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waynes-multiverse · 1 month ago

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Don't Blame Me (3.01)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x FBI Agent!Reader

Season 3 Summary: The deeper you fall into the world of all things supernatural, the more the lines between right and wrong begin to blur. With a little help from some magical friends, can you finally change the Winchesters' fate and give them the happy ending they deserve?

Warnings: 18+, language, flashbacks with enemies to lovers vibes (SPN S2 & 3 are saying hi 👋), canon adjacent re-writes, same old S2 cliffhanger (I'm genuinely sorry lol)

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: Welcome back, guys!!! It's seriously been way too long. I got distracted with life and a ton of other projects, but I'm so happy to share more of those two knuckleheads 🤍

This will not be updated regularly but as much as I can. Thank you for understanding 🫶

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1. Lemons

November, 2006

One by one, people rushed out of the elevator, all either busy on the phone, stuck in research papers or the casual morning conversation with a colleague, until the stuffy thing eventually reached the 27th floor of the Hoover building, the ding not coming soon enough as you impatiently tapped your heels on the dingy linoleum before hurrying to your desk with a heavy stack of files.

You’d been up all night, racking your brain till your skull almost broke. It certainly felt like it a few times last night, catching yourself reaching for the wine glass more often than you used to, sometimes even wishing it were something stronger, like whiskey or a goddamn shot of tequila.

Unfortunately, a comfortable level of alcohol made the gruesome pictures that lived rent-free in your head slightly more blurry, and was a cure-all for a goodnight’s sleep. Better than NyQuil, or anything else you could get over the counter at the pharmacy at least.

But that’s the thing about signing up as an FBI profiler and specializing in missing children – there would never be a peaceful night for you ever again, and you knew that. You were fine with that deal, though, because in the end, you always helped the ones that needed it the most, which was probably the best sleeping pill of all.

Halfway through a cup of the blackest coffee and a bowl of sugary cereal to keep the engine running, a shadow cast over your cubicle before a folder unceremoniously dropped down in front of you. Curious as you were, you ignored the messenger at first and immediately pried open the folder, skimming over its contents.

Dean and Samual Winchester. Brothers. Born in 1979 and 1983, respectively. No noteworthy jobs. No steady address since 1983 – the year their mother was killed in a house fire. The younger one went to Stanford, pre-law, but dropped out a year ago after his girlfriend passed – also in a fire. Huh. Their father then died a few months ago in a hospital, while the brothers still continue to aimlessly drive around the country in a black ‘67 Chevy Impala, committing crimes along the way. Certainly, a lot of death seemed to surround that strange family and accompany them wherever they went.

“Can you get a profile going for me?” The deep, gruff voice ripped you from your trance and caused you to blink up at the man before you for the first time.

“Uhm, and who are you?” FBI agents were typically rude, stand-off-ish, and generally unpleasant to deal with. Everyone essentially thought they were a big shot, and the guy’s giant ego in front of you seemed to be no different.

“Special Agent Viktor Henriksen,” he introduced himself, a crooked smile shaping his lips. “And you’re Y/N Heller, top of your class at Columbia. Your boss says you’re the best one he’s got, and I need the best for those two. They’re a special kind of fucked in the head.”

You smiled half-politely at him, biting back the sigh, and said through your teeth, “Well, let me be the judge of that, Dr. Phil.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll come to the same conclusion, sweetheart,” Henriksen replied cockily, making you clench your jaw at his little nickname for you. Guys in the FBI were the fucking worst. All of them were a bunch of competitive, cocky, alpha assholes. “I need a profile ASAP. They’re on the road and already have a couple of murders under their nasty belt. I know they’ve only just begun.”

You frowned slightly at the armchair analysis. Everyone always thought they knew everything. Funny how all those experts still seemed to need you, though.

And well, your first instinct told you the brothers weren’t as twisted as Henriksen made them out to be as you studied the folder in front of you once more. All you saw so far was a lot of trauma and some misguided notions that surely required extensive therapy – maybe even a pill or two.

“I’ll get right on it.” You gave him a resolute nod and accepted the case. Your curiosity was piqued, but not for the reasons Henriksen probably hoped it was. Either way, you needed more information first before giving a final judgment.

January, 2007

Henriksen stormed into the little trailer with you in tow, several heads turning your direction and bodies ducking out of the way as a group of police officers scowled at the two of you. Your superior bickered with the lead detective for a good fifteen minutes about jurisdiction, a true dick measuring contest, while your head was still with the young woman you interviewed at the jewelry store an hour ago.

