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winchester-girl67 · 1 year ago

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Wild Hearts (Part 1)

Summary: Y/N tags along to a bonfire on the beach with her brother and his friends. She tries to fit in with them, but winds up finding more of a connection to the guy crashing the party.

Masterlist

Pairing: AU!Dean x reader

Square: Age gap @spnfluffbingo Meet cute @spnaubingo “Are you stupid or stupid?”

Word Count: 3,374

Warnings: underage, age gap (reader is 16, Dean is 20 but closer to 21), underage drinking, mostly implied physical abuse, past injury (bruising/scars), language, slow burn, a little angst, arguing, maybe a little gaslighting, mutual pining, a kiss to the forehead, fluff

A/N: Also written for @spnfluffbingo and @spnaubingo.

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A/N #2: Masterlist summary and warnings have been updated. Please review before reading.

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Your brother grabbed your arm and roughly yanked you back towards the party going on down the beach. "Stop being such a bitc-"

"Ow! Quit it, jerk." You tried to shake your arm from his grasp but his fingers dug in, "You're hurting me."

"Don't be such a baby," he growled, stopping far enough away from the bonfire so the crowd of his friends wouldn't overhear. There was a chill in the air and his friends were gathered closer around the flames now. "I told you, if you wanted to tag along you can't just wander off by yourself. Mom would have my ass if something happened to you on my watch."

"Screw you, I'm not a baby. Let. Go."

He finally did.

"They're all ignoring me. I wanna go home." You said, pointing to the mean girls a ways away.

"Well, I'm not taking you. I'm not ready to leave yet." He said, crossing his arms over his chest with a glare.

You knew it was a mistake taking a ride from him in the first place, but you didn't have your own car. And you failed your driver's test over the last weekend. Fun way to spend your sixteenth birthday, with your brother mocking you the whole way home.

"Then I'll walk or call mom to come get me."

"No, you won't. Unless you want her to know that I was right and you are a baby." He stared you down, "Just have a drink and relax for a bit, maybe it'll loosen you up and people will want to talk to you." He glanced back at the busty blonde he'd been eyeing all night; the girl you knew he came here for. He'd only been following her around like a lost puppy all summer. She waved and gave him a little wink. "Stop being so selfish, Y/N, and maybe we'll get along for once."

"I'm selfish?!" You scoffed, you'd only sat around watching the sunset and shuffling your feet in the sand for the past couple hours while he chatted up said blonde. His friends weren't the only ones excluding you. Not that you wanted to be in on that conversation, but you thought the night was going to go a little different. You thought it would be like the old days when things between you weren't so tense all the time. "Just leave me alone and go drool already."

"And you wonder why I never wanna hang out with you anymore." He snapped and stalked away, throwing his arm over the blonde's shoulders when he reached her. Her eyes gleamed in the firelight and you heard her giggle echo along the shoreline when he tickled her sides.

Everyone liked your brother and you tried to be just like him when you were younger. You were only a year apart but it made a world of difference. You didn't even mind wearing his hand-me-downs until you got to high school and got made fun of for it. But you made your peace with it now, you'd always be more of a tomboy and you couldn't be anyone but yourself. Graphic tees, jeans and sneakers were the epitome of comfort and that's what you wore now while the mean girls had skimpy dresses and tank tops that did nothing against the cold breeze that wafted in from over the open water.

But a drink might help.

The beer cooler was up the beach from the horny seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, but you didn't have to pass them to fish one out from melted ice. You cracked it open and took a sip, souring your face instantly and spitting it out onto the sand.

You heard someone chuckle and whipped around. A tall guy with shadows cast on his face stood a few feet away, watching you. You glanced down to the bottle in your hand, then back at him. He followed your eyes, his expression turning stoic before you could read him.

"What?" You asked.

"It's kind of an acquired taste." He nodded towards the bottle in your hand and you took another sip, choking it down to prove him wrong. He wasn't wrong. Beer was gross. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

He cocked his head towards your brother who was now chasing the blonde down towards the shoreline. You didn't think they'd go in, since it was nearly winter and the water was freezing this time of year. But he teased her and grabbed her like he was going to drag her out into the icy depths.

"Oh. Yeah, he's just an asshole is all and I needed a drink." You explained, raising the beer to your lips for a third sip.

You wanted him to leave already so you could dump the rest out in the bushes.

"Same," he nodded and chugged the rest of his own beer. "He shouldn't treat you like that, though."

You didn't think he overheard but he'd certainly seen the two of you, "He's my brother, that's what brothers do."

You toyed with the label on your beer, peeling it back from the glass.

"No, it's not."

He stepped forward, setting his empty bottle in the bin next to the cooler. The light of the bonfire catching his features enough for you to finally see him. The first thing you noticed was that he was not a friend of your brother's. He was older, too, though you couldn't tell by how much.

He was a party crasher. Probably here for the free beer.

"Whatever. It's not like he hits me, he just gets mad and pushes me around a little." You said, stepping back a foot when the guy took another step towards you.

"He shouldn't. That's called abuse."

"Not when I do the same to him. Then it's called sibling rivalry."

"I know abuse when I see it." His voice lowered as he shoved his hands in his pockets. His words held a story he wasn't telling and you didn't ask.

You eyed him again. Between the full moon and the light of the fire you noted a few details that jumped out at you. He wasn't bad looking, actually kind of cute. His eyes held a world's worth of emotion as if he vaulted it up inside himself and swallowed the key. Days old bruising covered the left side of his face, particularly around his jaw, cheekbone, and eye. And he intermittently sucked on the split in his bottom lip that had reopened, probably from when he first smiled at you.

"Well, your story isn't mine." You said, having had enough of this stranger who thinks he knows your life at a glance. He sighed and looked away, steeling his jaw and rubbing the back of his neck. Your eyes cast down to his stomach when his shirt lifted and your heart sank at the sight. A thick scar stretched up his torso from his hip and disappeared beneath the dark fabric of his shirt, peeking back out around his collarbone where the neck hole had been worn loose. Someone had hurt him, badly; you thought that must've been why he was so conscious towards abuse. "Sorry, I didn't know-"

"Do you wanna go for a walk?" He asked, meeting your eyes and taking another step forward.

You didn't back away this time, though he was still a good five feet away at least.

"Yeah, that sounds like a great idea, taking off with some judgy guy I just met and wandering down a dark secluded beach alone with him. Real smart. Maybe wait until I've had a couple drinks first, then try again." You rolled your eyes making him laugh silently.

"I don't hurt women. Ever." He said as if it was a law of his own.

"What about men?"

"Depends," he shrugged.

"On?"

"I've never started a fight in my life." He said, answering a question you didn't ask rather than the one you did.

"Somehow I don't believe you." You squinted up at him, trying to read him.

"Then why haven't you walked away yet?" He looked at the party continuing around the bonfire and then back at you. "You don't wanna be here any more than I do, so let me show you something."

"I swear if that something is your-"

He raised his hands from his pockets and smiled, "I promise it's not. You'll like this."

"You get five minutes and I'm counting. Also, I'm a black belt so don't even think about trying anything." You lied, although he didn't strike you as the violent type despite the evidence on his face and stomach.

You scanned the beach for your brother, spotting him still engrossed with the blonde, so you knew he wouldn't notice any time soon if you'd left without causing a scene. You dumped your nearly full beer out onto the sand and set it in the bin with the other empty bottles. Ignoring the knowing smirk from the party crasher as you did so.

"Beer is kind of gross."

"Yeah, it is." He chuckled, "but it's cheap and gets the job done."

"I don't see the appeal," you said, following in stride with him down the beach. The sand beneath your sneakers making it hard to keep up with his long legs. "Can you walk slower?"

"Sorry," he slowed his pace and you easily caught up. "Drink a bit more than a couple of sips next time and you will."

"I'd rather waste the calories on chocolate, thank you."

He laughed silently again and sucked the split in his lip, "What's your name?"

"Uh, Y/N, you?"

"Dean." He smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets again. "So, how come I haven't seen you around here before, Y/N?"

"We just moved here," you said, not wanting to explain how you didn't exactly get out much and explore the town over the summer.

"Then you haven't been to the pier?" He asked, cocking his head towards the end of the beach where you were headed.

It wasn't so much a pier as it was a small row of shops and a parking lot. Some storefronts were still lit up against the darkened sky and a lighthouse sat on the rocks near the shore. The light at the top swung around and around over the jagged rocks reaching into the water.

"Seriously? You wanted to show me a lighthouse? That's not exactly special. Lighthouses are a dime a dozen around here, if you haven't noticed." You said a little disappointed and glancing back at the party.

The bonfire merely a speck amongst the stars along the beach now. If you accounted for the walk back it would definitely stretch over the five minutes you'd promised him and you stopped walking.

Dean noticed when you fell behind and turned to you. He laughed a little and smiled, "That's not where we're going."

He reached out to you and grabbed your hand, tugging you gently until you laughed and skipped a step. He was troubled, that was for sure, but you didn't have a reason not to trust him. Not that trust should be given easily without question; but still, you welcomed the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours as he led you across the parking lot and up to one of the shops.

"Ice cream," you stared up at the sign before Dean pulled you into the store.

"Mhm," he licked his lips, guiding you up to the display of tubs sitting in the freezer and separating you from the older blonde woman behind the counter.

She nodded to Dean like she knew him and he smiled back, "Hey, Donna." She didn't react at all to the bruises on his face and your mind started to wander.

"I was starting to think I wasn't gonna see ya before closing," she said, retying her pink apron as if she was getting ready to close up for the night.

"You know me better than that," he feigned hurt and wrapped an arm over your shoulders, tugging you into his side.

You scanned over the flavours, some so bright you wondered if it was possible to taste a colour. "Isn't it kinda cold for ice cream?"

"Never," Dean shook his head like you'd said something foolish. "These shops are seasonal and it's the last night they're open until they close for the winter. You'll have to wait at least four months before you get this again. And trust me, once you try it, winter will feel like an eternity for your tastebuds."

You smiled, you couldn't argue with that logic, "What flavour should I get?" You asked, assuming he'd probably have tried them all by the looks of it.

"My favourite is the mocha with all the little chocolate pieces. It's basic, I know, but classic." He pointed to a tub filled with dark brown speckled ice cream.

"Two mochas, please." You said.

"Sure thing," Donna said and scooped you out a couple of cups.

Dean gave your shoulder a squeeze before giving you some space to enjoy your ice cream.

He kept eyeing you as you took your first bite, then your second, "And?"

"Okay, you're right. It's fudging amazing! Can we get more?" You asked, glancing back at the shop from where you sat outside on a bench under a streetlamp.

"You still have a whole cup.” He barked out a laugh and you shovelled a few spoonfuls into your mouth.

A chilled throb wracked through your brain and you paused mid-bite to squeeze your eyes shut and fan at your frozen mouth. You pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth and just as the feeling started to ebb away you felt hot, sticky lips lay flush against your forehead. Dean’s hand held the back of your head and you blinked open your eyes, feeling warm and fuzzy.

"Better? My mom used to do that for me when I was a kid. Always seemed to help." He said and tilted his head to the side.

You weren't sure if it was what he did or the shock of the unexpectedness of it, but it dulled the pain. He hadn't backed up an inch and you could see the gold flecks in his green eyes under the streetlamp. Framed by the yellow edges and purple patches of the bruising next to his left eye. His hair was sandy brown and short but still fell over his forehead and brushed the tips of his ears. And freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose on pale skin. He was pretty cute and different from most of the boys you usually met.

You nodded and blushed, sneaking another spoonful of mocha ice cream between your lips. He laughed silently and leaned back, picking back up his own cup of ice cream from the bench next to him and digging in.

"You're strange and kinda wonderful." You said around a bite full, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth when the brain-freeze threatened to come back.

"That's oddly the nicest thing someone's said to me in a very long time." He took a bite and licked his spoon clean.

"That makes me sad."

"Makes me happy," he mumbled and smiled.

"Like I said, strange."

"Because you're so cool and composed, right?" He's teased, pointing with his spoon.

"I'm a delight and you know it. That's why you just had to get me away from all those other guys down on the beach. Before they had the chance to notice too, of course." You joked, brushing your hair back when the breeze carried it away.

"You caught me, I'm a sucker for a girl who tries to bite my head off with one wrong look."

"You make me sound like a praying mantis."

"In that case, I guess I'm safe as long as we don't have sex." You both frowned. "Sorry, that was awkward, I swear it sounded funnier in my head. Because you know they only eat their mate after-uh-mating..." He stuck his spoon in his ice cream and stirred until it was smooth like soup, "What?"

"You're blushing," you said, "it's cute." You liked being able to do that to him. "But you should know I'm sixteen."

"Wait. What?" He looked like you'd just punched him in the gut. "But you were drinking."

"When did you have your first beer?"

He thought to himself for a moment, clearly he had been younger than you; then he abandoned his ice cream on the bench beside him. “What about your friends?”

"Some are eighteen. But most are seventeen, same as my brother, they're his friends." You explained. "Don't ask me how they got the beer." You attempted to lighten the mood but he just stared down at his hands, rubbing at the cuts in his knuckles. "How old are you?"

“Too old for you,” he shook his head and picked at one of the scabs. “Twenty-one in January.”

So essentially there was a five year age gap between you. It wouldn’t be a big deal, if only you were older; but for now it didn’t mean you couldn’t be friends. Your gut twisted at the thought of never seeing him again and you could use a friend; and it looked like he could, too.

Your cell rang and you fished it from your back pocket. Your brother's name sprawled over the screen.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, then answered, "What do you want?"

"Are you stupid or stupid? Where the fuck did you go?!" He shouted and you were sure Dean could hear, so you turned down the volume on your phone.

"For a walk."

"We're leaving."

That meant the blonde was tagging along, either hitching a ride home with you or your brother was just going to drop you off at home before taking her to park somewhere and... -You didn't want to think about it. Your brother, like that. Gross.

"Maybe I don't wanna leave yet. I made a friend." Dean mirrored your smile.

"Find your own way home then..." he grumbled a few choice words and hung up. Asshole.

"Any chance you have a car?" You asked, silencing your phone and shoving it back into your pocket. "I need a ride."

"Uh- no. But I know where we can get one." Dean said as he checked the time on his wrist. You fingered your ice cream and booped him on the nose. "What was that for?" He laughed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

You shrugged, "Just trying to lighten the mood. You look so sad," you raised his chin with your fingers, "Chin up, Dean."

"Did you mean that?" He asked.

You lowered your hand to rest on the bench between you, "Mean what?"

"That we're friends," he asked, chewing on the split in his lip. At this rate you didn't think it would ever heal over. "I mean, that we can be friends."

"Uh-huh, unless you don't wanna be my friend." You nodded and searched his eyes, some kind of hurt flashing through them.

"I think that's all we can be. At least, until you have a couple more birthdays."

Your typical luck, the one guy you could see yourself interested in and he's too old. It was only nearly five years, sure, but you were only sixteen and he'd probably had a lot more experience that you couldn't compare to. But he was cute.

Window shopping couldn't hurt right, until you had the means to buy.

"I can wait," you teased and laughed. "But you look like you could use a friend. And I got your back, since I kind of owe you one for introducing me to this ice cream."

"You don't owe me anything, Y/N."

You shivered when the ice cream was gone and Dean stripped out of his hoodie, draping it over your shoulders as you walked along the side of the road towards his house. He apparently didn't live far away and if his father was home, he could 'borrow' his car to give you a ride. He actually used air quotes when he said borrow though, so you were a little skeptical.

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Part 2

_________________________ Dean: @akshi8278 @laycblack @thoughts-and-funnies @mrsjenniferwinchester @crustycheeks @kazsrm67 @sexyvixen7 @lyarr24 @suckitands33 @eliwinchester99 @yvonneeeee @igotmajordaddyissues @djs8891 @leigh70 @globetrotter28

SPN: @hobby27

Wild Hearts: @justrealizedimmascifygurl @evieluvsjamie @kimberkingrivers @globetrotter28

#spnfluffbingo2022 #spnaubingo #au!dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean winchester x you #dean x y/n #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x #spn fanfic #dean winchester #dean x #au!dean winchester #supernatural reader insert

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zepskies · 14 days ago

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IF I STAY - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized!Reader

Summary: Your dream is to work with kids as an elementary school teacher. Dean is well on his way to becoming a firefighter, keeping things light and “strings unattached” as he goes. After a one-night stand you never saw coming, you and Dean are forced to deal with the consequences…and figure out if the connection between you is worth fighting for.

AN: Yes, here’s another firefighter AU! Based on a request from one of my lovely Patreon members: @redhoodieone. She requested pretty much all the major beats of this story, so hopefully I did her request justice! This is also partially inspired by Fools Rush In, a beautiful movie with Salma Hayek and Matthew Perry (Rest in Peace, King).

Song Inspo: “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis

Word Count: 8.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, thick thirty, hints of body insecurity, but also body appreciation, angst, and hurt/comfort.

❤️‍🔥 If I Stay Masterlist

Part 1: Fools Rush In

Slowly, your eyes slide open into the waking world. Your head is resting on something warm, firm…and a little sweaty. You pick your head up, despite the disorienting, muddy feeling of a slight hangover.

A groan bubbles in your throat. Your gaze travels downward, and you realize that what you’re looking at is more of a who.

Your eyes widen. Oh…my…God…

Not only are you very naked, but your firm pillow is too. It happens to be your best friend’s brother.

Yes, holy fucking shit! You slept with your best friend’s brother.

Biting the inside of your lip, you can’t help but take him in, here in the raw light of day as he lays peacefully on his back. His head lolls to the side on your usual pillow. Your eyes roam over the bow of his lips, the dark eyebrows, lightish brown hair that's softer than it should be between your fingers.

He’s painfully handsome. There’s a slight hesitation in your touch, but you softly trace the cut of his jaw and the stubble spread across it. That roughness feels familiar, and not just under the pads of your fingers, though the thought makes you blush. You begin to remember the night before, almost like a movie reel through your mind…

Ooooh, right. That’s what happened.

It starts at Sam Winchester’s joint bachelor-bachelorette party at a nice hotel downtown. He and Eileen aren't the "strippers and coke" kind of party couple. They're more the "wine and brie en croute with pickled olives" on the expensive crackers you can't afford—kind of couple.

They look perfectly in love, if a bit long-suffering while Dean gives a hilarious, somewhat inappropriate, but still ultimately heartwarming toast to their happiness. After lowering the glass of champagne from his lips, his gaze catches on yours in the crowd. You suck in a subtle breath.

Technically you’ve met him already, being one of Eileen’s bridesmaids, but there’s something about his green eyes that pin you to the floor. When he hands over the mic to Lisa Braeden, Eileen’s Maid of Honor, his head turning away from you to offer her a smile breaks the spell. It allows you to breathe.

Dean later finds you by the bar. You’re drinking a rum and coke with your slice of cake, trying not to get a single crumb on your dress. You've put a lot of work into affording it, let alone fitting in it. He leans his elbows casually on the counter and looks over at you.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he nods at you with a smile, subtly taking you in first. Then, his eyes go to your plate. “Ooh, red velvet. Gotta get me some of that.”

You smile back at him. “It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, looks good in your hand,” he says, adding a teasing wink for good measure.

You don't know why that does it for you, but a half-flattered, half-nervous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Sam has warned you before about Dean. Apparently his older brother is a bit of a flirt; a ladies’ man.

A man whore, are the words Eileen used.

You’re honestly surprised he’s talking to you when Eileen’s other bridesmaids, Lisa and Jo, are sipping martinis together down at the other end of the bar. Guess they didn’t want cake.

They look beautiful in their lithe, strapless little cocktail dresses. You’ve had to give up chocolate, bread, and cheese for three months straight to fit into this dress, something slinky and red that drapes over your thicker, curvy figure. But you’re proud of the fact that you’re letting yourself eat cake tonight, even though you’ve often felt like Mrs. Doubtfire while standing for pictures next to Lisa and Jo.

They’re Eileen’s friends, not so much your crowd. No matter how much you’ve tried to get to know them while helping the wedding planning in whatever way you can, you still get a high school clique vibe from the women, if with more “polite smiles.” Then they’ll typically go back to talking about crystal centerpieces—or whatever in-depth conversation they were having before you were there.

But right now, Dean’s focus is on you. When he asks you more about yourself, you tell him about recently earning an elementary education degree.

“Ah, but you already knew that, because Sam told you we graduated college together,” you realize, with warmth tingeing your cheeks. That subject came up pretty quickly when he introduced you to his brother.

Dean’s smile confirms your suspicions, so you just keep filling the silence on reflex.

“Well, I actually just started teaching my first ever semester of second graders. They’re a bit of a handful, but overall, they’re really sweet.” Your smile falters. “Except for this one kid who likes to put little tacks on my chair. He’s kind of a menace, but I think if I bribe him with enough lollipops, he’ll give it a rest. I mean, it’s a behavioral issue and I should probably call his parents. But it's kind of hard to tell them their son is trying to make my ass into a pincushion."

Dean's laugh comes out in a sharp burst, like he wasn't expecting what just came out of your mouth. You didn't either, honestly. You giggle more out of embarrassment, ducking your head.

"He’s in second grade, you know?" you say, in between laughter. "I don't think that little footnote needs to end up on his permanent record. But then there's Micah. He's so friggin' smart. He can read at the fifth grade level already. Can you believe that? And I know I'm not supposed to have favorites, but his grades on his spelling tests get him a spot in the comfy bean bag chair pretty much every Friday. Honestly, I think that's what I like about working with kids. I get to see that spark on their face when something just finally clicks for them. Their little faces get all bright and happy and…ugh. God, I'm sorry. I'm rambling, right?”

You stop yourself with a hand sliding over your mouth, not quite covering your smile of embarrassment.

Dean’s grin just widens, making the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"It's okay. I kinda like it," he teases.

You duck your head, biting your lip against a groan. He chuckles and reaches out for your hand, earning your nervous glance. He quirks his head.

“Hey, you're passionate about what you do, helping kids. That's nothin' to be ashamed of,” he says, brushing his thumb over your hand. “But sweetheart, I gotta ask. Am I making you nervous or something?”

God, yes, you think, especially at that sweetheart thing. It’s making your heartbeat tick up a syncopated rhythm, but you shake your head, biting the straw of your rum and coke.

“No, not at all,” you say, in a hopefully “breezy” kind of way. You touch your fingers to his wrist. “Tell me about you though. Sam mentioned that you’re a firefighter?”

“Ah, yeah. Firefighter in training,” he says, with a more genuine smile.

He just started at the Fire Academy, and he tells you about all the drills he’s had to learn and all the training he’s had to do to be able to keep up with his classes. You subtly eye him while you sip at your drink, and you notice the crisp cut of his buttoned-down shirt and leather jacket, the definition of muscle across his thighs under the slacks, even while he casually sits.

Your gaze subtly travels down his long bowed legs, smart dress shoes. His cologne is woody and masculine, but not overpowering; maybe bergemot and sandalwood. It pleasantly wafts under your nose every time he gestures with his hands while he talks.

“Aw man, I can’t hold out anymore. I think I need to get me some of that cake before it’s gone,” he says, getting up from his chair.

You’re a bit disappointed that he’s leaving, until he stops short.

“You want another piece?” he offers, gesturing at your empty plate that’s been resting on the counter.

You blink in surprise, but you shake your head. “Oh, no. I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why not? It’s a party,” Dean reasons. His grin is too damn infectious. It has you smiling, and begrudgingly agreeing.

Not only does he bring you more cake, but you watch him eat three whole slices before he asks you to dance.

The rest of it flashes through your mind like strobe lights—the way he’d started small and respectful with his larger hand closed over yours and the other along the curve of your waist. He guided you closer and closer, until you were turned around into his arms, and you could feel his warm breath on your neck.

You felt his lips teasing your skin. Then those hands tantalizingly drifted down your every soft curve, as if showing you a preview of everything he could do to you, and every way he’d make you come apart. You believed him.

And when he whispered in your ear, asking if he could take you home, you let him.

You let him drive you in that big black piece of history he drives. Used to be my dad’s car, he said. A Chevy something. You couldn’t really remember much when his hand was drifting up and down your thigh like that.

His presence burned hot at your back when you two eventually got to the front door of your apartment, your hands just barely shaking as you got the key in. Twist and click—

He waited until you flipped the lights on. Then he turned you around slowly in his arms and pulled you in close, all the while asking you with his eyes and raised brows. This okay? You want this?

“Do I still make you nervous?” he asked, his lips twitching at a smile when yours do.

You nodded, uttering a small giggle. “In a good way.”

That was when he finally kissed you, hot and slow, like he meant to devour you whole. He moaned at the taste of you, at the feel of your ass squeezed in his hands. You clung onto him strong, breathing into his kiss and trying to meet every single demand of his lips.

It soon became a fiery tear to your bedroom, one lamp flicked on, hot breaths and nice clothes crumpled to the floor. You didn’t feel self-conscious even once when he guided you under him on the bed, because he wasted no time in taking you apart, inch by inch.

His lips kissed and licked and sucked a burning trail down your neck, over your collarbone and between your breasts. You felt his hardened length trapped between your bodies while his hands explored you, teasing your breasts and sensitive nipples, and he mapped his way down with his lips.

You explored every part of him you could—every dip of muscle, firm shoulders and the slopes of his back, and then back up to tangle in his hair. Your heated gasps and whimpers filled the room when his sinful mouth found what it was looking for between your legs.

It wasn’t often that you had a strong pair of shoulders to rest your thighs on, but Dean’s grip was hard enough to leave deep fingerprints of pressure on each thigh while he slipped his tongue through your folds and feasted on you.

“D-Dean, oh God,” you gasped. Every sound you made was a sensuous symphony in his ears, washing over his skin and making the well of his desire churn hot in his lower belly. He had to roll his hips into the mattress for some relief for his aching cock, even while he moved his mouth up to your clit, circling the swollen bud with his tongue. He had enough room to slip two fingers deep inside your sopping wet channel, exploring you deeply, stroking and twisting to find what you needed.

Your thighs trembled and squeezed tight on either side of his head. When he sucked your clit tight between his lips, you uttered as gasping moan as that coil snapped its release. Your inner walls fluttered around his fingers. Yours clenched tightly in his hair, threatening to rip out a few strands.

Dean stroked you all through your first orgasm, giving slower licks to your clit. He seemed to sense when you couldn’t handle anymore though. You tugged more sharply on his hair, and he finally pulled away, moving back up your body to gauge your reaction.

You’d collapsed boneless against the bed, but you still managed to smile up at him as you caught your breath.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked. But his self-satisfied grin almost made you laugh. You took his glistening face between your hands and pulled him down for a grateful kiss.

After a moment to savor your lips, he broke away for a second to catch his breath himself. You stroked his back all the while.

“You know, for a minute down there, I thought you might not let me come back up,” he teased.

You choked on a laugh, covering your face in embarrassment.

“Honestly wouldn’t have minded if you did suffocate me,” he chuckled, accompanied by a slap to your left ass cheek. You squealed, and blushed hotly at the way he was grinning down at you.

“Ready for more, baby? Or you want to call it a night?” he asked. His tone was playful, but it was actually a serious question. You blinked in surprise. You’d never had a guy be this, well…generous, and not expect anything in return, especially not for just a hookup.

But you shook your head and sat up, slipping a hand behind Dean’s neck. After a beat of hesitation, you guided him down to you for a slow, sensuous kiss.

“No, I don’t want to call it a night,” you whispered. Your hand drifted down his bare chest, and lower still. You showed him just how well you could return the favor.

And now, come the morning, you’re blushing down to your neck as each scene flashes through your mind. You feel the ghost of his hands all over your body, and how you’d never quite felt quite as bold and sexy and beautiful with a near stranger as you had with Dean effing Winchester. Your best friend’s brother.

You begin to worry your bottom lip with your teeth. How the hell are you going to tell Sam? Especially after he warned you about exactly this. Plus, there’s a reason you don’t typically do the one-night stand thing, and this has the potential to become something very complicated.

You know what, it’s fine! you think. We’re two consenting adults. We’re both single. And maybe…maybe it could be more than a hookup. Maybe we can see each other again, see where it goes.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Dean says, his voice croaking with sleep.

You look down at him in surprise. His eyes have cracked open and he has your hand captive, stopping you from continuing to idly trace patterns on his bare chest. You smile in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you say. Again, you bite your lower lip. ��Um, good morning.”

“Morning, sweetheart,” he grins lazily. “You sure wore me out last night.”

Your smile becomes more genuine, even if you turn your face away somewhat shyly.

“Aw, don’t do that,” Dean says. He slides his hand up your arm and behind your neck, tangling into your already tangled hair when he guides you down to his lips for a kiss. “You were awesome.”

You giggle against his lips. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah,” he says, kissing you again.

You shake your head a little. “You were…”

Amazing. Unbelievable. Probably the best night I’ve ever had.

“Perfect,” you decide. Because it’s the truth. The word comes out of your mouth before you can filter yourself though, making you pause. Dean does too, but after a beat, he slowly smiles.

“Oh yeah?” he asks.

You lick your lips, and you nod. “Definitely.”

“Well, then,” he says. His hand moves down to squeeze your hip. “You down for a repeat performance?”

You smile. “Only if I get a turn.”

Bracing your hands on his chest, you slide your thigh across his lap so you can straddle his hips. Dean grins and goes along with your idea. He gets a nice healthy handful of your thighs and helps settle you on top of him. But first, he reaches over into your nightstand drawer and finds another condom, ripping it open with his teeth.

Just like you did for him last night, you take the packet, as well as his generous length in your hands. You gently stroke him to full mast, smiling pleased at his groan of pleasure. Then you carefully fit the condom over him.

“You’re so gentle with me,” he teases.

“Just returning the favor,” you quip, just before you position him at your wet entrance. Slowly, you sink down over his cock.

You both moan at the feeling of him stretching you again, warm and thick and fitting perfectly nestled deep inside. There had been moments last night where he wasn’t all that gentle, actually, but his passion had only spurred yours on more. You know you’ll probably find fingerprint marks on your thighs and ass, but it’s fucking worth it, you think, as you begin to bob a rocking rhythm that serves you both.

