#both dean and sam need therapy

[ramblingsupernatural]

everyone's like "sam's the emotionally avaliable brother!" as if he doesn't spend the entire 1st season having nightmares over jess's death and refusing to talk to dean about it

[andiv3r]

Having to block everyone who has "wincest dni" in their bio not because I ship wincest (because I have come to the conclusion that I actually don't) but because I do think it'd be fun to poke around at the very real weirdness of their relationship that I've noticed in the show so far. And I'm 99% sure that my poking around will get seen as shipping.

[batcavescolony]

S2 E11 Supernatural

That was cute but creepy. And Sam feeling like he has to save as many people as possible to prepare for if he goes evil! Then him making Dean promise to kill him if he does 😭.

[theogmrpandabear]

Only on season 4 rn, but goddamn-

these boys really trynna gaslight themselves into thinking he’s a good dad :/

John Winchester hate is not only tolerated but encouraged

[wvyik]

ruined in more ways then one. d.w. ➶ ｡˚ °

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: a lazy morning with dean turns sinful fast — filled with touches, soft laughter, and the kind of love that lingers long after… until sam walks in, coffee in hand, and instantly regrets his life choices.

⤿ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, fluff & smut mix, oral sex (reader receiving), light swearing, unwanted coffee delivery, heavy doses of dean’s cocky charm, sam trauma™ (poor guy needs therapy), mild afterglow cuteness, a lot of giggling and awkward eye contact, motel room shenanigans.

⤿ notes: LMAOO sam, mah poor sweet baby, did NOT sign up for this. “(ノ _ <,, ) HE JUST WANTED TO BRING COFFEE..

Mornings with Dean were usually slow, lazy things — filled with tangled sheets, warm skin, and the scent of coffee lingering in the air. But today… Today, Dean was in a mood.

You felt it before you even opened your eyes. The warmth of his body pressed against your back, the scratch of his stubble as he nuzzled into your neck. Then— his hand. Wandering.

“Mm,” you grumbled sleepily, trying to burrow deeper into the pillow. “Dean, it’s too early…”

“Too early for what?” His voice was husky, thick with sleep, lips brushing over the shell of your ear. “For me to touch my girl?”

His hand dragged lazily down your stomach, fingers skimming over your bare thigh. You shivered.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

Dean chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “Nah, just obsessed with you.” His hand slipped under the hem of his own t-shirt that you’d stolen to sleep in, fingertips teasing over your hip. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart?”

You let out a contented sigh, tilting your head to give him more access as his lips trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “I’d be an idiot to stop you.”

“Damn right.”

And just like that, you were flipped onto your back, Dean hovering over you, that signature cocky grin on his face. His green eyes sparkled with something both mischievous and downright sinful.

“You’re unbelievable,” you huffed, running a hand through his messy hair.

Dean leaned down, lips barely brushing over yours. “And you love it.”

Yeah. Yeah, you did.

His kiss was slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world. His hands roamed, tracing every inch of you like he was committing it to memory.

Dean was all over you— hands wandering, lips pressing slow, teasing kisses along your jaw, your neck, the dip between your collarbones. His weight caged you in, keeping you right where he wanted you, but his touch? That was gentle. Worshipping.

“Mmm, I could stay here all day,” he murmured, nipping at your skin just enough to make you squirm.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, sighing as he kissed his way down your chest. “Who’s stopping you?”

Dean chuckled, voice low and lazy. “Sam’s gonna kill us if we don’t hit the road soon.”

You grinned, dragging your nails lightly down his back. “Then maybe you should stop teasing and get to it, Winchester.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with amusement. “Oh, sweetheart… you know better than to challenge me like that.”

Before you could process his words, he was shifting lower, trailing his lips over your stomach, hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. His smirk was downright sinful.

“Dean—”

“I got you, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

And damn, did he.

He took his sweet time, teasing you with his mouth, his hands. Dean wasn’t in a hurry, that much was clear. He was enjoying taking you apart piece by piece, relishing in every little reaction he drew from you. Every moan and shiver, every whispered plea for more—it all fueled his own hunger.

His lips found the soft skin of your inner thighs, and he sucked a mark there, his stubble leaving a delicious burn in the wake of his mouth. You bucked against him, but his grip on your hips was relentless, holding you down as he continued his slow, torturous path up your body.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he drawled, his gravelly voice sending heat pooling between your thighs. He nipped at your thigh, the sharp edge of his teeth just shy of pain, just enough to make your toes curl. “Gotta enjoy my dessert first, right?”

"Damn, you look good like this," he murmured, his voice a rough caress in the intimate space between you. His fingers flexed on your hips, like he was physically holding himself back. "So pretty, all spread out for me..."

He let his nose brush against you, inhaling deeply. “Smell so good too, baby. So sweet, just for me.” His lips curled into a wicked grin as he added, “Now, let’s see how you taste…”

Without another word, he hooked a finger under the fabric, slowly pulling your panties down, past your hips, down your thighs, off your legs, and tossing them away. He took a moment to admire the view, licking his lips in anticipation.

“Mmm… so desperate for me already,” he murmured, and you could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. “Look at you… all wet and needy, just for me.”

And then he was on you, his tongue parting your folds, and your brain short circuited. His name left your lips in a broken whimper as he coaxed pleasure from you with slow, measured strokes. Heat coiled low in your belly, building with every movement, but he wasn't letting you reach that peak just yet. He was taking his time, like savoring a fine wine. Every touch was calculated, designed to keep you right at the edge, but not quite yet.

It was almost too much. The heat, the pressure, the way he knew just how to move to make you see stars. Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in the short locks as you gasped his name in a ragged moan.

He groaned against you at the sound of his name, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Mmmm, I like that,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations through you that left your legs trembling. “Say it again, sweetheart.”

You obeyed reflexively, your voice a breathless whisper, “Dean… Dean, Dean—”

He hummed in approval, the sound sending tremors through you. “That’s it,” he growled, the scrape of his stubble deliciously pleasurable. “Damn, you’re beautiful like this.”

You felt like you were losing yourself in the sensations, your body writhing under his touch. Dean seemed to know every sensitive spot, his mouth finding them and lavishing attention on each one, until you were mewling with desperation.

“Dean, please…” you gasped, your fingers clenching more tightly in his hair. Your body was trembling on the edge, needing his permission to fall apart.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

His words were like a command, sending you spiraling over the edge. A shudder rocked through you, leaving you wrecked beneath him. Pleasure washed over you, hot and sweet, and you couldn’t hold back the strangled cry that escaped your lips.

Dean finally made his way back up your body, looking far too proud of himself. You were still catching your breath when he leaned in, lips brushing against yours.

“You awake now?” he teased.

You huffed, shoving his chest playfully. “Cocky bastard.”

He grinned, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so you were sprawled over his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles on your spine. “You love that about me.”

You kissed his jaw, settling against him with a satisfied hum. “Yeah, yeah.”

Dean’s hand brushed over your hip as he leaned his forehead against yours, his voice a rough whisper. “You’re incredible. Fucking incredible.”

You giggled softly, lazily kissing him back. “I could say the same about you.”

Dean smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. He didn’t move from his spot, content to just be with you.

The afterglow was perfect. You were all tangled up in Dean, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare back, his lips brushing over your temple. It was warm, safe, domestic— something neither of you got enough of.

Until it wasn’t.

Because suddenly, the motel door swung open.

And there stood Sam.

Holding a few cups of coffee.

Looking like he’d just witnessed a crime scene.

You were both still tangled in the sheets, Dean’s body half over yours, your legs intertwined. You were both spent, breathing heavily, the evidence of your time together all too clear on the both of you.

Sam blinked. His hand faltered with the coffee cup as he took in the scene— his big brother and his best friend, completely out of it, looking like they’d been worn out.

“Oh, come on—” Sam’s voice cracked as his eyes widened in horror.

You barely had time to yank the blanket up to cover yourself before Dean— completely unbothered— grinned up at his brother. “Mornin’, Sammy.”

Sam made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, immediately slapping a hand over his eyes. “I knew this would happen one day. I knew it, and yet somehow, I wasn’t prepared.”

Dean chuckled, stretching lazily beneath you like he hadn’t just traumatized his little brother. “C’mon, man, we’re all adults here.”

Sam was frozen. His face was a mix of disgust and sheer confusion. He slowly took a sip of his coffee, looking as if he was trying to will himself into believing this wasn’t his reality. “I swear to God, I just wanted to bring coffee.”

Dean stretched lazily, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Well, you could’ve knocked, Sammy. Instead, you’re ruining my post-coital glow.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, his eyes darting between you and Dean. “Post-coital glow? What is wrong with you two?”

Dean only shrugged, completely unbothered. “Nah, you’re right. Should’ve just locked the door. But hey, it’s not my fault you barged in at the wrong time, man.”

Sam groaned, turning on his heel so fast you thought he might trip over himself. “I live with you two. I share motel rooms with you two. I just wanted to be nice for once and bring coffee! That’s it! That’s all I wanted!”

Dean smirked, amused by the whole situation. With a lazy grin, he looked over at Sam like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Appreciate it, Sammy.”

“I hate you.”

You were dying at this point, burying your face in Dean’s chest to muffle your laughter. Dean just wrapped his arms around you, clearly enjoying this way too much.

Sam groaned again, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m leaving. I need bleach. For my eyes and my brain.”

As he stormed out, Dean just called after him, “You sure you don’t wanna stick around? We could use a referee!”

The door slammed.

You swatted Dean’s chest, still laughing. “You love torturing him, don’t you?”

Dean just grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Best part of my day.”

You, still in a fit of giggles, buried your face in Dean’s chest, not sure whether to be mortified or entertained.

Dean’s hand stroked your back soothingly as you calmed down. “I think we ruined him. And I’m here for it.”

You snorted, playfully shoving him. “You’re terrible.”

Dean smirked, clearly so pleased with himself. “You love it. Just wait ‘til he gets over his trauma and we’re on the road. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, Dean kissed your forehead, settling back into the sheets with you, as if the world hadn’t just gone off the rails for both of you.

But Sam? Well, Sam was gonna need some serious therapy.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[wendichester]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. sweet, oblivious, you³,

summary. dean likes you. sam likes you, too. lucky you, oblivious to it all.

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester  genre. fluff but also not pg-13

wordcount. 928

notes / warnings. polyamory, mentions of previous sexual content (threesome, oral sex, sharing dynamics, shower sex), sexual tension, mild language n banter. lots of feelings happening, no established labels.

ᯓ★ read part 1, part 2

The next morning is weird.

Not bad weird. Just... different.

Like the world tilted a few degrees overnight and you’re the only one who noticed. Or maybe you just finally caught up to something that’s been off-kilter for a while.

