#and that's a world where dean sucks and no one likes him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluemerakis · 10 days ago

Note

Recently finished Swayze’s ‘ghost’ and now I can’t stop thinking about post-Hell Dean, where the reader has his iconic brown leather jacket hanging in her room thinking she’s never gonna see him again but he shows up in her room (in a non creepy way as much as possible lol) and they fuuuuck like old times and she thinks she’s dreaming until she realises it’s actually him (or not lol) but the romanticism is screaming out to me, idk if it’s something you’d be interested in writing but omfg you’d write this so painfully well

ANON!! i LOVE LOVE LOVE this SO much! i’m so honoured that you’ve entrusted me with this idea—i had the time of my life writing this & went a lil wild with it LOL. thank you for your support and kind words, it means the world to me! i hope i did your request justice 🩵

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ sunshine ❞

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pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ s4!spoilers, established relationship, dramatic descriptions of grief, cussing, angst, sam being an adorable little angel, nip sucking, unprotected sex p in v, tooth-rotting fluff. lmk if I forgot any! if there are typos, no there isn’t

synopsis ─ after dean had sealed the deal that warranted him a one-way ticket to hell, you had no hopes of ever seeing him again. you were overcome with a grief that felt inescapable, but with sam’s help, you’d managed to pull through the storm and enter clearer skies. just when you thought you’d have to navigate a new life without dean, against all odds, he makes an unexpected appearance.

word count ~ roughly 15k

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Four months.

The duration of your ongoing turmoil. The grim tally of his absence.

For four months, you’d been trapped in the stagnant bog of your grief. It had formed the very first night you’d lost him, seizing your mind like a rabid plague. It didn’t matter which way you attempted to swim, or how hard you paddled to try and stay afloat, there was no sure escape from its bottomless depth. It immobilised your existence, broke down your hope—scattered it like falling leaves to be lapped up by the famished surface and swallowed to the point of no return. It was lonely and suffocating, but you’d since given up on waiting for a lifeline to be cast from some land beyond your gloomy horizon, so sure that you’d isolated yourself from any soul kind enough to try.

Except for Sam.

Sam had tried to rescue you many times, but the lines he casted were always too battered—chewed up by the demons of his own grief. And you knew that if you grabbed onto it—where he stood barely clinging to the other end—it would snap and pull him right in. You couldn’t do that to him, so you’d surrendered to the bog entirely, allowing your grief to engulf you into its endless, bone-chilling nothingness. And each day, you sank further and further, like the dead weight of a stone, drifting down into the pits of your despair. Your living, breathing death.

A slow, agonising journey of digestion—your body, mind and soul disseminating into nothing.

Reaching rock bottom hadn’t taken long, not when you’d been left feeling so shallow by the robbery of your life’s meaning. And you’d laid there ever since, slowly deteriorating, slowly drowning. Over and over and over again. You could have said that you were losing every part of yourself, but you hadn’t been whole to begin with, not for a long time—not since losing him.

If he were here, he could have saved you from yourself. But he wasn’t. And you hated him for it.

You hated him. For striking a deal with the devil. For placing his life on the line without a second breath. For lying to you about it. For even thinking that nobody would notice the dead space left behind. There were certain days that tended to plunge that hateful knife—already engrossed in your heart—a little deeper. A day like this morning.

The day that marked the anniversary of Dean Winchester’s death.

On the first day without him, you’d spent your time trying to fight it—forced smiles, laughs of denial, stares that didn’t linger on any of his belongings for too long. But it was hard not to come face to face with his memory when the ghost of his existence seemed to prowl after you at every turn and every corner of the apartment. His favourite coffee mug with an infamous chip on the rim. The frozen, pasty pies he’d crammed the freezer full of. Six packs of canned beers stocked along the pantry’s top shelf. His discarded shoes. His sparse watch collection. The shampoo bottle he’d diluted to last a month longer.

And that damn leather jacket, which currently draped from the frame of your desk chair.

It hung there like a museum exhibit—the memory of Dean Winchester, frozen in time. The jacket he’d left behind on the day he’d slipped your life for good. You hadn’t once touched it. You couldn’t bring yourself to lay your fingers across the leather when there’d be no warmth radiating through its fabric to soothe you—couldn’t face the fact that it’d reflect the cold, empty truth of it all. So there it laid, collecting dust and slowly drowning beneath the suffocating, grey sea without a merciful hand to liberate it. It was a cruel parallel of your own withering state.

Every morning, your eyes would peel through a hollow sleep, and the first thing they’d settle on was that damn jacket. Every. Single. Time. As if you needed the constant recap on top of everything else. You could have mustered up the courage to move it some place else that’d finally warrant the motto out of sight, out of mind. But the naive fool that had created that saying failed miserably at accounting for the woes of the brain. Once scorched into memory, nothing would ever truly be forgotten. You’d remember regardless of where that jacket lay—a curse bound to your life, never to be broken.

Unless you broke first.

You shifted at the heart of your king-sized bed, your head sinking back into your plumy pillow as you gazed up at the ceiling. At anything but that jacket. Your limbs sprawled out between the cotton sheets, taking maximum advantage to voyage the sea of space left at your disposal. While a mattress this large and luxurious should’ve offered you a sense of comfortable freedom, you couldn’t help but mourn all the space—space that at one point, had been occupied by him.

The gentle, golden glare of dawn had begun its steady journey into the room, letting itself in almost shyly through the slits of your curtains. The meek sunbeams sliced through the dim atmosphere you’d found solice within, and you watched as dust particles began to waltz around one another through the bronzed air—as if they’d been cast into the centre of the ballroom. Around and around they swirled in perfect, mirrored harmony. You thought it looked a lot like a courting display—more mental imagery to emphasise your loneliness.

For a second, some faded image—a memory—flashed across your mind. Yourself and Dean, taking to the neglected dance floor of a bar nearing its closing time. A half-emptied beer bottle clutched in his one hand as his other linked with yours, serving as the leash that dragged your protesting form to its debut on the dance floor.

You’d never been too confident in your dancing skills, a fact you’d tried many times to disclose, but Dean had been insistent. Somewhere behind you, Sam had whooped from the comfort of the booth you’d both discarded, and when you’d glanced back at the younger Winchester, he had his beer-adorned hand raised into the air as a cheer. You’d scoffed with a heavy thanks for nothing.

When you’d turned back to Dean, he’d drawn up in his tracks without any prior warning, causing you to crash not-so-elegantly into his torso. Instinctively, your free palm had lurched forward to cradle his chest in a steadying motion, your chin tilting up to grace him with a stunned giggle.

The drink he’d throttled in his other hand sloshed with the jolt, foam tumbling over the nozzle’s edge like a provoked volcano’s tantrum. It slathered his fingers and trickled to the floor, adding fresh patterns to the aged, sticky blotches already scattered amidst the young night.

“Woah, easy there, tiger,” he’d laughed, but the hand that’d dragged you here released your fingers only to form a seductive curve at the small of your back. There, he’d pulled you in even closer, his lips closing in on you with the promise of a love-sick kiss. But instead, his jaw had dipped past your temple, lips grazing your cheekbone before hovering at your ear. “There’s nuff o’ me to go ‘round without you jumpin’ ship for the first spot,” he husked. You’d practically felt the grin spreading his lips.

You’d ducked your head away from his with a hearty huff. “Down, boy,” you’d scoffed, hands trailing up his chest to crown either shoulder with a natural ease. The touch had been smooth, magnetic. And maybe you two were like magnets, utterly obsessed with being intangible, and eager to keep on exploring every inch of one another with a shifting touch rather than be torn apart.

Dean’s eyes had lowered to the naughty line you’d drawn to his shoulders, the grin he’d taken up deepening enough to suction his cheeks into the dimples you’d come to adore. When he’d acquainted your eyes again, it was through a heavy-lidded stare that promised all sorts of activities to reciprocate your tantalising touch. “Oh, I’ll get down, alright,” he’d chuckled hoarsely, leaving the line open to interpretation as he brought his beer to his lips. He’d downed a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes not once straying from yours as he watched you mentally decipher his words.

“You know what? Enough of your games,” you’d laughed, hands slipping from his chest to forsake the dance floor before you’d have a chance to make it regret hosting you. You’d attempted to turn tail and flee, but Dean’s hand had found your wrist in a firm, yet gentle tug, and then you were held prisoner under those hypnotising eyes once more. Your lips had split to offer some final protest, but his own lips puckered into a shushing pout that had you clamping down on your tongue.

“Don’t say anythin’, just dance with me,” he’d instructed, and then the hand tethering you to him lifted, your arm following the motion like a chain effect. Against your will, you were spun around in an awkward, off-timed circle that deviated abominably from the background music. When you came to face him once more, his chest had rattled with a laugh a little too passionate for your liking. “That was adorable—like a toddler learnin’ she’s got the gears but don’t quite know which she’s shiftin’.”

Your cheeks had seared hot at that comment, free hand diving forward to shove his chest lightly. “Stop—I warned you!” You’d simpered.

“Hey!” He’d laughed, beer-occupied hand lifting in a gesture of innocence. “I’m only playin’! You’ll get the hang o’ it—I’ll teach ya. Watch.” Your hand lifted under his guidance as he executed his own spin—even more sprawled and ridiculous than yours had been. Your free hand had flown to cradle your mouth as a disbelieved chortle blared through, and as Dean came to face you once more, his brows were lifted in question. “Eh? I’m a natural, yeah?”

You’d giggled into your palm again before dropping your hand back to your side, lips pursing with amusement. “Let’s just say that I don’t think either of us should be teaching the other,” you’d huffed through a pained smile.

Dean lowered your joined hands to the space between you. “Well,” he’d begun, pulling you into his frame once more, like he just couldn’t get enough of your presence—like he wanted it to hog him. “Guess we just gotta. . . y’know, feel this one out together,” he’d murmured suggestively, eyes narrowing with cheek while he released your hand to settle into its natural hold at the small of your back.

You’d leaned your smirk-heavy lips closer to his with a content hum, your hands coming to wrap around his neck. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow if you lead.” He’d grinned approvingly at that, tugging you along to a slow and steady sway of the bodies, which you’d succumbed to and harmonised with in no time—much to your surprise.

“Sammy!” Dean had called to his younger brother, his eyes not once straying from yours as he presented his beer in the direction of the booth. “All yours for the takin’.” He’d paused to steal a glance at your beaming lips. “I got my own special o’ the night.”

You’d laughed at that, and Dean’s charm had grown all the more potent as he stretched out the dance between the two of you for what felt like a good couple of hours. In the background, the music in bad taste had blared on, ever so eager to cheapen the moment between the two of you, but you’d become so enthralled with one another that all else around you was drowned out, anyway.

Both his hands had selfishly hoarded your lower back, pressing you so far into him that you’d stumbled around his feet more times than you’d have liked to admit. But you’d remained steadied by the hands furled around his neck, and comforted by the gentle, reciprocated press of your foreheads, gazing into the sanctuary of one another’s eyes.

If you’d known then, in that moment, that Dean Winchester was going to die, you’d have held onto him a little longer—and probably never have let go. Even if it killed you, too.

With a heavy, rattled rise of your chest, you came back to your grim present, drawing in a long and shaky breath. You shifted between the sheets to roll onto your side, arm coming up beneath the underside of your pillow to cradle it like an emotional support teddy. You tuned your attention to your curtain-clad windows, and like a corpse, you continued to rot away within your coffin of a mattress, watching idly as the sun continued to announce its ascent.

It wasn’t long before warm golds drained into a paler shades that fully lit your room now—the official statement of a new day. But still, you didn’t stir. The curtains remained cast, the windows crammed closed as tightly as they’d been left about a week ago, and your soul feeling anything but renewed to tackle this heavy day head on.

Somewhere beyond your wall, footsteps thrummed lightly down the hallway. Now and again, you’d let yourself believe that they belonged to Dean, on his way to brew you both a morning cuppa—just to offer some pathetic, fleeting slither of comfort. But nothing—nobody could ever fill those shoes left behind. It hadn’t stopped Sam from trying, though.

Before Dean’s. . . disappearance, the brothers had stayed together in the larger room of your two-bedroom apartment—nothing like reliving the good old times, right? It didn’t much bother either one of them, given that Dean had slept in your bed on most nights, leaving the space feeling basically like Sam’s own. The dynamic between you all worked well, and it was practical for a hunter’s lifestyle. Costs were cut, perimeters familiarised and mapped out, and the shared company between you all was reliable. Trustworthy.

You’d become a blended family of some sort. You didn’t think there was any external force that could’ve torn you all apart. But you hadn’t accounted for an inside job. Hadn’t accounted for the weak link that was you.

After Dean’s death, you’d gone into a self-destructive spiral, eager to push anybody and everybody away while you feigned bravery. But Sam had clocked you like an open book, and it made him the hottest target of your impulsive ire.

You couldn’t stand looking at the younger Winchester, how he served as a constant reflection of your own grief—the grief you’d tried so hard to drown out. You knew you should have bonded with him over your shared loss, and the younger Winchester had tried everything to utilise that angle to be there for you, but it’d only made you push back harder. You half expected him to walk out after the first week, but you’d forgotten how deep-rooted stubborness ran within the Winchester bloodline.

Sam had continued to stick around. Why was beyond you. You could have argued that it was because he’d come to love you like a sister, but you couldn’t help the feeling that Dean had made him promise to look out for you, should he ever bite the dust. And it made you hate him more. Because if it were the latter, it meant that Dean had always intended to stay en route on the sacrificial pathway you’d tried countless times to swerve him from. And it meant that loving you hadn’t been reason enough for him to become sidetracked.

If only he’d held out a little longer and put off making that damned deal, you could have continued searching for a solution that didn’t end with either of the Winchesters’ deaths. But deep down, you knew that fate hadn’t written that ending down in any of her books. That continuing to skim page after page would have done nothing but waste minutes paid in blood. Deep down, you knew that Dean had no other choice, but it didn’t make you hate him any less for choosing it.

The faint clanking of utensils transcended the walls, indicating that Sam had worked himself into the kitchen. It was like a routine now. Every morning, the same time. You thought he might’ve craved some taste of control over his life by instilling this morning pattern he now followed so religiously.

You envied how well he seemed to hold himself together, despite it being his blood that had passed on. It made you feel invalidated in all your mourning. After all, if he could move on from the loss of his brother, whom he’d known all his life, why couldn’t you move on from a man you’d known for a pitiful number that paled in comparison?

As they so often did, your thoughts rampaged for a while longer, so eager to hold you captive between the sheets. But eventually, you felt the pit of neglect burrowed into your stomach gape wider, something that you couldn’t ignore any longer.

Your head turned to glimpse the plates you’d stacked atop the bedside table over the last few days. Almost all of them held meals that you’d scarcely picked at, meals Sam had cooked you, and they were starting to smell. It wasn’t doing much to help encourage the full return of your appetite. But still, you had to eat—something fresher, of course.

Eventually, you mustered up the courage to stir and shed the sheets, your week-old pyjamas falling limp around your frame as you shovelled your weight onto wilted legs. You stood for a moment, taking in this new pull of gravity, before angling yourself toward the door.

At the corner of your eye, it beckoned to you. You shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have given it the attention it so desperately craved, but how could you stand steadfast when you were crippled with the need to reminisce him during every waking moment? So you buckled, like you always did, and turned to glance over the waiting leather jacket.

It beamed a little brighter this time around, illuminated by the sun’s pale touch. It looked almost angelic, and you could have sworn that new life had been bestowed upon it—like a reincarnation. But no matter how long you stared, no body seemed to materialise between its hold to glorify that hope. Still no Dean Winchester to show for it.

So much for having faith.

With a barely audible scoff, you finally tore your gaze away and trudged toward your bedroom door. You reached for the handle, fingers hovering over the cool metal as you took a moment to think about what’d you say to Sam. Starting with an apology would probably be ideal, followed up by a looping string of thank yous for everything he’s done. You swallowed thickly before tightening your hold, the mechanism clicking open with a brash sound that cut through your senses. And then, like a ghost, you neglected your grave and slunk into the hallway.

When you traipsed into the open-plan apartment on light, reluctant feet, your eyes wandered over to the kitchen at the corner, where Sam had already made himself comfortable at the hot lip of the stove. His back was turned on you, but you caught the whisk of his arms as he executed an impressive flip of something within the skillet. It landed with a muffled thump, a result that had Sam hissing out a noise of satisfaction.

A shy, smoky ghost levitated above the Winchester, and it wasn’t long before the cracked kitchen window wafted a clue in your direction—the sweet tang of pancakes tickling your nose. Usually, it was a smell that had you inhaling a little deeper, like you couldn’t miss savouring even a scrap of its existence. Now, the smell roused nothing other than a faint reminder of just how much you didn’t crave breakfast. Or anything, for that matter. But still, duty called. More like your stomach would begin eating itself if you insisted on starving it for a day longer.

With a practiced breath of bravery, you picked your way past the living room sofas, your sock-clad feet scuffling across the floor with a severe lack of motivation. As you approached the kitchen island, you spotted a can of sweetened whipped cream—your favourite—and a bowl of berries straddling the plated, ever-growing stack of pancakes. It was the complete picture your stomach needed to enlist the first of its rumbling, but you hadn’t had much of a mental appetite for quite some time. The simple joy you’d once held for eating had been boiled down to the dull necessity of sustenance—you ate only because your body needed fuel. Anything more than that just wasn’t worth feeling.