Dean arches his back underneath you, his knees coming up to press against your ass.

“Goddamn, baby. Givin’ me quite a show,” he says, in a panting voice that’s deep as sin.

You utter a breathy laugh.

Dean means it though. He’s enjoying the way you brush your hair out of your face, your beautiful tits in his face while you truly let loose for him. He guides you by the stronghold he has on your hips, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh as he ruts up into you, meeting your thrusts.

Your breath quickens, your nails digging into his chest on reflex, and your heart races as that delicious pleasure builds. But when Dean snakes a hand between you and further parts your folds to massage tight circles over your clit, your vision flashes white. You utter a scream of pleasure on his name, your inner walls choking him tight as you throb around his cock. His release hits him like a goddamn freight train.

“Aw, fuck,” he grunts.

He slams your hips down hard, making your thighs slap against his. A ragged groan escapes him in a rush. His hands move to your thighs just under your ass, where his fingers press into flesh hard enough to leave forensic ID, giving him leverage to bury himself deep into your pussy as he spills a hot release into the condom.

Goddamn…

He can almost imagine that he’s coming free inside you, that you’re milking his cock for every drop, until there’s nothing left for him to give.

The thought surprises him. It almost takes him out of the moment, honestly. That’s not a thought he’s ever had before—not with a woman he barely knows (which is most of his hookups, if he’s honest).

In that delicious, fractious moment just after it hits, it’s like those few seconds are suspended in zero gravity. Your arms are shaking, and your forced to collapse against his chest. Dean welcomes you there for a little while, letting you come down while he smooths a hand over your hair.

Though he can't help the urge to let his big hand drift down over your dewy skin, down the gentle slope of your back and over the curve of your generous ass. He gives one cheek a teasing slap. The sound echoes in the room.

"Goddamn perfect ass," he says roughly, smirking at your squeal. You end up grinning hard against his neck.

"'S that my new nickname?" you quip.

He chuckles deeply, moving you along with his chest. "Hell, sweetheart, if you want it to be."

Eventually, you lean back to give him a smile and one last kiss before you pull away from him. You slip off his lap to find your robe, at least. You definitely need a shower.

“So I’m thinking, after we get cleaned up, I could make us some breakfast,” you offer. “Or if you want, maybe we could go somewhere. I know a little diner down the block.”

“I like the sound of food,” Dean agrees with a smile. Ge reaches over for his phone on the nightstand, to check the time. His eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”

He has to get his ass over to the Fire Academy. He has class in barely twenty minutes.

He tears out of bed and nearly trips on the coiled sheets.

“Sorry. Gonna need to take a raincheck,” he says. He hurries to find his clothes strewn all over your bedside floor.

“What’s the matter?” you ask with wide eyes. You cross your arms under your breasts, but it’s more like you’re hugging yourself over your robe. You watch him tear through your bedroom in a tempest of movement.

Dean spares you a glance, but not much else as he yanks up his slacks and belt and dress shirt.

“Gotta get to class,” he confesses. Thank God he has his uniform in the trunk of his car for exactly these kinds of emergencies. He grabs his phone, wallet, and keys, and quickly kisses you on the cheek. He gazes down at you apologetically. “Sorry I gotta cut and run, sweetheart, but it’s been fun.”

Your smile barely reaches your eyes. He’s pressed for time, but he still notices.

He slows himself down and cups your cheek. “Hey.”

He gets your pretty eyes looking up at him, and he gives you a real kiss, nice and slow. He cradles your cheek and brushes his thumb across your skin.

“Thanks,” he says. His now familiar grin manages to make you smile. “And I mean that.”

You shake your head at him. “Okay go, Mr. Future Fireman. Be safe out there, okay?”

He gives you a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

You can’t help but laugh. This guy’s too much. But you don't think you've had this much fun having sex in...

All right, let's not put a timeframe on it.

You watch him leave your apartment, even though you have a sinking feeling in your chest. You knew this was just a hookup for him, for both of you. Part of you just couldn’t help hoping that it could’ve led to something more.

Dean means to call you.

He really does.

After that truly awesome, you shook me all night long, kind of a night, he thinks about you more than he’d like to admit over the next few weeks. However, he finds himself locked into his training. He’s so close to finishing strong and earning his badge, he just can’t afford any more distractions.

Still, he should’ve known that Sam would find out—either through Eileen, or through you directly. He also should’ve expected the way his brother let him have it.

“And you didn’t even fucking call her. See? This is why I don’t set you up with any of my friends anymore,” Sam bitches at him from his side of the small two-seater dinner table. They still share an apartment, though in just a month and a half, Sam’s going to be moving out. He and Eileen already found a house that they’re moving into after the wedding.

“Look, I was going to call her, man. They’ve just been bustin’ my ass at the Academy!” Dean argues.

“Bullshit.” Sam levels him with the same finger that holds his beer.

Dean’s brows raise, high and annoyed. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. Because if you really liked her, respected her, and respected me, you would’ve made the time,” Sam says.

That falls heavy between the brothers for a moment while they eat their pizza.

“Look, I know her. She doesn’t do hookups that often, which means…she probably liked you,” Sam adds. “And honestly, when are you going to give it a real try with someone? You can only visit that free clinic so many times.”

Dean shoots him a glare. He’s had a clean bill of health from said clinic for six months straight.

“Jesus Christ. Enough, all right?” he grouses. “What’re you, Mom?”

“I’m just saying,” Sam says, lowering his crust to the plate. He levels his brother with a more earnest look, lightening up from his anger. “Look, if it’s about what happened to Dad—”

“What, you mean the way he drank himself to death after Mom died?” Dean says. His voice cuts through whatever softball glove Sam is trying to handle him with. “You think that’s the kind of thing I should be looking for in my life?”

“Oh, and what, do you think I’m making a mistake marrying Eileen?” Sam counters.

Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Damn it, don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I’m saying, it’s just…I don’t know. Maybe that kind of life—the house, the wife, the 2.5 kids and the dog. Maybe that’s just not my life, okay?”

Sam gives him a long look. He lets go of a deep breath, and he shrugs.

“Okay,” he says. “If you think hooking up night after night for the rest of your life is going to make you happy, then fine.”

Dean nods, glad that they can put an end to this little After School Special.

“Okay.”

Still, he can’t finish his third slice of pizza. He keeps picturing your face when he left you that morning. No matter how you tried to hide it, he still saw the tinge of disappointment in your eyes. It brews something uncomfortable in his stomach, and a sting in his chest.

You’re eating lunch alone in your classroom, finally on your break, when an unfamiliar number flashes across your phone screen. You look down at it in confusion, but with all the caterers and florists and things you’ve helped Eileen with on the wedding, you figure it could be important. You pick up the call and greet whoever’s on the line.

“Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”

You drop your ham and cheese on your keyboard, gaping in surprise.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he chuckles slightly. “Sorry, I know it’s been a minute.”

You frown, because you’re confused more than anything.

“Yeah, like almost a month,” you reply. You put the call on speaker so you can grab up your sandwich and quickly brush off the crumbs from your keyboard. You struggle to say something cool, clever, sexy even. “I’m okay. Just, um…what’s up?”

Smooth, real smooth. You cover your eyes with your hand.

“Nothin’, I was just thinking of that night,” he says. “I had a good time.”

Your frown deepens, despite the beginning of a blush warming your cheeks. If he’s calling you just for another hookup…

“So I just thought maybe you and I could do something again. Maybe you wanna come over my place this time.”

And there it is. You deflate at his words, shoulders sagging. The "convenient booty call" proposition.

“I could make us some burgers, toss in a couple of beers and a movie night,” he adds.

That part throws you though, you’re not going to lie. What, is this a Netflix and chill situation—with a side of fries?

You consider it. You weigh pros and cons at a frightening speed in your mind, almost like Sherlock Holmes contemplating the layout of a dead body and deducing within moments that his wife committed the murder, despite the man no longer wearing a ring.

You want to let yourself be bold and spontaneous and carefree...but it's just not who you are at your core. You're a planner, a cautious person who looks three ways before crossing the street. Letting Dean take you home that night was certainly one of the most spontaneous, wild things you've done since your friends took you out to a strip club after you aced your final round of exams back in college.

(Sam hadn't been there that night, but he did get an embarrassing drunken text from you at 3:00 a.m., along with a few shame-ridden pictures fueled by questionable substances. Yes, he still had the evidence.)

You just don't know if it's smart to let yourself hookup with Dean again. Mostly because you know your heart has the tendency to get attached, no matter how much you warn it not to.

“You know, Dean, I’m pretty busy with my job right now. I just started here a couple of months ago, and I think I just need to focus on that right now,” you say. Part of it isn’t a lie, even though your soft heart is stinging.

“Ah, okay. Yeah. I get that,” he says. You hear his disappointment too. “But I just need to say, I really am sorry for not calling you sooner.”

Your lips tug at a smile. “It’s okay, Dean. Look, you’re Sam’s brother. I just feel like, maybe it’s better if you and I stay friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Dean says wryly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t have three rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends.”

Your blush comes swiftly again, burning in your cheeks.

“Be that as it may,” you say, “I just don’t want to do anything that will distract from Sam and Eileen’s wedding.”

“Oh, I’m a distraction, huh?” Dean says flirtatiously.

You begin to smile in earnest. “I think you know damn well what you are, Dean Winchester.”

His deep chuckle practically resonates through the phone and into your chest, going straight down to your pussy. You clench on nothing just at the sound of his voice, making you cross your legs under your skirt. Dear God…

How are you supposed to be even remotely normal around this man now?

But for Sam’s sake (and your own), you’ll have to try.

Two months later, Dean has taken Sam’s dating advice to heart. A week or so after you turned him down, he ran into Lisa Braeden, Eileen’s Maid of Honor, while he was at the grocery store buying beer and Twizzlers. She was a smart, sharp, sexy brunette. A yoga instructor, he soon found out. So he took a chance on asking her out. They’ve been going slow and steady ever since.

Dean hasn’t heard from you since the rehearsal dinner, but he sees you again at his brother’s wedding. All the bridesmaids are wearing long, royal blue dresses that drape off the shoulders and hug the bust and waist, flaring gently at the skirt. Lisa and Jo wear it beautifully, their hair perfectly smooth and coiled.

But when you step out into the hall outside the church ballroom to join them, Dean actually pauses in what he’s saying to his brother. He nearly double takes when you enter his line of vision—mostly because he hasn’t seen you in a dress since that night. You were sexy as hell then, a lady in red.

Today, you’re absolutely stunning.

After greeting Sam with a warm hug, you turn to him with a nervous kind of smile. “H-Hey, Dean.”

With that, he snaps out of it. Dean smiles, eyes crinkling, and goes over to give you a hug as well.

“Good to see you,” he says, trying not to inhale too much of your nice perfume. It’s even in your hair.

“You too,” you reply. Your smile is a little brighter, more genuine. Though there’s something behind your eyes that he can’t quite place.

What he doesn’t notice is the way Lisa is watching you and her boyfriend, a hint of suspicion on her face.

You do though. You pull away from Dean and assemble into a line with Lisa at the helm. As the Best Man, Dean stands with her, followed by Jo and Brady, another one of Sam’s buddies. You and Benny bring up the rear. Benny’s dad used to work with John, Sam and Dean’s father, on the police force.

According to Sam, John Winchester worked a beat for twenty-six years before his liver finally gave out on him. Dean almost went to the Police Academy to follow in his dad’s footsteps, but Benny, already working his way up to Lieutenant, suggested Dean become a smoke eater instead. The suggestion stuck.

Benny Lafitte is slightly shorter than Dean, but just as broad-shouldered, his auburn beard neatly trimmed. Even though you might’ve thought he was rough around the edges at first, his kind blue eyes spoke the contrary. He offers you his arm like a gentleman.

“Well aren't I lucky, getting the prettiest girl on my arm,” he says, with a charming smile.

You smile, and even begin to blush at the way he subtly takes note of you from head to toe.

“Well, thank you. You’re very handsome yourself. Although, hold on.” You slip your arm out of his for a moment so that you can fix his tie. It’s slightly crooked. You make sure that it lays flat under his collar, smoothing down all the edges and picking off any small dust particles that landed on his collar. Benny watches you with an indulgent smile.

“Am I good?” he asks.

“Very,” you reply.

“I appreciate it, thank you,” he says. You don’t know if he means to sound flirtatious, but his voice is a deep drawl that washes over you pleasantly. You find yourself blushing down to your neck as you slip your arm back around his.

You also don’t notice how Dean glances at you and Benny over his shoulder.

As much as you love Sam and Eileen, it’s difficult for you to keep your mind from spinning into fractals as the ceremony goes on. You can’t help but glance at Dean. He stands there behind Sam dutifully, but you see brotherly pride in Dean’s eyes, in his smile. It makes you smile too. You too love Sam like a brother, and it brings a well of happy tears to your eyes to watch him have his moment with his new wife.

It just also reminds you of what you need to do.

After the ceremony ends and the bridal party files out behind the bride and groom, you excuse yourself from Benny apologetically. You wait until Lisa and Jo go off to take pictures with Sam and Eileen, and you grab Dean’s wrist, pulling him aside.

“I need to talk to you,” you whisper.

Dean gives you a confused look. “They’re gonna need us for the pictures.”

“I know, but this is important,” you say. Your voice trembles with nerves, and so do your hands. Dean notices, frowning in concern. He grasps your arm to try and steady you.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Just come with me,” you implore him. You take his hand and lead him into the women’s dressing room attached to the church sanctuary you all just came out of.

Dean raises his brows at the mess you and the rest of the bridesmaids have made of the room—pantyhose and makeup and clothing litter the floor and most available surfaces, while leftover breakfast sandwiches, grapes, salami, and cheddar cheese cubes are splayed out across one of the vanity counters. Dean is tempted to steal a morsel, but he focuses on you first.

You close and lock the door, which makes his brows raise high again. You know he has a girlfriend now, right?

“Uhh, look, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but—”

You heave a sigh. Again, you take his hand and guide him to sit with you at the vanity. The old stools squeak, the overhead lights a bit too bright. This is not where you want to do this, but you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Dean, I’m pregnant,” you confess.

He freezes. His breath stills in his lungs. His eyes slowly widen as the words click in his brain.

“What?” His head tilts, as if he didn’t hear you right.

You squeeze his hand; to ground him or yourself, you’re not sure.

“I’m about two months pregnant. I found out last week.”

Dean swipes his free hand over his mouth while he tries to compute. He squeezes your hand, tighter and tighter. He points to himself.

“It’s…it’s me? It’s mine?”

You give him a weary smile. “You’re the only one I’ve been with in the last few months. It could only be you.”

Oh fuck. The man’s face begins to pale as he descends into shock.

“But we…I used a condom,” he reasons. “All the—all the times!”

You bite your lip. If you weren’t freaking the fuck out yourself, you’d probably be laughing right now. Granted, you’ve had a bit more time to process this than Dean.

“I know, I was there,” you reply, releasing yet another sigh. “One of them probably broke. That’s all I can think of… Honestly, Dean, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I just didn’t want to disrupt the ceremony or cause a scene before the wedding. But now you know.”

Dean falls silent then. He hasn’t let go of your hand, which you think is a decent sign. He’s likely forgotten that you’re still holding it as he stares off into the middle distance for several seconds.

Eventually, he shakes his head and returns his gaze to yours. He looks uncertain, his handsome face the true epitome of holy fucking shit.

You know the feeling.

But he asks the most important question.

“What do you want to do?”

Briefly you close your eyes as you take a breath. You squeeze his hand before you let go of him.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, and…I’m keeping the baby,” you tell him, though you raise placating hands. “I don’t want money, or anything like that. I just wanted you to know that it’s yours. How much you want to be in his or—or her life, that’s up to you.”

Dean takes a beat before he answers, but you don’t have to wait so long holding your breath.

“Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ll help you. Don’t worry,” he says.

And just like that, all the time you spent giving yourself pep talks for this, telling yourself that you’ll need to be strong no matter what he says, all of it crumbles into relief. Your lower lip trembles, and your body shudders as you break into tears. You try covering your face to hide your shame, but Dean grasps your shoulders.

“Hey, hey. It’s all right,” he says. He tentatively pulls you into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You nod into his dress shirt, probably staining him with your running makeup.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you so much.”

He holds you a bit tighter in response.

You and Dean agree to keep this to yourselves for now, at least until Sam and Eileen get back from their honeymoon. It’s difficult to explain why your eyes are all red and your makeup is smudged, but you promise Sam that you’ll tell him later. You know it’s pointless to lie to him though. As a lawyer, his bullshit meter is far too high.

However, you also know that he’s half guessed it by the time you all make it to the reception. When you and Dean came out of that dressing room to join the bridal party for pictures, you're sure that you looked emotionally wrecked. Dean had looked pale as a sheet, his body coiled and tense, as willing himself to seem normal. Sam had clocked both of you with a raise of his brow, but he didn't say anything then, especially after you gave him a pleading look.

While Eileen greets her family without him for a moment, Sam pulls you aside. He notes your glass of diet coke, in a moderate sea of guests drinking champagne and cocktails.

“Are you okay?” he asks knowingly.

Tears well up in your eyes again. You don’t know if it’s your damn hormones going haywire, or just the way Sam asks you, with the love of a friend in his eyes. He squeezes your shoulder gently, prompting you with your name.

“Yeah, I think I will be,” you say.

"Is it the same reason you're not drinking?" he asks. "You and Dean earlier..."

You hesitantly confirm with a nod. Sam blows out a harsh sigh, raising folded hands to his mouth as he processes. You begin to look around on reflex, trying to see if anyone's watching you and Sam have this conversation in the middle of the reception. To your relief, everyone around you seems occupied with drinks, hours d'oeuvres and conversation.

“What did he say when you told him?” Sam asks. His gaze is firmer. You get the idea that if he doesn’t like what you tell him, then he’s about to go grab his brother by the ear himself.

You grab his wrist and give a placating squeeze. “He said he's going to help me, be there for me.”

“Damn right. So will I,” Sam nods, and glances back at Eileen, his new bride, with a smile. “We both will.”

“I know,” you nod as well. “I’ll be okay, Sam. You don’t have to worry so much. Just enjoy your wedding day. It’s the only one you’re gonna get. Well, you know…hopefully.”

You tease him with a wink.

Sam laughs, cupping your cheek. He kisses your other cheek.

“I love you, you know that right?” he says.

You give him a trembling smile through your tears.

Meanwhile, Dean has a beautiful woman in his arms. He turns Lisa on the dancefloor, trying not to trip on his own dress shoes, all the while knowing that his brain isn’t here in his body. It’s across the ballroom, watching you talk to Sam. Dean can tell that he knows, just in his Big Bird body language. He’d also recognize that accompanying Bitch Face anywhere.

“Dean, what’s wrong,” Lisa asks him, and not for the first time. She’s getting annoyed, he can tell. She finally looks over to where he keeps glancing, and she notices you with a frown. It’s also not the first time she’s caught him staring at you tonight.

“What was that earlier in the dressing room? She didn’t really get food poisoning, did she?” she asks pointedly. “What, did you two used to date or something?”

He gives a wan smile. “Yeah, kinda. We…had a thing once.”

“What kind of thing?”

Dean closes his eyes and tries to keep himself calm. He’s pretty sure if he tells her the truth right now, she’s going to find the nearest cocktail and dump it over his head.

But shit, here it goes.

“Well…”

After a long day at school, you drive over to Dean’s apartment. You’d agreed to meet there and wait for him to get off his shift at Firehouse 83, where he just started as a full-fledged firefighter on probation. When he gets home, he’s supposed to go with you to an important appointment with your OB-GYN.

You were hoping he’d already be done with work by the time you got to his place, but Lisa's there to open the door for you. Apparently, he’d already given her a key.

Moving kind of fast, but okay, you think. A second later, you could’ve rolled your eyes at yourself. Pot, kettle, me. Got it.

Lisa greets you with a “polite” smile at best, but she does offer you water at least. You really can’t blame her for not liking you though. She found out her boyfriend got another woman pregnant right before he started dating her. Really, she has more balls than you for staying with him. You wouldn't put it past Dean to somehow have smooth-talked her into giving him a chance.

Or she really loves him. The thought sobers you as you lower yourself down to the couch beside her. Both of you sit there in silence for a moment, trying to figure out something to talk about.

“So, you’re what, six months pregnant?” she asks.

You correct her in thinly veiled annoyance. “Three months, actually.”

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I thought it was six.”

You have a feeling her awkward chuckle is fake, however. She knew good and damn well that you’re not six months pregnant. In her eyes, you must be the size of a parade float.

“If you want, I can recommend a holistic diet to help you get your body back after the baby’s born,” Lisa offers. “No pills, no chemicals. Just good clean weight loss.”

You feign interest. Honestly, you’d like her to cram that offer right up her hooch.

“I can even give you a discount if you want to try out yoga,” she says. “It’s low impact, but you burn plenty of calories. I have a beginner’s class, not too strenuous. Even my least flexible clients manage to do the poses.”

Is that why Dean likes you? Because you’re bendy? Bet if I sat on you, you’d pop like a fucking balloon.

You hide all of these thoughts behind a “polite” smile of your own.

“That’s really nice of you, thanks,” you reply. It’s non-committal enough, but hopefully it’ll get her off your back.

No such luck.

“You know, maintaining a healthy diet is really important for the baby’s health too,” Lisa adds. “It’s not just about avoided raw fish and dairy products. Oh, and processed food is obviously a no-go. Like, I’m sure you haven’t been hitting Taco Bell and all that stuff, right?”

As a matter of fact, you’ve been eating clean since long before you got pregnant. Not that it’s any business of hers whether you enjoy the occasional quesadilla or not.

Your temper snaps at its leash. You open your mouth to reply, when the front door unlocks and opens to Dean, stepping in through the threshold.

Thank God, you and Lisa both think. She gets up quicker from the couch than you, greeting her boyfriend with a kiss. You avert your gaze while you begin to get up yourself.

Dean reaches out to help you, grasping your arm in support. You shoot him a smile.

“I can still get up by myself,” you snip.

“Yeah, all right. Just in case,” he says with a smile. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s rock and roll,” you say, trying to hide your worsening mood. You’re exhausted, and irritated, and probably more than a little hangry. Except now, the idea of food just has you feeling guilty for even being hungry.

“Bye, hun. Hope you have a good appointment,” Lisa says, giving your shoulder a pat. You give her the most genuine smile you can muster as you thank her. It's possibly that she's one of those women who don't realize when they're being cunty, but you find it highly unlikely. She's too smart for that.

You follow Dean out the door and over to his car, big and black and sleek as you remember. You settle into the passenger seat with your arms crossed in silence. Dean switches the cassette to one of his favorite Led Zeppelin albums, though he notices your grumpy face.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

You give him some side-eye, but you’re reluctant to say anything. You just shake your head. As irritated as you are, you don’t want to be the friend who badmouths his girlfriend.

God, are we even friends? You wonder. Or am I just his knocked-up baby momma?

And again, you realize that this whole situation is probably hard for Lisa. You just don’t know if she’s jealous, or if she just…doesn’t like you.

“I’m okay,” you tell Dean.

He raises a skeptical brow. Looks like Sam isn’t the only one with a finely tuned bullshit meter.

“All right, how about this,” Dean says. “Let’s grab some burgers after this, huh? From your favorite spot. Shake Shack, right? Side of fries, frozen yogurt. I think I’ll get chocolate this time… Hmm, I doubt Lisa will want anything. She’s gone on an all-vegan kick or something.”

For one shining moment, you were happy and touched at his consideration. But now your body stills in your seat when you remember Lisa’s words. Tears well up in your eyes with a hot sting, and a sob escapes your throat.

Dean is cut off from thinking about getting extra bacon on his burger. He looks over at you in alarm. “H-Hey, what’s the matter?”

You scoff at him through your tears. “Are you kidding me? I can’t eat burgers anymore, Dean. I was already fucking fat. Now it’s just gonna get ridiculous.”

“What?” Dean’s brows knit together in confusion, along with his deepening frown. It gets worse as he tries to watch the road ahead, while at the same time, watching you continue to crumble.

“And after the birth, I’m just going to be an even fatter slob who can’t take care of her baby,” you sniffle and weep, trying in vain to wipe your eyes and get ahold of yourself.

Dean grits his teeth, his jaw twitching. Fuck it.

He turns the steering wheel sharp enough to startle a gasp out of you.

“Dean!”

He pulls the car over onto the side of the road, ignoring the honking SUV behind him. He shifts into Park and shuts off the radio—a big red flag, in your opinion. He’s upset too, and fucking serious, more so than you’ve ever seen him. You stare back at him with wide eyes.

“I’ve never once heard you say that you’re fat,” he says.

You blink at that, but eventually, you’re able to get your tongue to unstick from the roof of your mouth. You wipe the remnants of tears from your cheeks. Your face is already hot from your upset, now tinged with embarrassment.

“You haven’t known me very long,” you say quietly.

It doesn’t help. Dean’s jaw ticks again.

“Well, I’ve never thought it. Not even once,” he says. His jade green eyes are firmly set on yours, and he gestures between you and him with a pointed finger. “The reason you and I are here right now, is because the minute I saw you, I wanted you.”

One corner of his lips kicks upwards. “And that night, you didn’t disappoint.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. You don’t know how to respond, but you do know that a full blush is warming your face and neck. His words have power, and unbidden, they bloom a similar warmth between your legs. You swallow a bit nervously as you bite your bottom lip.

Dean glances down at your mouth when you do. He can remember what your pretty mouth did for him that night. Oh, he remembers all too well. He even had the shade of your lipstick streaked across his skin until he showered up at the firehouse.

He locks that all away when shifts the car back into Drive. If you’re going to make it to this appointment on time, he needs to get going.

And you both have to leave whatever that was right here by the side of the road.

AN: Woo! 😮‍💨 Yep, this is only Part 1, friends. Lisa is a bit different in this. My take was that without Ben in her life, she might be less mature and a bit more catty. As we get into Part 2 I'll leave it up to you to decide why she decides to stay with Dean, and perhaps more importantly, where the reader and Dean can go from here as co-parents. 🤔

If you enjoyed Part 1, please let me know!~

Next Time in Part 2:

“Hey, you okay?” you say, resting a gentle hand on his arm.

Dean shakes his head. “Look, I…I’m sorry for tossing a giant friggin’ monkey wrench into your life. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

If possible, your heart softens even more. You slide your hand down to grasp his.

“Dean, this baby wasn’t planned, but he’s not a mistake,” you say. “I don’t regret anything.”

Dean stares back at you incredulously. He can’t believe you could really say that to him. He doesn’t know what to say. He only knows what’s in his mind, and what he feels compelled to do in that moment.

He leans over and kisses you. It’s a firm meeting of his lips to yours, and achingly familiar.

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 2

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daylighted · 4 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ━ㅤ ㅤ dean winchester.

the tale of the king of hell and the sweet angel with flowers in her hair.

a hades & persephone retelling through the veiled, handcrafted lens of demon!dean and angel!reader, addressed as persephone, fem pronouns.

content warnings. sexual implications and elusions. that's it lol it's relatively tame!

word count. 6.1k

the woods were always a safe space for him. they existed in every location on the mortal plane; some big, some small, some haunting, some inviting. it brought him great comfort that something could be so vast and sometimes vitriolic and still be loved and adorned by someone by the likes of her.

she was the manifestations of everything innocent. she was a daydream; wisps of wind carrying flower petals of creams and teals, of pinks and violets. all of which stemmed from the plucked flowers tangled and vined in her hair.

she was always alone, this girl of flowers. dropped down from heaven itself, he knew ━ in the same way that he knew her woods were the big, inviting kind. inviting to everyone but himself.

the underworld was dark and icy, so cold sometimes that blue flames licked upon skin and burned it raw, frostbite staining each orifice blue in its wake. but here, with her, it was always so warm. he did not understand the phrase burn in hell when all he wanted, really, was to burn with her.

he watched her for a long time. every day, the same spot, all by her lonesome. he could see her wings even as they were tucked beneath the skin of her shoulder blades, her entire being painted in an innocence that longed to be scorned.

in the end, it was not him that approached her, but rather her that approached him. cream colored fabric caught in the pollen-scented air that wafted through the branches and got caught in the leaves. strands of her hair tangled in front of her eyes, petals dancing behind her like a trail of pure magic.

"what is it that you long for?" she asked him, and it was such a strange question, such a strange scenario. a creature made of darkness and corruption and everything vile did not often get asked what it was that they longed for, and it was even less often that such things that they wanted were women with buried themselves in flower fields and made friends with the bees.

as such, he did not answer her. he chose to bypass her question entirely and take it upon himself to ask her something. his hand reaches out to grasp a stray petal from the silky hive that was her hair. "it is not smart to approach strangers in secluded places."

"it is hardly secluded," she said as fast, her lips forming a soft 'o' as she blew the delicate magenta petal from his two fingers. "no part of the woods is ever solitary."

she is naive, he thinks, and the naive ones are always the most fun. but there is a part of him that does not long to break her spirit, so long as he can instead nurture it and make it grow. if he was capable of such things. "i suppose you mean the creatures that lurk in the bushes?"

"the wind," she corrects, her head tilting up to absorb the impact of it. again, it tosses her hair, knocks the flower petals woven in the strands loose. her silken dress is one with the wind itself, the fabric catching the gusts and bottling them as it dances in its fingers. "it carries secrets, if you listen close enough to hear them."

and he could not help himself. "what does the wind tell you of me?"

her head tilts to the side. his world, spun on its axis, watching him right back. "that we are alike."

she could not be more wrong. she was made of clouds and goodness, constructed in the very nature of virtue. he was of sin and shadows, dark and broken, feasting off of the innocence that she radiated like a pheromone. he opens his mouth to say so, but she does not let him.