Because Dean makes pancakes. Like, real ones. From scratch. With that dumb little curl of concentration between his brows and a towel slung over his shoulder like a sitcom dad. He doesn’t say much when you walk in — just tosses you a wink and a “mornin’, sweetheart” like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Meanwhile, Sam’s already at the table, glasses perched low on his nose, flipping through a lore book while he sips his coffee like he didn’t recently eat you out on the kitchen table.

And you?

You just stand there in one of Dean’s flannels and your own underwear, heart pounding like a guilty drum solo, trying to figure out how you’re supposed to exist now.

“You’re overthinking,” Dean calls, not looking up from the stove.

You blink. “I am not.”

Sam glances up, one brow raised. “You are.”

Your jaw drops. “Can you two not gang up on me before caffeine?”

Dean slides a plate onto the table, golden pancakes stacked like edible therapy. “Didn’t seem to need caffeine last night,” he mutters, grinning into his mug.

Sam makes a small choking sound, coughs behind his fist.

You chuck a napkin at Dean’s head. He catches it mid-air. Of course he does.

It’s so stupidly domestic it almost breaks your brain.

You sit. You eat. You avoid eye contact. And yet… not one second of it feels wrong.

Which is terrifying.

It turns out navigating a relationship with one Winchester is a challenge.

Two?

It’s a full-time job. With no handbook. No boundaries. No HR department.

Dean is touchy. Constant. Brazen.

He walks past you and smacks your ass like he owns the place. Pulls you into his lap during movie nights and nuzzles your neck like a cat. Whispers filth in your ear just to watch you blush.

Sam’s more subtle. Sneaky. Patient.

His affection is quiet — a lingering hand on your lower back, a stolen kiss when no one’s looking, the way he murmurs your name like a prayer when he thinks you’re asleep.

They orbit you like moons, never colliding, never competing… but never ignoring each other, either.

They don’t look at each other when they touch you.

Don’t talk about it, either.

But it’s understood.

A silent agreement.

A shared secret.

And every time they take you — together or apart — it’s like a ritual. A rhythm. Like they’ve both silently decided you’re theirs now, no take-backs.

The next test is a hunt.

Which, honestly, feels cruel.

Because being around them in the bunker is already dizzying. But being in close quarters, motel rooms, adrenaline highs and near-death moments? Recipe for chaos.

You end up in the front seat of the Impala, sandwiched between the two of them after the first day of tracking.

Covered in dirt. Drenched in sweat. And way too aware of the way Dean’s thigh presses against yours… the way Sam’s hand occasionally brushes yours on the seat… the way neither of them seem willing to bring up last night’s shared shower situation that ended in you on your knees with one of them in your mouth and the other watching, fists clenched, jaw tight.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Totally fine.

Until Dean mutters, “You know, next time we stop for supplies, I’m buying a goddamn king bed.”

Sam snorts. “You say that like you’re the one getting pushed off.”

“You elbowed me in the ribs, dude.”

“You took all the blankets.”

“You sleep like a corpse!”

“Only because you were practically humping her in your sleep—”

“I was cuddling!”

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

“Can we not do this while I’m right here?”

They both go silent.

Dean clears his throat. “Right. Sorry, sweetheart.”

Sam shifts. “Didn’t mean to make it weird.”

You peek between your fingers. “We already passed weird like five exits ago.”

Dean laughs. It’s low, fond. “Yeah. Guess we did.”

And Sam… he just reaches over and laces his fingers through yours.

That simple.

That easy.

That sure.

Your heart damn near explodes.

That night, the motel room is dark and quiet.

You lie in bed — the one bed — between them.

Dean’s on your left, arm slung over your waist. Sam’s on your right, hand tangled in your hair.

Neither of them’s asleep.

Neither are you.

There’s a moment — quiet, weighty — where no one says a thing. Where the air buzzes with all the things that haven’t been spoken.

And then you do something bold.

You speak.

“This isn’t just sex, right?”

Dean doesn’t move. “No.”

Sam exhales, slow. “Not for us.”

You blink at the ceiling. “So what is it?”

Dean rolls to face you. “You tell us.”

You turn toward him. His eyes are shadowed, soft. Watching you like you’re fragile, even when you’ve proven you’re not.

“It feels like…” You bite your lip. “Like I’m home.”

Sam presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s what it feels like.”

Dean leans in and kisses you — soft, lingering, grateful.

And then Sam kisses you too, a few heartbeats later. A little deeper. A little slower.

And you realize something.

They don’t need labels.

They don’t need rules.

They need you.

And you — God help you — need them too.

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[very-merry-birthday]

Let go

Summary: After a bad hunt, Dean's angry. You help him to relax, and show him how to lose all control.