And, truthfully, it was a baffling, new reality because there was a time you'd have nagged the boys to drive you halfway across the country to try some new cuisine you'd seen advertised across billboards. You’d scribble down the names of the niche diners and renowned restaurants in your trusty notebook to be reviewed on the trips back to the motels, heated debates unfolding as the brothers either vouched for or condemned your idea of a good meal. Now, the memories were so distant that you'd started to wonder whether they'd even existed. Whether that version of you still existed.

You brought up the rear of one of the kitchen chairs, moving a hand to cradle your protesting stomach while the other outstretched to retract the chair at the rim. The sudden, intrusive screech of wood against wood was enough to startle Sam into a growing awareness of his surroundings. He pivoted on his heels to face you, the pan making a reflexive dive in your direction in what was meant to be some pitiful means of a defence. The white of his eyes blared through, his tall frame ducking slightly as he assumed a defensive position.

Your composure didn’t falter as you slunk into the seat; his reaction wasn’t any surprise, not when you lead the adrenaline-laced life of a hunter forced to guard their six on a daily. And you doubted he’d expected any company after you’d basically stopped existing outside of your room these last couple of days—and at this early hour, no less.

What did surprise you, though, was that the pancake had managed to cling to the metal of the skillet in the midst of his jolt.

As Sam drank in your familiar form, his broad shoulders sagged visibly under his growing relaxation, the vice grip he’d unintentionally taken up around the pan’s handle now relenting an inch.

“Oh,” he stuttered out, a flustered half-chuckle diffusing his misplaced adrenaline. He slunk toward the island with his head slightly bowed, his gaze flickering between you and the pan. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips pursing shortly after the meek sound, as though he were afraid to let the wrong words slip. His caution wasn’t misplaced; you hadn’t exactly been kind to him these last few days.

It usually went that way around this time of the month. The days stepping up to the anniversary of Dean’s death tended to trip you right into the worst vision of yourself. You were more sullen than usual, losing patience over minuscule things, and sinking jaws of hostility into anybody who’d even attempted to offer hollow words of comfort.

Bobby had been the first to withdraw with some muttered crap of I’m too old for this shit. But Sam had always been too forgiving. He’d stuck around regardless of your temper, taking all the verbal beatings while he tended to your unspoken needs in ways that you couldn’t. You owed him so much more than you were capable of giving at this time.

You leaned onto the cool marble of the island, your hands coming forward in a timid fold as your lips flattened into a pathetic spectacle of a smile. “Hey, Sam,” you murmured, and for a second, the sound startled you. It was so dull, so lifeless—you’d even go so far as to say that it was so unlike you.

It was a stark contrast to the version of yourself the brothers had learnt to tolerate, maybe even appreciate—constant chatter and running commentary streaming live from the backseat of the impala. Dean had gone so far as to nickname you sunshine and rainbows, trailing after the twin storm clouds—the Winchesters—that seemed to thunder down on the unassuming world. But now, you felt like nothing more than the rolling, gloomy skies that paved way for everything wet, woeful and destructive. A weather so devastating that a show of a rainbow would be a mockery rather than a promise.

Sam returned your smile almost sheepishly, his head dipping to drink in the view of the counter. “You, uh. . . you sleep alright?” He asked, the pan coming forward to leer you over as he tipped the metal downwards and crowned the seasoned stack of pancakes with the fresh newcomer.

Your eyes lowered to the newest addition of the pancake pile, following the faint trails of heat that seemed to rise with a freedom and lightness you craved to feel. “Yeah,” you lied, your lower lip instantly pulled into a tense bite. “Yeah, I slept. . . fine.”

You knew that Sam wasn’t convinced, the moment of silence following after evidence of some tactic he might’ve been mentally reviewing to try and coax the truth from you. You began tracing a line along the patterns of the marble counter with your index finger, anticipating the awkward conversation to come.

“Come on, really?” He laughed softly, but the sound was gentle and sympathetic, not slathered with amusement or scorn. “‘Cause I didn’t,” he confessed.

You glanced up at him in surprise, your finger halting in its place. “Really?” You breathed out softly, instant relief crashing over you. Maybe Sam hadn’t recovered as much as you thought he had, and as unfortunate as that was, you couldn’t help but feel slightly comforted—less alone.

He tipped his head to the side in consensus, a wry scoff piercing his lips. “Honestly? Can’t remember the last time I did,” he said, eyes flickering up to glance you over briefly before he turned his back on you to discard the pan at the sink. He slid over to the stove, flicking buttons and shifting dishes before he was back at the island. “I mean, I sleep—but just. . . not very well.” He took up a spatula and began shovelling at the pancake stack. “One?” He asked intuitively.

“One’s perfect,” you said. You watched as he dragged the rim of the spatula down the building of pancakes, stopping somewhere around the middle floor before he slid the utensil inward. He shimmied out a hot and fluffy pick, placing it onto your plate rather gingerly before he nudged it in your direction. “Thanks, Sam,” you murmured, receiving it with a forced show of eagerness—you didn’t want your lack of an appetite to make things more personal than they already felt.

“Yeah, anytime,” he answered, sparing you a soft smile before he took to plating his own stack of three.

You held off on digging into your singular pancake, hands idling around the knife and fork bracketing your plate as you waited for the younger Winchester to cover up the remainder of the breakfast.

With a satisfied dusting of his palms, he finally pushed his own plate across the marble to slide in a distance beside yours before he made his way around the island. He pulled out the seat beside you and settled himself down with a heavy plop and an appreciative grunt—almost like an old man of some sorts.

He took up his cutlery and glanced over at you with a comforting smile. “Time to, uh. . . dig in, I guess,” he laughed lightly. “There’s whipped cream and berries if you’d like.” His chin jutted to the listed toppings, and then his knifed hand jolted into the air suddenly. “Oh, and there’s syrup, too. I’ll fetch it from the pantry.”

Without waiting for your response, he set down the cutlery and shifted back in his chair, but you turned your body a slither to face him before he could slip away as quickly as your nerve.

“Sam, wait,” you said, your hands straying from the table to bundle in your lap in an anxious toying of fingers.

He halted in place almost instantly, turning to face you with his brows quirked an inch—like your sudden unrest was news to him. But you knew he was only trying to be polite in playing his attentive part; he likely knew exactly what this was about. “Yeah?”

You drank in his softened eyes, and they held so much purity and innocence that it caused your heart to sag with a fresh, guilt-ridden heaviness. It tugged your head down to the view of your lap, your chest heaving with a shuddering inhale. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice rattled by so much regret that it began to quiver.

At the edge of your vision, you saw Sam settle back into his seat, arms drawing onto the counter. “Hey,” he cooed gently. “It’s oka—”

“No, it’s not okay,” you cut in hastily. “I need to say this. I’m sorry for everything—for the way I acted. . . for the things I said—you didn’t deserve any of it, Sam.” You began picking at the skin of your nails. “I just, I have all this. . . anger inside of me. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Dean—I’m angry at everything cause everything’s just so fucking unfair. And I know that it’s not an excuse, but I just. . . I figured. . . I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know,” you scoffed, but you braved face and lifted your head to face him once more. “But I do know that I am truly, deeply sorry.”

Sam’s head lowered to take in the view of his plate, his eyes darting about the porcelain. “Listen,” he eventually murmured, his mouth stuttering around air as he searched for the right words. Eventually, he settled on grace. “I get it, okay?” His chin lifted to gift you with a break you didn’t think you deserved. “All that anger inside of you. . . I’ve felt it before—more than I’d like to admit, actually,” he laughed dryly before his expression warped into something more solemn. “It eats you up inside. . . makes you say and do things you wouldn’t usually say or do. There are so many times I’ve gone down that road, but Dean—he’s always been there to pull me back, even if it was by the tip of my ear.” He laughed again, this time more genuine, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile of your own.

Sam’s head lowered again, his smile simmering away. “Anyway, I guess what I’m tryna say is that, I get it. I get why you said the things you did, and I’m not mad about it. For once, I don’t feel that anger anymore.”

Slowly, your fingers began to still their fidgeting as you listened to him talk, your chest cooperating by letting up on its rapid pace.

The younger winchester upturned his eyes to yours with a new ferocity. “I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you—and not just because I owe Dean that much, but because you’ve been there for me, too. So many times. Even at my. . .” He trailed off as he averted his gaze to the side, some unspoken shame breaching his conscious. You saw his Adam’s Apple bop under a heavy swallow before he turned back to you. “Even at my worst,” he continued. “So. . . don’t worry about it, really. I get it.”

For the first time in a long time, you found your eyes watering an emotion other than grief and heartbreak—something far lighter and rejuvenating. Love. Appreciation. Relief. You envied Sam’s ability to barrel through this cruel life so determined to pin him down, and you admired how each time, he seemed to emerge with a heart even larger than before. Even after all the rounds you’d emptied into his chest, he stood tall, still offering that hand you so desperately needed to pull you from your self-dug trenches.

Maybe, it was about time you finally took it.

The first tear slipped the keep of your eye, jettisoned from the ledge of your cheekbone to where it splattered across the marble top. Your hand flew to wipe the moisture away, an ugly sniff racking your chest. There was a clank of shifting metal before Sam’s hand came forward to brush your shoulder.

“Hey,” he cooed softly, and then you were carefully tugged into the side of his towering frame. “Come here,” he urged, and he was so gentle that it had you fully succumbing to his hold without a single reflexive need to resist. His arm snaked around your shoulder blades to hook around your arm as he drew you into a tight hug, your hands bundling further into your lap. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. Together,” he added pointedly, a clear warning that he didn’t intend to let you get your lonely way again. You were okay with that.

Your lower lip began quivering with fresh emotion—guilt bouncing on the rim the heaviest. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” you reiterated.

Your felt his chin settle into the crown of your head, the vibration bouncing off your hair. “For what? Being human?” He laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we tend to be dicks from time to time, and I’d say hunters have more right than most to be a bigger one now and again.”

You laughed—actually laughed at that, the sound snotty and slightly gross, but real. Sam harmonised with his own throaty chuckle, the hand furled around your arm in a tight, reassuring grip relenting to rub comforting lines up and down the expanse.

“Now, enough of the pity party. Let’s finish these pancakes before they get cold, and then what do you say we pull out a couple of board games?” He gave you one last comforting squeeze before slowly releasing you from the hug.

You leaned away from him, centring your weight back over your own chair as you turned your head down to your plate with a thoughtful pout. “Okay,” you agreed, your chin ducking in tiny, accepting nods. You sniffed away the lingering tears, hand coming up to pat your eyes one last time for good measure. Then, your head swivelled to face him as you put on a weak smile. “Hey—think you’re smart enough to challenge me to a game of scrabble?”

Sam laughed as though your challenge was satire, but you frowned with slight offence, which sobered his smile into a look of confusion. “Wha—you’re serious?” He huffed, jaw gaped around disbelief.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” You exclaimed, your voice cracking around a light giggle—the first you’d uttered in a while. “I’m as smart as you are—we read the same books!”

His averted his gaze, head cocking to the side with a scoff before he glanced back at you in amusement. “Yeah, and after you gave your reports, I had to go back and reread every single one of those books to fill in information you left out,” he said pointedly.

You shook your head with light disbelief, a thin chuckle following after. “You know what? Let’s have that round, and if you win, you can bullshit my literacy skills all you like. Deal?” You outstretched your hand across the counter.

Sam’s gaze ducked to the gesture, his brows cocking on a look that you thought was a little too smug, before his hand reached to link with yours in an informal pact. “Deal,” he said through a scheming smirk.

You squeezed his hand lightly as a warning. “Wipe that douche-display off your lips, nothing’s set in stone.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” he replied nonchalantly, but when your hands unlinked, you saw the corner of his mouth hitch with some mental remark.

“All right, that’s it.” You took up your utensils while Sam glanced you over with slight surprise. You began digging into your pancake with a renewed sense, plopping the first piece into your mouth and taking on a ferocious chew. There was a brief wave of nausea at the food’s sudden intrusion before it quickly dissipated at the sweet taste, beckoning you back for another bite.

“You might wanna slow down there,” he laughed, hands tending to his own plate before they finally presented his first bite to his lips with far more poise.

“Uh uh,” you hummed through a mouthful, swallowing thickly before continuing. “I got a lot riding on this. You made it personal when you brought my ego into this. Sooner we’re done here, sooner I can beat you.”

Sam let out a disbelieved laugh, but didn’t argue any further as he began dissembling his own pancakes at a faster rate. Once you’d both lapped down the dough and licked the plates clean, you’d taken to washing up the dishes and wiping down the counters while Sam procured the board games that had long since collected dust. You’d taken the liberty of microwaving you both a bowl of popcorn and pouring glasses of soda while he set out the game within the living room. Then, you both settled down for the first round, snacks at the ready.

Sam had won, as he’d so smugly anticipated. But you weren’t so eager to be humiliated without a challenge, so for the rest of the day, you’d played out the game to a tally of the most wins. Hours seemed to pass like the impression of a second, the apartment growing dimmer and dimmer with each trailing retreat of the sun.

Eventually, you were both cast in a saturated bronze that poured in through the living room windows, illuminating the score page you’d scribbled up and further glorifying Sam’s final win. He took the game by far, and you were forced to acknowledge that maybe he was the smarter one of you both. Or at least the more apt thinker.

After that, you’d both powered through a movie of his choice, chowing down on some Chinese takeout he’d had delivered. And you emptied the carton down to the last noodle, appeasing the appetite you’d developed somewhere throughout the day. Already, you felt so much lighter—physically and mentally—and you knew that you owed it all to Sam and his perseverence. You couldn’t help but beam with some newfound appreciation for the younger Winchester.

Through the darkness, the tv screen emitted just enough light to illuminate Sam’s side profile. His eyes were glued to the screen, jaw circulating hasty chews as he practically inhaled his second bowl of popcorn. The sight made you shake your head with light amusement, and you watched him a little longer just for the sake of it.

“Hey, Sam?” You eventually called, which made him face you with a look of sudden concern.

His hand halted within his bowl. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For today—for everything.” You offered him a warm, appreciative smile. He’d given you something you desperately needed today—a distraction. From everything and most definitely from yourself. Debts like those didn’t feel possible to repay, but you’d try, regardless. As long as it took.

Sam took a moment to drink in your words, his features motionless before his brows furrowed like he’d made nothing of your gesture. “Yeah, no problem,” he answered, a smile to match yours following shortly after. You both turned your attention back to the screen, and for the rest of the movie, you sat in comfortable, popcorn-tinged silence.

Once the movie came to an end, you’d both chatted about anything and everything until the first person let a yawn slip—that person being you. After that, you’d both tidied up the space, folded the blankets and packed the games back into their keep. Then, you’d dipped into your room to gather your old dishes, discarding the food and washing up the plates. Sam had helped pack it all away.

Once the day’s chores were wrapped up, you’d both exchanged your nightly greetings before going your separate ways. Sam retreated back to his room, though not without snagging a thick book from the shared reading shelf. You’d briefly slipped into your own room to pull out a fresh set of pyjamas and a towel before dipping your toes into a much needed shower.

Once you felt you’d scrubbed off enough of your week-long rot, you’d slunk from the shower and back to your room to call it a day. When you clicked the door closed behind you, you hovered on the spot with a hearty sigh into the dim atmosphere. You took a moment to reflect on the day, and for once, it provoked a smile—not sadness, not anger, not grief—but a genuine smile. The relief after the storm.

You flicked on the light and dressed yourself into your fresh set of clothes, teeth brushed and hair secured back before you flicked the lights off and sank into your bed with a new type of exhaustion. A fulfilling one. It wasn’t long before sleep arrived to hurl you into vivid dreams, and not unlike other times, you dreamt of Dean.

Within your bed, he had you bare and sprawled out beneath his own nude figure, his lips wandering gentle, curious trails along the side of your jaw before dipping down the ledge to trawl the arch of your neck. His elbows propped him up on either side of your head as he took his time to lovingly brand you with his wet caress, your own hands combing blissful strokes through his hair.

You sank back into your pillow, lips parting with breathy mewls as he shifted his attention down to your breasts. He moved to cup one tenderly, tongue swirling a loop around the hardened bud, his strained moan sprawling into the mix of stimulation as you tightened your hold within his hair.

“Dean,” you exhaled weakly, for no reason other than to verbalise the unorthodox way he made you feel. Your teeth found your lower lip in a restrained nibble as he acknowledged your absent-minded praise with a gentle kneading of your breast—as if he sought to gorge on it to the point of total devouring.

You felt the blood flow vigorously to your chest, spurred onward by the suctioning of his lips, and it pooled at your nipple, causing it to throb within his hold. You let slip a soft noise of discomfort, your hand collapsing from his hair to gently push him back at the collarbone.

Dean’s head lifted to yours, a slight pant wafting from his glistening lips. “All good there, sunshine?” He murmured, hand slipping from your breast to run a light, reassuring finger across your cheek. He smudged away the moisture beading along your skin before settling his thumb in the divot of your chin.

“Too much,” you breathed through a dazed grin, hand coming up to gently wrap around his wrist. “You’re like a leech,” you added with a soft giggle.