"i know you are not of this world," she continues, slowly, as if she's convinced that this is information that should frighten him that she knows; not something that intrigues him greatly. "like i imagine you know that of me, too."

he does not give a solid answer, but the slightest quirk of his lips is enough to bring a flicker of mischief into her eyes. "what is it like?"

what a peculiar question from a girl made of stardust and glitter, drawing every bit of light toward her like a beacon. he could not play naive to this, or act innocent in the terms of her question, because she had already taken those roles and embodied them perfectly.

"dark," he says, leaning ever-so-slightly closer with each word, "foreboding. lifeless."

he expects that word to drown her spirits. he expects to see the hope floating away in the river's stream, swallowed whole as it glittered beneath the water's surface. instead, she sparkles brighter, her smile wider. "do you believe in fate?"

he balks. "i believe in nothing at all."

"perhaps you should take me there," she says, tugging the loose petals from her hair and letting them rain on the grass. she still looks as wild and free as ever, perhaps even more so, without the reins of life and nature holding her back. "and i will give you something to believe in."

try as she might, it was all for naught. he believed in her so desperately already that he might as well be the drowning thing in the river. perhaps that was why it did not glitter at all.

she called herself persephone, and she called him dean, though that was not what the servants of the underworld and the demons beneath him called him. they called him hades ━ master of cruelty, harbinger of the dead.

it meant justice, where she was from, high above in the clouds with the other things crafted from perfection and innocence. it was not a name out of love, but one out of duty. he told himself this, because there was no chance that someone like her could ever reach into his heart and cradle it between her palms.

persephone had a room, closest to his, and he hated to admit that he considered locking it with a chain every night, lest she realize her mistake and want to go back to her life of oak trees and soft-petaled flowers.

but the heavy door never nudged in the days that she stayed alongside him, and the darkness seemed to hold its breath around her.

"does it not get dreary?" persephone asks upon waking up, her eyes glittering so brightly in the bleak underworld that she stood out like the beacon he believed her to be. always calling him to her.

dean's eyebrows raise a fraction. her mind formulates thoughts that she does not share, until her mouth splits open to speak questions he does not know the context of. "is death not supposed to be dreary?"

he is very good at giving her the answers she does not want. her lips contort into a blatant frown, puffed in a pout of rose petals, and her eyebrows furrow like aggravated caterpillars on her face. "it is a necessity in the life cycle. all things necessary are beautiful."

"you are a dreamer, persephone," he says dismissively, because there's an odd feeling warming his cheeks and the back of his neck. warmth. how odd it was to feel warmth that didn't scald or burn, but soothed. "i await the day that your dreams shatter to pieces."

the pout deepens. angry pink petals curled downward enough to wrinkle her smooth skin. "that is an awful thing to say."

"i would pick up every shard," dean interrupts, their eyes finally locking, "and i would put them back together, no matter how long it takes."

"i have many dreams, dean."

dean does not back down, still. "and i have many centuries."

their stares do not falter. they hold and they hold, like hands tightly woven together in secret, clutching like they might be ripped apart at any point. dean was certain nothing could take persephone from him now, what with how desperate he was for the life she brought.

"your world is cold," she says simply after what feels like eternities in of itself, "and incapable of fostering life."

an astute observation. the words fell from her lips with icy breaths punctuating between them. "i did warn you," he speaks slowly, like this time it is she that needs to have it explained to her, "that this was not a place for angels like you."

he did not warn her of such directly, no. but is scaring off someone and warning someone not the same?

"i am not the life that needs fostered," she waves her hand, her eyes dancing around her surroundings mindlessly. the blackstone countertops of his housing chambers, the metal chairs that did nothing but breed discomfort. all of it was dysfunctional ━ display pieces, in a way, so that he may feel an ounce of humanity again in his dead soul.

her finger reaches out to poke his chest. firm in her movements and her judgements. "it is you." persephone's chin tilts up in her defiant arrogance. "and how lucky you are to have me to guide you."

dean forgot, in his haste to keep persephone, that other people were capable of loving her just as vehemently as he did. it was only a matter of time before something went awry in your absence, and people began to wonder where the angel dusted in pollen and petals had floated away to.

he just did not expect it to be so soon.

a month passes, and suddenly his home is littered in gold. she is a radiant light, everything she touches bursts into life ━ and so the dark home that he'd come to know, with its dim sconces and brooding towers, has become one with light through the gaps of the windows. fresh candles that smell like daisies and lavender are placed in the caged sconces.

maybe he should be angry that she is turning his kingdom of darkness into something so alive. but all dean has ever wanted was a touch of life, and not so much death. it was something that he only began to crave when he spotted her in the woods, surrounded by living things that responded to her touch.

there is an angel at his door, and it is not the one he wishes for.

he senses it like a sixth sense; something amiss in his territory. the wind before a storm, twisting and twisting and setting everything off balance. and the silence is unlike anything he's heard before, in a place as damnable as his home.

dean exits his room with his spine rigid, booted steps heavy on the hollow stone. acts like this are not taken lightly. acts so disrespectful are met with wings hung over his throne, bloodied muscle still attached to their delicate bones.

"persephone," the angel says from the center of his throne room, without turning over their shoulder to look at him. another act of disrespect. "is... where?"

dean's steps echo in the empty room as he circles the angel. predator and prey. neither of which give any indication on who they believe the other to be, in that manner. "is none of your concern."

"you have taken an angel from a place of life and virtue and thrown her into a dungeon of death and decay," the angel snaps back at him, their teeth bared in a harsh snarl. their true form threatens beneath the surface of the vessel they wear. down here, it is much harder to keep up appearances. "it is obvious that it is our concern."

the idea of persephone being locked away sent his stomach churning. how dare anyone think that he would ever try and stifle her light? not when she is cultivating her craft and turning his home into something that is alive.

dean drops into the throne in the center of the room. flames lick to life at the first contact between him and the granite. the angel does not falter at the sight, and dean's jaw ticks because of it. "if you think she is unsafe, find her."

the angel's eyes narrow. "is this a game to you?"

"i guarantee it is not." how could he ever imagine this situation as a game, when the very root of his life is being threatened to be stolen back from him? "find her."

dean knows where she is. in her room, across the narrow hallway from his. her door is shut, but he could smell the flickering flames smelting in her fireplace, warming her from the underworld's pitch black coldness. dean knows she is safe, writing on the parchment he'd gotten for her, detailing her days and thoughts into permanence.

the angel flickers away, out of his sight. dean is left alone with his own thoughts. his, he does not want to memorialize. his stay in the creeping corners of his mind, tucked away to keep his persephone safe. not that he did not believe she could handle a little darkness; she was the one that asked him to come here, after all.

it feels like an eternity that the angel is gone. dean fears, in the very depths of his soul, that they have taken her without a warning or a trace. he'd burn them. all of them. he'd take their wings and decorate the halls of his kingdom with their feathers. he'd . . .

flickering into view is the angel, with persephone clutched between their grip. her face is contorted into that fiery expression he'd come to expect from her, defiance born in her very blood.

it was no wonder that the angels wanted to leash her. she was not like them. she was composed of flame and fury, and radiated it like she was the sun itself. dean was always so captivated by her, but it was times like this when he could not look away.

"what have you done to her?" the angel tosses the accusation dean's way like the words sicken them. again, their true form flickers just behind their eyes. at least dean was a beast that wore his skin without the skin of a lamb atop of it.

dean's fingers steeple beneath his chin. "explain."

"she does not want to come back." the angel's eyes narrow onto him, unspoken allegations swimming in their expression. "there is no reason that someone so full of life would want to bury their feet into the death and darkness of your home."

it is selfish that his heart swells at those words. does not want to leave his home. his initial worries that he would have to say goodbye to her melt away like the ice frosting over his stone walls.

"that is not true," persephone interjects, and dean stills. waits for the clarification on what wasn't true. "i do want to go home."

they say that if you love something, you must let it go. dean did not understand it. never before had he loved anything, and the prospect of releasing this precious jewel to the real world has him feeling like he's about to burst from his skin. how was he supposed to let her go? how was he supposed to . . .

panic flares the fire surrounding his throne, his fists curled into tight balls against his palms. "then you may leave."

persephone's expression shifts, her eyes flicking over to dean. hurt mares that beautiful face, her eyebrows furrow deeply, valleys between them, lines burnt into the stone. "you do not listen."

"you have made it clear," dean cannot keep the hurt from his own voice, either, "that is what you want."

it was foolish for someone like him to be irate that someone like her did not want to be around him. persephone were gold and he was ash; she were fire and he was stone.

but perhaps he'd grown used to having someone lively around amongst all of this death. perhaps the prospect of her being in his space had begun to feel less like an invasion and more like laws of nature.

death could not exist without life. life could not continue without death. it was as natural for him to crave persephone like the moon longed for the sun.

"i want choice," persephone says loudly, her voice carrying throughout the hollow throne room. "i want to not be contained."

dean straightens in his seat. "and have you felt that i've been containing you, persephone?"

she holds his gaze for a long while. so long that he sees the fire in her eyes, watches it dwindle to ash in the shore of her irises. "you have never done anything awful to me."

"i do not believe such words," the angel interrupts, their lips curled into a sneer. "manipulation is part of who he is, persephone, and you are caught right in his snare."

dean is about to lunge. his nails bite into his skin, blood pools in four glossy red crescents on his palms, with the effort it takes to not bury his fists into the cheekbones of the angel's face.

it is her eyes that keep him steady. persephone's eyes, always so open and honest. he'd mistaken her for naive when what he really saw, initially, strength. warm, like a hug. burning, like passion.

he slumps back into the throne again, his curled fists breaking open and shattering like they'd never been built for violence at all.

"he has no snare," persephone's voice is soft. flower petals brushing across his calloused knuckles, a lover's caress. "he is a product of the underworld, an image crafted to maintain his reputation. you do not know him like i have come to."

dean did not believe a lot of what she said, himself. he was not just an image of violence and cruelty; it was who he was, still, with everyone but her. his persephone.

"your mistake is that you think i am vulnerable enough to get caught in any trap," she continues, and those eyes reignite and burn as they land on the angel that clasps her wrist. "i am not a damsel, or a lamb. i am a fire burning, and you are in my way."

persephone was a fire burning. those were the two words that she'd picked for herself, when she began to acclimate to the life below the surface. she burnt trees and flowers, singed them to ash and blew them away like the seeds of a dandelion.

she had it all, up above. life burst from her fingers, the sun beat down on her and made her burst. flowers wove themselves into her hair, stems tangled in the strands, her fingertips always smelled of pollen, and she could taste the season changes on her tongue with how familiar their flavors were.

but someone that was made of life was never truly alive. she only saw things grow, cultivated them, and where was the satisfaction in it, if she never got to see them die? what was the point of life if it never ended?

the god of death had been watching her for a long while. she felt the decay long before she ever saw him, her flowers wilting and the grass turning wheat brown and crunchy beneath her green-stained knees.

life was always intrigued by death. death always craved life. she found herself drifting up to him without an ounce of fear, even as his eyes swirled with a darkness beyond her knowledge. angels were naturally contemptuous of demons like he was, but she was no typical angel, and he was no typical demon.

it'd been her plan, really, from the moment that she first sensed the burn of his gaze upon her, threatening to drain her life source from its very core, to get him to steal her away. she was exhausted with giving life to everything around her, and not ever getting to feel that thrill of something new and exciting herself.

the god did not put up much of a fight to her troublesome idea, and that was the moment that persephone realized that she had chosen right. it took nothing for him to be convinced of her purpose and her potential, whereas there was not a soul that paid her any mind unless her efforts began to slip.

she'd never felt as alive as she did walking amongst the dead, and not only because of the obvious, but because it was new. a purpose. the souls that were trapped beneath the mortal grounds did not need to live like they were entombed in eternal winter.

persephone was a fire burning in the icy pits of hell, daring to melt away its harsh exterior and warm it, starting with the man that believed her capable of such.

"what is this?" she asks upon entering into his throne room, her eyes bursting open like blooming flowers at the sight. his throne, a towering mass of obsidian once in the center of the room, was now shifted. and next to it was... "for me?"

a granite throne of smaller stature, engraved with vines and thorned flowers. lesser demons worked on it without stirring at her arrival, though their rigid backs gave way that they sensed her. she was the sole thing with a heartbeat in this kingdom, it was impossible not to.

her beloved dean sat on the big arm of his own throne, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing on the working demons, lips curled in utter focus. but the moment her voice rang out, the black depths of his eyes melted into the green she'd gotten to familiarize herself with. the green just for her. "if you wish it to be," he says nonchalantly, as if having a throne built just for her was some idle task.

"you do not have to go to such lengths for me," persephone insists, "i am merely a guest in your home."

his eyes narrow. not long ago had that angel invaded the underworld and tried to drag her away. spouting nonsense about the god's manipulation of her, turning her vision rose-tinted and blind. the angels did not know that she had manipulated the god into bending to her will. "you are not merely a guest if you wish to be more."

"that is a bold offer," and she almost calls him dean, but she refrains in front of his subjects. that name is reserved for them and them only. his vulnerability is hers to cherish.

dean's head nods once. "and you are a bold girl."

her heart swells. the hollow thud of tools on stone echoes throughout the room for endless moments while she watches him, stares into those eyes that only deepen for her.

"leave at once," he commands, his voice cold and crafted of ice. dean's eyes, though, do not freeze over into black as they stay locked with hers.

the subjects scramble to their feet and disappear into the open archway of the throne room, out of sight. in a blink, it is just persephone and the devil, his gaze crafted of marble and as warm as a hearth.

no, he is not capable of manipulating her or breaking her. but she is capable of shattering him. he is lucky she would never want to hurt him. she is lucky that his heart thaws just for her.

"i will tell them to dispose of it if you do not want it," dean says, his voice like warm honey compared to the frosty interior. "i only thought that it would be nice. to have you around when i am not available to keep you company."

persephone shakes her head. "i love it," she answers, her eyes falling back onto it. it is everything she loves at once. the harshest flowers, the cruelest thorns ━ blackstone carvings of the balance between life and death.

dean can read her like a book. his eyes stay locked onto hers for any flicker of change in them. "there is something else." his jaw ticks. "say it."

"i am afraid."

the words come so easily that she does not feel the need to sugarcoat them, or to bury the truth beneath flowery words. though his reaction is unexpected. a flinch mars his expression.

she feels guilty at once.

"oh," is all he says, and the soft utter of the one syllable alone has her reeling to make this right.

"not of you," she says quickly, desperate to get the hurt out of his beautiful eyes. "never of you." dean stays looking unconvinced. "i am afraid," she starts again, backtracking on her words so that they might sound better this time, "of how a throne for me will be perceived."

dean's expression hardens and tightens. it takes seconds for him to become a man of marble ━ harsh lines deepen the contours of his face, expression unyielding and unmoving. he is the god hades, then, and not her dean.

instead of responding, his head jerks in gesture to the throne. not hers, but his. the one that he sits on the arm of, and not in. the one that does not belong to her, and that has probably never felt the presence besides its god's.

persephone's feet carry her to it, anyways, as if her body has not realized, yet, the implications of it all. her fingers dance along the glossy stone of the empty arm, expecting it to be icy and finding it warm.

she sits upon it, and it bursts into flame.

dean does not flinch away from the wisps of fire, though. they do not touch him. as she thought, the fire adheres to him, the throne answers to him ━ and it appears to answer to her, too.

"you are as much of a queen," he mutters as his head dips down, lips brushing on the curve of her ear, "as i am a king."

persephone cannot move, stuck in the trance that was the burning in his eyes. dean leans closer, and she does not move. his breath is warm and full of life on her skin. "it is yours if you want it to be. all of this is yours."

she has never wanted something more than to mean something. to have a place amongst death as life always should. her lips part to say so, but three words interrupt her, stopping her heart in between her ribs. "i am yours."

it is incredible, persephone thinks, to be loved. to not feel too inadequate to deserve it. to be herself, and to be enough.

his hand falls on her cheek, and hers lifts to trap it there, caging his love before it can run out of her like sand in an hourglass. and before she knows it, she's leaned up enough to kiss him.

his mouth tastes like frosted pomegranate and sin. his tongue breaks through the barrier of her lips like he's craved her for so long that he knows exactly what to do now that she is here.

life unto death. life undoes death.

he keeps her face between his palms like she is something precious as he makes the moves to stand. he is between her legs, then, his fingers trailing up the dress she wears, tucking beneath its hem.

she does not stop him. his fingers land on her inner thighs. she does not stop him. he sinks to his knees in front of her, a king bowing at his own throne, surrendering.

persephone's mouth parts in blooming anticipation. his hands push her knees apart, the thin fabric of her dress's skirt pooling in between the open space. and there dean is, her dean, as warm as he is frozen, thawing at the touch of her.

"i know you do not fear fire, my beauty," he whispers, his voice as rough as gravel as he looks up at her through his eyelashes, "so burn for me."

and then he buries his face between her legs, and she bursts into flames.

"i had this made for you," dean says upon entering their shared space. she is sprawled underneath silken burgundy sheets, completely bare, still, from the previous night. and the one before that. she has not left his bed or made any attempt to.

all he wears is a wrap of black cloth around his waist, hair damp from a shower, the smell of soap billowing around the room like smoke. and in his hands is a crown.

ruby red roses wrap around the base. the sharp points are thorns. deep green vines wrap around it in its entirety. it is sharp, deadly, and it is beautiful.

the sheets pool at her lap as she sits up, her lips parted in her awe. it is beautiful. it is everything he views her as, she knows, because he does not let her forget that she is as fierce as she is soft. she is thorns and she is roses.

dean crosses the space to nestle the crown into her hair. his knuckles trail down her cheek, a soft caress, softness that stays reserved for them.

"you look beautiful wearing your power atop your head," he mumbles mindlessly, his eyes searching her expression for any sort of reaction. but she is struck wordless. there is no magic in a crown made of thorns and bloody petals, but there is magic within her now that she wears it. an irrevocable strength that does not waver.

she reaches up to touch it, fingertips dancing along the jagged points of the thorns. her finger pricks, the sting making her blink in her surprise. how long had it been since she'd dealt with pain? since she'd seen it in her very eyes?

"when you are presented tonight, to my court," dean continues, his knuckle locking beneath her chin and tilting it up higher so she may meet his eyes, "you will wear it."

the fear of being rejected by his people and his subjects is now nothing but a wobbly line pretending to be a towering wall. she had broken past those worries, shattered them into rubble and dust, the moment that he'd kissed her.

like he knows that such an act will solidify her and her feelings, he presses his mouth to hers. warm, as always. everything in the underworld, now, is becoming warm and hearty.

persephone grabs at the cloth wrapped around his waist to drag him in closer. her hands slide around the expanse of his thighs and pull, pull until his knees meet the feathery soft mattress and he is atop her.

"i will never take it off," she vows on his lips, letting him swallow their truth.

dean's lips quirk into the kiss. "already fitting perfectly into your role."

━

persephone's throne is collecting dust, now, from the disuse. dean has insisted that she sit in his lap on his throne from the very moment that they'd first gotten together, and persephone was never one to argue with what he wanted when it was what she, too, did.

his people do not like her. it is evident in their sneers and their irritation. but it is not her job to make them accept her. it is theirs to come to terms with, when she stays.

dean's hand trails up her thigh, his palm leaving shivers with each pass, raising higher beneath the hem of her black satin dress. thorned vines wrap around her legs, thorns blossoming down the center path of the room from each step she took.

she is life and she is death. and most importantly, to her, she has found a purpose within his courts.

"you must not falter if they speak ill to you," he whispers into her ear, peppering the words along her skin in between kisses, "you must show them the queen that i know you to be."

it was reassurances that persephone did not need. she was not afraid of the dead. she craved death like it starved for her.

every harsh stare toward her was met with her own sneer. it was hard to fear her above, when flowers bloomed beneath her feet and branches curled toward her, wishing to listen in on what she had to say, and the wind whispered its secrets into her ears.

here, she was fire. here, she'd never felt so alive.

persephone could feel dean's eyes on her. when she turns to meet his gaze, there is pride in his green eyes. green, just for her. green, like the leaves and the grass. she lifts her hand to smudge the wrinkles in the corners of them, the gesture a silent question and an act of affection.

"you do not have to hide from me," she promises under her breath, the pad of her thumb massaging the age lines over his stubbled face. "show me how dark you can burn."

and when his eyes blacken, she is certain that love can conquer all. it certainly has brought a king to his knees.

the warm months were dawning. persephone knew, because her veins ached with the need to be above again. spring was upon them. it was time for her to return. just as dean had his duties, she had her own. it would not be fair to throw them to the wind just because she'd found a home, now, and was no longer wandering mindlessly through the woods.

dean stands before her, a grim expression on his face. in his hands is a pomegranate, torn in two. the juice runs down his hands like blood.

from his face, she knows that he must feel, too, like he is bleeding out.

persephone steps forward to press her forehead against his, on the tips of her toes to reach him. his arms wrap tightly around her, staining the white of her flowing gown pink with the blood on his hands.

she does not make any move to pull from him, though. she has waited as long as she possibly could already, but she does not want to abandon him again to his kingdom of cold isolation. does not want to see how much he falls apart without her; not when she will shatter just as violently.

"i will be back when the wind begins to chill," she promises, slipping from his arms just enough to steal a pomegranate half from his hands. she plucks a seed from its pieces, popping it between her lips. "i will be back at the very first reddening of the leaves, i swear it."

it does not loosen his clenched jaw. dean has never doubted any of her promises, but he does doubt himself, falling into a pit of his own destruction. she does not want to leave him and see how many shards she will have to pick up upon her return.

dean's fingers reach out to steal one of her seeds. "i would never take away your ability to choose," he says softly, placing the seed on his tongue as she had, like an unspoken vow between them in the shared gestures, "but i wish that you will continue to choose me."

"always."

her eyes close, and it's like she can already hear the crying of the birds in the sky, the nymphs in the trees crying for her to return, her mother wailing. it overwhelms her. she opens her eyes again to find solace in the black swirls of his.

"i will count the days until you come," he swears, his stained fingers brushing streaks of red along her cheekbone as he cups her face against his palm. "and i will burn the world if you are kept away from me."

persephone knew he would, too. just as she would tear through it all to get back to him.

it is with great effort that she crosses the gate between the underworld and the real world. her strength crumbles the moment her feet touch the grass, tears streaming down her face, the first signification of spring being the pouring rain that starts the moment her tears do.

but she was strong, and now much stronger, now that she holds place in someone's heart and she has found solace in a home that welcomes her just as she wants to be. as a queen, not just an angel, as a girl who wants to burn as much as she wants to light.

and true to his word, the depths of hell are aflame the moment the gate closes. the ice melted and thawed, in its place, flames and fire and heat, grieving the angel of death until she makes her way home to its king again.

tags. @sthefferrete @cevansbaby-dove @titsout4nicholas @cosmicanakin @bluestrd

@ultravi0lence14 @mccartneyqp @poughkeepsie99 @depressionbarbie2023 @im-bili

@ariasong11 @chevroletdean @angelblqde @ostaramoon @deansbite

@lyarr24 @jasvtsc @deanswidow @figthoughts

click here if u want added!

#dahlia's ☆ journal #★ life unto death #dean winchester #demon!dean x angel!reader #dean winchester au #demon!dean #supernatural #spn #demon!dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #demon!dean one shot #hades and persephone #supernatural one shot #spn one shot #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #greek mythology #hades and persephone retelling

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deansbeer · 2 months ago

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✶ MARKED BY SIN ݂ ౨᭪ ׂ

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

📖 LIBRARY !

PAIRING. demon!dean x f!reader.

SYNOPSIS. while dean's fucking you deep and rough, he's obsessed with those little dermals on your lower back—just another excuse to touch you.

KARI TALKS. i'm missing him terribly rn !!! so i hope u enjoy whatever this is <3

DEMON!DEAN'S grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you back onto him with every deep, punishing thrust. the motel room is dim, bathed in the dull red glow of a flickering neon sign outside, casting everything in shades of sin. it fits.

his hands roam, sliding over your sweat-slicked skin, tracing the curve of your spine until they find the tiny, glinting dermals embedded in your lower back. his pace falters for just a second, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he presses his thumb against one, feeling the cool metal against your fever-hot skin.

"fuck, sweetheart," he rasps, voice thick with something dark and dangerous. "always forget you've got these."

you whimper, barely holding yourself up on shaking arms, your body rocking with every thrust. he's relentless, setting a brutal pace that has you gasping, moaning his name like it's the only thing you know how to say.

DEMON!DEAN chuckles—low, smug—as he palms the small of your back, his fingers brushing over the piercings again. "bet you got 'em just to drive me crazy, huh?" his breath is hot against your ear as he leans over you, chest pressing flush against your back. "knew i wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

you can't even form words anymore, just broken moans and choked whimpers spilling from your lips. he fucking loves it. loves the way you're trembling beneath him, completely at his mercy.

he grips your hip with one hand, the other spreading across your stomach, pulling you back harder. "c'mon, baby, let me hear it," he coaxes, voice dripping with amusement. "tell me how good i’m fuckin' you."

you try—you really do—but all that comes out is a shattered moan, his name falling from your lips like a prayer to something unholy.

DEMON!DEAN just smirks, pressing a kiss to your jaw before sinking his teeth into your shoulder, claiming you the way only he can.

"that's what i thought."

꒰୨୧꒱ SPECIAL TAGS. @titsout4jackles @floralscented @bluemerakis @unfortunate-brat @beausling @aileenunfiltered @honeyryewhiskey @figthoughts @lacydollette @ultravioletrayz @soldiersgirl @deanssun @abox-of-rocks @whisperingdaze @eepwtf @rafespreciosa @deanswidow @deansbite @voidsuites

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

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Babylon The Great Series Masterlist

Read on A03! - Listen to the Playlist!

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, severe mental health issues, self-harm and suicidal ideation, mentions of rape/non-con, and sexual content.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending.

Series Summary

There's something wrong with you that's not wrong with other people. You're a hunter, and a damn good one, but you might be a monster.

There might be something in you that needs to be put down. Something broken that can't be fixed.

It's why you've had one rule your whole life. The only thing your father has ever made clear is that, no matter what, you need to stay away from John Winchester. He can't even know you exist, or he'll kill you and never blink.

And when your paths cross a hunt, you should've run, but you didn't. You couldn't. Because you looked at Dean Winchester, and something changed inside of you. Something called you to him, and you can't figure out what it was, but you know it's strong. And you know that, whatever Dean's doing to you, you don't really care to fight it. Things are broken in you, just as much is broken in him, and you fit perfectly together in a way you'll never be able to describe.

But it's more complicated than that, though. The world pulls you and Dean apart again and again.

And you find your way back, again and again.

Author's Note

This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.

What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.

If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter List

Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood Chapter 2 - Under My Skin Chapter 3 - I Get A Little Dizzy Chapter 4 - You Bleed Like Me Chapter 5 - If You Let Me Chapter 6 - All The Noise Chapter 7 - Something I Can See Chapter 8 - Keep Us Far Apart Chapter 9 - Does The Feeling Haunt You Chapter 10 - Look and See Chapter 11 - You Might Drown Chapter 12 - Watch You Work The Room Chapter 13 - You'll Have to Believe It Chapter 14 - Water Is Forever Chapter 15 - Before It Falls Apart (4/3)

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bettystonewell · 2 months ago

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TO YOU I BELONG SERIES MASTERLIST

Main Masterlist || On AO3 || On Wattpad

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn’t looking for a mate. Not only does he think he doesn’t deserve one, but the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain’t real. He still has free will, and saving you from monsters is just another part of the job.

The demons in your life, though? They’re closer than he realises, more personal, and his inner alpha won’t let him leave you behind with them. But can Dean embrace everything that comes with claiming someone? 18+ only MDNI

Tags: omegaverse, soulmate AU, pregnancy, strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, SMUT, breeding, claiming, knotting, nesting, angst, fluff, endgame is Dad!Dean (and the parenting skills we all know he has), Protective!Dean, (dual POV), somewhat of a fix-it

WARNING: This story implies/references some potentially triggering topics including domestic abuse, sexual assault, a past miscarriage (chemical pregnancy), and follows the journey of how the characters deal with it. Please consider these carefully before reading. I can’t stress this enough!

A/N: This all started out as a one shot idea of Dean playing with kids and nerf guns. That one shot hasn’t been written yet because my brain wanted to know where the kids came from, but Dean will get his hands on a nerf gun in this fic.

uploading weekly on Fridays 🇦🇺🕕

Chapter 1 - Yearning

Chapter 2 - Harbouring

Chapter 3 - Confronting

Chapter 4 - Familiarising

Chapter 5 - Languishing

Chapter 6 - Domesticating

Chapter 7 - Honeydaying 04/04

Chapter 8 - Disconcerting

Chapter 9 - Ruminating

Chapter 10 - Saddling

Chapter 11 - Containment

Chapter 12 - Sentiment

Chapter 13 - Derisionment

Chapter 14 - Announcement

Chapter 15 - Dissappointment

Chapter 16 -

Chapter 17 -

Chapter 18 -

Chapter 19 -

Chapter 20 -

TIMESTAMPS TBA

EXTRAS/RELATED

Writing Game Snippet

100 Followers Celebration Sneak Peak

WIP WEDNESDAY (20/02) Chapter 16

Please Remember folks, abuse isn’t always physical. It’s also not easy to admit when you’re going through it, or sometimes even realise. Look after yourselves, and keep an eye out for signs from those you love. ❤️

If you'd like to be tagged in this series or any of my other works, please let me know, or you can add yourself HERE

I’ll be tagging all the lovely people signed up for my DEAN TAGLIST too, of course 🥰

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tequilai · 2 months ago

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more dean (pt.3) x younger!gf reader. He loves you real bad. SAM IS NEXT.. HUZZAH!!

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alexsoenomel · 4 months ago

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POV: Texts from Sam

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jessjad · 7 months ago

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Rightfully deceived

Series Masterlist

Summary: When a marriage promise forces Y/N to step up for her younger sister, she gets something she always wanted. But when the truth comes out, her new husband Dean is not so happy about the mix-up. Will she loose it all? Or will she be surprised in the end?

