings: near death experience, hospitalization, COVID-19, vomit mention, amnesia after hospitalization, a suicide attempt is briefly mentioned, swearing because this is by me Sexy Sexy Masterlist: here!

Sand clung to skin and the harsher rays of light that usually cascaded and burnt you had died away into a fading tangerine glow. You perched comfortably on the sand, taking note of the undulating waves- they were like you in the sense that while you could crash down hard on the opposition, you would shy away in a fragile manner when faced with gentle treatment. Perhaps it was that you felt you weren’t worth such luxuries that you found it hard to make friends through your first few years of high school. Perhaps it was trying to push people away because you were afraid yet alarmingly aware of your mortality. Perhaps it was something else entirely, something you weren’t quite ready to come to terms with. What you did know was that you weren’t alone in the violent struggle through high school to make friends while you had your walls up. Next to you was someone you never thought you’d share your favorite place with; in any terms you found this boy appalling with his behavior. So appalling, you saw yourself in the way he closed himself off and cut those close with tongue lashings. You knew this only through another friend who took issue with him as you went to another school in an entire other prefecture. Words mauled their way out from your throat, breaking the silence between you and Tsukishima Kei. “I won’t ask you why you tried to do what you did today. But I will ask if there’s anyone you can talk to in your life.” You didn’t understand yourself. Why would you say that…? You don’t remember anything like this at all… His response was equally incoherent and odd. “Okay, but I’ll kill you if you go back on it.” When you opened your mouth to reply to him, the ground around you suddenly reared up like a defensive serpent. A pillar of beach sand forced its way from the ground into your throat, suffocating and trapping your lungs in permanent fullness. You could only gag and cry, unable to even see Tsukishima past the torrent of sand breaking into your body with the intent to kill you slowly…

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You woke up once more in that dull grey-blue and white room with the only sounds you could properly process being the beep of a heart monitor somewhere behind you. You had managed to halfway curl into somewhat resembling the fetal position, but something kept making you cough and gag as your throat was caught. You move your hand to whatever is catching and about to make you vomit- a tube. This tube, you followed, was in your nose good and solid, and you felt it deep enough in your sinuses you didn’t dare try to pull it out. Moving your hands felt foreign like you had forgotten how to process being human and natural motions like that. You testingly ran your right hand down the tube, taking care to not tug and cause discomfort. Your other hand came to rest on your face. It was slick from sweat, likely due to whatever the fuck you just had a dream about. At the corner of your lips was another tube and when you followed where it led it was taped to the side of your face. You lick your lips and manage to almost fall into a haze until you see movement for the first time in what feels like forever. To be fair, it is one of the most jarring appearances of a person you’ve seen in your whole life to what you can recall. A person in a full-body hazmat suit enters your room through a door you hadn’t even processed was there, then greets you as casually as they can through a plague-resistant suit. “Hey there.” You squint at them. Yeah, you have no fucking idea who this cosplayer in a hospital is, and while you should probably be polite, you feel like you got ran over not once but twice. You try to speak to them, but you can’t. You don’t have the air for it, it’s like you have no control over your breathing. Clarity washes over you. You’re hospitalized. These are tubes because you were asleep and weren’t breathing or eating right. The realization must show on your face because your nurse speaks up again. “Don’t worry about me too much, we’re just gonna check your vitals and if you feel up to it, we can see how you do without the ventilators.” You try to manage out a “whoopee”, which unimpressively comes out as some form of odd wheeze, and your nurse begins by grabbing the blood pressure cuff covered in protective plastic while they wear a sympathetic expression.

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Once you were off the ventilator, the nurse informed you about what had happened. Apparently, an ambulance was called when you were unresponsive and nearly blue in the face, sitting in front of your refrigerator with the door open. You were diagnosed with a severe case of COVID-19, something you had feared would wipe you out entirely and turn you past tense since its spread in your country. This fear wasn’t entirely irrational, either- you were immunocompromised and have been since you were a child. You grew up with being careful around others and hearing of a highly contagious new strain was something that filled you with so much paranoia you seriously considered quitting your current career and instead adopting a hermit lifestyle while completing college at home. Of course, such a thought was squashed by the slowly impending thought of rent, bills, due dates for assignments, and your bitch of a manager who lets people get close to you without a mask on. It’s not a big deal, (y/n), she once said to you. You wanted to shoehorn some tubes down her throat just to survive, see how that felt. It didn’t help that human resources wouldn’t listen to your complaint. They brushed it off since you were just a lowly sandwich maker at a chain sub place. If you had enough scraped together for lawyers right about now, they’d be totally fucked, you thought to yourself. Even more jarring is that it seemed you lost a handful of memories while in the hospital. You could remember basic outlines of people in your head- your very tall and incredibly testy roommate, your younger sister who wore glasses and was much smaller than you, and… a foggy memory of a man with messy black bedhead who had an arm wrapped around your shoulder. It hurt to think too hard. The doctor soon came by to give you test results, to check your vitals again, and to look over your records. He was a bit terse, but you can’t make the best judgments of people when they’re in plastic suits. “We’ll need to get you cleaned up by tomorrow and you should be able to head home,” he’d said, looking over your chart. You didn’t necessarily feel too ecstatic about your trip to your apartment. You remembered your roommate and how finicky he was, and you dreaded for him to belittle you over your condition. You dreaded it enough to even feel a knot of anxiety form in your stomach, wrenched in between your ribs without the intent of ever coming out. “We’ve already contacted uh…” The doctor squints at the screen, “Tsukishima… to come to pick you up tomorrow at noon. We’ll have care instructions printed out. You still have to quarantine for about a week more since your immune system isn’t at its most prime currently.” You agreed, it probably wasn’t a good recovery idea to make a couple of sammies for the public while you were recovering from a virus that had you intubated. He seemed grateful that you were lucid and cooperative, at least.

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You, predictably, didn’t sleep well after being in a medically induced haze for several days. Even more predictably, you found yourself awake from anxieties of the future. Tomorrow was only a few hours away, and then you’d be home. Home… what did that look like for you? The fog in your head was thick initially. You do remember coming home from classes at a different time than Tsukishima, how when you entered he’d often be reading over homework. You remembered how sometimes he would be in the shower and the scent of cheap green apple soap filled the living room connected to it. You remembered… You remembered holding his thin frame in your arms on a bridge, pulling him back from oncoming traffic. You remember how you both collapsed and how the cold autumn air stung your lungs. You remember wide golden eyes staring back at you, as tears slowly filled them, then his normally impartial voice breaking as he hiccuped a sob, “Why? Why did you have to be in Sendai right now?” You felt tears stinging your eyes and a lump form in your throat. You found yourself in distress of your new emotions. Maybe… maybe you can sleep this horrible feeling off. Maybe this fog in your head where you need to know how deep your relationship ran will lift once you get genuine sleep.

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Finally, a knock on the door encouraged you to rouse from your sleeping state. And eloquently, you spoke your true feelings in your sleep-deprived state, “No.” You hear the doorknob turn and the door open. There’s a lack of a greeting from your nurse nor a quick apology from your doctor for interrupting your sleep. Actually, if you’re gonna use logic, what nurse or doctor is gonna wake up their peacefully sleeping patient in recovery? Thought of it being your doctor or nurse practically evaporates once the intruder has a seat on your bed. They still haven’t spoken, so now you’re remembering what tricks of self-defense you learned online to give this person a proper ass-kicking for getting way too close. You crack your hazy eyes open to get a look at where they’re sitting and you stop dead in your thoughts as wary gold eyes peer down at you. Your eyes widen out of reflex and butterflies bloom from your stomach at seeing what you now remember is your roommate. “I knew you were awake,” He said, a wry smile on his face. His expression was betrayed by his concerned gaze, though, “Wow, you look like shit.” You don’t know entirely why past his comment feeling not as an insult, but almost as a compliment, but you smile a little, “I feel like it too.” His expression doesn’t change. He runs a large calloused hand through the tresses of your hair, though, as if to soothe you. The doctor walked in and apologized for interrupting the moment between the two of you, unsure if it was something serious. You told him it was nothing because that’s what it was to you.

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The car ride wasn’t filled with the snarky banter you had been expecting. Instead, there was plentiful comfortable silence as Tsukishima drove. You didn’t know whether to be grateful or not for the silence- you still felt quite feeble and needed way more bed rest before you could get ready to do anything for anyone. Despite the wholesome silence, you felt those round gold eyes focus on you occasionally. And even though it was comfortable, you felt a melancholy twinge in the atmosphere as he inspected you. “I know you’ll give me shit for this… but you look like you’ve lost weight. I uh…” He gripped the steering wheel harder. You glanced over at him. A shade of baby pink dusted itself across his cheekbones and nose as he focused on the road. “I’m worried about you.” Fuck, there go those butterflies again. Something in you pushed to help- to comfort- but the logical side of your brain brought you to a halt. You’d weighed it in your head a couple of times. You two act closer than just roommates, and it’s not entirely clear how or why you got up to this point… but you had a solid hunch you might be dating this guy. Maybe? You closed your eyes and rested your head on the car door as you thought. You remember how sand clung to your body and you could hear the roaring of the sea. How you watched Tsukishima focus on the waves to regulate his breathing. You vaguely remember your words breaking away from your throat and catching the salty sea air. “Why don’t we stay together?” His lanky body stiffened, then he looked at you with disbelief. “... you wouldn’t want that. I’m fucking annoying and mean.” Your eyes creased with familiarity at the line. “Yeah? So am I. We can butt heads until we balance each other out.” It looked like he wanted to cry, but his pride wouldn’t let him cry in front of you anymore today. “I won’t ask you why you tried to do what you did today. But I will ask if there’s anyone you can talk to in your life,” you reached a careful hand over to rub his back, “Kei, if there isn’t, let me be that person.” You felt how his breath shuddered. To save his pride, you looked to the ocean and watched its hypnotic movements. After a few deep, shaky inhales and exhales, he replied. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me. Why you didn’t let me die. I will probably come back to this point in my life several times and you’re trying to say you’ll put up with it?” There was some bite to his tone, he was trying so hard to put up walls when he had no will to do so at the moment. How long had he pushed others away from being close? If he was anything like you… it was since grade school. “Let me be your support for when you’re in pain,” You tried once more, “I’m stubborn as shit so I know I won’t give up on you.” “You’re not getting it, you fucking idiot. I’m always in pain, that’s just been life,” he snapped bitterly, glaring at you now. “Then I guess I’ll be by your side forever.” You’d said it without thinking that day. It was like the ocean grew quieter with your words as if even Poseidon became interested in your proposition. You felt heat rise to your face at the implications of what you said. He stared at you with raised eyebrows and the slightest hint of a champagne pink hue on his face. He averted his eyes almost in a panic and watched the ocean again, suddenly very aware of his own expression. You carefully peered over at him again to see he’d only grown redder, now mirroring you. “You… don’t mean that,” He said as if it were a statement. “I do. You’re a good person inside, but you’re defensive and hurt. I’ve seen that from you in the past and I’ve learned more about you today. I want to be there for you as long as you’ll have me. Will you let me?” He picked at the sand as if thinking it over for a moment. There was a brief pause as waves rolled over each other in front of both of you, the sound of their impact being the only thing to grace your ears. Finally, his cynical tone returned as he regained some form of his prior composure. “Okay, but I’ll kill you if you go back on it.”

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“Hey. (Y/n), we’re home,” Tsukishima gently shook your shoulder to rouse you from your sleep. You opened your eyes slowly and groaned out a swear. Tsukishima felt a hesitant smile creep up his face as he opted to just try and maneuver you into your shared home himself. He remembered how waking up was hard for you. Once he opened the passenger door you nearly fell out onto the pavement, only saved by your seatbelt and the giant himself. Your face fell awkwardly into his hip, and you grumbled at the interruption to your sleep. “You sleep like the fucking dead, christ,” he mused out loud and sat you up so it was safe to unbuckle your seatbelt. He urged you to get up more- it wasn’t that you were heavy, he just really wasn’t in the place to lift you at the moment and didn’t even know how to go about it. Regardless, he held you up by a shoulder and crouched to make it easier for you both to walk to the apartment. In some part of your sleep, you began to speak, “Kei.” He kept his gaze trained forward at the front door and struggled to grab his keys from his pocket, “Yes?” “Are we married?” Kei dropped his keys, then shot you a look of concern, “... No…?” He had to hold himself back from saying not yet, unsure of what you were getting to. He reached down to grab his keys and he focused back on the door. “Why are you asking?” He unlocked the door and threw it open, getting you both inside finally. He set you on your couch and sat on the floor in front of you. You looked at him suspiciously, now roused from your sleep. The only thing on your mind was that dream- it had to be a memory! You refused to understand it as anything but that. You prodded, “On the beach, I told you I’d be by your side forever.” He seemed to weigh your thoughts heavily in his mind, “... did you forget about us?” You didn’t expect what felt like cold water to hit your back so hard and so suddenly at his suggestion. He didn’t seem hurt at the thought, instead, he found himself occupied with your reaction. His hand reached out to rub the side of your face as you looked at him with wide, guilty eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Your sister told me this kind of thing might happen…” His calloused thumb traced over your lip, and he offered a smile the best he could, “I’ll try to explain it.” Tsukishima explained that what you remembered happened about four years ago and you had been living together ever since. He motioned to photos on the walls of the two of you and people who you could just hardly remember. When you rested your index finger on an individual who was much scrawnier than most of the people there, sitting on the bench with you and watching you speak with admiration, Tsukki put his hand over yours. “That’s your sister. She took most of these pictures, but she usually sits next to you when you have a space available.” You nodded and closed your eyes. You began to remember summers you spent with her in childhood and her yelling at you to do your homework when you bothered her as you got older. You smiled a bit. Once your eyes opened again, your finger traveled to possibly the tallest person in the room. He was big, but you remembered something warm and comfortable about that man… “That’s Kuroo. You both went to the same high school and you were in his friend group.” You both went on like that for a while until you’d cleared everyone in that picture. Once you did, you sat down to think over the new cluster of names you’d picked up. “... when you promised you’d be here with me forever, did you remember what I promised to you?” Kei asked as he sat next to you. “No… I just remember what happened on the beach up until you threatened to kill me if I took back my promise.” “Oh, right. I was going through that phase,” He seemed displeased with the comment. You found it almost funny but refrained from laughing for his sake. He continued, in a quieter tone, “I promised that if something happened to you, that I would always be here for you, too. That I’d get you back into shape.” His larger hand gently entwined with yours, “... so if you remember that promise and you’ll have me, I’d love to marry you once you get your memories back. … If you want to. I-” You cut him off with a hug to his side, trembling a bit as your emotions got the better of you. You smiled up at him. “I can’t promise I’ll be better fast, and I still feel like several trucks ran through me at once… but I’m happy,” you managed out. You didn’t know what your face looked like right about now and you didn’t have the nerve to look up into Kei’s glasses to check your reflection. He wrapped his arms around you in return, pressing the side of his face against your head. “Please, don’t give me an answer yet. You’re not in the right mental state. I’ll wait for you until you’re ready.” You ran your hands up and down his back. You weren’t exactly afraid of remembering things, but you were quite anxious for what tomorrow might bring for both of you. Despite that, you felt safe recovering in his arms, and you were sure you’d feel that way for a long time.

Have a link to the sexy sexy masterlist down here as well. Unless you’re done reading, then have a good day. But if you’re not there’s some fire stuff in that bad boy.

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supernatural-jackles · 5 years ago

Text

Isolation

Title: Isolation

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 5,224

Warnings: Smidge of Angst, Bit of Pining, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Terrible pickup lines (Thank you Austin Powers), Touch Starvation, More Fluff! Implied Sexy Time. Comfort Fic!!

Summary: When the croatoan virus takes over half the country, you haul ass to the bunker where your two best friends are to keep you safe. Only, one of them you have had feelings for and the other keeps encouraging you to tell him.

Square Filled: The Bunker ( @spndeanbingo) Cuddling ( @spnfluffbingo)

A/N: This one is for Help You Anon, who needs this the most. I also absolutely loveeee how this one turned out! I hope y’all do too!! Happy Reading!

Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you raced down the empty open roads of Lebanon Kansas. You were mere minutes away from your destination and you couldn’t have been any happier. You didn’t want to be out in the open anymore. You didn’t want to run the infinitely large risk that came with it.

You were a hunter and had been since you were old enough to hold a knife. Not that you were allowed in that sense. You came from a long line of hunters. Your dad, his parents before that. It was the Family Business as he told you. Killing evil sons of bitches was the day job, and at times like this, it came with it’s perks. Those perks being the only friends you had.

Sam and Dean Winchester.

You and the Winchester’s went way back. Hell, you’ve known them since you were a kid. They were the only two that you could be completely honest with. They knew the life, just like you did. It also helped that you were in the middle of the two of them. Two years younger than Dean and two years older than Sammy. You fit right in with the two of them. You always had.

You pulled up to the bunker, a place you had been a hundred times. Dean had the garage open for you to park your car inside. You didn’t want to leave it out in the open and attract the wrong kind of people.

Dean was waiting for you in the garage, leaning against the front of his car with his arms crossed over his body. You smiled at the sight of him. He was in single layers. A dark green henley to be exact, and a pair of jeans with a rip in the knee. His usual hunting boots on and a soft smile playing on his pink plump lips. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him.

You put your car in park before cutting the ignition. You kicked the car door open quickly, moving over to him to engulf him in your arms. The smell of his cologne mixed with whiskey filled your nose. A smell you had come to associate with the older Winchester. God, it was good to see him.

“Hi sweetheart,” he beamed, squeezing you once more before releasing you.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” you smiled.

“Thanks for keeping us informed,” he breathed out. “You know you’re more than welcome here.”

“I like to call first,” you winked. “Any idea how this could’ve happened?”

“Sam’s looking into it,” he started. “Is it everywhere?”

“Yeah pretty much. I passed one car on my way here from Sioux Falls, Dean. Everywhere is a ghost town. It’s kind of scary actually! I didn’t want to be alone,” you admitted. “Not out there.”

“Well, your room is exactly the way you left it. We’ve got enough supplies to last us,” he assured you. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

Dean helped you carry your bag in from the trunk into the bunker. You protested a little of course, but it was useless when it came to Dean. You followed behind him, shutting the garage door behind you. He led you inside, heading to the library where he knew his brother would be. You brushed the stray piece of hair behind your ear as you got closer to the library. The sight of Sam sitting in his chair made you smile.

“Hiya Sammy,” you called out. He pulled his attention away from his computer, a wide smile appearing on his features. He got up quickly, rounding the table. You met him halfway, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, squeezing him tightly.

“You look amazing, darlin’,” he told you as his arms snaked around your waist. “It’s been too long.”

“It has,” you agreed. “Lucky for you, you’re stuck with me for awhile.”

“As long as you’re making those cookies,” he chuckled, releasing you from his hold. He had the softest smile playing on his lips, making you feel right at home.

“You got it,” you nodded. “I’ll even make Dean my special apple pie.”

“I knew I said you could stay for a reason,” he let out a laugh. “C’mon sweetheart, let’s get you settled in.”

You followed Dean through the halls of the bunker, heading straight to the room they had for you. It was right next to Dean’s. You had picked it when they let you stay the first time. You wanted to be close to Dean because you felt safer when he was in close proximity. He had always protected you and made you feel safe. Ever since you were little, it had been that way.

“Here we are,” he stopped. Door number twelve. You could see your reflection in the two shiny, gold numbers. You gave Dean a warm smile, reaching for the door handle. You stepped inside first, flicking on the light. The room was exactly the way you left it. Even the papers on the desk. It was your space.

“Thanks for carrying my bag in,” you smiled at him.

“It’s no problem,” he said, placing your bag down on the bed. “You want to get changed into something comfortable? I’ll grab you a beer and make some popcorn. We can watch a movie?”

“I’d love to,” you nodded.

“Good,” he half smiled, turning away to head out of your room.

“Hey De,” you called out.

“Yeah sweetheart?”

“You look good,” you smiled, turning away from him to hide the heat that was rushing to your cheeks.

“Says you, Y/N,” he told you, slipping out of your room quietly.

You couldn’t contain your smile as he shut the door behind him. You had always had a thing for Dean Winchester. Ever since you were a kid. He was cute, of course. But it was his protective nature that really reeled you in. The way he kept you safe. The way he made you laugh, and the way he was with you. He was one of the good ones. Only he saw you as his little sister, and not as anything else. You knew that, and you accepted it a long time ago. The flirty banter between the two of you was just a habit. It was the two of you being comfortable with one another. Just like it was when you played with Sam’s hair during down time.

You pulled out your favourite pair of sweatpants, and an oversized shirt you were sure you stole from Dean years ago. It was something comfortable. You threw your hair up in a messy bun before changing. You couldn’t wait to be hidden in the bunker with your two favourite people.

You slipped out of your room, making your way through the halls once more. The smell of popcorn filled your nose instantly. You were so ready for a movie night with the Winchester’s. You were back in the library, looking over at Sam still glancing at his computer.

“Hey,” you greeted him, walking over to the table. You took a seat on the table, your feet on the chair next to him.

“How are you holdin’ up?” he asked, glancing up at you as he leaned back.

“I’m calming down now that I’m here,” you answered. “Thanks for asking.”

“You looked a little overwhelmed when you got here,” he pointed out. “Not that I blame you. It’s everywhere. I just got off the phone with Garth. He said his town is the same. Croatoan virus.”

