#because dean is scared about this realization

[youchangedmedestiel]

Men will join team sports and win to touch, hug, stroke and kiss other men.

[samdeancrimespree]

idk whose post this is originally and i know this moment was kinda played for laughs in-show but like. they are good enough at hunting animals to find and kill food to eat on a new fucking planet.

they are …. So calm in this situation. they each have their tasks and jobs and they complete them in an orderly fashion, barely even having to talk, like they have a routine for being alone in the middle of the woods. we don’t ever see them doing this, but they must’ve done it before.

at which age do you think john winchester decided his sons needed to learn how to fend for themselves in the Real World and left them in the woods with bows and arrows and knives and said “i’ll be back in 4 days.” cause i’m gonna say 10 and 14? dean might’ve been out on his own before that, with the vague excuse of “training” given to sam to explain his brothers 2 day absence. it was a semi-frequent, maybe quarterly thing throughout their childhoods. obviously not on a Schedule so they never knew when to expect it, but they were always kind of waiting for it. it was just A Thing They Did, just like everything else. a way to prove they were retaining all their training. this was the winchester version of a camping trip. for the first couple years, sam didn’t even know this wasn’t what camping normally meant. he just knew he really hated camping.

one time, john got distracted by a hunt and left them in the alaskan wilderness in october for almost two weeks. one time, john forgot it was sam’s birthday and dean spent any spare time he had looking for cool rocks and leaves to give sam, and promised he’d give him his real presents when they got back. one time, dean got attacked by a goddamn cougar in colorado and sam patched him up and wondered what the tentative friends he had made last week were learning in their tenth grade class. and he hated john but almost cried with relief when he came to get them. dean did almost all the hunting because the very first camping trip, sammy shot a rabbit in the leg and sobbed as it slowly bled to death, and dean never wanted to see that type of anguish again. he hated killing the animals too, but he could do it, because sammy had to eat. he knew john would question it if sam hadn’t improved his skills, so they would set up makeshift archery ranges to practice. and in his reports to john, dean would always give half the kills to sam.

over time, as they got more skilled, john would give them less and less supplies, until at the end they only had a couple weapons each, rope, matches, and a first aid kit. and bobby thought when the boys spent one summer building a fort but refusing the tools he offered them, they were finally being regular kids.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 12/x (probably 18)

ᰔ words. 11.3k

a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i don’t see you

11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?

11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where i’m gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyo’s side of the field

11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then I’ll look for you before the game starts

11:10am you: no pls don’t. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i don’t want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(

11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha you’re silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there

11:14am you: or be square?

11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie

It’s a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. You’re stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and it’s the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.

Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your car’s still at the shop, but you’re happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.

It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldn’t be at this game, and sure enough, it’s all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were cc’d in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you weren’t opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).

It’s because it’s the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Men’s Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasn’t much of an option for them anymore. 

And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadium’s capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the school’s striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside. 

You’ve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.

Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then she’s darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. She’s understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kai’s little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets. 

A glance at your phone tells you it’s close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyo’s players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCU’s players practice shots off to the left. You can’t spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to. 

When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. He’s leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and he’s stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like he’s mapping out plays in his head. 

When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly there’s nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.

“Hey, you,” he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner that’s tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.

“Are you ready to win today?” you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, “clearly there’s no pressure.”

He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. “We’ve got no choice but to win.”

“Is that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?” you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. “Also, apparently you take years off of his life.” Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.

Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. “Yeah, it’s something he says to us often.” 

“So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

It’s hard to assume that he didn’t have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesn’t think about these kinds of things as much as you do. “I see.”

His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why don’t we—…why don’t we just give it a go already? I don’t see how we can move forward if you won’t at least let me take you out on a date.”

Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. You’re sure he’s all you’ll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life. 

You know when you want something so bad you don’t know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true? 

“I just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,” you confess, “it’s just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. I don’t know if this is odd to say, and maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind of…forgot who you were for a little bit.” This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything. 

His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced? 

“I just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.” You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasn’t giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, to be honest.”

You can tell he’s at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because it’s exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that they’re within arms reach but never truly. And they’re slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that it’s a fault of your own. You’re not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, “what’s a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.” But he takes a deep breath, like he’s already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.

There’s a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as he’s suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field. 

“Can we continue this conversation after the game?” he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, “sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like you’re taking up his time. 

He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again. 

“Um. Just a sec,” you say, “I have something to give you before your game.”

“Oh?” he looks at you with interest, “I fucking love things.” 

“You have to close your eyes though.”

“…what is the thing…” He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.

“Just close your eyes!” you snap at him.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. “You’re scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.”

You roll your eyes, useless because he doesn’t see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. It’s short and sweet with the sound of a peck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. “Alright, c’mere you,” he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.

“No no no, only on the cheek for now,” you say with a small laugh.

He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. “You can’t do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.”

“If you win, then, maybe I’ll let you kiss me for real.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He’s close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. “Alright. I like those odds.” 

You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyo’s alma mater. 

You’re stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyo’s side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minato’s filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athlete’s station and then he comes back around to find you.

“Are you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,” he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.

You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. “Yesss, all set. I’ll try to keep up.” 

He nods at you in approval.

The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course they’re high, because if they lose today then they’re out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but can’t quite discern. 

Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and they’re all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realize— it’s their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that haven’t qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable. 

The chief referee’s whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCU’s players choose to attack the left side goal.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. There’s a rhythm that you’ve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. You’ve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps you’ve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyo’s colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and it’s a desire you share with the crowd. 

Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and you’re lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the ref’s whistle. 

And then the kickoff starts. 

The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyo’s players, placing pressure on YCU’s defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyo’s #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowd’s horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCU’s forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.

Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each other’s defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyo’s overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyo’s defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyo’s best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCU’s striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before it’s sent flying into the net. 

The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit. 

With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU. 

Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta you’ve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyo’s defense winded from play. 

You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead. 

The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts. 

YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyo’s offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but it’s passed between UTokyo’s players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.

The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows there’s not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him. 

He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and it’s sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you. 

1-1, even match.

UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojo’s back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.

They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyo’s defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.

Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCU’s attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet. 

The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCU’s defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net. 

2-1, UTokyo.

It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. You’re shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. It’s a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga who’s standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what he’s seeing.

You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and you’re insanely glad you’re not one of YCU’s defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines. 

Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

The “athletic zone”... You’ve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and they’re completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.

Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state. 

YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff. 

There’s fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojo’s signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and there’s an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCU’s center forward loses the ball over the goal line. 

Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyo’s best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCU’s defense. And with complete trust in his team, that’s exactly where he kicks the ball. 

Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that they’ll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post. 

You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where you’re dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. There’s no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You can’t even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.

It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalie’s head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him. 

3-1, UTokyo.

The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers you’ve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.

There’s a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if they’re just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you can’t tear your gaze away from Gojo.

It’s one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with. 

And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt so…close? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what you’ve been wanting resurfacing powerfully. 

“This is insane,” you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.

You twiddle with your camera straps. “I know…almost done with the first half and we’re up 3-1…I thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But what’s even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.” He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. “By Gojo Satoru.”

Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.

“You know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?” Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in. 

You shake your head and wait for his response.

He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. “Four. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osaka’s center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no one’s managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.”

You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.

“I think he’s trying to beat the record.”

You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the referee’s whistle draws everyone’s attention back to the field. 

The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyo’s very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this year’s season so far, and is now on the road to beat the league’s long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!” And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.

YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the referee’s whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime. 

All of UTokyo’s players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all don’t know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing. 

You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as you’ve learned to at least, and you can tell he’s not satisfied. He’s thinking it’s not enough. There’s still more to be done, and it’s not time to celebrate yet. 

His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you. 

Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet. 

Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while they’re at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and she’s showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side. 

UTokyo’s players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound. 

You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.

“There’s my freaky little photographer,” he says, and he’s standing up straight and—wait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.

Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments he’s been cocky, he’s been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, he’s been transformed into the final boss of cocky.

His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight you’ve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.

“You’re sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,” you reprimand him, “this is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.” 

“Hey, you’re the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?” one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.

“Oh yeahhh, ‘cause Satoru wasn’t paying attention,” another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field. 

You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojo’s got an irritated look on his face and he’s shrugging his teammate’s elbow off of his shoulder.

“I really hope you’re getting my good angles,” his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together. 

The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. “At least it didn’t leave a scar on your cute face—”

Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he grumbles, “she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?” he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, “when I—”

“Oh god, you know what’s soooooooooo super sexy to me?” you interrupt him. “When guys are humble.”

“Oh c’monnn,” he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. “Tell me you aren’t at least impressed by me.”

You pout, because you are, and you’d really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. “Satoru,” you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, “I’m working right now. Cut it out.”

He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize you’re being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. “What? Are you embarrassed?”

“Of what?” Your face twists with confusion.

“Of me. Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks.

“No. Why would I be embarrassed of you?” you ask with sharpness.

“I don’t know, just, sometimes I feel like you’re always annoyed by me,” he says with a sigh. “It’s like, you’re really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and it’s sort of messing with my head.”

You pout. “You were messing with my head for weeks.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, “but you don’t have to act like you’re all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.” He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. “You don’t have to act embarrassed around me either.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. “In fact, I’m the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.”

He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. “Can you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.” 

“You kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,” you grit as you cross your arms. “That’s the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.”

“Oh, okay, so there’s nothing else I’ve done that shows you that I’m serious about you?” he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

No. That’s not true, not true at all. But he’s pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not embarassed of me, and if you’re really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.” You’re speaking out of spite, and you fear you’ve just set him off too.

“Fine,” he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporter’s hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle he’s now holding with confusion. “I will.”

“W-Wait—” you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.

The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.

“Uhhh,” you hear Choso from beside you, who’s strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, “Why the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.”

“It can’t be for any publicly decent reason,” Geto muses.

All you can do is watch.

“Hi, uh,” Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, “sorry. I’m Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me from—uh, the game you’ve been watching?”

Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldn’t know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long. 

Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. “Oh, yeah, uh, number 10,” he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, “division player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.”

“SAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!” you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.

“Anywho,” Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him he’s got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. “Just here to say that there’s this girl I really like.”

The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope he’s gonna name call one of them.

Gojo’s voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. “She’s standing over there,” he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, “with the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. She’s super cute and I really like talking to her.”

“Uh-oh,” Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you can’t.

Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like he’s working the crowd. “But get this—she thinks I’m not fuckin’ serious about her!!!”

The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, he’s playing them like a violin.

“Huh?” Gojo’s voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that he’s being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, “oh, what’s that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. I’m not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Er— shit, okay. Wait—shoot, okay.”

Choso’s smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.

“LIKE I SAID,” Gojo continues into the mic, “the girl I like thinks I’m just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that I’m serious about her, I’m gonna…” He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he says—“I’m gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.”

H–

Huh?!?!?

You don’t even have time to be horrified or scared, you’re just bewildered beyond belief that that’s what he came up with.

What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?

The crowd goes wild, it’s no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and you’re going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.

The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

“Ayo why’s Satoru Magic Mike’ing the field right now?” one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, “What the fuck did I miss?”

The cameraman does God’s work in a hella zoom-in of Gojo’s sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you can’t help but stare even among all your horror. It’s like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but he’s making a fool out of himself for you. 

He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas he’s a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and there’s anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security. 

Except he’s an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?

The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that you’re pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadium’s got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers don’t know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.

And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and he’s down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojo’s—forgive me, I need to be crass—huge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.

He’s outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowd’s cheers and riots and roars and you feel like you’re the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe you’re just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.

He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesn’t. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.

His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. “Baby.” The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. “Will you do me the honor,” he’s huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, “of being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?” And then he holds the mic to your lips.

“W-Wha—” you stutter, and there’s chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize they’ve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! “Oh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!”

The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and you’re gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yaga’s vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga can’t kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.

You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasn’t even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you don’t know Gojo as well as you think you do.

And then the halftime timer is up.

You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.

“Did that prove to you that I’m not embarrassed of you?” he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space. 

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,” you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. “I’ll have to move to a different country.”

His grin is relaxed. “Yeah well you asked for it.”

“Maybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.”

“You’re my girlfriend now, you’ve gotta get used to it.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Satoru–”

“Tomorrow,” he cuts you off, “Hinode pier. I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.” And then he’s attentive to the chirp of the referee’s whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while you’re left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.

The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you haven’t taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.

Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that it’s shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCU’s player’s foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it was—that look again of pure focus. 

3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.

It’s immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyo’s defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Geto’s feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyo’s defense, and one of YCU’s strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.

3-2.

The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.

One of YCU’s offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCU’s offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Choso’s attempt to lunge for it in mid air.

Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the players’ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the league’s number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isn’t good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other team’s defense.

Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and he’s huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but there’s a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCU’s defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius. 

The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyo’s string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCU’s goalkeeper, up towards the corner, except–

It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who can’t even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and that’s exactly what it does. 

The stadium erupts with the momentum.

4-3, UTokyo. 

It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times they’ll ever get to play together on a team. 

Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that he’s tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo players’ faces in the wake of YCU’s relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk. 

YCU’s center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyo’s players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasn’t the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play. 

The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.

YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyo’s midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCU’s offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.

Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCU’s star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipation–

And the ball lands in the net. 

4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock. 

There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum. 

To your surprise, Gojo isn’t the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field. 

The referee chirps his whistle. 

Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyo’s midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCU’s defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowd’s roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyo’s defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion. 

It was a moment you don’t think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.

With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCU’s offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yards–

In a moment you couldn’t believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalie’s hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.