Pairing: AU!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: arranged marriage, lying, abbondanment, forced proximity, jealousy, fluff, smut and a couple of other things.

A/N: Hello! 😊 On to the next one. I do have to say that "Outlander" and some of my fav books influenced me here. We'll be going to scotland in the 1800's somewhere. I actually had a similar dream and I could not get it out of my head. So, I hope you like it too.

My Masterlist

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue

Series complete!

#rightfully deceived #mideval AU!#dean winchester x reader #spn #jensen ackles #scotish men #scotland

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holylulusworld · 1 year ago

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The one that got away masterlist

Summary: Your best friend breaks your heart. What happens when you meet again?

Pairing: AU!Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, unrequited feelings, time jump, regret, cocky Dean, virgin reader, smut in future chapters, fluff

A/N: Okay, it's a series now...😳

The one that got away (1)

The one that got away (2)

The one that got away (3)

The one that got away (4)

The one that got away (5)

The one that got away (6)

The one that got away (7)

The one that got away (8)

The one that got away (9)

The one that got away (10) FIN

Blurb 1

#dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #angst #spn #au!dean winchester #AU!dean winchester x reader #business au

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winchester-girl67 · 1 year ago

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Wild Hearts Masterlist

Summary: Coming of age is hard enough without meeting the right guy at the wrong time. Yet, that’s exactly what happens for the reader when she finally starts to settle into her new town. Then she meets a party crasher at a bonfire with a few more scars than her own emotional ones.

Pairing: AU!Dean x reader

Word Count: 24k

***Heed the warnings and if any of this bothers you in any way, please just do not read it. I am not responsible for your media consumption.***

Warnings: UNDERAGE, age gap (reader is 16, Dean is almost 21), underage kiss with Dean, underage drinking, physical abuse by a parent (John), John is an asshole in this one, mentions of death, alcoholism, minor violence, injuries/blood/scars, angst, arguing, pining/jealousy, mature themes, language, slow burn, hurt/comfort, non-linear timeline, long distance relationship, infertility, couples' therapy, adoption, background pairings (Sam/Ruby & Sam/Jess - not at the same time, Benny/Cas, Bobby/Jody), kissing/cuddling, fluff

A/N: Inspired by: If I Fix You by Abigail Johnson and Wild Hearts by Keith Urban. Parts were also written for a bingo that I did not meet the deadline for, I kept only the quote prompts listed but did not count them.

_____

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 - Postcards From Dean

Part 5 - Six Years After Dean Left

Part 6 - Two Years After Dean Left

Part 7 - Ten Years After Dean Came Back

A/N: This series is complete.

#au!dean x reader #au!dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #supernatural fanfiction #wild hearts masterlist

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zepskies · 4 months ago

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Against the Wind - Part 1

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: This is a canon ending-divergent AU, but still an Omegaverse story within the canon world. It also fulfills a bingo square for @jacklesversebingo!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 5.5K

Tags/Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, scenting, injuries, hints of angst, fluff and feels.

🧡 Series Masterlist

Part 1: In His Hands

Your body is mostly numb when he pulls you out of the snow.

You utter a sharp cry when something in your side twinges, waking up your entire body like a white-hot shiv. Your ankle begins to throb as well.

“Hold on. I’ve got you.”

You only half hear the voice, a deep, coarse rumble. His form is broad and dark and blurry, but his male scent is the only thing you register with perfect clarity.

Alpha.

A small treble of alarm runs through you. It’s an instinct you’ve had to learn, as an omega traveling alone in rural Montana. However, something else disrupts that anxiety.

It’s his scent. His scent is like the crackle and smoke of a warm hearth.

Safe. Your body is heavy and stiff and doesn’t respond to your commands, and yet, you feel a measure of calm when he maneuvers you into his arms. It’s a baser instinct, rooted deep in your chest. He begins to carry you down the slope of the mountain, and your vision blurs white…

Like the flurry of snow falling heavy on his jacket.

You wake up freezing and shivering in pain. A sensation of small sharp needles begins to travel all across your skin. Slowly, as you're able to blink, your view of the dark wood cabin clears and focuses. You realize that you’re bundled in blankets, and laying on a chaise in front of a large fireplace. Still, you’re too cold. A keening whimper escapes you as you try to burrow in.

Alpha. Your body instinctively recognizes his presence, as he’s suddenly there, hovering close above you with a divot between his brows and a frown marring his face, where thick stubble threatens to become a beard. Stern, dark brows are furrowed over his concerned eyes. His plush frown is framed by a stubborn-looking chin. Your gaze wearily travels over his handsome features, his short brown hair, the flickers of firelight that splash across the side of his face.

He places a warm, calloused hand on your forehead, and he mutters a curse. Your body trembles further with cold. You part your lips, but you can't yet force your voice to escape them.

Again, he quite literally takes the problem into his own hands. He peels away the thick blankets just to slide himself in behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you feel their tempered strength when they cage you in against him. You manage to turn your head and rest your cheek against his chest, covered by red plaid. Thank you...

Almost on reflex, you breathe in his scent deeply. The earthiness of it calms you, warms you from the inside. Your shivering eventually calms and turns to purring in your chest.

“What’s your name, Omega?” he asks. His voice is deep and gruff, and it threatens to make you shiver for a different reason as the timbre of it washes over you.

It’s difficult, but you manage to speak, clearing past your parched throat to give him your name. He nods, as if rolling the sound of it back and forth across his mind.

“Was somebody out there with you?” he asks.

You shake your head, even though the thought elicits a painful twinge in your heart.

“Who…” you try to speak again, even though it hurts a little. “Who are you?”

You feel him take a deep breath. He hesitates, like he’s reluctant to give it to you.

“Dean,” he says.

You roll the name around in your head, over and over. Dean, Dean, Dean…

You smile slightly. “Yeah, makes sense.”

“What?” he says. You hear the raised brow in his tone.

“You sound like a Dean,” you say, perhaps a little delirious.

Anyway, that’s when your eyes close on you again. You fall back into the warm lull of sleep, to the sound of a crackling fire, and a feeling that permeates throughout your body.

Safe.

Can’t fucking believe this, Dean thinks, as he holds you. Just when he thought his life was done throwing him curveballs.

He tips his head back against the sofa cushion with a tired exhale. It would just be his luck to find a stray omega wandering his stretch of Big Sky. Montana can be gnarly in the winter, but for the past couple of years, Dean has learned to survive here in this rental cabin for a couple of months at a time, when wandering an empty bunker gets to be too much. At least here the quiet’s peaceful, if still a little unnerving sometimes.

He glances down at you. Now that you’re warm and sleeping again, he should find something to wrap your ankle and ice it down. It’s swollen, and he wants to take an inventory of your other injuries, so he can determine how to get you back down the mountain and through the woods, back to civilization.

The sooner he gets you medical attention and back to your life, the sooner he can get back to his—even though the thought of leaving you in anyone else’s hands almost stirs a growl in his throat.

And that last part unnerves him, makes him anxious. He begins to untangle himself from you, but his movements falter when your sweet scent filters through his nose again. Cinnamon apples, with a hint of something floral.

Fuck me.

It’s almost too sweet to be true, but Dean does his best to ignore it…and what that alluring sweetness probably means.

Dean leaves you in the morning to revisit the site where you fell. He digs through the snow and manages to find your backpack, filled with your clothes, supplies, and your phone and wallet. He returns just in time.

The falling snow becomes even more intense, until it becomes a quiet roar outside. You watch the snowstorm through the impact windows in the kitchen, and you know what this means. You’re snowed in with a stranger—an alpha, no less.

You also have a bum ankle, which he wrapped for you. Doesn’t feel broken, he’d said, but it could be fractured, or at the very least sprained. You also likely have a couple of cracked ribs.

“What were you doing out there, anyway?” he asks, while pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “This ain’t exactly hiking season.”

While you drink some hot chocolate he made you with a bit of whiskey splashed in (for extra warmth), you explain.

“Well, I guess it wasn’t my best idea in hindsight,” you say with a weak chuckle. “I was trying to find my way back, and I…well, I was a bit lost.”

He raises his brows wryly, still sipping.

“And to make a great situation even better, I thought I heard a wolf howl nearby,” you say. “I know most of them would rather run from us than attack us, but you can’t be sure, you know? I had my rifle on me, so I was turning around, trying to pinpoint what direction it was in…and of course, my foot slipped on something.”

You fell down that hill. You think you even hit a tree on the way down, which would explain your ribs. Everything gets a bit swirly, cold, and dark in your memory after that.

Dean shakes his head. “Gotta say, going out there alone wasn’t a great idea either, especially now. This time of year, there’s no telling when a blizzard like this is going to come through.”

He waves haphazardly toward the storm raging outside. Your gaze falls to the mug in your hands. You don’t really want to talk about your reasons for taking that risk, but maybe giving him a little honesty will get him off your back.

“My dad and I used to hike up here every year,” you confess. “A few months ago…I lost him. So I guess this was just something I needed to do.”

You blow on your hot chocolate before you take another sip. This time when you glance up, Dean’s judgy expression has evened out into something more sympathetic. He lowers his glass.

“Well, hate to break it to you, but there’s no cell service up here,” he says.

You give a humorless huff. “Believe me, I know.”

“Which means no one can come up here and get you,” he continues, “and even when this storm breaks, I can’t carry you all the way down the mountain back to civilization. Not with the snow as deep as it’s gonna get. Now…maybe I can go down by myself and bring help back with me.”

“But another storm could snow me in,” you realize, with growing apprehension at the thought.

Dean nods. “It’s either I take that chance, leave you by yourself. Or we wait for you to heal up.”

He leaves the choice up to you with a gesture of his hand, the one still wrapped around his glass. You weigh those options with a tilt of your head. On one hand, you don't want to impose on him longer than you had to, but on the other, you really don't want to be left alone in this cabin for God knows how long while he scales the mountain by himself, for your sake.

“I think it would be better if we go down together, right? It can be dangerous, even when the storm breaks,” you reply.

Dean nods slowly, like that was what he was going to suggest too. “All right. Well, until you’ve got two working legs, you’re stuck here with me.”

“I figured as much,” you say. Your head tilts as you consider him. He has a gruff exterior, but all his actions so far have been kind, and far more than you’d expect from a stranger. And an alpha at that.

Not to say that all alpha's are assholes, but you've had far too many experiences with the stereotype: arrogant, entitled, and handsy. Can't forget handsy.

“Thank you for saving me,” you say, meeting his gaze, “and for…well, being a decent guy.”

Dean’s lips twitch. He nearly chuckles. Instead, he sits back on his side of the couch.

“Yeah, well, there’s a spare room in this place for you, one bathroom. The kitchen is stocked. I’m a half-decent cook, if I say so myself, but help yourself.”

He gets up from the couch without preamble, to go to his room, you assume. It leaves you feeling at a loss, like he’s trying to get away from you. You know you’re a guest in his space, so you try to respect the way he wants to be alone for a while. He definitely gives off loner vibes.

You look around and find a collection of vinyl records, and smaller collection of books on a shelf next to the fireplace. You find Gulliver’s Travels, Dune, The Odyssey, The Wizard of Oz—books you didn’t think a guy like Dean would be into.

You take up The Wizard of Oz, reclaim your spot on the chaise, and start reading.

That night, your dreams are plagued by the crunch of dead leaves, your father shouting at you to run, and to keep running.

The coarse roar of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short.

You wake with a start, your body both cold and flush at the same time.

Dean is there once again. It confuses you at first, but then it all returns to you in a rush—the where and the why you’re here, once again with the alpha standing over you in concern. He grasps your shoulder and asks if you’re all right. Your breathing is too erratic for you to answer him, your eyes too wide, your body trembling.

Had you been making noise in your sleep? You blush in embarrassment at the thought. You also feel bad for waking him, and all those things get trapped in your throat.

Seeing that you’re most definitely not fine, he sits on the edge of the bed, squeezes your arm, and reminds you.

“It’s okay. You’re safe here,” he tells you. His tone is deep and even, reassuring.

You meet his steady gaze and manage to nod, trying to catch your breath.

“I’m okay,” you say, with a shaky nod. He gives you a measuring look, both a question and a confirmation. You give it to him with a firmer nod. “Thanks, I…I’m sorry I woke you up.”

He exhales through his nose, accepting. “‘S all right. Don’t worry about it.”

You feel the loss of his touch when his hand eventually slip away from your shoulder. As soon as he came into your room, he’s gone.

Dean leaves swiftly, trying to brush off how the scent of your fear had tugged sharply at his gut even in his sleep. It not only woke him up, but compelled him to kick his blankets off and get out of bed to go to you.

You were having a nightmare, reliving your fall, if he had to guess. You came out of it pretty quick when he carefully grabbed your shoulder. Every instinct in his body told him to gather you into his arms and cover you with his own scent and protective embrace to calm you down.

Through sheer willpower, he managed to ignore every single one of those instincts.

Two days pass, in which you and Dean say very little to one another, besides when he asks you what you want to eat, and how you’re feeling. The alpha seems genuine, but guarded any time you ask him about him; anything that’ll give you a clue into who this guy is, and why he’s here.

You try again to strike up some kind of conversation over dinner one night.

“Do you live here year-round?” you ask, around a mouthful of burger that’s absolutely delicious. He wasn’t lying when he claimed to be a good cook. He even made the fries himself.

“No,” he replies. “No Netflix, no internet? Think I’d die of boredom. I just come up here to uh…take a beat, I guess.”

You smile. “I don’t blame you. Sometimes you just need a break,” you say, even though your tone is heavier than you meant it to be. Your gaze, a bit distant in that moment, sharpens and focuses back on Dean. “Where are you from, then?”

“Kansas,” he offers.

“Oh really?” You brighten with that scrap of information. “My older sister lives in Topeka. She moved there for a job, initially, but then she met her guy. He’s some kind of day trader. Which is just code for sits on his ass playing Call of Duty while she busts hers.”

Dean huffs, then crams more burger into his mouth. He hasn’t been giving you a lot to go on while you two have been talking. Unfortunately, you have the tendency to ramble and fill the silence before it becomes even more stifled.

“She works at a bank. Smart, driven, always knows what she wants. Meanwhile, I’ve had about seven jobs in the last three years, none of which were even remotely related to my almost useless degree in Communications.”

“Yeah, doubt you need a degree in communicating,” Dean remarks, popping another fry into his mouth.

You purse your lips at him, but the glint of teasing in his eyes makes you fight not to smile.

“All right, smart guy. So, what about you?” you ask.

Predictably, the man’s walls firm back up. “What about me?”

“Well…why’re you up here alone? Do you have family?” you ask.

Dean quirks a half smile. “I’ve got a brother.”

“Okay. Younger, I’m guessing?”

He tilts his head at you, a bit amused at your guess. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I can’t imagine you with a brother who’s older than you.”

His lips twitch. “You callin’ me old, sweetheart?”

You begin to blush with embarrassment. But also, sweetheart?

You shake your head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just mean like…”

Dean saves you with the return of his smile.

“Yeah, he’s younger,” he says. “But he’s the one with the quasi-wife and the apple pie life.”

“Quasi-wife?”

“They’re mated. Just haven’t gotten around to the whole getting hitched thing,” he explains. “But they’re happy. Dean Jr.’s growing up fast, already running full speed into glass doors.”

His smile is genuine when he talks about his brother, just tinged with a bit of melancholy, you think.

“Dean Jr.?” you ask in amusement. Dean Sr. laughs a little, and you enjoy the sound, the way it lightens up his face and pulls at the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, can’t say I wasn’t surprised myself to get that honor, but…hey, it works for the kid. He’s got my chin,” he remarks.

He digs into his pocket to show you a picture from his cell phone. Even though it doesn’t have service, you can still view the many pictures of the adorable infant in his camera roll, courtesy of Sam and his mate, Eileen. You coo at the chubby cheeks, the bright little eyes, and the swirled tuft of dark hair on his head.

“Where do they live?” you ask.

“Out west, a stone’s throw from the City of Angels.” Dean’s smile dims. “He just had to go back to California.”

“What’s wrong with California?” you ask.

“It’s full of pretentious douchebags, that’s what,” he says, his voice a dry whip. “Waxed up to the fucking eyeballs, smelling like Botox, Adderall, and sweaty desperation.”

You splutter laughing so bad that your diet coke escapes you in a spit take. It partially goes up into your nose, burning, stinging your eyes, but it’s made worse by the way Dean waves a hand up incredulously. You’ve just gotten half his sleeve wet.

He meets your gaze, and you can’t help but laugh even harder.

“Wow,” he says.

“God, I’m sorry,” you say, still giggling. You get up, hobble over to the kitchen counter, and rip off a paper towel to try and pat his arm dry. He takes it from you and helps you back into your seat.

“I got it, Spit Take. Just finish your food,” he says, if with a dancing gleam in his eyes.

From then on, it becomes easier for you to pull the alpha into conversation. Besides reading, napping, and staring out the window while it snows, you don’t have much by way of entertainment. Not to mention the pain of trying to get around without crutches, as it also jostles your ribs. Dean often has to help you from one room to another, which of course, you get embarrassed by.

“I’m sorry!” you yelp, when he saves you from another crash landing in the hallway. You’re fresh out of a shower, and it had taken you twenty minutes just to figure out how to wash your hair on one leg, let alone dry yourself off and get your shirt and borrowed sweatpants on. The main problem in getting back to your room happened to be the pants themselves. Their length and bagginess made you slip.

At least Dean’s learned to ignore your apologies. He now holds you by the waist, having pulled you against his chest on reflex. With furrowed brows, he notices your pained hiss when you grab onto his arms for balance.

“You okay?” he asks with a note of alarm.

“Ribs,” you gasp. They’re throbbing sharply with his hold, especially after being rattled by the near fall.

He immediately adjusts his hold lower, holding your arm and hip to support you. His hands are strong, but gentle. The warmth and pressure of his touch rattles you more than almost falling into a heap. Cliché as it might be, your heart is beating faster, what seems like in and out of rhythm. A feeling you can’t name stirs and tugs at your lower belly when you hazard looking up into his eyes. They’re a nice shade of green, like a forest floor in the spring.

“You just go ass over tea kettle at any moment, huh?” he quips, his lips tugging upward. “Come on. Where were you headed?”

“To my room, wise guy,” you say wryly, even as your blush heats your face and neck. “But this is a great taxi service.”

He snorts. “Yeah, call it the Winchestermobile.”

“Winchester. That your last name? Like the rifle?” you ask, while he helps you carefully down the hall. He nods in confirmation.

“That’s interesting. You don’t meet many Winchesters,” you remark.

“Yeah, well, ain’t that many left,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, easing you down onto the edge of the bed. His hands go to his hips as he scrutinizes your form for further injury. “You good? I was about to get cracking on some lunch.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Yeah, I’m good. What’s on the menu?”

“Nothing fancy. I’m thinking grilled cheese. Maybe some tomato soup, assuming I can find a can in the pantry,” he says.

“Honestly, that sounds awesome,” you say. “Haven’t had a grilled since…God, probably since I was a kid.”

At that, Dean smiles. “Well, I happen to make an awesome one. No less than three kinds of cheese.”

“If they’re as good as your burgers, then I don’t doubt it,” you reply. He seems pleased at that, and maybe a little bashful as his gaze falls away.

Cute, you think. Your smile grows.

“All right, well, stay tuned,” he says. He winks, tossing you a “gun for hand” gesture that makes you laugh. Dean wears a rugged exterior as easily as his winter jacket, but he’s also kind of a dork.

After lunch (delicious, as you predicted), you take the afternoon just to sort through Dean’s records and alphabetize them for him. You hunker down on the floor in front of the shelf, close to the record player.

“I don’t need all that. I know where all my stuff is…more or less,” he says, with a lazy wave of the beer he has in hand.

“Oh really?” you raise a brow. “Okay, let’s test that theory. Where’s Boston.”

“Right next to the White Album, there on the left.”

Sure enough, you find Boston, as well as the White Album by the Beatles.

“Oh my God, you actually have the White Album?” You open up the double-sided case in excitement to read the list of songs printed on the inside. “This thing is so expensive.”

“Beatles fan, huh?” Dean says as he takes a seat on the couch. You turn your smile on him, and he stills in his seat.

“Uh, yeah. Who isn’t?” you say.

Dean shrugs with a smile of his own. “Put it on if you want.”

You bounce a little with excitement before you figure out how to turn on his record player. You put the vinyl album on Side B, moving the needle until you find “Blackbird.”

“Of course,” Dean says, slightly teasing. You turn to him with crunched brows.

“What? ‘Blackbird’s’ a classic.”

“Eh. Everyone likes ‘Blackbird.’”

“That’s what a classic means,” you argue.

“More like a mainstream copout,” he says. You think it’s just to needle you, but you still purse your lips.

“Fine, Mr. Music Snob. Then what’s your favorite?”

“On the White Album?”

“Any Beatles song.”

“‘Hey, Jude,’” he says, after a moment. There’s some kind of weight in his eyes, a note of melancholy. You don’t miss it, even though you don’t know why it’s there.

“Everyone likes ‘Hey, Jude,’” you quip, trying to lighten him.

He smiles a little. “Yeah. Fair enough.”

Finally, the snowstorm breaks. Dean ventures outside and brings you back a long, sturdy stick to lean your weight on when you want to move around, though he claims he’s working on a better solution. Now that the snow has let up, he’ll be able to go out to the shed and do some work.

Whatever that means, you think.

You watch him from the living room when he goes outside to chop some more firewood.

He should really wear a hat. His brown hair is getting dusted white with snow flurries as he continues to swing down the ax. You notice the power in his tall frame, even covered by layers of his jacket, pants, and boots. You almost feel each chop of the wood resonate in your chest.

Heat rises in your cheeks when he looks up, as if he senses he’s being watched. You bow your head and pretend to read your book.

His boots continue to crunch in the snow as he makes trips back and forth from the surrounding forest. Aside from the firewood, he brings back a few long, thinner logs that he takes to the shed. Soon you begin to hear the steady back-and-forth cutting of a saw. You wish you could go out there and take a look, but you can’t even get around the house that easily, let alone venture outside.

Your curiosity about this man knows no bounds, and you decide to use the walking stick he found for you in the meantime to get around without putting pressure on your injured ankle. You know it’s wrong, but you end up traversing the long, dark hallway, pushing open the door to the right, and venturing into Dean’s room.

It smells like him, earthy and tinged with smoke. His scent is seeped into every part of it—the bed, the dresser and nightstands, the dark blue bedsheets, the desk and chair, and even the drapes. It makes you almost lightheaded at the pleasurable feeling of it washing over you.

A shudder suddenly runs down your spine and tugs at your core in arousal. With a sharp intake of breath, you have to shift on your feet, pressing your legs together against the slick already forming down below.

You’re shocked and embarrassed at first. You aim to bolt out of his room, but you stop short in the doorway as it dawns on you.

Your sister is a beta, and so is her husband. She’s never completely understood you as an omega. She never understood your parents either, or the bond they had. She always scoffed at the idea of “true mates.”

Soulmates. It was fantasy and myth, the stuff of cheesy Harlequin novels.

Growing up, you’d agreed with her, even though a part of you deep down always protested. It wanted to tell her not to open her mouth about something she knew nothing about, and would never know.

The day you met Dean, you knew she was wrong.

Your more logical mind tries again to reassert itself though. You remind yourself that you barely know anything about this man, no matter how attractive, kind, funny, enigmatic…

And yet, you can’t shake that part of you that doesn’t rest until you see his face in the morning; until you make him coffee and eat breakfast together, and take any opportunity to pull more threads from him. It’s more than passing attraction. It’s more than just being stuck together in this cabin, unable to escape each other. You know, because the feeling scares you, and it electrifies your blood at the same time.

All these thoughts go through your mind when you turn back around. Slowly, you continue to look around his room, your whole body tingling. The room is neat, more or less, with everything in its proper place. It’s pretty bare though, décor wise. There’s a desk with a few scattered books and a journal sandwiched in between. A smile of surprise forms across your face.

No. Don’t tell me this guy is Mr. Dear Diary? you think in amusement. Though you wonder if it’s another way he passes his time here, especially when he’s holed up in his room.

You know you shouldn’t be snooping, let alone contemplating what you’re about to do…but you can’t help yourself. Biting your lip, you slide out the journal and begin to flip through it.

You frown at the strange drawings and odd entries—dates, narratives, scraps of information on different types of mythological creatures, and even more strange, on how to kill them.

What the hell is this?

That’s when you hear the front door swing open. You bolt from his room as quick as you can, not realizing you took the journal with you in your haste. You stuff it up your sweater and pretend like you’ve just come out of the bathroom on the way back to your room. There you slide the journal under your pillow. You jump when Dean knocks on your door.

“Hey,” he greets.

The jolting pains your ribs, and your hand goes to your left side in a hiss.

“You okay?” he asks, brows furrowing in concern. He takes a step into your room, but you turn to him with a nod and a placating hand.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You just scared me,” you say, with a bit of nervous laughter.

He gives a half smile. “Sorry. Just come ‘ere a sec. I wanna show you something.”

He reaches out a hand to help guide you to the living room.

There he presents you with two rudimentary crutches. Your eyes widen as your free hand passes over the smooth chestnut color of the wood. Dean keeps a light hold on your elbow, just in case.

“You made these?” you ask.

“Yeah, just a bit of woodworking. Picked it up over the last couple of years,” he says.

He’s downplaying it, but you’re nothing short of marveling. You set aside the walking stick in favor of picking up the crutches, and they’re even the right size to position them under your arms.

“Now you don’t have to hobble around like Long John Silver,” Dean quips. You meet the sight of his grin with a raised brow, but you soon begin to smile. When you get close enough to him, you lean the crutches against the couch and give him a warm hug, resting your head on his chest.

“Thank you,” you say. It’s something he was wholly unprepared for, but he hugs you back with a chuckle.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

Just then, he tries not to inhale your scent. He tries not to focus on the feeling of your body pressed soft and warm against his. You fit just right.

After a beat, you have mercy on him and pull away. You take your crutches back up and continue to walk around the living room experimentally.

“You think I’d be okay trying to go outside?” you ask on your way to the door. Dean tenses.

“Uh, I don’t think—”

But you’re already halfway out the door. He shakes his head and follows you with swift strides. He watches you step out carefully onto the porch like a baby deer. He cleared the snow this morning from the deck and the steps, but he’s more concerned when he sees you considering how you might step out onto the snow.

“Stay on the porch, all right, Bambi,” he warns. “You’re not wearing snow boots and it’s still pretty deep. Not to mention, I’ve been keeping an eye out for a bear that wandered through here last week—”

You turn to look at him over your shoulder in amusement.

“Okay, Alpha. Calm down,” you say playfully. “I’m not gonna go ass over tea kettle.”

His brow twitches as he frowns. Alpha. He fights not to show his reaction to the way you said it; it calls to his baser instincts, almost stirring a rumble in his chest.

Cheeky little omega.

You keep to the porch, but regardless, you’re happy. You don’t even mind the cold. You see your breath on the air, and you tip your head back, closing your eyes with a smile as the sunshine warms your face. You inhale through your nose and let it out slowly in contentment.

“It’s a good day, Dean,” you say quietly.

You don’t realize that he’s watching you with a more reserved smile on his face. When he realizes it, he shakes his head at himself. He’s only been here a week with you, and it’ll probably take a couple more for your ankle to heal up well enough for you to walk again, let alone get down the mountain.

He doesn’t want to leave you alone up here, so he’ll have to somehow keep fending off your probing questions into his past and personal life. There's a lifetime of blood, nightmares, and death that he just can't let you see behind his eyes.

Hell, he's been trying to shove it all down for the past year—in booze and odd jobs and trips to nowhere, always coming back to an empty bunker. He still wonders how Sam's managed to do it, to move on, and build a new life for himself.

If Dean's honest (and he's not), he feels a bit like this cabin; old, falling apart, and forgotten.

But he’ll have to keep taking in your brightness and warmth, continue arguing with you about music and other inane shit, and pretend that every small touch of yours doesn’t ignite his skin. That it doesn’t make him have to beat down every instinct he has to pull you into his body and blanket you with his scent, ravage you, claim you, and make you his.

He never thought this would happen to him. He never thought someone like you was out there…for someone like him.

He knows it though, deep in his gut. You’re meant for him. You’re meant to be his mate.

Which means he’s already screwed.

AN: And we're off! Special thanks again to Michelle (@luci-in-trenchcoats) for being my sounding board when I was first writing this series. Let me know what you think of Part 1! 💜

Next Time:

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed…

When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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honeyryewhiskey · 3 months ago

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03. you're a cowboy like me

ᯓ★ story index abt, you wake up next to dean, trying really hard not to make rash decisions but he keeps looking at you like that and smiling like that and— fuck it. warnings, smut 18+ mdni!, cowboy hat rule, riiiide 'em cowgirl, struggle 2 face feelings, shared showers 2.9k words

The afternoon spills it’s golden warmth into the old house, dust sparkling in the rays cutting through the open windows. Slowly, you stir, finding yourself comfortably tangled up with Dean. Somewhere in your sleep, you ended up tucked between the faded grey cushions of the couch and him—his arm draped loosely over your shoulders, your hand and ear pressed right to the steady beat of his chest.

He’s still out cold, half sitting up with his legs sprawled across the length of the couch, one boot dangling precariously off the edge. His pink lips are just slightly parted, brows softer than you’ve ever seen them. His stetson sits low enough to shield his eyes from the sun, lashes barely visible beneath the brim.

You steal the moment, shamelessly drinking him in: the way his features seem gentler now, all the rough edges smoothed out by sleep. There’s something about seeing him like this that makes your chest ache, just a pinch.

Then his tongue sweeps lazily across his bottom lip, wetting it before they tug up into a smirk. “You keep starin’ at me like that, sweet thing,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low with sleep, “‘nd I’ll start thinkin’ you might be sweet on me.”