“What caused this, Sammy?” you questioned, swallowing hard as you looked down.

“I wish I knew,” he frowned. “Hell, it could be the angels stirring up trouble again.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged.

“Well, you’re safe now. The bunker is warded. You’ve got us,” he smiled. “You and Dean having a movie night?”

“Yeah,” you giggled. “You joining us?”

“Nah, not tonight,” he shook his head. “I’m going to go for a run on the treadmill. Clear my head.”

“You okay?” you furrowed your brows.

“Yeah,” he nodded, casting his head down. “Just - this whole thing is going to be more than we can handle. All those innocent people. Sometimes this job sucks, you know?”

“I get that,” you breathed out, reaching your hand over to hold his. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.” You squeezed his hand.

“You finally going to do something about your crush on Dean,” he changed the subject, giving you a sly smile.

“No,” you chuckled. “Nice try though.”

“Well, we are stuck in here for however long. I don’t want the sexual tension to get to be too much,” he joked, squeezing your hand.

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes playfully. “Since I’m here, can I braid your hair later?”

“Sure,” he shook his head with a wide smile. “Go have fun with Dean. We’ll hang out tomorrow.”

“Will do. You know where to find me if you need me,” you told him. You hopped off the table, circling around him. You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek before taking off to the kitchen. You could see the look of defeat on his face. You hoped that a good run on the treadmill was going to help him.

You skipped into the kitchen, the smell of the popcorn getting stronger. You saw Dean standing next to the stove with a huge bowl of popcorn next to him. A case of beer was set out, ready for your night to begin.

“You ready?” you asked with a wide smile.

“You know it,” he chuckled. “You want to grab the beer. I’ve got the snacks.” You nodded your head, stepping into the kitchen to grab the beer off the counter. Dean had the popcorn bowl in one hand and the chocolate and candy in the other.

“Lead the way, handsome,” you smiled.

He gave you a soft smile, walking out of the kitchen to head out. You watched the way his legs moved as he made his way to the Dean cave. He had changed into his comfortable sweats and kept his henley on. You loved it when he was comfortable for movie nights.

You stepped onto the Dean cave, smiling at the sight before you. It had changed a lot since you were last in it. It still had the kegs and the foosball table. The old chairs were there, but there was now a bigger couch in there now. One with lots of room for you to get comfortable. Blankets were folded at one end. A big pile of them. There were actual pillows, and a coffee table.

“Look at this place,” you smiled.

“We changed a few things,” he smiled. “You should’ve seen Sam, Cas and I trying to get the couch in here.”

“Oh god, that must have been hilarious,” you beamed, taking a seat on one side of the couch. “What do you feel like watching, Winchester?”

“Uh, what about a classic? I was thinking Austin Powers,” he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Shall we shag now, or shag later?” you let out a laugh. “You know I’m always for watching that.”

“Alright,” he nodded, grabbing the remote off the table. The bowl of popcorn was set between you. The candy and chocolate next to it. You reached over, taking two beers out of the case. You opened one up for Dean, handing it over to him before opening your own. You took a good sip of it. You felt yourself calming down as the beer hit your empty stomach. You didn’t know how much you needed it until that first sip.

The beginning of the movie was silent. You munched away at the popcorn. Your hands meeting the odd time, making you laugh a little. It was nice to just be able to sit there with him and enjoy a good movie.

Eventually you got tired of the popcorn and it was moved to the table. Dean opened the peanut m&ms and moved a little closer to you. You couldn’t deny that your heart began to race when his thigh pressed to yours.

“How was your last hunt?” He asked towards the end of the movie.

“Good,” you shrugged. “Simple salt and burn. Nothing extensive. I welcome the easy ones these days.”

“Yeah no kidding,” he chuckled. “When was this one?”

“Yesterday actually. Before everything went all fucky. Sam thinks it has something to do with the angels.”

“Me too,” he nodded. “Cas is MIA.”

“Guess we gotta lay low until we know,” you said. “I could definitely do with more movie nights. It’s been awhile.”

“It has,” he nodded. “You still hunting with what’s his name?”

“Cory? And no,” you shook your head. “We uh - parted ways a few months back.”

“Weren’t you two-“

“Yeah, at one point,” you swallowed hard. “But it didn’t mean anything to him and he continued to screw other people. I couldn’t do it. We split and I’ve been on my own ever since.”

“You’re hunting solo?” He asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

“I’m being careful,” you stated.

“Damnit, Y/N!”

“I know,” you breathed out, suddenly finding the label on the bottle interesting. “Truth is, I haven’t been hunting that much. I’ve worked maybe four or five cases since we split. One was with Jody. You guys and the demon hunt. The others were salt and burns. I’m not really on a suicide mission. I know the job kills well enough. I’ve been taking breaks here and there. Working in bars. Hustling pool now and again. It’s been quiet.”

“You could’ve stayed here, you know,” he pointed out.

“I know,” you nodded. “But you also know that I need some space sometimes. Things with Cory - it didn’t feel right. There was so much trust built with us being hunters. Someone I could actually see myself sharing my life with. But he didn’t want to be tied down and I couldn’t trust him after finding that out. It just sucked to find out the person you were with wasn’t the person you thought they were.”

“That why you want to stay with us?” He cocked his eyebrow. “Tired of running?”

“Tired of being alone, Dean,” you admitted. This conversation was getting to be too much for you and you hadn’t had nearly enough to drink to continue it. You didn’t want pity and you didn’t want Dean to find out that you had a big ol’ crush on him either. Some things were better left hidden. This was one of them. “Anyway, I’m glad to be here to watch movies with you, Mr Bigglesworth.”

“Cute,” he let out a laugh. “For the record, Cory’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, he is. He’s not a Winchester,” you smiled.

“No one is as stupid as us,” he joked, nudging you with his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you let out a laugh. “More like dumb.”

“Yeah whatever,” he smirked. The end credits rolled up on the screen. Dean reached for the remote, turning the movie off. “You feel like watching the second one?”

“Maybe tomorrow night,” you said as you yawned. “Today was a long day and I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed that doesn’t have a puke coloured comforter.”

“Alright, fair enough,” he nodded. “C’mon, I’ll walk you to your room.”

You got up off the couch first, stretching your sore muscles before starting to walk to the doorway. Dean was right behind you, his hands on your shoulders as if he wasn’t going to be able to keep up somehow. It made you smile. Then again, a lot of things about Dean made you smile.

You stopped at the number twelve on your door, turning to face Dean. He had a soft smile playing on his lips and his hands were now shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants. He looked a lot happier than you had seen him the last couple of months. His eyes were a little brighter and the bags under his eyes weren’t as bad as they had been. Unless that was the hallway lighting, but even then, it could only do so much.

“Thanks, Dean,” you half smiled, looking up at him.

“You know where to find me if you need me, okay?” he assured you, reaching his hand up to cup your cheek. The simple gesture made your heart soar. You didn’t want to give away the fact that it did.

“Right next to mine,” you breathed out, nodding your head. He moved his hand away, and gave you a half smile before turning to walk back down the hall. There was a part of you that was screaming inside, begging him to come back and stay with you. You didn’t want him to stray too far, and you certainly didn’t want to be on your own again. Not after doing it for the last six months. But Dean was your friend. He wasn’t going to be what Cory was to you. He’s not a warm body to sleep next to, or someone you could have that life with. He was Dean Winchester. “Hey Dean?”

“Yeah?” he turned back to look at you. You took a few steps forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, engulfing him in a hug. He hugged you back instantly. His arms slipping around your waist, tugging you in close to him. You melted against him this time. There was no rush or pressure to get things moving. You got to enjoy the feeling of being in his arms, and that was exactly what you needed.

“Night,” you smiled, releasing him from your arms. You knew if you didn’t then, you weren’t going to.

“Night, sweetheart,” he whispered. You turned back to your room, opening the door without another word.

You took a deep breath as soon as the door shut. The lingering feeling of Dean’s arms was still coursing through you. A feeling you never wanted to stop. It had been so long since you had that kind of affection. Sure, you hugged Sam earlier, but it wasn’t the same as it was from Dean. You fit perfectly in Dean’s arms, it seemed.

You tiptoed your way over to your bed, pulling the comforter back before slipping inside. The sheets were cold against your body at first. The room was a little colder than you were used to. It was that time of year, and it didn’t help that the bunker was underground.

You glanced at your phone for the first time since you got to the bunker. The first thing you saw was a text from Cory. With the Croatoan virus going on, he was looking for a warm bed and someone to hide out with. He tried his hardest to try and reconnect with you when he was lonely. He was the reason why you were too. The reason why you were so touch starved and craved Dean all the more.

You turned over, trying to make yourself more comfortable. The light from the hallway was beaming in the bottom vent. You let out a huff, trying to make yourself comfortable on your pillow. You could always get up and sneak into Dean’s room. Claim you had a nightmare and you didn’t want to be alone. That would at least get you in the door. The rest you could figure out. But at the same time, you didn’t want Dean to know about your feelings for him. You could sleep in Sam’s room with him. It wasn’t Dean though.

You had to suck it up. It was either that, or you were going to run the risk of Dean finding out. You had a choice. You always had a choice. You swallowed hard, throwing the comforter off of you. Your feet hit the cold concrete floor, taking you out of the room and right to the next one.

You could see that Dean’s light was on from the bottom of the door. You could hear him rummaging around in something, indicating he was still wide awake. You took a deep breath. You had to grow a pair. You couldn’t expect yourself to be happy if you weren’t going to do something to make you happy. You reached your hand up, knocking against the wood.

The door opened slowly, revealing Dean in his same clothes and a confused look on his face. You gave him a weak smile, placing your hands together in front of you. You had to try and form the words you needed to get him to let you stay.

“So - uh, turns out I’m not actually that tired,” you said sheepishly. He stepped to the side as a smile spread across his cheeks, opening the door up a little more for you to enter.

“C’mon,” he nodded.

You hesitantly walked inside his room, taking a seat at the bottom of his bed. He had one of his drawers open, and a few clothes on his desk. He was folding them up and putting them away. You recognized a lot of his shirts, hell you had worn a few of them.

“You okay?” he asked you as he folded one of his t-shirts.

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “Just - I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Tired of being alone?” he questioned.

“So tired of being alone,” you admitted. “Cory texted me earlier. Asking where I was. With this going on out there, he’s looking for a warm body to sleep next to. I’m not going back to that.”

“I don’t blame you,” he nodded. “My bed’s always open. First night’s free.”

“Shut up, Winchester,” you let out a laugh. “My room’s cold.”

“Right, the heater is broken. I went out and bought one for my room. I forgot about that,” he said sheepishly.

You moved up the bed, slipping beneath his covers. His room was at least ten degrees warmer than yours. He finished up folding his shirts and put them away as you made yourself comfortable in his bed. His felt softer than yours, and the pillows were nicer. You were definitely going to take advantage of his bed for the night.

He flicked the light off, leaving the little lamp on before he climbed in the bed to join you. The bed shifted as he positioned himself comfortably. You turned your gaze to him, seeing the soft smile that played on his lips. You could feel his body heat radiating towards you. This was exactly what you needed.

“Night sweetheart,” he muttered.

“Night Dean.”

You gently began to stir hours later. Warmth filled you, followed by the soft thumping sound beneath your head. Every so often, your head would rise and fall. You were pressed against something harder than you expected, but comfortable at the same time.

Holy shit, you had fallen asleep cuddling Dean. Fuck!

You smiled to yourself for a moment, actually allowing yourself to relish in the feeling. You were safe, and protected by Dean. He was holding you to him, letting you cuddle him. God, you had no idea how much you needed this kind of touch. The soft, sweet, worry free hold that you had been deprived from for so long. You missed this more than anything.

“Hey Dean, Jody - shit sorry!” Dean stirred beneath you, effectively waking up to Sam’s voice. You shifted off him instantly, feeling your cheeks heating up at being caught by Sam, and probably by Dean too.

“Mmmh?” Dean groaned.

“Jody called and asked about what’s going on,” he informed the two of you. “I have to say, it’s about time you told him. I told you things would work out. You’ve only been flirting since you were kids.”

“Told me what?” Dean asked gruffly, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes.

“Sam,” you warned him.

“I’ll be in the library,” he said sheepishly, leaving the room as fast as he entered it.

“I’m going to go get some coffee on,” you told him, trying to sound as confident as you could. You didn’t want to make it seem like a big deal, even if Sam had just basically told Dean that you had feelings for him.

You slipped out of the bedroom, making your way down the hall to the kitchen. Your stomach was growling, and you desperately needed a cup of coffee to wake you up. Sam already had a pot waiting for the two of you, which you were more than thankful for. You poured yours and another one for Dean when he finally made his way to join you.

You took a seat at the table, taking your first sip of the liquid gold. You took a deep breath, letting the warm drink slide down your throat. Dean sauntered in with his same clothes on from last night. He flashed you a soft smile as he headed straight for his coffee.

“What was Sam talking about this morning?” he asked as he sat down in front of you, his mug in his hand.

“Nothing,” you shook your head. “I think he just thought we were together.”

“Why would he think that?” he chuckled, bringing his mug up to his lips.

“Because I slept in your bed last night,” you pointed out.

“And you were cuddling with me,” he wiggled his eyebrows, earning a groan from your lips.

“What I do in my sleep is not really me, Winchester,” you argued, hoping to ease your way out of this conversation unscaved.

“Oh yeah?” he let out a laugh. “You know you cuddled me the whole night right? Twenty minutes after you climbed into my bed until this morning.”

“You didn’t stop me,” you stated. Your heart felt like it was going to pound out of your chest. You had no idea where this was going to go. You didn’t want him to be mad or uncomfortable. Hell, it wasn’t the first time it had happened, but Sam just had to go and say something and now you were on trial.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I didn’t. I can see that you’re touch deprived, sweetheart. You’re one of the most affectionate people I know. If cuddling me means you won’t fall back into bed with Cory or someone else, then I’m gonna do it.”

“I’m okay, Dean. Really,” you lied.

“Maybe so, but we all need someone sometime,” he half smiled.

“Even you?”

“Even me,” he swallowed hard. “You want some breakfast?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” you nodded.

“Bacon and eggs?” he offered.

“You know I’d never pass that up.”

He got up from his seat, leaving his half drunk cup of coffee at the table with you. You watched his bowlegs take him over to the fridge, opening it up to grab what he needed to start breakfast. His words were still ringing in your head. He needed someone too. Maybe that was why he didn’t stop you, or protest. He didn’t seem to be that mad at what Sam said either.

You got up from your spot at the table, bringing your coffee with you. You tiptoed your way around the counter. He had his back to you as he started making the bacon. You placed your mug on the island before hopping up on it. You watched as his back muscles moved beneath his shirt. You smiled to yourself. Maybe telling him wouldn’t be that bad. After all, he was Dean. You had known him for years. He was a hunter that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

“Hey Dean,” you breathed out, trying to hide the smile playing on your lips.

“Mmh?” he asked, still focused on the task at hand.

“I kind of lied to you,” you started. “Sam said that this morning because he thought I finally told you how I feel about you.” He turned away from the bacon for this one. His brows were furrowed when he looked at you. He took a few steps towards you, placing his hands on either side of you.

“Are you saying wha I think you’re saying?” he questioned. “You have feelings for me?”

“I do,” you nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “I always have. I feel safest when I’m with you. You make all the bad things seem insignificant. You make my heart race, and my palms sweaty.”

“This isn’t one of those ‘if we die’ speeches is it?” he cocked his eyebrow.

“No,” you shook your head. “This is one of those selfish, and probably incredibly stupid moments you and Sam can hold over my head.”

“Not stupid,” he shook his head. “I always thought you had feelings for Sam.”

“W-why?”

“You kiss his cheek all the time. You braid and play with his hair every time you’re here. You usually text him,” he pointed out.

“I didn’t want to kiss you on the cheek because I can barely tell you you look good without blushing. Your hair isn’t long enough for me to braid, but I have played with it when you were sleeping,” you told him. “I just don’t want to annoy you, you know?”

“You’re never annoying me,” he assured you. “Especially when you need me.” His hand came up to your cheek, urging you to look up at him. You gave him a weak smile, meeting his gorgeous green eyes. He leaned into you, brushing his lips gingerly over yours. You smiled against him, kissing him back. You swore your heart skipped a beat. This was everything you wanted. Before you felt safe, now you felt like you were home. You felt like you had a sense of belonging. You were here with him and nothing else in the world mattered more than this moment. Not Cory. Not the Croatoan virus. Nothing but Dean.

“Is something burning?” Sam’s voice called out.

“Shit,” Dean muttered, turning away from you to the stove. The bacon was definitely going to be crispy, maybe a little too crispy. You let out a giggled, bringing your hand up to your lips, that were still tingling from the feeling of his.

“Does this mean I get to sleep in your bed tonight?” you played.

“Oh sweetheart, you get to do more than sleep in my bed tonight,” he told you.

“Guess you like me back, huh?” you half teased. Honestly, you just wanted to hear him say that he did. You wanted to know that Dean Winchester had a crush on you too.

“I’ve liked you since we were seven years old, Y/N,” he stated, turning back around to face you. He took a few steps to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You make me feel safe too.”

“Good,” you nodded.

“C’mere,” he smirked, reaching his hand to your chin. He pressed his lips to yours, smiling against you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, tugging him into you as you kissed him back. “Sorry it took croatoan to make me do this.”

“Better now than never,” you giggled. “Shall we shag now or shag later?”

“Do I make you horny baby?” he quoted with a wide grin.

“Mmmh very,” you smirked. “Finish up breakfast and we can definitely go back to bed.”

“Coming right up,” he winked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did you like it? What was your favourite part? Share your thoughts with me via reblog, reply or send me an ask! Your response is what keeps me going!!

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mattzerella-sticks · 3 years ago

Text

metamorphosis

Chapter 1 (ao3)

Prologue (ao3) (tumblr)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Chapter 1 - Dean I

“Cas?”

Dean waited, watching Cas’s lips. He waited for his name to be spoken, said in that same mixture of fondness and exasperation and gravel that ticked the tempo of his heart up a notch. He waited for his angel to smile, then tell Dean that he’s fine; that it wasn’t more than a scratch, that he’s still here.

Any minute now.

“…Cas?” Dean’s voice sounded scratchy, raw, like a needle ripped through a spinning record. He blinked back his tears, embarrassed, because Cas might wake soon and see him break, see him not be strong enough. His gaze broke from Cas’s bluing lips, staring at the starless sky above. He saw night begin its transition to early morning, a sun sliver dipping into the horizon, and wondered how long Cas will play with him like this. How long will Cas pretend to lie there? How long will Cas insist that he’s –

“Cas!” Even with the extra help from gravity, Dean couldn’t stop the pinprick tears tracing their way down to his ears, wetness setting his skin aflame. He choked on a sob, the rubber band of his body snapping and recoiling into itself. His shoulders shook. He squeezed tight to his stomach. Dean closed his eyes, but inside that shuttered darkness was Cas, emerging from the portal. Cas with the blade in his hand. Cas with a blade, poking out his chest. “Oh… oh, God…”

He’s really gone. He’s gone and Dean hurt. Dean hurt so much.

Dean cracked one eye open, then another. In his periphery, he saw the tips of Cas’s limp fingers lying in the dirt along with the rest of his body.

It was something he has wanted to do for some time now. Dean noticed what happens halfway into its journey, his trembling hand hovering over Cas’s. He lowered it cautiously. When there’s barely an inch of space separating his middle finger from Cas’s knuckles, Dean stopped. Dean couldn’t close that final gap. He stared at the emptiness between them, small but terrifyingly infinite, and was frozen in terror.

“Dean!”

Sam’s call stirred him from that horrid trance, urgency reminding Dean of all else that happened. Of Crowley’s sacrifice, of the portal closing, of mom on the other side; those events crashed into him like a terrible wave, washing him out into a roaring sea that denied him any sense or reason. Standing, legs ready to give out on him at any moment, Dean stumbled towards where he last heard his brother.

He forgot about the steps. Sam caught him, guiding him past the threshold and into the cabin with lumbering haste. Dean’s vision returned to him soon, though. He drew Sam further to his side, for a loose hug, then shoved his brother’s oafish frame off of him. Dean supported himself using the wall instead. “What?” he asked, growling, “What is it?”

Sam tried to speak but got cutoff by a shrill cry coming from another room. Sam shrugged, jerking his head to where, Dean guesses, the crying originated. He’d also take a stab at who’s responsible for crying, too.

Kelly’s son. Lucifer’s son. The whole damned reason Dean’s life lay shattered in the clearing out back.

Hearing those whines and sobs rattle the cabin’s chilly silence helped harden what remained of his heart, enough so that the baby’s shrieking echoed in the hollow chambers of Dean’s chest. It made what he must ask next much easier. “You didn’t kill him yet?”

Sam visibly startled, jaw clenched that familiar way Dean knows meant an argument brewed within; his brother’s puppy dog features deceived, hiding his true feelings. Again, as Sam readied to speak, the baby took his cue and interrupted with a damning wail. Sam pressed his lips into a thin, mangled line while he waited his turn.