With three-two-one seconds, the match was over. 

5-4, UTokyo’s win.

The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their school’s team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.

You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You can’t see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.

His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath. 

“IT’S OFFICIAL!! IT’S OFFICIAL!! UTOKYO’S VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITY’S RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!” 

The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed. 

You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.

He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your school’s team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But he’s made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.

“I believe you owe me a kiss,” he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesn’t stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.

You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.

You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, you’re pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.

It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, you’re not the one behind the camera taking the photo. You’re the one that’s in it.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of kickoff ch12]

a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior 😂😂 i’ll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!

OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didn’t really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n i’m not sure if i’ll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojo’s pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant. 

the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0 

➸ you're all caught up!

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[wendichester]

hi i’ve never requested before so i hope this is okay?

I was wondering if you could please do something where the reader is bobbys daughter and basically she and dean had their first time together as teens but then he left and later on maybe season four they meet again and there’s angst because he left but fluff and romance and maybe smut ? like teen lovers who meet again as adults

i love your writing and i look forward to all of your future works!!

₊˚⊹⋆ crave,

summary. dean and you share a past. and it feels like no time has passed when you see each other again.

pairing. dean winchester x bobby's daughter!reader genre. angsty smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1365

notes / warnings. nsfw, unprotected sex (emotional, impulsive, not recommended irl lol), dirty talk, angsty vibes (past abandonment, unresolved feelings), first love, first time mentions, rough-ish in some moments, extra soft in others. messy. reunion. cursing. drinking.

Bobby’s voice carries from the kitchen—gruff, irritated, familiar. Something about salvage yard keys and you always leaving ‘em in your damn coat pocket.

Dean's boots scuff across the threshold, the old wooden floor creaking like it’s groaning at the weight of unfinished business. He’s barely slept. He’s lost Sam twice this month. And he sure as hell didn’t come here for a warm welcome or a trip down memory lane.

But then?

You come into view.

And fuck.

You’re barefoot. Hair thrown up in one of those messy, unfairly sexy things. Tank top loose and soft from years of washing, jeans low on your hips. A little oil on your wrist, probably from the truck you’re working on.

You're not a girl anymore.

But you’re still his first time.

Dean’s whole body freezes. It's not dramatic—it’s just complete. Like something inside him pulls the emergency brake and says: That. That’s her.

Your eyes meet his. You stop mid-step. You were carrying a glass, but you put it down so carefully, like you need both hands free in case this becomes a fight.

“Dean.” Your voice is older now. Deeper. But it still slices clean through him.

He can’t find anything smart to say. Not a joke. Not a line. Just: “Hey.”

You cross your arms, and it’s not even defensive—it’s muscle memory. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Well. I didn’t think you’d be here either,” he mutters. Then realizes how stupid that sounds. “I mean—I figured you’d be off, I dunno, married. Job. Something.”

“I was sixteen,” you say dryly. “I didn’t pause my whole life because you ran off to be the Lone Ranger.”

Ouch. Fair.

He scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “I didn’t run. I—”

You cock a brow.

“Okay. I did.” His jaw tenses. “I was scared, alright? It was one night and… a hundred feelings and—I didn’t know what the hell to do with any of it.”

“Yeah. That makes two of us.”

Bobby steps in, mid-awkward silence, tossing keys on the table. “You two already throwin’ knives or should I get the real ones?”

You both laugh. A little. You won’t look directly at Dean.

But later that night, when Bobby goes to bed and you’re still in the kitchen, elbows on the counter and eyes half-lidded from the whiskey he brought, the air changes.

“Why’d you come back?” you ask, voice soft. Vulnerable.

Dean sits across from you, arms crossed, stare unreadable. “I needed home.”

“And you thought Bobby’s house would still be that.”

He lifts his eyes. “No. I thought you might be.”

You blink.

He lets the silence hang. For once, doesn’t try to fill it with wisecracks or movie quotes. He just watches you. And you look back, like you're seeing him again—not the Dean you knew in flannel and fumbling hands, but the one who’s lived. Bled. Broken. Hardened. Still so heartbreakingly him underneath it all.

“I waited for you, you know,” you whisper.

“I know.”

You reach across the counter. Fingers brush his knuckles.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just—leans forward, slowly, like he's trying not to spook a memory. His forehead touches yours.

“I missed you like hell,” he breathes.

“Then prove it.”

And oh, baby. He does.

He kisses you like it’s ten years haven't passed and he’s still learning how. Like it hurts. Like he wants to crawl into your skin and stay there. And when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter and you wrap your legs around his hips, every old ache turns into heat. Every unanswered question becomes something deeper—something raw and molten and full of teeth.

His mouth is hot and possessive on yours, hands everywhere all at once—palming your waist, tugging your shirt up, gripping the backs of your thighs like he doesn’t know what he wants first.

You’re still on the kitchen counter. The whiskey bottle sits forgotten a few inches away, the house quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the sharp sounds of breathing getting heavier.

“You still taste the same,” he mutters against your lips. “Goddamn.”

You huff a laugh, trying not to lose your mind as he presses his hips closer, grinding just enough to make your spine arch. “Still a sweet talker, huh?”

“I’m tryin’ not to be,” he growls. “You got any idea how hard it is—seeing you like this? Touching you again? Feels like I’m chasing after you again like a lost puppy, about to lose my mind in the back of the goddamn junkyard.”

You tug him closer by the belt loops, voice low and teasing. “Wasn’t the junkyard. It was the shed.”

“Right,” he says, lips curving. “The shed. That place smelled like motor oil and teenage regret.”

“And we did it three times in there,” you murmur, fingers slipping under his shirt, grazing warm skin.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah. Like I could ever forget.”

His hand snakes up your back and pulls you to him, mouth rough this time—teeth scraping, tongue deep, desperate. It’s not a first kiss. It’s a claim. Years of not touching you condensed into one searing press of mouths that makes your whole body tighten.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You roll your hips against the hard length of him pressing through his jeans and it’s like flipping a switch—he grunts, deep and rough, and lifts you right off the counter like you weigh nothing.

“Dean—”

“Bedroom?” he pants.

You nod, breathless.

“Which one?”

“Mine’s still—”

He doesn’t wait. Just hauls you down the hallway like a man on a mission, kissing your throat, your cheek, the hinge of your jaw as you cling to him.

When he kicks the door open and sets you down, it’s with a kind of urgency that makes you feel dizzy. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he doesn’t get his hands on you now.

“I'm not leavin' this time,” he says, voice thick. “Not until I’ve made you come so many times you forget every year I wasn’t here.”

You moan—open, high-pitched, thighs squeezing. “You talk a big game for someone who used to come in two minutes.”

Dean laughs—actually laughs, full and wicked—and pins you to the bed.

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathes, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “I’ve learned a few things since then.”

His hands are already working your jeans off, kissing down your stomach, biting lightly at your hip. And when he gets you naked under him, stretched out and flushed and glaring up with those god, where the hell have you been eyes?

He just stares.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss.

Just… looks.

And says, very softly:

“Fuck, I missed you.”

It guts you. The way he says it. Like it’s not just about the sex. Like he’s been carrying you inside him all these years, tucked away somewhere private. Untouched. Sacred.

You reach up, thread your fingers into his hair, and pull him down into a kiss that says me too. That says don’t stop. That says please, Dean, I want this—I want you.

And he gives. All of him.

When he fucks you, it’s with a slow, deliberate rhythm that drives you crazy. He wants you to feel every second. Every inch. His hands never stop moving—palming your breast, curling under your thigh, brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you again.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, forehead to yours. “Still so tight. You feel like—like fuckin’ heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his back. “Dean—oh my god—don’t stop.”

“Never,” he growls. “Not again.”

You come first. Hard. Shaking, crying out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known. He comes second, with a groan so low and wrecked it sounds like it’s been clawing its way out of him for years.

And afterward, when you're curled up against his chest, sweaty and sore and so full of feeling you could burst—he presses a kiss to your hair and whispers: “I should’ve come back a long time ago.”

You kiss the hollow of his throat and whisper back: “You’re here now.”

And for the first time in a long damn while—that’s enough.

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[saltcxrcle]

sweet smiles and sweaters ── . ✶ s. winchester

summary: you want to be close to sam as possible, which means you might crawl into his old hoodie... with him in it

pairings: established sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x gn! reader warnings: no use of 'y/n', fluff, pure fluff, like tooth-rottingly sweet, word count: 1.3K a/n: this is just me being obsessed with sam bc who isn't?? but this was inspired by a video i saw on my feed lol hope you guys enjoy this fluffy fic with sam hehe <3 sam winchester masterlist

IT WAS SCARY how fast you fell for Sam. But how could you not? Sam’s smile never failed to make your stomach flutter whenever he aimed it your way. Oh, and how could you forget to mention the adorable dimples that appeared when he smiled brightly and never failed to make you melt in your seat. You could feel your heartbeat race at the sound of his loud and boisterous laugh when you said something funny and couldn’t help but laugh along with him; his laugh was the best type of pick-me-up you could ever ask for. 

Sam’s mind was one that you always admired; he was brilliant, and you always loved to hear what he had researched for the hunt you guys were on. You loved hearing him talk; the low timbre of his voice never failed to fill your veins with warmth as you stared at him as he spoke—no doubt with love in your eyes; you always smiled and nodded along as he spoke. 

Sam made you feel in a way that you never had experienced before—and it scared you. You never entertained the thought of the chance of him reciprocating your feelings because you thought he could never see you as more than as a friend, someone he hunts with, and someone to confide in—but not be in a relationship with.

The thought of confessing to him made your stomach churn and twist into knots (a rejection from Sam would probably hurt more than the time you were thrown down a flight of stairs by a vengeful spirit on a hunt). Besides, there was no way you were risking messing up the friendship you had established with him, nor with the dynamic you had with the brothers. 

So, your plan of shutting up about your feelings was your best bet to save you from messing everything up until Sam came in with a sledgehammer (a metaphorical one, of course) and shattered it completely. 

The two of you were chatting quietly through a movie (a terrible one at that) that was playing on the TV in the motel room the three of you were sharing. Dean was out at the nearest bar, and Sam was sitting next to you, his shoulder against yours. You chuckled at the joke he had made about the flimsy plot. You looked at Sam as your laughing subsided, seeing a soft smile on his face as he looked at you—fondness glinting in his hazel gaze. 

Sam unconsciously leaned toward you, his hand coming to rest against your face and his thumb swiping against your cheek softly. You couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of his hand, but you were slightly confused at the action. You didn’t verbalize it, not wanting to break the spell Sam had put you under. 

His eyes flicked from yours to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Can I kiss you?” Sam’s breath was fanning over yours, resting his forehead against your own. 

You didn’t realize how close he had gotten but gave him a soft smile. “Yeah.” You murmured. 

Sam mirrored your smile before placing his lips on yours, drawing you in for the sweetest kiss you had ever gotten in your life (until that moment, of course). Your eyes fluttered shut when Sam kissed you, savoring the feeling of his lips against yours.

You were convinced that you were dreaming, but the warmth of Sam’s palm against your cheek told you that this was very much real and Sam was kissing you. It seemed to have lasted forever, but Sam pulled away from you slowly like he was reluctant to part from your lips. But he didn’t stray far; his forehead was still resting against yours.

You could feel your lips stretch into a broad smile, feeling giddy at the fact that Sam just kissed you. You slowly peeled your eyes open to see your favorite sight, Sam beaming down at you—something akin to love coloring his gaze as the two of you locked eyes with one another. 

Dean had a shit-eating grin on his face when the two of you woke up the following day after you guys had shared your first kiss but congratulated the both of you for finally getting over your fears and getting together. 

Now, you were at the table in another motel room, on another hunt in a random town in the Midwest, researching and typing away at your laptop. You couldn’t help but cast glances at your boyfriend, who was lying on your shared bed, his back against the headboard, as he flipped through one of the lore books he was able to check out from the library in this town. Sam’s brows were slightly furrowed, and you wanted to smooth out the wrinkle between his brows with either your fingers or a kiss. 

You smiled at the thought as you continued to look at Sam. He was wearing an old, worn Stanford hoodie that rarely saw the light of day, having been at the bottom of his duffle bag since he left university. You looked back at your laptop; you hadn’t found anything useful before looking back at him. You smirked to yourself before closing your laptop and getting up from the table you were hunched over for the past hour. 

Your hands went above your head, stretching out the stiff muscles in your shoulders and back before you padded over to the end of the bed where Sam was reading. He hadn’t noticed that you were there until you started to crawl onto the bed and towards him. 

Sam glanced up from the book to see your smirking face as you climbed up his body. “What are you doing?” He asked with a confused smile on his face. 

You didn’t bother with answering him verbally; you just shot him a sly smile before lifting the hem of the red hoodie he was wearing and crawling into it head first. 

Sam let out a shocked laugh, and an exclamation of your name fell from his lips. The book he was reading fell from his grip as you shimmied your way up his sweater. Sam squirmed slightly as your body shifted up his, plastering yourself against his. You eventually got your head through the top of the sweater, now being nose to nose with your darling boyfriend. 

“Hi.” You greeted him with a wide grin. 

“Hi.” Sam chuckled at your antics. His hand came to rest on your back as you straddled his body. “Is there any reason why you’re in my sweater with me?” 

“Do I need a reason to be close to my boyfriend?” 

“I suppose not, but you could have done without almost suffocating yourself in my hoodie.” 

You shook your head. “Nope, this is way more comfortable.” 

Sam let out a chuckle at your words, shaking his head. “Okay then honey.” 

