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miss-marmalade · 1 day ago

Text

FROM MADDIE🫶🏻🫶🏻TY FOR ANSWERING ME

crashing into you

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it @helena-helly ! ❤︎

𓇼 summary: dean never planned on letting anyone close—but then he met you. what started as a friendship quickly spiraled into something deeper, something he couldn’t escape, even if he tried.

𓇼 warnings: fluff!, tension, reader isn't a hunter, friends to lovers, soft!dean, sexual tension, reader falls hard but dean falls harder, cute shit ngl.

𓇼 word count: 5.5k

The first time you met Dean Winchester, he was sitting on the hood of a beautiful Impala outside the local library, eating a gas station sandwich like it was gourmet.

He didn’t belong there. You could tell that from a mile away. His leather jacket stood out against the quiet seaside town and the way he scanned everyone walking by, was like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

You were just curious enough to say something. Just brave enough to walk up and ask, “That sandwich any good?”

He looked up at you and for a second, he seemed startled, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to speak to him.

But then his eyes met yours, and damn.

Those eyes. Bright green. Like spring after a brutal winter, like pine needles after rain, like the kind of forest you could get lost in and never want to find your way out of. They were sharp and soft at the same time, catching the light like glass but holding something deeper, something that made your breath catch.

They were the kind of eyes that made you forget what you were about to say, that made your heart stutter just a little in your chest. You really didn’t mean to stare, but you were frozen, caught in his gaze.

And then he grinned. Easy, charming, and just a little crooked, like he wasn’t even trying, but still knocked the breath right out of you. And just like that, you knew you were in trouble.

Because nobody should be allowed to look at someone like that and smile like that. Not when it made the whole damn world tilt on its axis.

“Best five-dollar mystery meat money can buy,” he said, voice full of charm and sarcasm, but there was something behind it, something tired? Like he hadn’t had a real conversation in a while.

You smiled, tilting your head as you stood in front of him, one foot tapping lightly against the cracked pavement. “Well, now I feel like I’m missing out.”

He laughed, quiet and surprised, and God, it looked good on him. Like it hadn’t had a reason to come out in a while.

“You’re not,” he said, holding up the half-eaten sandwich. “It tastes like regret and mustard.”

You grinned. “That’s oddly poetic.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You always talk to strangers outside libraries, or am I just lucky?”

“Maybe a little of both,” you said, then nodded toward the empty spot beside him on the hood. “You gonna make me stand here all day, or do I get a seat?”

Dean blinked, then scooted over without hesitation. “Be my guest.”

You hopped up, the metal warm under your legs from the sun. There was a comfortable silence for a second, broken only by the wind rustling the trees and the faint sound of some country song bleeding from the radio inside the car.

“I’m Dean,” he said eventually, glancing over at you like he wasn’t sure if he should be offering that up.

You smiled again. “Y/N.”

You didn’t know it then, but Dean Winchester would soon become one of the most important people in your life.

It started simple, quiet conversations outside the library, late-night drives when neither of you wanted to go home, sitting on the roof of some random high school eating greasy takeout while the sky turned shades of violet and gold.

You learned early on that Dean never talked much about himself, not the real stuff. But he listened. He listened like he was starving for something real. But sometimes, on rare occasions, he’d let something slip.

“My dad’s kind of intense,” he said once, picking at the label on a beer bottle as you both sat in his Impala, a blanket stretched beneath you. “Keeps us moving a lot. Job stuff.”

You didn’t push, just handed him your fries and said, “Well, when you’re in town, you’re not allowed to disappear without seeing me first. Deal?”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him the damn moon. “Deal.”

Before he left that first time, you gave him your number, written in your messy handwriting on a scrap of napkin from the diner.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said, standing beside the Impala, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn’t trust himself to stay. Like if he touched you, he wouldn’t be able to go.

You smiled anyway, even though something in your chest ached. “That’s okay. Just… text me or call me. So I know you’re not dead.”

He chuckled at that, but you could tell it meant more than you were letting on. “Yeah. Okay.”

And he did text you. All the damn time. Sometimes just—random.

Dean 🩵🙄: diner pie in Iowa sucks. why is everyone lying about it?

Dean 🩵🙄: saw a cat today that looked like you when you’re pissed.