A minute passed, and it’s doubtful the little guy would lose steam soon. Dean sighed. He pushed off the wall, passing Sam as he followed the noisy little bastard. Sam stayed right behind him, heavy footsteps and chiding tone mixing with the crying to shred Dean’s nerves into oblivion. “You are not doing this, Dean,” Sam hissed, tugging on his elbow, “we need to talk about it first –“

“Who can talk over all this racket!” He wrenched his arm free, storming into the baby’s nursery while Sam dawdled under the doorframe. Their entrance meant little to the newborn, who continued crying despite their entrance. “And I’m not killing him –“ he kept his yet stored in the barrel of his mouth, unfired, conscious of how it will be received in the moment – “gonna shut him up for a while, s’all…” Dean punctuated his claim by grabbing the baby, Jack if the painted name on the crib meant anything, and tucking him into the crook of his arm. He bounced him like he did Sam decades ago, like he would for any normal baby, cooing sweet nothing that tumbled out of him as if they were sand in a broken hourglass, shards mixed within. Dean spied a rocking chair in the corner and, with Sam’s piercing gaze studying him, Dean collapsed into it.

That seemed to work. Dean’s gentle rocking, paired with a hummed lullaby cherrypicked from his past, put the hellion in his arms at ease. Jack stared up, transfixed by what Dean guessed is the tall lamp casting a gentle glow on them both; a lamp Sam, now in the room and by his side, flicked on after Dean sat down. It must be the center of his focus, because Dean wouldn’t believe the baby looked at him like he did; like he’s a bright and beautiful thing, deserving of attention, of being the center of his known universe. He didn’t want that, especially from him.

Dean swallowed a curse and ended their contest, sure if he looked into the baby’s eyes any longer, he would damn the consequences and wring the life from this tiny body nestled in his hands. He waited for Jack’s fit to tamper lower and lower, rising only after a moment of uninterrupted silence. Dean carried Jack back, returning him to his crib. He added another mistake into the column of ever-increasing errors and glanced at Lucifer’s kid a final time. He examined him, searching for little horns or a tail or tattoos of sixes; he found nothing. Nothing that proved he’s more than a child, innocent and carefree.

Sam hung by his shoulder, buzzing halo bothersome in Dean’s ear. “I think he likes you.”

Dean huffed under breath, “I wish I could say the same.”

He left. Sam trailed in his wake; tread heavy from being constipated with a smug righteousness Dean dreaded will be shat all over him when Sam had the chance. He was silent until the kitchen, then Sam struck. “His mother just died, Dean.”

Dean shrugged, “So did ours.” He expected that to feel weird saying, but it hadn’t. Sam gaped at him, like it had. Maybe Dean’s in shock. Maybe he was too used to having a dead mom. Dean carried on regardless. “If you think a sob story’s gonna convince me of anything, try hitting me when the kids got enough pages to fill a book larger than Moby Dick’s, or ours. Right now, he’s a table of contents and not much else.”

“Exactly,” Sam needled, poking Dean’s chest. Dean swat him away with the refrigerator door, creating a makeshift barrier to protect himself from Sam’s crusade. He dug around for something to drink, something boozy, as Sam prattled. “Look, Dean, we… I know our thing is – our thing is killing monsters but, Dean, he’s a baby. He – he didn’t do anything –“

“He was conceived,” Dean said, “that’s enough for me.” His groping fingers pushed aside the carton of milk for a third time; he still couldn’t find the beer.

“That wasn’t his fault.” Sam rested his hand over Dean’s where it rested on the refrigerator door, pleading for Dean to look at him by touch alone. Dean relented, darting his eyes for a fleeting glance. Sam’s brows were drawn in like a steep hill, and he appeared absolutely ghastly because of the refrigerator’s light. Dean fell back to his mission. “Lucifer… he set this in motion, and we’ve dealt with him.”

“And what did it cost us?”

Sam sighed. “Everyone we lost knew what this was about,” he told Dean, “knew how it might end. They were ready to risk their lives for this.”

“We were here to take down Lucifer, end of story,” Dean spat, knocking items onto the floor in his fervor. He tore through like a whirlwind, throwing food everywhere. Eggs, lettuce, ketchup and pickles – no beer though. Dammit. “And with the kid kicking, we haven’t even finished our mission.”

“Jack is not Lucifer!” Sam squeezed Dean’s wrist, begging for more attention. Dean’s spiteful, rigid glare burned a hole in the back of the fridge. He refused to move even an inch. “He’s a baby, and we… we kill monsters. We kill the ones who have no chance of being saved. He was just born, Dean. He had no choice in that.”

“Who’s to say that he won’t choose to be a monster, once he’s old enough?”

Sam strangled his wrist, now, Dean’s fingers numbing because of his brother’s impassioned grip. “We’ll make sure. We’ll raise him right.”

This drew Dean out of the refrigerator. “We?” he laughed, bitterness churning in his gut. “We, really? You think…” Dean didn’t finish, speechless at the insanity Sam presented. He and Sam, raising Lucifer’s kid? He and Sam, sheltering the baby who ruined their lives? He and Sam… “I hate to break it to you, Sammy,” he continued, his voice returning, “but this ain’t the nineties. We can’t have it all, clearly. And we are not taking that kid in like some muddy stray.”

“Cas wanted to raise him.”

Dean gagged. The toxic rush of seconds ago disappeared, spilling out from the seam Sam pulled loose.

Sam, at least, was aware enough to briefly mime an apology. His face contorted into a pained expression, exaggerated to better mangle his earlier fury. However, that’s smoothed and replaced with sterner features as he detached himself from his words, and the ugliness that they inspired. He stood tall, committed to the outburst, and from the curl of his scowl, Dean wouldn’t expect him to take back what’s been said. It will linger like the other ghosts.

If that was how he wanted to do this.

“Sure,” Dean agreed, “and that got him what, exactly?” He slammed the refrigerator door, startling both of them and the baby. Jack’s wailing picked up where he left off, although sharper and more annoying. Dean pushed into Sam, instinct urging him to soothe like he did earlier. Dean stopped himself, hesitating. He spun on his heel, leaving where he came in.

Sam shouted, “You can’t just run away Dean!”

“I’m getting some air, is all!” he yelled back, ripping the door off its hinges in his haste to leave.

A terrifying gust rammed into him almost immediately, giving him the very air he craved. Then, a second wind blows in the opposite direction; stealing his breath as his gaze landed on the body of his angel, immobile, with black skid marks in a shoddy recreation of what might be wings splayed beside him like oddly bent branches. Dean blindly descended, too focused with Cas’s form than the stairs. When his feet reached solid, uneven ground, Dean slowed to a glacial pace. Cas didn’t react.

Dean tried not to, too. Hand at his cheek, wiping some more stray tears, Dean failed.

He ripped himself away, jogging from the backyard space towards the front where his true escape was. Dean white knuckled his keys, jagged teeth biting into the palm of his hand. Pain kept him from spiraling, from thinking, from staying there. And when he couldn’t use pain, key nestled in the ignition instead of his hand, Dean had the next best thing – open roads.

The engine roared, overpowering the blood rushing past his ears. Dean demolished the speed limit easily, bulleting across the asphalt, pedal his trigger. It’s early enough he needn’t worry about highway patrolmen or wayward pedestrians. He drove fast, loose, and recklessly. Fuck Vin Diesel, Dean thought. Vin had nothing on him.

Kelly’s cabin was a blurry spot in his rearview mirror, a speck he might scratch off with his nail if he pleased. Trees became indistinguishable from each other. Not that it mattered, Dean’s tunnel vision blocking his periphery. His eyes remained fixed ahead of him, uncharacteristically so. It took most his focus to keep like that, hands cramping on the wheel from throttling it. He counted dash after dash and tallied potholes as he hit them, stuffing his mind with senseless figures other than the lone one he abandoned in the field.

Soon, Dean reached a nearby town. The greenery became sparser, leaves and wood replaced by buildings and city blocks and lampposts and streetlights. He hit his first light, a blip of red flashing for attention. Thoughtlessly, Dean flattened his foot against the brake; Baby’s tires squealing as she fought momentum. Dean knocked against his dashboard from the force, falling back only after his car fully stopped. He couldn’t see the streetlight dangling above. Dean knew he sat over the line, his Baby’s hood hanging in the intersection, asking for an accident.

A second later, and what he was driving from caught up to him.

Dean gasped, curling in on himself, hands glued to the wheel. His body seized with sobs that bruise, each tremor punching his gut. He used what little strength he had and glanced at his reflection. That speck on his rearview, that he foolishly clawed at, didn’t disappear; it was caught in his bloodshot eyes.

He couldn’t continue driving like this.

Red light, green light, it didn’t matter now. Dean crawled along to the nearest lot that belonged to a tacky chain eatery. Parking inside, Dean threw his car door open and spilled free of his Baby. He fell to his knees, hissing, denim ripping on impact and gravel scratching his skin. Dean staggered to his feet. Blood trickled down his leg from the open wound on his knee. He walked forward, dazed, while Baby idled at an angle, keys trapped in her ignition. If it were later in the day, someone might steal her. If Dean were acting like himself, he might care.

He didn’t go far. Dean slowed as he approached the fast-food joint, stopping inches from the backdoor. His bottom lip wobbled, Dean raking his hair with twitching fingers. He stared at the door, at the wooden sign hanging by a single, rusted nail. It depicted a stereotypical pirate, with hat, beard, and eyepatch, painted on a blue background and encircled by cartoonish rope that framed this pirate’s face along with an oblong addition underneath of the word ‘BUCCANEERS’. The pirate glared ahead, at some far point, as if Dean weren’t there blocking it.

But he was. Dean was here, while everyone else – everyone he cared about…

“Why me?” he muttered, “Why’s it always… why do I have to deal with it, with the after, with picking up the pieces of someone else’s mess.” Dean growled, head bowed, eyes unflinchingly locked with the pirate’s. “Mom… Crowley… Ca” – he stuttered on his name, wounds still too fresh – “you’re gonna bring him back. You’re gonna bring them all back. After everything I’ve done for this shithole, that I’ve been through, it’s the least that I’m owed. I deserve to… I – I don’t deserve this.”

The pirate ignored his pleas, it couldn’t answer him. And Chuck, apparently, wouldn’t answer him.

“…Okay.”

Dean launched himself at the pirate, picturing a brown beard instead of black, and a grayish blue eye where a black one was painted. He smashed it with one punch, face splintering and spraying everywhere. Dean continued wrecking it, nearly destroying the door in his fury. Aiming a final blow, Dean hit the sign off the nail and sent it flying from view.

Exhausted, knuckles as bloody as his knee, Dean collapsed near the stacked crates and leaning pallets.

A shudder traveled across his body, from the top of his head, dragged along each vertebra like a sharp, clawed finger, and finally making his legs seize and stretch out in front of him. Dean vacuumed in a deep breath, chest ballooning to contain it. He won’t release it willingly.

“Dude…”

Coughing, Dean glanced up at some teenager standing nearby, gaping at the scene. He wore a large brown jacket a shade lighter than his skin over a deep blue polo that matches the visor currently worn like a headband, so his bangs wouldn’t his face. A ring of keys dangled in his hands. Keys that, Dean guessed, were for opening the very door he pummeled as if it were a punching bag.

“Hey, man,” the teen asked, glancing between Dean and the wrecked door, “are you… like, good? Do I need to call someone?”

A repairman. The teen’s manager. Neither would do Dean any good, but both will need to know about the damage he did to the property.

Dean groaned, climbing to his feet. He swayed with the breeze, a lone willow in this blacktop clearing. Some of the blood from his knuckles drippled like morning dew would off its leaves. He advanced, the teen tensing as he moves closer. Their shoulders brushed, the younger of the two stumbling back a few inches, cowering in Dean’s presence. Dean thought he should say something, let him know there’s nothing to be afraid of.

That felt like too much of a damned lie, so he caught the words in his throat and swallowed them down.

He returned to his car, starting it like nothing happened, like his skin hadn’t torn and tears weren’t drying on his cheeks as he refused to wipe them off. Dean tapped the pedal and drove off. He drove the same path he took earlier, only in reverse. He drove to Kelly’s cabin, and all that waited for him there.

Dean parked sloppily, again; however, pocketing his keys this time as he left Baby. He didn’t acknowledge the front door, shuffling into the backyard for another glimpse of Cas’s body.

Cas was gone. His wings were still there, and Sam was, too.

Sam dropped a stack of branches onto a large pile he must have begun gathering after Dean fled. He rubbed at his neck, steadily avoiding where Dean’s gaze was by looking at the pile. “I moved him,” he explained, “I figured we might as well start on the… on the pyres for him, and Kelly.” Sam paused. He grabbed a lone branch, snapping a twig from it. “I didn’t do anything else. Figured you would want to…”

“Yeah.” Dean blinked, then imagined the shadows burnt into the ground rising and rising, flapping determinately, until they vanished. He blinked. Those wings hadn’t moved an inch.

Dean headed into the cabin.

He spied Cas’s body immediately, laid atop the kitchen table. Sam rearranged him during transit, closing his eyes and setting Cas’s arms at his sides. If he weren’t thinking about it constantly, weren’t reminded of Cas’s current state with every beat of his own heart, Dean might believe Cas was asleep. Or, at the very least, imitating it, since angels can’t sleep. They can’t eat. There’s a lot they can’t do. And Cas won’t ever not do any of that, not anymore.

Sighing, Dean circled the table while tracing the edges of it with his fingertips. He reached the other side, where a gauzy pair of curtains hung. Dean swung his arm outward, going through the motions to free them. It’s quick work.

Wrapping Cas with these curtains will take a lifetime.

Dean started by lifting Cas’s head and slipping a strip underneath. He cradled him, unnaturally soft tufts of hair tickling his fingers. Holding Cas in such a manner encouraged further action, tempted Dean to do more. He succumbed to these voices, the fast few hours since they last sung weakened his resolve. Dean ran his bloodied knuckles across Cas’s face. He stained deathly pale skin red. He hissed, stubble like sandpaper against his cuts. He left no wrinkle untouched.

Finally, Dean switched to his thumb and pressed it just below Cas’s lips.

It’s maddening, touching Cas like this, like he always wanted. He dreamt of being able to for longer than he could remember. Daydreams and fantasies of Dean, curled into Cas’s side, leisurely and lovingly memorizing every inch of the other’s face. Those moments were always pretend, too human to ever be real, to expect from an angel like Cas. Now, as his thumb swept along the bow of Cas’s lips, Dean paid his respects to the thousands of imagined mornings and nights that would not be. Dean worshiped Cas in a way he never wanted to, but in the only way he’d ever be allowed to.

“I’m sorry…” Dean placed a featherlight kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth. Then, unable to bear looking at him, he wrapped the curtain over his face.

He shrouded the rest of Cas’s body with military precision, robotically completing his ritual. Dean hovered at his side, tightly clutching the final knot in Cas’s wrappings. His head hung listlessly, the foundations of a prayer forming on his tongue. He gnashed his teeth together, smashing it, and the sentiment’s remains tumbled backwards. It ripped apart his insides like glass. The only person who would listen, who’d care, who might heal this hurt, couldn’t.

Cas was –

Dean let go, marching into the backyard. Silently Dean joined Sam, amassing wood in his stead while Sam assembled the pyres.

Together, they completed their duties by sundown. It might have been sooner if Sam didn’t slack off to play nursemaid to Lucifer’s kid. He ran off at the slightest bit of static coming from the garish, incongruently colored baby monitor clipped onto his belt loop, dragging their duties out because of intermittent breaks. When they finally set Cas and Kelly on their respective pyres, the sky darkened to the same shade it was that they lost both of them.

Dean handled the fire. He struck two matches from a box buried in a kitchen drawer, then tossed them into the kindling. Sam, meanwhile, held a very fussy baby that showed no respect for ceremony. His piercing shrieks rung out clearly, somehow amplified by the open space. And as Jack’s cries mixed with the roar and crackle of flames, along with Sam mindlessly grunting back in a desperate plea for Jack to stop, Dean gave in. He stole Jack from Sam, nestling the baby against his chest.

His temper lessened while in Dean’s arms, and Jack soon quieted.

Dean felt Sam’s stare on his profile once more, an uncomfortable heat much different than what radiated from the cremating bodies before them. He hated it, being gawked at like some zoo animal. Yet Dean refused to turn, to bark at Sam that this momentary lapse meant nothing.

He’s only exhausted. Too tired to shutter the devastation on his face, every crack of Dean’s heart was on full display. He’s not in the mood to fight with Sam, either, aware he needed him more than he needed to lash out. He’s broken and couldn’t even manage the energy to toss Jack into the fires like he imagined himself doing.

Instead, Dean embraced him. He watched the smoke of his angel’s body drift upwards, Cas leaving him for good, forever, and rested his chin against the small, soft head of Cas’s destroyer.

Tagged List:

@llamasdumpsterfire

#supernatural #spn #spn13 #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #jack kline #baby jack kline #widower!dean #canononical character death #spn chapter fic

13 notes · View notes

deniigi · 4 years ago

Note

i have been sick in bed with a stomach bug and re-reading a bunch of your series and these questions have plagued me so pls, for the sake of your fellow samuel chung lover, if sammy was in the Selkie verse, would he be a fae? if so, what kind? ALSO, what would his interactions with jack be like (either in the selkie verse or in the lying by omission verse)? pls and thanks <3

hi!

I’ll answer asks in a bit, but for this one I have a fic that explore a What If Jack Lived/Mike existed scenario with Sam in the Inimitable verse? I know it’s now what you asked for, but it is like 4k already written so that might be smth--an LBO Sam would be tricky because Sam would be itty bitty and Matt wouldn’t have the same kind of relationship with him.

As for selkie-verse Sam? I would have to do more research on Chinese spirts/fae/folklore, but for now, he’s not fae, just human 💖He’s like 12 and can make himself invisible though, which would be very confusing for Sue if she ever bumped into him

(Sue: baby boggart??? come here I love you I will look after you.)

(Sam: please stay exactly 5037 feet away from me! Thank you and I’m calling my mom!)

Here is the What If Jack and Mike thing from the Inimitable Verse.

Jack Murdock was the size of a house. He made Matt look dainty. He made Kirsten look like a kids’ mannequin. And he made Foggy laugh until he wept.

Sam could not understand a goddamn thing he said. Nor could he understand the guy he’d brought with him, who appeared to have had some serious plastic surgery to look exactly like Matt.

Sam could take an unintelligible giant. What he couldn’t take was an unintelligible Matt, and before him, somehow, in this ring of ginger, he’d been presented with two unintellible Matts.

His head was spinning.

Kirsten patted at him sympathetically.

“I’m from New York,” Sam told her mournfully.

“I know, hon.”

“How is this even possible? You’re from New York. How are they—what are they saying?”

Kirsten shook her head.

“Only Foggy knows,” she said. “It’s okay, he’ll translate when he gets back up.”

Mr. Murdock, the tallest of the gingers, might have been a good three to four inches taller than his boys, and he might have had the biggest hands that Sam had ever had the opportunity to touch in his life, but he was really nothing but a big, shaggy sheep dog.

The reasons Sam couldn’t understand a single fucking word he said came threefold.

1) Mr. Murdock had grown up in mid-century Hell’s Kitchen. That was just how accents from those parts used to sound. They’d lightened with time.

2) He had an extra layer of what Matt called a ‘brogue.’ He was first-generation American. Both his folks had immigrated from Ireland. He talked halfway between the way they talked and the way that the kids in his neighborhood growing up had.

And 3) The man had a lisp?

It wasn’t super noticeable. Sam sure as shit couldn’t hear it among the other layers of stuff going on, but Foggy said it was there.

Apparently, it came out more when he was anxious.

Apparently, he was anxious a lot.

Foggy told Sam to just give it an hour and he’d understand.

“So your name is Sam?” Mr. Murdock asked him while Sam tried to keep his mouth from falling open.

Matt was holding his facial-copy-cat against the wall by his lapels. The copy-cat had started making kissy noises at him. He egged Matt on to punch him right in the face.

No one was stopping them.

Kirsten cleared her throat and brought Sam back down to earth.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sam. Mr., uh—”

“Call me Jack.”

Never.

“Matty hasn’t said much about you, sorry to say.” Mr. Murdock explained. The more he spoke directly to Sam, the more Sam found, to his relief, that he could understand him. “He don’t like sharin’ things his brother can get ahold of and take from ‘im.”

Sam looked from him to the ‘brother.’

“There’s two of them?” he asked.

Mr. Murdock hummed.

“God help us, every one,” he huffed.

You can say that again.

“How long has there been two?” Sam asked hesitantly.

“Mm? Oh, uh. Christ with the math,” Mr. Murdock said, “Michael—Michael—boy, you knock that off; that’s how you lose teeth—how old are you now?”

Nevermind. Sam didn’t need to know.

“I’m ageless, Pops, remember?” ‘Michael’ said, grinning at Matt’s sneer in his face, “Everlasting, never dying. Immortal. Timeless. I’m—” Dude got the wind knocked out his sails from Matt aiming for his solar plexus instead of his face.

“Maitiú,” Mr. Murdock said sharply. “He’s your brother.”

“He earned it,” Matt snapped back at his dad. “You said ‘no teeth,’ I ain’t even touched his goddamn teeth.”

“No, you coward, you wouldn’t, would you?” Michael threw back at Matt with no sense in his head. “You scared of gettin’ stuck on all that metal, huh?”

“I ain’t got my tetanus booster,” Matt deadpanned.

“Oh, get the yellow fever one next time, it’s a hoot—”

“I’m mailing you back to Thailand in a crate.”