“To answer your question, I was bored and I felt like it.” You weren’t exactly lying. Doing research on your laptop had lost its charm when you kept hitting dead end after dead end. But you weren’t going to admit that you just wanted to be as close to him as possible (there were days that you wanted to crawl into his skin, but you weren’t going to address that thought any time soon). 

“You got bored doing research didn’t you?” 

“Yep.” You popped the ‘p’ as you answered Sam, and he shook his head at you. 

He kissed your forehead, and your eyes fluttered at the feeling of his lips on your skin. Sam pulled back slightly before kissing you. You sunk into the kiss before he pulled back, placing another peck on your lips. 

“Are you going to stay there the entire time?” Sam asked you as he picked up the book from the bed. 

You nodded. 

“Will that be comfortable for you?” Sam had a slight frown on his lips. Not that he didn’t love having you this close to him, but he didn’t think that his sweater was big enough for the both of you. 

“I’ll be fine.” You told him before shifting downwards slightly, resting your head on his collarbone, and closing your eyes. 

Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight of you through the opening of his sweater. He kissed your forehead again before going back to reading. 

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[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆ JET BLACK HEART, ROBERT ‘BOB’ REYNOLDS

summary. You walk into the void to try and save Bob, and for once, danger might help you more than harm you.

now playing ↬ jet black heart- 5 seconds of summer

⭑.ᐟokay I know I said I was gonna go back to Dean but I had this idea and I needed to post it lol. He drives me insane. Spoilers for thunderbolts*. Please send requests if u have any and interact :)

Word count. 983

my masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

The second time is heavy. It’s full of fear, uncertainty. Chills run up your spine, your body goes cold, almost frozen because you just stepped into what could be death. You’re not sure why- maybe you didn’t mind. Or maybe you’re hopeful this doesn’t mean death, this means saving Bob from himself, saving New York, and saving yourself.

You don’t want to be here. You’ve been in the void once, although it was quick, that was enough for you. But Bob needs you. You didn’t think- you don’t think. You could’ve told them, made a plan, but you knew the moment he needed you, there was no stopping you, so you walked. You walked with such force it almost pushed the void back like it didn’t want you- like it was scared of you.

The moment the darkness engulfs you though, you know that you’re surrounded by your worst fears, your worst nightmares.

You waltz through the rooms, you know exactly what’s around you, who’s around you, but you don’t pay attention. You don’t look around, you’re determined to just find Bob.

When you walk into an unknown bathroom, you make the mistake to look into the mirror.

Your reflection makes your heart break. Because it’s not you. Rather it’s the old version- the broken one. The one who thought she’d be better off dead- gone. The one whose heart was so broken she barely had one anymore.

It’s only then that you truly realize it’s not a reflection.

It is her.

‘Not even a hello? That’s a bit rude don’t you think?’ She smiles at you. It’s psychotic almost- it’s a sinister smile that tells you everything you need to know.

‘He’s not here.’ She speaks again, as if she knows exactly who you’re looking for.

‘it doesn’t matter, you know? You’re here now. And if you think you can save each other from the pain, you’re deluded.’ She tilts her head, still wearing the smile.

You close your eyes and sink into the floor. Except after just a few seconds- it’s not just a metaphor. You feel the floor beneath your crumble- slowly. You’re actually sinking.

The moment you open your eyes, you see him.

It’s Bob.

‘You shouldn’t have come.’ He speaks but his voice is barely audible. Like he’s afraid- like he’s about to crumble completely, because the darkness has swallowed him whole.

He doesn’t look up at you though. His eyes burn holes on the ground while he plays nervously with his hands.

‘I’m here to bring you back Bob. You have so much out there and I’m sorry that you don’t see it but I can’t let you do this to yourself.’ You slide yourself to rest right next to him.

When you go to lay your hand on his, his demeanor changes. He flinches- like he’s afraid you’ll disappear completely if he dares touching you.

‘It’s so dark here. I can’t get out.’ His voice breaks a little.

That’s when you hear the shouting. The smashing. And you know exactly what it is.

You look at him, and he knows he doesn’t have to explain.

‘It’s been like this for hours. I can’t seem to leave this room.’ He laughs humorously like he can’t believe this is happening.

‘Look at me. I’m right here. I’m gonna get you out of here.’ Your hand touches his still after knowing it might hurt you, but this time he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. He just looks at you. Tears in his eyes, hands shaky, heart beating out of his chest for you.

Then the room starts to shake. Before you have time to think, objects starts flying around, and soon enough you find yourself entangled in curtains, not the romantic way. The way that chokes the life out of you. Both you and Bob stare at each other in fear while the curtain wraps around your neck.

It feels like hours before someone cuts the sheets and saves you.

The thunderbolts.

It’s a long time before you end up finding the real source. You fight against whatever’s in bob’s void, you even fight against his old self.

Then you get to it.

Him.

The void.

Bob’s worst enemy.

It’s only after long minutes of being stuck against the wall and watching Bob losing it and taking the darkness that your body finds a force it’s never had before and you manage to get free and run to him.

‘It’s okay, I’m here.’ You hold him, trying to make him stop, the darkness swallowing his figure.

‘We’re here.’ Hands latch to your arms, to bobs.

Maybe they know it’s not just him they’re saving.

It’s you too.

The air’s thick. It’s scary, it’s tears falling out of everyone’s eyes.

Then the floor swallows you again.

Except when you open your eyes, the darkness quickly fades, your hand still latching to him desperately, yelena’s hand on your stomach. Everyone grunts, and you soon realize you’re back in New York. The void isn’t there.

The city’s regaining its sunlight, and apparently so is Bob.

You’re on your feet in seconds, everyone is.

And Bob’s smiling.

He’s looking around like he doesn’t have a single clue what just happened.

‘What happened?’ He speaks up the moment his eyes lay on you. His hand finds itself in your forehead gracing the gash.

‘I’m okay.’

You hear the others whisper.

Maybe him not remembering it isn’t such a bad thing.

He’ll just have to know that you were there for him.

When the team hears Valentina speaking on the phone, they’re after her in seconds.

‘C’mon’ you don’t hesitate to grab his hand and pull him along with you.

Bob’s confused.

Bob’s always confused.

He doesn’t know where this affection is coming from but he’d be lying if he said his stomach didn’t flutter the moment your hand touched his.

Bob’s confused, but he’s very, very happy.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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[deansbeer]

(sorta) long awaited PART 2 to this DEAN BLURB. 🍋‍🟩

i'm shit at writing a second part to any standalone FICS or BLURBS so i'm rlly sorry if this isn't the 'makeup sex' type blurb yall were lookin' for <3

⎯⎯ warning(s) smut | emotional vulnerability | strong language | semi-public sex | rough sex | praise kink | dirty talk (yum) | jealousy | overstimulation | POSSESSIVE!DEAN | power dynamics | mirror sex. ఌ︎ EIGHTEEN PLUS! ADULT CONTENT | minors do NOT interact.

the bar is loud, filled with the familiar hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. you sit at a table near the back, surrounded by a few of your close friends—hunters like you, women who know the life, know the dangers, and are just as good at blowing off steam after a successful hunt. tonight, the drinks flow easily, and the laughter comes even easier. it's rare to get a reprieve like this, to have a night off where you can just relax and enjoy yourself. you deserve it. you know you do.

but even as your friends trade stories and jokes, your mind keeps drifting. keeps circling back to him. DEAN WINCHESTER. it's been weeks since you left him in that motel room, since you walked away without an explanation, with only a hastily written note. you haven't spoken to him since, haven't called, haven't reached out. not because you didn't want to. GOD, you wanted to. but fear held you back. fear of what he felt, of what you felt, of how everything had changed with those three words he'd let slip between gasps of pleasure.

i love you.

you still hear his voice in your head, still feel the way his body had tensed beneath you when he realized what he'd said. you'd thought about calling him a hundred times, a thousand times actually, to tell him you felt the same. that the reason you ran was because you were scared—scared of how much you loved him, how deeply you'd fallen without even realizing it. but every time you picked up the phone, you hesitated, and the moment passed.

now, sitting in this bar, surrounded by friends, you can't help but wonder if you made a mistake. if walking away from him was the worst decision you could've made. but before you can spiral any further, you hear it—a laugh. a deep, familiar laugh that sends a shock of recognition through your entire body.

you freeze, your drink halfway to your lips, as you turn your head and see him. DEAN WINCHESTER. standing at the entrance of the bar, his brother, sam, by his side. dean doesn't see you at first, too busy scanning the room, probably taking in the scene out of habit, always the hunter, always alert. but then his eyes snap to yours.

it feels like the air is sucked from the room. your heart stutters in your chest, and for a moment, you can't move, can't breathe. he looks just like you remember—broad shoulders, brown leather jacket, that chiseled jawline you've traced with your fingers more times than you can count. but there's something in his eyes, a flicker of something raw and unresolved, and you know he's thinking about that night, about the last time you saw each other.

he doesn't move. neither do you.

but his gaze lingers on you, even as a blonde woman sidles up to him, clearly trying to get his attention. she's pretty—tall, curvy, the kind of woman who turns heads in a place like this. but dean barely spares her a glance, his eyes locked on you like he can't tear himself away. you feel a surge of something hot and uncomfortable twist in your chest—jealousy, anger, desire. god, you miss him. you miss him so much it hurts.

and it's not just him. it's the way he made you feel, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, the way his hands felt on your skin, rough and gentle all at once. the way he'd held you that night, the way he'd said he loved you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he couldn’t help it.

you tear your gaze away, pretending to focus on the conversation at your table, but your mind is spinning. your body is buzzing with the awareness of him, of how close he is, of how much you want him. but the thought of facing him, of having that conversation, of admitting how you feel... it terrifies you.

so you do the only thing you can think of. you excuse yourself, telling your friends you need to use the bathroom, and slip away from the table, weaving through the crowded bar until you reach the small, dingy restroom at the back. you close the door behind you, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, and lean against the sink, staring at your reflection in the cracked mirror.

your heart is racing, your skin flushed, and all you can think about is dean. about the way his muscles flexed under that leather jacket, the way he looked at you like he was starving for you. heat pools low in your belly, and filthy thoughts flood your mind—thoughts of him pressing you against the mirror, fucking you from behind until you're a mess, just like he did that night in the motel.

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away, but it's no use. your body wants him. you want him.

and then the door creaks open.

your eyes snap open, and you see him—dean, standing in the doorway, his eyes dark with that same hunger you feel. he steps inside, closing the door behind him, locking it with a click. your heart pounds in your chest, and you can't move, can't speak, as he crosses the small space between you, his body heat radiating off him in waves.

he doesn't say a word. he doesn't have to.

his hands are on you in an instant, rough and desperate, pulling at your clothes, as you do the same to him. his leather jacket hits the floor, followed by your shirt, your jeans, his belt clinking as he yanks it free. his breath is hot against your neck, and he's whispering in your ear, his voice low and gravelly.

"you're such a bad girl for leaving me like that," he growls, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. "but god, y'feel so fucking good... s'perfect."

his words send a shiver down your spine, and you can't stop the whimper that escapes your lips as he spins you around, pressing you against the mirror. your breath fogs the glass as his hands grip your hips, his body pressing against yours from behind. he wastes no time, thrusting into you with a force that makes your knees buckle, but his strong arms hold you steady, keep you grounded.

you're a mess beneath him, a blubbering, trembling mess as he fucks you hard and fast, his hips pistoning into yours with a desperation that matches your own. he's everywhere, all at once—his hands, his mouth, his body consuming you, and you can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel.

"you're mine,” he growls, his voice rough and possessive in your ear. "you've always been mine."

and it's true. you know it's true. you've always been his.

you lose track of time, of how many times you come, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, your body shaking with the force of it. by the time he finally pulls out of you, you're spent, your legs trembling, your breath ragged. but dean takes care of you, cleaning you up, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he helps you back into your clothes, his touch gentle and tender, so different from the roughness of moments ago.

when you're both dressed, you turn to him, your eyes meeting his, and without thinking, you pull him into a kiss. it's not like the others—it's not fueled by lust or desperation. this kiss is soft, slow, full of something deeper, something you've been too afraid to admit 'til now.

when you finally pull away, dean looks at you, his eyes searching yours. "what was that for?" he asks, his voice quiet, vulnerable.

you take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "i love you," you admit, the words catching in your throat. "and i'm sorry for leaving you like that. i was scared. but, fuck… i love you too, dean. i always have."

the smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise, brilliant and beautiful. he pulls you close again, pressing his body into yours. "yeah?"

"yeah," you whisper back. "turns out you're kind of hard to resist, winchester."

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where you're pressed against him. "good thing i'm not trying to resist you anymore either, sweetheart."

when you eventually make your way back to the bar, sam takes one look at your slightly disheveled appearance and dean's stupid grin and rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. your friends are also giving you knowing looks, and the blonde from earlier has long since found another target.

none of that matters, because dean's hand finds yours again, and this time, neither of you are running anywhere. he also pulls you close to him again, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate, a promise of something more.

something real.

꣑୧ UNOFFICIAL TAGLIST. @anqeliclust @aileenunfiltered @embarrasingmf @stereotypicalbarbie @ninii-winchester @suckitands33 @ohheyguyss @spxideyver @artyandink @titsout4nicholas 𓂃 ݁ 𖦹

[championari]

So I’m constantly thinking about Charles and how he could eventually meet Edwin with his feelings.

Here’s something I realized: Charles, despite constantly talking about things he miss, things he wants, he actually has a complicated relationship with desire as a concept.

How I would put it is by taking Supernatural as an example. There’s an episode in Season 5 where the boys meet Famine, a horseman of the apocalypse. However, Dean is not at all affected by him. It’s because due to being the older brother, and a Hunter, Dean was never allowed to consider acting on or even having desire for anything.