Dean 🩵🙄: hey. not dead. you?

And then sometimes it was a bit heavier..

Dean 🩵🙄: been a rough week. wish I was there.

Dean 🩵🙄: you ever think about just… running away? starting over?

You’d text back until your fingers cramped. You’d fall asleep with your phone on your chest, wake up to a reply at 3:47 a.m. because Dean was always up late. Always thinking too much. Always carrying too much.

And every now and then, he’d show back up, unannounced, like some kind of dream you didn’t want to wake from.

──────────────────────

The first time Dean came back into town, your fingers hovered over your phone longer than you’d like to admit.

You: Movie night? I’ve got popcorn, bad horror movies, and a blanket with your name on it.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then sat back on the couch, chewing your bottom lip as your stomach twisted with nerves. But the reply came faster than expected.

Dean 🩵🙄: Be there in 10. You better not start without me.

A grin broke across your face and you shook your head, already getting up to head to the kitchen.

“Of course he texted back that fast,” you muttered to yourself, pulling out the popcorn and digging through the cabinets for the snacks you knew he liked.

You were halfway through microwaving a bowl of buttery popcorn, standing barefoot in the kitchen, the familiar hum of the appliance filling the quiet, when you heard a knock at the door.

Your heart did a little skip as you wiped your hands on your pajama pants and made your way to the door, pulse quickening even though you told yourself not to read too much into it.

And there he was. Leaning against your doorframe like he’d stepped straight out of some daydream you didn’t know you’d been having. That worn leather jacket hung open over a faded Zeppelin tee, and his jeans were dusted with the kind of road grime that came from too many miles and too little sleep.

But it was his face that made you pause—that cocky, familiar smirk tugging at his lips, sure, but underneath it? Something softer. Like he was relieved to see you. Nervous, even. Hopeful in a way that made your chest ache.

“Hope you didn’t start the movie without me,” Dean said, lifting a massive crinkling plastic bag with one hand. “Figured if we’re doing this right, we need snacks. Like, all the snacks.”

Your eyes widened. The bag looked like it had its own zip code. “Dean, that’s not a snack bag. That’s a grocery haul.”

He shrugged, stepping inside like he’d never left. The scent of him hit you as he passed—leather, soap, a hint of motor oil and something else that was just him. “I couldn’t decide,” he said casually. “You like salty, but then sometimes you want sweet, and then there’s that weird trail mix with the pretzels and chocolate chips you make me eat. So… I got everything. Sue me.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you closed the door behind him. “You remembered all that?”

Dean shot you a look, playful but soft, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing worth remembering. “Of course I did. You made me try those chocolate-covered pretzels last time and now I crave them every time I pass a gas station. That’s on you, by the way.”

A soft laugh slipped from your lips as the two of you made your way to the living room. It was easy. Natural. Like no time had passed at all.

The old horror VHS you’d picked out—some gloriously terrible ’80s slasher flick complete with fake blood and girls screaming into foggy forests—was already waiting in the player, screen paused in grainy, retro anticipation.

Dean flopped onto the couch beside you, boots off, body sinking into the cushions with a satisfied sigh. He tossed the snack bag onto the coffee table like a trophy and cracked open a root beer before passing you the remote with a lazy grin. “Let’s get scared, sweetheart.”

You laughed and pressed play, settling back beside him.

At first, there was a respectable distance between you, each of you leaning into opposite corners of the couch, legs stretched out, a shared blanket tossed loosely over both your laps. But as the movie went on, and the room filled with eerie music and over-the-top screams, something shifted. Slowly. Only naturally.

His knee brushed against yours and didn’t move. You reached forward to grab a handful of candy, and when your shoulder bumped his, neither of you leaned away. The warmth between you built in the quiet moments, in the closeness, in the way your laughter blended with his.

Then came the jump scare—a sudden scream and you flinched with a sharp gasp, instinctively grabbing the nearest thing.

Dean’s arm.

“Shit,” you breathed out, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. Your fingers were still wrapped around the firm muscle of his bicep, and you could feel the heat of him even through his shirt. You were about to pull away when you glanced up and caught him looking at you.

Really looking at you.

That stupid, crooked smile was back, but it was softer now. His green eyes glowed in the flickering light of the TV, and there was something new behind them. Something unspoken. Like you’d just cracked open a door in him he wasn’t sure how to close.