“Oh mail me, why don’t you?”

“I’m gonna.”

“Boys,” Mr. Murdock said, exasperated. “Knock it off. You love each other. We get it.”

Kirsten shook with giggles.

“I’d drown you in the open ocean and then kill myself,” Matt said through gritted teeth. His nose was maybe an inch from his brother’s.

Michael just beamed.

“Aw, babe. You’d do that for me?” he gushed.

“HHhhh—”

“Maitiú.”

Sam had never heard someone said ‘Matthew’ this way. It was delightful. It made Matt’s shoulders go stiff as a board and then squirm in barely contained fury.

“Thank you,” Mr. Murdock said. “Drop ‘im.”

Matt didn’t want to, but he released his grip on his sibling. Michael slipped down and then caught himself and straightened himself out.

“Well, I’ll never,” he said. “We come all this way to visit you on your deathbed and—”

“I’m not dying,” Matt said.

“—you worry Dad sick for months on end. Don’t call. Don’t write. He thought the Californians had eaten you—"

“—I told him that it was a dislocation and I’m fine—”

“—and of course I told him, ‘no Dad, there ain’t any more cannibals in California than there are in New York’ but who listens to Mike, huh?”

Mr. Murdock had only been in the house for 15 minutes and he already looked exhausted.

“Where are the dogs?” he asked Foggy.

---

This was the weirdest time-out session Sam had ever experienced and he’d decided that he was living for it. Mr. Murdock went out onto the deck and locked himself out there with the dogs. Matt and his brother had never been more guilty.

Quickly the arguing turned towards scheming, which turned towards climbing out a window, which turned towards getting stuck on the roof and pleading with the Father to lend a hand.

Mr. Murdock observed Matt sobbing with laughter over Mike’s sudden anxiety of stepping from the roof to the deck’s arm railing with only hollowness.

“Mike’s not very super,” Sam pointed out to Kirsten.

“Nope,” she said brightly. “He is refreshingly normal,” she said. “Even the conman part.”

The what?

---

Matt climbed off the roof with ease and took the opportunity to finally give his old man a hug, which Mr. Murdock seemed to appreciate. He smoothed a giant mitt of a hand through Matt’s hair tenderly, like he was a baby.

It was kind of cute.

Mike scowled at them both and announced that he was pretty fine, by the way. He’d just stay there on the roof until the vultures got him.

“Matt’s the younger twin,” Foggy told Sam cheerfully. “He can do no wrong.”

Sam felt like he could suddenly see the forest for the trees.

“And Mike?” he asked.

Foggy snickered.

“He and Jack live together to keep each other in good cardiac shape,” he said. “They drive each other nuts.”

“But they still live together?” Sam clarified.

“Yeah,” Foggy said. “Mike’s what happens when you give a used-car salesman ever so slightly too much brain. He travels all over. Gets shot at and held hostage a lot. He’ll do just about anything for a couple bucks, no matter how hard Jack’s tried to get him to go straight over the years.”

“And Mr. Murdock? He doesn’t mind his son living with him?” Sam asked.

Kirsten and Foggy softened.

“Matt used to check on him more when we lived back home,” Foggy said. “Without him and Mike, Jack’s by himself. He’s got friends and work, yeah, but you know. If it weren’t for Mike, he’d come home to an empty apartment every night. Man’s got too much head trauma for that to be any kind of good. Mike looks after him—probably more than he lets anyone else. He’s too stubborn to let Matt try to help him.”

Aw, cute.

“Be prepared, Sammy,” Foggy said. “Jack’s already adopted you.”

Say what now?

---

Mr. Murdock didn’t outright say that Sam was puny and he was going to fix it, but Sam could see it in his disappointed gaze.

“Don’t like bread?” he asked as Sam chewed his way through an Uncrustable at the kitchen table. Sam froze with the sandwich in hand. He stared at it.

It was bread.

Surely, this was bread.

Right?

“Uh?” he tried.

“Don’t like the crusts?” Mr. Murdock asked him more gently.

Oh.

“I don’t mind them, these are premade though. You know, convenient,” Sam explained.

He got a stare impossible to read.

“Stay there,” Mr. Murdock decided.

It took too long for Sam’s brain to work out what had just happened, and by the time it had, it was too late. Matt stuck his head in the room and asked Sam why he’d told his dad that Matt was starving him.

Sam floundered and tried to explain the sandwiches. Matt absorbed this and rolled his whole head.

“Well, now he’s makin’ a week’s worth for you,” he sighed. “Wants you to eat the crust.”

Dude.

“It’s easier not to question it,” Matt sighed. “What kind of jelly do you want?”

---

Matt didn’t interrogate his father, but Mike did. Unrepentantly. He walked in as Sam was emphasizing that he didn’t want any kind of jelly and he’d make his own sandwiches and understood the entire situation faster than Sam could have possibly explained it.

“FATHER,” he roared. “Leave the boy alone, he’s not starvin’, he’s just short.”

Flattering. Thanks, asshole.

There was no response from the kitchen. Matt told Mike to ease off. Mr. Murdock was trying to be nice.

“There’s nice and then there’s rude,” Mike said.

“And you’re rude?” Matt offered.

There was a pause.

A warm hand found the space in between Sam’s shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry about both of ‘em, kid, they got rocks for brains, it ain’t their fault. Our grandfather was a caveman, you know how it is,” Mike said kindly.

Matt was not amused.

“It’s not a big deal,” he repeated. “I’ll eat ‘em if Sam doesn’t want ‘em.”

“And subject yourself to peanut butter hell for multiple days in a row, Maitiú?” Mike asked, scandalized.

Matt glared in the direction of the stairs.

“Some of us enjoy nut protein,” he said.

Sam blinked in shock as big hands slapped themselves over his ears.

“There are children present,” Mike hissed.

Sam found the guy’s middle fingers and yanked. Mike swore. Matt chuckled.

“He ain’t a baby,” he said fondly. “Sam’s a tough cookie.”

You’re damn right he was.

“Charming,” Mike grumbled as Matt abandoned them for the kitchen again. He scowled down at Sam. “What’s your gimmick then?” he asked.

Sam wondered if he could make his contacts come out by blinking slowly enough. It would be cool as fuck. It definitely wasn’t happening.

“I control typhoons,” he said.

Mike winced.

“Fuckin’ vigilantes,” he said.

---

Mr. Murdock gave Sam a second sandwich. He’d cut it into quarters.

“Matt says you don’t like jelly,” he said. “Bananas are better?”

Sam couldn’t help but like him.

“Yeah. I don’t eat much bread generally,” he said. “My family has always been more about rice.”

Mr. Murdock analyzed him.

“I can do rice,” he said.

Bless. It was okay, really.

“Do you like spicy things, Mr. Murdock?” Sam asked.

“Jack.”

Nice try.

“Spicy?” Sam repeated.

Mr. Murdock considered it.

“Not sure,” he said. “You mean like hot sauce? I ain’t fuck with that ghost pepper shit.”

Sam hummed.

“Before you leave, I’ll cook for you in return,” he said. “I won’t make it too spicy, cross my heart.”

Mr. Murdock considered this and then got a look in his eye that made Sam’s cheeks start to ache a little.

---

Matt told Sam to play nice. Matt told his father to play nice.

There was to be no hiding chilis in Mike’s pasta.

They were caught and scolded.

“Not to worry,” Mr. Murdock told Sam fondly, “There are other ways.”

---

Sam had never seen such outrage over a knot in a shoelace. Matt crossed his arms over his chest, seconds away from tapping his own foot.

“You said you were ready,” he reminded Mike for the fourth time.

“I know what I said,” Mike snapped at him. He’d dug through all the kitchen drawers to procure a metal skewer to apply to this situation.

“We’re going to be late,” Matt said. “I wait for my guide, she doesn’t wait for me.”

“Well she’s waitin’ today,” Mike said. “I swear to god—”

Mr. Murdock stroked the top of Tuesday’s head and asked Mike if he’d tried putting baby powder on it. Mike spat at him to mind his own business and went back to the knot. He managed it get it untangled and the shoe half on just in time to find the second one stuck in the third hole down.

He just about vibrated with fury.

Matt sighed loudly.

“Borrow mine already,” he said.

“Never.”

“Mike.”

“They’re blue. This outfit tolerates only warm colors, Matthew. ONLY warms.”

“We’re late.”

“Style waits for no man.”

“Well, clearly that ain’t the case, is it?”

Mike stood up sharply.

“I’m going to change,” he said. “And whatever elf tied these will rue the day. Mark my words.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll tell the elf—oh, my bad, the clown, Mike. It’s you. Get your life together. We’re late.”

Hilarious.

---

“Why don’t you move out here?” Sam asked Mr. Murdock as he watched Sam sand away at his latest secret project in Matt’s absence.

“Sun’ll kill me,” Mr. Murdock deadpanned.

“I thought so too, but it’s not so bad,” Sam said. “I miss the snow sometimes.”

Mr. Murdock cocked his head and then knelt down to take the sanding block out of Sam’s hands. He gestured for Sam to give him the hunk of wood in his hands, too.

“Matty says you don’t got papers,” he said.

Sam was surprised. Matt usually kept that secret locked tight. But Mr. Murdock didn’t seem to have any adverse reaction to it.

“No,” Sam admitted. “My mom brought me here when I was really little. I didn’t know what it meant to overstay a visa.”

Mr. Murdock hummed.

“Makes flying tricky,” he said.

Yeah.

“Bus, not too bad, though?”

Mm. Bus was better, yes.

“Train?”

Depended on the train.

“Hm. Well, if you get homesick or need busfare, you just give a shout, ya hear? You’re always welcome to stay with us.”

Aww.

“Or if you really hate yourself, I’m sure Mike would love to come pick you up.”

Oh god.

“He can drive?” Sam asked.

Mr. Murdock paused and held his face in his dusty palm.

“The day he got his license was the worst day of my life,” he said.

Sam snickered.

“Did you guys drive all the way here?” he asked.

“No, thank god.”

“Can you drive?”

“Son.”

Sam looked up from the block of wood into Mr. Murdock’s hazel eyes.

“I take two steps out of New York and I’m gone, that’s me dead. No, I don’t drive. Why the hell would I drive? Where the hell am I goin’?”

Wow, mood.

“I tried to drive once,” Sam said. “Reversed into a fire hydrant. Matt laughed so hard he cried.”

Mr. Murdock handed back the woodblock. It was much smoother than it had been. Sam was chocking that up to the muscles and the practice.

---

Matt and Mike got home and Mike announced that he was disowning that ‘putrid being’ that was the Swamp Monster beside him. Matt told Mr. Murdock that Mike didn’t approve of the swimming part of triathlon.

Mr. Murdock picked leaves out of his hair with supreme patience.

---

“So Dad’s officially decided that you’re his grandson,” Mike informed Sam out of nowhere that Sunday. “He prayed for you at church today.”

Sam almost dropped his wrench. That was so endearing his teeth hurt.

“It’s ‘cause I do woodwork,” he said. “He can smell the handyman on me.”

Mike cocked his head to the side. His eyes were blue like Matt’s. Their mom must have had blue eyes—or maybe hazel like Mr. Murdock’s.

“No,” Mike said. “It’s ‘cause he’s also been a grocery bagger, a janitor, and a contractor.”

He what now?

“He wants to know why you aren’t in college.”

Oh. well—

“Matt tried to explain, but you know, it ain’t clickin’. He don’t get the politics part of things sometimes. Gets confused why people make such a big deal when there’s obvious solutions in front of ‘em. It’s not all his fault, he barely got a highschool diploma back when ‘critical thinking’ wasn’t even a testing category. Anyways, he wants you to go to college. Thinks you’re too smart to be pushin’ paper.”

Sam was going to cry.

“I think he sees a lot of Matt in you,” Mike said with a squint. “So just as a warning, he’s unbearable. Always—well, no. More like 95% of the year. He’s alright around New Years when he’s tired. You can tell him to fuck off at any time, though.”

No, no. It was okay. It was nice to have…more family. That’s what it was.

“I hope you know what this means, Samuel,” Mike said.

Mmm no?

Mike’s hand clasped his shoulder.

“You can call me ‘uncle,’” he said.

Ah.

No, thanks.

---

Foggy and Kirsten couldn’t look at Sam without bursting into merciless laughter, which Sam had realized was a result of Mike’s vocal distress at his rejected offer of uncle-dom. Sam didn’t know what to tell him.

Mr. Murdock was nice. Enormous, yes, but very well meaning and gentle. His and Sam’s priorities and experience in life aligned neatly and Sam was slightly charmed by the way that he expressed himself verbally only to Matt and Mike.

Sam also didn’t hate Mike. He just didn’t want him to have uncle privileges. He didn’t see what was difficult about this.

“Mike’s got a history of rejection,” Foggy said. “And by that, I mean that every woman on the eastern seaboard has rejected him and he tries anyways.”

---

Matt came downstairs and told Sam to ignore everything Mike said to him all day. He also said that they were going out that night, so don’t burn fingers on the soldering iron.

Sam saluted in acknowledgement.

Forty minutes later there was a rap at his door followed by Mike saying through it that he wanted to show Sam something.

Sam did not open the door.

He heard Matt’s name being cursed on the other side.

---

Twenty minutes later there was another knock, this time with Mike saying that Mr. Murdock wanted to bond with Sam.

Sam nudged open his curtains and squinted hard into the backyard where he could see the vague shape of Matt chatting to his dad on the deck stairs, both apparently having a beer and shooting the shit.

This was a scam.

Sam would not be scammed.

He went back to the suit.

There was more cursing outside the door.

---

About half an hour later, there was a knock, followed by Mr. Murdock’s voice this time, asking Sam if his shoes were supposed to be on the front porch.

They were not.

This was playing dirty.

Sam ventured out to go right this wrong and ended up outside on the front porch with the conman himself. Mike closed the door after him triumphantly and proceeded to get them both locked out.

“Are you supposed to be a good conman or?” Sam asked.

Mike gaped at him.

“The best conman,” he said. “Don’t worry, kid, I’ve broken into a thousand houses and won two horses. I’ve got this.”

That was not comforting. Sam was not comforted.

“First, we gotta test all the windows, and, failing that, we get a rock or a gun,” Mike told him with a knowing finger.

Sam blinked at it and then up at Mike. The man’s shoulders twitched.

“Uh?” Mike said.

Ah. The eyes. No contacts today.

“Do you like them? They’re Prada,” Sam said to absolute silence.

“A brick,” Mike announced abruptly. “A brick works too. Like a rock but bigger.”

Okay, so they weren’t talking about it, gotcha. Look, a whole family’s worth of repression styles. Sam was glad that they had a full set of methods.

---

Sam broke into his own bedroom through the window. Mike clapped for him outside. Sam opted to leave him there.

---

He was sort of sad to see the Murdocks go, especially after seeing the effect that the most senior of them had on Matt.

Sam hadn’t seen him this chilled out. He visibly relaxed under his dad’s hand on the back of his neck. He tolerated the fussing and constant hair fixing and the fingers brushing at his cheeks and elbows. Mr. Murdock guided him with the same practiced ease that Foggy and Kirsten did, but his guiding was accompanied by a quiet, ongoing commentary about the street around them, which Sam hadn’t actually heard Foggy do in the same kind of way.

It was like Mr. Murdock was telling Matt a story everywhere they went.

He told him when there were flags hanging up a story above, waving in the wind. He told him about the hanging wire baskets of flowers that Sam forgot about. He huffed a bit while he talked about lines of traffic in the street and a vast lack of color in the group due to the absence of so many yellow cabs.

Mr. Murdock of course, had been Matt’s first ever guide. It only made sense that he had a specialized style of it, just for Matt.

And for Matt’s sake, Sam didn’t want him to go, but alas, New Yorkers, man. The city called them back to the coast like a siren.

“You take it easy, y’hear, kiddo?” Mr. Murdock told him at the airport.

Sam smiled and said that he’d try.

“Take care of yourself. I mean that. Out at night too.”

Copy that, big guy.

“Give us a hug.”

Oh??? A hug??? Sam loved hugs. Hugs were great. He was—er. Leaving this one with double the ribs from the cracks apparently.

Mr. Murdock released him to go break Matt in half and then Foggy and then Kirsten. Mike told him that he couldn’t avoid flying again by hugging people. He also warned Kirsten that he’d see her soon and that then, she was sure to fall for his charms.

Kirsten said that she would be waiting with bated breath, and then that was it. Three Murdocks again whittled down to one.

“God, I should have married your dad,” Foggy moaned.

Matt laughed at him.

“He’s plenty busy avoiding the gaze of every person over sixty in his building. Let him live,” he said. “Sam? Not too traumatized, I hope?”

Mm. Not so bad.

“Are you sure Mike’s your brother?” he asked.

“Unfortunately.”

Too bad.

“It’s fine, if we ever need a guy to distract the police, we’ve got him on retainer.”

That was true.

“They’ll come back?” Sam asked.

Matt paused before feeling for his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Or we’ll go to them. I think you’d enjoy watching them in their natural environment.”

-----------

Hope that’s something for you anon!! I also hope you feel better!

#samuel chung #jack murdock #matt murdock #mike murdock #inimitable verse #fic #ficlet

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flowercrown-bucky · 4 years ago

Text

One Day

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairings: Sam Winchester x Hunter!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, as per, and this one gets super angsty, baby.

Summary: I'm not even sure how to explain this one. Just get to readin', it'll explain its fuckin' self.

Authors' Note: I'm really sorry to everyone who follows me for Loki content, that shit has subsided recently. Soz, huns, I promise I am working on a tonne of Loki stuff at the moment.

If you're after new content before everyone else, my lil' proofing squad would welcome new members.

—

"I’M friggin' bushed." Dean sighs, slamming the door of the Impala with a heavy thunk.

You grumble in agreement, slinging your battered duffel bag over your shoulder. It'd been a long few days, and right now, all you want to do is wash the blood and grime off you, watch reality TV and sleep for a very long time.

"First shower's mine." Sam says, waving a hand.

"Not a friggin' chance, Sammy." You tell him. "I'm the one covered in blood, shit, and claret, no thanks to you."

He laughs as Dean unlocks the door to the motel room, gently pushing it open. It looked better in the daylight, you think to yourself as you drop your bag on the bed you'd chosen. Small, but you'd stayed in smaller. Shabby, but you'd stayed in shabbier. Cheap, but you'd stayed in cheaper.

Dean screaming snapped you out of your train of thought.

You spun, following Dean's gaze, eventually landing on the shadow in the corner. The figure dimly silhouetted by the harsh neon light labelling the Halfway Motel, informing passers by of its vacant rooms. The figure of a person. Of a man.

You reach for your gun as Sam reaches for the light.

"Hello, boys." His voice was deep, gruff. Oddly familiar.

"Dad?" They chorus. The half smile tugging at the corner of his lips is met by confusion, an uncomfortable silence settling over the rooms.

"Johnny Winchester." You almost laugh with relief, walking across the room to embrace your old friend.

"My little Y/N." He chuckles, holding out his arms. "My boy still looking after you?"

"You know me." You reply. "Always fine in the end."

He gently tugs a lock of your hair, pulling it straight before allowing the curl to spring back into place. You perch back on the end of your bed, anxiously glancing between the brothers.

{——————————-}

You'd met Dean and John on a hunt nearly two years ago. Mistaking them for vampires who'd strayed out the nest you were staking out, you'd accidentally hit John with a dart. The commotion had alerted the nest and the three of you had ended up tied together with no real idea of how you were going to get out. But hey, what's a little kidnapping between friends?

After John's disappearance, you'd continued searching for him whilst Dean found Sam, eventually being collected by the brothers whilst you were in the same state. To begin with, you were slightly jealous of the younger Winchester, feeling a little as if you'd been elbowed out the way. With his brother back, you wondered if Dean would have a place for you.

Eventually, your feelings towards Sam grew a little deeper. It'd taken you some time to take notice of the twinge of jealousy when girls in bars flirted with him, to notice that somehow, your gaze always snapped back to him. Plus, you knew his heart would always belong with Jess.

Sure, you'd tease him on occasion. Sure, your banter would turn flirty more often than not. Sure, sometimes you'd find yourselves in a tight space, in close proximity, and you knew he was thinking about kissing you. Maybe, just maybe, he would take the leap one day.

But you'd never be her.

And maybe you could learn to live with that.

One day.

{——————————-}

"What are you doing here, Dad?" Dean broke the silence.

"I've come to see my boys, of course." He replied. "You, Dean, and my little Sammy. Well, not so little anymore."

"Last time you saw me you told me never to come back." Sam didn't look up from his hands. "How did you even know we were here?"

"I might not've been here, but I still care.' John snapped. "I've been keeping tabs on all three of you."

"Why don't we all grab a beer and have a catch up?" You suggested, eager to put out any conflict. "There's a bar in reception, we passed it earlier."

{——————————-}

The bar might be somewhat nicer, you thought, with more than ten people in it. At eight PM, you had imagined there to be a few more people looking for a drink, but apparently not. It was much like the motel room. Small, but you'd drunk in smaller. Shabby, but you'd drunk in shabbier. Cheap, but you'd drunk in cheaper.

It would also be nicer, if they would actually talk to each other. You had found yourself babbling, trying to fill the heavy silence. There was a lot between the three of them, and all three too stubborn to address it. Dean was a more satisfactory conversationalist than his younger brother, though you suspected the tension between his father and Sam was keeping him quiet.