You can see where I’m going with this. Charles, like Dean, doesn’t actually believe he should want anything, due to “not being good enough”.

This is something actually touched on subtly in the show through the acting. When Niko says, “I know what it’s like to want something you can’t have.” Edwin directly looks at The Cat King’s bracelet, while Charles stares off into space. When Tragic Mick describes Angie’s light as enforcing a sense of yearning, Edwin looks at Charles, while again, Charles looks off blankly (can’t access screenshots right now). Edwin knows what he wants but is scared of it, while Charles doesn’t know what he wants because he can’t allow himself to consider it. This gives an entirely new meaning to Charles’ hatred of the Cat King. A supernatural entity who describes his kingdom as being about “want and pleasure”. Thomas is the encapsulation of everything Charles was never allowed to have. Charles chases after things that he knows he can’t have, romancing a living girl despite knowing she will eventually leave. Charles can’t consider returning Edwin’s feelings because that would mean he’s been running away from what’s been in front of him the whole time. That what he wanted was always there, at his lowest point, when he thought he deserved it least.

Returning Edwin’s feelings means he was already enough. And Charles can’t imagine that yet.

While I would obviously adore an interaction between Charles and Desire of The Endless, ultimately I don’t think it would do anything. Like Dean, Charles might be completely unaffected by them because he’s spent most of his existence building walls around his desires. Edwin was completely blindsided by Thomas because he never even considered having to think about Desire due to having no attraction to women and that being the dominant narrative of his time. Charles pursues Crystal because he still wants to feel like he has a chance at “normal life” (which as I said is self-punishment by throwing himself at something he knows he can’t have). To accept that he’s in love with Edwin would mean no longer pursuing a living person. Edwin would be it for him, which he kind of already gets but it hasn’t fully sunk in yet. Just like his death

There's also this exchange that drives me nuts:

"You gave up tranquil eternity…for your friend?" "Does that sound like someone who belongs in Hell?"

THIS. MAKES. ME. INSANE. Because Charles, like he always does when confronted with his own wants, completely avoids it. He doesn't respond to The Night Nurse's obvious confusion as to why he ran from Death, and instead turns the conversation back to Edwin. He makes it all about what Edwin deserves, not what Charles saw in Edwin that led him to make that choice. You could say this is practical as time is of the essence, but I think that's the point. Charles throws away the chance to explain his viewpoint on their first meeting, the consequences of his choice to run from Death with a boy he just met and knew for a few hours, and instead remains single-minded on Edwin's safety. Like when Edwin reasonably questioned, "Why are you getting angry?" when he began freaking out over Thomas getting close to Edwin, he says nothing.

There's just so much happening in that head that I can't stop thinking about.

[dreamerimpossible]

His reaction when you say someone else's name during sex.

Warnings: 18+ content, unhealthy relationships, mentions of death, typical canon violence, threats, toxic behavior, manipulation.

Characters: Michael Myers, Chucky, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Patrick Bateman, Jason Voorhees, Leatherface, Art The Clown, Jason Dean, Alex DeLarge, Kurt Kunkle, Brahms.

Michael Myers

He stops abruptly and looks at you through his mask while tilting his head to the side. At this point, you were extremely scared. I mean, he's still a dangerous killer and all. You apologize profusely in a shaky voice, feeling the lump of despair forming in your throat. He, in a mood of indulgence, takes pity on you and spares your life. He pins you down, though while his thrusts are brutal enough to make you feel like you're going to break, he doesn't care; he's using all his strength on you. It's your punishment for your recklessness. His hand circles your neck, choking you so violently that you genuinely think for a second that he wants to hurt you. He lets go, though. By the time he finishes, you have a sharp pain in your private parts and your body in general and semen running down your thighs. Frankly, it could have been worse.

Chucky

He would stop. There would probably be an argument where he would say other kinds of things to hurt you. He just can't handle it; he has to be the one to please you. He asks you who the person is that you named; if you resist saying it, the argument will get worse, and he will accuse you of cheating on him. So you tell him so that your relationship doesn't get any worse. It's obvious that the person dies, because Chucky is proud and wouldn't like anyone else in your head. If you apologize, stroke his ego, and are constantly pushing each other's buttons to make the sex rougher and more violent. and behave for a while, he will forget, but sometimes he will moan names of other girls to annoy you, which turns the situation into a vicious cycle. You are constantly pushing each other's buttons to make the sex rougher and more violent. He drives you crazy because he moans names of people you detest. In his mind, you brought it on yourself.

Billy Loomis

He stops everything, makes a big fuss, and leaves. He asks you who that guy is and comes out in his ghostface suit that same day to take care of him. After that has calmed his mood a bit, he comes back to your place and menacingly approaches you and says something like, “I’m not forgiving you next time, honey.” As he runs his knife across your cheek, making it clear that he’s fighting with himself not to sink it. He’s in a bad mood for the rest of the night; the only way to ease it a bit is to climb on top of him and kiss his neck, all the while whispering lots of affirming words in his ear and apologizing for being so dumb and careless. Only then, if he believes your words, will he grab you by the waist tightly and push you roughly onto the bed. He uses you to take out his frustrations.

Stu Macher

Pretty offended. Hides his disappointment with a calm, joking facade. It's scary because he doesn't say anything about it, just laughs, and pretends to be offended, imitating childish behavior. He continues to have sex with you while telling you to scream his name and that he wants to hear you say that you're only thinking about him. However, even if you do it and tell him it was an accident, it's there, and it just doesn't go away from his mind until the person dies. He thinks about whether he should kill you too for making him insecure. His decision depends on your subsequent behaviors. If you're not interested in him or he sees strange behavior with other guys, his decision is made; he's not tolerating disloyalty directed towards him (quite hypocritical). But if he realizes it was just an accident, he'll always bug you about it to hear you validate him.

Patrick Bateman

This is a brutal mistake. Seriously, don't do it. Whether it's an accident or not, avoid it at all costs. He'll stop, pull your hair, and ask you who that person is. He gets violent in no time and will definitely end sex by looking at himself in the mirror and not taking you into account, regardless of your condition. He will then leave you there and get dressed, ignore your comments, and leave without saying anything to you. He will come back the next day and still not say anything to you. He gives you the silent treatment and is very hard to convince. I can see him ending it over something like this, as he wants genuine affection and interest bordering on obsession, and if you moan someone else's name, it means you are not seeing him as the only person in your life and your top priority. If he sees you aching for him for a considerable amount of time, he will come back to you. But I would take it with a grain of salt if I were you.

Jason Voorhees

Bad technique too. It's hard to motivate him to have sex, and if he sees you moaning someone else's name, he might not be able to continue. He'll just pull away and leave you alone. He takes it out on quite a few people along the way. He won't do anything to you, but it's pretty sad because he doesn't treat you the same way anymore. He sees sex in a negative light again, and he'll probably never do it again. The only way he'd want to do it is to just get him to give in to his impulses, but that would be hate sex, and he'd be taking it out on you for being weak and not controlling himself. If you get him down on you a high number of times and moan his name convincingly enough, he'll hate himself less and blame you a little less. He'll probably never forget it, but he finds it hard to resist you. Plus it turns him on too much to have the blood he splattered on his clothes on your skin. You'd be a guilty pleasure that he'd slowly come to terms with.

Leatherface

You better come up with your best excuses in record time, because he is not letting you go that easily. He does not know how to deal with anger, and he could do something he would regret against you. So, you try to explain to him what happened, trying not to stumble over his words and without getting nervous (it is a difficult challenge). He will cling to everything that is even remotely convincing that you say; even if it is incongruous, it does not matter; he will believe it. However, you are limiting interactions with everyone until he feels safe, and you will have to deal with his way of expressing his emotions, even if it is sometimes against you. He will forget over time if you make him feel good and behave properly. You make sure you never make a mistake like that.

Art the Clown

Uh… really? Do you have a death wish or something? Frankly, being with him is entirely a game between life and death. You never know when he will get bored and end whatever you have. Saying that person's name will mean that he will seek that person out and make them watch while Art has sex with you and subjects you to many violent practices that will only give you pleasure if he has already corrupted and trained you well enough. If not, it won't even be pleasurable for you. Your screams will be a constant mix of pain and pleasure. Your body will be visibly battered. The person at the end of the situation is very traumatized, especially by your positive reactions to everything they did to you. In the end, Art will obviously make you watch him kill him, and depending on your level of sanity, you will either enjoy it or feel distressed. I don't know; he doesn't care. He doesn't do anything to you beyond that because you are such a good pet…

Jason Dean

He would like to be one of those guys who makes fun of you and just goes on with his thing, but he quickly finds out that he isn't. Someone else's name hurts him deeply; you can see in his features his disappointed and hurt look. However, he quickly becomes manipulative and controlling. He makes you kill that guy by carefully following his plans, and if you don't, it means that you don't love him and that you just took advantage of him and that if you were a good girlfriend, you would do anything to make him feel safe. You probably do want to fall for his manipulations, because the relationship is clearly toxic. You go along with all his plans, and he is happy; he sees it as a sign of love and all that shit. When all that is done, he will fuck you good and fulfill all your whims so that in his mind there is only him and only him. In reality, he fulfills his mission.

Alex DeLarge

He changes his expression immediately; he looks at you with that dangerous look that his victims give them. He tells you to back off immediately if you want to get out of the situation unscathed. His dominant voice would have you under control, so your mouth automatically obeys, and you apologize several times while you try to explain to him that it was just an accident. He will play with you and tell you fatal scenarios that could happen to you if he decides to leave you and take away his protection. In reality, he is just playing with you; it is not that your little mishap hurt him that much; it is just that he needs you to understand that he is in charge and he will not tolerate you straying or betraying him. After that he will make you fulfill a fantasy, like having sex in a stranger's car while others drive by or something like that; he will also make you yell "Alex" many times to make it more embarrassing. He enjoys your nerves quite a bit, and he feels paid. However, that very night, he and his droogs are visiting the person you named. That's non-negotiable.

Kurt Kunkle

It cracks me up because I don't even know if anyone still loves this character, but anyway, he's added to my list of slashers. Well, he can tolerate recording you having sex; he can even feel comfortable seeing his followers grow thanks to seeing you naked, and he can act all feigned kindness to anyone who hits on you. But he won't tolerate you thinking about anyone else, much less blurting out someone else's name while you're with him. He's pretty crazy, so they'll have sex in public or something while he humiliates you in front of everyone for being an inconsiderate bitch. He laughs like a maniac, creating chaos and chaos. You literally couldn't even remember that day because of all the unusual things that happened. He doesn't apologize; at the end of the day, he doesn't even talk about it; he literally took out his frustrations by causing massive chaos. Well, that's what you get.

Brahms

He throws a tantrum and forces you to calm him down. He manipulates you and makes himself the victim. He will use this to have more freedoms with you and let you do whatever he wants, basically. No matter what you say to him, he won't want to understand. He just shamelessly enjoys the way you ride him afterwards and tries to get him to forgive you that way. In reality, he will never forgive you because he prefers to make you feel guilty all the time so he can keep getting things out of you. The only way out of this is for him to do something worse (which isn't hard) and you get mad at him and the roles change. But it's always like that. It's a vicious circle too. He silently wonders who that person is. Just give him attention and do everything he tells you for a while. He will think he won. However, you have to control his tantrum well; otherwise, he might get too out of control with his own strength.

[lostalioth]

𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧

→ premise: all of deans life pain has always ran parallel to love. he needs them both, he needs you to hurt him and take the pain away all at the same time, turns out you were more than willing to, you may even need it reciprocated.

→ pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader

→ warnings: 2.3k words, small bit of angst that turns quickly into smut | 18+, kinda switch!dean, pain kink [slapping, biting, pinching, scratching, etc], praise kink [both reader and dean], unprotected sex, small bit of choking, multiple mentions of blood & reader nearly dying

→ a/n: kinktober 08

Dean was accustomed to pain, he learned to tolerate and push through it from a young age as his father hammered into him that it was his job to always look after Sam and conditioned him to become a hunter. Love always came alongside pain in his life, losing everybody he ever cared deeply for; it happened so often that he began to associate one with the other. And so somewhere along the way he came to yearn for both pain and love as he felt they always came together. When Dean began having feelings for you, he was scared like he’s never been before. He avoided telling you for a couple of years simply because he thought if he voiced it out loud then he'd lose you like he did everyone else.

However when a demon came very close to killing you when you were being reckless, that scared Dean a hell of a lot more and in a screaming match about it he revealed his feelings on accident.

“You couldve fucking died, ya’ know that right? If me and Sam got there even a minute later you’d have been laying in my arms dead not just unconscious” when he mentions sam, he gestures towards the couch in the small motel room where the younger brother last sat. Though when he turns to look over hoping for backup he finds Sam gone, he groans out in annoyance. Sam had figured it was best to leave the two of you to your fighting alone, yes he was also upset with your careless decision but not as heated as his brother.

“Well I didn't okay? I can take care of myself. I had it under control!” you scream out, punching your words out to get your point across, flailing your arms in frustration though the fast movement aggravates your injuries making you wince slightly. Seeing you in pain makes Dean stop short for a second, a ping in his chest as his heart aches, it however only morphs into making his blood boil more when the memory of finding you beaten and bloody on the floor of that warehouse flashes in his head. “I'm sooo glad you can take care of yourself, but what about me HUH?!” He screams out, sarcasm dripping from his voice until the latter half with his question where it breaks off taking you back. Confusion crosses your face but before you can say anything back to him he continues.