Warnings: Smut

A/N: "She said take your time, what's the rush? I said baby, I'm a dog, I'm a mutt."

~~~

Dean slammed the door to the impala, you and Sam trailing behind him, broken and bruised. You looked over at Dean as he walked off ahead of you both, the side of his face sporting a purple shiner, a slight limp in his step. You started to follow him before Sam gave you a stern look, a warning to give him some space, and you backed off, letting Dean walk past you into your motel room without so much as a glance.

You heeded his advice for the rest of the day, letting the elder Winchester blow off steam alone while you and Sam sat around in his room, watching awful motel TV. You both tended to your own injuries, before finally breaking and helping one another, Sam bandaging up a particularly bad cut on your back, and you putting two stitches on a wound on his thigh. As he winced in pain, biting down on an old shirt, you thought of the state Dean, who had taken the brunt of the damage, and was now alone, dealing with it himself.

"He'll be alright, you know him." Sam said once you'd finished, watching your expression carefully, he knew what you were thinking.

"I just wish he didn't lock himself away like this."

"He always has- Hey, he knows he can talk to us, to you, he just needs a few hours to remember."

When the evening began encroaching, you gave Sam a warm hug before making your way back to your own room, aware that a tense night has only just started. As you pushed the door open you waited a second to take him in as he laid on the bed, eyes shut, headphones on, deep in thought.

"Baby, you okay?" You spoke out into the room, Dean not hearing you with the headphones on. You walked in, lightly brushing his foot with your hand to get his attention.

His eyes shot open as he sat up straighter, body on high alert. As he realized it was you he allowed himself to relax again, only slightly, pulling the headphones off and giving you a halfhearted smile, "Y' startled me, darlin'."

"Sorry," you held your hands up in mock innocence, "you doing okay?"

He gave you another half smile in response.

"Dean, you know that's not enough, you gotta talk to me."

"I'm okay, I'm fine, just a few bruises, nothing a decent night's sleep won't fix."

You looked at the growing swelling next to his eye and shook your head, "I thought we agreed we were being honest with each other, and-"

"I am being honest!"

"-and right now you're hiding yourself from me, Winchester."

He stood up, wincing slightly in pain from his aching body, "Jesus can you stop this therapy bullshit for one night!?"

A pang of hurt hit you, you knew he didn't mean it, but it didn't make it any kinder, "That's not fair, and you know it."

His face filled with guilt, but he was still angry.

"I'm trying, Dean, every day I try. I give you space, I let you sit in all this pain and anger, and I do it because every now and then you're actually vulnerable with me, but I can't keep trying if you're not going to be honest with me."

He began to raise his voice again, "I'm a fucking soldier, don't you get that? And a fucking good one! And I can only do that if I put my emotions to one side and-"

"You're not a fucking soldier, Dean!" You let your tone match his, "You're allowed to show you're hurting sometimes! Sam needed you today, I needed you, and you shut down again the second we were out of there!"

He finally looked at you properly, looked at how bruised you were, remembering the gash he'd seen on your back. He felt guilt flood him again, speaking more gently, "Sweetheart I'm sorry I-"

"I don't want you to be sorry, I want you to be honest."

He took a deep breath, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking up at you with big wet eyes, "Kept thinking about you, about what I'd do if you got hurt, properly hurt. Or what you'd do if I got hurt."

He paused as he watched for your reaction, his eyes flickering over your face. "You know me, I'd shack up with Sam, we've been hoping you'd be out of the picture soon."

He let out a laugh at your joke, grateful that you'd relieved the tension in the room. "I'm sorry- I'm not used to this, to a relationship, to someone caring about me like this."

"I just want you to know we're here, that we actually want to talk to you, Winchester. We want to hear what you have to say."

"I know baby, I know." He leant forward, pulling you closer to him, his head resting against your chest, breathing you in gently.

"Take off your shirt."

"As much as I'd love to fuck you senseless right now, sweetheart, I'm not sure-"

You rolled your eyes at his comment, "-just take it off you jerk."

He carefully pulled it off, blinking heavily as he adjusted to the pain in his muscles. You took a moment to take him in, his body half bruised, his face ragged with exhaustion.

"You done anything to try and help that situation? Ice pack? Cold water?"

"I'm alright sweetheart I just-"

You shook your head at his martyrdom, kissing his forehead, "Stop talking, relax."

He did as you said. He was used to taking orders, but never from you, and you weren't used to giving them. Dean was in control of everything he could be, and when it came to sex you enjoyed that, but you knew that's not what he needed tonight.

You sat up behind him on the bed, your hands tentatively reaching out to his body, gently gliding over his skin. You began to massage his aching muscles, letting your fingers kneed his tense body. He hummed into the feeling, leaning his head back with his eyes shut.

You leant down to kiss the back of his shoulders, a small trail until you were nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He leant against you, enjoying the feeling of your closeness. He reached up a hand to the back of your head, wanting to touch you, and you pushed him away.

"Baby, I'm okay, let me touch you." He murmured lightly, reaching up his hand again.

You stopped him, kissing up his neck, "Just let go, for one night Winchester, let go." You whispered, lightly kissing at his lobe.

The words sent shivers through him as he pulled his hand away. You kissed his neck heavier, letting your hands stroke over his strong shoulders.

You climbed back off the bed, standing in front of him and lifting his chin with an outstretched finger as he looked up at you with wide eyes. You could tell how desperate he was for you, how hungry he was for your body. Normally he'd grab you, pin you down on the bed, his hands finding every inch of you. After a good hunt he'd love to taste you, to have his head buried between your legs for hours, edging you until you couldn't remember your own name. But right now, as he looked up at you, the pain and anger shedding off his face, you just wanted him to release.

You kneeled in front of him as his eyes followed your movements. You traced a finger up his inner leg, from his calf up to his thigh, the feeling tickling his skin even through his jeans. You reached up to his belt buckle and he smiled down a lopsided smile, enjoying watching you knelt below him. Slowly pulling out his cock, you met his eye, biting your bottom lip with a smile.

He exhaled, his face solid, as you began to gently stroke his length. You stuck your tongue out, licking a light strip along his tip. He groaned, his hand coming up to the back of your head, ready to push you down lower.

You pulled back, looking up at his desperate expression, "Hands behind your back, Winchester, I want to take my time."

He exhaled again, placing his hands behind him on the bed and leaning back. You took his head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it as he groaned in pleasure. You started to push your head lower, taking him in your mouth, sucking on his shaft. He rolled his head back, tensing his jaw to hold back a moan.

You pulled your head back, looking up at him until his attention was back on you, "Not good enough, I thought I said I wanted to hear you, no hiding anything tonight."

A playful smile spread across his face as he realized your game. Taking him into your mouth again, you lowered your head, taking him deeper until he was filling you. Then you began sucking again, swallowing down his precum, your tongue pressed against his length. He allowed himself to moan, his breath becoming ragged.

You pulled back momentarily, your voice no louder than a whisper, the words sending vibrations through his core, "Use your words baby, tell me what you're thinking."

He tensed his jaw as he watched you begin to bob your head on his cock, taking him so well. "Uh- right now I'm thinking- that this feels fucking amazing."

You hummed in agreement, nodding your head slightly.

"... And I'm thinking- fuck- I'm thinking your mouth is so fucking good at this-"

You pulled back, licking at his tip, "Good, Winchester, keep going."

He groaned again, "And I'm thinking I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep going like that."

You sped up your movements, treating his cock like a lollipop as your tongue lapped him up, he groaned loudly as you looked back up at him, "In a bit baby, just enjoy what's happening right now, we're not in a rush."

His hand reached up to you again and you pushed him away, looking up at him with stern eyes.

"I'm serious baby," he spoke through gritted teeth, "I'm so fucking close."

You slowed your movements again, taking your mouth off of him as you hand went back to gently stroking him. "Slow down, baby, slow down."

He tensed his jaw again, collapsing back onto the bed, a sigh escaping his lips. You kissed along his inner thigh, tugging at his jeans and underwear to pull them off. He reluctantly shuffled to allow them to fall down his legs, kicking them off from his ankles, and you went back to kissing his leg.

He shut his eyes, overcome with the feeling of your lips on him, his vulnerability, the cold air hitting his body. And then he felt you moving, climbing into a straddle around his waist. He opened his eyes to look up at you, naked and gorgeous in the dim light. He shuffled his body again, with you sat atop him, so he was in the middle of the bed.

He watched you carefully, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as your own hands flowed down your body, grabbing your tits, giving him a show. He leant out to touch you and you lightly slapped his hand away, "No touching, baby."

You stretched out, one hand on your breast, the other making it's way down your body, his eyes trained on you. You pushed it between your legs, gliding over your clit, letting out a loud moan. He let out another groan, hungry for you.

You smiled down at him, moving your hands away and back onto his chest. Then you lifted yourself up slowly, until his tip was just resting at your entrance, and looked down at him again, "You want me?"

He nodded.

"Communication, Winchester, tell me."

"I want you."

"Good." You cooed, your hand stroking lightly over his chest.

"Please?" This wasn't a word Dean had ever used in bed, he was used to getting exactly what he wanted, but it sounded so smooth falling from his lips.

You lowered yourself down onto his length and he rolled his head back, a groan falling out his mouth, his jaw hanging open as he tried to even out his breathing. You slowly started grinding against him, his cock easily filling you up, your walls tight around him.

After moments he looked up at you again, his hand once again trying to reach out to touch you. You gently pushed him away, a warm smile spread across your face, "Behind your head, Winchester, both of them."

He did as you said, putting both his hands up behind him, his face overcome with need. You sped up your movements, only slightly, one hand on his chest to balance yourself, the other reaching back up to your breast, grabbing it the way you had stopped him only moments before.

"Please baby- I wanna touch you." He groaned.

"Not tonight baby, let me make you feel good."

You quickened your pace once again, his eyes rolling back in pleasure, his body beginning to tense. As you grinded you felt his body stimulating your clit, letting out a moan at your own enjoyment. You could feel he was close, his breath becoming laboured, his abdomen beginning to tighten.

"Look at me baby." You whispered, and he did what you said, his eyes gliding over your body, looking between your bouncing tits and his cock buried inside you.

"I'm so close baby-"

"I know, just relax." Your tone was gentle, but firm.

"Please- want you to cum at the same time-"

"Tonight's all about you, just let yourself feel good."

He bit his lip as he looked up at you, his face desperate, his moans needy. He looked back down at your body, at his cock pushing into you, at the way you moved above him, and let himself release.

Rolling his head back and letting out a loud moan, you felt as he came, his body tensing, his mind going clear. You kept grinding against him, wanting to make his pleasure last as long as you could.

As his breathing began to settle you slowed down you movements, until he was looking back up at you again, a meek smile spread across his face. You lifted yourself off of him, sitting back on his stomach, his hands reaching out to your hips as you finally let him touch you. You sat for a moment, taking each other in, his thumb lightly rubbing against your skin, comforting.

"Baby lay down, let me touch you."

"Not tonight, Winchester. Right now we've got to get you some sleep."

He let out an exasperated sigh, knowing you were right but still wanting to feel you. You rolled off of him, laying down next to him, your head on his chest, his heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He kissed your forehead lightly, looking down at you to take your face in as you met his eye. He smiled, "I love you, baby."

"I love you too."

[ultravi0lence14]

Rhiannon

dean winchester x hippie!reader

1.4k | fluff, fem pronouns

summary: as stevie nicks once said; wouldn’t you love to love her. dean could agree with that statement. one hundred percent.

*based on this request

the early morning sun shined in through your window, arrays of pinks, purples and blues mixing in from the multiple coloured crystals and little stained glass designs you had bought. this is why dean loved coming to your apartment. the atmosphere. all the comfort and peace the you had brought into it.