Your eyes met, and whilst Dean remained unspeaking, his hand slid across the worn leather seat to find yours.

{——————————-}

"Should we grab another round, Dean?" Y/N broke the silence, gently persuading Dean to his feet. Almost as soon as she'd said it, Sam wished she hadn't. Alone with his dad? Not really where he wanted to be. He stared down at his beer, twisting it in his fingers. Four and a half percent, he learned. Not for consumption by pregnant women.

"How are you, Sammy?" John asked. "How are you really?"

For the first time all evening - possibly ever - Sam looked his father in the eye.

"I'm fine, Dad." He replied. "Really."

"You feel like you've betrayed her, don't you?" His dad continued. "Jess."

"What do you mean?" He asked, bewildered.

"Y/N." The older man spoke softly, gently. "You're in love with her."

Not for the first time, Sam's face gave him away.

{——————————-}

The first time he'd met her was only two weeks after Jess had died, and he'd immediately known that he was going to fall in love with her. Dean had sent him to grab her whilst he tried to talk his way out of a parking ticket, telling him that she'd left a spare key at reception and to let himself into her motel room. What he was not expecting was that when he did this, she would be in the shower, and that a towel-adorned Y/N would tackle him off the bed he'd perched on and onto the floor.

What he was not expecting, was that with a knife to his throat, long and startlingly red hair dripping cold water on his face and staring into quite possibly the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, the only thing he could think about was how much he wanted to roll you over and kiss you (Among other things).

As he pondered this, he was vaguely aware he was blushing.

Eventually, his brother had come to see what was taking so long and had persuaded this angry woman to remove the knife from your throat. Dean would spend the next few weeks reminding Sam quite how hilarious he thought Sam's face had been. Sam would spend the next few weeks balancing guilt over his confusing feelings for you were and a burning desire to be that close to you just one more time.

Over time, he would realise just how deep those feelings ran. Realise that the feeling of panic rising in his chest if you vanished on a hunt was more than friendly concern. Realise that the reason he always selected the bed closest to the door wasn't just because he liked the breeze, it was so he could protect you if anything happened. Every smile flashed his way, every joke you shared, every laugh made his heart beat faster.

It was only when the three of you found yourselves wandering the sewers in search of a skinwalker, and an unusually tight passage had led you and Sam a little squished that Sam realised quite how badly under he was. You'd ended up pressed together in the dingy passway, almost nose to nose, and Sam wasn't sure which one of you was breathing more heavily. You'd breathed out a joke about close encounters, and he'd raised his hand to cup the back of your neck. If he tilted his head just a little, you'd be-

Dean shimmying through had killed the moment.

It couldn't work, he knew. Two hunters would never end well. Plus, he wasn't even sure you liked him that much. Flirting, joking, was one thing, but he could never tell how you really felt.

Plus, there was the constant feeling like he'd betrayed Jess. He was supposed to be avenging her death, what was he doing, thinking about other girls?

Maybe, in another life.

Maybe, one day.

{——————————-}

"It's ok, you know." His father reassured. "When you meet that one person, there's nothing you can do about it."

"She's not, though. Jess was." Sam said. "Besides, she doesn't feel the same."

"Are you sure?" John asked, and Sam genuinely had no idea which part of his statement his father was questioning.

"She, uh, she kissed me once." He mumbled. "But only to maintain a cover. She told a police officer she was my girlfriend to get information."

{——————————-}

For Sam, nothing had ever felt better than the cold, fresh air on his face. Being kidnapped and held in a cage by redneck hillbillies straight out of The Hills Have Eyes was not something he was in a rush to experience again.

The country was an unusual place, he thought to himself. Rolling fields and gaggles of sheep didn't exactly scream danger, but all sorts of horrors lurked in the shadows. Some of them even human, although not even half the monsters he'd seen had six fingers on one hand and five on the other, and most of them had better breath than the ones who'd taken him captive.

"Your cousin is looking for you." The police officer he'd been held with told him. "Oh, and your girlfriend."

Cousin? He thought to himself. Girlfriend?

"Sammy!" A female voice snapped him out of his train of thought.

It was Y/N, springing towards him. He caught her as she leapt, slightly shocked.

He was even more shocked when she threw her arms around him and kissed him.

Her mouth was urgent on his own, and it took him a second to snap out of his shock and reciprocate. His lips moved against hers, something unfamiliar burning in the pit of his stomach. Moving his hands to the back of her thighs, he moved her up gently, wrapping her legs around his hips.

He was vaguely aware of his brother coughing.

He pulled away, wondering what all this was in aid of.

"Play along." She hissed in his ear, and finally, the penny dropped.

{——————————-}

"I know Y/N." John said. "I see the way she looks at you. She might like you more than you think."

Voices neared the table, and both men looked up to see Dean and Y/N approaching, carrying three beers and Dean's whiskey.

She slid into the booth next to Sam, and instinctively, he draped his arm across her shoulders.

Maybe it was his Dad's words, maybe it was the beer, but something made Sam press a kiss to her head.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could've sworn he saw John wink at him.

{——————————-}

"Hey, Y/N, you good?" You turned to see John sliding towards you.

"Yeah, I'm great." You replied, taking a swig of your beer.

"You know you can't lie to me, my little Y/N." He smiled, and you couldn't help but smile back. "How are you really, sweetheart?"

"I'm mostly alright." He was right. "It's just, well, I hate lying to them. It gets to me, you know? Keeps me awake at night."

"I know." John's smile turned to a grimace. "But it's for their own good, and yours. They can't know what you really are. They're not ready yet."

"I know, I know." You sighed. "They're not ready yet. But they will be. One day. But John, why are you really here?"

"You see straight through me, don't you?" He chuckled lowly. "Actually, I came for you. I came to give you this."

He handed you a small, tightly wrapped package.

"Is this?" You looked up at him, your sentence hanging in the air, unfinished, words unspoken.

"Yes." He replied. "Just, hide it well and keep it safe."

{——————————-}

You shut the door of the bar, leaving Dean and his dad. It was late, and you were shattered, and more than a little tipsy. Plus, you figured they might want a little time to chat privately. Sam had long since headed to bed, and you almost wished he hadn't. He'd been flirtier than usual that evening, but you weren't exactly complaining. Far from his usual gentle touches on your neck or chaste forehead kisses, suggestive comments or sneaky winks, this evening he'd mixed it up, making way for whispers in your ear, running his fingertips up the inside of your thigh and a burning kiss on the side of your neck as he left.

Just thinking about it sent shivers down your spine as you opened the door to the motel room. He was led on his bed, the top two buttons on his shirt undone, staring at the TV. You smiled at him as you came in, lying on your own bed and cracking open a soda.

"Where's Dad and Dean?" He asked, turning to look at you.

"Still in the bar." You answered.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, transfixed on the TV.

"You remember, you kissed me once?" He asked, coming to sit on the end of your bed. "You know, after the benders grabbed me?"

"Yeah, why?" You replied, confused. You'd been so relieved to see him alive that you leapt on him and kissed him, rather passionately too. It was by sheer coincidence that you'd told the cop you were his girlfriend previously and could pretend you were keeping up your cover.

"And you remember, the first time we met?" He asked, climbing towards you. "When you held me at knifepoint?"

"Yeah, of course I do." You we're beyond confused. "Sam, where are you going with this?"

"You tackled me, and we fell to the floor." He continued. By this point, he was completely on top of you, pinning you between his strong arms. "And all I could think about..."

His voice had since turned husky, almost a whisper. You could barely breathe, colour rising to your cheeks. What was he doing? Was he just playing with you? His hot breath on your neck was making it very difficult to think straight.

"...Was how much I wanted you underneath me, just like this." He ducked his head, so you were almost forehead to forehead. "And how much I wanted to kiss you."

You moved to position yourself on your elbow, one hand on the back of his neck, your long fingers twisting into the curls at the nape of his neck.

"What about now?" You breathed. "Do you want to kiss me now?"

Hazel eyes flickered up to look straight into yours.

"More than anything." He murmured, tilting his head and leaning down, his eyes closing, your lips gently touching. You sighed, leaning in to kiss him-

"Woah!" The door sprung open, leaving a spluttering Dean and John staggering into the motel room. Pink staining both your faces, you jerked apart.

"You two want to get another room?" Dean chuckled. "About time Sammy got laid!"

"No, no, um." You stuttered. "Sam was, um, looking at a freckle. On my forehead."

Dean and John exploded into peals of laughter.

{——————————-}

The morning was crisp and clear, the sun mottled on the ground as it escaped through the trees and shrubbery. The Impala sat proudly amidst newer sedans and estate cars, the frost glistening, two duffel bags sat on the frozen tarmac next to the front wheel.

You'd woken early, pondering the events of the previous night. Had he meant it, or was he just drunk? Did he truly feel the same?

Your face flushes as you remember the heated moment, in spite of the cold morning.

What if he felt as you did? What if Dean hadn't come in? What if, what if, what if?

Footsteps behind you told you that you were no longer alone.

"Hey." Sam called. "Morning."

"Hey," You replied. "Dean still showering?"

He stepped towards you, making your heart flutter. Just the thought of his hot breath on your skin, the quick brush of your lips on his-

"We need to talk." He said, walking towards you still. "About last night."

"It's fine." You replied, refusing to meet his eyes. "You were drunk, you didn't mean it. It's fine, I totally get it."

"Look at me, Y/N." Your back hit the passenger side door of Dean's car, one of Sam's hands resting on the roof, trapping you with his body. "You think I didn't mean it?"

Calloused fingers gripped your chin, tugging your head up to look at him.

"You seriously think you don't drive me crazy?" His voice was low, almost a growl. "Do you think it doesn't drive me insane every time you touch me? Do you really not think it made me mad yesterday, having you right where I've wanted you for months, and then to be interrupted before I could even kiss you?"

Not even a single word of response would form in your mind.

"Do you think," He continued. "Do you think that I don't want you?"

You were so close, if either of you moved even a millimetre you'd be kissing.

"Because I do." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I want you more than anything."

As he finished his sentence, he leant into you, your lips finally meeting, his right hand dropping to grab your hip, fingers pressing into the back of your thigh. His kiss was hungry, wanting, and you couldn't get enough of it. Your bodies melded together, your fingers winding into his hair, and you were vaguely aware of him lifting your left leg so the top of your thigh rested atop the car bonnet. You pushed up into him, needing him like oxygen.

You weren't sure how long you'd been kissing for when you heard Dean clear his throat behind you.

You didn't stop, even when he cleared his throat again.

"You done yet?" He called from behind Sam.

Sam pulled away, annoyance clear in his face.

"Not even remotely." He called in response, before bringing his lips back to meet yours.

Dean cussed, walking back in the direction of the motel room.

"You better be getting your own friggin' room tonight." He muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"We'll be needing it." Sam murmured.

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #jared padalecki x reader #sam winchester #jared padalecki #jared padalecki smut #supernatural

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geekthefreakout · 4 years ago

Text

In Which Castiel is Properly in Lebanon

Dean isn't sure what he's feeling at the moment. On the one hand, he's pissed- this pearl was supposed to get rid of Michael. Get rid of the pounding in his head, the danger in his bones. Let him rest. On the other hand- his dad is here again. In front of him, and with Mom and Sammy too. The tremble in John's voice when he'd asked "Mary?" after hearing her voice... Well, Dean has heard himself sound like that. In a dark street near a church, lit only by the neon lights of the cross on the church and Baby's headlights. Watching his parents come together, reuniting after so long... he can't deny that his heart feels full with the love between them. Sam feels the same way, he could tell, his big brown eyes damp and his mouth curling with a tremulous smile.

He hopes that John can find a way to fix Dean's head while he's here... and boy, won't that be a conversation to have. His stomach turns over as he watches John and Mary whisper presumably sweet words to each other. He can hear it now, John berating him for allowing Michael in in the first place. John talking about having to clean up Dean's messes-- and Dean supposes that was why the pearl had pulled John forward to this moment. Dad would yell and scold and send Dean away, he would take him to task and never let him forget what he'd done, but Dad would fix it. He'd fix it, and he'd be disappointed in Dean, but Michael would be gone and Mom and Dad would be together, and Sam would have both his parents for the first time in his life.

Of course, nothing is ever that simple.

The door to the bunker opens as Mary begins searching the kitchen for Winchester Surprise ingredients. John tears his eyes away from his wife at the sound, meeting Dean and Sam's eyes in turn as he reached for a gun.

Right. John wouldn't expect them to have anyone else in their lives. Sam and Dean had painted some broad strokes, with some input from Mary (the way John's eyes bulged when she described hunting had truly been something to see), but John had seemed more surprised at the idea of their extended hunter network than anything else. Their family, though Dean hadn't dared to call it that. Family was a holy word to John, something that meant Mom-Dean-Sam-Dad only.

"Dean? Sam? There have been temporal distortions radiating out from Lebanon, are you--" Cas stops halfway down the stairs, his eyes wide as he takes in John standing defensively between Sam and Dean. "Well. That explains some of it at least."

Dean is quick to get between Cas and his father. His heart is pounding in his throat suddenly. He can't bring himself to look either of them in the eye, and that doesn't make sense. It's not as though-- it's not as though he and Cas are together or anything. Or as though Cas knows how he feels. It's not like John will be able to just-- read his mind-- and know... but then, there were those nuns he had to burn, and he'd been convinced John didn't know then either and shit he's panicking he should say something he should--

"Who the hell is this?" John's voice is gruff, but not hostile, that's good. Dean forces himself to meet his father's eye.

"This is..."

"I am Castiel." Cas is suddenly much closer, having descended the stairs while Dean panicked. "You are John Winchester."

Dean doesn't even have to know that Cas is doing that thing where he tilts his head and squints and either looks like the cutest puppy or like he's going to cook you to death with his laser eyes, and he really cannot have a confrontation happen--

"Cas is our friend, Dad." Sammy, thank god for Sammy. "He's family."

Dean nods, and affirms: "He's family." He turns to Cas. "So, remember that pearl that was too good to be true?"

Cas sighs, and looks at Dean with fond exasperation.

"I remember telling you not to try it without me."

Dean shrugs half-heartedly. John clears his throat, his expression both stern and inquiring. That "report, soldier" look that had always prompted Dean to spill his guts without fail.

"We, uh, have more to explain." Dean slaps Cas on the shoulder. "Mom is cooking."

"Mary doesn't cook." Cas had not taken his eyes off of John, his stare intense. John was staring right back.

"This is the one thing she does. It's Winchester Surprise. You'll like it."

"You ain't human." John pronounces, and Dean winces, locking eyes with Sam. Sam clears his throat and approaches.

"He's an angel, dad. We told you."

"Didn't realize you were serious about keeping one around."

"I am not 'kept.'" Cas had his hackles up. Great.

"Alright, alright." Dean put his hands up. "Dad, we've got a lot more to tell you. But Cas is here because this is his home, same as it is ours. He's one of us." Dean forces his voice to firmness, goes for the same tone he used to use to defuse fights between Dad and Sammy. He gives Sam a look, and his brother sighs.

"Actually, Cas, can you help me translate this book? It has more information on the pearl and what's happening, and my eyes are gonna go cross if I read another word of Latin."

"I wouldn't allow that to happen." Cas says, but after one last intense look at Dean and John, he follows Sam. Dean lets his father follow him to the table and picks up where he left off.

"Right, so... Cas stuck around after we stopped the apocalypse. Things in heaven... well, it's messy, but the point is it's better for Cas to be on Earth with us. He's family, he... anyway, he's here. And I, uh, I told you how mom came back..."

"Because God's sister was feeling charitable." John's voice was flat, and Dean forces out a laugh.

"Well, when you put it like that... but that's what happened. You can't make that shit up."

"Well, I guess you can't." John allows, and his lips quirk up in a grin, which Dean returns. "So this pearl that brought me back... I'm not who you were expecting. I've heard about Sammy, and I've heard about your mother..." John shakes his head in disbelief. "What was the pearl actually supposed to be for, Dean? What's wrong with you?"

Dean winces, takes a breath.

"Okay, this is about to get even crazier." He watches John's eyebrows shoot up. "So, it turns out there are other universes. Like alternate timelines and stuff. And there can be... these rifts or tears that go to them. It takes a lot of power, but uh, one was opened by mistake. And the world it led to, it was one where we didn't exist, Sam and me. And the apocalypse happened. It was bad. Mom and our kid- our friend, Jack, they got stuck there for a while. And when we were saving them, we saved a whole bunch of hunters on that side too, let them in to our side." Dean paused to check that John was following. His father was working his jaw, which meant he was thinking, or angry. John nodded after a moment for Dean to keep going. "Anyway, the biggest bad over there was Michael the archangel. Their version. We thought we locked him out when we rescued everyone, but he and Lucifer broke through to our world. And Lucifer managed to really juice himself up, and then take Sammy and Jack. The only... Michael was hurt. He was too weak to take him on, and we just didn't have the firepower. So I thought... I asked him if he could do it, if he had his sword. His perfect vessel."

"You." John summed up. He was definitely glaring now. Dean looked down at his hands, picking at the loose skin at his thumb.

"Yeah. We had a deal, I thought. I was gonna be in control, and then he was gonna leave me. I thought maybe we could send him back to apocalypse world or something after. We-- me and Michael-- we killed Lucifer. But he didn't leave. He took me over and he did things... he's been organizing the monsters, setting up traps for hunters. Pumping them full of angel juice to make them less vulnerable to us-- we ran into a djinn that could full create things, man. Like, in real life. But Sam and Cas, they brought me back. I have Michael locked away, in here." Dean tapped his head. "And he's locked up tight, but I can't... I can't keep him locked away forever. He's pounding and pounding at my head, he won't let up, and so I can't let up. And I'm gonna break, Dad. I broke in hell and I'm gonna break this time, I know I am. I need help." Dean felt his voice crack and his eyes dampen, and he made himself look up at his father. "The pearl... I was supposed to be able to make a wish, and Michael would be gone. But you're here now. And I need you to help fix this, Dad. Please."

John's face is inscrutable. He doesn't reach out to touch Dean, to grasp his shoulder. Dean waits for him to speak like a man waiting for an axe to fall.

"It was a goddamn stupid thing to do, Dean. Let that thing inside you." John shakes his head. "Now your brother and mother are in danger as long as they're around you." Dean winces and John sighs. "So we're gonna have dinner-- I'm assuming you can make it through dinner-- and then you and me are gonna light out of here, and figure this out together. Let your mom and Sammy stay here, where Michael can't use them as leverage. Keep the angel away, we don't need any extra baggage. And we'll figure it out." John nods like he always did when he'd reached a decision. "I won't let you hurt them. Or anyone. I promise you, we will find a way to stop this Michael, Dean. And if not..."

Dean nodded shakily. "I have a plan. There's this box. To lock me away in, in case..."

John nods back at him, finally reaches out to pat his shoulder.

And Dean was relieved. John was gonna fix it. John would understand about the Malak box, if all else failed he would lock Dean away and let him sink to the bottom of the ocean, harmlessly alone. He wouldn't get distracted trying to save him, once it seemed impossible John would understand the sacrifice and...

"That box is not an option."

Dean's head shoots up. Cas is standing in the door, his hands fisted at his sides. Dean imagines that if he could see Cas' wings, they would be flared up at his sides.

"Cas--"

"I don't think that's any of your business." John said.

"It is my business. More so than it is yours." Cas was glaring fully at John right now. "Because you would have Dean away from his family."

"I am his family." John stood, angrily.

"You think you are. But a wise man said that family doesn't end in blood." Cas looks at Dean, piercing him with his gaze. "Nor does it start there."

"Cas." Dean's voice cracks. "Don't."

But John is already crossing the room, getting in Cas' face, fisting his hands in the trench coat, yelling about how Cas wasn't human and had no place in his family and Cas isn't budging an inch. He wouldn't. Dean could hear Sam running towards the room, could hear Mary shouting from the kitchen about what was wrong, but he couldn't breathe as he watched John deliver what would have been a devastating blow on to Cas' face, if Cas had been human.

But Castiel, as had been pointed out, is not human.

John shouts in pain and surprise instead as his hand breaks against Cas' cheek. Cas doesn't even turn his head like he did for Dean back in the beautiful room a full decade ago. John prepares another blow, but Cas effortlessly shoves him against the wall with one arm as Sam skids into view.

"This is what is going to happen." Cas says, his voice dripping with authority, and Dean distantly thinks that he would find that voice extremely interesting if he wasn't so busy trying to make himself breathe. "We are going to eat Mary's dish. You will enjoy the privilege of time with your wife and sons. And then we will crush that pearl and return you to 2003." Cas turns his head from John to face Dean. "I am sorry, Dean, but the temporal distortions will only grow. For now they are confined to Lebanon, but soon they will consume the world. Mary will disappear. People you've saved will die. You and Sam will lose your memories of this time and find yourselves on a different path, as you saw in town before. And I... Well, I don't know what will happen to me. But I do know I would rather die as I am, with you, than return to what I was before we met."

Dean swallows. "You sure?" He hears himself ask, as though from a long way away.

"Yeah, Dean. We've looked through everything." Sam affirms, then he puts a hand on Cas' arm. The two of them exchange a look, and Cas releases John. "I wish things could be different, Dad. But even if they were, you realize I couldn't just let you and Dean go off on your own? Neither would Mom."