“I dont know what I’d fuckin’ do without you, im so pathetically and utterly in love with you that the thought of you dying makes me wanna lie in the dirt just so i can be buried with you!” he had been stepping closer and closer as he yelled out in frustration, not realizing exactly what he just said. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the adrenaline from his confession and proximity coursing through your veins.

“You love me..?” Your voice comes out softer than Dean swears he's ever heard it before and it melts all the anger out of his body. He knew there was no turning back now that he blurted that out and even though he was worried more than ever, he couldn't stand not being with you anymore. “I think i fell in love the moment i met you sweetheart” he sighs and brings his rough hands up to cup your face and wipe away the tears you hadn’t noticed we're slowly falling from your eyes. After a long stretch of comfortable silence as the tension of the fight has dissipated you speak up.

“Would you just kiss me already ya’ idiot” you tease, smiling softly at him through your tears as you stare deep into those stupid green eyes that turn your brain to mush.

Using his hold on your face he pulls your lips against his in a desperate kiss, trying to drown out all the swarming negative voices in his head. Your soft lips mold against his perfectly and he thanks any and every god he can think of for letting him have something he knows he doesn’t deserve. Your eyes flutter shut as you kiss back, the fight over your thoughtless decision not forgotten but put on the back burner. You were deans the second you told him to kiss you and if you thought you were gonna be able to continue with your bad decisions boy were you in for a surprise, he just finally got you he wasn't ever letting go now. You grab at his chest, your hands balling up his shirt as you try pulling him impossibly closer deepening the kiss. In a tangled mess of limbs and mouths still latched to one another’s you and Dean tumble back and fall down onto the rundown motel bed. Dean landed on his back in the middle cushioning your fall with you landing on top of him between his legs.

“Baby..” he mumbles against your lips making your heart skip a bit at him calling you a name normally reserved for his impala. He even squeezes your hips lightly to break your focus from the make out.

“I need you to do something for me” he groans out as the kiss heats up and your tongue slips in his mouth during his statement, your hands running all over his chest and arms. Your body was pressed up to his, hips flush against each other making it impossible for you not to feel his hardening cock on your thigh. “Anything, what do you need, baby?” You question, desperate to please him and more than willing to do whatever he asks. Now Dean was well aware if he said jump you'd ask how high, he just hoped this request as odd as it was didn‘t make you run for the hills.

Reluctantly he pulls away from the kiss to catch his breath as well as watch your face when he tells you what he needs. You open your eyes and look at him with that same sparkle they always hold when your gaze is locked on him. His cock was getting painfully hard now from the mixture of the make out session and your body so close to him.

”I- shit okay im just gonna say it uh. I need you to hurt me. I just- I need you to get the image of you laying in a pool of your own blood barely breathing out of my head” he rambles, his voice sounding unfamiliar to his own ears with how pathetic it comes out. He silently prays you won't just get up and walk out of his life at his weird desire. He avoids eye contact when you are still silent after a minute. A fire ignites in your body and settles in your core as a million and one thoughts are running through your head at the speed of light. Every single last one however being the different things you wanna and finally get to do to Dean.

You grab ahold of Dean’s face squeezing it as you turn it so he is looking at you again. You now have a small taunting smile on your face, your nails are lightly digging into his cheeks making his cock twitch. “I can do that, but can you be a good boy?” You teasingly question as you lean up maneuvering your body so you're straddling his hips, peering down on him. The sight of you on his lap, thighs spread either side of his body and lust blown hooded eyes staring down at him knocks the breath from his lungs. It's an image pulled from his many dirty depraved dreams of you that riddled him with guilt but now it's a reality, his wonderful heaven like reality.

He frantically nods his head yes while your hand not pinching his face is working at undoing his belt.

“Gonna be such a good boy, can be s’good for you baby” he huffs out and lifts his hips to help you out as you pull his jeans down and off his legs. You let go of his face and dean has to fight back an actual whine when the small sting of pain leaves with it. Though he swallows his complaint as he watches you strip yourself of your dirty still blood soaked t-shirt, going at a teasingly slow pace when you undo your own belt pulling it through the loops and discarding it on the floor besides his pants. “Come on don't be a tease sweetheart please” he softly begs as he grabs your hips, thrusting his up to grind his bulge against your core. The rough fabric of your jeans sends a jolt of pleasure up his spine as it rubs over his aching boxer covered cock. You bite back a moan and slap his chest with your good arm to stop him before lifting your body up to help you rid yourself of your remaining clothes. He is not far behind you, nearly ripping off his shirt and tugging down his boxers making his leaking cock bounce free between your bodies.

Saliva practically pools in Dean's mouth at the sight of you stripped bare for his eyes scanning over every inch of you. Your thighs spread back over his hips leaving your pussy on display for him, your slick coating his cock as your hips take up his previous action of grinding. “Such a good boy” you praise and lean down digging your nails into his sides, the pain making his eyes screw shut in bliss. Lifting your hips once again this time however sinking your pussy down onto his throbbing cock. Your slick and his precum help to aid your cunt into taking every inch of Dean's cock to the base as you smash your lips against his in a passionate kiss. The mixture of stinging pain and sweet praise and pleasure drown out all bad thoughts, all images that were flashing in Dean's head of your limp body unmoving and bleeding fade from his head finally, his only thought being of how good you feel.

“Mhmm~” He whines out in pleasure and surprise, the sound muffled in your mouth. Your hips immediately set into a rhythm of grinding and softly bouncing, his cock dragging across your velvety walls and his tip hitting your cervix when you bounce down. “Ah- Ahh~ fuck sweetheart knew this fuckin’ pussy feel amazing” he grunts out, his fingers holding onto your hips in a bruising grip that has your head spining. You bite down on his plush bottom lip in retaliation making a small almost growl erupt from his chest. The sound vibrates through your body to your core making your hips flatter a bit and a whine escapes your lips.

Within the blink of an eye dean has your legs wrapped around his waist when he sits up and flips your position breaking the kiss. Laying you flat on your back with him nestled between your thighs his cock still buried deep inside you. “Dean~” your whimper morphs into a wanton moan when his hips start at a punishing pace, your slick already forming a creamy ring at the base of his cock as it pounds into you. His heavy balls smacking your ass creating an obscene noise that fills the room with your moans and his grunts. “As much as i love how you sound and wanna hear it for the rest of my life baby, you gotta be quiet sweetheart” he taunts as his hand slips up the side of your body to palm at your bouncing tits. you whine out and paw at his lower stomach and v-line almost pushing him away slightly to stop his tip from abusing that one spot deep inside you. “Mm~ I can’t, it s’good, feels too good, i needa cum” you whine out your words slurring together as the knot in your stomach tightens. “Aww well don't want the staff or other guests hearing you scream my name now do we?” He questions with a small smirk that morphs into an almost slack jawed look when your nails dig into his back and drag down. The stinging pain of you scratching at his back so hard he's almost certain you drew blood makes his hips speed up even more.

“Bite down on my shoulder to muffle yourself when you cum okay baby?” He softens a bit though his hips don't slow down, you nod desperately in understanding. “That’s my good girl” he beams at you praising you in a sweet tone making your pussy clench down on his cock.

You grab at his hand that rests on your breasts and pull it up to your neck hoping he gets the message. A smile forms on his lips as what you want registered in his head, you wanted pain the same as him. Dean didn't think he could love you anymore than he did and yet as his hand wraps around your throat his heart swells, you're the same as him, you needed pain with the love and pleasure, he was the luckiest fucking man alive in this moment. He smirks and softly kisses your lips as he leans down and his cock somehow reaches even deeper inside you.

The new angle causes the knot in your core to snap and your high to crash into you, making you pull away from his mouth and bury your face in his shoulder. Baring your teeth you bite down a bit hard onto his shoulder to muffle your loud moans and cries as you cream on his cock. “Oh fuck yeah, there we go sweetheart good girl baby” he praises, his head going foggy in pain and pleasure as his climax hits him head on, spilling his cum deep inside you not caring about the loud noises that leave his own mouth.

→ a/n: as always this wasnt proofread and its late, whos shocked? anyway i got a bit carried away well more like a lot. this is only my second time writing for dean and i got excited i really like writing for him. It is however my first time writing smut for him so sorry if hes out of character.

[plaguewormart]

Anyways ,, imagine Vincent finally settling into his role, finally learning how to manage the burden of being The Supreme Pontiff, finally feeling at least somewhat at ease with his life.

And then Thomas’ cancer comes back. And Thomas, the self sacrificial idiot he is, hides it for as long as possible. Vincent notices something is wrong, of course, but he fears driving Thomas away by being too much, so he doesn’t comment on how Thomas seems to be getting thinner, how his hair is shedding, or on the amount of time off he requests.

Thomas can’t hide it any longer when the date for surgery to remove the tumor comes. He sends an official request for medical leave without speaking to Vincent, and when the paper ends up at Vincent’s desk, he breaks down in tears.

Not wanting Thomas to worry, Vincent tries to handle everything himself. He doesn’t want Thomas to have to do any work during his treatment, so he takes on responsibilities that would normally not fall on him.

Aldo watches them both closely, noticing how Vincent is overworking himself, and how Thomas worries about how his health will affect the Vatican. Aldo tries to help by pushing them to do things together, but Vincent is too scared of hurting Thomas and Thomas is too scared of showing weakness.

Vincent wants to show up to Thomas’ treatments, but because he doesn’t want to overwhelm the man, he stays away - spending hours upon hours in his office as he ignores meals and breaks to take over all of Thomas’ tasks. He refuses to hire someone to take over while Thomas is away - thinking that it would mean that he is accepting that Thomas won’t return.

Vincent has nightmares every night, dreaming of Thomas dying, from the cancer - but also from gunshots or explosions as his memories mix with his anxieties.

Sister Agnes finds him at one point, as he is pacing the Vatican gardens long after sunset, his mind filled with worry and his body refusing to rest. She tries to coax him inside, and when that fails, she instead comforts the Holy Father as he cries over the uncertainty and fear he feels over potentially losing his best friend.

Ray tries to convince Vincent to let someone else take some of Thomas’ work, but Vincent refuses, and instead stays up all night making sure everything is finished. At one point Ray realizes that there’s no way to make the pope stop, and instead starts scheduling in a few hours every day where no one is to bother the Holy Father so that he can complete the work.

Finally, after months of treatment and scares, and both Vincent and Thomas losing so much weight that it worries their friends and colleagues; they finally start talking.

It all starts when Vincent tries to take a late night walk in the gardens, where he finds Thomas sitting by the turtle pond. Thomas’ red zucchetto is placed on his now bald head, and Vincent quietly approaches him.

They spend hours in the dark night - confessing their fears and hardships to each other. Thomas tells Vincent about how he feared that the cancer would finally kill him, and how he thought that distancing himself from Vincent would make it easier on the pope. Vincent tells Thomas about how he has been unable to rest because every night he sees Thomas dying.

They hold each other close, shielding each other from the cold winds that blow across the garden, their arms wrapped around each other as they watch the turtles swim slowly in the water.

The guards decide not to bother them, staying far away enough not to be able to hear the conversation, and not intervening as the two men lay back and watch the stars together.

The next morning, they wake up covered in blankets. The sun is rising above them, and at some point during the night their hands have clasped together.

No one mentions how the Holy Father refuses to attend meetings without Thomas at his side. No one questions it when Vincent requests time off every few days, and no one comments on the fact that the pope joins the dean of the college of cardinals for every visit at the hospital after that night.

When Thomas is declared cancer free, there is a party held in the dining room at the Santa Martha. No one tries to stop the Holy Father or the Dean as they leave early to retreat to the Pope’s room.

[deansbestfriend]

to grow old in. 𐙚 dean winchester

dean winchester x gn!reader

tags and warnings: late series!Dean, fluff, happy ending if you don’t think about the last episode of the series

summary: after cleaning dean up from a rough hunt, he realizes just how much you really mean to him. for the first time, dean admits he can look farther than the next hunt,

The impala engine hummed softly,

like a heart beat you had grown so familiar with. The backgrounds of Kansas twisted and turned in front of you. Your head rested on the window, your fingers idly tracing portions of the car nearest to you: the handle, the window trim, the edge of the leather seat. Meanwhile the day you had flickered behind your eyes.

Hours ago, Dean had come back to the bunker in worse shape than he had left. Had it not been for Sam you believed he would’ve been dead, the thought made your stomach churn and twist in knots.

Dean glances over at you, his side profile outlined perfectly by the setting sun. Even with its bruises, you found it perfect—him perfect.

“You okay?” He asks, voice rough and tired. You asked him to rest but he persisted you come on the ride to escape from the bunker’s air tight walls.

Truth was, you weren’t. Your fingers still trembled, because earlier you had to have the stillest of hands when stitching an open wound on his forehead closed and another on his arm—and the daintiest of touches when cleaning his multiple gashes and scrapes with antiseptic.

“It’s nothing fatal, he’ll live.” Sam had tried to reassure you, while he placed him in front of you in the makeshift infirmary that use to be your room—until you began sleeping in Dean’s.

“I’m fine.” You lie, despite knowing he knew you well enough to catch every curve in the words you spoke.

Baby purrs underneath you both. Like a shared pet that longs to bring its parents together, in a peaceful harmony. Dean’s knuckles graze the gear shift, one hand on the wheel as he takes a slower approach to an upcoming turn.

You hadn’t noticed how far out you two had gotten. It was a secluded neighborhood. Houses with neat lawns and wrap around porches. Enough space from one another to feel alone but not lonely.

The streetlights start flickering on, as if they’re welcoming the two of you. Yet, you weren’t sure what exactly you were looking at. Suddenly, the purring you found comfort in stops. Dean cut the engine in front of an empty plot of land at edge of the neighborhood.