His lips thinned in a proud smirk, encouraged by your tease rather than offended. “Damn right I am—have you tasted you? Freakin’ delicious,” he praised, smacking his lips in a dramatic show and tell. It made you giggle and release his wrist to pin his lips between your thumb and index finger, and you held them captive while he mumbled noises of protest. He looked so ridiculous, it warmed your heart.

“Stop that!” You laughed, your cheeks flushing hot at the silly sight of him.

Dean wiggled his lips between your grasp until he was able to wrap his lips around a finger, nibbling your skin tenderly so that you released a light squeal and pulled away from his famished lips. “Stop what?” He mocked lightheartedly, head lowering down to you as he followed after your retreating hand with a determined grin playing his lips.

Your hands flew to your chest in a pretence of helplessness, your giggles elevating to a heartier laugh as he pretended to chase after them. His teeth acquainted the air all around them with animated chomps, but made no good on the promise. Eventually, he gave up the hunt and pressed his lips to the side of your jaw, gradually tracing his way up to the soft curve of your cheek before he drew back an inch to gaze into your eyes.

“My sunshine,” he said softly, adoringly, leaning down to nuzzle the button of your nose with his own before he placed a soft kiss there.

Your heart trilled love-struck melodies around Dean’s proud declaration, the magnitude of your smile hoisting up the apples of your cheeks until your eyes were compressed into half-moons. “Say it again,” you murmured, palms drifting up to frame his face and thumbs twiddling to soothe the humps of his cheeks.

Your touch set Dean’s composure alight, his sultry stare softening into something more pure and needy. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at you, as though you had captured his complete and undivided attention. You found yourself getting so wrapped up in their green depths that for a second, it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“You’re my sunshine,” he repeated in a voice so low and soft that it bordered a husky whisper, but the love imbued into those words carried through as clear as a shout. “I don’t care if that sounds like the title of a Jane Austen novel. You’ve got this. . . fire to you, the kind that nobody—nothin’ can gank. And you draw people into your orbit like they’d never stood a damn chance. Trust me, I sure as hell didn’t,” he laughed, both his hands coming up as a unit to brush back the hair framing your face. “And you’re warm. . .” He trailed off to place a kiss on your cheek, “—and radiant—” and then the other. “And my whole goddamn universe.”

You gazed at him as he pulled away from your proximity, his eyes brimming with love as he waited for your response. What you wanted to say was, “I knew you read Jane Austin in your free time!”, a harmless poke that would keep this tender moment elevated at meaningful heights. Then you’d both share a laugh, and melt into the night cocooned within each other’s warmth.

But deep down, something more solemn tugged at the strings of your heart—an unanswered question that slowly began to resurface despite your attempt to bury it time and time again. So instead, you said, “then how could you leave me?”

Dean’s face warped into a light frown, your question catching him off guard. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare, his lips parting to search for an answer that you’d waited months to hear. But when he looked as though he might finally answer, no sound carried through to lay your suspense to rest. His mouth gaped and his lips moved, but they formed nonsensical words, and no matter how hard you tried to focus and decipher your most craved confession, it never came to you.

Then, the scene around you began to distort, the lights cutting out and the shapes of the room’s decor warping erratically. And when you blinked, Dean had disappeared entirely—his atoms scattered into the cosmos of your mind. You tried to call out to him, to summon him back to his rightful place beside you, but it seemed as though he were destined to be robbed from the palm of your hands—both in the waking world, and in the confines of your own mind.

And then you, in your entirety, were dissolved into a black abyss, the surroundings melting away like you’d imagined it all in a vivid episode of mania. For a moment, you floated around in a void, your mind slowly dissociating from the fantasies of its own creation. You heard nothing, saw nothing, but somehow, you felt a touch lingering upon your arm. It was warm, familiar, and even though no face materialised to claim it, you knew that it was Dean.

You prepared yourself to mourn the loss of it once you emerged into the waking world, but as your eyes fluttered open, your lids blinking frantically to clear your vision, the touch didn’t fade. If anything, it became more palpable, solid—real. And when you’d adjusted enough to the dawn haze shrouding your room, it wasn’t the image of the leather jacket that arrived first to taunt you.

It was Dean.

You blinked harder, more desperately, your heart rate skyrocketing as you attempted to rationalise whatever fucked up delusion your exhausted mind was currently displaying you. But his body didn’t vaporise into nothingness, and blinking didn’t seem to possess the same parlour trick of making the rabbit disappear, like it did in your dreams.

It was real.

There he sat, as stoic as a statue, at the edge of your mattress, and the hand you’d felt cupping your arm stroked up the curve of your shoulder to gently frame your neck. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, your lips falling open to expel a shaky breath.

It can’t be, you thought, your brows contracting in a puzzled frown. He’s dead—he’s in hell, he can’t be here.

Through the dawn gloom, you could make out the faintest stretch of his lips—an almost simper. “Good mornin’, Sunshine.” But you didn’t recognise the voice. It was low, gruff and abraded, like his vocal cords had been extracted and sent through the grinder before being forcibly shoved back into its compartment. And he sounded dull, the type of dull you’d come to embody in his absence. It was. . . anything but Dean Winchester.

Your lower lip began to quiver, your shoulder drawing into yourself as you shied away from his touch. “This isn’t real,” you choked out, hastily collecting yourself onto your elbows as you sought to put some distance between you two. “You’re not real!” You exclaimed in rising volume, which had the impersonator stretching out both his hands in a steadying motion.

“You’ll wake Sammy,” he whispered urgently—a harsh sound that came across as more of a scold.

You frowned as you inched yourself a fraction across the mattress, eager to reach the end opposite to where he sat. “Who are you?” You demanded in a tone more regulated, your hand subtly reaching behind you to grab ahold of the salt container you kept on the bedside table like a framed picture.

Dean’s eyes seemed to follow your not-so-subtle play with dry amusement. “It’s me,” he insisted gruffly, his hands coming to settle on his knees—and one of them bounced with unspoken thoughts. It was a habit you’d come to recognise since knowing him, and it did a fraction of a favour in vouching for his authenticity. “It’s Dean,” he continued, eyes straying from your hands to settle onto your face.

“No,” you refused, and behind you, your fingers grabbed ahold of the salt. “Dean Winchester died—four months ago,” you explained in a low, but no less stern voice. “So I’m going to ask you again—who are you?”

His nostrils seemed to flare with dwindling patience, his eyes flickering off to the side. “Man, paranoia’s one son o’a bitch,” he scoffed under his breath before turning to face you again. “Listen, I know you’re not gonna believe me. And I also know that you’re about to baptise me with a shit ton o’ salt to barbecue the livin’ crap outta whatever demon you think’s got his hand stuck up my ass.” He began reaching into his shirt pocket. “Now, as much as I’d love to swallow a mouthful of killer blood pressu—” his words were cut short as you tossed a handful of salt in his direction, the mound not shying away from taking a bold dip in his mouth.

The assault dealt no physical damage to his body, but it did earn a passionate look of annoyance from Dean, whose jaw slowly circumducted as his tongue began shovelling the salty hell from his mouth. You scrutinised him for a few seconds longer, not so eager to let down your guard because of one passed test.

“You’re not a demon?” You asked more than stated.

His jaw fell limp at your question, a slow blink accentuating his displeasure. “Clearly not,” he said lowly, the words slurred by his unwillingness to taste the salt with proper pronunciation.

He leaned forward, hand reaching for the box of tissues sitting atop the beside table, and yanked a few free. He brought it up to his lips, where he spat furiously to cleanse his mouth. After a rough clearing of his throat, he bundled up the tissues, tossed it onto the table and glanced over at you once more. “Listen, I’ve already been through all the tests back at Bobby’s. I was goin’ to pull out the phone and get him on the line to clear me before you decided I needed some seasonin’,” he said flatly.

You watched him suspiciously, your brow quirking in disbelief. “Fine,” you said tensely, but offered nothing further.

Dean frowned lightly, his eyes doing a brief and clueless sweep of the room as though he expected you to offer more clarity. He settled his attention back onto you, his chin lifting slightly as he uttered a cautious, “okay.” He began reaching into his pocket once more, the movement deliberately slowed. “Just gonna reach for the phone, alright? So hands off the fuckin’ salt,” he said, eyes flickering between you and the container. “Please,” he added gruffly, and then his had retracted with the phone.

You prowled after his every move like a predator, but despite your weariness, you still lowered the salt an inch. You watched as he flicked open the phone, thumb gliding across the keypad as he pulled up Bobby’s number. Then, he lifted the phone to his ear, eyes trained on you with equal caution as he waited for the line to connect him to the opposite end.

You heard the static click, and a voice blared through shortly after—Bobby’s voice. The sound soothed your heart by a slither.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted, passing his tongue along his lower lip. “Listen, I, uh. . . I need ya to do that thing I told you I’d need—you know, vouchin’ for me and all.” On the other end of the line, Bobby uttered a few, incomprehensible words. “Yeah,” Dean laughed weakly. “Yeah. . . she threw me with the salt. Just like you said.” His eyes flickered to you with subtle amusement before Bobby said something else. Then, he was handing you the phone.

You narrowed your eyes in skepticism before your free hand reached for the phone, so careful not to graze his skin as you retrieved it from his fingers. Dean seemed to notice the rejection, and his mouth gaped slightly with the hurt it evoked. You pushed aside the image, but didn’t stray from his face as you brought the phone up to your ear.

“Hello?” You called into the line.

“Hey, kid, it’s me,” Bobby’s static voice answered. “Listen, I know you’re goin’ through one helluva mind-fuck right ‘bout now. . . but it’s ‘im, kid. It’s Dean.” He trailed into silence after those words, providing an interval he expected you’d fill with some sort of taken aback reaction. But all you could do was choke on your stunned silence, your heart beginning to ram at your chest harder than it’d ever managed before. “Kid? Y’still there?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed all-knowingly as he watched you in patient silence. His hand shifted from his lap an inch, like he yearned to reach out to you and offer some reassurance, but you both knew it’d do little to soothe you in this current predicament—the mental debate of whether or not the man you loved was really back.

Eventually, your body hosted a response, but it wasn’t one you’d preferred to have at this instant. A tear clotted along your one eye, bundling up until it was heavy enough to slip over the edge. Dean’s expression visibly softened, his jaw clenching with the knowledge that he couldn’t exactly pull you into a tight embrace—not just yet, anyway.

Your lips loosened, a rattled breath breaking through. “I saw his body, Bobby,” you pushed out in a quiver. Another tear lined the opposite cheek. “I watched you and Sam dig that fucking hole. . . and I watched you roll his lifeless, rotting corpse over the edge before cementing him under six fucking feet of dirt.”

The phone line hissed and crackled with the silent air on Bobby’s side. You almost thought he’d given up the ruse that you were so determined to believe you’d gotten caught up in, but then his voice blared through—the most tender and sympathetic you’ve ever heard it.

“I know you’re confused,” he began. “Hell, this shit had me believin’ that my family’s history of Alzheimer’s had finally kicked the bucket out from under me. But I did all the tests, and I interrogated him over and over again. I gave him hell, kid, but in the end, it’s really him. Y’know I wouldn’t have even thought ‘bout lettin’ him get close to ya if I weren’t certain o’ it. So if ya can’t trust ‘im just yet, then trust me. I give ya my word.”

Your fingers gripped the phone a little tighter, if only to still the trembling of your hand, and you gave a large sniff as you processed his words. Your eyes still bore into Dean, as though it would keep him pinned to the spot should he think about making a run for it.

You shifted the phone against your ear an inch, taking your lower lip into a tense bite before you spoke again. “Okay,” you breathed softly. “I trust you, Bobby.”

From Bobby’s end, shuffling noises chafed your ear like sand-paper. “Alright, kid, I’ll leave the two o’ ya to it. Good luck,” he said, and then the line terminated with a beep. The call’s ending tune reached Dean’s ear, where he shifted on the mattress almost anxiously while he waited for your decision.

“So, uh,” he began, his lips stuttering on the right words as his head buckled to face the hands he’d crossed in his lap. His palms rubbed tense lines—like the scheming motion of a fly—before he glanced back up at you. “We good?” He settled on. You saw the subtle desperation in the clench of his jaw. He craved the pardon only you could give him.

Slowly, you lowered the phone from your ear, flipping it closed as your chest rattled with another, shaky breath. Your eyes began to water once more, and this time, it didn’t hold back. In a second, you were hurling yourself across the mattress, arms flailing through the air to wrap around his neck with a desperation that could have body-slammed him to the floor.

“Woah,” he steadied in a laugh that sounded all too relieved.

Your chest crashed into Dean’s, and his hands were hasty to return your hug as he wrapped himself around your waist. There, he completed the embrace, pulling you against him so tightly that it started to pinch the meat of your skin through your shirt. But you didn’t care if his grip left behind a bruise—you’d consider it a physical reminder of just how real this all was.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, all the pent up emotions you’d come to harbour over these last few months finally liberated from your clutch. The tears began to roll without practiced regulation, and you found yourself yielding all control. Because being around Dean always had you feeling safe enough to do so, and your body had utilised its muscle-memory to re-establish that foundation. To rebuild the home that his death had wrecked.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whispered against the stubbled skin of his neck, the sound heavy and cracked.

His palm stroked slow, comforting circles across your lower back, his own face buried against the slope of your shoulder. You felt his warm breath waft over your skin as he spoke. “Me too,” he pushed out tensely. Shakily. There were very few moments that you’d ever heard that tone on him. “I didn’t think I was ever comin’ back,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you, or Sammy—hell, even Bobby, again. But I’m not complainin’,” he added hastily. “Shit, I’ll never complain ‘bout anythin’ e’er again. I got everythin’ I need right here.”

He shifted against you, torso pulling back as though he couldn’t wait a second longer to peer into your eyes. You leaned yourself back in rhythm, your cheeks blown red with your overwhelmed state and your eyes still glistening with fresh tears. You kept your hands looped around his neck, fingers still clutching his phone, and your heart was seized by a new fist of pain as you saw Dean’s bloodshot eyes pave way for his own, sparse—but undeniably real—tears.

His hands settled at your hips, fingers subconsciously squeezing at the meat as he did a mental walkthrough of his own emotions. “I missed you so goddamn much,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling now. “God, all I could think ‘bout down there, every second of every miserable day, was you—how much I needed you. How much I missed you.” His chest jolted with a forced, but much needed exhale to steady his next words. “And how much I love you.”

You choked on your breath at that final confession, words that—up until now—had never directly admitted. You couldn’t help but huff a slight breath of disbelief, a weak grin beaming through as your eyes softened with a warmth that made you feel whole again. Dean, himself, looked slightly stunned at his declaration, his eyes widening mildly as he drank in your reaction. But as you gazed at him, there was no undertone of regret or shame mingling with his features. There was only what looked like relief, if the slight quirking of his lips and the soft sigh that followed after was any indication.

Maybe, it was relief attributed to the fact that he’d finally started to unpack—and put words to—some of his more complex emotions. It made you feel so much closer to him.

Without sparing it another thought, you blurted your own reciprocation. “I love you too, Dean.”

He smiled tenderly at that, and neither one of you moved as you shared an intense stare that circulated all sorts of emotion—love, adoration, and desire. Then, as though some unspoken agreement had been exchanged, you dove down to meet his lips in a fierce kiss, the phone you’d been clutching dropping to some surface beyond your current care.

Dean’s hands trailed up the expanse of your back as he returned your kiss hungrily, his lips feuding with yours for an advantage of the play. He wasted no time sliding his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm palms massaging a determined, upward trajectory until he gained enough leverage to tug it over your head.

The kiss broke off momentarily as your arms flew up in an eager gesture to shed your layers, your chest heaving with the exertion. He managed to successfully tug the shirt over your head, the neckline the last to go and leaving behind an impression as it briefly snagged onto your hair. When he gave it one last freeing tug, your hair tie came loose amidst the commotion, your hair cascading across your bare torso in fresh, yet slightly damp strands.

Dean came forward to press two distinct kisses against your lips—hasty, but a bold statement in itself—before he leaned back to roll his shoulders and discard his own clothing. Your hands flew to his chest in aid, fingers sliding beneath the isles of his unbuttoned shirt to push it over the slopes of his shoulders. His hands twisted behind himself to pluck each sleeve from his arms with practiced speed, discarding it some place behind him before he was tugging his snugly-fitting tee over his head.

Instantly, your attention lowered down his toned torso, the glorified sight of him causing your core to pulse with desire. You didn’t get to exploit his image for long before he hogged your view with another, fierce tumble of the lips, his hands grabbing at your waist like he’d needed to remember what you felt like. Your tongues found one another with an ease that felt like its fates were tied, swirling about in a seductive dance to the death. Your hands settled at his neck, gently rubbing and kneading the skin as you allowed yourself to melt into his devouring.

When your palms wandered further down the contoured muscle of his broad shoulders, you felt the skin of his left bicep raise in a questionable pattern. The contact over that area made Dean wince into your mouth, and then he withdrew from the kiss with a feral pant, eyes shifting from an insatiable hunger to a more vulnerable uncertainty. It was enough of a reaction to tear your gaze away from him and steal a glance at the mood-killing discovery. But you almost wished you hadn’t stumbled upon it because the sight of a raised, red handprint seared into the flesh of his forearm made your eyes widen in horror.