Sam and Dean Winchester had taken Milwaukee under besiege – or rather a bank. Which you, frankly, found quite the odd duck. You really hadn’t taken the criminal duo for bank robbers. Petty theft? Sure. A full-on, big bank robbery with hostages and witnesses and TV cameras? Not so much.

You knew they used fake credit cards to keep themselves afloat – you collected their receipts religiously like your mother cutting out coupons from the papers. But maybe the brothers finally got tired of filling out one stupid application form after the next and needed a quicker fix. So, why not rob a bank?

Crazy people usually do crazy things.

However, speaking with a few witnesses of a jewelry store the brothers frequented earlier that day only left you with more questions buzzing in your mind. The two of them seemingly became even bolder, pretending to be FBI agents this time to inquire about a recent robbery – another odd thing to do.

Were they checking out the competition? And on top of it all, the oldest Winchester also cheerily flirted his way into the store clerk’s goddamn panties.

Patriot my ass, you thought with a scoff, repeating the words of the young woman. Who would do such a thing? You didn’t know whether to be offended or appalled.

There was a little itch in your gut that told you something was definitely off about the brothers, and it bothered you that you still hadn’t figured out what it was. No matter what evidence landed on your desk, you could never quite put your finger on it.

Nevertheless, the facts remained the same: Dean Winchester committed at least one murder and was a main suspect in several others. And together with his little brother, like a co-dependent Bonnie and Clyde, they frolicked randomly throughout the country, committing crimes that ranged from petty theft to grave desecration and, in a recent development, murder. They were raised on the road by a grieving ex-marine and never knew a real home, aside from cheap motels and an old car. Talk about “screwed for life.”

Judging by the ruthlessness of the crimes, however, the profile of the perpetrator simply didn’t fit the Dean Winchester of the infamous stories, heard in whispers around the Hoover hallways.

Furthermore, chatting to a few alive victims and witnesses of past cases in your research journey only led to more question marks than closure points. Every single person, young to old, male to female, poor to rich, all described the older Winchester as kind, sweet, and utterly charming. Could it all just be an act? The seductive means to a bitter end? The Manson and Bundy of the 21st century?

But then you also had to consider the source of their supposed crimes, the reason they did what they did. And well, if you asked the Winchesters personally, they’d probably claim they’re saving the world from real-life, flesh-eating monsters and whatnot.

Monsters – the stupidest thing you’d ever fucking heard. Did these grown men really believe in vampires and ghosts like two little kids? Or was it just a clever ruse to scam people? Some long con like those paranormal investigators and psychics, which everyone knows is just bullshit served in a crystal ball.

On the other hand, you had treated patients with a shared psychosis before, a folie à deux, but the brothers certainly took the whole goddamn cake and ate it, too.

Still, there were too many other puzzle pieces in play that simply didn’t fit, finding yourself surrounded by loose ends. You’d always hated those.

“You know, if I come to more field adventures with you, maybe I should finally get a gun, huh?” You smirked at your grumpy superior.

The bank robbery marked your third time away from your boring desk. Henriksen asked you for help with a few of his other cases as well, seemingly having taken a liking to you – a rare thing indeed. The guy was usually a hardass, and it took you a few weeks of schmoozing to win him over. However, once Henriksen had taken you under his wing, he had promised that if you proved yourself, he’d put forward his recommendation for your special agent training at Quantico’s academy and mentor you.

That was all you’d ever wanted. Truthfully, when the FBI recruited you during your master’s at Columbia, you’d never thought once about taking a weapon into your own hands and storming a building. But you wanted to do more, help more than what you could achieve from your boring, gray cubicle.

“You’re not ready for a gun yet, rookie. I don’t want you to fucking shoot me.” Henriksen laughed tauntingly and picked up the phone, ready for his threatening call to the brothers after you thoroughly coached him on what to say to get them to crack. “I’ll teach you how to shoot when we get back to DC, alright? Then it’s just you and me and the gun range, rookie.”

“Just remember to stick to the script, alright?” you reminded him with a frown, which only earned you a dismissive eye roll.

Of course, your superior didn’t stick to your profile and invented his own little background story, which was only remotely along the lines of your analysis.