You jerk back slightly, caught red-handed, but you recover fast, flashing a coy grin. “Might? Don’t give yourself too much credit, cowboy.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your palm, and his arm tightens just slightly before he pulls away, stretching leisurely like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Sure, darlin’,” he teases, tipping his hat back enough to give you a lazy once-over, that boyish grin never leaving his sleepy face. “But if you wanted to cozy up to me all night, you just had to ask.”

Living on the road meant living by your own code—let ‘em chase, but never get caught. It’s become a rule you follow religiously, a line you never cross.

But for the love of all things holy, this silver-tongued man is staring down at you with that deviant glint in his pretty green eyes, the kind that electrifies your skin, winds you up in the most invasive way. His chest, broad and steady beneath yours, feels like a challenge, and that damn stetson perched atop his dirty blonde, tousled hair only makes it worse—taunting you, daring you to just reach out and take it.

Your eyes lock with his, and for a split second, it feels like he’s peering past your irises and right into the swirl of wicked thoughts dancing in your mind. His gaze falters, dipping to your mouth just as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth.

Before he can catch on, you snag the hat from his head in one slow, deliberate motion. Settling it atop your own with a smug little tilt.

You meet his stare head-on, fluttering lashes feigning innocence. A slow, low laugh spills from his lips, rich and rough, igniting a flush on your skin.

His thumb brushes up to catch your chin, holding it gently but firm as he leans in, consuming nearly all of the space between. Hungry and honey-eyed, he’s fixed on trailing over your features with a deliberation that sets your pulse racing. “Careful, now.” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath skimming your skin awakens shivers cascading down your spine.

Your gaze flickers, restless and heated, between his open mouth and watchful eyes. “I’m done with careful,” you breathe—and before you can think twice about it—your lips close the gap.

He leans into the kiss, rushed and messy, as his hand grasps the back of your neck to tug you closer. You climb on top, straddling his dirty blue jeans. A moan escapes you as he bites down on your bottom lip, matching his hasty kiss. Your nails dig into the back of his neck and he grumbles against your mouth.

His hands lose any sense of decency, sliding under your shirt, finger pads roughly digging into the skin of your waist. Deep enough to leave big red hand prints in their wake. Your hips twitch in his grasp, denim rocking against denim with enough pressure to make him groan against your lips.

His hands shift, hooking under your thighs as he lifts you to maneuver himself to sit properly against the back of the couch.

Your hands find the cool, silver buckle of his belt and tug, “Woah,” he rasps, mouth still pressed to yours with a breathy laugh, “easy, sweet thing.” His lips move to trail sloppy kisses down your neck, as his hands find the button of your jeans, swiftly popping them open.

He pulls back, his dilated pupils finding yours as one hand roughly grabs your jaw, “I wanna see how pretty you look,” he starts with a tantalizing smirk, eyes trained on yours while his other hand slips down into your heat. You're gasping before he can even finish his sentence, “when you cum.”

Two thick fingers plunge inside, stretching you out and curling just enough to make you whimper. The sound coming from your lips makes his grip on your jaw tighten as a lazy smile crosses his lips. He starts to pump, slow, too slow, and you buck your hips against his hand.

“So pretty when you’re needy,” he hums as his thumb presses to your clit, circling and working you into a dizzy headed mess. His other hand slips down to your throat, holding you in place as he leans back slightly, just enough to watch your eyes flutter and brows knit while you ride his working hand.

“Dean,” you whimper, as he works a brutal pace into you. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches. The pressure in your core builds as he sinks deeper, hitting your sweet spot in a merciless rhythm. You falter, your hands pressing into his chest for stability.

“Stay just like that,” he mumbles, relaxed against the couch, undoing you with ease, hungry eyes shamelessly watching you lose any semblance of control of yourself.

Your walls clench around his digits, breath hitching with every rough thrust. The sensation of it all drawing your eyes closed, reeling in the building knot of tension, “Nuh, uh. Look at me—” he demands, voice husky and warm.

“Dean—fuck,” you sigh, opening your eyes to find his, pupils eating the green of his irises as you’re reduced to a whimper wet mess in his hands.

Your hips sputter and buck as you catch your breath, and he slowly pulls his hands from your jeans. You’re still coming back down when he’s picking you up at the waist, setting you on wobbly legs to tug your jeans loose from your legs. His hands glide over the skin of your thighs, squeezing your ass before pulling you back onto his lap.

He moves with an eagerness that matches your own, securing your legs around him, his lips are back on yours as you both clumsily undo his belt and tug just enough for his cock to come out—slick and throbbing against your skin.

He groans against your lips, taking himself in his hands. “Fuck,” he hisses, thrusting into your wetness. The sudden stretch makes you shudder, nails digging into his shoulders as you sink down onto his length, rocking your hips into his.

His mouth goes to your neck, lapping and biting at the sensitive skin. His hands squeeze your hips, guiding your body up and down against his.

It’s hot and sticky in the old house, making you feel damn near high as his tip slams against your sweet spot. His movement matches yours, messy—needy. His arms wrap around you as you lean against his chest.

He steadies your hips with one hand, the other securely locked around your back. Thrusting up into you at a mind-numbing pace. His hand gets tangled in your hair—the pull making your vision go spotty.

You give into his control, mind swirling with his lips desecrating any bit of your skin he can find, the sound of wet skin slapping against each other filling the room with your whimpering and his muffled groans.

Your hand wraps around the muscles of his bicep, nails digging deep as the other clutches to the back of his neck. You feel yourself tighten around his cock, moans sputtering out of your lips as your thighs tighten against his hips. His hips sputter, cursing under his breath as the sensation of his cum shooting inside you pushes you over the edge.

Your bodies become a synchronized twitching mess—panting from the come down as you slowly loosen your grip on him.

Blinking back into reality, you sit up, still too weak to remove yourself from his lap. Dean’s sleepy smile finds you, his hands coming up to brush the stray hairs from your face as he cups your cheeks. “See,” he huffs, managing to find his ammunition for teasing as he grounds himself back to earth, “told you I’d be a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes, swatting his hands from your face with a tired laugh as you roll off his lap and onto the couch beside him. “That smart mouth of yours is making sense of all the trouble you talk about getting yourself into.” you retort, rising on weak legs to slip back into your clothes.

“Mhm,” he hums, hardly listening to what you had said, “you sure you need to keep those on?”

His hand catches your thigh just as you’re pulling the denim over them—interrupting you. He leans over, swollen lips leaving kisses on your skin as you’re swatting at him again. The reaction makes him look up at you with a teasing, dimpled smile. “Sorry—can’t help myself.”

You bite back a laugh, refusing to encourage his mischief. You can feel his eyes on you as you jump into your jeans, bottoning them back up. Through the window, you can see the afternoon sun moving down onto the horizon.

“We should probably go find your car,” you sigh, turning on your heel to face him as he finishes up notching his belt.

“Probably,” he nods, eyes lazily casing the desert sky, “my backseat’s pretty spacious, too, y’know. In case—”

Your hand goes up, cutting him off as you shake your head. You leave him to chuckle at himself in the living room.

ᯓ★

The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the abandoned ranch as you and Dean prepare to leave. The silence between you is tangible, charged with everything you’ve done and nothing you’ve said.

The walk through the desert feels endless, the dusty trail crunching under your boots as the golden glow of the horizon stretches out before you. Dean leads the way, his pace steady, his shoulders broad against the fading light. You follow close behind, the heat of the day clinging to your skin, but the chill of the coming night creeping in.

“You ever think about settlin’ down?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

Dean glances back at you, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You mean, like a white picket fence and apple pie? Doesn’t really suit me.”

“No,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “I mean, somethin’... simpler. A place to call your own, where you don’t have to look over your shoulder every second.”

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the trail ahead. “It’s not in the cards,” he admits finally, his voice low and rough.

You let his words hang in the air, biting back the urge to press further. He’s not the type to linger on dreams he doesn’t think he can have.

As the sky fades to deep blue and the first stars begin to peek through, you finally see it—Dean’s Impala, tucked away beneath a rocky overhang like a secret he couldn’t bear to lose.

“There she is,” he says, his tone softening as he picks up his pace.

You watch him approach the car, his hand brushing over the hood like he’s greeting an old friend. You can’t help but smile, the sight of him and that car feeling like something whole in a world that’s always breaking.

He opens the trunk, dumping the duffle bag and rummaging through for a blanket, he tosses it over to you. “Get comfortable. We’re better off to cover some miles tonight, get away from the town.”

You take the blanket and slide into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel. The air between you feels lighter now, as if the journey through the desert burned away some of the weight you felt at his words from earlier.

The drive is quiet, the radio dialed low, filling the space with the sound of guitar-driven symphonies. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, but there’s a softness in his eyes when they flick to yours. It’s the kind of look that makes you wonder if he’s holding onto something he can’t bring himself to say.

The hum of the engine and the gentle sway of the Impala lull you into a light sleep, your head resting against the cool window. The sky bleeds from orange into black as you sleep. Dean tries to keep his focus on the road, but a pull he can’t quite make sense of keeps his head turning to you. Checking, every so often. As if you might disappear—be a figment of his imagination—if he doesn’t.

You’re pulled from the haze by the softest nudge—Dean’s hand on your shoulder, his voice low and rough in the quiet.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a small smile as you blink up at him. “Got us a room.”

You yawn, stretching as you step out of the car, the cool night air prickling against your skin. The dingy motel sign flickers overhead, casting faint neon light across Dean’s face. He unlocks the door, holding it open with a smirk as you step inside.

Your eyes land on the lone bed in the center of the room, the sheets pulled tight, and pillows stacked neatly. “One bed, huh?” you remark, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shrugs, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.” His grin turns playful, teasing. “‘M gonna shower, if you wanna join. Wouldn’t wanna waste all that hot water.”

You give him a slow, deliberate once-over, biting back a smile. “Well, aren’t you full of ideas,” you say, turning toward the bathroom.

Dean’s eyes follow you, his confidence faltering for just a second as you slip off your jacket and toss it onto the bed. One step, then another, you trail your fingers to the hem of your shirt and lift it over your head as you walk, letting it fall to the floor without looking back. Next, you wiggle out of your jeans and kick them to the side.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, scrambling to follow, his boots thudding softly on the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his gaze sweeps over you like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Coming, cowboy?”

His jaw works, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m comin’.”

The bathroom fills with warm steam, and you’re giggling before you’ve even stepped under the water. Dean fumbles with the knobs, his grin boyish, his cheeks flushed. The messy, very much necessary moment back at the old ranch was one thing—standing in front of each other naked and tired from a night’s drive felt like something else entirely.

The awkward air gives way to jokes almost immediately—him teasing you about how you’re hogging the water, you laughing at his terrible singing as he rinses his hair.

It’s easy, light, like the world doesn’t exist beyond the tiled walls and the sound of your laughter.

Afterward, you both dry off, Dean tossing you a shirt he grabbed from his duffel. It hangs loosely on you, the scent of him clinging to the fabric. He watches as you climb into bed, his expression softening before he joins you, sliding in beside you like he belongs there.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The lamp casts a faint glow, the sound of distant crickets filtering through the open window. Dean shifts closer, his arm draping over your waist, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck.

“You make me feel… okay, like I don’t gotta worry so much.” he murmurs, the words almost too soft to hear. “I’d started to forget what that felt like.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t reply, not with words. Instead, you cover his hand with yours, threading your fingers together.

The steady rhythm of his breathing slows as you drift off, his warmth wrapped around you, his presence a comfort you hadn’t realized you craved.

Sleep comes slowly, your mind swirling with memories of his touch, his warmth, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. You think about asking him—what happens now?—but the steady rhythm of his breathing tells you he’s already asleep.

Or so you think.

Dean lies awake long after your breathing evens out, his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. Outside, the Impala sits ready, the desert wind whispering against its sleek frame.

And as the stars blink down on the quiet motel, Dean makes his decision.

erm sorry if that scene sucked. i. tried. </3 i felt like the rushed needy give it 2 me now vibe made sense idk !! and i just rly think this version of dean is a freak that likes to watch ok ily bye

tags <3 @stanzie @the-fandoms-onceler @floralscented @titsout4jackles

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester au #outlaw!dean #cowboy!dean #dean winchester smut

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maddie0101 · 19 days ago

Text

𖤐 playing with fire (dean x fem!reader)

𖤐 summary: a house party, a few too many drinks, and a skirt that’s driving dean out of his mind. what starts as a harmless game of truth or dare quickly turns into something else, something that’s been building between him and the reader for way too long. one reckless decision later, and there’s no going back.

𖤐 warnings: smut (mdni), truth or dare, college!au, porn w plot, best friends to lovers, high sexual tension, teasing, reader's skirt almost sends dean into a coma, dirty talk, cussing, hair pulling, oral (female receiving), overstimulation, dean is a freak! (we love it though), p in v, mirror sex, skirt stays on!, lots more but I can't list everything off lmfao.

𖤐 word count: 7.5k (don’t ask me how I did this tbh. my fingers just kept moving)

𖤐 note: well…this was supposed to be maybe 2-3k words max, but I’ve done it again and I can’t help myself. i def couldn’t tag everything but enjoy! ❤︎

The house was packed with bodies moving together in the living room, red cups in hand, half-empty bottles of liquor cluttering every available surface. Someone had hooked up a speaker to blast a playlist that was way too bass-heavy, and the floor vibrated with every beat. The air smelled like cheap beer, sweat, and faint traces of perfume—an unmistakable blend of house party chaos.

Dean wasn’t even sure why he had come.

Well. That wasn’t entirely true.

Sam had dragged him here. Well, technically, Jess had dragged Sam here, and in turn, Sam had forced Dean out of the apartment under the guise of “having fun for once.” That was bullshit. Dean could have fun anywhere—a bar, a diner, sitting on the couch with a beer in hand, but instead, here he was, dodging some drunk dude waving his cup around like a damn sprinkler while scanning the room for a familiar face.

Or more accurately, your face.

Dean exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He hadn’t seen you all day, which was a little weird since the two of you talked constantly. You were his best friend, had been for years, and yet, when you’d mentioned earlier that you were coming to this party, Dean had found himself oddly… uneasy. Not that he was worried or anything. You could handle yourself just fine. But the thought of you here, surrounded by drunk, handsy assholes, looking hot as hell—not that he was picturing that—yeah, it had been enough to convince him to tag along.

But he still hadn’t spotted you, though.

Instead, his eyes landed on Sam and Jess standing near the staircase, laughing at something between them. Dean made his way over, shoving past a couple making out against the wall.

“Dean,” Jess greeted, lifting her drink in acknowledgment. “Took you long enough to show up.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Traffic.”

Sam snorted. “Traffic? Dean, you live ten minutes away.”

“Shut up.”

Jess grinned and leaned into Sam’s side. “You’re looking for her, aren’t you?”

Dean froze. “What?”

“You know,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Her.”

Dean scowled. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “You are so obvious.”

Before Dean could argue, Jess nodded toward the kitchen. “She’s in there, last I saw. Taking shots.”

Dean’s stomach did something weird, something he would not acknowledge. Instead, he shrugged and muttered a casual, “Cool,” before turning in that direction. And then—

Oh. Oh, fuck.

There you were. Standing by the counter, tilting your head back as you downed a shot of something dark, your lips wrapping around the rim of the glass before you placed it back on the counter. Your tongue flicked out briefly, licking away any stray drops.

Dean’s brain completely short-circuited. He barely even registered the fact that he had stopped in his tracks, mouth slightly parted. Because—holy hell.

That skirt. That damn skirt.

It wasn’t like you never wore stuff like this. But this? This was different. The way it clung to your hips, stopping so high up your thighs—Dean swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The black top you wore didn’t help either, hugging your curves just right, exposing just enough skin to make his head spin.

Dean wasn’t sure what the alcohol content of whatever you were drinking was, but he was pretty sure he needed one now. Badly.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and he shifted uncomfortably as a very inconvenient problem began to arise in his jeans. Shit. This was not the time to be getting a goddamn boner.

Dean clenched his jaw, inhaling through his nose.

Pull it together, Winchester. You are her best friend. You are—

And then you turned.

Like you felt him staring. Your eyes locked onto his, and for a split second, everything else—the music, the crowd, the heat of the room—just faded into the background. A slow smile curled at the corner of your lips, and that was when Dean knew he was really screwed.

You looked good. And not just in the casual oh yeah, she looks nice kind of way. No, this was dangerous. This was the kind of good that made his stomach twist, that made his heart slam against his ribs, that sent heat rushing to places he did not want to deal with right now.

And then, as if you hadn’t just ruined his entire ability to function, you grabbed another shot from the counter, tilting your head slightly. “Want one?”

Dean swallowed, forcing his brain to restart. He took a slow step forward, desperate to think of something normal to say. Except, the closer he got, the worse you got. Because now he could smell you, some sweet, intoxicating mix of vanilla and something else. And now he could see just how smooth your legs looked in that goddamn skirt. And now—

Well now you were struggling, too.

Because Dean Winchester in a fitted black T-shirt, dark jeans, and those stupidly broad shoulders? Yeah. Not fair. Your fingers tightened around the shot glass. The way the fabric of his shirt stretched across his arms was practically sinful. The way the dim lighting highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw was even worse. He looked good, in that effortlessly rugged kind of way, and the alcohol coursing through your veins was not helping you pretend otherwise.

You blinked up at him, trying to keep your expression neutral. “You okay there, Winchester?”

Dean exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

Liar.

You raised a brow, smirking slightly. “You sure? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Dean let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Just—” He wet his lips. “You, uh. You look nice.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. You knew you looked good tonight—you had dressed with a little extra effort, even though you’d never admit why—but hearing Dean say it? Yeah. That did something.

You tilted your head, amused. “Nice?”

Dean ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before clearing his throat.

“Fine. Hot,” he admitted, voice lower now.

Your breath caught. The tension stretched thick between you. You should’ve said something. Something witty, something teasing, something to lighten whatever this was.

But then Dean reached out, grabbing the shot from your hand. His fingers brushed against yours, and that tiny touch sent a sharp jolt up your spine.

You both inhaled and Dean knocked the shot back, his eyes locked onto yours the entire time and when he lowered the glass, he licked his lips.

You almost groaned. Fuck.

This was not going to end well.

You were still trying to get your head straight when Jess walked into the kitchen. “There you two are!” she grinned, her voice a little louder than usual, clearly a few drinks in. “We’re starting a game in the living room. Get your asses in there.”

Dean blinked like he’d just snapped out of a trance. “Uh… what kind of game?”

Jess smirked. “The fun kind. Come on.”

Before either of you could argue, she grabbed your wrist and dragged you toward the living room. Dean trailed behind, his eyes flicking downward — yeah, that fucking skirt was still driving him insane.

The living room was packed, people sprawled across the couches and floor, drinks in hand. The bottle sitting in the middle of the coffee table made Dean’s stomach tighten.

“Spin the bottle?” He raised an eyebrow at Jess.

“Oh, no. We’re past that,” she grinned. “We’re playing Truth or Dare — but with a twist.”

Dean groaned under his breath. “Of course we are.”

“You scared, Winchester?” you teased, arching an eyebrow.

Dean shot you a look. “Of you? Never.”

Which was a goddamn lie. He was terrified —because this whole night had been a dangerous game of self-control, and right now, he was hanging on by a thread.

You both ended up sitting on the floor, way too close, your bare knee kept brushing against Dean’s thigh, and every time it happened, it felt like someone had dropped a match on gasoline.

The game started off easy, dumb dares, embarrassing questions, lots of laughter. But when it was your turn, things shifted. Jess grinned like she was about to start shit. “Alright, Y/N. Truth or dare?”

You barely hesitated. “Dare.”

Jess’s smile widened. “I dare you to sit in Dean’s lap for the rest of the game.”

The room erupted in laughter and catcalls, and your stomach dropped.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered.

“You picked dare,” Jess said sweetly. “Better get moving.”

Dean leaned back, running a hand down his face like he was mentally preparing himself. When he lowered it, he shot you a crooked smile — cocky as hell, but you didn’t miss the flicker of nerves in his eyes. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawled. “I won’t bite.”

God help you. You swallowed hard, stood up, and crossed the small space. Every eye in the room was on you as you slowly settled into Dean’s lap, his hands instinctively landing on your waist.

It should’ve been fine. Should’ve been funny. But fuck.

Dean’s thighs were solid under you, his broad chest warm against your back. His hands, rough and steady flexed just slightly, like he was fighting the urge to squeeze. “Comfortable?” Dean muttered near your ear, his voice lower than usual.

“Yeah,” you said, but it came out breathy.

The game moved on, but you barely heard a word. Dean’s hand slid down your waist, innocent enough, but his thumb brushed the bare skin just above your skirt. You nearly jolted at the contact.

You twisted your fingers in your lap, trying to focus. But then Dean shifted, just a little, and Jesus Christ, you felt everything — the strength of his legs beneath you, the heat of his body against yours.

“You good?” Dean murmured low in your ear.

“Peachy,” you lied.

“Bullshit,” he muttered back, his breath warm against your neck.

You sucked in a sharp breath, and Dean’s fingers flexed again — but this time, his grip lingering just a little longer.

“Alright, Dean,” someone called out, dragging both of you back into the moment. “Your turn.”

“Truth or dare?”

Dean smirked, but his fingers stayed on your waist, still toying with your skin. “Dare.”

“Let Y/N give you a hickey.”

The room howled.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean muttered, running a hand down his face.

“Don’t chicken out,” Jess taunted, wiggling her eyebrows.

You turned your head slightly to look at Dean, your face way too close to his. “We can just fake it,” you offered, voice soft enough for only him to hear. “Play it off.”

But Dean’s eyes locked onto yours and something flickered behind them, something darker. “Yeah,” he said, low and rough. “Or we can’t.”

Your breath hitched. He was serious.

“You sure?” you murmured.

Dean’s gaze flicked to your lips, then back up.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m sure.”

The room had gotten quieter now, like people were actually waiting to see what would happen. Your pulse hammered in your ears as you turned in his lap, your legs sliding across his thighs, your chest brushing against his. Dean’s hand slid to your lower back, steadying you, his fingers splaying wide.

You leaned in, your lips brushing just below his jaw, and his breath hitched. You kissed his skin once, soft and slow before sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers dug into your waist, and you swore you felt his chest shudder against yours.

You were supposed to stop there, but you didnt. Something told you to kept going. Your mouth lingered, your lips just barely brushing over his skin again. His fingers trailed down your side, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your hip.

“You’re killing me,” Dean muttered, barely above a whisper.

“You started it,” you whispered back but you didn’t pull away and neither did he. The air felt thick and heavy. You could feel his pulse hammering under your lips, the tension in the air growing thicker by the second.

“Alright,” someone called, breaking the moment. “I think that counts.”

You slowly eased back, your face still way too close to his. Dean’s gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back up to your eyes.

Yeah. You were fucked.

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly, voice rough and strained. “That counts.”

The game moved on, but your body was still burning from the way Dean’s hands lingered on your waist, the feel of his breath against your skin. You hadn’t even fully processed what just happened when Jess turned toward Sam with a glint in her eye.

“Alright, babe,” she said sweetly. “Truth or dare?”

Sam chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have a choice, so let’s just get this over with.”

Jess smirked. “Dare.”

The room erupted into laughter, and Sam groaned, shaking his head.

“I dare you to…” Jess tapped her chin, drawing out the suspense. “Take off your shirt and let me write something on your chest in Sharpie.”

Sam rolled his eyes but reached behind his head, pulling off his shirt in one smooth motion. The sight of Sam Winchester, half-naked in the middle of the living room, earned a few whistles and teasing remarks. Jess grinned as she grabbed a marker, uncapped it with her teeth, and scribbled 'Property of Jess' across his chest.

Dean snorted. “Jesus, Sammy, you gonna let her brand you like that?”

Sam shot him a dry look. “Like you have room to talk.”

Dean’s smirk faltered just slightly—probably because his hands were still gripping your waist, and he hadn’t let go since you sat down. But the tension between you and Dean was a wildfire, growing hotter with every second. His hands still rested on your waist, his fingers burning through the thin fabric of your top. You were hyper-aware of every shift of his body beneath you, every breath he took, the way his thighs felt firm under you.

Sam and Jess had just finished their dare, leaving everyone laughing while Sam scowled, still sporting the ridiculous drawing Jess had sketched onto his bare chest.

The game carried on, but you barely heard a word of it.

Someone dared Mike to shotgun a beer, and the room erupted with cheers when he spilled half of it down his shirt. Someone else was dared to prank-call their ex. Everyone was laughing, talking too loud, caught up in their own chaos.

But you? You couldn’t focus on any of it—because Dean was still beneath you, solid and warm and way too much. His hands rested loosely on your waist, fingers occasionally flexing like he was trying to ground himself. He hadn’t said much since you’d settled on his lap, but you could feel him—every breath, every subtle shift. And every time you moved even slightly, his grip would tighten.

You were trying so damn hard to act normal, to focus on literally anything other than the heat radiating off his body or the way his chest felt beneath your hands. But then you shifted, just a tiny adjustment to get more comfortable—and that’s when you felt it.

Oh… shit. You went still. Heat rushed straight to your face as your brain struggled to catch up with what your body already knew. Dean was hard. Very hard.

His fingers flexed again, harder this time, like he knew exactly what you’d just realized. Your pulse hammered in your ears. For a second, you considered pretending you didn’t notice—just staying perfectly still and riding this out. But then Dean shifted beneath you, a quiet, strangled breath slipping out of him and something inside you twisted.

Fuck it.

You moved. Slowly and deliberately you shifted in his lap, rolling your hips just enough to feel the hard press of him against you. Dean’s fingers dug into your waist and his breath hitched, sharp and rough right against your ear. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

You bit your lip, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Everyone else in the room was still talking, still laughing—completely oblivious to the way Dean’s fingers were now gripping your waist like a lifeline, or the way your thighs clenched tighter.

And then you did it again, slow, teasing, shifting just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

His mouth dropped to your ear, his voice a low, strained whisper that shot straight down your spine “You’re fucking killing me.”

A shiver bolted through your body—sharp and electric, leaving your breath shaky and your heart racing. You didn’t dare look at him. If you turned your head, if you caught even a glimpse of his face, his flushed cheeks, his darkened green eyes, you knew you’d lose whatever thin grip you had on your self-control.

But his breath stayed hot against your ear, and his hands—fuck, his hands—were sliding down to your hips now, gripping you just a little tighter. “You wanna keep playing that game?” His voice was low, almost dangerous. “Because I promise you, sweetheart…” His fingers flexed, teasing at the curve of your hips. “I can play too.”

Your stomach flipped. Oh fuck.

The air between you was thick, almost too thick. You could barely breathe past it, past the heat curling low in your stomach, past the way Dean’s voice sent another sharp, aching shiver down your spine. His hands on your hips were heavy, warm, possessive, like he was seconds from losing whatever thread of control he was clinging to.

And fuck, you wanted that.

You swallowed hard, pulse thrumming in your throat. You should stop. You should...

But instead, you shifted again, just barely. Just enough to feel him twitch beneath you. And Dean exhaled through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening against your hips as his head dropped forward, forehead brushing your shoulder.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N,” he rasped.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. The way he said your name, low and wrecked made something hot coil tighter in your stomach. You were still frozen in place, thighs clenched, caught in the unbearable tension pulling both of you closer.

Then his fingers flexed, and his thumbs traced slow, firm circles against your hips. A barely-there touch, but it sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

Fuck. Fuck. Your breath stuttered.

And Dean—the asshole, he noticed. Because suddenly, his lips were right there, brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, dark whisper.“Tell me to stop.”

Your stomach flipped.

The teasing tone from earlier was gone. Now, he just sounded wrecked. If you told him to stop, he would. But you didn’t want him to and fuck, he knew it.

You turned your head, just barely, finally meeting his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his jaw tight, his breath uneven.

Say something, your brain screamed. Say literally anything. But before you could, someone shouted—

“Alright, next dare!”

The world rushed back in all at once. Dean tensed beneath you, eyes snapping toward the others. Your head whipped around just in time to see Jess grinning, pointing at some poor guy across the circle.

The spell shattered but Dean’s hands were still on your hips and the heat curling between your legs? Still there.

Your throat felt dry as you tried to regulate your breathing, as you tried to not focus on the fact that Dean Winchester had just whispered in your ear like he was about to ruin you right in front of everyone.

And as the game dragged on, voices rising and falling, bursts of laughter breaking through the low thrum of music, it all felt distant, muffled like you were underwater. None of it mattered. Not when you were still perched in Dean’s lap, still feeling the weight of his hands resting heavy on your hips.

You knew you should move. You should get up, put some space between you, cool down before you did something reckless. But every time you shifted even a little, you could feel him, hard and pressed against your thigh and you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

At one point, you dared to steal a glance at him, only to find him already watching you. His eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide, and when your gaze met his, he looked away fast. But not before you caught it, that barely restrained tension, the kind that felt like a live wire stretched too tight.

Yeah, you weren’t the only one losing control.

“Alright, I think that’s it for me,” Jess announced with an exaggerated yawn. She stretched her arms over her head, clearly playing up the exhaustion. “I’m heading to home before this gets even messier.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, I think we’ve done enough damage for one night.”

Sam and Jess stood, gathering their jackets and drinks, muttering half-hearted goodnights to others. The noise dipped just enough for you to hear Dean let out a slow, steady breath, like he’d been holding it in all night.

You moved to stand, but Dean’s fingers flexed against your waist again, not quite holding you there, but not exactly letting you go either.

When you finally pushed yourself to your feet, your legs wobbled. The warmth of the alcohol was settling heavy in your limbs now, leaving you unsteady.

“You good?” Jess asked as she appeared at your side.

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just… need some water or something.”

Jess’s gaze flicked to Dean — still sprawled on the ground, his head tilted back, fingers gripping his knees like he was barely keeping himself together.

“You sure that’s all you need?” she asked, her voice dipped knowingly.