“Dean—” you breathed, overcome with the instinctive need to trace your hand over the anomaly, but his shoulder withdrew from your curious touch, which called your attention back to him. “What happened?” You asked softly.

He shook his head lightly, taking a moment to acknowledge the marking with a newfound solemness. His chin dipped down for a second, a broken, incomplete noise dangling from his lips. You knew then, that whatever grim reminder had been imbued into this branding was something too fresh to confront at this time, so you made the silent decision not to probe him about it any further.

You moved to cradle his face, tilting it up to you. His expression looked defeated, his eyes sagging with a heavy fatigue. You didn’t doubt that hell had had its tolls—if anything, you were surprised that he’d come out of it in one piece. Physically, at least. Whatever mental deconstruction he’d undergone during his time there was knowledge beyond your grasp, and a conversation for another time. Hell had already taken enough from the both of you; you wouldn’t let it have this moment, too.

“If you want to stop, just say the word,” you told him gently, offering a hearty smile. “We can just lay here and cud—“

“No,” he answered, the hands at your waist tightening with new resolve. “We’re gonna cuddle, alright, but after we’ve had our overdue fun,” he said, a newfound smirk creeping through his evident exhaustion. “I’ve waited too damn long for this day—hell if I pass it up in a blink.”

You loved it when he took charge this way. Your teeth peered through your lips in an exhilarated grin, and then, you let out a yelp of excitement as he pushed you back onto the mattress, his frame following closely in a controlled hover as he positioned himself on top of you. His lips came crashing down onto yours, the heated dynamic between the two of you returning full-forced, as though it’d never been interrupted in the first place.

Your hands wandered messy lines up and down his neck, occasionally dipping down to glide over the curve of his pecks. The heat in your core began to build with every second you spent tumbled within the skilled warmth of his lips, his hands adding fuel to the fire with the way they staggered along your exposed torso to grace any and every inch of your skin.

He pulled away to drag his moist lower lip up your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple before he whispered into your ear. “I need to feel you. I need to have all o’ you,” he breathed, and then he pulled away as quickly as he’d arrived, leaning back onto his knees as his fingers found firm grip at your shorts.

He tugged the material down mercilessly, pulling your underwear along with it, and you lifted your legs with a giddy laugh to allow him all the access he needed to yank it free. He tossed it to the other end of the room, his hands flying to undo his belt and jeans while his fixated you with focused eyes—like he was silently entertaining all the things he’d like to do to you.

He shed his boots at the foot of the bed to terminate his undressing, and your eyes immediately lowered to the bowing length of his manhood. It felt cheap—ogling him this way, but something about the sight felt so validating that you couldn’t help but stare. Maybe it was knowing that the mere sight of you was enough to spur him on in this manner, and god, you needed him just as much as he evidently needed you.

Your core throbbed more impatiently now, your built-up arousal taking the first of its leave through the slit of your folds. You were tempted to call out to him, to utter the first, desperate words of beckoning, but Dean seemed to clock your needs almost instantly. He leaned back down to you with a charming smirk, one hand propping himself up at the side of your waist while his other took ahold of his manhood.

“Ready, sunshine?” He murmured—low and rough and slightly dazed with his own suffocating arousal.

Your core seemed to answer before you did, the area beaming hot at the mere sound of his voice. You pushed out a needy hum, and Dean wasted no time in sliding his tip between your folds. He breached through your slicked entrance with ease, his head tilting back an inch and his eyes fluttering closed as he pushed out a gruff moan. He sank himself further into you, his length conforming to your walls in perfect unity. Instinctively, your legs propped to give him better access, and the action drew him in even further.

“Fuck,” he murmured lowly, his head then tilting forward as he gathered himself and fully leaned himself down to you. He placed a kiss onto your lips for good measure, both arms scooping beneath yours in a sure grip. His fists balled at either side of your head, and you wrapped your own arms around his neck.

“I need you, Dean,” you cooed into his ear, and he left slip a breathy sound of acknowledgment before he drilled the first thrust into you.

You both harmonised with noises of pleasure, your nails digging into the nape of his neck as his hips began swaying at a faster pace. He leaned his forehead down against yours, lips parted as he fought to steady the feral breaths of pleasure heaving his chest.

Your eyes stuttered closed as his thrusts deepened and deepened, curving against your walls and gliding to meet your sweet spot at just the right angle. Your head burrowed back into your pillow, your lips gaping with a loud moan. It made Dean lower himself onto your lips, taking them between his in a soft, chiding nibble. You breathed into him erratically, releasing noises that gradually became more and more slurred until you became a hot, panting mess.

His own control seemed to slip from his grasp as he began to grunt and whimper against your cheek, his head eventually falling past yours to graze your ear with just the right verbal performance to add to the contractions of that growing ache within.

His thrusts became firmer—but not brutal. They were passionate and needy all at once, but still laced with a sort of caution that only deep admiration could warrant. He gave a few more firm thirsts, both of you heaving against one another with the approach of your climax. Then, with a final jerk of his hips, the knot that had tethered you to one another came undone in a cascading warmth.

You felt it seep from your entrance, and for a second, Dean didn’t stir from atop you. He remained hovered over you, the point of his nose brushing your cheek methodically as he attempted to replenish his lungs and recover from his own bliss.

“Jesus,” he remarked, an impressed chuckle tickling your ear. “All this time apart, and still it doesn’t feel like I ever slipped your spell.”

You released your own breathless chuckle. “I’m usually opposed to captivity of any sort, but in this case, thank god for that.”

Finally, Dean withdrew from inside of you, collapsing to side of the mattress nearest to the door—his space. Rightfully occupied at last. He reached over to pluck some tissues from the nightstand before turning back to you, fumbling the tissue between his fingers before he began dabbing at the moisture along your forehead.

He gazed at you through loving eyes, so soft and vast that it made your heart throb—like you were falling in love all over again. Dean seemed to notice the lovesick look on your face because he smiled with an expression to match. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, and you puckered your own to receive it eagerly. And then he shifted momentarily to clean you down below.

When he came back up to you, he flicked the used tissues off to the side, and then instantly, you were pulled against his chest in a tight embrace. The skin-on-skin contact soothed you, your body relaxing almost instantly within his firm hold—a type of pressure therapy that only worked because it was him. It felt so safe and natural, so you melted further into him, and the hand he’d cupped around the back of your hair began to massage a soothing pattern into your scalp.

Everything about this moment was enough to lull you into a much needed state of relaxation, your body finally unwinding after months of being held together at the threads. Your eyes drifted close, your breathing deepening with the newfound peace.

“You know,” Dean said suddenly, beckoning to your senses. Your eyes remained closed, but you hummed softly to acknowledge him. “Down there, time works differently.” That piqued your interest enough to part you eyes in narrow slits. “You said I’ve been gone for four months? Well, for me, it’s been forty years.”

Your eyes widened fully now, your lips split with some bewildered gasp. “Dean,” you sympathised softly, hand moving from its place at his chest to stroke along his cheek. “I’m so sorry—that sounds awful.”

He shifted to place a kiss on the first part of your palm he could reach. “It ain’t your fault,” he assured you thinly, his eyes bowing under his own exhaustion—as if the mere recollection drained him. “If anythin’, you got me through it. I don’t have to tell you just how shitty things are down in Satan’s basement,” he laughed, but you knew there was no real humour behind it, only pain. “But you. . . just thinkin’ o’ you. . . rememberin’ what I’ve gotta fight for, it kept me sane. Strong.”

You smiled weakly, his words evoking a mixture of warmth and guilt all at once. You appreciated that you’d been able offer him some sort of comfort in your mere memory, but at the same time, you wished he hadn’t needed it to begin with.

Hell was no place for a good man like him.

“Well, you’re back now,” you offered softly, your hands shifting to wrap around his torso in a hug. His own arms wrapped around your upper back, pulling you so tightly against him that you thought your beings might finally form a physical union to mirror the spiritual tying of your souls.

“And I’m here to stay,” he finished in a faint murmur, the words—the promise—hot against the crown of your head.

Those words lingered in your mind as you eventually drifted into a sleep, the steady sound of his breathing the last thing you needed to loosen your grip on reality. Darkness came to claim you, and this time, you welcomed it eagerly.

When you roused into the waking world, your room was fully lit with the tell of noon. The finding was indication enough that you’d stolen the sleep of a lifetime, and there was no lingering heaviness perched on your lids this time around. It filled you with a sense of satisfaction, and you blinked a few times to ground your bleary senses.

When you stirred against the sheets, you heaved a deep breath, your lungs expanding around a newfound sense of inner peace. Instinctively, your arm reached across the mattress to claim the touch of man you loved, but where you expected to feel the warmth of his skin, you felt nothing but the cool, empty space of the comforters.

With a jolt, you sat yourself up, head swivelling about the room with a sense of panic. Dean was nowhere to be found. Your mind instantly began reeling with endless possibilities, your breathing elevating with a growing sense of panic—had you imagined it all? Had he ever been here to begin with? Had you finally snapped and gone insane?

But when you took a moment to lower your head and drink in your frame, you found yourself to be as bare as when you’d fallen asleep. You shifted to the edge of the mattress, feeling some slither of relief that your clothes were where you’d left them—discarded about the room in ruthless bundles. And then, out of instinct, your eyes wandered over to your desk chair, where you expected to greet the leather jacket that had become a pivotal part of your morning routine.

Only, your heart lurched when the chair glared back at you with a bare rim—the jacket nowhere in sight.

Beyond the walls, mingled laughter brightened the atmosphere. The sound made you slip from the mattress almost instantly, where you darted about the room to gather your scattered pyjamas in a hurry before slipping it over your frame. You dashed toward the bedroom door, twisting the handle with anticipation before you practically hurled yourself into the hallway.

When you entered into the open-plan living room, you found that Dean and Sam were weaving rather chaotic ant trails around the kitchen’s floor, each brother tending to steaming dishes that you were too far away to appreciate in detail. But you weren’t paying much attention to it, anyway. You were far too focused on watching Dean, as though you’d had to solidify the mental image of his presence—to believe that he was really here, and here to stay. And the best part of it all is that he was wearing the leather jacket you’d thought would never come to crown another set of shoulders again. It was the last image you needed to place the final puzzle piece in your heart—no, you felt truly fulfilled.

Some part of you had thought—just for a second—that your reunion had been a figment of your imagination. But now, you could breathe a little easier knowing that Dean had truly returned, rooted in flesh as he drifted about the kitchen with an extra skip in his step.

Just then, he spun on his heels to nick something off the counter, his head lifting in your direction as he finally noticed your loitering figure. “Second g’mornin’ to you, sunshine,” he called to you, birthing a cheeky smirk. He flashed a quick glance at Sam before turning back to you. “In case you were wonderin’, Sammy here’s all caught up,” he said. “So let’s skip the big, mushy family reunion and get movin’ on those damn tacos. I’m starvin’”.

“Tacos?” You echoed with a light laugh.

Sam appeared at his big brother’s side, beaming so brightly, it was almost blinding. “We’re having tacos for lunch. Everything’s basically finished,” he piped in, casting a pleading glance in your direction. “Would you mind helping me plate it?”

Your heart settled as you drank the both of them in. This was the life you’d come to miss so dearly, and you couldn’t help but smile appreciatively. You jerked your chin in Dean’s direction. “Why don’t you make him do it?” You teased, padding your way over to the kitchen island.

“Call it a family discount,” Dean chuckled smugly, rounding the counter to draw up at your side. “Or, y’know, the breakin’ free from hell card.”

You shook your head lightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Isn’t it a little too soon?” You scoffed.

“You let me worry ‘bout my own shit,” he replied, gracing you with a charming wink.

You didn’t offer anything further as you turned your attention down to the prepped toppings spread out across the counter—mince, lettuce, guacamole, chilli sauce, salsa, cheese and the taco shells themselves. You reached for the empty plates and began topping each one with the hollow taco shells, moving to fill the first one with the toppings.

Dean snuck up behind you, his hands finding grip at your waist while his chin came to rest atop your shoulder. His lips grazed your ear. “Thank you for lookin’ after my jacket,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ this old thing again.”

You smile at his words, hands shifting to stuff the taco with the next pick of toppings. “My reason for keeping it was more selfish than that,” you admitted. “I just couldn’t bear to move it. It would’ve felt too final.”

He hummed a noise of understanding, a soft kiss gracing the side of your neck. “The only thing that’s final is that I’m back,” he said. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that anymore, alright?”

“I know,” you murmured, and Dean squeezed you in a light hug, but continued to keep you tucked within his hold as you finished stuffing the taco. You lifted it over your shoulder, carefully guiding it toward his lips.

He released an approving noise before leaning forward to accept your offering in a gluttonous chomp, his lips practically smothering your fingers as though it were deemed part of the meal. You giggled at the feeling, taco fragments scattering across your shoulder as he chewed the food intently.

“How does it taste?” You asked him, turning your head to get a better view of his expression.

His eyes did a roll of appreciation, his cheeks swelled with the large bite. He hummed a string of approval, coupled with a content, repeating nod. Once he gave a hearty swallow, he cleared his throat in satisfaction.

“Tastes like sunshine.”

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a/n ─ can you tell i had the time of my life writing this?? can you tell?? anon i love your mind so so much please never stop your special creativity. i will be tending to my other requests soon, and i encourage you all to keep on sending them through. i appreciate you ALL and your lovely ideas, as well as the support and trust you have in me to flesh out your fantasies 🫶 now, it’s literally almost 4 am as i publish this so nighty night beautiful people!

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented

want to be apart of the taglist for any future jensen ackles works?

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

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alexsoenomel · 1 year ago

Text

Seven Minutes In Heaven Ruined (Dean Winchester x Reader Smut)

Summary: You and Dean are horny and Sam doesn't know how to knock.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: oral female and male receiving

Word count: 1.2k

Note: This is an old one. I made it readable because teenage me didn't know how to words.

Like/ reblog or both if you like it :)

After finishing the last case you realized two things.

One, you were tired as fuck.

And two, you were hungry as fuck.

After a warm shower you put on one of Dean’s flannels, and went to the kitchen to make yourself dinner. Your sweet tooth was craving blueberry pancakes. While you were making the pancake mix, you felt arms around your waist pulling you closer.

“Hey, sweetheart!” He said, and kissed your cheek.

“Hi handsome.” You smiled. You haven’t seen Dean in almost a week. He was pretty sick with a fever, so you and Sam went without him on a hunt in San Francisco – vampires, your favorite. He needed to sit this one out, even though he protested like a damn child saying he was fine while not being able to stand. When you got back he was asleep in his room so you didn’t want to interrupt whatever he was dreaming about.

“How are you feeling?”

“A lot better now that you are here.” He said leaving small kisses on your neck. You tilted your head giving him more access. His kisses would always make you shiver. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, handsome. Are you hungry? I’m making pancakes.”

“I am hungry.” Dean’s hand went on your inner thigh until it reached your panties slowly rubbing you, making you sigh. Cheeky bastard – you thought. “But I don’t want pancakes.” He whispered into your ear. "I love when you wear my clothes.”

“Sleeping.”

You tried to mix flour, eggs and whatever else that was in there but the urge for Dean’s touch grew and you suddenly had another need to fulfill. You turned around to face him, putting your arms around his neck.

“Where’s Sam?” He asked.

“Good.” He lifted your chin, forcing you to look at him, making you blush. You pulled his shirt only craving the softness of his lips on yours. Seven long days without him felt like an eternity, especially at night – he was your home, your habit and your sanctuary. You kissed him softly and soon enough he deepened the kiss making you moan. When he stole the last breath from your lungs you broke away, resting your forehead on his.

“Bedroom?” You smiled.

“Hell yeah.”

His clothes hit the floor in seconds. Seven days without each other turned you into horny teenagers. He was only in his boxers laying on the bed looking at you, admiring the view and wondering how the hell he got so lucky. You climbed on top of him as he slowly started to undo your shirt – taking his sweet time savoring you. Infatuated by you, Dean’s eyes spoke louder than words and in that very moment you only existed for him. You kissed him like it was the end of the world, and funny thing was, at one point it was actually the end of the world, so nothing mattered anyways. The world could be burning and you wouldn’t care.

Once he exposed you completely, we flipped you over and you were now completely under his control. His hands could kill and yet he was so gentle with you, trying not to break you, even though you wouldn’t mind being broken by him from time to time.

“Dean, don’t tease.” You sigh.

Dean consumed you in every way there was. His lips needed to touch you, to feel you and you were desperate to feel him on your skin. Starting from your neck he kissed you, sucking and slightly biting, leaving light bruises all over. He then moved his lips lower and lower.

You became inpatient, needy and a little bit frustrated. His kisses had you under his spell but you wanted more. He kissed you through your black panties a few times, driving you mad.

You could feel him smirking while resting his lips on the fabric of your soaking underwear.

“Dean!” You blissfully moaned. “ Oh my god!”

“Just a little bit. “ He smirked and then took off your panties. You lifted your legs as he did it. His face went between your legs yet again and now you could only feel his warm tongue on your already wet cunt.

You closed your eyes, surrendering completely.