you were the calm that dean needed in his hectic life. the anchor the held him down when things got too much.

he met you when sam had left for stanford, the wounds fresh as he threw back shot after shot in a dingy bar. you were just passing through, a couple of miles away from your apartment and needing to quickly stop somewhere to use the bathroom.

dean’s eyes caught you moving across the bar, the way your jeans hugged your lower half and the flower pattern on your tank top drawing him in. when you retreated from the ladies room, dean was on you like a predator on prey, attempting to elicit a little one night stand.

but you politely declined. though when you tried to walk away from the beaten down man, you saw something else entirely in his eyes.

he looked sad, and you couldn’t help but a feel a bit of empathy for the guy in front of you.

that is how you were raised. your parents telling you to always look for the good in people, being aware of emotions. you weren’t stupid, you understood when people were trying to take advantage of you. but you just liked to be helpful, wanting to make an impact one person at a time.

for the rest of the night, you sat with dean in a booth as he rambled on about his brother and what had happened. he told you that he understood why sam wanted to go on to get a higher education, but he just couldn’t understand why it had to be so far away; why it made their father so angry.

you comforted him the best to your ability. explaining that sometimes people needed a change in their life, and just because his brother left for university doesn’t mean he stopped loving him.

when you both went your separate ways in the parking lot, you couldn’t help but notice the stumble in dean’s step. he knew he was too intoxicated to drive, and was fully prepared to sleep in the impala stationed in the parking lot of the bar.

something inside of you believed that you needed to be of help to this man. and in hindsight, you did the stupidest thing you possibly could’ve done. the one thing parents always warned their kids not to do.

you invited dean to crash at your place.

it was dumb, you knew that. you had just met dean, and he could be an axe murderer for all you know. but the guy was really going through it. and he was so drunk, that you believed the weight of any harmful object in his hands would probably knock him down.

that night, dean slept on your couch, peaceful snores leaving his lips as you slept comfortably in your bed. when he woke up in the morning, dean completely forgot where he was. and then it all came back to him. seeing you in the bar, trying to sleep with you, you turning him down, which then turned into a therapy session that landed him to crash on your couch.

dean was fully planning on leaving, but he couldn’t help himself in taking a peak around your place.

from the couch, he could see the multitude of plants and flowers the covered your living space. it was like a garden, a comforting vibe that also warranted a lovely smell to the home.

there was colour all over the place. from the stained glass lamps on coffee tables to the rows of crystals hanging on string in front of your window. everything was so bright and colourful, and dean couldn’t help himself but stare at the moving colours across the wall.

he also smelt a lingering lavender smell, which was then over powered by the aroma of bacon and pancakes coming from somewhere else in your home. dean couldn’t help himself, he loved bacon. so like a man hypnotized, he followed the debilitating scent of bacon that lingered throughout the air.

as he made his way into the kitchen, he found that the rest of your home was just like the living area. adorned by breezy light pink curtains was a small window over your sink, housing mini plants a crystals alike. there were flowers everywhere. an arrangement by the stove, on the counter, even in the sink. it was overwhelming, but in a good way.

“wow,” he mumbled, groggily slumping into one of the bar stools in front of your counter. “that’s a lot of flowers.”

dean’s voice brought a laugh from your lips, making him look over to where you stood by the stove, stacking pancakes possibly as tall as he was. to this day, dean doesn’t know what it was in the room. all the flowers and greenery, the slight breeze from the open window, maybe it was just your intoxicating beauty. but at that very moment, you looked absolutely ethereal.

you just looked so pretty. the long white skirt falling loosely on your hips. the simple black t shirt that made a perfect canvas for the two braids you put in your hair. he looked down to notice that you were wearing crazy coloured striped socks on your feet, and dean couldn’t help but smile at the little pop of colour that you added to your otherwise basic outfit.

bringing over two plates of breakfast, you sat beside dean at the counter and ate together, just talking and getting to know one another.

it was a simple morning, filled with laughs and weird fun facts that you two threw each others way. when you told him you planned to go to the farmers market, dean couldn’t help himself in taking your offer to come with.

he had never even been to one, not even caring in the slightest for what they had to offer. but some part of dean didn’t want this day to end, and in his heart, he knew he wanted to get to know you more.

you two spent the late morning walking around the farmers market, you grabbing some fresh produce and more crystals as dean took in his surroundings. some of the people he saw looked a little weird, but he knew they probably meant well, and that everything here honestly wasn’t so bad.

when you had grabbed a couple assortments of flowers, telling dean you planned to make some flower crowns at home, he also couldn’t resist in coming back to your place and weaving the stems together by your side.

you two were in a comfortable silence, weaving the crowns in synchrony when dean couldn’t help but break it. “why do you like flowers so much? i can’t help but notice how many you have in your living room alone.”

his words elicited a gorgeous smile from you, and you then went on to explain why you held them so dearly to your heart. “there is just something so beautiful about a flower. they start from a simple seed, then grow into something amazing. i know that probably sounds dumb and i might sound insane, but i just love the whole ideology of it.

“that isn’t dumb, and you most definitely don’t sound insane.” dean had placed his flowers on the ground, slowly reaching out to grab your hand. “in my life, i have to look for the good things at any chance i can find. it’s sometimes nice to have a flower grow out of a bad situation.”

his words brought a soft smile to your lips, and you squeezed his hand before going back to your weaving. “you know, i didn’t expect you to go so philosophical on me there winchester.”

dean grinned back, grabbing his flowers again and following your motions. “well, i’m just full of surprises, flower.”

after that, you and dean spent so much time together. and when dean finally got the courage to kiss you for the first time, it was like everything was more clear to him.

he understood sam’s leaving, and he even tried to reach out to him. he started coming into his own, becoming his own person and even fighting back to his father when he called you a temporary distraction.

that was all years ago. and now, as dean laid beside you, checking his phone to see if sam texted him about any cases, he couldn’t help but silently thank you for all that you’ve done for him.

with a kiss on your cheek, and a mumbled, “i love you, flower,” dean peacefully fell back asleep with you in his arms, completing him in ways he never knew he needed.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

The Princess & The Playboy: Six Months Timestamp

Summary: Dean has retired from the NFL and has been enjoying his downtime with the reader. While she and Eric want to make sure he's safe, Sam and Max need to figure out what they want to do with their lives going forward...

Masterlist

Pairing: NFL Quarterback!Dean x Pop Star!reader

Word Count: 2,500ish

Warnings: language, very brief mentions of smut

A/N: This timestamp takes place ~ six months after the end of the original series. Please enjoy!

_______

“Hey, wait a second-” you heard Dean say behind you before he let out a loud groan. You turned off the treadmill and hopped off the back, catching your breath while you took in the scene before you.

Dean was on his stomach, hands behind his back in a pair of zip ties as Eric straddled him and ruffled his hair. 

“Watch and learn, kiddo,” he said, pulling Dean up by his shirt collar so he was sitting. “You’re thinking too much. Y/N? She’s been running for over an hour. Watch what she does.”

Eric waved you over away from the workout equipment. You ditched your headphones along the way, still breathing hard when Eric tossed a pair of zip ties at you.

“We’re playing Catch. Go.” Eric moved fast towards you, faster than any man in his forties had a right to be. You watched his footwork and dodged to the left, swing your leg out as he missed you and connecting with the back of his knee. He went down on the padded floor and you flew yourself on top of him, wedging your knee between his shoulder blades and using your own weight to sit on top of him. It was uncomfortable for him, painful if you really wanted to hurt him and put down more pressure. But you weren’t meant to stay here for long as he could get back up if he really tried.

No, you grabbed the back of his neck as you moved your knee to his side and when he instinctually shot his arm up to grab your wrist, you jabbed your fingers right into his armpit. It made his body jerk at the odd sensation and his hand slip, allowing you to force his wrist through one loop and tighten. Once you had it, you used the other loop to force his arm back and then with a carefully aimed jab just under the rib cage, he tensed again and you had both hands secured. 

You rolled off him with a hard pant, Eric wincing a bit as he sat up. “You weren’t meant to win you little asshole.”

“Shouldn’t have trained me so good then,” you said, giving him a thumbs up. You got to your hands and knees, sitting back to stretch your legs as Eric got himself up and over to the wall where he had a pair of scissors.

“How the hell did you do that?” said Dean, Eric cutting himself free and then Dean. “You were literally doing sprints three minutes ago.”

“I think Eric’s point is it isn’t always physical,” you said, Eric offering Dean a towel to wipe up his sweat with. “We have to always be prepared, even if we’re exhausted. I’m sorry babe but he’s right, you do think too much when he’s teaching you moves. I was the same way at first. Now nearly a decade later look at me. You’ll get there.”

“To be fair, we’ve only been doing this stuff six months and you got the basics down good,” said Eric. An alarm on his watch pinged and he started to head out. “I’ll see you guys later. Y/N, we’ll head out a four.”

“Have fun at therapy,” you said, Eric rolling his eyes but smiling as he jogged down the hall to catch a quick shower. You turned to Dean who was laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. “How do doing down there? Eric didn’t hurt anything?”

“Only my pride,” he sighed. You crawled over beside him, laying back so your head rested on his chest. “I can’t get any of this advanced crap. If anyone tries to bother you it’s not going to be some minor thing. It’ll be planned and-”

“And you didn’t start out throwing bombs down the field, knowing which play to run when. It’s just like football. You get the basics down and you build off of them. Sure, I know a lot now but I didn’t know the basics for two years. I still depend on Eric and Sloane and the team to keep us safe. It’s their job to protect us.”

“I know. Sometimes I worry though that I can’t protect you if it came down to it.” You laughed, Dean sitting up and sending you sliding down to his lap. He frowned at you. “Why’s that funny? I don’t know these moves. I couldn’t protect you back at that party. I’m not-”

“You stepped in front of me at that party when we found Sam and Max. You always walk between me and the street and switch sides if we go by an alley. You do so many little things that make me feel protected, Dean. Let the rest of them be the super soldiers. But you? I know if shit got real, you’re the most dangerous one of them all. You’re the one I want.” He pondered that for a moment, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “I know you got me.”

“Yes, I do,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss you. “I love you so much.”

“I love you.” You sat up, Dean’s arms pulling you into a hug. “Are you nervous about tonight?”

“A bit. I’m looking forward to it though. Are you excited to have the boys at a concert for the first time?” You hummed.

“Yeah, just keep an eye on them. I don’t want anyone with a VIP pass being weird to them. They haven’t been out in public much and those reporters are still hounding them.”

“I’ll ask my boys to watch their backs too,” said Dean, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “We ought to wash up. They should be getting out school soon.”

“Only if we can share,” you said, Dean chuckling before picking you up bridal style.

“Oh, I was planning on it.”

Thirty Minutes Later

“Hey Sammy,” you said from the kitchen, eating the late lunch Dean had prepared for you. Sam was smiling more than usual and you quirked an eyebrow. “Good day?”

“Amazing fucking day,” he said, taking off his backpack and pulling out a paper. Dean leaned over from across the island, Sam sliding it over. “I passed high school. Not even just my GED but I like passed it passed it. I’m gonna get a diploma and everything.”

“That’s awesome, Sammy,” said Dean, throwing his arm over Sam’s shoulders and hugging him tight. “You’ve always been such a nerd.”

You slipped away with your plate when noticed Max was on the back patio and hadn’t come inside yet. 