What surprised you, though, was how defensive the older Winchester became upon the mention of his dead father, hearing the inconsolable grief in his voice even over the strained phone line. He sounded lonely and lost, and it admittedly tore on your heartstrings a little. Losing a parent was never easy, and you couldn’t help but sympathize – even if he technically was a potential killer during an on-going bank robbery and threatening the lives of around ten hostages.

And then, poof.

Never did you think there was any way the Winchesters could possibly escape the crime scene. Henriksen had that bank building locked down, sealed, and surrounded. And yet, the brothers still fled the awaiting claws of law enforcement, escaping with a clever plan straight out of a movie.

In all honesty, you were impressed – and slightly more baffled.

April, 2007

April finally marked a big break in the Winchester case. The brothers were caught during a break-in at a museum in Arkansas, and while Henriksen and his partner Reidy celebrated their big win like Olympic gold, you weren’t entirely sure it was even a participation trophy, finding the whole situation oddly suspicious.

It seemed too easy, and even though your superior told you to just accept it and grab a beer, you obviously couldn’t. Henriksen was cocky and eager, and Reidy was a downright idiot, so it was up to you to convince them you were right – which never worked. The men always loved to tune you out. You’d learned a while ago you had to work twice as hard as any man ever would just to be seen and heard.

Standing in the little gray and bleak room of the Green River County Detention Center, you watched Henriksen and Reidy through the one-way mirror as they interrogated the oldest Winchester, who seemed to collect a few drops of sweat on his forehead once he realized the FBI was involved. While you wished you could be in the room with them, laying down the law, you always loved the advantage of watching a suspect’s interrogation. This was where you truly learned all about a person of interest.

On top of it, this was a special occasion as it marked your first real observation of the brothers. It was more than boring black letters on a simple white sheet of paper, stuffed in a folder with a bunch of crime scene photos. The brothers were finally in a cage without an escape, and you were gifted the joyous task of studying them like zoo animals. Every facial twitch, every nervous tap of a finger, every insecure lick of chapped lips was noted by your brain and added to your overall analysis.

“And after Milwaukee, your brother is now a suspect in a murder case himself. I’d say for you two, ‘screwed to hell’ is a major understatement,” Henriksen told the older brother in his usual cocky attitude, which caused your eyes to roll back into your head.

The Milwaukee murder case was the strangest thing as of yet. One of the bank hostages was killed, and yet, that same hostage emerged alive and swore she did not have a twin sister. Neither were there ever any hospital records of a twin, albeit there was a dead body that looked like an exact replica of that woman. How was this possible? And more importantly, what did it all mean?

“Well, where there’s life there’s hope, huh?” Dean smiled up at the two agents, and you assumed he really had to believe that, considering the prickly situation he found himself in.

“See? That’s what I kept thinking as I was searching for your asses all over hell and gone,” Henriksen smirked and leaned closer to Dean over the metal table, which was the usual FBI dick move of intimidation. “Your dad taught you well. The way you cover your tracks, and after Milwaukee, the way you vanished,” your superior whistled lowly, which coaxed a soft laugh out of the suspect. He seemed to be proud of his escape, which, frankly, you couldn’t blame him for. It was pretty awesome. “Near went nuts trying to find you. Ask him,” Henriksen nodded to Reidy.

“He near went nuts,” Reidy confirmed, and you tried not to puke into the closest trash bin.

Honestly, “near went nuts” was the understatement of the year. That idiot Reidy didn’t even go through half the shit you went through when Henriksen stormed into your apartment at 3am and woke you up by slamming a bunch of files on your mattress.

Incidents like that weren’t a rare occasion, either. They happened quite often, and it was safe to say that Henriksen was positively obsessed with the brothers, which in return, was pretty common for FBI agents. Most of you were like bloodhounds, and once someone caught a trail, they would start digging and never stop until they held a bone between their pointed teeth.

“Shit,” you muttered when the public defender stormed into the room to save your main suspect from his interrogation.

Quickly exiting the room, you went across the hall and snuck into Sam’s, knowing you only had a few minutes before the attorney would fetch him, too. As your colleagues only made little progress with the oldest Winchester, you decided to pursue your own course of action and look for answers, hoping the younger brother was more willing to talk than his counterpart.

“Sam Winchester? I’m, uh… Dr. Heller. I’m a profiler with the FBI.” Smooth. Technically, you’d never interrogated someone on your own before. Usually, you’d sit in while Henriksen asked the hard questions, whispering your suggestions into his ear as you observed the suspect’s demeanor.