"You're damn right about that." Mary was in the doorway now, observing. "You hit him, Cas?"

"He hit me. I chose not to allow it."

"Good for you." Mary says warmly. John looks at her in betrayal. "What? You're the one that lashed out." She takes John's broken hand in hers. "I know you're used to being the drill sargeant-- and I wish we had time to talk about that." Mary's voice is steely. "Because our sons should never have had to call you sir-- but this family stays together."

"I go, or you do?" John says at last, checking with Mary. Dean's chest is tight, and he barely registers Cas walking towards him. "You go back to being dead if I stay."

Mary's eyes are red and she nods, pressing close to John. John looks at Sam, who nods at him sadly. Then he turns his gaze back to Dean, and Dean nearly trembles, having the strength to stand still only because of Cas now standing at his side.

"Well," John rubs his broken hand. "That's no choice at all. Seems to me that all there is to do is... well." He wraps an arm around Mary. "I can't say I'm sorry for trying to think of ways to keep you safe. But if all we get is a little time, if all we get is dinner... let's have dinner. Winchester surprise. Let's just have this one night as a family."

Sam nods and gives a sad smile, and Mary hugs John before announcing that dinner would be served as soon as it finished cooling down. Cas puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean comes back to himself in a rush.

"I'll drink to that." He says.

As they all crowd into the kitchen, all conflict seemingly forgotten (never forgotten, pushed away, if you don't look at it it isn't there). John largely ignores Cas, but shares stories of Sam and Dean growing up that have nothing to do with hunting, things Dean had forgotten about, like the time Sammy learned how to escape his high chair and became almost impossible to hold down for meal time, or when Dean had put on a thanksgiving play using all of his and Sammy's toys when they'd had to miss the one at school. Mary talks about what they've gotten up to lately, how the music these days is nothing like it was. Cas mentions that Dean must agree, because the tape he gave him was all Zeppelin. Dean's heart freezes as his eyes meet his father's after that, but while there is a knowing look is John's eye, he shakes his head and moves on to the next tale-- this time about Dean refusing to let anyone else hold Sam when Sam was first born.

"'This is my baby,' he'd say. To everyone, even me. Even you." John looks at Mary, his eyes full of unfamiliar mirth. "Remember?"

"Mmhm. His Sammy. No one else's. You screamed the first time we tried to send you back to nursery school after Sammy came home from the hospital." Mary says to Dean. "Wanted him to come with you, or you weren't going."

Dean smiles.

At the end of the night, they still have to crush the pearl, send John back to 2003. It's one of the hardest things Dean has ever done. He hugs his father tight, pushing aside all the fear and the anger just to hold his dad again. Sam does too. They take a photo- John won't remember this as any more than a dream, but he wants his boys to have this time when they were a family. He even nods his thanks to Cas when he offers to take it. And then John is gone, and Mary is weeping quietly into Sam's shoulder. Sam gives Dean a look, and Dean knows they will be talking about the Malak box again. Cas sits up with Dean that night, and they say nothing at all.

"You know," Dean says eventually. "I think my dad liked you."

"Did he?" Cas sounds unimpressed. "I didn't like him."

"Cas."

"He would have found you entering the Malak box an acceptable sacrifice. Because of his own inadequacies as a father, you also find this acceptable. I cannot forgive that." Cas holds up his hand to forestall Dean's protest. "But I'm glad you got that dinner with him."

"Yeah. Me too."

END

#spn #sam writes stuff #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #sam drops an angst bomb #lebanon tag spn #spn fic

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atc74 · 4 years ago

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Soul to Souls - Ten

Warnings: Angst, flangst, blow job, fingering...so much sex,

Summary: Since she was four years old, Annaleigh has seen the same boy in her dreams. For twenty-five years, she grows to love the boy that has now turned into a man. Dean Winchester just lost the only family he has ever known. The guilt drives him to work harder than ever before. He works to forget the pain, until he meets Annaleigh and she turns his world upside down. What she learns changes both of their lives forever, but what will he do when he discovers the truth? Will he accept it or run back to the only life he has ever known?

Pairing: Dean x OC Annaleigh

Word Count: 2349

Beta’d by: @amanda-teaches, @katehuntington, thank you both for being my guides! Dividers and new cover art by the amazingly talented @talesmaniac89.

A/N: This was my very first series I ever wrote four years ago in September 2016 and I am so happy and proud to bring this back home. We’re halfway there folks, but we’ve barely gotten started!

Soul to Souls Master List

Annaleigh couldn’t take his demeaning attitude one more minute. Sam had pushed her too far this time. “No, Sam, I didn’t tell him jack shit. I thought it was your job as his brother to tell him the truth at last,” Annaleigh spat back with just as much attitude, and she had more where that came from, as she walked out of the room. She called back to Bobby over her shoulder. “I can’t be here right now, Bobby. Call me when dinner is ready, please.”

She grabbed her phone out of her pocket and dialed Dean, hoping he would pick up. Finally, after what felt like forever, he answered. “Dean! Where are you? Please come back,” she pleaded with him.

“Way ahead of you, Red. I’m about 5 minutes out,” Dean’s voice was thick with the emotions he was trying to hide. “I’m sorry I took off like that. I just needed to clear my head, you know?”

“I love you, Baby, just come home,” Anna told him before she disconnected. She waited on the porch for him and rushed down to greet him when he pulled up, throwing herself into his arms.

“Whoa!” He exclaimed as he took a step back, trying to keep his balance before they both went crashing to the ground.

Anna grabbed his hand and led him back out to the shop, where Bobby and Sam wouldn’t be able to see them from the house. Driven by some force inside her, she pushed him back against the workbench, suddenly not able to keep her hands off of him. Maybe it was the confrontation with Sam, maybe it was the realization that Dean could have just left, but didn’t. He came back, and - to her - it spoke volumes.

Craving all of him, Annaleigh couldn’t get it fast enough. She crashed her mouth to his as she ran one hand up his neck and the other gripped his shirt, pulling him to her. The kiss was fast and needy. She pulled away abruptly, dropping to her knees on the dirty shop floor, and opened his belt. Running her fingers along the waistband of his jeans, with one swift motion, she pulled them down to his ankles along with his boxers, his semi-hard length bobbing right in front of her eyes. She breathed in his scent deeply as she regarded him. God, he truly was beautiful, inside and out. Right now, she just wanted him in her, to feel whole with him once more. Slowly, she wrapped her small hand around his girth, pumping him a few times and, with another breath, swallowed as much as she could.

“Oh fuck, Red,” his voice, thick and gravely, trailed off as he growled. She continued working him over with her tongue and lips until he reached under her arms and pulled her up his long, hard body, his lips meeting hers, and moaned as he tasted himself on her tongue. “Not that I don’t love that, but I gotta be inside you.”

He continued his domination over her mouth as his hands worked to free her of her clothing. Dean decided he had removed enough for what he needed access to and grabbed her ass, hoisting her up. Wrapping her legs around his waist, he felt the wet heat of her pressed against him. He realized when he drove away after his confrontation with his brother, that all he really wanted was her, all of her.

He shuffled forward until her back hit the cold steel of the old van and, with one quick thrust, he entered her, filling her completely. His mouth left a blazing trail down her neck as he began to massage one breast, teasing and pulling her nipple while keeping his balance, his palm against the van, fingers outstretched.

She held onto his strong shoulders for dear life as his hips continued their assault on hers. “Oh, God, yes! Right there, Dean,” she moaned into his neck. “Oh, Baby, faster, please, I need you.”

His hand slipped from the side of the vehicle, allowing him to grab both of her hips with bruising force, leveraging their combined momentum to keep them upright. A slight shift in position was all it took for him to hit that sweet spot deep inside her, and in just a few more thrusts of his hips, she was coming all over him. Never slowing his movements, the fluttering of her tight channel triggered his own release he spilled into her.

His breath was hot and heavy on her neck as he fought for air, and Anna swore for a minute that she heard him whisper he loved her. She leaned her head into his, relishing the feel of his skin on her, the pounding of his heart, matched with hers. The echo of Bobby’s voice pierced their bubble.

“Dinner’s ready, kids! Get yer asses in the house!” he yelled, but not close enough that he would catch them with their pants down, literally.

Anna laughed out loud as Dean put her down, kissing her once more. “God, I needed that,” they spoke at the same time, making them both chuckle. They quickly pulled themselves together, cleaning up as best they could, and walked back to the house for dinner with their arms around each other.

Sam saw them enter the kitchen first as he filled his bowl with chili. “You smell like sex,” he spat out.

“Gee, Sammy, you sound jealous!” Dean teased.

Annaleigh brushed past the boys to the stove to serve herself and Dean. After sitting down, she gave in to her hunger now that she was feeling better, and devoured two bowls along with a couple chunks of cornbread. After clearing the table, she started rummaging through the cupboards for dessert.

“What are you looking for, Red?” Dean asked as he wrapped her up in his arms from behind.

“Dessert. Chocolate; preferably hot fudge. Oh, and brownies! With ice cream,” she pondered aloud, continuing her search but coming up empty handed.

“Oh, is that all?” Dean gave a full belly laugh throwing his head backwards, bowing his back in just the right way, she felt his delicious cock as it pressed perfectly against her ass.

“Come on, you are taking me to get all of that. Right now,” she said to him and gave a little wiggle of her hips to enforce her words.

Dean swallowed loudly. “Um, yeah, o-okay. So, yeah, ice cream, brownies, hot fudge. Copy that.” He reached for his keys and they were out the door, running for the Impala as fast as their legs would carry them.

“Are you freaking serious, Honey?” he asked, raising one eyebrow as he started Baby.

“Yes, Dean. I am very serious.” The rumble of her idling engine was making Anna want more, the feeling heady between her legs, then Dean took off and it got worse, or better; she couldn’t decide.

“What has gotten into you today? Not that I am complaining, as I am clearly benefiting from your extreme horniness. But what gives, Red?” he asked, trying not to laugh as he continued driving.

“I feel better than I have all day. And, I can never get enough of you, Dean, you know that.” She slid over in the seat to be closer to him, to feel him next to her, to feel his heat seep into her skin where it met.

Annaleigh leaned in and started kissing his cheek, running her tongue over his jaw and down his neck, stopping only to suck on that one spot she knew would get the reaction she was looking for.

He moaned out a breath. “You know you could get us killed doing sexy shit like that while I’m driving?”

She slid away from him and pulled her shirt over her head. That was all the motivation he needed to pull off the main road and find a secluded spot. He put the car in park and launched himself at her, pushing her down onto the seat.

He immediately attached his mouth to her breast and the already pert nipple, while his hands made quick work of removing her pants and tossing them somewhere in the back seat.

“Oh yeah, Dean --” she whispered as she ran one hand through his hair, her other guiding his own that was slowly starting its ministrations between her legs. “- uhhhm, oh God, please, Baby. I need more.”

His mouth left her breast and trailed down her belly towards its final destination, where he whispered into her skin. “Tell me what you want, Red. Tell me how to make you feel good.”

“I want all of you. I need your tongue on me; I need your fingers in me. Dean, just do it, now. Please don’t make me beg,” she moaned, knowing she already sounded desperate for him.

He locked his eyes on hers as he sunk two fingers into her soaking pussy and ran the flat of his tongue from bottom to top, stopping to flick the tip over her clit before starting over again.

Anna writhed beneath him, arching her back, hopelessly seeking more. She placed one foot on the floor board and the other across the back of the seat to give him ample room to work her over. She couldn’t ever remember a time when she has been this needy before, taking him or being taken by him three times in less than twenty-four hours. When she said she couldn’t get enough right now, she meant it.

He felt her peaking and he moved faster, both his tongue and his fingers, now three deep inside of her, pumping in and out, curling on return. Her vision started getting blurry and her toes curled. The orgasm ripped through her so hard, she clenched her thighs together, trapping his head between them; she was surprised he could breathe. He just kept working her through her high, until she released her hold on his head and neck.

Anna reached down, grabbing his face and bringing it to hers for a deep kiss, her tang coating his tongue and lips. That was it for her, she lost what little control she had been clinging to. She grabbed him by the belt as he positioned himself upright in the seat. She didn’t even wait for him to completely remove his pants; throwing a leg over him and with one hand guiding him, she sank down on his rock hard member, impaling herself and screaming out with the pleasure it brought.

With his mouth on hers and the help of his hands on her hips, Anna rode him hard, bouncing up and down on his thick length until she hit her head on the roof of the car. Even then, it didn’t slow her down; she just tucked her face into his neck and kept going.

“Come with me, Baby. I am so close; I want to feel you,” she panted into his neck. She changed her rhythm, rolling her hips so that her clit was rubbing against his pubic bone and she felt that familiar coil twisting and tightening, with every roll. Dean dug his fingers into her hips and they both knew there would be bruises later. He was right on the edge with her.

“I’m right there, Honey. Just. One. More.” Their hips rocked against each other until finally the coils snapped, screaming the other's name as they came together.

They stayed like that, breathing heavily until they could see straight again. Annaleigh felt him start to go soft and she gingerly rolled off him and back into her seat. Dean pulled some napkins from the glove box and cleaned them both up. Satisfied they would pass as presentable in public, he kissed her gently.

“I don’t know if you heard me earlier, but...” his voice broke as his forest colored eyes stared into her sapphire ones. “I love you, Annaleigh.”

Her heart burst into a million pieces, but felt whole all at once, as she took in the look of admiration, of love, knowing it now reflected her own. As much as she wanted to reaffirm her love for him, she knew he hadn’t finished his sentiment.

“I know this morning I said I didn’t know what it was that I was feeling, just that it ran deep. Then, after the blowout with Sammy and I took off, that’s when it hit me head on. I knew what I needed to feel better, to feel whole, and it was you. Once I realized it, I couldn’t get back to you fast enough.”

“Dean,” she murmured softly as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I thought you did, and I am so happy to hear you say it, but I didn’t want to push you. I love you so much; you make me so happy.” She kissed him again, this one filled with more tenderness and love, less want and need, than the others they had shared today.

“Now can you do me a favor, my love?” she asked him.

“I will do anything for you, Red. You know that,” he answered quickly.

“Will you please find my pants and panties, then take me to get brownies and ice cream with hot fudge?” She couldn’t help but laugh.

He laughed right along with her. “Anything for you, my Queen. I am but your humble servant. Your wish is my command.” He bowed at the waist, as much as he could in the front seat of his beloved car while naked.

“My very own servant!” Annaleigh joked.

“I’d like to think of myself as more of a love slave,” Dean shrugged, throwing her clothes at her.

After so much had been said, they dressed quietly, exchanging glances at each other as more skin was covered up. Baby’s engine roared to life and Annaleigh couldn’t disguise her elation as she entwined her fingers with Dean’s. The atmosphere in the car had shifted from heated, filled with lust, to satisfied and filled with more love than she could have ever hoped for.

Did you like it? The nicest thing you can do for a writer is reblog their work and tell them, and others, how much you like it!

Soul to Souls tags: @emoryhemsworth @flamencodiva @iwantthedean @jensengirl83 @deanwanddamons @smol-and-grumpy @kbl1313 @waywardbeanie @whatareyousearchingfordean @princessmisery666 @shy-violet-soul @lastcallatrockysbar @winchesterxfamilybusiness @fangirlxwritesx67 @squirrelnotsam @michellethetvaddict

#dean x annaleigh #dean winchester x ofc #dean x ofc #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester smut

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who-ya-gonna-call-winchesters · 4 years ago

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Butting Heads- dean winchester x reader

Our first renaissance fic, that is to say it’s set way back before things got complicated. Pre season 4. Anyway, Y/n, Bobby’s niece, grew up with the boys, and now that Sam is back in the game she’s along for the ride. Problem is she has a habit of giving Dean a run for his money, but despite their constant bickering they both know that she’s the only thing holding Dean together. fluff, small angst

Word Count: 2,350

masterlist

Dean and you didn't have the greatest relationship as friends. You always argued and yelled about things related to hunts or things that had nothing to do with anything. But unknowingly, you both cherished each other's company. You had been there since they were kids, there when Sammy went off to college, there when John first disappeared. There for everything bad but the long, silent nights in the Impala were some of your best memories. The both of you singing along to classic rock, like complete dorks, were his best memories. It was times like those when you forgot about fighting. Times when you were both shit faced drunk and stumbling over one another, or when you both teased Sammy for being a gigantor nerd, or comforting each other in the darkness after a nightmare. You two were very similar, strong-willed, hard headed, shoot first ask questions later, stubborn hunters with daddy issues and mommy issues and every other kind of issue you could think of hidden behind a bottle of Jack Daniels and an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude.

Sometimes you would realize that he was the only one who really understood what you were going through because he had been going through it too. As much as Dean didn’t like to admit it, he knew that too.

“You could have gotten all of us killed back there!”, Dean said gruffly, supporting a limping Sam with one arm and shouldering a duffel bag with the other.

“Me?” You fiddled with the hotel room key before finally getting it open, helping them both inside. “If you weren’t such a self sacrificing bone head, we wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place!”

Dean lowered Sam gently onto one of the beds and slammed the duffel onto the other. “If you would just do as you’re told-”

“So I’m supposed to let you die because you think you can handle a whole werewolf on your own?”, you interrupted him, voice growing higher with anger.

“It was one werewolf! Sammy got hurt, you were supposed to get him back to the car. Not leave him there to bleed out and put not only him but yourself in danger doing something I could have easily done just to prove yourself!”

Sam groaned as he was brought into this, “Dean, relax. I wasn’t going to ‘bleed out’. You’re being ridiculous”, he said as you helped tend to his leg. He had a long gash down his thigh to his knee and probably more than a couple broken ribs. He’d definitely need stitches, which you started on as soon as you could get your hands on the med kit.

“You were gonna be werewolf lunch in a few seconds if I hadn’t stepped in when I did, or worse. And I don’t have to prove myself, Dean, I’m as good a hunter as you if not better any day. Just thank me for saving your life and get over yourself”, you said, pouring whiskey over Sam’s cut to disinfect it as best you could. He hissed in pain but stayed still enough to not tear the stitches you had just finished.

“I had it covered”, Dean scoffed.

“That’s why I had to gank the bastard instead of you”, you retorted, not even bothering to look up from bandaging Sammy.

“That’s why you almost got yourself killed! Sam could have been stitched up long before and we wouldn’t have to worry about him losing so much blood or risk getting an infection! If you’re such a better hunter than me then you’d know what's more important! Your partners’ lives or your ego! You say that you’re better but that’s why you almost botched the last couple hunts we’ve gone on! You say that you’re better but that’s why Bobby saddled us with you, because he knew you couldn’t take care of yourself and you’re too stubborn to stay put and help where you’re actually useful!”, Dean’s last words cut into you like a knife.

Tears pricked your eyes, but you’d be damned if you cried in front of him, so you stood up and turned your back to him, calmly packing the first aid supplies back into the kit. A deathly silence fell across the room. Sam was holding the last breath he drew in, his gaze flickering between you and Dean, waiting for you to blow up in the older brother’s face. But you didn’t. And that's when Dean realized the magnitude of his words.

“I didn’t mean that, Y/N”, he said softly, guilt flooding his body.

You said nothing and only finished what you were doing and shoved past him to go out the door. He turned to go after you, but Sam stopped him.

“Dude, I think you should just give her a little while to calm down after that”, Sam advised, “What the hell was that about? You know you were struggling with the werewolf.”

“I know, Sammy. But she could have gotten hurt”, Dean said, wiping his hand down his face in shame.

“And so could you, Dean. She saved both of us tonight, she’s not a damsel, she's a hunter. A damn good one at that. You owe her a big apology, huge actually.”

“I know.”

You didn’t go back for a few more hours. You spent most of your time walking the streets of the rinky dink town you were stopped in, trying to rationalize what happened. Maybe Dean was right, you could have seriously endangered all three of you. But he was struggling and you couldn’t imagine what you would do if you just stood by as he got hurt or killed or even bitten. You knew Dean didn’t mean what he said. He had a habit of saying things he didn’t mean when he was upset. It didn’t mean that his words didn’t hurt you though. It was well past dark when you realized you needed to go back, you had left your cell phone and that was stupid with the condition Sam was in. As you walked up to the hotel you saw Dean rush out, keys to the impala in hand. He looked pretty frantic until he saw you from across the parking lot. He stopped and dropped the keys, running over to you.

“Dean, I-”

He cut you off when he wrapped his arms around you in a bear hug, lifting you off the ground a couple inches before setting you back down.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m an idiot. You’re so useful to us and you’re an amazing hunter and an amazing woman. I was just so worried about Sammy, and worried about what could have happened if you got hurt and I let my mouth get the best of me. I didn’t mean what I said. I owe you after killing that thing, I probably would have made a mess of everything if you hadn’t stepped in”, he rambled off, looking you in the eyes. You had never seen him looking so sincere and guilty before.

After a long pause, you sighed, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I’m a grown ass man and I need to learn to think before I speak.”

“That may be so, but you’re also the most thick headed man I’ve ever met. I know you didn’t mean what you said. I accept your apology, we’re all under a lot of stress right now. But we’ve both said things we don’t mean to each other before, Dean. I don’t expect that to just go away. You’re not gonna go all soft on me after a spat that we’ll forget about in the morning. That’s not to say that next time you talk to me like that I won’t knock you on your ass”, you said, a small smile growing on your face.