“I’m sorry—if I gave ya’ a scare earlier.” He had a hint of nonchalant speckled between his words but that didn’t make them any less sincere. You remember when he told you for the first time, “I know how my story ends.” You cried in his arms that night.

He hadn’t said it again since then.

Your eyes meet his green ones. He’s searching for something in yours, whatever it was, he found it. His lips pressed into a smile. “Here.” He pressed a kiss against your forehead then slipped from the front seat of the car.

Before you knew it, your door was being flung open, and now you both were standing in front of the grassy, empty, plot of land. The night air began to settle between the two of you.

“I’ve been thinkin’” He starts, both of his hands now shoved in his utility jacket, he leans against the impala’s frame—something you’ve seen him do a million times.

“Oh you have—should I alert the media?” You tease, which brings a smile to his bruised visage.

“No, seriously, Y/N.” He tries to ground himself. You watch his chest rise and fall, as if they’re words he’s building up to say keep catching in his diaphragm. “Someday, you’re gonna want a life off the road.”

He sighed. He was right. Hunting had always been something you felt like something you had to do—not wanted to do. Saving people from their untimely demise, losing friends and family to unnatural causes—it was weighing on you and Dean saw it clearer than anyone.

Yet you kept your longing to be free from this life from him. Masked it with smiles, half-hearted jokes and brash actions. Every day you lived like you had something to lose. You did, him.

You knew had you stepped away you were running the risk of losing the feeling of his skin against yours. Hearing the sound of his laughter. The way he smelled when he’d clean up nice for you.

So you settled. Not for him—because of him.

“Dean..” you trailed off, not sure where his speech was headed but feared it was to push you away.

“I know what you’re gonna say, that you’re fine—ready for the next case or world savin’ hunt—but you deserve better than that. I want you to have better than that.”

His words were carefully articulated but they came as natural as the summer breeze that brushed between the two of you. The same breeze that made the blades of grass in front of you gently sway.

Then you notice his hand sifting in his jacket pocket for something. No longer resting casually, he was searching. He found it with ease. Out came a tan colored paper. It was folded carefully at least four times you guessed.

He handed it to you, and you hesitated to take it from him. But you did. You went to speak as you unfolded each careful crease but your voice betrayed you, cracking before you could utter a word.

Your eyes scanned the paper, over and over again.

PROPERTY DEED.

The top of the page read. Loosely drawn floor plans in the center. The plot of lands dimensions on the sides. Plans for two stories, a wide porch that runs the length of the front, three bedrooms, a spacious kitchen and a living room the size of dreams.

Your fingers traced the paper the same way you had done the impala moments ago. Tears welled in your eyes, you looked to him for the answers to the questions you had.

“Dean? What is this?” You asked, your voice thin like if you spoke to loud you’d wake up.

“I told you I’ve been thinkin’.” He grinned. “I know we could do this whole—stayin’ in the bunker, hunting forever but a couple months ago I couldn’t shake the feeling that there’s something more than this. We deserve more than this. And I don’t think I can see you look at me the way you did earlier again.”

He reflected, his eyes falling off of yours towards the end. You could tell he was replaying the same events you had in the car. Your shaky voice, your worried eyes.

You inhale the idea. It’s not abstract or outlandish—it’s possible. That’s what you tell yourself at least. You feel a couple stray tears falling down your cheeks, quickly you shift the paper at the irrational fearing that it’ll dissolve at the slightest imperfection.

“We could grow old here.” He swallows.

He turns to you now, a thumb clearing at the falling tears. “And besides, Sam told me he doesn’t want to hear us through the wall anymore.”

The smile on his face brings one to yours. You even giggle.

“I want that.” You say. “With you.”

He exhales, relief washing over his body language. You take a moment, taking it all in. Your eyes darting from him, to the paper, to the land before you. Your imagination does leaps and bounds. Painting the interior, laughing over pancakes that you probably overcooked, struggling to build a porch swing together—imaging not having to worry about the end of the world.

Up until now any time you had discussed the future with him, it felt as if he created an ocean of distance. If it were more so to protect you than hurt himself by the disappointment of not delivering to your every need.

But this was different.

You hadn’t noticed Dean had moved behind you now, arms around your waist as your back pressed into his torso. He admired the same thing you did, you were sure he was lost in his romanticization of the future himself. Though, he would never admit it.

[multiversefanfics]

Need You To Sleep

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader Warning: nothing but fluff Summary: Dean needs to hold your wrist while he sleeps to feel comfortable, your heartbeat relaxes him. Word Count: 730 A/N: Got this idea from tiktok

Dean Winchester.

The big bad hunter, the man who wouldn't think twice about killing something that posed a threat to you or hurt you, the man who sleeps with a gun under his pillow, now sleeps with your arm under his pillow. You never thought in a million years that Dean would need you to sleep, the two of you hated each other when you met, but one drunk night, he realizes he can't live without you.

The first time you and Dean slept in the same bed together, he kept his distance, he was afraid he would have a nightmare and wake you up, or worse, accidentally hit you. As the two of you slept together more and more, Dean inched closer and closer each night. One night, he was exhausted from a hunt, you were in bed looking at your laptop researching random lore to pass the time until they came back.

Dean closed your laptop, tossing it gently to the end of the bed. He crawled between your legs, laying his head on your lap. You smiled and looked down at him, running your fingers through his hair, his body melted into your lap.

"What's wrong, my love?" You cooed as you ran your fingertips down the back of his head to his neck

He mumbled incoherently against your lap. You asked him to repeat himself, but instead of responding, he simply started snoring. You smiled and continued to rub his back. Dean started to stir a bit, you helped him get onto his pillow. Once he got comfortable, his hand went straight for your wrist. You were confused at first, but you let it go.

You noticed Dean started to do it more and more. It started off as him just wanting to touch you, then it became a need. He needed to feel your heartbeat to fall asleep, he wanted to make sure you were still there with him, that you were real. He never told you that, you just sort of assumed. It became a nightly routine: the two of you would talk about your day, listen to him complain about Sam, and just be all lovey-dovey.

You turned Dean into a softie, he used to think he was all tough when in reality he was yearning to be loved and to let his soft side out for someone he loves. Dean loved the way you could easily calm him down when he was upset or pissed. No one has ever been able to do it as quickly as you do. It scared him at first, but he learned to love it.

Dean was getting ready for bed. He crawled in beside you and immediately grabbed your wrist, holding it against his cheek. You looked over at him and smiled, you weren't going to ask but you just needed to know.

"Babe, can I ask you something?" You watched as he opened one eye to look at you. "Why do you do that?"

"Do What?" He raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Hold my wrist." You looked down at your wrist, then back at Dean. "I don't want you to stop, I just wanna know why."

Dean sat up, crossing his legs together, he brought your wrist to his lips and placed a small kiss on it. He looked up at you and exhaled peacefully, a small smile forming on his lips.

"I do this because it helps me stay grounded, it helps me sleep. It shows me that this is real, and it's not some dream I'm in." He looked at Sam who was peacefully sleeping in the bed next to you.

"It makes me feel at peace knowing that you're right beside me, I love you, and I never want to be away from you." Dean placed another small kiss to your wrist, smiling against your skin.

"I love you too, baby." You leaned over and placed a soft kiss to his cheek

"Now, can we go to sleep? I am exhausted." He shot you a wink and laid back down, placing your wrist on his cheek once more.

You playfully rolled your eyes and laid down beside him, hearing what Dean said made you feel loved, it made you feel important. He made you feel needed. Dean never truly needed anyone, except for when it came to you.

A/N: This one is a little short, but i still hope you guys like it. if you want to be tagged in future fics comment here or send me a message. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. 🥰

Main Masterlist - Dean Winchester Masterlist

Taglist: @iwudbutnah @littlesoulshine @miss-marmalade @bettystonewell @cherryresidence @ambiguous-avery

[ohangeleyes]

⎯⎯ HUSBAND!DEAN WINCHESTER HEADCANONS

a/n i know i said i would be posting very very soon 3 weeks ago but in my defense i was busy with idk... this is my apology guys

notices contains cute ass dean and spicy ahh dean. for my bbg again @iris-w1nchester

┃dean didn't believe in "forever" until you.

he’s lived in motel rooms and warzones his entire life. permanence, something that would last felt like a myth for him. but it started creeping in slowly, quietly. it was the way he kept a toothbrush for you at the bunker. the way he started planning hunts around your schedule. the way your name came up when he talked about the future, without him realizing it.

it scared the hell out of him. love, to dean, had always been something that ended, violently. but with you? it felt… durable. and that was both terrifying and holy.

┃he realized he wanted to marry you while watching you fold laundry.

nothing dramatic. you were in one of his flannel shirts, standing barefoot, maybe listening to faint music playing in the background, folding his socks with that little quirk you do. and something in his chest just clicked. he sat back on the bed, eyes a little distant, hands stilled, and thought: “this is it. this is what I’ve been chasing.”

just this. the stillness. the safety. the ordinary, and how beautiful you made it feel.

┃when things started getting serious, he waited for the shoe to drop.

he started second-guessing everything: am I good enough? am I dragging her into a grave? what if I screw this up?

so he got distant. not because he didn’t want you, but because he did, too much. so much, it felt like loving you might kill him.

you didn’t force him to open up, you just stayed, kept being gentle, patient. and eventually, the walls cracked. he told you clumsily that he didn’t think he deserved something good. and you told him he did. he didn’t believe it. not at first. but you made him believe he did. and that made all the difference.

┃the ring wasn't something luxurious, it was personal, specific, chosen with care.

dean may seem rough-edged, but he’s sentimental. the ring? not flashy. maybe it had a stone in your birth color. maybe it was your mom’s ring he quietly got fixed. maybe it was a simple gold band engraved with something only you two understand. he spent hours figuring it out. weeks, even. we wanted it to feel like you. not just for it to be pretty.

┃the proposal wasn't grand, it was sacred.

he didn’t get down on one knee in a crowded restaurant, that’s not dean. it happened at the kitchen table at 2 am, half-drunk on cheap whiskey and pie, after a long hunt. you were wearing his hoodie, feet in his lap. you were talking about something silly, maybe a movie, maybe what color to paint the spare room.

he was staring at you like you hung the stars. and when you paused and looked at him, he just said: “marry me.”

soft. steady. with that haunted look in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe he was asking. like he half-expected you to say no. but also, deep down, desperately hoped you’d say yes.

┃after you said yes, he cried, but didn't want you to see.

dean feels everything, but buries it. after you said yes, he grinned. god, that grin, but when you went to grab your phone to call someone, he turned away, just for a second. but you caught the shake in his shoulders, the way he blinked up toward the ceiling. it wasn’t sadness, it was release. for the first time, maybe ever, he let himself believe in something that wouldn’t be ripped away.

┃he didn’t want a big wedding, but he did want you to have everything you deserved.

he said, “let’s just hit a courthouse and grab burgers after,” half-joking but totally serious. you saw it in his eyes, he didn’t want to waste time or money on something “fancy” for him. but when he saw how your eyes lit up talking about vows, music, food, he caved instantly. the way he always does when it’s about you. he didn’t fight you on any of it. not because he cared about flowers or cake, but because he cared that you cared. that was enough.

"if it makes you happy, I'm there, tux and all. hell, I'll even dance."

┃he was lowkey panicking the entire morning.

he didn’t sleep the night before. you’d never seen him that nervous, not even before a leviathan hunt. he paced the bunker kitchen, cracked half a dozen beers, muttered to himself. he was just terrified of screwing up something that mattered. so the moment before the ceremony? he was staring at himself in the mirror, whispering: "don't mess this up. she’s your home now. she’s your damn home.”

┃his vows were short, but they wrecked everyone.

you expected dean to grumble through his vows or quote some old rock song. but what came out of him was pure, raw, stripped-down truth. the kind of thing you only say when your heart is burning a hole in your chest. “I never thought I’d live this long. I never thought I’d find something that didn’t come with blood or pain. and then you walked in. and I didn’t know I was allowed to have peace. but I want it now. I want you. always." direct. intense. vulnerable.

┃the first dance? he dreaded it, until he saw your face.

dean’s not the “let’s slow dance in front of people” type. he groaned, tried to get out of it. but you talked him into it, and he gave in, because he always does, for you. and the second he pulled you close, everything else disappeared. he pressed his forehead to yours, murmured lyrics softly in your ear, totally off-key, and held you like he never wanted to let go. you felt his heart, beating loud enough to count.

“this ain’t so bad,” he whispered.

“yeah?”

“yeah. might even like it… if it means I get to hold you like this forever.

bonus: "can't help falling in love" was definitely playing in the background

┃the reception was messy, loud and filled with love.

he made damn sure there was pie. more than cake. sam gave a speech that had everyone in tears. cas stood awkwardly in the corner and made a comment about “the sanctity of human bonds,” which made dean laugh harder than you’d heard in weeks.

and at some point, around midnight, dean pulled you into his lap, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder, murmuring “I can’t believe this is real” into your hair over and over again.

┃he didn’t care about the honeymoon details, he just wanted you.

you could’ve picked a beach, a cabin, even just stayed in bed at the bunker for a week straight. he didn’t give a damn where it was. his only request? “somewhere quiet. just us.”

┃during honeymoon, he plans nothing. except sex.

dean’s like, “sightseeing? that’s what I’m doing right now,” while watching you walk out of the shower, towel barely hanging on. lazy mornings become intense make-out sessions. afternoons are for naked naps and cuddles. nights? he turns the lights off just to feel every part of you without distractions.

“you wanna go out for dinner or… stay in and let me eat something else?”