“Shhhh we don’t want to wake up my brother, don’t we sweetheart?”

“No, but you’re going to kill me.”

The wet sounds of your cunt filled the room as he added one finger first, pumping in and out slowly before adding another. He was aware you were addicted to his thick fingers, always so needy and desperate to have them in your pussy or in your mouth. You gripped the bed sheets as your breaths became heavy, feeling your climax deep in the lower part of your stomach. Before Dean it would take you ages to cum, and you always thought maybe the problem was you and not the other person you were sleeping with. After Dean, you realized that was bullshit and you just had a shitty taste in picking partners.

His name was like a prayer you were reciting over and over again until you couldn’t take it anymore. The orgasm took over your body completely as you screamed his name one last time before his hand violently covered your mouth.

He got up, face shining from your juices with a smile on his face.

“You’re crazy. Sam’s going to hear you!”

“You are so…” You said, trying to catch your breath.

“Amazing?” He laughed.

“And full of yourself Winchester.” You rolled your eyes, still painting.

“Oh well thank you.” Dean said moving next to you.

“Where is the damn condom?” Dean asked, searching through the drawer of his night stand. You giggled. The man never assumed or expected you to return the favor. Your pleasure was far more important than his own and taking care of you was his job and duty. You loved that about him, you loved being taken care of, but you also loved making him fall apart under you.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Come here.”

He turned to face you. “Huh?”

You kissed him. “My turn.” Dean bit his lip as you rubbed him through his boxers.

“S-shit!” He moaned. “Baby!”

You placed light kisses all over his body before your lips reached the hem of his underwear. You took them off, drooling over his already hard cock. You licked the tip a few times as Dean groaned.

You smiled loving the effect you had on him and then took him in your mouth as much as you could.

His heaven didn’t last long because Sam decided to interrupt the pure bliss of having Dean’s cock in your mouth...yet again.

“Hey Dean can you- AH CRAP.” He said and immediately turned his back allowing you two to cover yourself. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck not again.” You laughed.

You jumped under the covers with Dean. “SAMMY I SWEAR I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”

“I’m sorry.” Sammy said awkwardly, still refusing to turn around. “But I found us a case.”

“I thought you were sleeping.” You said.

“I couldn’t….you were…a little bit…..loud.”

“So you heard her making happy noises IN MY ROOM and you still decided to come in?! WITHOUT KNOCKING? AGAIN?”

“After 10 minutes I thought…you were…finished.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I will wait in the living room.” He then slammed the door.

“I will kill him.” Dean said and got off the bed.

“Wait.” You said pulling his arm. “He can wait. I’m not done with you!”

“I love you. “ Dean said and kissed you again.

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn #supernatural fic #spn drabble #spn fanfic #dean winchester #spn fluff #supernatural fluff #spn fic #dean spn #supernatural dean #dean #dean winchester x reader smut #dean Winchester smut #dean x reader #dean smut #dean Winchester fluff #sam

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bunnysbrainrot · 9 months ago

Text

A Lesson in Manners

Relationship: Dean Winchester x f!Reader

Content: Romantic tension, protective Dean, alcohol consumption, a weird guy ft. the way Dean handles it.

Summary: After a long, exhausting day of hunting, Team Free Will unwinds with drinks at a nearby bar. You're enjoying your time until a stranger decides to pester you, but that won't go unnoticed by Dean.

The signature purr of the Impala faded as Dean turned off the ignition, releasing a heavy sigh, a defeated and tired noise. Whatever nasties they have down here in Georgia have been difficult. All signs in this case were pointing to a djinn, but without getting in closer, there was no way to be completely sure.

That risk was left to Sam and Dean, as they had told you yesterday, when the research finally fell into place.

Sam's lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at his laptop screen, his brows twitching. He deadpanned and looked to his brother, "Djinn. How the hell didn't we think of that yet?"

Dean matched Sam's frustration with a scoff. He simply shook his head.

Djinn were unfamiliar to you still. Though you had done a fair bit of research, helpfully guided by Sam, and learned quite a lot. But, you also knew that research and experience were very, very different for a hunter.

"Awesome, so... what?" Dean inquired, raising a brow at Sam. You sat in the small armchair in the boys' motel room, looking between them. "We gonna go into blood-sucking paradise-dream-world again?"

Sam flashed a quick smile, "Let's just hope it doesn't come to that. Do we have any more lamb's blood?"

Dean's expression changed to annoyance, "Not after that dickbag Balthazar used it for that stupid parallel-universe crap." He crossed his arms over his chest and threw his head back in thought. "And where are we supposed to get it, anyway? We're in the middle of friggin' nowhere."

"Cas?"

"If we could even get a hold of him."

"I'm sure he's still listening, Dean. I know he's been here and there for a while, but-" Sam explained.

Whirling to face his brother, Dean countered, "'Here and there'? Sam, we basically wait three to five business days for him to give us anything. If he's so focused on Heaven right now, let him stay up there."

You had seen Dean's rising upset with his friend for a few weeks now, seeing the angel's presence less and less. Castiel didn't indulge any details, and kept recollections vague - but, the lack of transparency had been taking a toll on the group.

He’d been absent for two weeks now. Nothing.

Dean's lengthy sigh showed his stress. He brought a hand up to his brow; Sam rolled his head to stretch his neck in the passenger seat.

"I need a fuckin' beer," Dean breathed.

You laid a hand on his shoulder from the seat directly behind his - Sam was more conversational on long drives, so sitting on the left side gave good distraction in the long hours on the road. Dean craned his neck to you, looking to you expectantly.

Because as much as he didn't like to admit it, Dean craved the moments when you touched him.

You couldn’t tell if you spooked him, judging by the way Dean froze in his seat, eyes boring directly into yours. A grin spread across your face, "Let's get shitfaced."

Dean shook his head and pointed to you, "You don't wanna get to shitfaced level with me, sweetheart. Just a few beers. Plus, I’ve seen you get tipsy even after one."

Each of you started stepped out of the Impala, respectively stretching your achy legs, or arms, or backs or neck and everything else. No matter the hunt, the soreness remained the same. You released a groan as you lean backward, flexing your stiffened spine. Dean neared and landed a gentle pat between your shoulders to get you moving along.

You noticed how quickly Dean pushed ahead to open the front door, before you had the chance to lift a finger. He looked into the cracked door - an assessing glaze cast over his eyes. Always on the lookout for danger.

Who could keep you safer than Dean Winchester?

After all of his impressive feats so far, it’d be hard for someone not to admire Dean. Saving the world was easier on the drawing board, and with having been to hell and back, you couldn’t fathom the willpower he gained to push past it. Not a semblance of that traumatic experience showed in that handsome, stoic face.

Dean pressed the door ajar to make way for you and Sam. You scanned the tables and stools at the bar; patrons scattered around in clusters, each chattering and laughing amongst themselves.

The thick smell of liquor filled the air. You noticed the hints of whiskey, oddly reminding you of Dean, and the way that scent mixed with his cologne. You memorized that smell from his occasional hugs, or times where you’d sit together, and you’d wondered if he could hear your heart hammering in your chest.

Sam led the way toward a taller table in the corner of the joint, settling in a stool closest to the back emergency exit. You eyed the stool at the outer side, but a creeping feeling dawns on you - someone is staring. Settling into your stool, you took the chance to swivel around, looking for the source of that persistent feeling.

At the bar, a man with a scruffy beard had his eyes trained on yours, roving over your form in the chair. You exhaled, fighting back the feeling of disgust, and turned back to Sam, plastering on a terse smile.

“What is it?” Sam asked, his brows furrowing in concern.

You paled slightly, the man’s stare still honed in on your back, “Dude at the bar has a staring problem.”

Sam leaned casually to reach for his pocket, craning his head for a swift second. A glint in his eye told you he’d found the perpetrator. Footsteps approached from behind - a familiar pattern, one you’d heard every day, and without turning you’d known it was Dean. A careful brush of his hand between your shoulder blades eased you, a gentle reminder he was here.

“Bottoms up, buttercup,” Dean teased, placing a shot of amber liquor in front of you, himself, and then his brother.

Three lime wedges rested on a plate, along with a salt shaker. You glance at Dean with a ‘seriously?’ look, and he gave a signature Winchester grin. You did say you wanted to get shitfaced. And hell, it could help with that looming creep. You licked the back of your hand and sprinkled some salt.

“To figuring something out,” you proclaimed, raising the shot glass. The boys follow your lead before clinking them on the table, and tossing their heads back.

The tequila burns the back of your throat, but the lime helps you ignore it. Sam held a steady face while Dean grimaced at the burn.

You giggled softly, “Can’t handle tequila, Dean?”

He flashed a toothy grin, and a quick middle finger. Your giggle evolved into a bright laugh that drew one from Sam, too.

“Bet you couldn’t handle pool, though,” countered Dean.

Sam eyed you from the side and threw a knowing smirk. You’d never back down from a challenge, especially when it was Dean testing you. There was a desire to beat him at his own games, to show him you could match his skill and then some.

Then there was the chase of it - cycles of teasing comments and passing glances, but never a break in the tension.

Your voice lowers, “I’ll take you on any day, Winchester.”

The jest made Dean grin. The chase was on again.

Sam stayed behind when you and Dean claimed a vacant pool table, letting you set yourselves up for the perfect one-on-one.

Dean nodded to you and eyed the cue ball. You bend at the waist over the table, and felt the creeping feeling again. It radiated along your spine to the nape of your neck, as if your body was set ablaze under the stranger’s stare.

Until suddenly, you had company.

“Say, think you could spare me a game when you’re done, beautiful?”

The voice matched the face. It was nasally with a copious amount of douchery; another entitled asshole who got involved when he wasn’t wanted.

Across the table, Dean’s brow twitched.

“Listen bud, we’re just getting started here. Plenty of other folks in here who can play you,” the edge in Dean’s tone was a warning in and of itself.

You hitched a breath awaiting the man’s reaction.

Out of the corner of your eye you spotted Sam sliding off his barstool, slowly making his way closer to your pool table. He idly looked at his phone, but kept a watchful glance.

“I’m sure you’ll have the time for another one, right, baby?” The stranger’s words slurred stupidly. He didn’t address Dean with meeting his stare, and instead fought to have yours. He closed the gap between you two further - the smell of alcohol lingered on him, thick and nauseating.

You bark, “You’ve got ten seconds.”

“Oh…. hic… ten seconds ain’t enough for me, sweetheart..”

Dean’s voice was taunting, probably trying to pull the dickbag away from you, “It’s plenty for us.”

Finally, the man looked to Dean, straightening his posture at the height difference. He was lean, but couldn’t hold a firm stance, by the looks of it. The man scanned Dean top to bottom before turning back to you.

Before crossing a crucial line.

A foreign hand stroked your spine, making you recoil. Anger contorted your features as you warned him yourself.

“Try that again, fucker,” you spat with disgust. You could still feel the touch on your back. Gross.

The man’s lips tug into a smile, and the anger continued to brew. Of course, you were not the only one with that bubbling rage. Dean has closed the distance before you could register he’d moved at all.

Dean loomed over the man with a haunting glare. To add fuel to the fire, the man had the gall to grin at the threat, raising his hands to Dean’s chest.

“Come on, jus’ gavin’ a lil’ fun,” said the stranger.

In one swift motion, Dean collected the man’s wrists with one hand, and delivered a hook with the other.

The blow knocked his head to the side. Other patrons turned to the scene unfolding - some turned back to their drinks, some kept staring. You gasped when Dean landed another strike, sending the man tumbling to the floor with a resounding thud.

“Dean, that’s enough, he’s-“

He didn’t react to your objection.

Behind the commotion, Sam’s eyes widen with shock, though he smiles with satisfaction at the takedown.

A final shove put enough distance between you and the pathetic drunk. You turned to see the bartender giving Dean a stern look, but they return to filling a pint glass.

You panted softly while the stranger walked away, bracing his bloodied chin with his hand. You looked to Dean and found his attention back at the pool table, letting out a frustrated grunt. There wasn’t a way to thank him. No need. The man had made great strides in protecting you, enough to reassure that you didn’t have to offer thanks. It came naturally, protecting one another.

Sam made his way back to the table and returned to his stool, shaking his head in disbelief, a smile on his face.

What a night, right?

It was Dean’s voice that brought you back to your senses. That same voice that calmed you, that ignited your body to its core.

“Alright, sweetheart, you go first.”

——

“Dammit, whathefuck- that isn’t fair-“ you protested. You’d lost, but kept trying to knock the striped pool balls into the pockets, insisting that there was some sort of rule to let you go until you were fully done, including the cue ball.

Sam handed you a glass of water, which you sipped on immediately. Your fingertips slowly grew numb against the cold glass.

Dean chortled as he collected the pool balls, “Shitfaced and pool don’t mix well, do they?”

You let out a tipsy laugh and shake your head at him. The moment stilled, where the rest of the scene faded away. Dean scanned you over, and held a too-long look. A small spark lit behind his eyes.

“Let’s getcha home.”

Thank you for reading! I liked this idea, and I think it could easily have a second part. Vote in the poll or me know in the comments if you’d like to see where this goes!

#fanfiction #supernatural #spnfandom #spn #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural smut #bunny writes #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader

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jensengirl83 · 2 months ago

Text

Pining In The Pines

Dean x reader

Word count-3843

Warnings- Angst, some fluff

Summary- Y/N and the boys have to go on a hunt in her old hometown. She's not happy to go home, and especially not when Dean makes a comment that brings up bad memories. How will she take it? And will Dean be able to make it right?

A/N- This fills my Secret Passageway square for @jacklesversebingo

First, I suck at summaries 😂 Second, this fic is a little self-indulgent. I've written it about where I'm actually from and the stigma about the people in this area. I really hope you like it!

“So, get this,” Sam started the conversation as he looked at his laptop.

Y/N couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled in her chest. It never failed. When he found a hunt, the first words out of his mouth were, ‘So, get this.’ That’s how she and Dean knew to stop and pay attention. He had something they needed to hear. So, she tried to contain her laughter and give Sam the attention he wanted.

“Y/N…Do you have to laugh every single time?” Sam groaned but didn’t wait for a response, continuing with what he wanted to say, “There’s supposedly been a Wendigo spotted in Morehead, Kentucky. Homeowners caught it on their security camera for their driveway.”

“Morehead…Isn’t that close to where you grew up, sweetheart?” Dean wondered, looking over at the huntress beside him.

“It’s a few counties over, but yeah, it’s close enough. Did you say there was footage?” she questioned, leaning forward to look at Sam’s laptop as he spun it around for her and Dean to see.

Her breath caught in her throat as Dean put his hand on her lower back as he leaned forward to watch the video. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she had fallen in love with the eldest Winchester. But how was she supposed to be around him, living in the bunker with him, and not fall head over heels?

It was true that he had a temper, could be a real grump, and be downright mean sometimes. But, over the years, she’d learned that his temper flared most when someone he cared about was in danger. He would be grumpy when the weight of the world had gotten almost too heavy to bear, and he tried to push it down and keep it bottled up. He was mean when he thought he needed to push someone he cared about away because he was the one putting them in danger. To her, that was just the sign of a man who had been hurt, a man who loved deeply, one who cared so much that the thought of losing someone he loved was unbearable. So, how was she not going to fall for him at some point?

But that’s as far as it went. She would never admit her feelings. She couldn’t. The likely rejection would be her end, and she would have to leave the bunker. She’d rather pine for him in tortuous silence than not have him in her life at all. So, as always, she shoved her feelings back down, focusing on the screen in front of her, and prepared for the hunt she knew was coming.

“Earth to Y/N,” Dean nudged her, clearly seeing she was in her own little world.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m watching,” she rolled her eyes, trying to hide that she was fantasizing about the green-eyed Adonis.

“Where was that pretty little head of yours?” he teased, his words making her heart ache. If only he really thought that way.

“Just thinking of what I’ll need to pack. ‘Cause we’re clearly going to Kentucky, am I right?” she lied, hoping they would buy it.

“Yeah, we have to check this out. I’ve never heard of a Wendigo this far east before,” Sam answered, getting Dean’s attention away from her. Thank Chuck.

“There’s a lot of things in the Appalachian mountains that no one knows about. Trust me, you don’t want to be caught in those woods alone after dark,” she shivered at the thought.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of the dark?” Dean tried to tease, but she gave him a stern look that made him think twice.

“You should know that I’m not scared of the dark. I follow you into some of the darkest, creepiest places on earth. But, I grew up there, Dean. It’s not even just the monsters you have to worry about. I mean, there are bears, mountain lions, wolves…” she trailed off, not wanting to mention some of the crazy people that live in those mountains.

“Okay, okay,” Dean huffed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender, “I get it.”

“You better. You have to keep your head on a swivel while we’re in the woods. I’d hate to have to save your sorry ass from the real-life Yogi Bear,” she winked, “Because your ass will be the picnic basket.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed at her sarcasm as Sam laughed. Even though she was crazy in love with him, she could give him shit right back. And to be honest, she thoroughly enjoyed frustrating him. As she saw it, it was payback for him making her love him in the first place. She continued to chuckle as she went to her room to pack. Y/N didn’t like the thought of going home. Too many memories she’d like to forget. But duty calls, so she was packing her bags for the long drive to southeast Kentucky.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I highly doubt there’s a Wendigo here. They don’t stay in the wide-open woods,” Dean complained while trekking through the mountains.