“That was adorable,” he smirked, his voice lower than before.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning as you finally let go of his arm, but you didn’t move far. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Wasn’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Just… didn’t know you still scared that easy.”

You nudged him playfully. “Didn’t know you still carried around ten pounds of candy like a damn trick-or-treater.”

Dean chuckled, and just like that, the moment passed, but the air between you had shifted. A little warmer. A little closer. Like something that had always been there was finally starting to wake up.

──────────────────────

Another time you two hung out, the Impala was parked facing the water, the windows cracked just enough to let in the salty breeze. A couple burger wrappers crinkled on the dash as you leaned back in the seat, chewing the last bite of your fries while Dean dug into his milkshake like it owed him money.

“So,” he said around a mouthful, “worst date you’ve ever been on. Go.”

You snorted. “Oh, easy. The guy who took me to a reptile house and then tried to make out with me while a snake was literally watching.”

Dean barked out a laugh,“That’s not real. That can’t be real.”

“I swear on your stupid leather jacket.”

“You are never dating without me background-checking first.”

You grinned, letting your head fall back against the seat, watching the sky turn gold outside the windshield. “Alright, your turn.”

Dean looked thoughtful for a second, then grinned. “I once took a girl out for pie and halfway through, she told me she was just using me to make her ex jealous.”

“Ouch.”

“She paid for the pie, though, so I consider that a win.”

You both laughed, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt a little. These were your favorite kinds of nights—just you and Dean, greasy food, and the kind of comfort that came from years of being each other’s person, no matter what.

Then, mid-slurp of your shared milkshake, you said, “You know what I’ve never done?”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “Please don’t say drugs. I don’t have bail money on me.”

“A tattoo.”

Dean blinked. “Seriously? You?”

You shrugged. “I’ve always wanted one. Just never got around to it.”

“Well, hell,” he said, suddenly grinning like a madman, “there’s a shop ten minutes from here. Let’s do it.”

“What, now?”

“Why not?” He pointed his straw at you. “You said you wanted one. Let’s make it happen.”

Twenty minutes later, you were in the chair, laughing as Dean teased you about getting a daisy on your ankle.

“C’mon,” he said, chin in his hand, watching you from across the room. “You’re totally gonna go basic. Butterfly? Moon phases? Maybe a quote in cursive?”

You just smirked at him. “You’ll see.”

He squinted at you suspiciously.

──────────────────────

When you emerged from the back, Dean stood up, stretching. “Alright, let’s see it. Wrist? Ankle? Lemme guess—behind the ear?”

You smiled innocently. “You’ll see.” That should’ve been his first warning.

The two of you climbed back into the Impala, and Dean turned the key but didn’t pull away just yet. He gave you a look, playful but curious. “So? Don’t leave me hangin’. Where is it?”

You turned slightly in your seat, fingers reaching for the button of your jeans.

Dean blinked. “Wait—what are you—”

The zipper came down with a soft zzzt, and before he could even process what the hell was happening, you pulled the waistband down just enough.

And Dean's breath stopped.

The tattoo sat just above your pelvis, delicate black ink etched into soft skin still a little red from the needle. Right beneath it was a sliver of black lace—your underwear peeking up from your jeans, the curve of your hipbone exposed like you didn’t even realize how wrecked you were making him.

Dean stared. Actually stared. His brain short-circuited. “Jesus,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You really went for it.”

You tilted your head, all innocent curiosity. “Too much?”

Too much? It was perfect. And hot. And wrong. And so right that Dean had to drag his eyes away before he did something stupid—like reach out and touch.

His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. Every single muscle in his body tensed as he stared straight ahead, trying not to look at you, trying not to think about the lace, the skin, the goddamn tattoo that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Because now? Now he was hard. Painfully hard. For you. His best friend. The one person he wasn’t supposed to want like this.

He shifted slightly, legs angling awkwardly as he tried to hide the growing situation in his jeans. His hands clenched the steering wheel like it was his last tether to sanity.

You zipped your jeans back up with a soft little smirk. “Dean?” you asked sweetly, turning to him like you hadn’t just blown up his whole world.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Peachy,” he said through clenched teeth, eyes fixed forward. “Totally fine.” Dean swallowed hard.