┃he’s obsessed with “making memories.”

dean insists on taking polaroids or saving mementos: the cork from a bottle of wine, a seashell from your walk, a napkin from the hotel bar with a stupid doodle of you on it. he hides them in his duffel. one day, years later, you’ll find them and cry.

┃the mornings are slow, sacred, and full of sleepy affection.

dean’s a light sleeper (years of hunting will do that), but when he’s with you? he lets himself sleep deeper. he wakes up early, usually before you, but he never gets up right away. not when he’s got you curled into his chest, your breath warm on his neck, your hand draped over his stomach. he runs his fingers down your back, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and lets himself pretend, for five more minutes, that the world outside your bedroom doesn’t exist.

“mornin’, sweetheart. you staying here forever, or am I gonna have to trap you under the blankets?”

┃he always makes breakfast. always.

dean’s love language? acts of service. he won’t always say the soft things, but he’ll flip pancakes, fry bacon, and make you coffee or tea just the way you like it every damn morning. he hums classic rock while he cooks, occasionally turning around to flash you that smug little grin when he catches you staring.

if you ever cook for him? he teases you, “not bad, chef”, but his eyes are so soft, because he’s never had someone want to take care of him before.

┃hunts feel different now. he’s more careful, more deliberate.

dean still hunts. he probably always will. but since you, he doesn’t throw himself into danger the way he used to. he isn't so reckless anymore. not because he’s scared of death, he’s scared of leaving you. of becoming another ghost in your story. you’re his anchor now. so he double-checks salt lines. he calls you before and after hunts. and if you hunt too? oh, he’s protective, sometimes annoyingly so.

“you go left, I go right. watch your corners. and if anything touches you, I’m burning this whole damn house down.”

┃he has his hobbies, but now he wants to share them with you.

he still works on baby religiously, but now you’re invited. he’ll pass you tools and give you grease-smudged kisses like it’s nothing. movie nights? mandatory. he needs you to watch all his favorite old horror movies, even if you think they suck, because he wants to see your reactions more than the movie itself. and when he finds out you have a hobby, painting, knitting, whatever, he watches you do it like it’s magic. and he brags about it constantly.

“my girl made that. yeah, she’s kinda a genius, no big deal.”

┃vulnerable moments come in waves, but he shows up every time.

dean has trouble talking about his feelings, but when he opens up, it guts you. it happens in small moments: in bed after a nightmare, during a car ride after a hunt, or when a random song hits too hard.

“you know I never thought I’d have this, right? you, a home, peace. I still don’t know if I deserve it. but I’m not letting it go.”

he’s always there for your vulnerable moments too. if you cry? he doesn’t try to fix it. he just pulls you close, strokes your hair, and tells you everything’s okay.

┃cuddles are an every night thing.

dean needs physical affection like oxygen but pretends he doesn’t, that mf is so touch deprived. you’ll be watching tv and he’ll grumble, “come here,” before pulling you into his lap like a teddy bear. he wraps his arms around your waist, buries his face in your neck, and just breathes you in. you end up tangled under blankets, legs wrapped around each other, his hand under your shirt, resting on your skin just to know you’re real.

┃he has quiet “I love you” habits.

dean doesn’t say “I love you” every five minutes. but you feel it in a hundred tiny ways:

he keeps your chapstick in the glovebox.

he brings you pie when you’ve had a rough day.

he texts you dumb memes he doesn’t understand, just to make you smile.

he runs you a bath when he knows your back hurts.

he always sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door, because if something ever came through it, he’d be the first line of defense.

he fixes things before you even know they’re broken.

he always walks on the side closest to the road.

he saves the last bite for you, even if it’s his favorite.

he checks the locks every night. twice.

┃fights aren’t explosive, they’re quiet and aching.

dean gets cold when he’s upset, emotionally, not cruelly. he’ll shut down, go quiet, avoid eye contact. but he never walks away. he stays. he sits with his feelings. and once he’s ready, he comes back to you.

“I don’t wanna fight you. I’m just… scared. I don’t wanna lose this. I don’t wanna lose you.”

and you always end up wrapped in each other again, tears drying between kisses, your forehead pressed to his like you’re both breathing the same apology.

┃sunday morning sex is sacred.

no alarms. no monsters. just the two of you tangled in warm sheets, half-asleep and already wrapped around each other. dean’s hand is under your shirt, thumb tracing soft circles on your waist before you even wake up. he kisses the back of your neck, breath warm, voice low and sleepy:

“mornin’, mrs. winchester… still sore from last night, or can I make you sore again?”

he’s slow and sweet on sundays. gentle rocking. lazy kisses. the kind of lovemaking that doesn’t end in a rush, but in laughter and quiet “I love you”s into each other’s skin.

┃he lives to undress you after a long day.

you walk in the door, bloodied, bruised, tired from a hunt and dean’s already helping you out of your jacket. boots off. weapons on the table. but then he’s unbuttoning your jeans, peeling off your shirt, fingertips ghosting over every scrape and mark with reverence.

“lemme take care of you, baby. you carried us out there… now let me carry you here.”

and sometimes that turns into a warm bath. sometimes a massage. And sometimes? he’s kneeling in front of you before you can even breathe, mouth on your skin like you’re holy.

┃he has a “kitchen counter” weakness.

something about seeing you barefoot, in one of his flannels, sipping coffee while leaning against the counter? it wrecks him.

next thing you know, he’s pinning you against the edge, mug gently set aside, his hands under your thighs.

sex in the kitchen becomes a regular occurrence. bacon sizzling in the background. your laughter echoing off the tile. his hips snapping into yours while the sun pours through the window.

┃ his pillow talk turns domestic and filthy.

aftercare is very real with husband dean. he’s all about the cuddles, stroking your hair, making sure you’re hydrated and fed. but once your breathing’s evened out and the room is quiet? he starts whispering filthy little plans for the future into your ear.

“you ever think about what you’ll look like with my kid in you?”

“wanna get a place with a big porch. I’ll take you every night in the rocking chair.”

“let’s grow old together, baby… but I’ll still have you screaming my name in every room.”

┃angry sex after arguments is a whole thing.

married life isn’t always smooth and dean can be stubborn. but when the two of you argue? it builds up into something hot and dangerous. he’ll slam the door, pace around, clench his jaw, but he always comes back.

“Still mad?”

“Shut up and bend over.”

it’s raw, fast, breathless. teeth on your neck. hands gripping tight. but after? he cradles your face, whispers apologies into your skin, and kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

┃he gets weirdly emotional during soft, slow sex.

when it’s just the two of you, no distractions, nothing but skin and breath and whispered I love you’s, he sometimes gets quiet. eyes locked. hands holding your face. that single tear-thing he hates happens more than he admits.

“you don’t know what you do to me, sweetheart… I never thought I’d get this. you. this life.”

he holds you for hours afterward. like if he lets go, the dream might end.

┃he buys lingerie “for you”… but it’s totally for him.

every few months, you’ll find something new on the bed. a lacy thing in your favorite color, folded neatly with a note: “try it on. I’ll be waiting.” and dean? he sits at the foot of the bed, jaw dropped, eyes burning with adoration and lust.

“fuckin’ hell… my wife.”

“you married me just for this, huh?”

“damn right I did.”

┃your wedding ring drives him wild in bed.

he never says it, but every time your hand wraps around him and that ring catches the light? he goes feral. it’s visual proof that you’re his. that you chose him. and when he finishes? he presses his forehead to yours, rubs your ring with his thumb, and just breathes you in.

┃thinking about having a kid? he thinks about it way before you or before he'll admit it out loud

he watches you from across the kitchen, still in a tee shirt, humming to yourself, hair messy and his chest aches. he doesn’t mean to imagine it… but suddenly you’ve got a baby on your hip. or a little kid sitting at the table coloring while you make lunch. and he wants it, badly, but pushes the thought down.

“no way. not with this life. it’d be selfish.”

but it keeps creeping in. every time you yawn and curl into his chest. every time he sees a dad holding a toddler at a diner. it’s not a fantasy, it’s a craving. one he’s terrified to say out loud.

┃he wrestles HARD with guilt and fear.

the idea of bringing a kid into this world, especially his world, makes his stomach churn.

“what if they turn out like me?”

“what if I can’t protect them?”

“what if they lose me too young?”

but the more you two build a home, the harder it is for him to ignore that aching hope.

“you’d be an amazing mom,” he says one night, quietly, when he thinks you’re asleep.

and when you whisper back, “you’d be an amazing dad,” he just clutches you tighter.

┃ he absolutely short-circuits when you tell him you're pregnant.

you show him the test and for a few seconds he just… stares. blinking. jaw on the floor. processing.

“that’s… that’s real? you’re sure?”

“shit, sweetheart, you’re really pregnant?”

then it hits him all at once, his hands fly to your stomach even if there’s no bump yet, and his eyes get glassy.

“we’re gonna have a baby?”

“you’re gonna be the mother of my kid.”

he kisses you like you’re made of starlight and then sits on the bed in silence for like 10 minutes trying not to cry.

┃he immediately throws himself into dad Mode.

day one: he’s googling vitamins, rubbing your back, reorganizing the pantry, and drawing up baby name lists he’ll pretend are “just for fun.” by week six: he’s installed a baby app, banned you from lifting heavy boxes, and is holding your hand during every appointment.

┃he handles your mood swings like a champion.

he’s SO gentle with you. if you cry at a commercial? you’re in his lap with a blanket and your favorite snack. if you snap at him for no reason? he just nods and says, “you want space or a cuddle, sweetheart?”

┃when the baby kicks for the first time, he breaks.

literally tears up. presses his hand to your belly like it’s holy.

“holy shit. that’s our kid.”

he talks to the bump every night after that. tells it stories. asks it what music it likes. says he hopes they get your eyes and your laugh.

┃he won’t let you lift a damn finger, he adores doing everything for you.

laundry? he’s on it. grocery runs? cavings at 2 am? he’s in the car before you finish your sentence.

“you’re growin’ a whole person. least I can do is keep you fed.”

and at night, he holds you so gently, hand spread over your belly, whispering,

“I’m scared, sweetheart… but I’ve never wanted anything this bad in my whole life.”

MASTERLIST

i feel like a cheater but whatever, enjoy...

so yall want dad dean head canons or what

[wendichester]

Hii sweetheart ✨🥺 I wanna request Dean with a fem!reader who can communicate and sense ghosts and other spiritual beings. And she was in an abusive relationship so she prefers spiritual beings over humans, because of that relationship.

°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ghost whisperer,

summary. not all humans are bad, but ghosts are still your comfort.

pairing. dean winchester x whisperer!reader

wordcount. 675

notes. thank you so much for requesting, hun. hope you like it ehe 🩷

The old Victorian house is dark and silent, the air thick with a chill that has nothing to do with the weather outside. Dean moves ahead, flashlight in one hand, shotgun in the other, while you linger near the entryway.

“Anything?” Dean asks, his voice low but steady.

You close your eyes, letting the cold prickle against your skin as you open yourself up. It doesn’t take long. A faint whisper brushes past your ear, followed by the soft sound of a child’s laughter echoing through the hallway.

“They’re here,” you murmur, your voice soft. “Two of them. A little boy and his mother. They’re not malicious, just... lost.”

Dean glances back at you, his sharp green eyes softening for a moment. “You sure about that?”

You nod, stepping closer to him. “They’re scared. Confused. Probably didn’t even realize they were gone.”

Dean watches as you move toward the staircase, your movements confident and purposeful. He knows this is your element. You’ve always been more comfortable with the spirits than with the living.

He follows you up the creaking stairs, his grip tightening on the shotgun. “You know, most people would be freaked out by the idea of talking to ghosts.”

You shrug, glancing back at him with a faint smile. “Most people haven’t been hurt by humans the way I have.”

Dean stops in his tracks, his jaw tightening. You didn’t say it to provoke a reaction—it’s just the truth. But he hates hearing it, hates knowing that someone out there hurt you so badly that you now find solace in the company of the dead.

“I get it,” he says quietly, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You pause at the top of the stairs, turning to look at him. “Do you?”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “I’ve seen a lot of bad in people. Hell, I’ve been some of that bad. So, yeah. I get it.”

Something in his tone makes your chest tighten. You want to respond, but a faint tug at your senses pulls your focus.

“They’re upstairs,” you say, turning toward the end of the hallway.

Dean follows without another word, his presence steady and grounding behind you.

When you reach the room, the air grows colder. The boy is sitting by the window, his translucent form barely visible in the moonlight. His mother stands protectively behind him, her gaze wary but not unkind.

“Hey,” you whisper, crouching down to their level. “It’s okay. We’re here to help.”

The boy looks at you with wide eyes, and for a moment, it feels like the three of you are the only ones in the world. Dean stands silently behind you, watching as you coax the spirits into letting go, your voice calm and soothing.

When they finally disappear in a shimmer of light, you exhale, leaning back against the wall.

“You’re amazing at that,” Dean says after a moment, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It's not a big deal.”

Dean steps closer, crouching in front of you so you’re at eye level. “Maybe. But you’re still here. Still trying, even after everything. That’s what makes you amazing.”

The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. “Dean…”

He shakes his head, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “I mean it. You don’t have to trust people. You don’t even have to trust me. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m sticking around, no matter what.”

His words settle in your chest, warm and unfamiliar. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thanks.”