Dean chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, “I’m surprised you didn’t this time, to be honest. But are you sure-”

“Dean, shut up. It’s fine. I don’t care anymore, I just want to take a shower and go to bed right now. No hard feelings”, you promised.

“Alright. I bought dinner earlier, left some in the microwave for you. Sam’s knocked out, I dosed him up with some pain killers. He should sleep through the night, so showers all yours. The bed too if you want it, I owe you.”

“Not a shot in the dark, Winchester. I didn’t let you take the bed the last time I chewed you out when it was my turn. The bed is yours fair and square, tonight.”

The three of you had a sacred system of who got one of the two beds in the room and who got the pullout. You hadn’t broken the streak yet, and you weren’t going to break it tonight just because Dean wanted to baby you all over an argument.

Dean grinned, “I was hoping you’d say that, my shoulder is killin me tonight and I hate those pull outs.”

Dean was out when his head hit the pillow, which was surprising, usually it took him at least twenty minutes to fall asleep. But after the hunt today, you could understand. You had trouble keeping yourself awake and twice you caught yourself nodding off, once while halfway through your cold burger that served as dinner and once more in the shower. When you finally laid down on the pull out couch, it didn’t take you long to fall into a deep sleep.

Although not as deep as you thought. You woke up to darkness and didn’t understand why. You were never the type to wake up in the middle of the night, unless something was wrong. But no one appeared to be in immediate danger when you sat up and listened carefully. Sam was snoring away as per usual but that was about it. You were about to lay back down and go back to sleep when you heard it. A whimper.

“Y/N”, a gruff voice called out in the dark.

“What do you want, Winchester?”, you answered.

But then he only called out for you again, louder this time, more panicky. You had heard that before. Dean was no stranger to nightmares, and Sam had become so used to them over the years that he didn’t wake up anymore.

“No...Y/N…”

You stood up and padded over to Dean’s bed, placing your hand on his shoulder to shake him gently awake. It didn’t seem to work though and his face contorted in distress more than it already had.

“Dean, I’m right here. Wake up”, you said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“You can’t leave me...please.”

You pressed your hand against his cheek comfortingly, “Dean!”

His hand shot up and wrapped around your wrist and his eyes shot open, he was breathing raggedly.

“Y/N? You… you were gone”, he said, sitting up abruptly, there were tears in his eyes. “After what I said to you, you left and you didn’t come back. I came to look for you and the werewolf it came back and you were just laying there.” He was leaving out the details but he didn’t have to say anymore for you to get the jist of the dream.

“Shhhh. It’s okay, I’m okay. I’m right here and I’m alive”, you cooed.

“But you were-”, you cut him off before he could say anymore.

“It was just a dream, Dean”, you moved his hand to rest on your chest, just above your heart. Normally, you would have shied away from any sort of touch like this with Dean, but that was during the daytime or in front of people. You knew when to put your differences aside and you knew what helped Dean during his times of need. “Feel that? Still beating. Everything is okay.”

Dean sighed in relief and wrapped you in his arms, “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t handle losing you after what I said before.”

“I told you I forgive you. That stupid old brain of yours is just trying to make you feel bad.”

“Yeah. I guess”, Dean muttered. He held you for a few moments and you stayed in silence until, “Will you stay with me?”

You smiled, “Scoot over.”

You spent the rest of the night leaned up against the headboard of the bed, Dean’s head on your chest with your hands running gently through his hair to soothe him. When his breathing hadn’t evened out enough for your like you drew a short breath and began to sing softly like you knew Mary once had a long long time ago.

“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better.”

You felt him relax more under your touch and it was working, just like it always did.

“Remember to let her into your heart then you can start to make it better.”

By the second chorus he was sleeping soundly but you repeated the song twice more to be sure and never stopped playing with his hair.

Sam woke up at daybreak but he wasn’t in any condition to get on the open road yet and you still had one more night booked in the hotel. You shushed him when he spoke, gesturing at the still sleeping Dean in your arms.

“Bad dream?”, he whispered, having found you two in this position before.

You nodded as best you could without wanting to disturb the sleeping Winchester, his eyelashes fluttered against your collarbone and his arms were still wrapped around your waist tightly, he hadn’t moved in the night save for snuggling deeper into your chest in his sleep. You stayed up all night with him just in case he had another dream or if Sam woke up and needed more painkillers.

“Go back to sleep, Sammy. We’ll leave later. You need to rest in order to heal anyway.”

When both brothers were asleep again, you let yourself drift off.

Yeah, you and Dean butted heads more often than not, but you both knew how much you needed each other.

this is actually the preface to a fic i started writing more than 5 years ago so there’s a poorly written angsty part 2 to this is anyone is interested

#supernatural #spn #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #fluff #supernatural fluff

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zmediaoutlet · 5 years ago

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whatever we were before

finally posting my masquerade fill! The anon asked for a Dragon Age/SPN crossover, in which Dean is Hawke. I screeched lightly under my breath when I saw it, and delivered. (I hope!)

title: whatever we were before pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E

summary: After the expedition into the Deep Roads, Dean's a rich man. He bought back the ancestral family manor, and he's safe. He's not okay, though, because for all they gained on the expedition--he lost so much more.

(read on AO3)

Kirkwall’s never quiet at night. Dean’s gotten used to it, although it’s a far cry from the farm back home in Ferelden. There, the most he was likely to hear at night was a fox trying to get into the chickens, or Dad coming home soused from the inn, sleeping in the mudroom because he couldn’t work out the lock Dean had built to keep the Templars out. Here, surrounded by people, it feels—he used to think it was crowded, but now it just feels like life, being lived. People always working, the city humming along with each part always moving. He still remembers lying awake at his uncle’s house in Lowtown, that horrible week after they’d first arrived, staring at the ceiling in the narrow room and unable to shut it out—the city, a throbbing entity. He’s glad he can sleep, now. Makes things easier to bear.

His legs have stopped aching, too, after this many months walking up and down the Great Stairs. Isabela says they’ve done great work for his physique; Dean’s just glad his arse and thighs will agree to support him after the long climb from the docks to Hightown. This morning Aveline had guilted him into doing an errand for her, something the city guard should’ve taken care of, but really it didn’t take that much guilting—she and he both knew that he’d be able to do it faster, better, and cleaner, and anyway it was good to get out, into the fresh air. He's moneyed now, and maybe a lordling of a sort, if the Free Marches would only admit that their merchant-princes were no different from the nobility of the south, but still. He’d grown up using his muscles and his mind, and it felt right to be out on the cliffs, salt-spray in his face and his armor settled comfortably on his shoulders, his sword ready at his hip. So. They’d gone out, and he’d—killed. Quite a few. Slavers, they were, and he didn’t feel bad about killing them but the battle had been messy, and he’d had to wash the blood off in the sea, the salt gritting into the crevices of his mail and stiffening the leather. He’s glad he didn’t bring Fenris; there would’ve been so much more blood.

His legs don’t ache, but it feels like every other part does, when he gets to the top of the stairs. The guards at Hightown’s gates nod to him, deferent like they weren’t three years ago, and he doesn’t respond. Pricks, the lot of them, granting respect only for fine clothes and finer real estate. He wishes he’d gotten back hours ago, when he might've blended in to the general throng, but he’s made it a habit to walk his friends home, to make sure they're safe. He saw Merrill back to her little house, and Isabela and Varric back to their inn, and stayed there for a pint or two, celebrating a successful job.

A job—ha. Still how he thinks of it, after all that time of scrambling in Lowtown, trying to put food on the family’s table. He walks the now-familiar streets, slate stones laid down on the neat boulevards the merchants control, and he misses—sort of—yes, he misses the rolled-cobbles and grit of the old neighborhoods, and the wild-grown weeds among the stones by the Hanged Man. Used to the city, but missing the city. He can hear a sarcastic voice in his ear, saying, Dean, that doesn't make any sense, but he ignores it. He’s tired. No energy for misery, not now.

Winchester Manor still has lamps lit in the entry when he comes to the square. Despite everything, his shoulders relax a little, seeing it. He unlocks the door and it’s warm inside, smells of bread baking, and in the time it takes for him to set his sword and shield on their rack in the armory off the entry, Bodahn appears, and pops his head around the corner to say, "Ah, Master Winchester. Good hunting, I trust?"

Dean smiles, and it’s only partly an effort. "Good enough, Bodahn. Send a runner to the palace, to let Aveline know I’ll see her tomorrow afternoon, all right?"

"Very good, sir," Bodahn says, agreeable as always, but then looks at him critically. "I’ll have dinner sent up to your chambers, yes? Sandal will have gotten a bath ready."

Even after years, he’s still not used to servants, but— "Yes," he says, and the relief that washes through him is probably ridiculous, but. "Yes, thank you."

The parlor’s warm enough, but dark, the only light coming from the banked fire. Other than Bodahn and Sandal, the house is always empty. He stands and looks at the great tapestry, the family crest tracing the family down to their father’s name. The embroidery stops there. He licks his lips, looking at the faded silk, and turns away, and trudges up the broad stairs, aware that his boots are tracking the dust and dirt of the lower city on the thick carpets. Sandal will clean it up.

The master room is so big. Bigger than his uncle’s whole house, he thinks. He’s paced it; he’s pretty sure. The fire in here is roaring, and the lamps are lit by the bedside and on the desk, and his armor stand is waiting for him to strip, piece by piece. The chest plate, and the pauldrons, and his gauntlets, and the mail, and the boots, and the leather weskit, and when he’s left in his shirt he shivers, all over, though the room’s more than warm enough. In the corner, by the pushed-aside screen, the bath sits steaming by some magic Sandal’s very proud of and that Dean doesn’t at all understand, but he’s grateful when he sinks down into it. It’s big enough that he can fit his shoulders against one edge and keep his feet below the water on the other, a luxury he’d never imagined as a child and which, still, by every measure, is the greatest advantage of his life as he lives it now. Some kind of fragrant oil scenting the steam—elfroot maybe, or the arbor blessing Bodahn was bragging about acquiring a few weeks ago. Makes the water slip like silk against his skin while the soothing heat works its way past muscle to the bone. Makes it easy not to think, to relax. Finally.

"You look so spoiled," he hears, and he surges up—because—

"Sam," he breathes. He's so sure he’s dreaming, that a desire demon has worked its way into his mind and is showing him some helplessly sought-after vision, that he digs his nails deep enough into his own thigh that he’ll bruise—but Sam’s still standing there, in the doorway. Sam.

"It’s me," Sam says, and—yes. Of course it is. Sam, with dirt on his cheek, and a healed-over scrape under that, and his hair grown long and falling into his eyes. Sam, wearing the uniform of the Wardens just like the last time Dean saw him, studded leather over his chest and the blue-and-white tabard still belted around his narrow waist. Sam, leaning his staff into the corner—a new one, blackened oak and a stone Dean doesn’t recognize—and Sam, walking across the room with his boots thudding into the carpet—and Sam, crouching by the bath, and touching Dean’s cheek, and Dean surging halfway out of the bath and sloshing water everywhere and kissing him, kissing him, because—Sam, here. Here, when Dean had thought—

"It’s me," Sam says again, "Dean, I’m here," and Dean says, "I can see you’re fuckin’ here, Sammy, I—Sam—" and Sam laughs and says, "I know, sorry, I—" and kisses him again, hand cupping the back of Dean's skull and Dean’s hands tight in Sam’s hair and hurting his nails against the leather of Sam’s brigandine because—three years, it’s been three goddamn years and no letters, no word, and Dean hadn’t known—hadn’t had anything beyond hope—that Sam was alive and well at the fortress at Weisshaupt and that he hadn’t met his end by the claws of some darkspawn or a warg or—by all gods, by all faith, Sam.

It’s a while—Dean on his knees in the bath, and Sam kneeling in the puddle he’d made, and their hands locked into each other, and Dean breathing Sam and his smell of the road and rancid sweat and campfires and old blood, and Sam’s forehead against Dean’s and his hair tickling, and the taste of his mouth—his mouth—it’s a while, before Dean’s brain unfogs enough to realize that he’s just holding Sam, and they’re only breathing with their mouths barely touching, and Sam’s stomach is growling. Loud, in fact, and Sam’s nose wrinkles. "Sorry," he says, and Dean says, "You idiot," soft as soft, and struggles up to standing with the water streaming down from his body, and Sam looks up at him for a moment with his eyes dark and almost unfamiliar.

Dean hesitates, water up to his calves, naked. Aware of new scars, ones Sam hasn’t seen—his body, not the one Sam left. Sam stands, then, and Dean blinks. "You’re tall," he says, stupid-sounding even to his own ears, and Sam smiles at him all smug. He was tall already, at twenty—not at all fair, not at all, that he’s gained even more inches, and Dean steps out of the bath and shoves at Sam’s broad chest and fetches his dressing gown off the screen where Sandal always leaves it and tries to muster some kind of dignity as he wraps it around himself.

His dinner’s waiting on the sideboard outside his room, as always—Bodahn overly respectful of his privacy, as always—but it’s good, now, not to have to see anyone else, not to have another person interrupt. He turns with the tray and Sam’s unfastening his brigandine, slinging it untidily on the ground and wrestling his tabard over his chest so he’s left in his weskit and linen shirt and trousers, his boots still carrying gods know how many miles of mud, and he sniffs and says, "Is that stew?" all hopeful, and oh, oh, it’s Dean’s little brother, home.

He still eats like a teenager. Dean pours wine for both of them, watches Sam tear into the bread and meat like he’s starving. "Don’t they feed you at Weisshaupt?" Dean says, rhetorical, and Sam rolls his eyes and takes his goblet and gulps the wine down, gasping. "Oh, that’s—fantastic," he says, and takes a slower draught, eyes closed, and Dean watches him with his heart surging so high he’s surprised Sam can’t see the throb of it, in his throat and wrists and gut. Sam’s got days of not shaving thickening his stubble almost to a beard, and he tucks his hair behind his ears but it keeps falling forward, unruly. Without the Warden uniform he’s big, broad. Muscles thick in his shoulders, his arms, like they weren’t when he was a boy and he’d complain about having to help Dean on the farm, about training with a short sword, whining that he had magic and I’ll just throw a fireball at the darkspawn, Dean, and back then Dean could still cuff him over the head and drag him into Dean’s armpit and say yeah, but I’m in charge, and you're not allowed to throw a fireball at me, so—

Feels like a lifetime ago. Sam scrapes the last piece of bread around his bowl, sopping up the rich gravy, and then slumps back in his chair, sighing. "Long time since I’ve had food like this," he says, and Dean wants to ask—has so many questions. When was it, he wants to know, and where have you been, and are you okay—are you okay, the only question that matters, and he can’t face asking it right now with Sam sated and warm and here, here, and Sam’s eyes slit open and he looks at Dean, then, steady.

"What," Dean says, when it’s been too long without talking.

Sam smiles, brief. "What," he echoes, and seems right then—older than Dean, decades older—but he just leans forward and hooks his hand into the hollow of Dean’s bare knee, squeezes. Dean’s skin shivers in shock, all over, and Sam smiles deeper then, dimples carving into his cheeks. "I want—" Sam says, and shakes his head, and laughs under his breath. "Too much."

Dean takes a deep breath. "You reek," he says, and Sam huffs and looks down, as though Dean were saying it like a complaint.

"Yeah," Sam says, and pushes back from the table and strips bare. Bare, right there, in their ancestral home, until he stands naked with his feet on the carpet, linens and leathers piled stinking next to him, and he raises his eyebrows at Dean like a challenge and then walks back across to the bath and steps in, sinks down. Still hot, through that enchantment, and Dean watches dry-mouthed as the steam rises, as Sam slips his hands along his skin. He has scars, too. He’d never had much interest in healing magic. Welted-white lines on his arms, and an ugly twisting thing on his chest. The bite-mark, from the darkspawn, which sent him to the Wardens in the first place.

He rinses off the scented soap, splashes his face with the fragrant water, scrubs his scalp. The hair on his chest and in his armpits and at his groin has blackened with wet, and he runs a hand over his head, pushing the wet hair back from his face and looking at Dean while he does it, and Dean says, finally, "Sammy, you’re killing me," in a voice he doesn’t recognize. Sam smiles at him and gets up out of the bath in a surge of dripping water and meets Dean in the middle of the room and kisses him again, leaning down this time with his hands cupped around Dean’s ears, all the long wet of him soaking into Dean’s dressing gown but it’s—it’s okay, it’s better than okay.

The bed’s so big. So much bigger than any they ever had, when they were kids. Sam leans over him still dripping, his hair hanging down around Dean’s face and his shoulders blocking out the firelight. He pushes a hand into Dean’s gown, pets down his chest—his stomach—and Dean doesn’t know why it’s a shock when Sam grabs up his dick but it is, it is, and Dean grips Sam’s shoulders and shudders, bites his lip. "Yeah," Sam says, soft, sweet like he used to be, sometimes. When they were kids in the wheat fields, and hiding in the summer from chores Dean should’ve been making them do, and Sam asked soft for a kiss and Dean didn’t, couldn’t, say no. Sam noses against his cheek, smelling like herbs, and he says, "I missed you," gripping Dean hard and knowing. Different, to how it was, and in the grip Dean feels whoever Sam’s been with in the time between, and shoves his hips up, groaning. Sam kisses below his ear and says, "Dean, I—missed you, so much," and Dean makes a strangled noise he’ll be embarrassed by later and pushes Sam over, because new height and muscle or not, Dean’s the big brother here, and he ends up with Sam under him, tanned and young and beautiful, and staring at him like—like Dean doesn’t know, but he leans down and kisses him because he has to, he has to, because if he doesn’t he’ll say crazy things, things he doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear, much less for Sam to hear—

Sam groans, grips at his arms, pushes his hips up. Oh—oh, Sammy’s dick, and that hasn’t changed, big and urgent and pressing against Dean’s thigh. Sam unties his dressing gown, somewhere in the shadows between them, and grips at Dean’s ass, tugging him in tight. Ah—and that, that is like being a teenager again, Sam grasping and desperate. He pushes his dick against Sam’s tight belly, makes a noise. "Sam," he says, stupid, and Sam grips his hips and tilts and his dick slides up between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, solid, bulling.

"Oh," Sam breathes, against his mouth, and drops his head back to the pillow, wet hair spread out around his face. He blinks at Dean, while he pumps his hips—sawing back and forth, damp and threatening, while Dean breathes open-mouthed and stares down at him. His dick throbs, trapped against Sam’s belly. "Have you—" Sam says, and bites his lower lip, and shakes his head. "How long? Can we—"

How long. Dean remembers that morning in exact, perfect detail. Varric had said to meet in the square at noon and so that left hours, hours, and he’d woken at dawn and washed himself, red-faced and hoping his uncle would have the usual hangover that kept him abed well past the two o’clock hour. Then he’d come to Sam in the tiny mud-spattered room they shared and woken him with a finger to his lips and they’d—all morning, while the city churned just outside the thin walls, and the appointed hour crawled closer. He’d fucked Sam, and Sam hadn’t come and had pushed him over onto his belly after he was done and fucked him right back, just as Dean had known he would, and he’d kissed all over Dean’s shoulders and covered his back and said, take me, and Dean had known Sam meant into the Deep Roads, and Dean had said no, Sammy, shaking, wanting—it’s too dangerous, come on, and Sam had pushed into him and trapped Dean’s wrists against the blanket covering their awful straw-tick pallet and said against his ear, I’m coming, like it was already decided, and Dean had shuddered and come again, and he’d shown up at the square with Anders at his left shoulder and Sam at his right, smug, and Varric had shrugged and said, don’t slow us down, short stuff, to Sam, and the night before Sam got bitten by a darkspawn Sam had looked at him from his bedroll inches away in the camp and smiled, happy—unaccountably happy, like Sam almost never was.

Sam swallows, in the face of Dean’s silence. "Really," he says, but not like he’s asking. He grips at Dean’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart, dragging him in so his dick smears wet all over Sam’s stomach, and then lifts up on one elbow and kisses Dean—soft, soft, lips pulling slow and easy, like a winter morning with only snow outside and no responsibility to anyone but this.

No one could ever be what Sam was, to Dean. He’s screwed around with Isabela, a few times, deep in their cups at the Hanged Man and nothing waiting for either of them, but it meant nothing—she slapped his ass when he was done and said well done, soldier, and he laughed, and left her there and didn’t think about it outside of that room. Once, with Fenris, when they were so piss-drunk on wine he didn’t even remember what had happened, other than an impression of lyrium-brightness, and a mouth on his throat. Not something they’ve spoken of since. He doesn’t know what Sam’s done, at Weisshaupt or on the roads between here and there, and he doesn’t care because what matters is that Sam’s in his bed. Whether Sam will be here in the morning, whether he’s deserted or if there’s some other quest waiting, some new hardship that’ll sweep them both away—he can't think about that, right now. Not when he has this in front of him.

"Do it," he mumbles, his mouth pressed against Sam’s shoulder, and feels Sam shudder, all against him. He wants it—wants the hurt, like that first time when Sam was sixteen and they’d hidden in the woods behind the Chantry, fumbling—he’s a warrior, he knows from pain, and having Sam is the kind that’s worth it.