“FBI? Great,” Sam murmured with a huff, clearly not amused. He seemed annoyed to be stuck here, which wasn’t unusual for any criminal in his shoes. Still, something seemed different about his irritation as if it was geared toward someone specific, most likely his own brother.

“Yep, you and your brother made quite the headlines in DC,” you noted as you carefully took a seat opposite him. “Look, uhm, can I ask you a couple of questions?”

The younger Winchester scoffed. “Do I have a choice?”

“Kinda? I mean, it’s not like I’m here for official business or anything. I don’t even know if it’s legal,” you spluttered.

Sam furrowed his brow at the waterfall of words. “What?”

“Uh, nothing.” Subtly clearing your throat, you folded your arms on the table and took a deep breath. “I just need a few answers, okay? Off the record. I’m just-, I’m curious,” you admitted.

Leaning back in his chair with narrowed hazel eyes, Sam placed his cuffed hands in his lap and studied you. “Okay…?”

“Listen, I’m not an agent, but my two colleagues are, and they want you and your brother behind bars, preferably with the death penalty hanging over your heads,” you told him truthfully and swallowed the lump in your throat. “But, uhm…”

“But what?” Sam now leaned forward, titling his head in intrigue.

“But if you really didn’t commit these murders… if your brother didn’t, then you need to tell me who did,” you said and caught his gaze.

“Why would you say that?”

“Isn’t it true?” You shrugged your shoulders and sent him a small smile, which he mirrored. That was when you knew for sure your gut was right about the brothers from the start, but you still didn’t feel any closer to the truth.

“So, you think my brother’s not a killer?”

You chuckled. “Didn’t say that. I just don’t see him as the cold-blooded type. Crime of passion? Maybe, but the victims were all strangers to you guys, right?” Sam nodded, and you felt confident enough to continue, “None of the crimes fit the supposed perpetrators, which doesn’t happen that often. So, who killed all those people if it wasn’t you or your brother?”

Sam broke a smile, shaking his head, the mop of hair moving with him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

You cocked your eyebrow. “What? The monsters thing?”

The younger Winchester just stared you straight in the eye and wet his lips before there was a noticeable shrug of his broad shoulders.

Great, you were dealing with delusional loonies.

“Told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he smiled triumphantly.

You squinted your eyes at him. “You got caught on purpose, didn’t you?”

Another shrug.

“Why? Is there a monster here, too?” you snorted your question in mock.

“Ghost, actually.”

“Huh.” You frowned and tapped your fingernails against the metal surface. “You know I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth, Sam.”

“You can’t help me either way,” he said simply as if he had already accepted his fate. “Wanna know what I think?”

“Please.”

“If you didn’t believe me even a little, you wouldn’t have come in here to talk to me in the first place,” Sam mused cleverly, earning him a scoff from you.

“Sorry, but I’m not crazy. If you don’t wanna talk to me, that’s fine. Have it your way then.” With that, you rose from your seat and walked to the exit, pronouncing it a hopeless case.

“It’s not crazy if it’s true, though,” Sam added before you closed the door behind him.

You were greeted by the defense attorney and your two colleagues, who accompanied a cuffed Dean Winchester into Sam’s room for their counseling before Henriksen shot you a raised look upon your break of protocol.

“Uh, I was just checking on Mr. Winchester’s mental health for his psych eval,” you excused your behavior with a clear of your throat.

“Hey, why didn’t I get the pretty agent?” Dean threw in and grinned tauntingly at your superior before flirtatiously wiggling his eyebrows at you, deliberately scanning your figure like any low-life criminal would.

And yet, here you were, not buying into whatever he was trying to sell you as you met his green eyes and recognized it was all just a façade. For a moment, it even felt like he realized you knew and saw right through him.

“What can I tell ya? We left her a choice, and she chose the handsome one,” Henriksen retorted, smirking broadly.

“Ouch. So hurtful today,” Dean muttered in jest as the agents shoved him inside the bare room and shut the door behind him, breaking his eye contact with you.

“Going rogue?” Henriksen raised an eyebrow as soon as his attention was back on you, ripping you from your momentary stupor. You offered him a sheepish shrug as a response. “Did you at least find something out we can use?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I think they’re planing to break out.”