He was fucked.

──────────────────────

The two of you had always made the most of the time you had together.

It didn’t matter where or when, some diner off a highway at midnight, a motel room with flickering lights, the front seat of the Impala parked beneath a sky full of stars—being around you had a way of making everything feel just a little bit lighter. A little less heavy. You made the sharp edges of the world dull down enough to breathe.

Dean had never been great at the whole feelings thing. Hell, he avoided them like the plague. But from the moment he met you, something shifted.

At first, it was subtle, barely a nudge in his chest. A flash of amusement when you made some smartass comment. A second glance when you laughed with your whole body, like you hadn’t been burned by the world yet. He chalked it up to admiration. Friendship. Nothing more.

But over time, that small spark inside him turned into something else. Something slower, deeper. And damn if it didn’t terrify him.

It happened in the little moments—when you’d throw your legs across his lap without asking, like you belonged there.

When you’d sing along to classic rock in the car, off-key and dramatic, just to get him to laugh.

When you’d fall asleep next to him on drives around town, your head resting on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean didn’t know when exactly it changed—when liking you turned into loving you. Maybe it was the night you patched him up after a hunt, your fingers gentle but firm, your voice soft and steady. You had no idea what Dean really did for a living but when he stood at your door, bloody and bruised you couldn't turn him away.

Or maybe the time you defended him in front of a stranger like your life depended on it. Or maybe it was just a million little things building up over the years until one day, he looked at you and realized he was done for.

Because he was in love with you.

Stupid, aching, gut-punching kind of love. The kind that settled in his bones and wouldn’t let go. The kind he couldn’t run from no matter how hard he tried.

And God, he tried.

He told himself it was fine. That being your friend was enough. That he could live with the ache as long as you were still in his life. He convinced himself he was okay with the casual touches, the shared laughter, the midnight calls when you couldn’t sleep. He told himself he could deal with the way your smile made something stir in his chest, the way your voice calmed every storm in his head.

But it was getting harder.

Because you were always there, burned into his thoughts in the quiet moments. When he couldn’t sleep, he thought about the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. When he was on the road alone, he found himself reaching for his phone just to hear your voice. When something good or bad happened, you were the first person he wanted to tell.

You weren’t just some girl he had a crush on.

You were it. The one.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because Dean didn’t get the good things. He didn’t get forever. And you? You were a forever kind of person.

So, he sat with it. With the weight of everything he couldn’t say. With every almost-confession he’d swallowed down at the last second. With every glance he held too long, every touch that lingered, every night he dreamed about what it would feel like to finally kiss you.

He was grateful, truly, deeply grateful to have you in his life. You were his best friend. His anchor. His light in the dark. But none of that changed the fact that he was in love with you.

And it was getting harder to pretend he wasn’t.

──────────────────────

The knock at your window came just past midnight. You stirred beneath your blanket, squinting at the clock before stumbling over to the window, your bare feet cold against the floor.

Tugging the curtain aside with a yawn, your eyes landed on the one person who could make crawling out of bed at this hour feel like an invitation to something bigger than sleep.

Dean stood there beneath the glow of your porch light, grinning like a damn kid on Christmas. His leather jacket was unzipped, the duffel bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing, and in his hands, two steaming gas station coffees, lids fogged from the chill in the air.

His smile widened the second he saw you, hair mussed from sleep, wearing that ancient band tee you swore you’d throw out and never did. The sight of you like that, soft and half-asleep, made something in his chest pull tight.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he said, voice low and teasing. He lifted one of the cups like an offering. “Wanna come stargaze? Or are you gonna be responsible and sleep like a normal person?”

You blinked at him, lips twitching with a sleepy smile. “Dean, it’s a Monday.”

“So?” He tilted his head. “Stars don’t give a damn what day it is.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest gave you away.

He knew what he was doing—he always did. With that look in his eyes like you were the only person worth waking up for. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. And God help you, you never could say no to him.

You rolled your eyes, but you were already reaching for your hoodie. “Ten minutes. You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know you like me,” he called, cocky and smug in that familiar Dean kind of way, but his voice was a little softer than usual, almost hesitant for some reason.

──────────────────────

The beach was only five minutes from your place, but it felt like another world.