Heat prickled up your neck. “I’m fine,” you said too quickly. But you weren’t. The tension was still coiled tight inside you, winding hot and restless beneath your skin. You could still feel Dean’s touch like he’d burned it into you. And no matter how hard you tried to shake it off, it wouldn’t let go.

“Alright,” Jess said slowly, clearly unconvinced. “I'll see you tomorrow, love you.”

"Love you too." You gave her a smile and turned toward the kitchen, desperate for space, for something cold. But you didn’t get far because a warm hand curled around your wrist.

“C’mere.” Dean’s voice was low and rough.

Before you could respond, he stood towering over you, his fingers firm but careful as he tugged you away from the lingering party noise.

“Dean,” you muttered, voice tight. “What are you—”

But he didn’t answer. He just kept walking, guiding you down the dim hallway, past the closed doors and dark corners until his hand reached for a doorknob.

The bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the sounds of music and voices.

“Dean,” you started again, your back barely pressed to the door before his hands grabbed your waist, fingers digging in, and he pushed you back against the door — not hard, not rough, but enough to steal your breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, dropping his forehead against yours. His breath was warm, whiskey-sweet, ghosting over your lips. “I can’t— I can’t fucking think right now.” His thumbs swept under the hem of your shirt, dragging slow, burning circles against your skin. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he was barely keeping himself from snapping.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he rasped. “And if you keep looking at me like that…” He swallowed hard, his mouth brushing yours as he spoke. “I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

Your heart pounded so hard it shook your ribs.You didn't think. You only grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric tight and yanked him in.

The kiss hit like a spark hot and fast and desperate. His mouth crashed against yours, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide against your bare skin.

You gasped into his mouth as his hands roamed upward tracing the curve of your waist, your ribs and Dean groaned, low and wrecked, like you were killing him all over again. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravelly and broken.

“Good,” you whispered back.

His mouth dragged lower, down your jaw, your neck, his stubble scraping your skin, leaving a hot, tingling path in its wake.

“Dean,” you breathed, voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah?” His lips were at your collarbone now, hot and wet and lingering.

“Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” His lips crashed back into yours with a hunger that sent your head spinning. His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, fingers digging in like he couldn’t get enough. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it, like this was something he’d been holding back for far too long and now that he’d started, there was no way in hell he could stop. Dean's thigh slid between yours, and you gasped into his mouth at the pressure.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, his lips trailing down your neck again, his stubble dragging rough and perfect against your skin. He nipped at your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp again, before soothing the spot with his tongue.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice low and wrecked. His mouth brushed against your collarbone, hot and lingering. “No fucking clue what you do to me.”

“I think I’m starting to figure it out,” you teased, but your voice broke when his teeth grazed your skin.

“Yeah?” His breath fanned over the damp spot on your neck before his mouth found yours again — deeper this time, slower, like he wanted to savor it. His hands trailed down your sides, warm palms sliding under your shirt, fingers flexing against your ribs. His thumbs brushed just beneath your bra, teasing, testing.

“Dean,” you gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch.

He groaned, deep and rough, like he was barely holding himself together and grabbed your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist. The shift pressed you even harder against him, and you felt him, solid and straining beneath his jeans.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your lips. “You’re fucking killing me.”

His hips rolled, slow, deliberate, grinding into you just enough to leave you breathless. You gasped, your fingers curling tighter in his shirt, and you couldn’t help it as you rocked your hips against him, just a little, just enough to pull a ragged groan from his throat.

“Don’t,” Dean warned, his voice dark and rough. His forehead dropped to yours, his breathing uneven. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

But you wanted to finish it. You’d wanted this for so long — every stolen glance, every almost-touch building and building until it felt like you were going to burst. So you did it again, rolling your hips against his, slower this time, teasing him the way he’d been teasing you all night.

And Dean swore under his breath, fingers digging hard into your thigh. “You’re playing with fire,” he growled, but his voice was strained, almost desperate.

“Maybe I wanna get burned,” you shot back, dragging your teeth along his bottom lip.

That was it, that was what broke him. Dean grabbed your other thigh and lifted you fully off the floor, pinning you against the door like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and his mouth crashed into yours again, harder--hungrier. His hips rolled into you, slow but relentless, and you swore you saw stars.

“You like that?” he muttered, his lips barely leaving yours.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yeah, I do.”

His teeth grazed your jaw as he moved to your ear. “Good,” he rasped. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Dean’s mouth crashed back onto yours, his kiss hot and desperate like he couldn’t get close enough, like he needed you more than his next breath. His fingers dug into your thighs as he held you against the door, his body pressing firm and solid between your legs. Every slow, deliberate roll of his hips had you biting back a gasp, heat curling low in your stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered against your lips, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. “You’ve been driving me insane all goddamn night.”

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back, your voice breathless. Your fingers curled in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from his throat. “You’re lucky I didn’t lose it the second I saw you in that shirt.”

Dean chuckled, low and rough, nipping at your bottom lip. “Yeah?” His voice dipped, gravelly and dark. “You like this shirt?”

“I like what’s under it,” you corrected, sliding your hands down his chest, tracing the firm lines of muscle beneath the fabric. Dean groaned again, the sound low and wrecked, and suddenly you were being lifted higher. Your back hit the door harder this time, and Dean’s mouth was on your throat, hot, open-mouthed kisses dragging down your skin like he wanted to leave a mark.

“Dean…” you gasped, arching into him. His name left your lips like a plea, like a prayer. Your head tipped back against the door as his mouth dragged lower, his stubble burning deliciously against your skin. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher, his fingers pressing into the bare skin of your hips.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your collarbone. “This little skirt — you know what you were doing when you put this on, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” you teased, your breath hitching when his fingers flexed again.

Dean let out a low laugh, dark and rough, before his mouth claimed yours once more. His kiss was hot and heady, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that left you lightheaded. His fingers dug deeper into your hips, rocking you against him, and heat bloomed low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire. “Shit,” Dean groaned. “You feel so fucking good.” His hips rolled again, harder this time, and you couldn’t hold back the soft moan that slipped from your lips.

“Yeah?” he muttered, his mouth brushing your ear now. “That good, sweetheart?” His voice was low and smug, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, like he knew you were just as wrecked as he was.

“Shut up,” you shot back, but your voice broke on the words when he did it again, another slow, hard grind that had you clenching your thighs tighter around him.

“Make me,” Dean growled, his teeth catching your earlobe. Your head tipped back against the door, your breath coming fast and shallow. You couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but Dean — his hands, his mouth, the way he felt against you. The party outside had faded into nothing, the distant sound of voices and music nothing more than a dull hum.

Dean’s body was still pressed flush against yours, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldn’t bear to let go. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, like you’d just run halfway across town.

Then, without warning, Dean’s hands flexed, his grip tightening as he adjusted his hold on you “C’mere,” he muttered, voice rough and strained.

Before you could react, he pushed off the door, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. Your arms tightened around his neck as he carried you across the room.

The cool marble of the bathroom counter kissed the backs of your thighs as Dean set you down, his body still caging you in. His hands slid from your legs to your waist, fingers flexing like he couldn’t stop touching you. His gaze dragged over you, his eyes flicking down to where your skirt had ridden up your thighs, the hem dangerously high now.

“That fucking skirt,” Dean muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked at him, still trying to catch your breath. “What about it?”

Dean huffed a dark, breathless laugh. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, skimming featherlight along your skin, just enough to make you shiver.

“You know what about it,” he rasped. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind since the second I saw you in this thing.” His thumb dragged higher, tracing a lazy circle on your inner thigh. “Spent all night trying to pretend I wasn’t staring.” His mouth tilted into a smirk, dark and lazy, as his hand drifted higher.

“Figured if I kept my distance, I wouldn’t end up…” He trailed off, eyes flicking up to yours. “Wouldn’t end up like this.”

Your breath caught. “And now?”

Dean grinned, slow and wicked. “Now?” His fingers slid higher, knuckles grazing the softest part of your thigh. “Now I’m not pretending anymore.”

He dipped his head, and his lips pressed to your skin warm, soft kisses that started just above your knee. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers twitching against his shoulders.

“Dean…” His name left you on a breathless exhale, but he didn’t stop. His lips moved higher, brushing featherlight over your skin. His stubble scraped just enough to make you squirm, your thighs instinctively starting to shift closer together.

Dean’s hand shot out, fingers curling around your thigh to hold you open. “Ah-ah,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I’ve been thinking about this all night…” His lips ghosted higher, just barely brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “…You’re not getting out of it now.”

You let out an involuntary gasp as his open mouth kisses started to trail lower and lower down your soft thighs. You should’ve known better. The second your gaze dipped down to him, Dean’s eyes snapped to yours like a damn magnet, locking you in place. He didn’t just look at you while he presses kisses closer and closer to your heat-- he held you there, like he knew exactly what was running through your mind and wasn’t about to let you escape it.

And when his knees hit the cold tile beneath him, Dean didn’t break eye contact-- not right away. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and heavy, like he was drinking in every shaky breath, every tremor rolling through you. His fingers flexed against your thighs, strong and sure, as if he was grounding himself or maybe holding himself back.

Then, slowly his eyes dragged downward, tracing the curve of your body until his gaze landed between your legs. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling a little faster, and when his tongue flicked out to wet his lips, your stomach twisted into a knot so tight you thought you might snap.

You were exposed, open and vulnerable but the way Dean looked at you? Like you were something he was about to devour? It set your skin on fire.

“Baby,” he rasped, his voice low and rough. The word left his lips in a breathless exhale, thick with want. His hands slid around your hips, fingers curling into your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch you. His thumbs found the hem of your skirt, teasing along the edge, slow, torturous drags that left goosebumps in their wake. He traced lazy circles there, fingertips brushing just beneath the fabric.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” His voice dropped even lower, the words barely more than a growl, like he was fighting to keep himself in check and was losing.

The sight of your wet cunt, soaking your red lace panties almost sent him over the edge right then and there. "So wet f'me already." A low, guttural groan rumbled from Dean’s chest as his hands slid up your thighs slowly, his calloused fingers dragging over your skin like he was memorizing every inch.

His touch lingered, teasing, before his fingers finally curled around the delicate lace at your hips. With one firm tug, he dragged your panties down your legs, his knuckles grazing your skin the entire way down.

"Dean, I-" you didn't even get to beg him for it because Dean already planted his mouth onto your pussy. A loan moan ripped through your throat as Dean started to swirl his tounge, hitting every spot that made you squirm above him. Large and warm hands quickly pressed down on your thighs to hold you in place as Dean groans at the taste of you. "S'even better than I imagined."

His piercing green eyes, dark and filled with lust locked back onto yours for a second, watching you writhe as his tounge circling around your clit. You panted and started to whimper Dean's name, feeling that coil within your stomach tighten.

The feeling of Dean's stubble against your heat, along with the wonders he's doing to you quickly sends you over the edge. You thread your fingers through Dean's hair, pulling him closer to you as he rides you through your high. Nothing but your moans and wet slurping noises fill the air as you cum so hard your vision goes blurry. His name slips past your lips like a prayer, repeating over and over again as your body starts to shake.

But Dean isn't nowhere near done with you because as soon as your hearing comes back he growls "Not done" and pushes your thighs back open, wider for him and continues to swirl his tounge around your clit and suck.

"Dean-- oh my god." You barely manage to let the words to fall from your lips as whimpers and moans escape from your throat.

"Taste so fuckin' good sweetheart." Dean breathes between licks before inserting two fingers into your slick folds. The sensation makes your eyes roll into the back of your head as Dean's mouth and fingers work together, ultimately sending you into another world. Dean's name falls from your lips over and over again as he works you through it, ignoring your pleas.

"Dean--S'too much." You squirm above him, "Fuck"

Dean doesn't answer, only continuing to work you through your earth shattering orgasm. Blood rushes to your ears, a rare sensation you've never felt before. And before you know it--your body trembles, shaking violently as you did something you've never done before. You were squirting. And Dean lets out something between a groan and a moan at you coming undone for him. The pleasure surging through your body was something you'd never felt before, completely different from other orgasms.

"God you're so hot." Dean finally spoke as he broke away from your cunt and almost came at the sight of you so wrecked. "C'mere." He barely gave you enough time before gripping your waist and tugging you off the counter. Your legs wobbled underneath you as you tried to gain control of your breathing again.

"You're gonna watch me fuck you." Dean growled before pushing your lower back so you bent a little. A sharp gasp escaped your throat as Dean kicked one of your feet, spreading your legs. "The skirt stays on." Dean said before fumbling with his belt.

Your mind reeled, you felt absolutely weightless as the buzz from the alcohol, earth shattering orgasms, and just the thought of Dean's cock inside of you danced around your mind. The quiet clink of Dean’s belt unfastening filled the air behind you, the sound sharp and deliberate. Your breath hitched, and instinctively, your eyes flicked up to the mirror in front of you.

You couldn't believe this was finally happening.

The feeling of Dean's tip against your folds quickly pulled you out of your throughts as your eyes met his darkened green. His gaze was almost predatory as he began teasing you, loving the way you bit your lip to keep from crying out.

"Tell me you want this baby, let me hear your pretty little voice."

"Want this..." you barely managed to get out, "quit teasing me, De."

And that was all it took for Dean to slip his cock inside of your insanely wet cunt. You didn't even get a chance to catch your breath before he started moving, snapping his hips. You moaned as your nails dug into the counter and his name slipped from your lips.

“So fucking perfect, so fucking mine,” Dean groans, his hips rocking into you without ceasing. His breathing becomes just as ragged as yours as he slams in and out of you. Moans and the sound of skin slapping fills the thick air around you as your head goes limp, not being able to keep it up from the insane pleasures wracking through your body.

Dean's hand quickly grabs onto your hair and tugs, causing your head to snap back and your eyes to go wide. "Want you looking at what I'm doing to you baby." Dean grunts in between his hips snapping, "watch me fuck you till you see stars."

You moan loudly as your eyes lock onto Dean's in the mirror. The way his mouth is slightly agape and the way his eyebrows are creased as he fucks you from behind. All of it mixed with the pleasure builds rapidly, the coil in your tummy tightening as you clench around him.

"Dean I can't take it anymore--" you whine, "I'm gonna--"

"This pussy was made f'me." Dean growls, "Cum for me sweetheart."

Your vision quickly blurs and your eyes roll back into your skull as you moan, not caring that someone might hear from the other side of the door. The only thing that matters right now is Deann pounding into you, riding you through your third orgasm.

Just the sight of you coming unglued for the third time sends Dean over the edge. His hips snapping and rolling sloppily as he paints your walls white. He groans as he cums and lets his sweaty forehead fall onto your shoulder.

Your breathing gradually steadied, each inhale a little less shaky than the last. With effort, you dragged your gaze back to the mirror in front of you. Your body still trembled, the aftermath of everything that had just unfolded leaving your limbs weak and your skin flushed. A warm blush crept up your cheeks as Dean slowly lifted his head, his eyes finding yours in the reflection.

His gaze changed. Before, his eyes were dark and intense, burning with pure, unfiltered want. But now? Now there was something else in them, something softer, deeper. His eyes were heavy-lidded, almost dazed, like he couldn’t pull himself out of whatever spell you’d put him under.

And yeah, you knew he wasn’t drunk, but the way he was looking at you? Like you were the only thing in the room that mattered? It was enough to make your breath catch. It wasn’t just lust anymore, it was something more, something raw and real and terrifying.

It was the way someone looks at you when they’re completely fucking gone for you-- when they’re in love and can’t hide it even if they wanted to.

“I love you.” Dean’s voice was low, rough like the words had been clawing at his throat, desperate to get out. Your breath hitched, heart stuttering in your chest. For a second, you thought maybe you’d imagined it, maybe the haze of everything that had just happened was messing with your head. But then he moved.

Dean slowly slid out of you, his hands still firm on your waist. You barely had time to catch your breath before he gripped your hips and turned you around to face him.

“I’m in love with you, Y/N.” His eyes locked on yours with no hesitation, no doubt, just raw, honest truth. His face was still flushed, hair a mess, lips pink and kiss-swollen, but none of that mattered.

Because his gaze… fuck, his gaze had you pinned in place.

Like he’d just laid his heart out in front of you and was waiting to see if you’d crush it.

“I mean it,” he added, voice quieter now, like the words were something fragile. “I’ve been in love with you for… God, I don’t even know how long.”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt. “Dean…” you started, but your voice came out shaky, breathless.

“I know,” he cut in softly, like he was sure you were about to turn him down. “I know this is probably—”

“Shut up.” You didn’t let him finish, you just grabbed his face and kissed him, hard. His sharp inhale turned into a low groan against your mouth, his hands sliding back to your waist like he couldn’t stand to let you go.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips. “I’ve always loved you.”

Dean let out this soft, broken laugh, one that shook a little, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Yeah?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you breathed, smiling against his mouth.

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, like he was pouring every ounce of love and want and relief into it. His fingers dug into your waist, holding you close like he was terrified you might slip away.

“You’re mine now,” Dean murmured against your lips, voice low and sure. “And I’m never letting you go.”

author’s note:

yeahhh, that was pure filth…hope you guys enjoyed! wrote this in public bc I’m a freak like that, LMFAOOO. lmk if you want more smut! :)

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

also, special thank you to @bejeweledinterludes for helping me develop this fic! luh you pookie 🫶🏼

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @imsiriuslyreal

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.

What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to the real Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.

If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter title is from The End by Halsey

Word Count: 16.3k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for a Summary. Contains usual tags.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 2

Read on A03!

You know a few things about the dark.

It’s alive inside you. It has been your whole life. It makes your words too harsh and your brain too sharp and your love too big. It’s makes you too fragile, but still too sharp, and raises everything to a dangerous height you don’t know how to come down from. It makes everyone move away because they can see it. You can see it, always.

It covers every corner of your body, and grows roots in something white in your chest. Something no one but you can see. You’d asked your dad once—does he feel it too, feel the strange glow and pull of everything beautiful around you—and he’d looked at you like you were insane.

You might be.

But it’s hard not to be, in this line of work.

Hunting. Monsters and ghosts and nightmares, all around you and calling to you in your sleep. It’s where most of the darkness lives, in the way that few monsters lay hands on you, no matter how much of their blood you shed. Ghosts will treat you like any other, but the monsters look at you like they recognize you.

Like you’re one of them.

And that’s something you’ve never told your dad. You never will. He already hates that you do this, and not a month goes by where he doesn’t glare at you from across the table, beer bottle in hand, and ask you to stop.

“Kiddo,” he’d grunted the last time, narrowing his eyes at you over dinner. “That was the last one.”

“You say that every time-“

“And you ain’t listenin’ to me every time!” He’d snapped. “You don’t have to do this shit, not with your-“ He’d made a face, giving you a pointed look. “Ya’ know. Thing.”

“Witch.” You’d sighed. “You’re allowed to say it. I’m a witch.”

“You ain’t a witch-“

“I’m not a normal witch.” You’d corrected with a frown, picking at the wood of the table. “But I’m still not human.”

“You’re human,” he’d muttered your name, and when you’d looked up, he’d been staring at you with an exhausted expression and you’d felt something eat at your tongue. “But you’re right. You ain’t normal, kiddo, and it’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed-“

“It hasn’t yet-“

“It will. It always does.” He’d stood, giving you one last, tired look. “And I’m not tryin’ to lose you too.”

You’d given him a close-lipped smile. “You won’t lose me. I’m being careful.”

He’d rolled his eyes—you were being careful, and he knew it, but it still pissed him off—and nodded. And that had been it.

It’s like that every time. He tells you to quit, because you don’t need to do this, and you tell him you have to. You’re good at it. You’re more resourceful than half the hunters he knows, smarter than all of them, and better by a mile. He’d trained you. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d realized it was either him teaching you or you learning through trial and error, and he’d decided you being a pain in his freakin’ ass was better than you being dead.

Because—in the end—all he really cares about is that you’re safe. It’s why you know to be careful, why you know what hunts to call for backup on, and why you know that—if you need to—you can crawl back home with your guts in your hand and he won’t yell at you until you’re better. Keeping you safe is his job, more than hunting, more than research, more than cars. He’d chosen to do it when he’d found you—eight years old and starving on the side of a highway—and it had stayed that way ever since. It didn’t matter what you were, what seemed to be inside of you, or how you were certainly more trouble that you were worth. He always made sure you were safe.

Safe from your real family, for what you know and refuse to be. Safe from the worst of the monsters and ghosts, who don’t seem to care for that horrible kinship you don’t know how to stop. Safe from hunters, and how they’ll hate you for what you know how to do.

Safe from John Winchester, and how he’ll put a bullet in your brain without question for what you don’t know how to change.

It’s the top rule. Stay away from the Winchesters. When John comes around for a hunt, hide in your room. When he drops his boys off before vanishing for weeks at a time, sneak out and call your uncle. He’ll pick you up, keep you safe, and drop you back home when the brothers leave. They can’t see you, because they’re loyal to their father and will tell him about the witch-girl who made the wind howl louder than it should’ve. John can’t know about you, because he’s a complicated man with a good heart, but he’ll hurt you worse than any ghost or monster could.

But you have to say—at least from this distance—he doesn’t look that dangerous.

You know it’s him. You recognize his car in the parking lot from seeing it in your dad’s yard, and recognize his voice from the living room of your house. It’s clearer now—no longer muffled through a door you’d keep an ear pressed to—and you’re certain it’s him.

And he’s just a man. A broad-shouldered, tired man with a face that doesn’t seem like it’s ever smiledand dark hair that’s streaked with slight silver. He even sounds exhausted, his voice laced with a thin irritation he either doesn’t know how to hide, or doesn’t care to.

“Dean,” he grunts, and you can’t see who he’s talking to, the bookshelves of the library only revealing John’s cold, set face. “Go back to the morgue and look at the bodies again. See if you can get a blood type on the vics.”

“A blood type?” A second voice, this one so clearly younger, a little defiant and bright, asks. “Dad, why do we care about their blood type-“

“Because this bitch is spilling it left and right, and we need to work out what skin she’s got in that game.” John’s words are short, impatient. “And you’re not here to ask me questions, Sam, you’re here to get through these damn books. Dean, go to the morgue.”

“Yes, sir.” That’s a third voice. It’s pretty. Deeper than the second—Sam’s—but not as tired as John’s. Mostly just cautious. “Can I, uh, can I take Sammy-“

“No.” John snaps. “I need him here for the readin’. Take the car and go.”

There’s a soft sound of metal ringing through the air, a scrape of wood on the floor, and you almost don’t move fast enough. You almost don’t duck behind the shelf in time for the third voice—the pretty one, Dean—to pass you, humming something you’d recognize if you weren’t lost in your panic.

Dean doesn’t see you.

But you see him.

And it’s not just his voice that’s pretty.

You don’t know a lot about the Winchester brothers. Only what your dad has told you. Dean’s three years older than you, Sam’s a year younger. Dean likes music, Sam likes books. They’re both good boys—better than your dad seems to think John deserves, although he’ll never say that out loud—but Sam can be defiant and Dean can be trouble.

You hope Dean’s trouble. He has to be, when he looks like that.

Because in only a split second of his side profile, you’re sure Dean Winchester is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Will ever see. It’s almost ethereal, and a little unfair. All of his features are clean and strong, like someone carved him from marble, but there’s a scar you could see on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip that made him seem human. Made his seem tangible.

Touchable.

You’d like to touch him. You’ve seen him once, but everything in your body seems to think the world will collapse if you don’t touch him now. If you don’t at least talk to him. Hear his deep, charming voice directed at you. See at his face up close, see it’s clear resemble to John that feels pointless, because Dean looks like he smiles. He looks like he’s meant to smile, and you’d really like to find out if he’d smile at you.

And that white thing—the one you feel all the time—seems to really like him. Even the darkness is trying to reach out to him, move into him, and you’re not really sure what the fuck is happening. He’d just walked past you, and your body is suddenly trapped by something overwhelming and dizzying in your lungs, your every nerve prickling the longer your brain circles him. The longer it spirals around his beautiful face, and full lips, and the way his voice sounded like something even bigger than the darkness in your body-

“Hey, Dad?” That same voice cuts through your thoughts, a little raised as Dean calls between the shelves. “Are you feeling anything from the beer earlier?”

“No.” John’s voice is clipped as he responds, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “You feelin’ alright, son?”

“Yeah, uh-“ There’s a heavy pause, and you can hear Dean shuffling slightly just out of your sight. “I dunno. Must’ve stood up too fast.”

“Dad, if he feels light headed he might not be safe to drive-“

“I’m alright, Sammy.” Dean’s words are fast. Not frantic, but rapid. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the car, Dad, I promise.”

John grunts. “Better not. Get moving, Dean, we don’t got all night.”

“Yes, sir.”

You hear Dean shuffle away, sounds of flipping paper and scratching pencils re-filling the air, and you’re trapped in your spot. You shouldn’t follow Dean. Following Dean will almost certainly end in meeting John, and that’s the one thing you’re never supposed to do. Your dad doesn’t fight you when you leave for months at a time, or cross paths with other hunters, or run dangerous scams to keep yourself afloat. He’s okay with more than he probably should be, and he never tells you that you can’t do something.

But you can’t talk to John Winchester.

He can’t know who you are. What you are.

So you can’t follow Dean. Your brain is deeply aware that following Dean would be a truly horrible idea, and your body seems to be on board. There’s iron around your lungs when John mutters something to Sam, and a sore shot of electrically whenever one of them stands up to move books around. You’re really good at running. You know exactly when to call it and go. You can sense danger so easily—it’s the same chill of needles ice running up your spine, every single time—and John is dangerous. And you really shouldn’t follow Dean.

But the White thing keeps bucking around inside you. You can almost see it rush and roar in the air, feel it thrash deep down—past your heart chamber and embedded a little to the right—to try and follow Dean Winchester. And it feeds the darkness. It starts to twinge and pulse, seeping and infecting your muscles and blood, locking around your skull and making everything far too big. You can feel it all. The books on the shelves that all read Dean, and the squeak of the floors that say his name, and the lights start to flicker as the air turns humid and cool.

“Dad-“

“I’m seein’ it, Sammy, grab the gun-“

You raise the back of your hand to your mouth and bite. Hard. Grounding yourself before the flood can burst out of your body, before John Winchester could find out who you are in the worst way possible.

And when you run—out the back and to your stolen Lexus—you don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re halfway there.

To the morgue.

After Dean.

It’s a terrible idea. You have ten, long minutes of driving to figure out every way in which this is a terrible idea. You don’t know him. This will distract you from the case. John Winchester will try to kill you. Your dad will kill you. And there’s a high chance it will all be for nothing, because everything in you that’s calling to Dean belongs to that white thing. And that’s a part of you, and no one else. There’s a chance that this—whatever the fuck this is—is something driven by what you are, what’s wrong with you, so Dean won’t feel it at all.

You know all of that. And you still make it the whole drive without turning around. You park and rifle through your glove compartment for a fake ID, pull on your stiff, too-itchy well officer, would a fraud wear this? Jacket, and still don’t turn the engine back on and book it out of town. You even manage to justify it. You’re working this case too. You were here first. You’d noticed the blood thing from the start—it’s why you took the case—but you just hadn’t gotten to the morgue yet. You’d already been planning on it, and Dean just happens to be here at the same time.

No matter what, you’ll get through it. You always get through it. And this might be a horrible idea, but that knowledge won’t stop you from stepping out of the car and making your way to the morgue. Know something has never really stopped you, and no amount of twisting bile in your gut—telling you to run, because you don’t love life, but you’d really rather not be murdered today—is going to prevent you from doing this. Nothing is stronger than the White in your chest, and it wants to talk to Dean Winchester.

So that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

It is, as always, worryingly easy to get into the morgue. Half of the work is flashing the badge and saying the right words—Agent Smith, from the insurance company, I need to take a look at the autopsies for the claims—but most of it is the confidence. You carry yourself like a haughty, too-good-for-this-morgue insurance agent. Your chin is raised when you stop at the desk, and your words to the receptionist are impatient and clipped, and God, it makes you feel like the scum of the earth how she’s nervous and apologetic, but you get in the door. You always get in the door, because this is the simple part. The smiles with teeth, and the lies you spit through them are so fucking simple.

The hard part is always different. Sometimes it’s the ghosts that follow you after a failure, the ones that can’t be killed with salt and fire. Sometimes it’s long nights that you don’t have time tp sleep, and the tug and rot of that darkness in your chest tries to push to the surface. Sometimes it’s a puzzle you barely manage to solve, and it costs a little bit more of your flesh and soul each time.

But today, it’s Dean Winchester. Or, as the receptionist calls him, Officer Costello.

“Officer?” You raise your brows. “So the cops are looking into a serial killer.”

“I, um-“ The receptionist flushes, her eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know, he just said he was from a town over, and our Chief asked him to take a look, I’m not-“

“I’ll just ask him while I’m in there.” You shrug, the receptionist’s mouth opens in likely protest, and you call over your shoulder as you walk away. “I need to know for the report!”

You push through the doors—nobody chasing after you a sign of success—turn into the mortuary’s office, and freeze at the sight before you.

Dean’s hunched over the mortuary’s desk, frowning at the largest stack of papers you’ve ever seen, and shit, he’s even prettier up close. Spiky hair and slightly tanned, freckled skin, rough looking hands sorting through the files and full lips in a frown and what the fuck is happening to you-

His head shoots up, eyes widening—green eyes, deep and vibrant and you need to get a goddamn grip—and you stare at each other for a long, confusing second before he finally speaks.

“Ma’am, if you could wait for the doctor outside please, this is, uh, official police business-“

You scoff, even as your whole body hums from the deep, smooth sound of his voice. “Is that really the excuse you’re going to use?”

Dean tenses, dropping the papers on the desk and rising to his full height, glaring down at you. He’s really tall, and broad, and probably warm-

“Excuse me? If you don’t exit this office right now, I’ll have reason to put you under arrest-“

“What reason?”

He blinks at you. “Interfering in police business-“

“Fake police business?”