“Dean, do you not know anything about the topography of Kentucky?” Y/N asked, shaking her head in annoyance. He’d been in a mood all day.

“Yes, sweetheart. I spend all my free time studying the layout of a state I rarely ever visit,” his sarcasm made her want to smack him in the head.

“Well, dear,” she said just as sarcastically, “Kentucky is known for its underground cave systems. You know, Mammoth Cave. One of the biggest cave systems in the world…”

“Of course! Because spelunking is high on my to-do list!”

“Oh! Look at him, Sam. He’s using big boy words like spelunking. I’m so proud of you, Dean!” she half shouted at him. Trying to keep her voice down so as not to attract unwanted attention to whatever was out there.

“Guys! Knock it off. We’re here to kill a Wendigo. Not for you two to kill each other!” Sam exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“She started it,” Dean whined, acting like a child.

“Fuck off, Dean,” she growled as she walked ahead of them. Leading them to the caves she knew were close.

Y/N ignored the bickering between the brothers behind her as she made her way through the trees. She loved Dean, but today, she thought about leaving him in one of the caves they found. He’d been an ass since they woke up at the motel, and she couldn’t figure out what had his boxers in a bunch. They’d had to share a bed, but she didn’t think he’d be that pissed about that, but she wouldn’t put anything past him at that point. But, whatever it was, it tempted her to make him Wendigo lunch.

“Slow down, Y/N. We’re not born and raised hillbillies like you are. It’s taking us a little longer to navigate this hellscape,” Dean yelled, grumbling under his breath about her getting too far ahead.

Y/N froze. That was the last straw. Yes, she’d been born and raised in the area, but that word…Hillbilly. She’d been trying to get rid of that stigma since she left the mountains, and now hearing Dean, the man she loved, call her that derogatory term was too much to take.

“Let me tell you something, asshole! Yeah, I grew up here, but I’m not a fucking hillbilly! I’ll have you know not everyone who lives in Appalachia are backwoods, uneducated, rednecks! So, take that term, and shove it straight up your ass!” she screamed, her anger boiling over into dangerous territory.

Before either of the boys could say a word, a guttural, terrifying growl tore through the darkening woods. Y/N spun around to see what they’d been there to find. The Wendgio was only about thirty feet behind her, moving in quickly. Sam shouted for her to get behind him, breaking her out of her stupor. Once she’d cleared his line of sight, Sam grabbed his homemade flamethrower, flicking his lighter to ignite it, but nothing happened. He tried again but to no avail. Y/N’s screams tore through the night air…

“Run! Follow me!”

The boys were quick at her heels as she weaved them in and out of the trees and underbrush. Dean couldn’t help but think about how impressed he was at her agility in that terrain. He could tell she’d grown up here and knew her way around, which brought him to his next thought. How guilty he felt for saying what he had. But now was not the time to apologize. Right now, he had to concentrate on not losing sight of her and getting shredded to pieces by the monster on their tails.

“Here! Guys, hurry!” she shouted, an old moonshining cabin in her sight.

Once she reached the cabin, she flung open the door, waiting for the boys to enter before slamming it shut, silently praying that the rickety lock would hold just long enough to devise a plan.

“What the hell happened back there?” Dean asked, hands on his knees as he panted for breath.

“I don’t know! The flamethrower has never not worked before,” Sam answered with the same labored breathing as his brother.

“Well, we can figure that out later. Now, we need to figure out how to stay alive!” Y/N yelled, panic starting to set in.

“Calm down, sweetheart. We’ll be okay,” Dean tried to calm her down, but she was still too angry with him.

“Don’t! Do not ‘sweetheart’ me! You had no right to talk to me like that!”

“Look, swe- Y/N, I’m sorry. But I don’t understand why that made you so mad,” Dean spoke as he looked around the cabin for something to use as a makeshift weapon.

“That was a shit apology, Winchester. Just…just don’t speak to me until we get out of this mess,” she groaned, then mumbled, “If we live through this mess.”

“Hey!” Dean shouted, getting her attention, “We are getting out of this. Don’t talk like that.”

“Can you tell me how you plan to get us out of here? Cause I don’t see another way out except through the door that Wendigo is now trying to beat down!”

As she walked toward Dean, her foot almost went through the floor, or at least it felt like it. She stopped, pushing down with her foot one more time. The bounce under her foot had her laughing loudly, and the boys looked at her like she’d lost her mind. Dean spoke as she started to rip the rug she stood on out of the way.

“Care to tell us what you find so funny?”

“This!” she continued to laugh in relief as she pointed to the hatch in the floor where she’d been standing, “It’s our way out!”

“How do you know that? It could be just an old cellar,” Sam asked, walking over to inspect what she’d found.

“Well, as Dean so nicely put it, us hillbillies would dig secret passageways to transport the moonshine back and forth without the police seeing them. They almost always lead to an abandoned coal mine or cave opening. Sometimes other cabins.”

“Y/N, come on, I tried to apologize. I didn’t know it would upset you that much,” Dean threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Well, it did, and…” she started to argue when Sam interrupted them.

“Maybe you two can finish this fight once we know we’re not going to die? Let’s go!”

Y/N and Dean simultaneously rolled their eyes. Sam would have told them they were two peas in a pod if they weren’t in such a hurry to save their asses. Y/N was the first one down the ladder, explaining that she’d be their best bet for not getting completely lost underground, and neither brother disagreed. Dean followed, with Sam on his heels. Once they were underground, Y/N led the way, and the boys were impressed with how well she could get around in the tunnels.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Dean was going to ask if she really knew where she was going, but before he could open his mouth, they turned a corner and could see a light up ahead in the tunnel's ceiling. Y/N was climbing the ladder through another hatch before Dean knew what was happening. Maybe her nickname should be Squirrel instead of him, he chuckled to himself. As the last brother made it out of the tunnel and into another cabin, Y/N slammed the hatch, pushing an old, heavy piece of furniture over it. Luckily, this one was still quite furnished, with beds still in the bedrooms and an old couch in front of a fireplace.

“This is home until morning,” she stated, looking around, finding, albeit dusty, pillows and blankets in a closet.

“Better than nothing,” Sam shrugged, walking into one of the bedrooms and shutting the door, leaving only one bedroom for her and Dean.

“Looks like we’re sharing again, sweetheart,” Dean chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

“Nah, take the bed. I’ll take the couch,” she whispered, not looking at him. Damn, she was still mad.

“I’m not taking a bed and putting you on an old debilitated couch, Y/N.”

“It’s fine. My adrenaline is still too high to sleep. Besides, I’ll keep watch so you can get some rest. You have to drive us back to the bunker tomorrow. I can sleep in the car.”

“Y/N…”

“No, Dean, it’s fine. Please, just take the bed. I’m too tired to argue,” she almost begged, wanting to be alone.

“I thought you said you weren’t tired?” he smirked, trying to joke, but she wasn’t having it.

“I’m mentally exhausted. I just need time to myself to wind down. Now, please, go get some sleep so we can get the hell out of here in the morning,” she pleaded, the look on her face breaking his heart. He had really hurt her with what he said.

“Okay, sweetheart. Good night,” he said dejectedly, knowing it would be a sleepless night. His guilt would make sure of it.

“Night,” she replied, turning her back to him, sitting down on the couch, staring out the window, never glancing his way. The click of the door made her wince as Dean went to bed.

Sleepless night was an understatement. Dean’s eyes didn’t close once as he lay there thinking how wrong the day had gone. He and Y/N had argued since their feet hit the floor that morning. Him being an ass was the reason for it. He hated fighting with her, but when he woke that morning, she was curled up at his side, her head on his chest. Usually, a man wouldn't complain about having a beautiful woman wrapped around him, but it tends to put you in a pissy mood when it’s a woman you love but can’t have.

Dean was ass over tea kettle for Y/N, but he’d never tell her that. She deserved so much better than being saddled with a man who could barely stand his own company most days. He drank too much, and he wasn’t good at communicating how he felt. He knew that. Sam had told him many times he needed to learn to open up, but he didn’t want to burden anyone with the shitshow that was his mind. Especially her. So, as with his other emotions, he pushed his love for her deep and tried to ignore it. Lately, that hadn’t been working so well. As he lay there telling himself all the reasons he couldn’t have her, a sound caught his attention. He tiptoed to the door, cracking it slowly, and what he saw had him rushing out the door.

“Y/N, sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he quizzed her as he rushed to her side, pulling her into his arms. Her sobs were what he’d heard.

“I’m fine, Dean. Go back to bed,” she hiccuped through her tears. She couldn’t tell him the full truth.

“Obviously, you are the opposite of fine. Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Hey, look at me,” he whispered, placing her chin between his thumb and index finger to turn her face to him, “Is this about today?”

“Partially,” she admitted, trying to turn her head back to the window, but his grip wouldn’t let her.

“Y/N…I’m so so sorry. I know I was being an ass, but I had no idea it would hurt your feelings like that. Can you explain to me why? I’m not trying to fight. I honestly don’t understand.”

“I’ve tried to get rid of the ‘hillbilly’ stigma since I left this place. It's always the same thing whenever someone finds out where I’m from. There’s this image people have about people from the Appalachian mountains that just aren’t true. We’re not a bunch of ignorant, uneducated people who live deep in the woods and never come out. Unfortunately, movies and TV shows have depicted us in such a bad light that most people think that’s all we are. And when that term comes from the man you…” she gasped, catching what she almost said. But Dean caught it as well.

“The man you what, Y/N?” he asked, holding his breath. Was she about to admit what he thought? Maybe, just maybe, he could try to be better, be the man she deserved if she loved him too.

“Dean…” she whimpered, trying to turn away from him again, but he wasn’t letting her go now.

“Uh uh, say it. Say it, Y/N,” he pleaded, his eyes staring into hers, “Were you going to say the man you loved?”

“Yes! Okay? I was going to say the man I loved!” she shouted in frustration as she jumped from the couch, finally breaking Dean’s hold on her, “Now, go ahead and tell me that you don’t see me that way, tell me that you don’t want me, so I can prepare to pack my shit and leave when we get back to the bunker. Because I can’t stay there and see you every day after your rejection. I just can’t.”

Dean stood and walked to her as she stood staring out the window, her back to him after her confession. He touched her shoulder, gently turning her to face him. Her look of sadness and despair nearly ripped his heart from his chest. He thought having his heart literally ripped out would hurt less than seeing her like this. He slid his hand up from her shoulder to cup her cheek. A tear trickled down her face as she closed her eyes at his touch, and he swiped it away with his thumb.

“Is that what you want me to tell you, or do you want me to tell you the truth?” he asked softly, waiting for her to open her eyes, which didn’t take a split second. Her eyes went wide.

“What are you saying?” she uttered shakily.

“I’m saying that I love you, too, Y/N. I have for a long time.”

“But, but,” she stuttered, trying to find her words, “You were so mad at me when we woke up this morning. That isn’t how someone acts when they love the person in bed with them.”

“Sweetheart, I was mad because I opened my eyes to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen curled up against me, and all I could think was how I wanted it to mean something, and I didn’t think it ever would. If I’m being honest, you could do so much better. And thinking I’d never have you that way pissed me off because I’ve never wanted someone as bad as I want you, Y/N. You’re my first thought when I wake up, and I fall asleep picturing you beside me. I know I’m not a good man, and there’s someone out there that could and would give you more than I’ll ever be able to, but if you really love me, I’m going to be selfish for one time in my fucking life and ask you to give me a chance. I can guarantee that I’m going to piss you off and probably hurt your feelings again, but it will never be intentional. So, what do you say? You want to give us a shot?” He poured his heart out to her, leaning his forehead against hers as he waited for an answer.

“Dean, contrary to what you believe, you are a good man. You love with your whole being and fiercely protect those lucky enough to get that love. I know you don’t believe you deserve it, but you deserve the world, Dean Winchester, and I’d be honored to be the one to try and give it to you.”

“Really?” he asked with a million-watt smile, leaning back to look her in the eye.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” she returned his smile, both sighing in relief.

“Come here,” he growled, pulling her face to his and kissing her passionately.

The kiss was better than either had imagined, and they both poured the love they felt for the other into it. They stayed that way until the need to breathe became too much, pulling away with smiles. He pulled her into a hug, laying his head on top of hers. They stayed silent for a few minutes before Dean broke the silence.

“So, you want to move your stuff into my room when we get back?

“I don’t know, Dean,” she pulled back, chewing on her bottom lip, “I really think we need to take this as slowly as possible. Make sure that we’re going to last.”

“Oh, yeah, okay,” he agreed, his heart clenching at the hurt he felt.

“I’m just joking,” she laughed, poking him in the ribs, “You’re not going to get rid of me now!”

“Damn it, Y/N! That wasn’t funny! You almost gave me a heart attack,” he grumbled, not finding her joke all that funny.

“I think I’m hilarious,” she smirked up at him.

“You’re something, alright. Now, how about we both try to get some rest? We have a lot of packing to do when we get home,” he suggested, leading her toward the bedroom, “You have a lot of shit. I don’t know where we’re going to put it all.”

“Ha ha,” she deadpanned, “Well, we could always get rid of your vinyl collection to make room.”

“Hey! Those are fighting words,” he growled playfully, leaning down to nip at her bottom lip.

“Bring it on, old man,” she cackled as his eyes shot up his forehead in shock.

“I’ll show you an old man!” he said in faux anger, chasing her into the bedroom.

All that could be heard as the bedroom door shut was the laughter and playful banter between the new couple, and that’s how it stayed for the years to come.

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castiwls · 7 months ago

Text

peter - d.w

Paring; dean x reader

Prompt; 'Said you were gonna grow up, then you were gonna come find me’

Requested; anons

Notes; this is long (for me) and sad :( reqs and inbox are open !

Masterlist | Taylor Swift masterlist

Dean Winchester was a man you’d never be able to understand. You’d only been 18 the first time you’d met him. You’d been bright-eyed and optimistic about the world, freshly out of high school and enjoying your newfound freedom when you’d stumbled into a dinner drunk on cheap vodka and craving some sort of food.

He’d caught your eye almost immediately. Your drunken confidence led to you finding yourself in the seat opposite him, a small smile pulling at his lips as he watched you ramble almost incoherently before falling silent.

That meeting alone led to a six-year relationship. For a moment you’d believed that Dean may have been the one. That you’d been one of the lucky few to find your soulmate at a young age meaning you’d get to live your life out with him.

And then everything seemed to unravel right before your eyes and you were hopeless to do anything. Dean quickly went from someone you saw your future with, to someone you’d seemingly outgrown - even though you were two years younger.

By 25 you were ready to settle down, traveling around the country had been appealing when you were 18 yet it began to feel like a chore. You wanted a home, a place you could go back to after a long day and feel safe.

You’d argued about it until once you’d had enough. You’d left with nothing more than a note explaining yourself.

It had been years since you’d even thought about Dean Winchester yet now you found yourself face to face with a man you’d long since given up on.

Dean’s smile was the same. His eyes still held that sparkle that you’d loved yet it had dimmed slightly, his eyes more tired.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. You swallowed watching him. “Why are you here?”

“What. I can’t stop by and say hello?” He pushed off the door frame stepping slightly closer. He continued to smile yet you’d noticed it failed to reach his eyes. A small frown pulled at your lips as you placed a hand on his arm.

“Dean. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing wrong.” He shook his head. “Dean, I’m not stupid. Somethings wrong, and where is Sam?” You ran your hand up his arm before placing it on his shoulder. His face dropped slightly at the mention of his brother. He sucked in a breath, his body seeming to deflate slightly.

“Dean i…I’m so sorry.” You sighed pressing your hand to his cheek. He stayed quiet simply leaning into your touch his eyes fluttering shut.

You’d once promised yourself you’d never let Dean Winchester back into your life unless he finally agreed to grow up. Yet standing there in that moment you still saw that 18-year-old you’d met at the dinner.

Moving your hand from his cheek you stepped back.

“I have a guest room.”

–

“He’s alive.” Your tone was dripping with disbelief as you stared at the man opposite you. Dean nodded his back against the counter. “Yeah.” He sighed running a hand through his hair. “He has been for a while.” Dean was talking as if this was the most normal thing in the world, he was using the same tone he’d use whenever you’d discuss dinner, or whose turn it was to take the trash out.

This was utterly insane. Even after he’d filled you in on everything that had happened since you left you still found the whole thing insane. Yet it was Dean so you’d believed him. You’d allowed him back in your bed and over the past year you’d fallen right back in love with him.

You’d finally got what you’d wanted. The life you dreamed of with him was a reality and you’d grown so comfortable that you’d almost forgotten what he’d told you years ago.

“I love you. But I can't leave hunting behind, It’s my whole life!”

The words had stung then and they stung more now as you stood opposite him in your kitchen.

“So your going with him.” You crossed your arms and swallowed back the hurt which lay heavy in your chest. “You're going back.”

Dean watched you for a moment, his eyes downcast for a moment. “Sweetheart I have to-”

“No, you want to.”

Dean paused as you cut him off, taking a small step forward. He placed a hand on your arm. “I’m sorry.”