Quiet. Still. The kind of silence that only existed this late at night, when the rest of the town had shut down and gone to sleep, too small and tucked away to care what the stars were doing. The sky was a deep, endless black, cut open by the moon and those scattered constellations you only ever saw in small towns forgotten by time and light pollution.

Dean kicked off his boots and laid a worn blanket down in the cool sand like he hadn’t just driven two states to get here. Like this was just another stop, another night.

But it wasn’t, not to him. Not when it was you.

You flopped down beside him, the sand damp and cool beneath the blanket, the air crisp enough to bite. Without thinking, because it never was something you had to think about—you let your head fall against his shoulder. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like gravity just decided for you.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t tense. Just let you settle in like he was built for it. And hell, maybe he was.

His body was warm beside yours, steady and solid in the way only he could be. You felt the rise and fall of his chest, slow and even, like this quiet moment had pressed pause on whatever chaos had been chasing him before.

Neither of you said a damn word for a long while.

The waves came and went like they had forever to do so, crashing soft and steady in the distance. The only sound in the whole world.

And Dean just stared up at the sky, at the stars that didn’t offer answers, just more questions. But he looked anyway. Maybe because it was easier than looking at you.

Because fuck, you were close.

Close enough for him to catch that familiar smell of your shampoo—the same one that clung to your clothes, your pillows, the passenger seat of his car.

The one that hit him hardest when he was far away, in some dingy motel with blood drying on his hands and pain blooming under his ribs.

That scent reminded him of better things. Of safety. Of softness. Of you. Of home.

God, he was so screwed.

He’d known it from the beginning. The first time you smiled at him outside that library, the first time you teased him about his sandwich, the first time you saw through all his walls like they weren’t even there.

He’d thought it was just attraction. A passing thing. He’d had that before—quick, easy flings that didn’t ask anything of him. But with you, it was never quick. And it sure as hell wasn’t easy.

You’d become the first person who really knew him. Not the hunter. Not John’s soldier. Not the screwup older brother trying to keep it together. Just… Dean.

And he couldn’t fucking lose that.

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched as he looked over at you. Your eyes were closed now, peaceful and unguarded, like being beside him was the safest place in the world.

And maybe that was the problem. You trusted him. You needed him. And for once in his life, Dean had something good—something real. He didn’t want to fuck it up by saying the wrong thing. By turning this into something messy.

But God, he wanted to touch your face. He wanted to kiss you like he meant it—slow, desperate, worship you.

He wanted to tell you how much it killed him when he was gone. How every hunt, every town, every monster meant nothing compared to one night on a beach with you. So instead, he laid there in silence. Let the waves keep talking for him.

And you? You couldn’t stop looking at him.

The way the moonlight kissed his face, tracing over the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the freckles littering his nose and cheeks you always loved. He looked like something out of a dream, too perfect to be real—like if you reached out, your fingers would go straight through him.

But he was real. So damn real. And warm beside you, breathing in sync with the ocean.

Dean Winchester, your best friend. The guy who texted you more than anyone else, who remembered how you liked your coffee, who showed up at your door with pie and that stupid crooked smile that made your stomach twist every time.

You were so in love with him it hurt.

And it didn’t help that he looked like that—hair messy from the breeze, eyes on the stars like they held some kind of answer, lip caught between his teeth like he was trying not to say something out loud.

God, what was he thinking?

Your chest ached with it, the want. The need to just reach out, to slide your fingers against his jaw and kiss him like you’d imagined a hundred times.

But the fear stopped you. The voice that whispered, What if you ruin it? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if you lose him?

Still… you couldn’t look away.

And maybe that was what did it because Dean felt your gaze and he turned his head, slow, eyes meeting yours in the dark. And the second your eyes locked, the world around you dropped away.

The crashing waves. The night breeze. The stars above. None of it mattered.

Only him.

And the way you were looking at each other like it was the first and last time. Like the feelings you’d both been swallowing down were finally bleeding out into the open. You didn’t blink, and neither did he.

Your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it. But he didn’t look away.

He couldn’t look away.

You were staring at him like he was the only thing in the world that made sense. Like you knew him. All of him. And wanted him anyway. And that was what killed him.