“How was school?” you asked, taking a seat next to him at the patio table. He shrugged, slouching down. You offered him the other half of your sandwich, Max taking it after a beat. “Can I be brutally honest with you?”

“About…” he said with his mouth full, eating far too quickly. You pursed your lips, breathing slowly. “What?”

“Sam got his diploma because he was abducted with only a few months of high school left. You had years. You’re going to get your GED and that’s that.” Max frowned, crossing his arms before looking away. “You can go to college with a GED you know.”

“I know that,” he muttered. You hummed, leaning your head back.

“So stop comparing yourself to Sam. I am just as proud of you for working on that GED as I am of him for his diploma. We all are. Max…I don’t give a shit if you have straight A’s or what you want your education to look like. You’re twenty eight years old. You get to pick what you want.”

“He’s always been smarter than me. He came up with the plan to-”

“Bullshit. Don’t act like a fucking brat.” He turned in his seat, angry and wide eyes meeting yours. “Sam was seventeen when he was grabbed. You were fucking fourteen. You said you didn’t meet Sam until you were seventeen. Three years you were on your own. You survived as a fucking kid on your own. I know every goddamn awful fact about trafficking children so I know you were fucking smart to make it on your own. Don’t you ever down-play your intelligence, do you understand me? You’re going to be whatever the fuck you want to in life because any kid that survives that can do anything he wants to. Now sulk how you need to and then go congratulate Sam because your brother just got his diploma and families celebrate that shit.”

You grabbed the plate and stood, halfway across the patio when Max cleared his throat. 

“Y/N.” You looked over you shoulder and sighed. He shrugged, a weird smile on his face. “Thanks. You and Dean, even Eric and Sloane, but you guys don’t baby us. I’m glad you’re still my sister.”

“Well I sure as shit ain’t your mom,” you said, Max laughing quietly. You nodded towards the door, Max taking his bag and walking over. “Let’s get a proper lunch before we head out, alright?”

Later That Night

“So you think the fans liked the show?” asked Dean around eleven. The house was much louder than you were used to after performances at the Wolves stadium. Someone had soft rock music playing through a bluetooth speaker on the patio. Half of the LA Wolves football team and their significant others were outside along with a few of his former coaches. Dean’s parents and Benny’s extended family. Eric and Sloane were talking in hushed tones in the kitchen with not an inch of space between them. Sam and Max were even talking to a few girls they’d met, younger sisters of a few of the players.

You rolled your eyes, laughing when Dean pulled you against his chest. “Based on the screams I’d say that all thought it was so lame when you came out to do your god awful dancing.”

“Um, excuse me but your choreographer said I was amazing,” scoffed Dean. You patted his arm, Dean pouting. “Was I really that bad?”

“You were great. That was for us anyways,” you said, both of your turning your heads when you heard a crash in the kitchen. Sloane was trying to pick up the mcdonalds boxes full of chicken nuggets off the ground while Eric held her waist, the pair of them giggling. “Can y’all keep it in your pants in public?”

“It was an accident,” said Eric with a shrug and smile that you recognized far too much these days. 

“Go get horny in your bedroom,” you said, pointing at the stairs. 

“Well if the boss says so,” said Eric, Sloane yelping when he picked her up, smacking his chest lightly. “What’d I do? You started it.”

“You’re such a liar,” she huffed, Eric humming as he waved goodnight. “Remember to-”

“Set the alarm,” said Dean. “Remember to wrap it up, old timer.”

Eric flipped him the bird as he headed up the stairs, mumbling something you couldn’t quite catch before they were gone.

“So those two are totally trying for a kid, right?” asked Dean. 

“Oh, absolutely. The wedding is in three months and I’ve already seen Eric reading articles about first time parenting.” Dean smirked, your finger going up. “We. Are. Not. Ready.”

“I know. But maybe in a few years we will be. Let their rugrat have a little cousin with our rugrat.” Dean took your hand, pulling your tattooed wrist to his lips, kissing it gently. “After our own wedding of course.”

“I’d like that…eventually,” you yawned, Dean brushing your hair behind your ear. “I’m alright. Just a bit tired.”

“You want to head up to bed? The boys and my folks can make sure everyone’s taken care of.” 

“You sure?” you asked, Dean humming. “They have fun tonight?”

“I’m not sure you have bigger fans than those two,” he said, chuckling when one of your songs filtered in from outside. “Sam’s decided to do pre-law at Stanford in the fall. Apparently being famous helps you get into an Ivy League school late.”

“Good for him,” you said. “I don’t think Max is ready for college though.”

“It’ll be good for the boys to get some space. Max mentioned taking his GED maybe next month and then maybe technical school in the new year, work on cars with my uncle Bobby once he gets done.” You raised your eyebrows, smiling to yourself. “I may have had a chat with him while you were in rehearsals.”

“He needed it. He doesn’t have to go to school and honestly, in a garage he can just blend in and be a normal guy which is what he wants.” You let out another yawn, shaking your head. “Are you excited to start your work soon?”

“Yeah. Nervous but excited. I know some people think I should have taken a higher level-”

“Dean.” He met your gaze, taking a deep breath. “You had over three hundred job offers. Literally. If you’d wanted a pro or collegiate job, you would have taken it. If coaching a losing high school team is what makes you happy, then you’re going to do that.”

“I still don’t think they believed me when I said my goal was to get these kids to state within three years.”

“Oh that’s because they bet you’ll do it in one,” you teased, leaning your head against his chest. 

“Come on, Princess of Pop,” said Dean, picking you up, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“Hey guys,” said Sam, walking in with Max on his tail. “These girls invited us to go out to a bar with them. Is it cool if we go? Benny and Michael said they’d come with.”

“You’re adults, you don’t need to ask,” you said with a smile. “Just take a few guys for security with you. And watch your drinks. And practice safe sex if you-”

“And goodnight,” said Sam, heading back outside with a groan. Dean laughed as he headed for the stairs, his chest rumbling against yours.

“I just want them to be safe,” you said, Dean patting your back.

“I know, I know. They’re smart. S’good they want to go out, stretch their legs on their own. It means what we’re doing is working.”

“I guess it is,” you said, nuzzling into his neck with another yawn. “God. I can’t believe I toured non-stop for most of last year. How the hell did I do that?”

“You were just a wee bit exhausted,” said Dean as he reached the top of the stairs. “Let’s get you to bed so you can do it all over tomorrow night.”

“You know what I would kill for?” you asked. Dean kissed your temple, giving your body a big squeeze.

“One foot massage coming right up.”

“Thank you,” you murmured into his skin, Dean setting you down on your soft bedding.

“My pleasure, sweetheart.”

___________

[physalian]

“Why doesn’t the villain just kill the heroes?”

Ah, plot armor. If you want to be a real go-getter and think up a more creative way for the heroes to always narrowly escape death out of sheer dumb luck, the villain being too slow on the draw, or the villain simply not thinking of it in the moment, you have to come up with a reason for why the villain doesn’t just kill the hero.

Four examples today.

1. Zhao & Aang

In “The Blue Spirit,” Aang is captured by Zhao, a man normally not above anything to further his agenda, including murder. The Avatar is the largest obstacle in his way, second to the Earth Kingdom, and all he has to do to take Aang off the gameboard is to kill a twelve-year-old. He’s got Aang in chains, not quite powerless but harmless enough, and could do it quickly.

So why doesn’t he? Per Zhao himself, if he kills Aang, the Avatar cycle will continue, born into some random water bender that may take them years to track down. Sure, they’ll be harmless for a few years and the Fire Nation might get lucky and find them easily, perhaps even sway the new one to their side, but what if the waterbending Avatar is born into the Foggy Swamp? Or they end up having to kill them, too, and then have to track down an earthbending Avtar across the entire Earth Kingdom? Does Zhao really want to take that chance when he can just keep Aang alive? Just barely?

Of course not.

Killing the hero in this case might stop the immediate threat, but it will just delay the inevitable, thus it’s in the villain’s best interest to exploit a loophole while likely committing war crimes in the process. He gets to secure a Fire Nation victory and make Aang suffer for the rest of his life.

Ozai doesn't kill Aang until the first chance he gets, which just so happens to be the series finale. And we all know why Aang has a no-kill policy.

2. Sam, Dean & The Angels and Demons

Hahaha it’s the show known for its refusal to kill its heroes. We’re gonna ignore everything past season 5. There’s obviously meta reasons—kill the main characters and you have zero supporting cast that could realistically take over the show.

But in season 4, despite multiple deaths already for both of them, so begins the “if you die we’ll just bring you back” threat, because they’re angels and angels can do that. Similar to Aang, Sam and Dean risk a fate far worse than death if they don’t cooperate with Zachariah’s plans. He happily gives them both a slew of diseases and illnesses to get his way whenever he gets the chance and reminds them both that if they just kill themselves to escape the Apocalypse, he’ll happily revive them. The Demons won't kill Sam and Dean because they're necessary to further their own plans by breaking certain seals on Lucifer's cage, though they're not above breaking bones and killing bystanders.

Fate worse than death is a popular threat, but usually the heroes offing themselves is still a viable, if deeply unpopular, option. Supernatural removes it entirely and for such a simple little detail, it does a lot to make their survivability believable.

3. Batman & Joker

Ahh the age old furious rant by people who don’t understand Batman: If Batman killed his villains they’d stop busting out of Arkham and murdering innocent civilians, Batman has so much blood on his hands—

Babe. Babe, he’s a comic book character. By his very nature, he can’t kill his villains otherwise he’d have no rogues gallery. Comic books are like a giant board of Monopoly, going around in circles and occasionally having a timeout in jail.

But the in universe reason there’s no killing has been essayed about extensively and so has why Joker doesn’t try harder to kill him, but I couldn’t not include these two. Batman does not kill because he is not judge, jury, and executioner of his villains, most of whom have mental health issues and while they certainly know better and their crimes aren’t justified, his villains need actual therapy and help and medication, not death. Even those who he might agree must be stopped and there’s no other way except murder, Batman himself will not be the one to pull the trigger. He must remain a hero, so that no matter who he comes across in the dark alleyways of Gotham, they know he’s not here to kill them, be it criminal or victim.

Joker doesn’t kill Batman for a much simpler reason, and Heath Ledger literally says it: “I won’t kill you because you’re too much fun.” He does not need a more convoluted reason, he enjoys the game, the chase, the tug of war (most versions of him, at least) and to kill Batman would be to end his greatest form of entertainment, and the only person probably in the whole world who is neither afraid of Joker nor dismissive of him as simply a freak.

4. Optimus and Megatron

Optimus Prime and Megatron are very similar to Batman and Joker but with literal eons of history between them. In most serialized Transformers media, as opposed to movies where the plot is more urgent, Megatron both wants to win Optimus over and just can't quite let himself finally win. Who is he without his rival, after all this time?

Optimus is in the same boat, refusing to kill him because he's still holding out hope for Megatron's redemption, that there's a peaceful way to end this war (no matter how much collateral both leaders end up causing). Shit gets real whenever Optimus breaks the unspoken rules of their no-kill rivalry and Megatron gets incredibly pissy about it because he's in love.

—

Suggestions to workshop this plot hole in your own narrative:

The hero staying alive is absolutely paramount to the villain’s plan (in which case, you have to have rock solid reasons for why they keep narrowly escaping capture)

The villain is so confident in their plan that they don’t even consider the hero a proper threat

The villain doesn't really have a bodycount, but if they kill the hero, suddenly all the other powers that be will take them seriously and they'll have a huge mess on their hands

The villain is so full of themselves or so in love with their rival that it’d break their heart to have to kill them just to win

The villain is simply not capable of murder either physically or morally (perhaps because the hero is a child)

Killing the hero would make them a martyr and the villain would end up with a far bigger mess on their hands when the lone hero is replaced with an avenging army

The villain is too proud to simply kill the hero and wants to win fairly in a proper fight on the battlefield and not take the cheap and easy shot

The villain does not have a phyiscal form or real presence in the plot, acting through their minions, and their minions are incompetent