You looked at his hand for a moment before pulling back and turning around. In doing so you missed the look of hurt which flashed across Dean’s face before he followed you out of the room.

Walking into the living room you grabbed a blanket off the floor, folding it before turning back to him. “I know you're not sorry. I know part of you is glad, glad that you’ve finally got your get-out-of-jail card.” You placed the blanket down as he crossed his arms. “Thats no-”

“You don’t have to lie Dean. I know you well enough to know damn well that you could never walk away from hunting.” You let out a breath sitting down on the couch.

“I’m not mad. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair, leaning forward on your knees. “I really thought that maybe you’d finally grown up. That you’d realised that hunting isn’t a forever thing. But I guess I was wrong.”

Dean sat beside you, his hand grasping yours in his. “That’s not true.” He shook his head. You turned to look out the window, your eyes closing for a moment as tears burned at your eyes.

Dean watched you for a moment before gently grasping your chin and turning you to face him. “This year…This year proved to me that maybe hunting isn’t my be-all and end-all. But I miss it.” He admitted quietly. “And I can’t let Sam do this alone, I couldn’t live with myself.”

Your eyes stayed on his as he cupped your cheek with his hand. “I love you.”

You sucked in a breath before swallowing. “Yet you still broke your promise.”

Dean frowned, squinting slightly as he tried to figure out what you could mean.

“The note.”

His eyes flashed with realisation before he opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off. “I told you to come back when you had grown up and were ready to walk away, and only when.”

His face dropped. “When I came that was true. Sam made me promise that when it happened I would follow through on that promise and I did. I did for you and for him.” He moved closer stroking your cheek. “Sweetheart you have to believe me.”

“I do believe you. But you still broke that promise.” You took a breath to compose yourself. “And I can’t wait forever, Dean.”

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webslingingslasher · 1 year ago

Note

you did reader having a bad day and going to see frat!peter but can we get him having a bad day and going to see trouble?

*cleaning out my inbox.*

three loud knocks at your door had you jump from your seat, you were so in the zone that the sharp sound had you frozen for a second.

making the short walk and pulling it open, peter forced his way in and ripped his backpack off before slamming it down. there was no reason to ask if he was mad because he was pissed.

'hi.' you try being gentle, even softly closing the door before peter points at you. 'i was sick, wasn't i?' you blink fast, 'wha-'

'i was sick! last week, i was sick!'

you have no idea where he's taking this, but you're in for the ride. it's not you he's mad at and that's very clear, he's just trying to share his frustration. 'you were sick. you were throwing up.'

'thank you! i was! it was awful!'

you nod with him. 'yeah, throwing up sucks.'

'it does! and guess the fuck what, i missed a quiz and this stupid fucking prick of a professor won't let me retake it. he tried blaming me and said i needed to be more serious, trying to insinuate i was hungover when he knows for a fact i've shown up on my fucking deathbed before!'

you feel anger build for him, peter takes his academics very seriously. so if saying he doesn't take it seriously feels like a slap in the face to you, you can't imagine how it feels for him.

'oh, that's fucked, petey. if you want i'll draft a letter to the dean and we can-'

peter laughs and shakes a finger in the air. 'already did it. and guess what, i got to retake it. but he couldn't handle the fact i went over his head and he called me immature and unequipped to handle the real world.'

you gasp, peter nods with exaggeration. 'yup! so fuck that class, fuck that prick, fuck the guy that got cheese on my shoes-' your eyes look at his nikes, true to his words there's splatters of orange on the tops. "- fuck ethan for getting me sick, fuck everything and everyone!'

a gulp of air, he calms himself down. 'except you. i still like you.' the room goes quiet when he sits on the edge of your bed. it's just one of those days where nothing you say will fix it and he just needs to feel sorry for himself and have someone do it with him.

you stand in front of him and hold his head to your torso. peter buries his face in your shirt and breathes deep, you're worried he might be suffocating himself. you take his snapback off and lightly scratch his scalp.

'i'm sorry everything and everyone sucks, petey.' you can feel a rumble when peter talks but you can't hear him at all. 'what's that, mumbles?' he has a slight blush when he pulls back, 'except you.' he hides his face again, holding you even closer.

'wanna look at me?' a thrash into your stomach, he's anchored around your waist. 'please?' another silent no. 'i wanna tell you something.'

a squeeze, he's listening. 'no, c'mon, look at me.' peter shouts into your shirt, it still comes out muffled. 'no. you just wanna see me all blushy and shy.'

you tickle behind the collar of his shirt, he jolts into your touch. 'just look at me, please?' a few deep breaths, he's not so pink cheeked anymore. you try to mimic peter when you're upset and cup his face, you get why he does it, he's so delicate under your touch.

'you are insanely smart, peter. i've seen the effort you've put into your work. remember one time i tried to see if i could help you finish but your math questions are like three miles long?' a small smile, your heart picks up. you're helping!

'and you're way more equipped than anyone i know, and you have the cleanest room in the house. oh, and you're a really good nephew.' there it is, that's what you were searching for. peter warmed under your touch, watching him transform into bashful had you soaring.

'not to mention how handsome you are. i mean, i totally get it, petey. cause you're my baby.' red, red, red. he turned red. peter dove for your chest, he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

'you're being mean when i'm sad.' you pat his head before tangling your fingers in, 'i just wanted you to know that your professor sucks and is the dumbest person to ever talk to you. he's wrong and today sucked and that's all it should be.'

you bend to press a kiss to the crown of his head. 'wanna lay down for cuddles,' you wait until he shuffles away, 'my beautiful, handsome baby boy?'

another flush, you never noticed how good peter looked in red.

#frat!peter blurbs

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studiogrimm810 · 24 days ago

Text

Speak of the Devil >Settling the Dust // part 2

pairings: (established) sam winchester x gn!you, dean is also there, cas is also also there

summary: you are taken by lucifer for over a week and sam damn near looses his head. when you are finally rescued, the trauma of what was inflicted on you has left it's mark and it's up to sam and dean to keep you put together this part showcases the continued part of you seeing lucifer for the first time after being rescued. the brothers call in cas for help as they try to uncover what exactly happened to you during your time with lucifer

warnings: torture, ptsd, flashbacks, hallucinations, graphic depictions of said torture

word count: 2,600

A/N: hi again!! excited for pt 2 and already working on pt 3! i hope you’re all eating up the angst and heartache as much as i am ;) i’m so thankful to everyone reading my works and hope you like this one too,,,okay i’ll stop my rambling, enjoy!!! p.s. special shoutout to @internallysalad for being so hyped about this mini-series and also asking to be tagged in future parts of said series,, your support means the world <3

read other parts here

———————

He’s there, you can see him with your own two eyes and you can feel his presence. Your spine shivers- and that tickle up your neck- it has to be him, right?

Sam looks behind him again to still see nothing there. “What do you see?” He asks calmly, wanting to get a hold on the situation. Your eyes dart between him while shooting back to Lucifer in the far right corner.

“I-it’s him, it’s Lucifer, I know it’s him,” you try to keep your eyes on Sam, “why can’t you see him?” The desperation in your question makes the moment all more pitiful but you’re too freaked to feel even a heat of embarrassment yet.

“I don’t know, honey,” Sam shakes his head softly, glancing at his brother who is having insane déjà-vu.

“What’s he doing? Is he saying anything?” Dean's gruff voice cuts through the soothing work Sam's voice is trying to maintain.

You shake your head, dragging your eyes back to Lucifer who stood in the far corner still, a mocking smile painted on his lips. The corner almost seemed darker with him there, as if he were sucking out the light from simply just being there. “He’s just standing- staring.”

And just like that, as you blink, he vanished. You look around to see if he’s reappeared anywhere else, sitting up as the tension melts away just a tad.

“He’s gone,” you say upon getting confirmation, looking back up at Sam who looks devastated.

“When Lucifer would hurt you,” Sam started, making sure to speak carefully, “where would you be? Was it that hospital?”

“H-hospital? No, he kept me in some cellar, and it was always dark out, like I was only awake at night,” you explain slowly, not wanting your words to choke you up.

“And how long did it feel like you were there?” Sam continues his questioning.

“Every time he woke me up, he would keep count. Right before I woke up in our bed here, he was on day 23,” you sniffled, starting to feel uneasy.

“Dean, see if you can get Cas here, I think I have a theory,” Sam says, not taking his eyes off of you. He takes his seat back and gently grabs one of your hands to hopefully make you feel a little better.

Dean starts to call for Cas but Sam keeps his eyes on you, tracing over every pained detail of your face. You seem so tired and weak, it worried him.

What else concerned him, was the fact that despite everything you say you went through, your body held no scar, stain, or blemish of proof other than the pricked mark of your IV drip. Yes, of course Sam knows that Lucifer can patch you up with the flick of his wrist, but you said he was torturing you up until the moment you opened your eyes at the bunker. That led Sam to believe Lucifer was torturing you in your sleep, and if that were the case, would he be there the next time you close your eyes?

Cas poofed into the room with a dramatic flap of his wings and he looked right at Dean first.

“Dean, what is it?” Cas asked, his baseline of stoic emotion melted with a tinge of concern.

“It’s them,” Dean turns to look at you, chair still pressed into the corner behind you, “Something’s wrong.”

Cas says your name, a shocked relief overtaking his worry as he meets your eyes, “You’re okay,” he says for verbal confirmation to himself that you’re back in the bunker again- safe and sound. However, the previous emotion takes back over as he sees the dread in your own eyes. “What is it?” Cas repeats, not with annoyance of not getting clarification but of urgency of wanting to know what happened to you while you were gone.

It’s silent for a moment and despite Cas’ appearance, Dean’s pacing and your panic, Sam hasn’t adjusted from his gaze on you. Partly, he’s lost in himself, struck with a mass of memories, fears, and the pain of his time with Lucifer. It’s the same landslide that always hits him like a punch in the gut that leaves him feeling hollow when he hears Lucifer’s name- he’s yet to get over the despair that follows him, the stain of The Devil.

What quickly starts to overtake Sam’s slowly dissociating fear is the reminder that you are now experiencing the aftermath of being at the mercy of The Devil.

That alone could send him into a spiral.

But he has to keep a hold on himself- for you.

“Cas, I need you to check them over for any markings. Anything similar to our ribs,” Sam turns his head to look back at Cas, but tearing his eyes off of you is delayed until he physically can’t reach you anymore, “please.”

Cas doesn’t hesitate as he takes his paces forward. Sam turns his attention back to you as Cas outstretched his hand to hover over your forehead but you instinctively flinch at his speed- it isn’t too fast or forceful, it’s just scary.

Now he hesitates, ticking back his hand so that he’s not close to touching you, his eyes pinching you with this contorted look of guilt.

Your flinch makes Sam close his eyes for a moment, holding back the emotion that threatens to spill over and consume him fully.

You nod up at Cas, your own splay of guilt and now building shame taking front row seats to your perspective. Cas offers a small smile that would comfort you if you could calm down enough to feel safe and off display.

Cas successfully reaches your head this time, hovering his palm over you and closing his eyes. A bright light emits from his palm and you close your eyes to avoid the sting. The warmth following from the beam starts to dissipate

a headache you didn’t even know you had.

After a few moments, he removes his hand and Sam is the first to speak.

“Is everything okay?” He tries to bite down how antsy he feels but the itch makes him unable to really stay still.

“There’s no branding or marking. There are remnants of Valerian and a few other herbs- it was to keep them asleep and bound,” Cas says, still looking at the spot his hand hovered over you. Your hold on Sam’s hand tightens as you try to make sense of what that means.

“Bound?” Sam repeats, a little confused on the meaning.

“It seems that they were given a potion or spell of some sort that kept them unconscious and mentally bound to someone or something- in this case Lucifer,” Cas explains, now looking in your eyes as he does so. Sam’s gaze drifts as he pieces together what this means and Dean is still pacing through the kitchen as he absorbs the information at his own pace.

“The IV drip-,” Dean pipes up as he stops in his tracks, “That must’ve been a constant supply,” he looks at Sam but Sam doesn’t meet his brother.

“IV drip?” Cas asks, turning his attention to Dean. Dean explains the entirety of the situation to Cas, filling him in on the hospital, the demons they killed, the room they found her in- all of it. Cas nods as he listens.

“Yes, that would make sense,” Cas agrees.

“What about me seeing him?” You ask, your words shaking with their lack of usual confidence. “I saw him and no one else did- am I going crazy?” You look up at Cas, hoping his answers will provide you all the comfort you need.

Sam’s eyes snap back to you as you speak, the caving of his chest into the hollow pit in his stomach only cracking deeper as your fear radiates through him. He doesn’t want you to think you’re crazy, and he doesn’t want you to be sacred. Not like he was.

No one deserves that.

“It could be a remnant of the spell- lingering after effects,” Cas optimizes, hoping that was the most comforting and likely reasonable thing he could say.

“Or the trauma,” Sam says, and to him that was more comforting.

You don’t know which will help you feel better, though.

“Is there a chance that it’s really him?” This was your biggest fear, really. The thought of Lucifer watching you.

Sam wants so badly to dismiss that thought, to do anything to make you feel better, safe, just generally okay again, but he refuses to lie to you.

“There is a possibility that maybe he can still bind with you due to any traces of the spell in your blood, but that won’t last,” Cas explains, hoping that fact will make you feel a little better.

“What if I see him again?” You turn your attention to Sam, a deep rooted aching worry in your gut. You thought that when you opened your eyes to see Sam again that everything would settle, but seeing The Devil reappear out of nowhere has completely rattled your sense of security.

Sam’s eyebrows pinch and his head tilts with just enough pity to make you feel like a child. He squeezed your hand softly and clenched his jaw, hoping to keep the tremble out of his voice as he spoke. “Then we’ll handle it,” he nods with such certainty- an abundance of determination flooding his words.

Sam remembers the hollowing effects that came with his own terrifying hallucinations of Lucifer and the feelings of pure despair he would feel. He wishes you weren’t experiencing this at all but since there’s nothing he can do about that then the one thing he can do is just be there for you. He refuses to let you feel alone.

“We’ll figure this out, honey,” Sam brings up his hand to cradle your cheek and you instinctively turn into it, letting the warmth sizzle your skin with smiling heat.

Dean has stopped his pacing to keep a watchful eye on his brother and his reactions. Dean knows the impact Lucifer had on his baby brother and the way that it changed him completely, he also knows the empathy Sam holds for people and to think that you are the one experiencing something so similar made Dean furiously depressed- it physically weighed on him.

Your eyes dart around the room, the overwhelming weight of everyone’s eyes and radiating concern make you feel on display and your face flushes with fresh embarrassment.

“C’mon, honey, you should get some rest,” Sam nods with a small curling smile at his lips to try and make the idea simply inviting, hoping that his gentle approach will coax you into a small bubble of safety at least.

You force your eyes to ignore the other men in the room and let yourself focus on Sam. You nod in response, ready for a little space from pitying eyes.

Sam stands and pulls your hands up to guide you with him. He places his hand on your lower back and pulls you close to his side, guiding you to the doorway of the kitchen.

“Thanks for your help Cas, we’ll talk more in the morning?” Sam turns to face the angel who returns his thoughtful eyes with a nod of reassurance- showing his consistent commitment and loyalty to the betterment of the Winchesters and those in their care.

Sam spares Dean a quick look that Dean can't quite put into words, but understands nonetheless.

As the two of you make it back to your room, Sam closes the door behind him and flicks on a few lamps to help the room glow a soft warm instead of the tingling fluorescent that’s built into the bunker's ceilings.

You stand, completely lost, in the middle of the room, your wrists bound by your fingers and checking over to make sure you don’t see him again.

Sam feels sick.

“Sweetheart?” He coos softly, taking a casual step towards you. Your eyes land on him after you finish your scan of the room and he has a small thump of victory in his chest at how you didn’t startle at his voice.

“What was it like?” It’s such a vague question but it registers with Sam immediately. He drifted his eyes off to the side as he shuffled through his thoughts, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He doesn’t know if he should sugarcoat it.

Sam had discussed his history with The Devil in the past with you before- the cage, the visions. Along with the other dark matters that make him up, such as the demon blood or his soulless self. Something that Sam never really imagined was having such a kind hearted soul like you absorb all of that mess and still somehow find the good in him. The deep empathy and pure love you both had for each other seemed to break binds and all laws of reasoning.

That connection was now slowly deepening further with horrid understanding.

“It was-,” he takes in a deep breath and puffs up his chest like he was ready to lie it all out for you to inspect and prepare for, but he fell mute.

He held his breath waiting for the words to find him.

They didn’t.

You look down and back around your surroundings for anything fuzzy or just different.

“I’m scared, Sam,” you admit.

“I know,” he says sadly.

Something that didn’t leave Sam was the paranoia that came with hallucinations, not knowing what’s real or how to distinguish the senses.

His eyes dip down to your wrists and he takes note of how often you’ve moved to that hold. He carefully reached up and let his fingers clasp the free space on your wrists- an echo of your own hold.

“It’ll be okay, you’re safe,” he looks right into your eyes, watching closely to make sure you’re looking, “this-,” he tightens his fingers lightly, “is real, okay?”

You tense as his fingers touch your skin and you look at the delicacy of his placement. You look back up at him and as he tightens his hold you seem to drop some of the tension built under your skin. Your feet grip the ground tighter and your head is a bit more level.