Dean’s breath hitched, shaky, uneven, like it hurt to hold it in anymore. His eyes didn’t leave yours, wide with something unspoken and raw, something that had been clawing at the edges of him for far too long. And he was still fighting it—fighting the way his heart pounded like it wanted out of his chest, fighting everything in him that screamed to just take the damn risk.

To stop pretending this was just friendship. To stop acting like you weren’t the most real thing he’d ever had in his life. His jaw clenched. Don’t do it, some part of him whispered. You’ll ruin everything.

But the louder voice—the one that sounded like hope and need and pure fucking longing was done being quiet.

“Fuck it,” Dean murmured, the words barely audible.

His hands were on your cheeks in an instant, calloused and warm, fingers cradling your skin like you were something fragile. Like you were already his, and he didn’t know how to live without you anymore. And when his mouth finally found yours—Jesus. It was everything.

Every unspoken word. Every almost. Every lingering look and late-night laugh and sleepless motel night where he laid awake thinking about you.

It was soft, almost tentative at first. Like he was still afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You leaned in, kissed him back with every bit of feeling you’d been holding inside, your fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket like you never wanted to let go.

The ocean kept crashing behind you but all you could feel was him. Dean. Kissing you like it had been building forever. Because maybe it had. And now… it was finally real.

Dean kissed you like he’d been dying to. Like he’d been holding his breath for years and this—this—was the first time he could finally breathe.

And you kissed him like you never wanted to stop.

His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing gently against your skin, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face. Like this was something fragile and precious and he didn’t want to rush it. The kiss deepened slowly, naturally, like you were both learning each other all over again—except this time, it was with mouths and sighs and the way your body curved into his.

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t go far. Your forehead rested against his, breaths mingling, both of you a little dazed, like you were afraid to break whatever the hell just happened between you.

Dean huffed a soft laugh, the kind that came from his chest. “Well… guess I’m not sleeping tonight.”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Yeah, me neither.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, and damn if that smile of his didn’t ruin you. It was soft, shy even, but so full, like all the walls he’d built up just crumbled around you and he didn’t care who saw anymore.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, heart thudding in your chest. “Try me.”

His cheeks flushed slightly, and it was so damn human, so un-Dean-like, that it made you fall for him all over again. “That night we watched a scary movie,” he said, “when we cuddled for the first time and your hair was a mess… I almost kissed you then.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Dean, that was years ago.”

“I know.” He laughed again, but it was breathless, like even he couldn’t believe he waited this long. “I kept telling myself not to screw it up. That I finally had someone who gave a damn about me for me, and if I crossed that line…”

You reached up and gently cupped his face, running your thumb along his jaw. “You didn’t screw anything up. You just made it better.”

Dean leaned into your touch like it grounded him, eyes fluttering closed for a second before opening again. “You sure? ‘Cause if I kiss you again, I’m not gonna stop at just one.”

Your stomach flipped, heart full. “Good. Because I’m not done kissing you either.”

And God, that grin.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Sweeter. Like he was trying to show you everything he hadn’t said in years of friendship—every text, every call, every visit, every longing glance that lingered too long. His hand slipped into your hair while your fingers found the space beneath his jacket, curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

You shifted closer, practically in his lap now, the blanket bunching beneath you as the sand gave way beneath your knees. He didn’t seem to mind—just held you tighter, as if anchoring himself to this moment.

“Can’t believe I finally get to do this,” he whispered between kisses, brushing his nose against yours.

You smiled against his mouth. “Well, now that the floodgates are open…”

Dean chuckled, and it was the happiest sound you’d ever heard. “Yeah, you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The waves kept crashing behind you. The stars burned quietly above. And wrapped up in Dean’s arms, his lips on yours, his heart finally open and right there for the taking. You knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

author’s note:

sooo I love the beach vibes with this one! figured I’d switch something up because it’s always so gloomy? don’t get me wrong I love it & spn, but sometimes we need a cute little getaway?

I’ve honestly had this one sitting in my drafts for a bit, but I finally came around and finished it! lol and as y’all can see I’m back on my bullshit :) feels great to be back!

@helena-helly I’m so sorry this one took forever to come out! I hope you like it and it’s up to your expectations? ❤︎

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

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224 @cupidzbunny @imsiriuslyreal @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @julsvdamxn @tinas111 (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be removed from this taglist)

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

my works

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #answered asks #love u maddie #<333

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