It’s simply not fun if the hero dies/the hero is the only one who understands them and they’d lose far more than they’d gain by killing them

The villain still wants to try and win the hero over and is so dedicated to this path that they regularly sabotage their own plans desperate to change the hero’s mind

The villain firmly believes in a fate worse than death and while the hero’s survival isn’t crucial to the main plan, they want the hero to watch their own failure/become the villain’s minion/ prisoner/ partner by the end

There’s a million examples out there to pull from and I could keep listing them all night. So long as whatever it is doesn’t come out of nowhere or open a plot hole of “why didn’t they just do that earlier?” you can get quite creative.

One last example that’s a personal favorite of mine to implement: In Eternal Night of the Northern Sky there aren’t too many opportunities to ask this question, but when it does arise, Villain A has Hero B as a meat shield, and while Hero B’s love interest, Hero C, is more than happy to shoot through them to incapacitate Villain A, the person they take orders from isn’t so reckless, which later leads to Drama and Issues.

[superawesome40]

Imagine this:

It starts with Bobby John. Dean can't let the baby go, he reminds him too much of Sam, way back when Sam was this age, and Daddy was always sad (or drunk), and when Dean tried to speak the words got stuck, and he could not make a sound. He can't let the baby go, so he doesn't.

Over time, they gather more. Bobby John, Ben, Joe and Ryan, Emma, Alex, Krissy and Aiden and Josephine, Magda, Claire, Jack. They find Jesse again, 16 years old and alone and scared of himself. They find Charlie and Kevin, and even though they aren't quite their kids, they treat them with the same care.

Somewhere in between the always rising tide of children, they find the Bunker. It's perfect - dozens of rooms for everyone to spread out, to have their own space. Bobby doesn't die, but he does move to the bunker "To keep an eye on ya' idjits,”. The modifications they make to the Bunker for his wheelchair are worth it to see the pride in his eyes. Linda Tran moves in, and she and Dean have an ongoing war over who's in control of the kitchen.

Of course, things aren't perfect. Chuck is still a problem, and eventually he must be dealt with. They win, but the cost is heavy. Cas and Jack are gone, and Dean... well he's as good as gone. He never leaves his room anymore, except to get a drink. Their dysfunctional family is mourning, both for those who they've lost and for themselves. Disappearing and coming back is much more traumatic than you'd expect.

Eventually, in an attempt to cheer him up, they convince him to go on a hunt. Just a small thing, a nest of vamps. They've killed a man and mutilated his wife, as well as taken their kids, two small boys. Someone (later, no one will remember exactly who) jokes that they can take in the boys. Sam and Dean leave, looking more cheerful than they’ve been in weeks.

They get the call a few hours later. Sam tells them over the phone, barely understandable through his tears, that Dean was hurt in the fight and that the doctors aren’t sure if he’ll pull through. Using the variety of cars in the bunker, they break a handful of laws and probably the sound barrier on their way to the hospital. Bobby pulls Sam aside and he explains, in detail, what happened. They wait for hours before a doctor finally enters the waiting room, asking for the family of Dean Fletcher* (Millie Winchester’s maiden name).

Dean survives, barely. Recovery is an uphill battle, and the damage done to his spine, muscles, and nerves leave him wheelchair-bound and in near-constant pain. Eventually, he’s able to move around for short periods of time using forearm crutches and leg braces, but it’s only after a few years and a lot of physical therapy. At the very least, the Bunker needs no new changes to accommodate him, having been updated for Bobby ages ago.

A year passes. The two boys from the vamp hunt are moved into the Bunker after their mother succumbs to her injuries in the hospital, and quickly adjust and thrive in the new location. Sam and Eileen quit hunting, permanently. They move to town, only fifteen minutes away, and visit every Saturday for family dinner. When they get married, Sam Winchester becomes Sam Leahy. Jody retires, and moves her hoard to the Bunker. They’ve got the room, after all. Donna follows not too long after. Miracle is officially trained as a service animal, to help Dean with his panic attacks.

One night, Dean can’t sleep. He hauls himself into his wheelchair and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. He stops at the sight of three people sitting at the table.

The reunion is a tearful one. Dean cries from relief, and guilt, and of course the burning pain that rips through his back as a result of him temporarily forgetting he can’t stand and launching himself out of his chair. Cas also cries, sobbing apologies into Dean’s hair from where they are curled on the floor. Jack, pressed between the two of them and both overwhelmed and overstimulated, can only beg for Dean’s forgiveness. His dads wipe away his tears and press kisses to his cheeks, assuring him that he has nothing to apologize for.

The only one who doesn’t cry is Adam, sitting slightly stony faced at the table. Later, once the commotion of the reunion has died and Sam has been woken and summoned to the Bunker, the three sit down to chat.

Adam tells them that he’s not angry anymore, and begs them to explain everything to him, starting from the beginning. He is especially curious about their father, and realizes through their stories that John badly mistreated them. Dean invites Adam to stay in the Bunker, but Adam declines. He says that there’s a lot he needs to do, but hesitantly suggests that they stay in touch. Their relationship is tentative at first, but eventually he becomes a permanent fixture in the family.

Cas and Jack are filled in on what they missed. Dean pulls them each aside and apologizes privately for the things he said and did before the end. He assures Jack that he is part of the family, and always will be. He tells him he’s willing to be Jack’s dad, if that’s what Jack wants. Jack enthusiastically agrees.

He can’t quite bring himself to say “I love you” to Cas, but he says something along the lines of “maybe one day.” He also implies to Cas that John was extremely homophobic, and the combination of that and the sexual trauma he has experienced through his life (getting money for food/rent as a teen, Hell, Lydia) makes him hesitant now to form romantic relationships. Cas, understanding as always, agrees and comments on how he has improved at opening up, to which Dean replies that there wasn’t much else to do when he was trapped in bed and couldn’t escape Sam and his relentless therapy-talks.

Jack tells them as a group that he has decided there doesn’t need to be a God, and has stepped down after reforming Heaven. He says that he used his power for the last time to bring back Castile and find Adam. He confesses to his parents that the power is not gone, and likely never will be. He also says that he would like to grow up as human as possible, and promptly shrinks to the size of a toddler, much to the bewildered amusement of his parents. They discover that he no longer has his memories, and Bobby suggests that they may come back when he’s older, and that forgetting is his young mind's way of protecting itself.

As time passes, Cas and Dean open the Bunker to other hunters as a research facility and safe space to stay for a few nights. Neither of them hunt anymore, but they offer support and badly needed organization. With Charlie and Kevin’s help, they set up a system like the one Sam originally had.

When Eileen and Sam announce they are expecting, Dean is ecstatic. When they reveal the baby is a boy and that they are naming him “Dean II”, he cries for a solid hour. He’s the first, outside of Sam and Eileen, to hold the baby, who he affectionately nicknames “Junior”.

In the end, they are happy. They live together peacefully.

Would anyone be interested in reading this on ao3? I miiiight be planning to write this… also any suggestions/question/concerns are welcome! Also, if I missed any kiddos (canon only, please), feel free to tell me! I’m perfectly open to expanding their hoard.

Also, I cannot take complete credit for this story. Quite a few elements are inspired by foolondahill17’s stories, Dean Winchester’s half-way house for orphaned half-monsters (and humans), and the miracles ‘verse by the same author. Both are absolutely amazing stories, and I highly recommend.

*According to the Supernatural Wiki, Adam Glass wanted the actress Louise Fletcher to play Millie Winchester should she appear on screen.

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Acciaccato

Chapter Thirty Six

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader

Other characters: Castiel, Missouri (mentioned), Cain, nameless thugs, Benny, Sam and Kevin

Word Count: ~3100

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, still unbeta'd, Dean has a few hard thinks about his past whether he wants to or not. The show must go on.

Super, extra, mega, uber, and deepest thanks to @lastactiontricia on this chapter. I know you could have done so much more with it, but I'm taking the knee. xoxo

Series Masterlist

The rooms the band nabbed in Vegas were straight out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It was almost a sin not to share, but at this point Dean would have been stuck with Kevin and even if the kid hadn’t come back in the wee hours with a handful of his own groupies, he doubted Kevin and he would have the same ideas on how to treat a hotel room in the middle of a stay.

Or how to respect a roommate’s privacy.

Instead, he luxuriated in his spacious suite. He told himself he wasn’t hiding or moping. He was just carefully taking some Dean-time before their second show. Besides, he had his therapy appointment in an hour anyway and his laptop was already set up on the desk in his room. 

The softness level of the complimentary robe didn’t hurt either.

Dean turned on a ‘70s music station on the all access cable and checked out the city below. There was a time when he was in Vegas more than he was in LA, every minute he wasn’t needed in the studio he was either on the road or in one of Cain’s gyms or clubs. 

As he took in the city skyline, it was difficult to stomach that he had ever been that guy. Like rewatching a movie where he once idolized the hero, only to see later, the guy was nothing short of a mass murderer hiding behind a badge. Of course, Dean was ashamed of what he did with all his time here. But more than that, he was terrified that that truth would get out.

That you would realize who he really had been then. Not just some self-absorbed rockstar who fucked anything that turned his head.  Who threw away friendships because it was easier than actually working to maintain them. But the mindless rage monster, the guy who was numbed to the point of hurting himself and others to feel alive instead of trapped between planes of existence.

Cain had called it ‘pure’, that base instinct to hurt and dominate, a warrior’s need for victory. But Dean knew now it was an escape, to separate himself from his actions, and to justify the pain he caused and experienced. Dean had no idea if Cain was the man’s given name or not, but it was apropos, the way the man spoke, it was no wonder he was named after the first known murderer.

The room service coffee surpassed the chintzy little one cup brewer they provided in the kitchenette and Dean drank it down greedily. He sat on the leather couch and debated on how he was going to kill the next hour, besides getting dressed. One of the hardest parts of therapy, for Dean, was the build up. Which was why he usually tried to have plans beforehand, so he didn’t overthink too much before they even got started.

But after last night, and being in Vegas at all, he felt safer being alone. Or less exposed, at least.

Dean sighed, set his mug down, and picked up his phone. His wallpaper was the same as always, him and Baby, both bright and smiling for the camera. What the phone screen didn’t say was that Cas had taken the picture. Or that Dean had spent three months in between tours finally fixing her up with his own two hands. There were a lot of things Dean regretted in his life, but the stuff with Cas was at the top of his list.

Before he could stop himself, he pulled up Cas’ number and hit the phone icon. It was the middle of a work day, something he usually never thought about, and Dean was suddenly ashamed to admit he had no idea what Cas was doing for money at the moment.

“Hello?” that gruff familiar voice answered, clearly doubting it was actually Dean calling.

“Hey, Cas. How’s it going?”

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything alright?”

Dean leaned back and tried to sit with the uncomfortableness. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just— felt like checking in.”

The seconds ticked by, but Cas didn’t seem too keen to start up a conversation. The sound of someone working out a riff in the background drew Dean’s focus as his self-doubt almost had him hanging up the phone. Then Cas started moving, the background noise shifted and then disappeared.

“Sorry, we’re recording, but it’s slow going.”

Dean never felt so disconnected from his friend’s life. He didn’t even know they were like a real band or even what they sounded like. Let alone recording. “Wow! Cas, that’s—- that’s great. So what’re you callin’ yourselves?”

“Holy Terror.”

Dean chuckled. “Damn. That’s actually pretty dope, man.”

“I was out voted. I wanted ‘All in the Family’, but apparently that has incestuous implications.”

“Yeah, man, I’m with your bandmates on that one. So— who’s all playing with you? Besides, you know, the kid?”

“Jack. They have a name.”

“I know, dude, it’s just weird because it’s not like I’ve even met ‘em.”

“It is weird for me, too. My life has changed so much in the past year, and I imagine so has yours.”