“This is real,” you repeat, squeezing your wrists similarly to how he did. Sam feels a flutter of relief at the mimicked motion on your behalf and he tightens his own hold again, this time a bit harder.

“Yeah, honey, real,” Sam nods with a smile that warms your stomach.

The two of you stand like this for a few minutes, just enjoying the simple hold on each other.

“How about you get some rest now, hmm?” Sam reaches up a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes roaming about your face as he does so. You nod and close your eyes, feeling the weight of events start to really press you down.

Sam’s hand caresses from your ear down to cup your jaw and pull you in so that he can kiss your forehead, keeping his hold firm and secure.

“I love you, baby,” he mumbles into your skin, barely breaking the kiss to do so. You smile in immediate response but force yourself to vocally address him as well.

“I love you too, Sam,” your voice is just a whisper as you hiss out the words past your tired smile.

He helps you into bed and holds you close as you try to will yourself to sleep.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #dean winchester #fandom #castiel #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural angst #supernatural hurt/comfort #sam winchester angst #sam winchester hurt/comfort #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x gn!you #supernatural lucifer #hurt/comfort

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deanwritings · 10 months ago

Text

The Guest House - Chapter 9

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Dean Winchester is going through a nasty divorce. He doesn't have much left to his name, but what he does have is his house. Leave it to his soon-to-be ex wife to find a way to even ruin that for him. Enter Y/N, who is looking to get away from life for a bit, and stumbles right into the middle of it all.

The Guest House Master List

Word Count: 3,474

A/N: I can't tell you how much I appreciate everyone's kind words and support these last few weeks. It was a very tough time but I've finally given myself time to rest and recover and starting to feel better again. I'm so happy to be back at this story and hope you all enjoy 🩵🩷

“I WHAT?” You stammer as Dean leans back, out of your space, still grinning.

After you had told him about your dream car, he had texted Rick, asking him if he would bring the ‘73 Mustang along for you to drive while he worked on Rick’s show cars. He initially was going to leave you at home with his mom, but thought you would enjoy this a lot more.

Plus, Rick loved showing off and racing his collection–the ones he didn’t plan to put up for auction–so he was more than happy to oblige.

“Hey, Dean!”

Speak of the gray-haired devel.

Dean turns to see Rick jogging from the garages, his arm outstretched above him as Dean waves back.

A few seconds later, Rick steps into the circle you and Dean had created, his hands on his hips as he catches his breath.

“Y/N,” Dean points towards the newcomer. “This is Rick. Rick, Y/N.” Rick reaches out his hand and you take it, giving it a firm shake as Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Nice to meet you,” you greet Rick with a smile as you drop his hand.

“You as well.” Rick returns. “Heard you had an interest in Mustangs.”

Dean’s eyes dart to you, his smile growing as the color rushes to your cheeks before you sneak a glance at him.

“Really just one Mustang.” You admit, your attention back to Rick. “My dad tried to get me a ‘74 for my first car but my mom shot that down pretty quick.”

“Ah,” Rick snaps. “That’s too bad. Beautiful machine.” And you nod in agreement.

“Well,” Rick’s hand lands heavy on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean here has some work to get to for me, but while he works, you and I will play.” Your lips pop open at Rick’s words and you suck in a breath as you quickly turn to Dean, panic in your Y/E/C eyes as your gaze darts across his face. Dean can’t stop the smirk that appears as you look up to him to save you.

“He’s harmless, I promise.” Dean assures you with a wink, his hand coming to rest on your upper arm. The color returns to your cheeks, and Dean’s smirk relaxes, just one corner of his lip raised as his heartbeat slows.

Fuck. He drops his hand away from you and straightens out as he clears his throat. Touching you while you were looking up at him like that, through your thick lashes, was a bad idea. And he takes a step away.

“Well, I’ll leave you kids to it.” Dean turns, walking backwards to keep his eyes on you and Rick. And you. “Have fun.”

This time, he fully turns, away from you as he hears Rick starting his spiel about Mustangs and how they were first introduced to the public at the World’s Fair in 1964 and since then, it’s been one of the most desired cars of our time.

Dean smirks. He’s heard this history lesson more times than he would have cared to, but Rick’s a good guy, who pays well. Really well. Just for today's work, he was going to take home $6K, which was definitely over market value for Dean’s work, but Rick liked and trusted Dean, and for a man where $6K was nothing, he was more than happy to pay extra to keep Dean around.

Dean steps into the garage, welcomed by Rick’s Datsun 240Z, Pontiac Firebird, and of course, Rick’s pride and joy, his 1969 Corvette Stingray. The first two were going up for auction tomorrow, while the Stingray was just here for a general checkup.

Despite the beautiful cars in front of him, his eyes are drawn a few stalls down, where she’s waiting for him.

That sense of excitement and pride bubbles up in his chest whenever he lays his eyes on her. But she would have to wait for now.

Tearing his eyes away, Dean claps his hands together and gives them a rub.

“Let’s get to work.”

Your heart is pounding in the best way possible as Rick crosses the finish line for the seventh time. This is the most alive you’ve felt in a long time.

He had expertly raced you through the course, taking every curve so smoothly, you barely slipped across the benched, leather seat. When the speedometer first hit 120MPH, your eyes widened and you suddenly realized you were sitting in a steel deathtrap, going at a speed that would surely kill you if you were to crash, with a man you had met only two minutes prior.

It was insanity. But here you were, loving every moment of it.

“Whatcha say? Wanna take a ride in the driver’s seat?” Rick turns in his seat once the car slows to a stop.

You take a deep breath, calming your racing heart.

“God I wish.” You’re practically breathless. “But I never learned how to drive stick.” Rick snaps for the second time today.

“Well that’s a damn shame.” The older man shakes his head, his unstyled hair following the movement. “I would offer to teach you, but this isn’t quite the type of car you learn on.” He smiles while he pats the dashboard affectionately.

You swat your hand through the air.

“Oh don’t even worry about it.” You were glad he didn’t offer to teach you. You would have been terrified of learning on such a beautiful car. You would probably find a way to crash it or ruin it. And you didn’t have the funds to fix a classic car at the moment.

“But thank you for taking me. That was one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.” And it was true. The last time you had done anything this crazy was when you were in college, and did the Sky Coaster with Sydney while on spring break in Myrtle Beach. The two of you squeezed each other’s hands as you laid in the harness as you swung almost 200 feet in the air over the boardwalk. Since then, it’s been calculated and controlled decisions as you focused on growing your career above all else.

Without another word, Rick steps out of the car, and you follow.

“So what brings you up to Bolton?” Rick rests against the hood of the car, looking across at you. “Besides Dean?” He smirks. Something tells you he’s fishing, but unfortunately for him, the pond is empty.

“Well, I’m only here because of Dean, but I live in the city and recently quit my job so I decided to take a little vacation before I jumped back into the rat race. I’m renting out Dean’s guest house.” Rick wrinkles his nose and looks away.

“Dean’s renting? Can’t imagine he’s liking that too much.” Rick snaps his cobalt gaze back to you, holding up a hand. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you smirk. “He wasn’t the most gracious host when we first met,” you chuckle at the memory of Dean storming you with a gun as you had lounged in the hot tub. “But we’re getting there.” Rick just shakes his head, looking like he has a comment on the tip of his tongue, but bites it back.

“Well, I’m glad Dean brought you along today.” Rick taps the hood of the car before stepping around towards the front, and you follow. “Always nice to meet a new face.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” You smile up toward Rick as you walk in tandem towards the garages Dean had disappeared to before Rick whisked you away in your dream car.

“I hope you’ll be joining us at the auction tomorrow?” Rick glances down towards you, and you nod.

“I’ll probably be the most useless person there, but I will be there.” You chuckle, and Rick joins in with you.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Rick steps in front of you as you approach the door. “Besides, I’d love to introduce you to my wife, Addie. She’ll be so happy to have someone else who knows nothing about cars.” He pulls the door open for you. “She says Dean and I are incorrigible at these things.” He shoots you a wink and you smile and give him your thanks as you step inside.

The garage is set up similar to a classic mechanics’ shop, several work stalls running down the lengthy hall, each with a car quietly parked within them, but everything in the rectangular space screams modernity. Before each stall is a glass garage door, framed in shining black chrome. Lifts glisten in their near-pristine condition, whether because they’re new or because they’re so well kept. The floors are a polished cement, the wall color made to match.

It was definitely designed by someone with a lot of money.

You glance over your shoulder at Rick.

“You don’t happen to own this racetrack, do you?” You pose the question, the lightbulb having gone off in your head as you take in the gleaming workspace and the proud man smiling behind you.

“Bought it about a decade ago.” Rick rests his hands on his jean-clad hips. “Was a lifelong dream of mine. I grew up a few towns over and my dad used to take me here all the time growing up. He was a car guy too.” Rick motions to a couch along the side wall and you take a seat.

“It had shut down back in 2009 when the original owners couldn’t keep up with the payments anymore after the economy crashed.” Rick settles next to you at a comfortable distance. “I was living in the city at the time and had no idea it was on the market. I was in the area for work and decided to take a detour to visit for old time’s sake and was shocked to find it was shut down. I was getting ready to retire, and Addie had been trying to help me find a retirement project so I wouldn’t drive her crazy,” he chuckles. “This wasn’t what she had in mind, but it gets me out of the house, which is what she wanted, so I tell her she can’t complain.” You laugh softly with him, wondering briefly what Addie looked like. Though if she would be at the auction tomorrow, you would get your answer soon enough.

“Well it seems to be working for you. If you’re this happy coming here everyday, you’ve clearly done something right.” Rick hums and dips his head.

“You’ve got that right. I used to manage wealth portfolios for almost 30 years. I liked it, liked how important and successful it made me, but I wouldn’t say it ever made me happy.” His smile fades off. “Not like this place.” His eyes leave yours and he looks around the space.

“And the only way I’m ever leaving here is in a body bag.” He turns back to you, a smirk reappearing. “I already told Addie to bury me here when I die.”

The absurdity of his comment catches you off guard, and you burst out with a laugh, but it doesn’t drown out his words, especially when the ring inside you like a damn war bell.

Even on the best days, you wouldn’t say your job made you happy. Like Rick, your success was what drove you; being promoted and recognized for your work was your greatest focus, and happiness wasn’t something you ever considered. Your work was interesting to you, and a challenge at times, and that had been enough.

But maybe it was something to consider with your next job: what would you actually be happy doing?

Before you can think on it further, a frosted glass door pushes open from the back wall, and out steps Dean, wiping his hands on a rag before shoving it into his newly adorned, black coveralls with a LRR emblem on his left chest, with his name scripted underneath.

“Well look who's back,” his smile widens as he catches sight of us on the couch. “Thought he would have had you out there taking a few spins on the track yourself.” Dean points out one of the garage doors towards the track.

“Turns out Y/N here can’t drive manual.” Rick gives you a few pats on your shoulder, almost like he was comforting you on the fact that you couldn’t drive an outdated system.

Dean’s lips tick upward.

“Well color me shocked,” he drawls, not a hint of surprise in his words as he smiles down at you, his green eyes glistening.

Stupid, handsome prick.

If Rick wasn’t sitting right next to you, you’d probably would have flipped him off.

“Hilarious,” you deadpan instead, opting for the more civil route.

“How are the cars looking?” Rick stands, moseying over to the car parked in the closest stall, a shimmering moss green classic beauty with a sloping front hood and concave headlights.

Dean’s eyes linger on you, something stirring within you as he watches, before he turns away, approaching the same car and stepping on the opposite side of where Rick stands, assessing with crossed arms and a leaning posture.

You hadn’t noticed until Dean looked away, but you had stopped breathing. Your heart palpating in your chest desperately reminding you to take a breath.

You huff heavily, letting the ache in your chest ease. The sound seems to catch Dean’s attention for just a split second before he continues on with his report, and you’re grateful his gaze didn’t hold you again.

The two men chat for a minute before Rick walks over to Dean and shakes his hand, giving him a firm pat before breaking away.

You stand as Rick approaches you, his arm outstretched towards you.

“Great meeting you, Y/N. Looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow.” Rick gives you a genuine smile with a firm handshake.

“You too,” you fully return. “And I’m looking forward to meeting Addie.” Rick’s smile grows wider at her name.

“She’ll be happy to have a friend tomorrow.”

It only takes another moment for him to disappear out the front door, leaving you and Dean alone in the garage.

You look over to Dean, who is watching you with a relaxed smile, waiting for you to make the next move.

You shove your hands into your back pockets and rock on your heels.

“Sooo,” you start, your teeth catching your lip on the last letter as you try to cut through the silence. “Are you done?”

Dean breathes out a laugh and looks down.

“Not yet,” he looks back at you, holding your attention. “I just need to check out the Pontiac,” he throws a thumb over his shoulder to a sienna machine with a giant eagle emblem spread across the entirety of the hood. “Which shouldn’t take long, and then give his Stingray a tune up. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

You step away from the couch, heading towards the Pontiac and grimace at the tawdry design sprawled across the otherwise pristine classic car.

“People actually like this?” You point to the logo that looks very similar to Journey’s crest. Dean laughs and steps up next to you.

“Believe it or not, a similar one went up to auction two years ago and sold for $220,000.” You whip your head towards him, your mouth hanging wide.

“You’re kidding.” You gape, looking back to the very eighties looking car in front of you. Sure, it was in good shape, and obviously people had an interest in this type of stuff, but to spend that much money on a car, a car that was really only fourty or so years old, hardly seemed worth it to you.

Dean steps away from you, grabbing a tool box from the last station and setting it up next to this car.

“This one won’t go for that, it’s not as rare, but if it sells tomorrow, which it should, Rick will probably get around $100,000 for it.”

“Jesus.”

Dean just smiles as he sets up his station, pressing a button by the garage door, sending the car slowly into the air, just a couple of feet, before coming to a stop.

Dean walks back over to the first station, kicking over a some sort of roller, that you assume he uses to get underneath the cars.

As he walks past you, you can’t help but admire the broad shoulders under the fitted coveralls, the way the fabric stretches rather deliciouslily over arms that you were suddenly very interested in.

“Any chance you know much about tools?” His deep voice rumbles through you as he turns to look at you with curious eyes.

“I know the basics.” You admit, stepping out of his gaze. You may be a renter, but you had your own mini toolbox for some decoration projects or when you needed something simple done and didn’t want to bother your landlord. You were all for independence when the moment called for it.

“That’ll work.” Dean grins as he squats down onto the roller, his thighs pressing tight against his work pants. Your heart flutters again.

He pulls a headlamp from his pocket and positions it on top of his forehead before he lays himself flat, one hand grasping onto the front bumper.

His words finally catch up with you.

“Wait,” he starts to push himself under, but quickly catches himself at your words. “What do you mean?”

He smirks. The smirk that makes your heart beat in a different way. In a way that makes you want to punch him.

“You’re going to be my assistant.” You laugh dryly.

“I’m sorry, have you forgotten that I know nothing about cars?” Your hands flair with your words. “I am not touching any of those.” You point to the car in front of you. “I’ll probably break them.”

“I’m aware of that.” He annoyingly agrees with you, and you glare down at him. “I just need you to hand me some tools while I’m down here. It will make everything move much faster.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh.’ Like I would ever let you work on one of these.” He mumbles, though still loud enough for you to hear before he disappears under the car, a light suddenly illuminating from the undercarriage.

You walk towards the toolbox, making sure to accidentally kick his exposed work boot on your way. He grumbles something at the contact, but the words are lost with the rest of his body under the car.

You open up the toolbox, a multi-level contraption, and see some familiar instruments, and others that were completely new to you.

“Think you can handle getting me a 9/16 wrench?” He yells out to you. Your eyes scan the box, finding the wrenches and reading each handle until you see the size he asked for. You pick it up, but an idea hits you.

You walk over to the car and lean down, reaching under to give him the tool.

You smile as you hear him cuss and then the light goes out before he slides himself out from the car, pushing himself upright. This time sans headlight.

“Everything okay?” You ask with fake concern.

“Fine,” he responds politely and makes his way to the toolbox with the wire cutters you had handed him. His hand grazes over the container, landing at the wrenches, his brow furrowing when he notices the empty space where the wrench he requested should be.

“Looking for this?” You hold up the wrench and give it a little wiggle. He turns towards you, his face falling as he notices the tool.

“And you gave me the wire cutters, why?” He huffs, dropping the wrong tool unceremoniously into the box as he walks over to you.

You hold his gaze, even as it makes your throat dry as he towers over you.

“You didn’t say please.” You see the light flash in his eyes, his lips twitching up as he leans in, so close you involuntarily stand up straighter, his warm breath fanning over you as he refuses to break his stare. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then two. Before he leans to your right, his lips so close, you can practically feel them against your ear.

“Please,” he whispers, sending goosebumps chasing down your skin as your arm drops heavily to your side.

He pulls back, still smiling as those damned viridescent eyes seem to own you.

His hand then brushes against yours, and before you can react, he plucks the wrench from your grasp and leans away, that satisfied, smug smirk brightening his face.

“Thanks,” he fucking winks at you before finally stepping away and dropping back down onto the roller and disappearing underneath the car.

It’s only then you can breathe again, and with your first breath you mumble, “bastard.”

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