“I’m not, this isn’t-“ Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing on yours. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a fake insurance agent.” You lift your badge up from him to see, giving a sweet, fake smile. “And you’re a hunter.”

“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about-“

“I think you do.” You step forward, dropping into a seat across the desk. “To start, you’re definitely not a cop. Cops don’t drive muscle cars and raid morgue documents.”

He frowns, still watching you wearily. “How’d you know that’s my car?”

You’d slipped a little. You shouldn’t know that’s the Winchester’s car. But you’re quick on your feet, and by the time you say the lie it might as well be the truth. “Only three cars in the lot. Mine, the black one, and a minivan. And you don’t really seem like a minivan guy.”

Dean grunts, his body still braced and words tense. “I could be allowed to drive whatever car I want on duty-“

You give him an amused expression, tucking your knees into your chest as you lean back in your seat. “You’re like, twenty. There’s no way they’d let you drive your own car. Or,” you raise your brows. “Ask you investigate a bunch of weird murders by yourself.”

Dean frowns, but drops in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m twenty-one,” he mutters, and you snort.

“Congratulations-“

“And you,” his eyes shoot to yours, voice dropping into a low drawl that felt like it could be dangerous, but mostly made you feel a little fuzzy. “Haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

You say your full name—the real one, that you’d been given at birth and he’d never connect to your dad—and drop your feet back to the floor, extending your hand across the desk. “I’m a hunter too.”

Dean chuckles, but meets your hand with a grin. “Yeah, I figured that part out myself, Princess. Dean Winchester.”

You shake his hand, and your smile must make you look like an idiot. It’s far too wide just from him telling you his name and touching your skin—he is warm, and his hands are calloused and big and still so soft—but there’s something like lightning sparking and shooting over your skin, and the White inside you is shining like a star. Pulsing and glowing and molding with the darkness. Making nothing really seem that bad at all.

Dean’s smiling back. And you’d been right. His face is meant to smile. It’s meant to have this broad, cocky grin that’s full of teasing joy and a bright-eyed delight in something you can’t quite place. You really can’t tell if he can feel it. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s full of promises, but you can’t figure out if he can feel this. This raging tug in your body that keeps your hand in his longer than it needs to be, that makes his skin feel like a furnace and your heart feel right in your body.

He might. He really might feel it. His hand stays in yours as well, his grip a little tighter than it needs to be, and when you manage to pull away, he clears his throat—a small, adorable blush covering his pretty face—and stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky, and you’re still covered in stardust.

“So, uh,” Dean glances down at the papers, then back to you. “You here for the autopsy reports?”

You nod, crossing your legs under your body. “Yep. You gonna share?”

“That depends.” Dean shrugs, shooting you another, very mind-numbing smirk. “You gonna help us out?”

“Us?” You tilt your head at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “You’ve got a partner?”

“Partners.” Dean corrects you with a grin. “My dad and brother. We always hunt together, it’s safer and Sammy’s still a kid, so-“ He cuts himself off, his face falling into a small frown. “Do you, are you hunting alone?”

“Mostly, yeah.” You shrug. “But I can help you out-“

“You, you shouldn’t be hunting alone.” Dean cuts you off with a shake of his head, his voice almost disbelieving. “It’s not safe. Gonna get you killed.”

“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes, your voice becoming dry and bored. “Do you want my help, Dean Winchester?”

“Sure, but-“

“Then drop it, give me the papers, and let me help.”

He frowns. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda-“

“It’s not bad.” He pushes some of the files across the desk, shooting you a wink. “Just making sure you know.”

“Oh.” You stare at him. He’s so pretty, and his smile does weird things to your gut and ribs and the White inside of you. “Uh-“

“I’ll take these.” Dean taps the files still in front of him, watching you with a strange expression. “You got those?”

“Sure.” You mumble, pulling the papers into your lap. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “More hands, we’ll be done faster. You, uh, you know what you’re lookin’ for-“

“Blood.” You flip open the first file, playing with the corner of a page as you speak. “Every vic’s been covered in it. It’s uh,” you grimace slightly, an image of a corpse painted red flashing in your head. “It’s been really gross.”

Dean hums in agreement, giving you a curious look. “You’ve seen all the bodies?”

“Most of them,” you look down to the file, flipping through it until you find the blood report “I’ve been here for like, five days.”

“Huh.” He frowns, looking down to his own paper. “We’ve been here four. Only seen two of them.”

“Well, maybe I’m just better at my job.”

He laughs, and when you glance back up, he’s grinning. “Sure, Princess.”

You kick him under the desk, and he makes a fake sound of pain.

“What was that for?!“

“Making fun of me,” you stick your tongue out at him, not looking up from your papers. “Not very nice, Winchester.”

“You made fun of me-“

“And if you wanna kick me, I won’t stop you-“

“I’m not gonna kick a lady-“

“Well then.” You shrug, unable to fight the smile on your face. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

He huffs, his voice dropping to a low mutter you can still defiantly hear. “Bossy.”

“That’s not being bossy, it’s-“ You cut yourself off, leaning down to re-read the file in front of you. “Shit.”

“It is shit,” Dean complains, and you can hear the pout in his voice as you grab the next file in your stack, rushing through the report to find what you’re looking for. “You’re lucky I-“

“No, that’s not-” you look up at him, your brain moving too fast to fully linger on why you might be lucky. “Give me your file.”

Dean frowns, but slides the paper over the desk. “What-“

You raise your hand, scanning over the file and grinning as you find what you’re looking for. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what-“

“That blood wasn’t only the vics. It was their’s, plus,” you turn the page for Dean to read, pointing to the words. “All the previous vics. Mixed together. That’s why there’s been more and more every time.”

“Oh.” Dean leans forward, scanning over the page. “Kinda like a really gross blood cocktail?”

“Exactly.” You grin at him. “I know what we’re looking for.”

He looks back up at you, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me, or-“

“It’s a moroi.” You drop the files, leaning back and pushing your feet back up on the desk. “It explains the messiness perfectly.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “My dad says it’s just a normal ghost with a weird thing for blood-“

“Your dad is wrong. It’s a moroi.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “My dad’s never wrong. And he’s more experienced than both of us combined, he’d know if it was a moray-“

“Mo-roi-“

“And look,” Dean leans across the desk, pointing to the files. “All of them had the same blood type. That’s what Dad said to look for.”

“They have the same blood type because it’s a moroi.” You hold his gaze, because every single part of you might want this man in a way you can’t possibly begin to understand, but you’re also fucking right. “They’re Romanian vampire babies.’

“Vampire babies-“

“Evil infant spirits that didn’t get baptized. They’re really rare, but this-“ You tap the files with a smug grin. “Is their exact MO. Specific blood type that they’ve probably got a taste for, mixing it with their previous victims, incredibly sloppy.”

“Because they’re babies.” Dean mutters, frowning into the air. “And babies, uh, don’t know how to clean.”

You nod. “Because babies don’t know how to clean.”

“And you’re sure?” Dean looks down to the files, his tone cautious. “I mean, you said they’re kinda rare-“

“They are.” You shrug. “And that’s why I’m sure.”

Rare things are your specialty. Things that even the most experienced hunters don’t understand, that were hard to track and harder to kill. Things that were stranger than strange, darker than dark, worse than evil. Things that wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve taught yourself every way kill. It’s why you’d taken this case in the first place. It’s why you’re fucking right.

“You, uh,” Dean’s words are slow, like he’s picking them carefully. “You know how to kill these things?”

“Yep.”

“You wanna come with me? To explain it to Dad and Sammy?”

“I, um-“ You start to pick at the skin around your nails, your skin suddenly itching and a weight forming in your lungs. “I mean, I can just tell you how, and you can deal with it, and I can go-“

“Go?” Dean frowns, his brow drawn. “Where are you going?”

“Out of town.” You keep your voice strong and even, because no matter how much the White inside you seems to be trying to move into Dean—no matter how much you’d really like to stay in this office and talk to him for a million years—you have to go. You cannot meet John Winchester. “If your Dad’s as good as you say-“

“He is-“

“Then you’ll be able to handle this. You don’t need me.”

“Well,” Dean leans over the desk, his voice dropping to a charming drawl. “If I ask you nicely, will you consider staying? Giving us a hand?”

You hold his gaze, unable to find enough willpower to shut him down immediately. “How nicely?”

“Please,” Dean says your name, giving you a taunting, boyish grin, and the White inside you ignites. You’ve heard your name said a million ways, but never like that. Never in Dean’s voice, never like it’s some sort of curse and prayer all at once, never like it’s bigger than just a name. “Please stay in town and help me out. Please explain this moroi shit to my dad, and help us kill the son of a bitch. I’ll buy you a beer, and be in your debt for a million freakin’ years. Please.”

He’s already got you. If the way he said your name didn’t make you fold, the shit-eating smirk on his face and gleam in his eyes that tells you exactly how he plans to repay that debt made you cave.

“I don’t drink.” You mumble, your face heated and eyes a little wide. “But I’ll take two million years and a promise that you’ll listen to me.”

Dean chuckles. “Awesome.” He grins, his eyes never leaving yours as he stands. “Let’s get outta here, I’ll drive you to our motel.”

That’s where you manage to draw a line. You’ll bow to Dean’s charming words and handsome face, you’ll follow him out of the office and into the parking lot, and you’ll agree to come meet John and Sam Winchester—no matter how stupid and deadly an idea it will certainly prove to be—but you’ll drive yourself. You didn’t steal that Lexus not to drive it, and when things inevitably go sideways, you’ll need a car to escape in.

“You sure?” Dean walks you to the Lexus, standing right at your side and watching you in a way the White seems to feel. “I mean, it’s not a problem-“

“I’m sure.” You grab your keys out of your pocket, stopping in front of the car. “All my shit is in here, and I can just follow you. It’ll be fine.”

“Well, how am I gonna know you won’t just drive off?” Dean doesn’t budge, barely sparing your car a glance. “Leave me to deal with the vampire babies alone?”

You give him a flat. “I won’t just drive off, Winchester-“

“You might.” He shrugs. “I don’t know you that well, you could be playing me-“

“I’m not- Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your badge into his hands. “You can hold onto that, and I’ll have to follow you to get it back. Happy?”

“Very.” Dean winks at you, flipping your badge open to read. “Agent Smith- Who’s Smith?”

“Nobody. Smith is the most common last name in United States.” You shrug, and Dean looks at you like you’re insane. “What?”

“Nothin’, I just-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low laugh. “It’s practical. Smart.”

You narrow your eyes. “But?”

“No but,” He says your name with a bright, cocky grin, and tucks your badge into his pocket. “Can I not call you smart?”

“Not when you don’t really mean it-“

“I mean it. You’re smart.” His grin grows, and it feels like it’s burning its way right into your heart. Kicking it up to a higher speed, warming it until your whole body feels lost in a misting haze. It’s so fucking weird. “Are all your badges Smith?”

“No.” You mutter, crossing your arms to try and stop your heart beating right out of your chest. “Smith is just insurance. Johnson does wildlife, Brown is a cop, and Miller’s FBI.”

“Huh,” Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything more amusing in his life. It’s not really helpful. “Sammy’s gonna like you.”

“Sammy?”

“My brother.” Dean shrugs. “He’s smart too. Not half as pretty, but smart.”

You flush, leaning back to ground yourself against the cool metal of the car. “You don’t know me, Winchester. I might be a dumbass.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Dumb people don’t know about vampire babies.”

“I’d argue vampire babies are the exact thing a dumb person would know about-“

“And I’d argue dumb people don’t say I’d argue.”

You scowl. “Touché.”

Dean laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Dumb people don’t say touché-“

“Shut up.” You kick him again, and this time his grin just becomes teasing and smug and a little fucking dizzying.

“That’s not nice, Princess-“

“I said shut up.” You mutter, turning to open your car door. “Go get in your car so we can actually do our jobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean’s still grinning at you, his eyes widening as they finally flick to the Lexus. “Holy shit, you drive this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, dropping into your seat and pointing across the lot to his car. “Go.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Bossy.”

You glare at him. “Winchester-“

He gives you one last wink you feel deep in your core, closes your door, and walks away without another word. But—right after he climbs into the driver seat—he pulls out your badge, holds it up to the window, and mouths Follow me, or this is mine.

You roll your eyes, flip him off, and watch him laugh as he pulls out of the lot. And you could leave. Badges are easy to make, you’re not emotional attached to Agent Smith, and this is your last chance to keep yourself away from John Winchester. To listen to your every instinct, to your dad’s stern voice in your head, and run. It would be so fucking easy to run. To turn around and never look back, never allow yourself to indulge Dean Winchester further than one conversation.

But you don’t want to run. You want to follow this odd pull to him, follow him to the motel, follow him wherever else he seems to be going. Which is fucking insane, because you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and he’s almost certainly better off without you. Most people are. Hell, you’d be better off without you, if you could figure out how to do that.

And you know all that. But you still don’t want to run.

So you follow Dean out of the parking lot, through the winding backstreets of the town, and to a backwater motel. You park your car right next to his, close your eyes to take a long, steadying breath, and try to rationalize to yourself how this could possibly end up not blowing up in your face. You’ll keep a hold on yourself. John won’t know who you are, or what you are, or who you know, or what you know, or-

“Shit!” You jump as something raps on your window, and hear a loud laugh from outside your car.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

“You yelped.” Dean tells you as you climb out of the car, a wide, teasing grin on his face. “Real tough of you, Princess-“

“Suck my dick, Winchester.” You glare at him, and his grin only grows wider. “And stop calling me princess.”

“Nah,” Dean places his hand on your back, steering you towards the motel. “Suits you too well.”

“I don’t know what that means-“

“You don’t have to.” He smirks at you, and it does something impossible good to your brain. Makes it calm. A little fuzzy, a little smooth, but so fucking calm. “C’mon, I texted Dad that I found you, he and Sammy’ll be in our room.”

Dean Winchester is dangerous. You should be scratching and clawing and fighting like a feral animal to go, to get back in your car and as far away from here—from John Winchester—as possible. But he says I found you with a proud grin and puff of his chest like he’s bragging, and all that your stupid body knows how to do is lean slightly into his chest and follow him wherever he takes you. Somewhere dark, or somewhere horrible, or somewhere gray or somewhere safe.

Or just a shabby, paint-peeling motel room, where John Winchester and a shaggy haired kid are sitting around a table, looking at you—standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching them wearily, your back straight but arms crossed in defense—like you’re the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.

“This is, um,” Dean glances at you as he says your full name, and you realize he’s more tense than he’d been before. Standing a little taller, his eyes a little more guarded, his expression impossibly neutral. “She’s the hunter I mentioned.” Dean says your name again, pointing to the table as he continues. “That’s my dad, John, and my brother, Sammy.”

“Hi.” The kid—he’s taller than you, and barely younger, but there’s something about him that still says kid—offers you a small smile. “Do you, uh, do you hunt alone?”

“Yeah,” you give Sam a smile back, trying to force your tone to be casual, your body to relax, and your eyes not to wander to where John is tall in his seat, just watching you. “He tell you that?”

You jerk your head at Dean, who frowns. “So what if I did-“

“So, you’re being a real dramatic bitch about that. You’re not my dad, Winchester, let’s calm down.” You give him a small grin, and feel something odd and bright inflate in your chest when his mouth tugs up for the first time since you’ve walked into the room.

Dean looks like he’s going to say something back, but John clears his throat, and something curls and rots in your stomach at how quickly Dean goes rigid, how fast his mouth snaps shut.

“You got a father, girl?”

You look at John, and he looks even more tired up close, in the dim light of the motel. More threatening as well, watching you like you’re prey, or a parasite, or a disease. Like you’re going to go feral and destroy everything in the room. It would sting less if he wasn’t right. If his attention wasn’t making your skin crawl and the White in you start to twist and pound to escape your body, the darkness rushing out as everything becomes big again. If you weren’t digging your nails into your palm to stop yourself from proving him right, and if you weren’t raising your chin in a weak attempt to be a little taller than you are.

“I do.” You hold his gaze, and wonder if he can see the darkness. If he already knows what you are, and is trying to work out how to kill you. “We’re really close, actually.”

“He know you hunt?”

“He does.” You shrug. “He’s fine with it.”

That’s a lie. Your dad hates that you hunt. You’re certain the only reason he doesn’t lock you in his panic room to keep you away from the monsters and ghosts is because he knows you’d escape, and he’d never see you again. But John doesn’t know that, and you’re a fantastic liar, so if he doesn’t believe you it’s not because you don’t sell the words, it’s because he just doesn’t trust you. Because whatever you say, he’s going to keep looking at you like he can see right into your horrible center.

John’s face twitches, and as he leans slightly forward, you’re not sure Dean’s breathing at your side. “Your old man a hunter too?”

You nod, realize this is getting a little away from you, and start to run your thumb over your palm as John narrows his eyes.

“What’s his name?”

You use your real father’s name—your biological father, who you’ll never see again if you can help it—and it stings on your tongue. You hate that you have to say it. You hate that you have to repeat it, adding your real last name, but it works. John grunts, and looks away.

“Dean.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old is she?”

“I, uh-“ Dean looks at you with wide eyes. “How old are you?”

You raise your brows. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty…” Dean scratches his head slightly, looking a little afraid. It would be adorable if this wasn’t such an oddly volatile situation. “Twenty-teen?”

“Twenty-teen?”

“I dunno, I mean you gotta be old than Sammy, and you sound like you’re old, but-“

“I sound like I’m old?”

“Just cause of the words you use! You look like you can’t be old than me, but I don’t know-“

“Jesus Christ, dude.” You take pity on Dean—who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack—and pat his shoulder as you speak. “I’m eighteen. And,” you look back to John, cooling your voice and narrowing your eyes. “I can speak for myself.”

John doesn’t waver. You can’t really imagine a world where he would. “I don’t doubt that, girl. But I ain’t lookin’ for help on this case, and you’re barely votin’ age-“

“I’m aware of my age.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I’ve also been hunting, alone, since I was fifteen, and this,” you gesture through the air, holding John’s cold gaze. “Is my type of case. So you need my help.”

John scoffs. “It’s a ghost, sweetheart, me and my boys will be fine without you-“

“She says it’s not a ghost.” Dean mumbles, paling as John’s gaze shoots to him. “It’s, uh, a moroi?”

You hum in agreement, offering Dean a small grin that John doesn’t seem to miss.

Sam raises his hand at the table, his expression open and curious. “What’s a moroi?”

“Romanian vampire baby.” Dean says, shooting Sam the first real, full grin you’ve seen on his face since you entered the motel room. “They never got a chance to learn who Mr. Clean is, which is why there’s been so much freakin’ blood everywhere. Right?”

Dean looks at you with a hopeful, bright expression, and it makes the White glow and sing as you nod.

“It’s a ghost.” John grunts, and when you look back to the table, he’s glaring at you. “We got freezin’ temperatures, EMF, and no break ins-“

“Because they’re death monsters. And they can shape-shift, into a guy, or a bug, or a cat.” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be that hard to get into a house.”

John scowls. “And you’d bet all our lives on this-“

“Yes.” You say, the words simple. You’re good at your fucking job, and there’s no doubt in your mind. “It is a moroi. I’ve hunted them before.”

“You have?” Sam’s eyes widen, his tone filled with something that might be admiration. “That’s so-“

John cuts Sam off with a raised hand, his attention never wavering from you. “Well,” he drawls your name, and it’s mocking and cruel and awful. The opposite of how Dean says it, in a way you hope to never hear again. “If you’re such an expert, how the hell do we kill the asshole.”

“Easy.” You shrug, as if there’s not something wired and painful in your muscles that’s trying to force you to run, run, run, far away from John Winchester and his cold voice. “You stab it in the heart with a nail.”

“With a nail.” John repeats, his voice flat, and you scowl.

“Well, that, or,” you stand a little taller, making your voice cool and bored. “We throw a Romanian funeral for it, and find a living relative to walk around its grave three times with a candle.”

Dean makes a choked sound from off to the side, and when you look, he’s staring at you like you’d fallen from space again. John doesn’t look half as awestruck. He mostly looks pissed.

“This ain’t the time for jokes-“

“That’s not a joke.” You snap. “There are multiple ways to kill something, and that’s one of the ways you can deal with a moroi. It’s that, the nail, or burning resin on a Tuesday, then a Saturday.”

John laughs, no amusement or joy in the sound. “You might think your smart, kid, but how about I see a plan. Stabbin’ something in the heart ain’t gonna be easy, and hell, girl, you said they shape shift. How the fuck are you thinkin’ we find them-“

“There will be blood in its nails and eyes.” You hold your ground, but your palm grows red as you break skin. “And there is a pattern to the tarbets, we’ve just all been looking in the wrong place.”

“A pattern?” Sam’s eyes are still wide, his voice a little eager. “But none of the vics have been the same age, gender, ethnicity, occupation-“

“Have they all been parents? Lived near graveyards?”

All three Winchesters gape at you for a second, and Dean looks at John with wide eyes.

“Shit, Dad, she’s right.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “The one we looked at yesterday, the house had one of those baby gates-“

“And we’ve driven past a graveyard every time.” Sam adds, looking between you and John with a nervous expression. “So, uh, it could be-“

“I know what it could be, Sam.” John grunts, his glare fully focused on Dean. “You willing to bet on her, son?”

Dean looks at you, and he shouldn’t be—you’re a stranger, you’re a liar, you’re a monster that’s attracted to him like a magnet—but he nods. He stares at you like he doesn’t really understand what’s going on either, like he’s looking for a reason to not trust you and side with his father, but can’t find one. And—right before he looks back to his father—you see a flash in his eyes that makes you think he feels it. That whatever the fuck is happening to you, it’s happening to Dean too, and he’s just as helpless as you are to fight it.

“I am, sir.” He says, hands flexing at his side. “Sammy and I can do door duty, figure out who’s next on this things hit list-“

Sam frowns. “I don’t wanna do door duty-“

“Blame Dean,” John shrugs, giving Dean a curt nod. “Take my car and be back in two hours-“

You raise your hand, and John cuts himself off with a glower.

“What.”

“They don’t need to do door duty,” you say, your fingers running over your palm. “The moroi will only target parents of infants, so you can look for baby seats in cars. And it’ll all be near same cemetery. Five miles radius.” You catch Dean raising his brows at you, and shrug. “They don’t like to stray far from home.”

“And by home,” Sam jumps in, words slow as he connects the dots. “You’re talking about their grave.”

“Or their coffin.” You offer him a close-lipped smile. “But yeah. It’s already dusk, our best bet would be splitting up and patrolling a few streets until we see the thing. It’ll probably be in its regular form, at least until it spots a house.”

Dean frowns at you. “What’s that gonna look like?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Hairy. Bloody and hairy. It’ll be gross, you’ll see it.”

“And how,” John grunts. “Are you thinkin’ we split up.”

“We’ve got two cars.” You shrug. “Three if you have a second one-“

“We don’t.” John snaps. “And I took a fuckin’ taxi back here, ain’t no way I’m not driving my car, or lettin’ a little girl go off to hunt this on her own-“

“How honorable,” you mutter under your breath—careful to make sure Dean doesn’t hear you—and raise your voice back to a bored, flat tone. “Then you’ll take your car, and I’ll take one of them,” you nod between Sam and Dean. “So we’re off in pairs.”

“Dad, I could go with her.” Dean takes a small step forward, his tone slightly nervous. “I mean, it would be safer for you to take Sammy. And you know I’d be careful.“

John grunts, jaw ticking, and you can see he’s considering it. That, somehow, you’ve convinced him to go with this, and he hasn’t put a bullet in your brain. There’s a frantic, wired part of you along your skin that’s certain he’s just waiting for an excuse, but for now you’ll take it. You’ll take Dean volunteering to go with you, John not killing you, and everyone winning when you’re right, because you will be. You’re not good for much, but you’re good for this.

“I want you to drive.” John tells Dean, and you’ll allow it. If it keeps Dean near you—as you so confusingly and desperately crave—you’ll let him drive your stupid, fancy car. Fuck, you’ll let him run it into a ditch if he wants, as long as you’re there with him, and what the fuck is happening to you-

Dean says your name, and you blink at him as he continues. “I, uh, if you’re good with it-“

“Sure, I don’t give a fuck.” You toss Dean your keys, and he frowns. “I mean, try not to total it, or do donuts-“

Dean gasps, his face full of mock offense that pulls a smile onto your face. “Do I look like a hooligan to you-“

You raise your brows. “Did you just say hooligan?”

“Yeah,” he grins at you, and nothing else seems that real. “It’s a fun word, don’t bash it-“

“I am not bashing it-“

“Kinda sounds like you’re bashin’ it-“

“Well, it kinda sounds like you’re going to try and do donuts in my car-“

“Princess, I would never-“

“Winchester, I don’t believe you-“

John coughs, loudly, and you and Dean fall silent. That keeps happening. You talk to Dean, and everything fades until you’re just smiling like an idiot and watching him like he’s the sun, and you’re just existing in his orbit. And he does the same thing. Dean’s face is red, and he’s staring at the floor as John glowers at him, but you keep catching his eyes darting to you, a small furrow on his brow that you wish you could ask him about. You wish you could ask him a million things. About his life, about his likes and dislikes, why his whole family hunts and what he thinks of your dad—the one he’d know, the one that’s going to murder you when he finds out what you’re doing right now—and if he can feel this too. He must. It’s like a drug, and it’s flashing and loud in the White, and making the darkness blur into something you think would be better. Into something you wouldn’t hate, molding with something that feels foreign but right, strange but just as powerful and certain as gravity. Something secret, that you think you should be fighting but can’t bring yourself to raise a weapon against.

Something bigger than you. Bigger than him. Bigger than the White inside your chest and the darkness that’s pushed down, down, down as you force yourself to stay in place, and not either grab Dean’s face and scream—shout at him in a begging question of do you feel this, or am I going fucking insane—or run. Flee as John Winchester gives you one last look like he’s imaging your blood on the floor, and you climb into the passenger’s seat of the Lexus.

But you manage to keep it together, and you’ll have to settle for this. For talking to Dean as you patrol up and down a darkened suburban street with white-picket fences, your knees up on the dash and your fingers growing bloody as you pick at them to keep the darkness down.

“So, uh,” Dean taps his hands on the wheel, staring out at the road. “Hunting.“

You blink at him, raising your brows. “What?”

“I just, mean how’d you end up doing it? You’re young-“

“You’re literally only three years old than me-“

“But I got Dad and Sammy.” He scowls. “You’re alone.”

“Yeah, we’ve establish that.” You cross your arms, curling slightly into your seat. “I’m really good at my job, Winchester, I’m not that worried.”

Dean chuckles, glancing at your half-pout with an amused expression. “Still Winchester? When am I gonna get the honor of her majesty using my first name?”

You glare at him, and it just makes his grin wider. “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bossy.”

And he’s so confusingly adorable and handsome—in the soft, shimmering light of the streetlamps and fog—that you speak without even thinking. “You have to earn first names, Deano.”

He freezes for a second, and his grin becomes his whole face. Wide and charming, sweeping you off your feet and knocking the breath from your lungs without even touching you.

“So,” he drawls, still smirking like an idiot. “Nicknames you’ll pass out like party favors, but I need to work to just be Dean.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, can I at least shoot down Deano?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “On what grounds?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes flashing in the low light. “It kinda makes me sound like a birthday clown?”

You giggle. A small, soft giggle that he pulls out of you with barely any effort, that you want to hate but can’t figure out how to. “Maybe you are a clown-“

“Birthday clown.” He corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t drop the birthday part, that means I’ve got a job. And I can’t be a clown, Sammy’ll never speak to me again.” Dean glances at you, his voice dropping slightly. “He freakin’ hates clowns. Might shoot me before I explain that a pretty lady turned me into one against my will.”

You raise your brows, trying to push down the flush on your face from pretty lady. How he’d said the words like they were teasing, but still so serious, and looked at you with a small smirk when they had his intended effect. You can barely remember how to clear your throat and use words, let alone tease and spar with him when the White is blinding in your body.

“Unfortunately,” you manage to speak, nudging his shoulder with your own. “All sales are final. You’re Deano now.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Until I earn Dean, though, right?”

“If you earn Dean.”

He hums, shooting you another, oddly heated glance. “And what do I need to do for that?”

You only shrug, running your fingers over your palm to sooth the darkness. It’s starting to eat over your nerves and heart, trying reach out and touch Dean in a way you can’t allow, in a way that will end whatever this is before it begins. Dean only gives you a strange look, his smile still wide on his face.

“Well,” Dean says your whole name, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Am I allowed to return the favor?”

“What favor.”

“Callin’ you a nickname.” He winks at you, and it settles—warm and soft and strong—in your core. “It’s only fair.”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even have a nickname.”

“Bet I could fix that.”

“Would be a losing bet. I wouldn’t take it.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

And just like that, you’ve lost. You’d seen it coming, too. It was too easy a solution for him to have, to easy a path to allow him to take, too easy to let the small part of you—that had wanted to hear him call you Princess again, because it soothed something that was always feral inside of you and blurred the darkness into the White until nothing hurt inside you—allow Dean to coax you where he’d clearly wanted you, and follow with a smile on your face. But all of this was too easy. Talking to Dean was too easy, because the conversation seems to flow and ebb without effort, and you’re almost always in danger of saying too much. He seems to know how to—without any obvious intention—get you to tell him anything he asks, leaving you biting your tongue to keep down bits of the truth that could prove deadly. But he doesn’t push you to speak—which is perfect and terrifying all within itself—and when you fall into silence it’s easy too. It’s easy to control the darkness, calmed only by your thumb and long breathes, and easy to keep everything small. Just you and Dean in the soft silence of the car, just you and Dean in the whole world.