Henriksen laughed loudly, the sound mocking in nature. “Oh, they can try all they want. They’re not gonna MacGyver outta this one.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you cut into his laughter, causing it to halt as he threw you an annoyed look. “I’m just saying… they’re highly delusional. They actually believe all the bullshit they’re selling. They live in their own world and play by their own rules.”

“Yeah, well, the real world is starting to catch up with them,” Henriksen retorted. “Don’t worry. They’re not getting out, and come Tuesday, we’ll have them locked up tight in a Super Max, preferably with a straitjacket, but I’ll leave the details up to you.”

“Great, thanks.” You scowled deeply.

But when Tuesday rolled around, you were able to deliver a big, fat ‘I told you so’ to your superior instead, as the Winchesters managed to escape once again. Gone with the wind.

February, 2008

The last ten months remained quiet as you went through your special agent training at Quantico and finished your Psy. D. thesis before going on your first few assignments as Henriksen’s new partner. Most days, he still called you rookie, although just to tease you.

Your twenty-third case then landed you in the hospital with a life-threatening stab wound. After two surgeries and a short-lived coma, you were in the green, according to the gazillion doctors and tests at least. You quickly found your old spirit again when a new lead about the Winchester case came in – the first one in goddamn months. Naturally, Henriksen rushed right to Colorado, where the brothers were supposedly held by police, while you annoyed your doctors for an early discharge. Without any luck, though.

Regardless, your partner swore to keep you updated and reserve the main interrogation until you were back on your feet, so every time your phone buzzed on the plastic bedside table, you hurried to answer it, awaiting any news.

“Would you slow down? You’re only gonna hurt yourself more,” Patrick reminded you with a chuckle as he handed you your vibrating phone before you could clumsily tumble out of the narrow bed.

“Don’t you wanna get them, too?” you smiled at the young prosecutor in the creaking chair next to you.

“Oh, I can’t wait to grill them on the stand,” he grinned in return.

“See? But not without my files you won’t,” you smirked and joyfully picked up, recognizing the Colorado area code on your display. “Special Agent Heller, hello?”

“We got ‘em,” your partner’s voice chimed cheerfully through the phone. “Live and in flesh. Just talked to them.”

“You didn’t threaten them, did you? If you come in with a wrecking ball, they’re gonna block me when I’m trying to talk to them. I’ve told you this,” you reminded him sternly but were unable to hide the grin fully.

“Relax,” Henriksen brushed you off, and you were sure there was an eye roll involved. “I promise I had a very cordial chit-chat with them.”

“Uh-huh.” You frowned and teased, “Why don’t I believe you?”

In response, a deep chuckle rumbled through the phone. “Get better and get that ass out of that hospital bed, rookie. I’ll call you as soon as I have those two on a plane to DC, alright?”

“I’ll be happily waiting by the airport bar.”

Needless to say, that call never came, and the Winchesters never made it to DC – neither did your partner. Everything changed after Henriksen’s death, but most of all, you.

September 2008

As the sun downed outside your office window after a long day that just added to an endless row of long days, another shadow crawled across your desk and disturbed your solitude as you pressed pause on the Wu-Tang Clan and removed your headphones.

“Special Agent Dr. Heller?”

This time, you even glanced up, considering they had at least managed to call you by your full title. “Brown-nosing straightaway. I like it,” you cast a grin on your lips and deadpanned, “If you leave your case file on the stack with the others, I’ll make sure to prioritize it, mm-kay?”

The young agent smacked his lips, bobbing his head. “Uhm, actually, I’m your new partner. Special Agent Owen Slater,” he introduced himself with a smile, holding out his hand.

However, when you coolly leaned back in your chair instead, he dejectedly dropped it. “So, Number Four, what do you have to offer?”

“Wow, they really didn’t lie to me when they told me you were hostile, huh?” He scratched his beard, obviously pondering his next move on how to break down your walls.

“Nope,” you confirmed without batting an eyelash. “I just have high standards.”

Warily, he lifted one eyebrow. “Which are?”

“Don’t be unorganized, don’t be lazy, and don’t be a dumbass,” you listed off, smiling complacently.

“Okay, and the three agents before me were…”

“All of the above, yes,” you confirmed, nodding. “When did you graduate Quantico?”

“Uhm, a month ago,” Owen replied, swallowing as his Adam’s apple bobbed with nervousness.