Dean huffed. “Understatement of the century right there.”

This conversation was inevitable the moment Dean pressed the call button, but still he felt like he owed it to Cas to salvage it.

“And who else you got? Don’t tell me they’ve got you singing too.”

“No, I haven’t fallen so far as to attempt that kind of puppetry.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. How did he forget what a sarcastic asshole Cas could be?

“There’s also Balthazar.”

“Nooooo.”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Okay, well, maybe you won’t be the one with the highest totals anymore, that guy’s more of a porn star than a musician most days.”

Castiel exhaled deeply through his nose. 

“What?”

“Our fourth member—- has actually done porn.”

“Cas? Don’t tell me you—”

“He volunteered.”

Dean looked up at the vaulted ceiling of his hotel room and then back at the television and its band facts scrolling at the bottom of the screen. “Wow! Well, I guess you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Gabriel actually paid for the studio time. Which has been helpful. Though Frank keeps a security guard on him at all times.”

“Frank let you guys in? Huh.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No— I’m not. I mean it’s Gabriel is all. Not that you’re not qualified or however that sounded.”

“That’s— very fair of you.”

Dean kicked his heels up onto the coffee table. “Well, that’s the new me. I’ve matured and shit.”

“And shit.”

“You get it.”

“I should get going. Where are you? Should I call you back later?”

“Tonight’s Vegas round two, so no. Got Phoenix this weekend though, so maybe Sunday afternoon if you’ve got time. If not, no biggie.”

“How long will you be on the road?”

“Five months.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Eh— got some double duty at the tail end, since, you know.”

“Yeah. Well, I wish you all luck.”

“Back at ya, buddy. Let me know if you want me or Trouble to pump up this new gig up online, alright?”

“I’ll consider it. Thank you.--- Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling. It was good to hear your voice.”

Dean swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, you too.”

“Goodbye.”

“Yep.”

Dean hung up and dropped his phone and his hands into his lap. Deflated and a bit untethered, he guessed it was as good a time as any to get dressed.

The inner workings of the casino held an intricate hive of activity. From the hotel portion, to the venues for shows, out onto the actual casino floor, to the shops, restaurants, spas and other specialty amenities that kept people there and spending, workers bustled and hustled at every opportunity. 

So it wasn’t surprising that not one, not two, but three different employees stopped him backstage as he walked around hours before showtime. His therapy with Missouri had left him drained, but in the way muscles were sore after a workout. His feelings were stretched thin, but the conviction he held them with was strengthening. He was emotionally tougher than ever, but it still exhausted him. 

He gave himself some time in the wings, soaking in the memories of the concert the night before and the energy the fans had poured back out to them. He wanted to finish strong then and there, because then he could put the whole damn city behind him for the rest of the tour.

If only the universe worked in his favor.

Once he got downstairs, his past came back to knock him on his ass. Outside Phantom Traveler’s dressing room stood three men, two of them Dean didn’t bother trying to recognize, they were just goons. The third was someone he couldn’t forget even in his best dreams.  

“Hello, Dean,” Cain’s natural civility oozed old money.

“What are you doing down here?” Dean asked without any pretense. So much for the abundance of security. But knowing Cain, he probably paid them off.

“I was hoping for a chance to catch up. It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Dean snipped, clocking the lanyards around Cain’s and his bodyguards’ necks. “So you’re here for the show?”

“Of course. You know I was always impressed with your endeavors.”

Dean couldn’t tell if the heat clawing up the back of his neck was from embarrassment, pride, or anger, with Cain things were always complicated. And the fucker knew it.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean felt petulant, but he really didn’t need any favors from the guy.

Cain took a moment, holding Dean in that calculated gaze, then took a step forward. Dean did not back up.

“You know I’m actually surprised you’re deigning to talk to me yourself. Alastair said you sent some Cajun mongrel after him last night.”

“Well, Alastair decided to come at us like a scumbag pap, so-.” Dean shrugged. It wasn’t a big deal if he didn’t make it a big deal. He was barely making polite conversation anyway.

“He does tend to be too dramatic for his own good.” Cain slipped his hands into his pants pockets, casually, but also disarming himself in the process. 

He was untouchable as ever.

“What do you want, man? Not that I’m not enjoying shooting the shit, oh wait, I’m not.”

“Don’t be rude. I wanted to remind you the door’s still open when you’re ready to get back to yourself. The ring’s not the same without you in it. And I hate to have you keeping all that raw talent untapped.”

The words tickled Dean the wrong way as they ticked off of Cain’s tongue.

Dean shuddered and swallowed against the rising bile.

“I’m out. Find yourself another prize hog. I’ve moved on.” He felt the dead look in his own eyes as Cain tisked at his refusal.

“Is that what you tell Ms. Y/L/N? Swear you’ve gone straight, to keep her from looking at you with fear in her eyes? I must say she seems just as smitten with you as that covergirl is supposed to be.”

Dean clenched his jaw and his fist.

Cain let his words sink in and then he took Dean out by the knees. “She doesn’t know, does she, Dean?”

“So what?”

“A man is not what he thinks he is, but he is what he hides,” Cain recited with a raised brow. “What did I tell you about those that don’t understand your dark side? You’ll only disappoint them in the end.”

Dean felt like a kid getting reprimanded for talking back, though Cain was more the dotting teacher type. “Some things should stay buried.”

Cain straightened up and nodded in agreement. “I could always fill her in myself— if it’s too much for you to explain. We could even bring her out after the show, together. Give her a tour of our operations and let her see for herself what you’re capable of? Then maybe you’ll see that she’s not worth the worry.”

“Not a chance. In fact, don’t even fucking look at her.”

“Dean! I’m offering to put some polish on the time we spent together. I’m willing to let Y/N in on your true nature. If that makes it more palatable. You know, it’s not just Alastair that misses seeing you in the ring. I’m sure the boys wouldn’t mind having a fresh— distraction around. We’ve all seen her, you know.”

Dean felt the rage wash over him, the snarling, festering truth; his Hyde side was never truly gone.

“Leave her out of this.” Dean warned, low and bitter. He felt his skin vibrating, his weight shifted naturally onto his toes as his body readied to strike, to lash out and protect. 

Cain looked at him with something close to pity, even as he threatened Dean to the edge of sanity. “I don’t think you understand the lengths I’ll go to bring you home. With or without her, you can’t change who you are inside or where you belong.”

“Everything alright, boss?” Benny’s voice broke through Dean’s thundering thoughts.

“Ah, here’s your man,” Cain’s eyes brightened and he spun on his heels to greet Benny outright. “Yes, hello, Cain Charles. Mr. LaFitte.”

Benny didn’t blink at the uneven introduction, just shook Cain’s hand and held his equally icy glare. “Pleasure.”

“Right. Dean and I were just catching up. But we can leave you gents to set up for the show tonight.” He looked over his shoulder at Dean and then at his two thugs. “Boys? Let’s go find out if they’ve got the box seats open yet.”

Benny, with his flawless instincts, stepped up to the plate. “Why don’t I go with ya? See if I can ease your way?”

Benny nudged Dean with his elbow as he gestured Cain and company down the hall towards the elevators. “You good, hoss?”

“No,” Dean practically grunted.

“Well, go on. I’ve got them.”

Dean shook his head, but kept the rest of his response to himself. He kept his eyes on the back of Cain’s perfect salt and pepper waves until Benny followed half of a beat after. Finally, they disappeared behind sliding metal doors.

Dean gasped out the breath he had been holding and turned and punched the cinderblock wall that led to the dressing rooms. His knuckles burst open and he bent in half with the hot, familiar pain. It wasn’t enough to take away the gut twisting worry that Cain had planted inside him.

But it was enough to bring him back to himself, to that moment and to his hitching breath. He inhaled and shook out his hand. Then he exhaled.

Dean told himself that setbacks happen, that he still was in control of his actions. It just was going to be a long night.

The lights poured down on Dean from every angle, surrounding him with inescapable heat and scrutiny. The show was half way over, he just needed to calm down and be in the moment. But somewhere in the dark, he knew Cain was watching him. No, watching them. 

He flashed a forced grin, cocky and reckless. Fake it ‘til you make it. But the fans loved it, so he kept up the ruse.

“Kevin?” he asked playfully.

“Yeah, Dean?”

“How about we skip the next one and give ‘em some Prophet and Loss instead?”

The crowd screamed in agreement, but Kevin took his time, playing up his indecision.

“You guys wanna hear the new stuff don’t you?!” Dean bellowed, egging them on. Internally begging them to let him out of singing about Lisa right now, or about who he used to be. He couldn’t wait until the album was released and they could focus on the new music, and just touch on the hits.

The fans bayed with excitement.

Kevin played along, ignoring the rest of the setlist and absolutely flexed on the solo.

Letting Kevin have the spotlight, Dean backed up next to Sam, nodding at him as he kept the bassline going. Sam had taken the news of Cain’s reappearance seriously, putting Jesse on Madison detail until she would be taking the flight back to LA the next morning. Bobby and Victor were given blatant warnings that every band member was to be escorted to and from the show and their rooms, yourself and Charlie included. Benny personally promised he’d ensure it got done. But that was only a bandaid on a wound that had been left festering for too long.

Cain knew all of Dean’s tells, and most of his secrets.

Sam, now, held Dean's gaze, silently checking in. But Dean could barely look him in the eye, he was that rough.

Which, of course, Sam noticed.

Guilt was par for the course with Dean, if something sucky was happening, he always felt somewhat at fault. But this was entirely and undeniably his fault and that weight was enough to pull him under and if he wasn’t careful, he’d just let himself sink. To give in to the temptation and be the guy Cain wanted him to be: the fighter that Alastair had curated out of the bar fights and back alley brawls of Dean’s formative years.

To succumb to the anger, and the fear that he’d never be more than that animal, was just too easy.

So, when Sam gave him that incredulous look on stage, Dean had to use every ounce of self control not to just punch his lights out. Fuck him, of all people, for judging Dean. 

He was fucking trying, okay?!

Then Sam’s face shifted and his massive forehead hitched and the puppy dog eyes came out and Dean didn’t want to be seen anymore. He shook his head, shrugged and continued winding his way around the stage, touching base with each member until he was at Kevin’s side. Dean fell into rhythm with Kevin’s extended solo, swaying and bobbing with the beat as it mellowed into a much more upbeat swinging vibe than anything the song it had emerged from ever held.

In that moment, Dean remembered how insanely grateful he was that Kevin had joined the band. His unique twist to the music, mischief, and raw talent were something like paddles to the chest, a resuscitation. A new chance at life for the band.

That bright reminder of hope, of progress, got Dean through the rest of the show. They brought out Annie next and ‘Baby’ was as smooth as the chrome on her namesake.

There were things coming for him that he hadn’t outrun. But on that stage, he was the one who was untouchable. And if it was going to all slip through his fingers by the consequences of his own actions, at least he’d leave it on a high note. 

He gave the people what they came for, and they all left the stage sweaty and smiling.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

@beautiful-places-blog

@n-o-p-e-never

@spxideyver

Chapter 37: Portato

[unlimitedhearts]

This is Part 3 of my Season 5 thoughts - What if it had to end there?

Part 1 here.

Part 2 here.

There's no secret that Eric Kripke created Supernatural with a plan. 5 seasons, one connected story, and it got far more popular than anyone ever expected. The CW renewed the series past the 5 season plan and Eric Kripke left. He had a story he wanted to tell and he told it.

But i don't think he got to tell it. The call probably came out way before the end of Season 5 - probably right after the episode where the boys go to heaven - and they had to realise they needed to change the ending. Make it more open ended, room to move. So lemme just say... The talk between Lucifer and Michael would have been far more impactful if it were Sam and Dean. Adam had no business being Michael's vessel.

Let's live in lala land for a bit - SPN had 5 seasons and then it ended. What would that ending have looked like?

It wouldn't have been in Van Nuys - Damn might not have come back but even if he had and he was a vessel still it would have been temporary. Sam would have said yes and Dean in desperation would have screamed to Michael to take him. Once their plan to send him back to the cage failed he would have begged for Michael. It makes no sense that Michael would just "Take a new Vessel" and Dean would stop being important as the Michael Sword for convenience.