He smiles, standing and holding out a hand to help you up. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we’ve done enough ghost whispering for one night.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. And as you walk out of the house together, you can’t help but think that if you're ever trusting another person again, Dean would be the right one.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine

[saltcxrcle]

drunken words ↼ d. winchester

summary: drunk you isn't the best at keeping their mouth shut

pairings: dean winchester x reader, dean winchester x gn! reader, platonic sam winchester x reader

requested: yes/no: by @traiitorjoe; thank you for sending your request!

word count: 3.0K

warnings: no use of 'y/n', none really, some cursing, a little bit of fluff, sam being a meddling little shit, some angst, kinda edited

a/n: i got this request in july and i felt so bad for having put it off for so long but here we have it! there is a potential for a pt.2 so if anyone wants that lmk lol

but enjoy the fic! please like, comment, and reblog!! your feedback fuels me!

[here's my taglist; read rules before sending in an ask]

𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

Dealing with the Winchesters always felt like a Herculean task when you would run into them while you were on a hunt. The first time you ran into them was when they barged into the farmhouse that you were staking out for a nest of vampires. They went in, guns blazing, and you cursed them out under your breath as you hurriedly left the hiding spot you were in and rushed into the nest to help them clean out. 

It was safe to say that they were surprised and confused by your anger when you guys had killed all of the vamps. You didn’t recognize them at first when they first ran into the farmhouse, but now that you were standing there and really looking at them, you instantly knew that these were the infamous Winchester brothers you’d heard from Bobby and other hunters.  

Regardless of who they were, you were furious that they had messed up the hunt that you were on, and they were on the receiving end of your fury while they looked at you dumbfounded. After you were done yelling at them, you left the farmhouse fuming and decided to leave them with the cleanup job. 

The brothers were so confused by you that they didn’t even think to ask for your name. They also were slightly scared by your fury, and they failed to realize that you clearly knew who they were, but they had no idea who you were, only that they had taken over your hunt and were really mad about it. Dean only hoped that he wouldn’t run into you ever again. 

But as fate was a fickle thing, you would run into the brothers on your next hunt in a small town in Oregon, where a witch was terrorizing the men of the town, and it just so happened that you had arrived at the station the same time they did. You had to play along with them until you got the information you needed, and then when you tried to leave the station before them, a hand slammed your door before you could get into your car. 

You turned around to be met with emerald green eyes filled with irritation and thinly veiled curiosity. 

“Did you need something Winchester?” You said with a scowl etched into your face. 

Dean scoffed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, answers. Who the hell are you?” 

“What’s it matter to you?” 

“Because you’re a hunter and we could use some help on this case.” Sam interjected, and your eyes were ripped away from the man in front of you. You almost forgot about the taller Winchester that was lingering behind Dean. 

You raised an eyebrow at Sam while Dean’s head jerked over his shoulder and glared at his brother. Sam stared back at his brother with raised brows, sending him a look that said, ‘What? It doesn’t hurt to ask.’ 

“I don’t think your brother here is keen on working with me.” 

“You’re damn right I’m not. You went off on us for no reason and left us to clean up.” 

You couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of them cleaning up the plethora of severed heads and bodies from that farmhouse. But you ignored Dean's words as you contemplated the offer Sam was proposing. 

“Fine I’ll help, but you’ll have to follow my lead on this one.” 

Sam nodded, agreeing with you, and sent you a dimpled smile. 

Dean opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by you slicing the air with your hand in front of his face. 

“Zip it Winchester, either you listen to me or I leave you high and dry on this hunt.” You waved around the copy of the case file that you convinced the Sheriff to give you before leaving the station. 

Dean all but glared at you and stomped towards the black Chevy Impala that was parked down the street. You couldn’t help but smirk at Dean’s grumpy attitude, and Sam told you which motel they were staying in and followed them to it. 

With three heads instead of one (more like two since Dean barely did any research and stuck you and Sam with it), you guys found the witch in no time and disposed of her swiftly. You had to admit that working with the brothers was more manageable than working on your own. But you knew that this had to be a one-off occurrence because you had heard about all of the craziness that surrounded the Winchesters. You were not keen on being pulled into any of it. 

Once the hunt was over, Sam gave you his number and told you to call if you needed help or vice versa. You took it to be polite, but you knew that you weren’t going to call them unless your life depended on it. The three of you went your separate ways before Destiny decided to play her games, and somehow, you ended up working on most of the hunts the brothers were working on. 

It’s like some higher power wanted you to work the Winchesters against your better wishes. Alas, you ended up working with them every time because you couldn’t resist Sam Winchester’s pleading puppy dog eyes. But you got on quite well with Sam, and he slowly became a good friend of yours. 

But your relationship with Dean, on the other hand… Well, let’s just say you had a mutual hatred for each other. You guys practically fought like cats and dogs anytime you interacted, and the two of you couldn’t help but let snide comments leave your lips each time the other was wrong or messed up. Both of you bickered like an old married couple that should have divorced a long time ago, so much so that Sam had to be the mediator constantly if you were to work with the brothers. If he hadn’t, he wasn’t sure if you were either going to throw a punch or fuck each other. 

Dean Winchester is an incredibly infuriating man, and you hated that you found him attractive. It wasn’t lost on you that both of the brothers were hot, like they should be on the cover of a magazine hot, but there was something about Dean that drew you to him more. You didn’t want him to know that, so you hid your attraction for him through your sarcastic demeanor. Eventually, Sam had enough of your bickering that held so much sexual tension that he locked the two of you in the motel room he and Dean were sharing until the two of you could have a civil conversation. 

Sam had left the two of you for a couple of hours. He was half expecting to find the two of you naked in Dean’s bed, but when he unlocked the door, he saw the two of you on separate beds and watching a random movie that was playing on the TV in the room.

In the time that Sam was gone, you guys had bickered and gotten in each other’s faces, but you eventually admitted that it was tiring to keep up the fact that you didn’t exactly hate Dean since the moment you met him and to your surprise, he admitted the same thing. After that, you guys sat on separate beds, finding some common ground between the two of you, and watched whatever was on the TV. 

After that incident, the two of you still argued like a married couple, but there wasn’t any heat behind your words, and it turned into friendly banter between you and the older Winchester. Months went by, and you found yourself as the unofficial third partner to the brothers, accompanying them on the majority of the hunts that they picked up.  

You didn’t know how it happened, but to your utter shock and horror, along the way of becoming friends with Dean Winchester, you developed feelings for him. Of course, you had no idea when you started to feel like this around Dean. Sam was perceptive, caught onto your change in behavior, and had basically interrogated you when he saw you glare at the woman Dean decided to take home that night, trying to ignore the stinging sensation in your chest as he left the bar the three of you were at. 

You had vehemently denied that you felt anything for Dean, but all Sam said in response was a shit-eating grin and gave you a look that said, ‘Yeah, you’re lying, and I know it.’ 

Once Sam had figured out that you liked his brother, he stopped at nothing to leave the two of you alone in hopes that you’d put on your big kid pants and admit your feelings towards him (spoiler alert, you never did). As much as you loved Sam, you honestly wanted to punch him in the face every time he urged you to tell Dean about your feelings. 

You knew that Dean wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of guy, and you definitely knew that he wasn’t one for love or relationships, as evident with the women he picked up at bars after successful hunts. Did your heart clench any time you saw the satisfied smirk on his face the morning after the night out at the bar? You wouldn’t admit it to anyone but yourself, but yeah, it did. 

Now, after a successful hunt, you and the Winchesters found yourselves at the bar across the street from the motel you were staying in. The three of you were at a booth at the corner of the bar, and you had gotten the first round of drinks for each of you. But when Dean volunteered to grab the third round (Sam had gotten the second one), Sam said he was turning in for the night and shot you a sly smile, and you knew exactly what he meant by it. You glared at him briefly before telling him goodnight through gritted teeth (Dean had seen this interaction between you and his brother and was confused by it but brushed it off).

Sam left, and Dean turned to you. “Still want a drink?” He asked. 

You nodded in response, and Dean shot you a small smile before his knuckles knocked on the table, and he made his way toward the bar. A couple of minutes had passed, and Dean wasn’t back from the bar. You looked up from your empty glass to see him being chatted up by a woman dressed to the nines, and clearly, Dean was into her. 

You let out a harsh breath before shaking your head, getting up from the booth, heading to the opposite side of the bar Dean was at, and ordering a vodka soda. You downed in quickly and told the bartender to keep the drinks coming. You didn’t know how many you had until you heard a gruff voice telling the bartender to give you water instead of another drink. You could vaguely recognize Dean’s voice through your drunken haze. 

You turned around in your seat to see Dean right next to you with furrowed brows. “You alright there, kid?” 

Dean hadn’t seen you this drunk before, so he was half concerned but also half amused by the cute pout you had on your face. 

“M’not a kid.” You slurred out, irritated. You hated the nickname that Dean had given you; you weren’t much younger than Dean, you were the same age as Sam. 

“Then why are you pouting like you didn’t get the candy you asked for?” Dean asked, his tone amused. 

You couldn’t help but scowl at him and look around for the woman he was talking to earlier. “Where’s the girl-*hiccup* you were talking to?” You questioned, dazed. 

Dean’s face had scrunched up. “Turns out she plays for the same team.” He muttered lowly, but you managed to hear it through the bar chatter. 

You couldn’t help but burst out in drunken giggles at Dean’s failed attempt to take someone home. Dean looked at you, slightly embarrassed, but couldn’t help but smile at the sound of your laughter. 

“Okay, we should probably get you back to your room.” Dean coaxed you off of the bar stool you were sitting on before paying for the tabs and leading you out of the bar. Dean had tucked you into his side as you walked on wobbly legs across the street to the motel. 

Once you reached your room (which was coincidentally right next to the boys’ room). Dean asked where you had your key. You were leaning into Dean, so his question was spoken into your ear quietly, and it sent a shiver down your spine. 

“M’back pocket.” You mumbled out. 

You didn’t see this as your eyes were closed as you rested your head against his shoulder, but his eyes widened at the realization that he’d have to grab it from your jeans pocket. 

“If you remember this in the morning, please don’t punch me, I swear I wasn’t trying to cop a feel.” He had muttered something else under his breath, but you were too out of it to notice what he said. 

Dean managed to get your room key out of your pocket and unlocked your door. He led the two of you inside, and when you saw your bed, you quickly ripped yourself from Dean’s embrace and fell face-first into bed, uncaring if you were still in jeans. 

Dean chuckled at you, and you looked up at him with a pout. “Are you laughing at me?”  

He shook his head, trying to stifle his amusement. “No, of course not.” 

You squinted suspiciously at him before sitting up and pawing at your combat boots. You were fumbling with the laces until you felt a warm hand cover yours. You looked up and found Dean kneeling on the floor in front of you. You couldn’t help but stare at him as he untied your boots for you and pulled them off of your feet. 

“You’re pretty.” You couldn’t help but blurt out drunkenly. 

Dean laughed, his green eyes sparkling with mirth. “Maybe I should get you drunk often, maybe you’ll compliment me more.” He sent you one of his smug smirks before standing up and heading toward the small kitchenette in your room.

He filled a glass with water before heading to the bathroom. He grabbed some aspirin that was stored in the medicine cabinet (you had no idea that he knew where you stored your painkillers). He came over to the bed with the water and painkillers and set them on the nightstand.

As he was bustling around your room, you had managed to wiggle off your jeans and get underneath the covers of the bed.  You looked at Dean underneath the warm lighting of the lamp that illuminated the room. His freckles were prominent in this lighting, and you couldn’t help but stare at his side profile. 

Dean noticed your intense gaze on him and smirked down at you after setting the water and aspirin on your nightstand. “See something you like?” He gently teased. Dean felt his hand twitch, trying to resist the temptation to brush back the stray hairs on your forehead. 

“Mhm, I like your face.” You smiled in a drunken bliss before your eyes fluttered. “I like you a lot actually.” You said before you felt the pull of sleep tug at your eyes. 

Your eyes shut, and your breathing evened out as you succumbed to sleep, leaving Dean standing in shock next to you. He looked down at your sleeping form before shaking his head. He’d deny the fact he felt his heartbeat quicken at your drunken admission. Dean quickly left your room and entered his shared room with Sam. 

Lucky for him, Sam was sound asleep in his bed, and Dean quickly got ready for bed, trying to ignore the fact you may or may not have shared the same feelings as he did. 

You woke up with a groan. Your head was pounding. You saw through your bleary eyes that there were some painkillers left out with a glass of water right next to them on your nightstand. You sat up as quickly as you could and grabbed the things off the nightstand. You downed some of the water before taking the aspirin and then drinking the rest of the water. 

You put the glass back on the nightstand before crawling back under the covers, wanting to let the ache in your head subside slightly before getting ready for the day. But fate was not on your side because pounding came from your door, making pain shoot through your head, and Dean waltzed into your room with a bag of food and a wide smirk on his face. 

“Rise and shine, kid!” He said enthusiastically. 

You shot up from your spot on the bed and glared at him. “I hate you. And stop calling me kid.” 

“Well, that’s not what you said last night.” Dean smirked knowingly. 

Your heart dropped to your stomach; what the hell did you say last night? “What do you mean?” 

Dean placed the food on the table before leaning on its edge. “Do you not remember what you said last night?” 

You shook your head. “Nope. Last thing I remember was you leading me out of the bar.” 

Dean's smirk faltered. He wasn’t expecting that. “You don’t remember anything at all after that?” 

“No. Why did I say anything important?” 

Dean cleared his throat, trying to seem nonchalant and hide what he was actually feeling. He shook his head. 

“Uh, no. But I got you some grub, we’re gonna head out in 30 so be ready then.” He said stiffly before leaving the room. Not looking at you once before the door closed with a click. 

You stared at the door, confused. That was probably the most awkward Dean had ever been around you. But you shook it off and decided to pack up and eat the breakfast Dean got you. 

You’d figure out what you said to Dean later.