“Great, so they sent me a rookie,” you huffed and got out of your chair with an eye roll, packing up for the night.

“Well, I was a soldier before that. Army Ranger. Did three tours in Iraq. Also had medical training,” he informed you in an attempt to woo you. And granted, it worked.

“Military man, really?” You met his hopeful gaze, cocking an eyebrow.

He smirked widely, albeit cockily. “You like that, huh?”

“Well, it means you’re not completely useless. At least you know how to take orders without questioning my authority.” You grinned at him and watched his smile disappear.

“Yeah, they also told me you were bossy,” the young agent quipped and scratched the back of his neck. “And – I know you’re still working on the Winchester case, even though it’s officially closed.”

“It’s not closed. I don’t care what forensics says. I know they’re still alive,” you muttered bitterly like a reflex. “No one should make the mistake of underestimating them. Trust me. Two months ago, I even found surveillance footage of Sam Winchester. I mean, granted, it’s blurry and very pixelated, but I’d recognize that mob of hair anywhere. And if Sam is alive, then I know his older brother isn’t far. Dean Winchester did not just get swallowed by the Earth.”

“I believe you.” Owen shrugged simply and without any second-guessing, causing your brow to furrow.

“Why? No one else in the FBI does. They all think I’ve gone nuts,” you shared.

“I don’t think you’re nuts,” Owen replied. “Well, maybe a little after I met you.” He chuckled as you fixed him with a glare. “But… you have a 98.7% solve rate. I don’t think you’re wrong a lot. You have great instincts, so I’d be a… dumbass not to bet on those.” He smiled slyly.

Impressed, you approved. “Not bad.”

“So, you wanna go for a drink, get to know each other, discuss this blooming new friendship?” your new partner in question asked with a puppy dog look.

You smirked. “Are you buying?”

Hiding his smile behind pursed lips, he nodded. “Sure.”

“Alright,” you accepted and strolled with him to the elevators. “I know a great bar. They have the best and most expensive whiskey.”

Owen took your teasing in stride, though. “I had a feeling you’d say that. But when life gives you lemons, you’re actually supposed to ask for the tequila and salt. My mom always used to say that.”

You snorted as you pressed the button to the ground floor, laughing, “God, I knew you were a momma’s boy.”

His head snapped to you, eyebrows quirking together. “What, how?”

“Smelled it from a mile away. Call it another instinct,” you sassed.

Owen smacked his lips, shaking his head. “You’re creepy.”

“You know what’s creepy? You not even denying it, momma’s boy,” you teased him and cockily folded your arms over your blouse.

“If I pour alcohol in you, are you gonna get meaner or nicer?”

“The latter.” You laughed.

“Thank God,” he sighed dramatically and grinned, “But don’t worry. You’re gonna like me. I’m gonna wear you down until we’re tying friendship bracelets.”

“Oh good grief… We’ll see.”

2. Tequila – FEBRUARY 24

I've been wanting to write this chapter for ages and show the reader's side of the beginning years. Those flashbacks were so fun to execute. Sam's deliveries in prison still kill me 😂

But rest assured the next part will definitely pick up where we left off in Season 2 😉

For all you newbies to this series: You can catch up on Season 1 and 2 in this master post 🩵

Ko-Fi ☕️Tag List 🤍

SNEAK PEAK 3.02:

For a bullet wound that surely had grazed an organ or two, you strangely felt fine, noticing none of the machines were even connected to you, which caused you to raise your eyebrow. Something odd was going on, and as soon as you rose into a sitting position, you realized what it was as you glimpsed back down at your own physical body in a damn hospital bed.

“Shit,” you cursed and clenched your jaw.

All of a sudden, the afterlife became a very real concept to you, albeit you’d listened to a thousand stories about it from the Winchesters. Still, a small part of you hoped it wasn’t true, as naive as that might have sounded. Seeing was believing, after all, and now, you definitely considered yourself a believer. Better late than never, right?

TAGS:

Even though it's been a while, I've tagged those who asked me to whenever S3 finally posts, so here it is. Let me know in the comments if you're still interested to be tagged in future chapters 🩵

@questionableppls @charmed-asylum @djs8891 @idreamofdeanie @xlynnbbyx

@deans-spinster-witch @jamerlynn @lyarr24 @hobby27 @never-here1992

#don't blame me #season 3 #it's been way too long #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x fbi agent reader #post season 15 #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester series #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic

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