Sam shakes his head, though—shakes his head, and smears his mouth against Dean’s throat, lips dragging, says—"I want—" and flips them, surge of muscle, and descends to get his lips on Dean’s dick, going down so fast that he chokes, and Dean’s legs seize and draw up but Sam’s shoulders are wide enough to keep them apart and he’s left arching, shocked, body seizing. Oh—this, this—nights in their room at home, learning each other while Dad was gone, Sam daring to make spark-lights above their heads, the magic just enough to see the way Sam’s cheekbone stood out above the hollowed dark of his cheek—and now, the firelight setting Sam’s hair to auburn where it’s half-dried and standing out messy around his head, and the steady practiced working of his tongue, and the gliding silk of his cheek when he lets Dean’s cockhead push against it. Dean’s balls clutch up, too fast. Sam knows, somehow—pulls back, gasping, spit connecting him to Dean’s dick in a sloppy string that he licks up only after a second hanging there—and he looks at Dean up the stretch of his torso, pink burnt into his cheeks and patchy on his chest, want in his eyes. Want, and nothing else, and Dean thumbs over the wet dark of his lips and holds his jaw, and Sam leans in still watching him and suckles at the head, sparky jolting pressure crushing up in Dean’s gut and balls and in his fingertips, his toes curling, and Sam closes his eyes and goes down, his hand on Dean’s stomach like a ton weight, his hair brushing Dean’s belly, his mouth warm, and Dean—

It’s only after, that Dean works up the courage. When Sam’s spilled over his stomach and Dean’s cleaned them both up, haphazard, with the skirt of his dressing gown. With wine still in the bottle, while they pass it back and forth between them, and the fire gilding amber light over Sam’s shoulders. He meets Dean’s eyes and they both laugh, for what reason Dean doesn’t know but it feels good, right. Sam’s mouth is curled still at the corners, and Dean rolls close and drags his thumb along Sam’s ribs, where they used to stand out against the hungry pit of his belly, and says, before he can chicken out, "Gonna stay, Sammy?"

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear the answer, but he needs to hear it. Sooner, rather than later, so he’ll know if he can rest now, or if he needs to plan for a sleepless night of taking in every single ounce of Sam that he can—every story, every kiss. Every ounce of blood it’ll take to last more years, without him. If he even can.

Sam sighs, and settles his hand on Dean’s hip. "I ran," he says, very quietly. Dean looks at him and Sam’s watching his face. "We went on patrol, into the Anderfels, and I slipped my commander and stole a horse and rode. East, as far as I could go before the horse went lame, and then I kept going." Sam shrugs, with one shoulder. "There’s a lot of east, between the Anderfels and the Free Marches. But I didn’t stop."

Dean breathes, shaky, imagining. The world opening up, when it's been so long of his compacted, empty nothing. Okay. Hiding Sam from the Wardens—and his neighbors—and what they’ll do. How they'll live—will they have to run? He doesn't know, and realizes after so long of grinding to get to this place, he doesn't care. The house doesn't matter, the city doesn't matter. Nothing has mattered, without Sam.

Sam’s still watching him, eyes dark, and Dean reaches out and tucks his hair back from his forehead, pushing it behind his ear. "You’ll have to tell me about Orlais sometime," he says, and Sam smiles at him.

"Bunch of cheese-eaters," he says, leaning in close like it’s a secret, and Dean laughs, soft and tired and feeling, for the first time in three years, like he’s whole.

#wincest #dragon age #my writing #it turns out i'm extremely soft for hawke!dean #now i just want to write about the adventures of him and warden mage!sam #hecc

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lokisarmyfirstwarrior · 4 years ago

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Rant on SPN finale

Obviously SPOILERS ahead

Whoa, this got a lot longer than I anticipated. And I have a suspicion I forgot to add something, but hey, I had to vent.

I just binged the last few episodes of Supernatural, on a very legal site. It took me quite a few tries to get back into it, because by the time the end came, I thought the show was stupid. And i still kind of think it is, Somewhere around leviathans and cain’s mark it went downhill. It was getting more tangled into itself and the stories weren’t enjoyable anymore.

So when they announced this is gonna be the last season, I was rather relieved. Yeah, there’s enough episodes to rewatch and have good time reminiscing about the old times. And it lets the show finish on a note that is not the worst out there.

I still stand by that. Most of the season was boring, predictable in a way. But towards the end, episodes 18 and 19 weren’t bad.

Let’s not comment on Destiel’s weird and awkward confession, during which i had to look away and nervously laugh to survive the second hand embarrassment. It was quite out of place and I think the perfect happiness thing would work out a lot better if it was Dean suddenly realizing Cas is about to sacrifice himself and confess. But hey, we go by bury your gays in this show, so that can’t happen and instead we get a half-assed reaction from Dean, who doesn’t pick up the phone to inform his beloved brother that it was all Chuck’s doing and instead kind of sort of cries. I mean, they could have at least texted Sam it’s the Death, it’s the God, it’s worse. But that’s just my logic and common sense speaking, sorry. I do realize I started this paragraph with let’s not comment, but I had to.

And maybe this makes me a bad person, but I am glad, that Sam didn’t get to Eileen on time. Their whole relationship seemed forced, maybe because it was mainly Chuck’s doing, but nonetheless, I wasn’t really on board of that ship. Besides, if Cas and Dean, don’t get their - hinted at - happy ending, why should Sam and Eileen get one. Because that one’s straight? No, thanks. Not to mention Cas’ death seemed kind of glossed over... I don’t want to get into that, but that was a part I didn’t like in the slightest.

Jack apparently had to die several times in an episode to be a proper Winchester and catch up on the total deaths count. I love Jack, he is very adorable and Dean’s way of treating him got on my nerves a lot. I’m not saying he should have forgiven him faster or at all. But the kid wanted to sacrifice himself for them - and the world- he could have appreciated it a bit more than saying he is no one or nothing. That was a moment where I lost all hope for Dean.

The first time I thought of Jack becoming God was when they mentioned that somebody has to fill up the place after Chuck and Amara are gone. For some reason, they never really considered Jack to be the one to do it, even before they knew he was supposed to die. Which baffles me, because he proved time and time again, he is on their side and he is good. But whatever, him actually becoming God was probably the best thing to come out of this ending. The worst scene was when Chuck was laying powerless on the ground and they fucking explained step by step what happened. Talk about spoon feeding the audience. I hated that part with flashbacks and all. I’d understand if it were something that happened long time ago and only now became useful, but it all started in the previous episode at most. They super obviously left Chuck to rot, because he deserves it. But it was obvious since the first moment he started talking about it being a poetic ending and Dean being a killer, when Cas just told him he is not... Then a super religious Jack monologue when they brought back the humanity. Although I am not sure who he did bring back. I kept thinking about Eileen and if Sam wouldn’t want to get back to her or something, but apparently he forgot already.

The 19th episode ended somewhat fanfictiony when you think about it. Just the two of them, free and in peace riding into the sunset while clips from previous episodes flash on the screen. (A lot of them were from Gabe’s episodes, kudos for that) I have seen quite a lot posts about similar ending and with maybe it prolonged for a minute, we could the end with carry on playing in the background. That would have been nice.

Now, when I watched it, I was about halfway through the season when I googled how many episodes does it have. Because I thought 20 is not enough, I remembered there being around 22 or 23. It showed 20, so I continued watching. When I was watching the 19th episode, I kept thinking, this is a good end, that it was not bad. But I also kept thinking, what is going on, there is another episode. And I read somewhere, that the finale is supposed to be longer, but that part of it was just behind the scenes and stuff. So I thought, the 20th episode I see on the website is that, behind the scenes. I stopped the episode at some point after th drive into sunset started, still thinking there is another one after it when I googled again season 15 episodes. For some reason it showed 19 and I thought I was robbed of that feeling of THE END at the finish of something that was such a huge part of my life. I was so confused. Then I started the 20th episode, thinking already it is indeed behind the scenes, only to find out there is another episode.

I did cry at the final ending, but I also kept thinking it was stupid. The whole episode was stupid and completely unnecessary (I mean they spent ten minutes on Dean conversing with Sam, impaled on a pole...). I guess it was the final happy ending. But when Bobby mentioned Cas helped Jack rebuild the heaven, I expected a little more than just a smirk from Dean. I mean, I would have been completely okay if they just hugged reuniting, meaning they had sort of happy ending, with Cas occasionally checking in on Dean. Anything really, after the queerbaiting... But what should I expect after the same person who killed Queliot essentially killed Destiel too.

Then the whole montage of Sam living his life to the fullest and Dean driving Baby in the heaven. I lost it when they showed Sam’s kid wearing overalls wth his name on it. That was ridiculous. Dean stopped at the most random bridge, just to have a nice shot with the crew I’d guess. And super obviously Sam appers behind him, I could tell and hour in advance (complete exaggeration) that he’s gonna say Hey, Sammy. Because this last season was riddled with bad throwbacks. This particular scene reminded me of The Untamed last scene, which played out very similarly, except way better(Honestly, everything is better, if you like chinese drama, you’ll love this one. It’s gay, although censored and originates from a book)

It was as if Dean didn’t deserve to live his life to the fullest on Earth. Maybe they wouldn’t get families if they stayed together and continued hunting, okay I can get over that. But when Sam’s kid told him it’s okay, he can go now, that was some high level cringe. I get it was because Dean wanted Sam to say it to him, but their whole conversation was very cringe at the time.

Well, I decided that episode 20 does not exist and I do not accept any criticism on that. They could have used Carry on my wayward son in episode 19 and that would have been a better ending.

Thank you for reading through if you’ve read through it all. Thank you.

#supernatural #supernaturalseason15 #supernatural end #supernaturalfinale

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georgialouisea · 5 years ago

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Have you told her?

Pairing - Dean x Reader.

Warnings - Fluff.

Square Filled - Friends to lovers.

Word Count - 2.5k

Written For - @spngenrebingo

SPN Genre Bingo Masterlist

“Dean we shouldn’t be doing this.” Sam sighed as he watched you on your date in the diner across the street.

“We’re just watching out for her.”

“She’s fine Dean, let’s just go back to the bunker.”

“In a minute.”

“You know this is on the cusp of stalking.”

“No, it’s not.” Dean protested rolling his eyes at his brother.

“Why don’t you just tell her you’re in love with her then you won’t have to keep doing this crap and it will be you going on dates with her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, she wouldn’t want to date me anyway.”

Sam huffed out a laugh.

“What?”

“You don’t see the way she looks at you, I’m stuck in the middle of you two all day watching you make love-struck puppy dog eyes at each other when the other isn’t looking.”

“What are you talking about?”

Rolling his eyes with a huff Sam turned to face his brother. “You’re both oblivious to how the other feels, you like her, she likes you, just grow a pair and ask her out for coffee, to dinner or something.”

“It wouldn’t work.”

“Why not? You’ve been friends with her for years, she’s already living with us in the bunker, just ask her out I’m sick of you looking like a kicked puppy every time she has a date or is asked out for a drink with a guy who isn’t you.”

“I don’t do that.” Dean scoffed looking out the towards the diner. “Shit.”

“What?”

“She’s walking this way.” Dean mumbled as he slid lower in his seat, Sam mirroring his brother’s actions.

Walking across the street you watched them sink down on the front bench of the Impala, trying to hide from you. Opening the back door you slid onto the seat shutting the door behind you.

“Either of you want to explain?” You asked looking over the front bench at the two sprawling Winchesters.

Sitting back up Dean turned to face you. “Just checkin’ you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, next time you want to do a stakeout when I’m on a date maybe don’t do it in the loudest and most noticeable cars we have Dean bean.” Patting his chest you sat back in your seat.

“How was the date?” Sam asked turning to face you throwing his arm over the back of the bench.

“He’s nice.” You gave a small shrug as you answered. “Yeah, James is nice.”

“But?” Sam raised his brow at you.

“He’s too nice, he’s a little boring.”

“So you’re not seeing him again?”

“I don’t know.”

“We ready to go home?” Dean asked interrupting your date analysis with his brother as he turned on the engine.

“Yeah, we have something to drink at home right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Putting the car in drive he pulled the Impala out of its very obvious hiding spot.

“So today was a bust huh?” Dean asked pulling a chair out across the library table from you he sat down, grabbing the bottle of whiskey off the table he filled his glass and your own.

“Yeah, I guess it was.” Putting the book you were halfway through down on the table you reached for your glass. “I had a nice time, he was nice but boring, I mean he's a small-town lawyer he doesn’t have an awful lot going on in his life.”

“Civilians not doing it for ya?” He asked taking a sip from his glass.

“Well I’m never going to get out of this life, I love it, I love hunting I think If I’m ever going to settle down or really have a real relationship It’ll be with a hunter, it kind of has to be.” You shrugged putting your glass down on the table.

“Why?”

“How many ex-girlfriends or week-long hookups, who aren’t hunters have you explained this life to?”

“Point taken.” He tipped his glass towards you.

“If I meet someone I meet someone.” Your thumb ran up and down the edge of the glass in your hand.

“Do you want to meet someone?”

“Do you?” You looked up at him, the corner of his lip gently tugging up.

“I think about it.”

“So get this.” Sam walked into the library his laptop resting on one arm as he typed something. Looking up his eyes settled on the open bottle of whiskey, glancing between you and Dean he stopped in his tracks. “Am I interrupting something?” His eyes lingered on Dean waiting for a response.

“No.” Dean sat up straighter.

“Why would you be interrupting?” You asked the taller Winchester as you glanced towards Dean who shot his brother a look.

“No reason.” Putting his laptop down so you could both see the screen he pulled the chair out next to you sitting down. “So I think there’s a case there’s been reports of animal attacks in a small town in Florida.”

“How many reports?” Dean asked before he drained his glass.

“Seven bodies all with hearts missing.”

“So werewolf.”

“Sounds like it, hit the road in ten?” Sam suggested as he closed his laptop and stood up.

“No.” Dean shook his head.

“What?” Sam looked at his brother with a furrowed brow.

“We’ll head out tomorrow morning, we’re all tired and we need a good nights sleep.”

“I can drive -” Sam offered.

“How many hours did you get last night?”

“Erm ... four, maybe.” Sam glanced towards you.

“Exactly, we’re going tomorrow, no one is use to anyone with less than six hours.”

“Okay, bright and early, meet you at the car at six?”

“Sounds good, night Sammy.”

“Night guys.” Walking out of the library he left you alone with Dean.

“You heading to bed?” You asked Dean.”

“One more drink?” Unscrewing the cap on the bottle of whiskey he refilled his glass.

Draining your glass you held it out to him. “What the hell.”

One more drink turned into at least three or four as you talked and laughed with Dean.

“Another?” Dean picked up the nearly empty bottle.

“No.” Putting your empty glass down on the table you stood up, walking around the table towards Dean you took his empty glass and the bottle out of his hands putting them down on the table he pouted up at you. “We, Mr Winchester have a long drive tomorrow, well very nearly today.” You glanced at your watch it was quickly approaching midnight. “We also have a werewolf or two to kill, we need to at least try to sleep.” Holding your hands out towards him he took your hands letting you pull him to his feet, he wasn’t drunk neither of you were just a little buzzed and happier than usual. “Let’s get to bed.”

“I like the sound of that.” He grinned at you as he followed you through the bunker.

“You would.”

Coming to a stop outside his room he let go of your hand. “Are you tired?”

“Not really but we’re not going to carry on drinking.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest we do, go get ready for bed and meet me back here.” Watching him walk into his room he pulled off his flannel when he reached for the hem of his grey v-neck you took it as your cue to leave. You’d seen the Winchester’s shirtless countless times before when you stitched them up or when they were fresh out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around their waists. Truth be told you had seen them both naked at least a handful of times but watching Dean undress in his room felt like a show you shouldn’t be watching. Grabbing a pair of sleep shorts and an old t-shirt which used to be one of Dean’s he’d given you to sleep in two years ago and you’d just never gave it back.

Changing quickly you tried your hair up into a bun on the top of your head as you walked back towards Dean’s room, knocking on his partially open door he pulled it open with one hand as he pulled his shirt down with the other, showing you a flash of the stomach you loved so much. “Come in.” He held his door open for you.

“What are we doing?” Walking into his room his laptop was on at the end of his bed.

“I’m thinkin’ we watch a movie while we fall asleep.”

“We haven’t done that in months.”

“Is that a no?”

“Hell no, I miss this, I miss spending time with you.” Sitting down on his bed you rested against the pillows he’d propped up against his headboard.

“Months of back to back hunts will do that, we should really tell Sam to cool it.” Dean sat down next to you pulling his laptop closer. “What do you wanna watch?” He asked scrolling through Netflix.

“Anything.” Cuddling up to him your cheek rested on his shoulder.

It used to be a regular thing for you to watch a movie with Dean and fall asleep together, it started one night after a very vivid nightmare leaving you unable to sleep without seeing monsters tearing Sam and Dean apart. Dean heard your screams and stayed with you until you were able to breathe normally again, keeping you calm. It was nearly two hours after Dean left your bed that you were walking down the halls towards Dean’s room, knocking on his door he was sat up watching Indiana Jones on his laptop, he didn’t say a word just pulled back the covers in front of him waiting for you to crawl in, as soon as you were in bed with him he wrapped his arms around you waiting until you’d fallen asleep before he turned off the movie and fell asleep himself. Hunting slowly interrupted your little routine with Dean and you felt yourself slowly growing apart from Dean.

“Dean.” Your hand resting over his heart gave his chest a small pat, pulling his attention away from his laptop where Antman’s credits rolled.

“What? Do you want to watch something else?” He mumbled looking down at him.

“No, no.” You smiled up at him.

“You okay?” His arm around your waist gave you a small squeeze.

“Yeah, I’m just thinking.”

“Bout what?”

“What we were talking about earlier, about meeting someone.”

“What about it?”

“What if I’ve already met him?”

“James?” His brow creased slightly.

“No, not the guy I went on one date with, what if I’ve known him for years, he’s a good guy, a great guy even.”

Dean’s hand ran down your side to rest on your hip. “Oh really.” He asked as his lips tugged up at the corners.

“Yeah, I think I’ve met him.”

“You wanna tell me more about him?” His smile slowly grew into a grin.

“Well, he’s tall, not quite as tall as his brother.” Dean’s fingers gave your hip a playful squeeze. “He’s beautiful, his eyes are the most breathtaking shade of green I’ve ever seen, he’s strong, really strong.” Your fingertips danced across his bicep his muscles tensing under your touch. “He makes me feel safe, I know if I’m with him he’d risk his life for mine, he has before, twice.” Running your hand down his chest you pushed the hem of his shirt up slightly your palm resting flat against his stomach, moving your hand towards his side your thumb running over one of his newest scars. “He took a dagger to the side to protect me, pushed me out of the way and let a demon stab him all to save me.” Pulling your hand back towards his stomach your fingers ran over the bullet hole scar, one of the first he’d got protecting you. “And even took a bullet for me, that’s the guy I’d want to think about settling down with, what would you tell a girl who said all of that about you?”

Dean’s palm cupped your cheek. “I’d tell her that I love her and that I’ve been in love with her for years, years before I ever took a bullet for her, that she’s beautiful, smart and funny, she’s my best friend and I don’t know what I would do without her in my life, I’ve seen her go on dates, watched her leave hoping she’d find someone better than me, someone, worthy of her love-”

“Dean kiss me.”

Wasting no time his lips crashed into yours the palm cupping your cheek moved to the back of your head as he held you close. Pulling away his forehead rested against yours. “You’re sure?”

“Dean Winchester -”

“I love you.” He cut you off.

“I love you too, you seriously want to do this?”

“Do I want to date you? Of course I do.”

“We should have done this months ago.” Dean kissed you as he pulled the sheets up over your naked bodies.

“God yes.” Flopping back in bed your head rested against the pillows, catching a glimpse of the alarm clock on Dean’s nightstand you gently slapped his chest. “We have an hour before Sam wants us on the road.”

“We can sleep in the car.”

“He’s going to be so pissed at us.”

“Trust me he’s not.” Dean chuckled.

Covering up the yawn with your hand you gratefully accepted the travel mug of coffee Dean was holding out towards you. “Thank you.”

“Did you two stay up all night drinking?” Sam asked as he raised a brow at you throwing his duffel into the open trunk slamming it shut.

“No, we didn’t.” Sliding into the backseat you watched Dean throw the keys towards his brother, Sam’s hand darted out catching them before they hit the floor.

“What are you doing?” Sam looked from the keys in his hand to Dean.

“Taking up last night’s offer, you’re driving Sammy.” Getting in the back seat Dean sat next to you. “We’re gonna sleep.”

It only took 30 minutes before you were half asleep resting on Dean’s shoulder, your arm resting across his stomach, Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist.

“So.” Sam raised a brow at his brother in the rearview mirror.

“What?” Dean grumbled in response.

“You weren’t up all night drinking, you either had a movie night or you finally told her how you feel.”

Running your hand across Dean’s stomach you couldn’t help but smile.

“Let us sleep, Sammy.” Dean gave your waist a squeeze.

“You told her, didn’t you? You told her you love her?” Sam looked at Dean with wide eyes.

“Yeah, he did.” Opening your eyes you smiled at Sam.

Leaning down Dean kissed the top of your head.

“I’m happy for you both.” Sam couldn’t help but smile watching the two people closest in his life finally happy together.

Closing your eyes again you couldn’t wipe the smile from your face.

“Sammy?” Dean mumbled pulling you closer to him as he got comfortable in the back seat

“Yeah?”

“Wake us up when we get there.”

Forever Taglist -

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