“My mom died.” Dean says suddenly, frowning out the window. “It’s why I’m hunting. And,” he adds, his voice growing a little firmer, a little more defensive. “It’s why my dad’s so careful. I know he can be tough, but we’ve only got each other, and he’s just tryin’ to-“

“I get it.” You whisper, something deep in your chest aching for him. For this pretty, impossible man who might be bigger than the whole word, and how his brow is knit in a confusing kind of hollow pain as he defends his father. Goes to arms for him without prompting, like it’s a reflex. And you really do get it, but even if you didn’t, you somehow care too much about him to force him to rage and spit fire in John’s defense. It looks like it might rip him apart, and you never really want to see him go. So you just offer him a gentle, full lipped but toothless smile, and place your hand on his arm. “And that really fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and doesn’t try to move his arm away. “It does really fucking suck. Thanks.”

“My dad’s wife died.” You offer, as if that would somehow make this better, and Dean gives you an odd look.

“Dad’s wife? Not your mom?”

You swallow. You did it again. You slipped when you’re usually so fucking careful. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah.” Dean has a little furrow between his brow that you’d like to run your thumb over, but he drops it. “Are you, you gonna tell me why you hunt? If it’s not your Dad’s wife?”

You sigh, a feral instinct of survive shoving the truth just a little further down. “That’s complicated too. I mean it’s not,” you glance up at him, his eyes fixed onto the road. “It’s not like yours. I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Is it a family thing? Like, your dad brought you in?” Dean’s every word is careful, like he’s afraid he might spook you. But that’s another thing that’s too easy. Staying next to Dean and not bristling or fleeing is far too fucking easy.

“No,” you say, watching the light and shadows shift over his face in a strange, perfect dance. “He tries to stop me from doing it all the time. Shit, he called me last night and asked me to come home.”

Dean frowns. “You-“

“Dean!” You cut him off with a hand over his mouth, and he slams the breaks with a screech. You can see his staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you barely spare him a glance, your eyes locked over his shoulder, out the window, at a shifting figure in the dark. “Look.”

He turns his head, prying your hand from his mouth as he glares out the window. “I don’t-“

“There,” you hiss, leaning a little further forward. “See the-“

“That might just be a shadow,” Dean mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scans over the dark. “Or a fox-“

You turn your head, giving him a flat look. “Do foxes look like babies covered in blood?”

“No.” He grins at you. “But I’ve seen weirder shit, Princess.”

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are. How you’d leaned over the console and started to practically hang off of Dean’s body, how your faces are barely a breath apart and you can see every deep color and fleck of gold in his eyes. He really only gets prettier, and he’s so warm, and there’s molten silver in your chest trying to tangle into him. He smells like fresh grass and spice, his eyes are dilating—but maybe just from the dark—and everything seems to be slowing down as the silver looks for other places to leak out. Places that wouldn’t hurt anyone, like the mist of the night that seems to glow and the wind that seems to bend and creak the trees in your direction, and the golden streetlamps-

Dean’s eyes shoot to the road as the lights start to flicker, his body tensing against yours. “Shit. We should, uh-“

You nod, push yourself away, and try to pretend your body doesn’t grieve the loss of his touch.

John and Sam are taking too long to arrive. You’re tense and bouncing on the sidewalk as you wait, turning a sharp nail between your fingers, and Dean keeps a hand around your wrist as he frowns down the street. You think he can sense that, if he looks away for only a second, you’ll dart into the house and deal with this yourself. You could. This nail has killed three moroi before, and you’d been completely alone then.

“Winchester.”

Dean looks at you with a frown, and you tug your arm slightly.

“Let me go.”

“No,” he grunts, his grip tightening. “Dad said to wait.”

“He’s not my dad-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean mutters, his gaze moving back to the empty, dark fog. “We’re waiting.”

You scowl. “Fine. Can you let go-“

“No.”

“I swear to god, Dean Winchester-“

“If I let you go,” he snaps, his glare shooting back to you. “You’re going to run in there. So no.”

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me-“

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Look me in the eyes,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze. “And say you won’t run.”

It should be an easy lie, but it gets caught in your throat and you can only gape at him. Dean raises his brows as you continue to stare, and the White inside you starts to thrash as you clear your throat, forcing the words out.

“I’d handle it.”

He scoffs. “There is no way you’re gonna be able to handle it alone-“

“So, come with me,” You hiss, leaning forward until your face is only an inch from his. “And I won’t be alone.”

You don’t know why it breaks him. But something flashes in his eyes, he groans—running his free hand over his face and giving you a look of disbelief—and he caves.

And from there it’s mostly a blur. It’s always a blur. The darkness inside of you latches onto something primal, and it’s all only a blur.

Usually it’s all but a blackout. Like something overtakes you and you become just as monstrous as what you’re hunting, your brain only holding onto what you’ll need in order to survive next time, and a sticky smell of blood to haunt your sleep. But Dean’s here now, and things come into focus. Time is still a rush, and you’re still moving on pure instinct, but you remember Dean’s body being pressed to yours as you crept through the suburban house. You remember to set look on his face as you swept the rooms, figuring out what the moroi could be, where it might be hiding. You remember seeing it first, and the sound of flesh tearing as it launched at Dean—over you—and you swatted it with your arm like a baseball.

You remember Dean shouting your name as you raced forward with the nail in your hand, and how it sounded like his chest was being ripped open. You remember finding that small patch of soft flesh on the moroi’s chest, driving the nail home, and tasting bile when it vomited blood up into your face.

You remember Dean passing you his shirt on the curb a few blocks down, because the very ungrateful almost-victims threatened to call the cops, and you were covered in blood. He’d faced away as your changed—zipping up his own jacket and humming while he waited—and you could’ve sworn he was blushing when he turned back around.

Then John Winchester had arrived—looking at Dean like he’d just sprouted a second, hideous head and you like he was imaging how amazing you’d look in a casket—and everything grew sharp as they drove away.

More of it comes together as you drive yourself back to the motel. Dean had dumped the body in the gutter, and you had given him your motel address. John had snapped at you to meet them tomorrow for a debrief, and told Dean that they’d talk back at the room. Sam had smiled at you, and it was a nice smile. There hadn’t seemed to be anything beneath it—just a kind smile for the woman sitting on the curb next to his shirtless brother, her hair matted in blood and fingers covered in monster hair—and you’d liked that.

When you enter your room, it suddenly feels too small. Nothing is big enough for how strange this is, how you might need all the world and a little more to figure out what the fuck just happened. You miss Dean. You’d met him today, and you miss him more than you’ve missed anything before. You keep looking to the side to see if he’s there, when you know he won’t be. The White is bucking and keening inside of you, the darkness falling out of your body—you can feel the pain of the water as it becomes steam in the shower, and you’re almost knocked to your knees by the ache of the phone to be closer to the lamp—and you need to find out if he could meld them together again. If it had been a fluke, or an accident, or if you were simply losing your fucking mind.

You have to be. You must be going mad. It’s the only explanation for why you take a long shower and change into your own clothing, but you still smell grass and leather and spice. It’s purgatorial. You go through your whole routine—scrubbing all the blood off your body with rough sugar that bites into your skin, running your hands under white-hot water that leaves your skin raw but the darkness pushed down, tending to your hair until it frame your features easily, and you don’t look like a bruised and battered animal—but you still smell him. You toss his shirt off to the side, but he’s clinging to the sheets. You change into sleepwear, but your body can still feel a strong, warm touch. You turn your empty flask in your hands, watching light catch off the steel, and someone’s knocking on your fucking door-

Dean hisses your name through the wood, and you freeze.

“I know you’re in there!” He’s half-shouting, and the whole world feels more colorful, and what is wrong with you. “C’mon, Princess, open the door. It’s me!” He pauses, the knocking faltering. “Uh, Dean Winchester.”

He sounds a little defeated, and you can’t stop the smile on your face as you toss the flask back into your bag, cross the room, and open the door.

Dean gives you an adorable, almost nervous grin and scans over you. Slow and deep and appreciative—taking in your sleep clothes, how your whole body is more relaxed than it had been all day—and his smile grows as his eyes find yours once more.

“You look pretty wearing normal stuff.” He leans a little on the door frame, and it’s so effortlessly and perfectly rouge-cowboy-white-knight-and-knave that he has to have practiced. “Better than that old-lady jacket you hand on before.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s my professional jacket, Winchester. What do you want?”

The words are harsher than you mean them to be, and his grin falters slightly. “I was, uh, I was wondering,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I got my dad’s car. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive or something, but you’re obviously ready to turn in, so-“

“Do you want to come in?”

You’re not sure how he’s doing this. Making you speak without thought, making your words reckless when they’re usually so carefully chosen. You have to be careful with your words, because you’ve spent years weaving a web that shows everyone everything, but not from every angle. And he’s fucking unraveling it. Dean just looks at you, and you pull at a thread so he can see whatever he wants, and you can’t understand how the fuck he’s doing it.

It must be on purpose, but he looks just as shocked as you are—gaping at you slightly, his features open and uncertain—and you don’t think it’s an act. Especially not as his voice becomes slightly hoarse, his feet restlessly shifting his weight as he speaks.

“Yeah, if you want, but I’m good to just head out if you-“

“Do you want to head out?”

Dean’s grin becomes bright once more, and the shake of his head sends a spark of lightning through your body.

“So,” you step to the side, offering him a small smile. “Come in.”

He shuffles inside, scanning over your scattered possessions and stopping at the side of the bed.

“I can,” he looks back to you, his eyes a little wide. “I can sit on the floor, or we can go outside-“

You shake your head, moving to his side. “There are bugs outside. Sit on the bed.”

Dean glances at the mattress like the sheets might leap up and strangle him. “Floor looks good-“

“Winchester.” You point at the bed, giving him a stern glare. “Sit.”

“I am not a freakin’ dog-“

You place a hand on his chest and push him—just enough for him to get the message—and he sit on the bed with a wide happy? gesture.

You drop at his side, watching him carefully as you try to work out what is happening. Why he’s here. If he’s looking at you like that—like you’re more than a human, but that’s hypnotizing, and he’d love to find what you actually are—because he can feel this too.

But Dean beats you to it.

“Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your knees into your chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh.” Dean hums, the smile creeping back onto his face. “How about we trade? I ask you a question, you gimme an answer, then we switch.”

You give him an amused look. “That’s just a conversation.”

“Nah, because if I ask you something and you answer, now I owe you a question. You can turn down a question, but you’ll still owe an answer.”

You frown. “What happens if you owe an answer?”

He shrugs, flopping onto his back. “Then the other person keeps asking questions.”

Dean looks so real. He’s grinning up at you, light dancing as his eyes as he obviously baits you into whatever he’s trying to do.

And you fall for it. Despite your best judgement, you fall.

“I’m going first.”

He chuckles, but raises his hand for you to shake. “Deal, Princess.”

The moment your hand folds into Dean’s he pulls you down, leaving your smushed slightly against him and his face only inches from yours once more. And your yelp was undignified, and he’s such an asshole—laughing and grinning as you shove his chest—and you’re smiling too.

Because this is easy. And you have a feeling that, if this strange man—who’s too pretty, and that’s making you feel like you’ve never really been alive before this—dragged you right down to hell, you’d still be laughing and smiling at him. And that’s so fucking dangerous. And you know that, but you still can’t stop looking at him, and you can’t roll away. And you decide that, just for tonight, you’re going to indulge this. You’ll dedicate hours when he’s gone to figuring out what the fuck this is. Right now you get to laugh and smile and act like nothing in the world has ever—could ever—hurt you.

“So,” Dean says your name, and it still sounds too good. “You have a question to go first with? Or were you just bein’ bossy-“

“Shut up.” You swing your leg to kick his shin, he laughs, and it’s like music. Making you high and dizzy as you watch him, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve got it, Winchester. You ready?”

“Born it, sweetheart,” he winks at you, and that’s dizzying too. “Hit me.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you already, I wanted to talk to you-“

You hum, holding his gaze with a small frown. “Why?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s two questions-“

“It’s a ride off of the first question-“

“Well, I still gotta ask my first question before you get a second one.” He raises his brows at you, bump your knee with his. “We shook on this, Princess, you don’t get to change it now.”

You glare at him, but you think he knows it’s fake, because his grin becomes almost blinding. “Fine. Go.”

Dean rolls onto his side, holding your gaze as he speaks. “How’d you get that car?”

You frown. “The Lexus?”

He nods, and you sigh.

“I borrowed it.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth that will keep him here, at your side, for a little longer than you might deserve. “For the hunt.”

“Well, it’s freakin’ awesome.” He grins at you, and your face might burst into flame. “Your move.”

“Why are you really here?”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Will you let it go if I say to talk again?”

“Nope. Answer me.”

“It’s, uh,” he rolls flat on his back once more, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow’s gonna be Dad telling us about safety and Sammy asking you a bunch of questions.” He shoots you a small, amused grin. “I think he’s been writing them down. He’s into all that geek-shit too-“

“I am not a geek-“

“Yeah, you are.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable. But Sammy thinks you’re the coolest person we’ve ever met. So after Dad finishes, he’ll try to use you like a freakin’ library, and I just figured I’m the one who found you, so I should get a night of you all to myself.”

You gape at him for a second, and you’ve defiantly burst into flames. He wants you all himself, and he thinks you’re adorable, and he doesn’t know you, but he doesn’t seem like the type to say all that just to get in your pants, and if he was, he’d be there already. He’d just have to roll on top of you, but he’s only looking at you like you’re something sacred instead of a disease or trophy.

He must feel this too. He has too. And you want to ask him, but you don’t know how, because you don’t even know what this is. It’s magnetic and infinite and bigger than anything, forging something you don’t know how to name between where the White and darkness live in your body. And Dean might not even have the White and darkness. Nobody else does—that’s something that’s wrong with only you—so if you phrase it like that he’ll think you’re insane-

“My turn.” Dean says, and you’re dragged back down to earth, grounded in his smooth voice. “What’s up with your hand?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That one.” he reaches over, tapping the back your hand. “You’ve been touching it all day, and I kinda, uh,” he gives you an apologetic look. “I saw the scar. If you wanna pass on this one, I’ll drop it, but-“

“No, it’s,” you take a long breath, because this would be an easy one to refuse to answer, but his fingers are lingering on your knuckles and setting off little sparks over your skin, and you want to tell him. It takes a moment of just staring at him to you find the words, and his eyes never leave yours, and everything about him seems to drug you into a loose-lipped, trusting ease. “I’ve have it since I was really young. There was, um, an incident.”

Dean still doesn’t look away, his voice slightly lower. “Hunting incident, or-“

“No.” You swallow, turning your hand for him to see the long, clean scar on your palm. Running through it in a neat, raised line. “Just an incident.”

He looks like he’s going to say something. Not push, but say something, and you blurt out your next question before he can get the chance. It’s not what you wanted to ask—you hadn’t offered yourself enough time to find the right words for something really fucking weird is happening to me, and I need to know if it’s happening to you too—but it’s dragged out of you in desperation to learn a little more about him. In a plea for him to only know that you’re marred where he can see, and never discover that you’re twisted where he can’t.

“What’s it like?” You watch him carefully, your fingers starting to trace over the scar. “Hunting with your family?”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I mean, Dad’s a freakin’ genius at it, and it’s awesome to watch him work. Plus I get to keep an eye on Sammy like this. Know he’s safe.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s better than sending him off alone. Letting him be in danger.”

You hum, scanning over the wrinkle in his brow, your thumb starts to itch to press on it, sooth his whole face into a relaxed smile. “You guys are close?”

Dean nods eagerly. “Yeah, I mean, He’s a freakin’ loser, but he’s all I got. He’s a weird little geek-“

You laugh. “He’s taller than you are, De. I wouldn’t call that little.”

“He’s little in spirit-“ Dean cuts himself off, and his grin looks almost manic. “Did you just call me De?”

“No.” You hold his gaze, even as your face warms. “Shut up.”

“I heard you, Princess, you can’t lie to me-“

“Well, is that your question?” You grin at him, your body leaning a little further without you moving it, and Dean eyes flash.

“You gonna tell me the truth if it is?”

You nod, and he smirks.

“Then yeah, it was.”

“Okay. I did call you De.” Before he can gloat, you push on. “Why do you call me Princess?”

“I told you already, it suits you-“

You narrow your eyes. “Try again, Winchester. Real answer this time.”

He sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You just,” Dean waves his hand through the air. “You’ve got a thing going. You don’t look like a hunter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“It means,” He gives you a strange look you can feel flash through your blood, melding the White back into the darkness, turning every simple and bright as he continues. “That if you asked me what I thought you were, I’d have said something fancy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not done, and he won’t look away from you.

“I dunno, you just seem too pretty to be down here in the mud with us. You should eating caviar and wearing those poofy dresses-“

You snort. “Poofy dresses?”

“Yeah, like in movies, when they dance around like douchebags-“

“So you’re saying I seem like a douchebag-“

“No, I’m saying you should be somewhere that’s not here.” Dean’s attention is washing over you like a rising tide—slow and natural and deep—and you still can’t read that expression on his handsome face. “The mud.”

He’s so close. And if he thinks you’re pretty, he’s a work of art. You’ve never see someone look like him. Like he was created, and not born. Every freckle on his face is more like a star than a flaw, and there a slight crook to his nose that tells you he’s been punched there before, but it only makes you want to run your finger over the bump and see if his pretty eyes flutter or flash. His lips are chapped but they’d still be soft. His hands look rough, but that just means he uses them.

You think it would be nice to let him use you.

“I like it in the mud,” you whisper, daring to inch a little closer, until you’re sharing a breath. “It feels real. And,” you grin at him, everything blurring around you but pretty green eyes and shining silver in your chest. “I’ve got good company down here.”

There it is. The flash in his eyes as they darken slightly, a warm breath fanning over your face, and he looks golden. In the warm light of the lamp, glowing soft on his tan skin, Dean looks like something more than human. You feel like something more than human, and for the first time in your life, that’s not a curse. And he’s still so fucking close, and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.

You should. He’s John Winchester’s son, and you’re not sure how you forgot that. It’s past midnight, and you have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

But you still can’t move.

“You should, um,” you swallow, and your lips might have brushed over his. “You should get back. It’s late, and your dad-“

“Shit,” Dean mutters, but still doesn’t try to move away. “Yeah.”

Your eyes dart down to his lips—full and pink, just a small movement away from yours—and you decide you don’t care what’s happening to you. This is—Dean is—too good to care. You don’t need to know why this is happening, or what it means, or if you should be trying to run from it. You just need Dean. You think that—if the world ended and time began to move slowly—you might plant roots in the motel floor and grow into Dean until the world flooded and you were both washed away.

“I have one last question,” he mutters, breath ghosting over your lips. “If I leave you my number, will you use it?”

You nod without thinking, he grins, and you’re so fucked. You can’t kiss him. You might fall from a million feet if you kiss him. Down, down, down, clinging to him as you both try to find an end to whatever this is and likely fail to. But Dean sits up slowly—like the movement is painful—and when he helps you to your feet you think you might ascend from just his hand in yours. Touching him feels like it’s making you pure and worthy of something, and you have to know what kissing him will do.

Not on the lips. You still have enough of your willpower and caution to not crash all the way down, at least not right now. But you kiss his cheek, and that’s tragedy enough. It snaps something into place inside you, soft stubble and warm skin too much for your entire existence to handle. It’s all too much to handle, and if he hadn’t mumbled a low promise of seeing you tomorrow and left when he did, you would’ve jumped on him to chase whatever this feeling is. How it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt that might belong inside you, and the only easy thing that the darkness has ever bended for.

And when you sleep, that’s easy too. It’s dreamless and deep, no nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat, no darkness wrapping around you and leaving the sheets only ash when you wake up.

But when you do wake up, something is wrong. You feel it first, gnawing at your nails and blood. And when you roll over to check the time, your phone is gone.

It had been on the bedside table, a scrap of paper with Dean’s number under it, and it’s gone.

The paper is gone too.

You shoot out of bed, and Dean’s shirt is still in the corner, because he’d told you to give it to him in the morning, to trade it for your Agent Smith badge. But your phone is gone.Your window is open—cool breeze rushing through the room—and your phone is fucking gone.

You’d been smart to pack the night before. You’d been smart to keep your keys in your jacket, and park right outside your room. You can shove everything in the passenger’s seat and screech out of the motel lot in a second. You don’t know why, but you’re heading to Dean first. Something is wrong, and you don’t know what, but the White is trying to strangle your heart and the darkness is already eating up your spine and over your skull.

John Winchester’s sleek, black muscle car—Dean told you it was an Impala, and he’d said it with a pride in his voice that had dragged a smile onto your face—isn’t parked in the lot. And when you knock on the door nobody answers. All the lights in the room are off, there’s no shadows moving through the window, and the door is locked.

You move to the front desk and ask if the men in that room had checked out. And when the clerk gives you a weary look and says that they’d paid for another two nights, but dropped the keys off that morning, your gut twists.

They were gone. Dean was gone. And something fragile and new shattered inside you, leaving small pieces lodged through your whole body. You stumble back to your car, the darkness moving out of your body and the whole world too fucking big, and you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’d known him a day. He’d known you a day. Nothing was owed, but you can still feel it. How the White seems to be howling from the loss of him, and the darkness can’t stop growing as it sinks in.

He left. You don’t know why, but Dean left. He’d probably taken your phone, taken his number, and just fucking left you. Maybe he’d seen you last night, really seen you, and realized what you were. Maybe he’d just been playing you the whole time for some sort of scam. Maybe you hadn’t kissed him, and he’d decided you weren’t worth the chase. And that would mean you had been going crazy, and he hadn’t felt anything at all.

The thought lets the darkness move over you, and you can feel everything everywhere. The electricity in the wires over your head, the wear of painted lines in the parking lot, the hope of the grass peeking through the concrete under your feet.

The grass that smells like Dean.

It breaks through you before you can stop it. Reaching past your body and down into the pavement, cracking it open with all the force of how much this hurts. How it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t make any sense that it hurts, but you’re still breaking and bowing and bending to the way you feel like you’ve been fucking shot. You fall down to the curb, curling into yourself as the ground shakes under your feet, and the wind picks up until—in the forest across the parking lot—a branch falls to the ground.

Then a second one.

You manage to bring your hand to your mouth, to bite down hard and force all the darkness back into your body, and you still don’t know what to do.

This hurts so much, and you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and Dean’s gone.

You still have your burner phone. Your dad makes you keep it in your jacket, just in case something happens, and it only has his number. You dial him with shaking hands, the darkness still trying to climb back out of you, take a deep breath as you raise it to your ear.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” He says your name, his voice already edged with worry. “I didn’t think I’d be hearin’ from you until after that blood hunt thing-“

“Hunt’s over.” You mumble, staring at the cracked pavement. “Got it last night.”

“Was it a vamp like I told ya’-“

“Moroi.”

“I’d call that vamp enough. Good work, kiddo, Rufus owes us a dinner-“

“Bobby?”

Your voice is soft, and he hears it. Bobby always hears it.

“What happened,” he says your name, and you can hear the frown in his voice. It makes everything worse, because you can’t tell him. Not now, maybe not ever if you can avoid it. You can’t handle how he’ll help you fix this and let you rest, then spend a week lecturing you and telling you everything you already know. Because you really do know. You fucked up, and you know that.

But Bobby doesn’t have to.

“Nothing, I just-“ you swallow, your nails digging into your calf. “Can I come home?”

There’s a long moment of static through the phone, and when Bobby speaks again his voice is low. “You can always come home,” he says your name, and you choke on the clean air around you. “But you get a week of mopin’ before we’re grabbin’ that dinner from Rufus. Alright?”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

“Should be two days, if you drive carefully like you’re supposed to.” Bobby grunts. “And ditch that fancy car you’ve been usin’, I don’t need the cops askin’ questions about it.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips. “You never let me have anything nice, Bobby-“

“You never let me have goddamn peace, kid.” Bobby snaps, and your smile grows. “Your bed will be ready for you. And I better not see that bells and whistles hunk of shit in my yard-“

“Aye, aye captain. No fancy cars.” You make a mock salute he can’t see, and Bobby huffs.

“Stolen fancy cars.” He grumbles. “Stop bein’ a smartass and get on the road.”

When the call ends, your smile feels real. The strange, fractured feeling in the White is still there, and the darkness might be trying to fly out of you, but you’re better than before. You’ll go home, Bobby will never know what happened, and none of this will last. You’ll be fine. Dean Winchester might haunt you like a phantom or cancer for the rest of your fucking life—or at least until you figure out what he did to you, and how to fix it—but you’ll get through this.

You always do.

—————————

Dean’s grip was tight on Her phone. It was just a fucking block of metal—it would be useless when they tossed it off a bridge in a few miles—but he couldn’t let go of it. It felt wrong to let go of it.

He’d be letting go of Her.

He hadn’t wanted to take it, but Dad said he needed to—Don’t want to let an angry woman have a line to you, son. Especially not a crazy one—and Dad knew what he was talking about, so Dean had done it. He’d snuck back into Her room through the window, grabbed Her phone and the paper with his number, and felt like the lowest piece of trash in the goddamn garbage can. The maggot-ridden chunk of food that nobody had wanted, but was still figuring out a way to fuck everything else up in twisted retribution.

Because there was guilt eating at Dean’s stomach. He shouldn’t have taken Her phone, not when She wasn’t that much older than Sammy. Not when She’d said her dad would be waiting for her to call, and Dean might have stolen Her only line to safety just because-

Because She’d been using him. And he’d been falling for it. She’d given him that smile like he’d fallen out of the sun and into Her hands, She’d crafted some sort of perfect mask that had felt so real—felt like this strange, mouthy, clever woman had just appeared to him, and he could’ve had something nice for once in his goddamn life—and moved Dean like a fucking pawn.

Dad had been waiting for him when he got back, and whatever weird spell She’d put Dean under—making him feel a little drunk on nothing, making him act like a fucking idiot—had been ripped away under his glare.

But Dean hadn’t gotten yelled at. He’d just been sat down—Dad’s gaze filled with disappointment that Dean’s bones didn’t know how to handle—and had papers pushed across the table in his direction.

“What are these?” He’d asked, and Dad had sighed, because Dean was too much of an idiot to just know, and Dad knew it.

“Read them.” Dad had grumbled, watching Dean through narrowed eyes. “And tell me if you want to see that girl again.”

He’d frowned but scanned over the papers. Printed out website pages about… Her. Her family. How She was missing, how She’d stolen from them, and how they were rich. Normal, alive, and rich, looking for Her and whatever she’d taken. Warning that She was crazy, a chronic liar, and should be turned over to the police if seen. There was no picture, but there was a description that matched Her perfectly, right down to a scar on her palm.

“Dad.” He’d looked up with wide eyes, something strange bucking around inside of him, insisting that this was a lie. Dean didn’t know Her—they’d had three conversations for fuck’s sake—but this didn’t seem like Her. None of this seemed like the clever, beautiful, almost ethereal woman he’d been lying on the bed with. Dean didn’t know howor why, but this couldn’t be the truth. “I don’t-“

“She’s just usin’ you, Dean.” Dad had muttered, his eyes softening just enough for Dean to know he was sorry. He might not really like Her, but he was trying to protect Dean. He always was. “Chasing a high that her daddy can’t give her, lookin’ for a way to pull somethin’ on us. Probably huntin’ just for some sort of fucked up thrill. This,” Dad tapped the papers, his face twisting in disgust. “Isn’t someone who deserves our time, and I don’t know what her game is, but I ain’t just gonna let my boy fall for it.”

Something in Dean had still been fighting. Insisting that Dad was wrong, he had to be wrong, because Dean might not really know Her but he’d throw his life down at her feet. He’d plummet to the bottom of the ocean to follow Her down, if She called him with that siren-like voice and asked him to.

And that was how he knew Dad was right. Dean had no idea who She really was, and he’d already been ready to become a sword for her to wield. So he’d nodded, asked Dad what to do, and fallen back into the line She’d forced him out of. And it wouldn’t matter that Dean had been an idiot and almost fallen for Her—Her tricks, or just Her—because Dad had saved him. He’d protected him. And it didn’t matter.

Now, as they drove—Dad’s grip tight on the wheel, Sammy sleeping in the backseat—Dean repeated it over and over. That hadn’t mattered. It had been a mistake that Dad caught, so no harm, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that She’d looked at Dean like she could see him, or that Her voice sounded like an angel in a dream. It didn’t matter that Her lips had felt right on his cheek, and that his annoying brain kept trying to move the ghost of Her touch to his own mouth. It didn’t matter that he could still smell the sugar and fruit that had invaded his every sense when She’d been pressed against him. It didn’t matter that She’d fit perfectly at his side, like she was just another part of him he hadn’t known he was missing. It didn’t matter that something felt like it had been ignited in Dean’s chest. Golden and light and washing him over with a sense of calm he’d never known, making him feel like—if he had been stupid enough to fall further—the worst that could happen was She didn’t fall with him. And even that would be worth the way this feeling was like lightning over his bones, making him strong and fucking alive.

But it didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a pretty, spoiled little bitch—his heart almost withered at that idea, still being a freaking dumbass and trying to justify why She’d done this—and he’d never even see Her again, so it didn’t matter.

And it defiantly didn’t fucking matter that he’d taken Her flask, because he was fucking pathetic. Because he’d been sneaking around her room, and the flash of silver had caught his eyes, and he’d stolen it like some sort of street urchin. He’d burn it, just to rid himself of the way She was becoming plague-like on his mind. It wasn’t like she needed a flask, anyway. She didn’t even drink.

But that might have just been another strange lie. So Dean would burn it. He wouldn’t tell Dad or Sammy that he’d taken it—they didn’t really need to know how weak and useless Dean really was—so he’d burn it and everyone would forget this had ever happened. He’d burn it, and never think of Her again.

Dean felt like he was being ripped in half for reasons he couldn’t even start to understand, but it had been nothing, and it didn’t matter.

Dean dreamt of Her when he finally drifted off. And his heart kept trying to beat him back down—back to Her—but he held strong. He could dream of Her and not go back. He’d never see Her again, and dreams weren’t real.

None of that had been real, and Dean could dream of Her.

So he would.

End Note: I know we’re off to a rough start, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us, but just remember this. What’s about to come could’ve been entirely avoided if John Winchester wasn’t the actual worst.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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