Michael would have taken him and it would have been the moment of despair for Cas, Adam, and Bobby. How do they stop this, how do they make this fight not happen. Cas might have been the one to talk to Chuck, maybe Adam gains some divine intervention, maybe Chuck reaches out but gang finds out it's in the cemetery outside Lawrence.

Michael and Lucifer talk - and through that entire talk Sam and Dean are screaming inside, bursting at the seams to talk to each other, and listening to their conversation hits closer to home than ever. Lucifer begging to not do this, for Michael to join him. Michael capitulating to Destiny, so sure that he has to do this, and I can guarantee Sam and Dean understand in that moment they aren't just Lucifer and Michael's vessels. They are Lucifer and Michael. The sum total of all the parts that led them here. Cas, Adam, and Bobby all show up - and maybe there is no Assbutt but there is Dean.

Talking to Cas. Sam talking to Adam. Both of them talking to Bobby.

"You believed in me when no one else did, you had my back when I couldn't have my own."

"You're our brother and we love you. I wish we could have been there more for you."

"Bobby you're like a father to us, more than you could even realise."

And they jump in the pit together. It was always leading to this. And maybe it was never going to be the end of the world, maybe it was always going to be forced family therapy in the cage. But this was never going to end in Sam and Dean killing each other in Lucifer and Michael's spat. It was always going to be Sam and Dean overcoming all odds together. Just like they always have done.

[imagineteamfreewill]

From the Dead - Five

Pairing: Soldier!Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 7.1k

Warnings: Hearing loss, pregnancy, nervousness, nausea, mentions of PTSD, and fluff

Summary: Dean Winchester died as a war hero during his third tour overseas. He left Y/N behind, and she decides that she needs a change. She leaves Lawrence to work at Camp New Moon, where a mysterious visitor shows up almost five years after Dean first left for his tour.

A/N: This is the final part of the “From the Dead” series. As always, thank you for supporting me whether I’m writing Supernatural or Marvel, both here and on other websites. I hope you enjoy!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

From the Dead Series Masterlist

The months practically fly by after Dean receives his hearing aid. As part of his therapy, he creates a list of things he wants to do now that he’s back in the States, some of which you’ve never done together. One by one, you check things off the list. You spend sunsets—and a few sunrises—snuggled up on the beach by the lake, and when the fall hits, you and Dean are able to get away for a few weekends for hikes in a nearby state park. It’s on those nights at the lake and in the cabins you rent at the parks that Dean talks to you more about his tour. He can’t tell you all the details, especially since Sam is still advising you on whether or not to sue for everything you’d been put through, but he talks to you about his life in the village. Sometimes you lay together in bed as he talks, and other times you sit facing him so you can read his expressions. Sometimes he cries. You do too. It’s cathartic for both of you.

When winter descends on the South, you take him to Atlanta for some of the Christmas festivities. You go to a concert, go on a fancy date at an even fancier restaurant, and walk hand in hand while you look at Christmas lights. His family drives down for the holidays, and you put them up in a few of the empty staff cabins. Mary tells you one morning while you’re watching the sun rise over the lake that she understands why you’d want to stay at New Moon. It’s one of the best Christmas gifts you get.

Dean surprises you with trips to the zoo, aquarium, and museums. He takes you shopping, compliments you with every new thing you tried on, and he carries your bags. He cooks you elaborate meals and brings you picnic lunches. You’re pretty sure that he and Meg text because he always seems to show up for lunch on the days where you need his company the most.

Life is sublime, even on the rough nights when you sleep very little. Dean’s nightmares wake you up on occasion, but you don’t mind. He shows you his love in a thousand little ways, and lying with him and comforting him is one of the few ways that you do the same. You both lay on your sides, facing each other, and you murmur reassurances in the dim light from the bedside lamp. You’ve gotten used to sleeping with it on, especially now since you found out that the darkness is something that worsens his PTSD.

Some nights, you stay up late worrying about the girls. Others you spend sitting up with them or talking with them when they need support, or intervention. Oftentimes, on those nights, you walk back to your cottage in the dark, following the path with just an old plastic flashlight to guide you. Your phone is usually dead and you’re always bone-tired, but without fail, you open the door to find Dean waiting up for you on the couch. He has the TV playing low in the background, and if you haven’t eaten dinner, he has a plate of food ready to be reheated for you. He listens when he can, too. You tell him whatever isn’t confidential, and he listens in silence with a hand on your leg as you curl up to him on the couch, or he holds you close as you lay together in bed, just like when you listen to him talk about his time overseas.

It’s on one of these nights in early March when you’re curled up together, sometime just past midnight, that you realize you’ve been home late almost every day this week and that Dean had been alone almost all day, every day. Your thoughts roam back to the first dinner you’d had with his family since his return. He’d thrived in the living room bustling with people he loved, and he’d lit up any time he’d interacted with his niece and nephew. You haven’t seen that exact look on his face since.

“Dean?” you murmur. He doesn’t answer right away, but he keeps stroking your hair, so you carefully turn your head on his thigh to look up at him. He took his hearing aid out an hour ago, which meant he probably just hasn’t heard you.

“You need something, sweetheart?” he asks, looking down at you.

“Do you… Do you still want kids? We haven’t talked about it since you got back, but before your deployment…”

He hums thoughtfully and sits up a little more on the sofa. You sit up when he moves, pulling your legs in and propping yourself up with one arm on the top of the back cushions. He keeps looking at the TV, but you can tell that he really isn’t watching it. The show is something pedantic—a black-and-white sitcom from the 60s that only comes on during late-night television. It’s one of a few that are on rotation during your late night talks, and you know enough from the subtitles that you’ve seen this episode at least three times.

“Did you hear me?” you ask, reaching out to gently touch his arm with your fingertips.

Dean nods. His eyes still stay focused forward. “I heard you. I’m just… thinking.” He turns to look at you after a second. The furrow between his eyebrows is pronounced, and his lips purse ever so slightly as he searches your face. “Why? Are you—?” He glances down at your stomach, just for a split second.

Quickly, you shake your head and scoot closer on the couch so that your calf is pressed up against the side of his thigh. You reach out and grab both of his hands in yours. He turns slightly more towards you, and his thumb drifts over your knuckles as you answer,

“No. No, I’m not pregnant. I just…” You trail off and look down at your joined hands, trying to put thoughts to your words. Finally, you sigh and look back up at him, squeezing his hands. “When we were at your parents’ house, with Sam and Jess and their kids, you seemed really happy.”

“Those little guys are awesome,” Dean replies, chuckling lightly. The worried crinkle between his eyebrows relaxes at the memory. “I had no idea how much I’d really missed them until we got there. The videos you’d shown me on your phone weren’t nearly as good as the real thing.”

“It wasn’t just that. It was the way you cuddled and played with Jacob, and the way you held Ella and talked to her. You love them.”

“Of course I love them, Y/N, they’re my niece and nephew.”

His voice is patient as he gives you the reminder, and though you know that he isn’t trying to make you feel bad, you still find yourself searching for the right words to get your point across. You’re exhausted, and your thoughts are already scattered.

Maybe I shouldn’t have even brought it up, you think.

Nonetheless, you nod and squeeze his hands again. “I know. I just… It reminded me of all those conversations we had before you left, you know? And I see the way you look at babies and little kids whenever we’re in town. Anyone could tell that you want a kid of your own.” You pause and shake your head a little. “I don’t know, it’s late. Maybe I’m just thinking too much. If it’s gonna happen, it’ll happen, right? I mean, if that’s what you want.”

Releasing him, you rub your face with one hand and stand from the couch. He looks up at you, watching in silence as you gather your dinner dishes, along with the mug he’d been drinking from when you got home. Your stomach twists as you move, and though you hope he’ll speak up and put you out of your misery by giving you some kind of response, Dean says nothing.

“I should shower,” you tell him. The lights in most of the cottage living area are off already, and the light from the TV casts strange shadows over him and the couch. It’s enough light for you to see Dean already looking away from you, staring at the long wooden coffee table you’d bought from a thrift store shortly after starting at the camp.

As you pass by, however, he scoots forward on the couch and reaches out. His arm blocks your path and his hands rest on your opposite hip, holding you in place. Your heart skips a beat.

“I do want kids,” Dean admits, quieter than before. He holds your gaze. Though the room is dark, the hesitance in his expression is clear.

Has he been thinking about this too?

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, dishes still in hand as you wait for him to continue. He doesn’t, so you set the dishes on the side table to his right and take matters into your own hands.

“Yeah?”

Dean’s shoulders slump and he nods. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring it up. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What for? Why didn’t you want to bring it up?”

Carefully, you lower yourself to sit on his thigh with your back resting against the arm of the couch. You drape your legs over his lap. Dean reaches his arm behind you and holds your hip to help you keep your balance on his legs, and almost immediately his thumb is rubbing small arcs on your side, back and forth at a steady tempo. His other hand rests on your thighs. It’s warm over your legs, and you can feel his body heat even more where your shirt has come untucked, revealing the bare skin on your side where his thumb has found purchase. He’s almost too warm to be this close to him, but you can’t bear to complain, not after so many painful years apart. You rest one arm over his shoulders, and with the other you cup his cheek, turning his face so you can look at him properly.

“I was nervous that you’d changed your mind,” he admits. The low sound of the TV almost drowns him out, so much so that if you were any farther away, you’d be straining to hear him. “It’s been so long since we talked about it, and I wasn’t sure if that was still what you wanted.”

His next words go unspoken: with me. Dean has never expressed it outright, but you know that he still sometimes feels insecure about wearing his hearing aid and his struggle with PTSD from everything that happened overseas. You’ve joined him for several video sessions with his therapist, and you know that they’re working on strategies to deal with both of those things. You try not to interfere or give your opinions on his recovery—he needs a wife and a partner, not a second therapist—but you support him in every way you can without overstepping. You never want him to feel alone because of what he’s been through.

You lean in to kiss him on the cheek opposite your hand, and you smile gently as you say, “I love you, Dean. It’s still what I want, but even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t change things between us, at least not on my end. You’re still my main man, no matter what. Kids have never been the endgame. It’s always just been you.”

The lines on Dean’s face relax, smoothing out to reveal the faintest smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. They’re just starting to reappear now that the winter is fading and he can comfortably spend more time outside. Your stomach untwists as he smiles back at you. He shifts the hand on your hip and squeezes it just a little.

“I love you too, Y/N. No matter what.”

Dean kisses you on the lips, and it’s long, slow, and sweet. He’s warm against you. You’re bone-tired, but you close your eyes and kiss back, soaking up his warmth and the feel of being in his arms after a long day at work. It’s heavenly. You never would have predicted this moment a year ago. If someone had told you that Dean wasn’t dead and that he’d find you at New Moon, and that you’d be having a conversation at one in the morning about having kids, you would’ve thought they were crazy. Now, however, you’re just grateful.

After a few moments, Dean eases his arm under your legs instead of resting it over them, then stands. He carries you to the bedroom and you relax in his arms, keeping your eyes closed for the short walk. When he sets you down on the edge of the bed, you open your eyes to look up at him. You brace your hands on the mattress behind you to keep from toppling backwards as the memory foam dips under your weight.

“I don’t want to stress about this,” you tell him. “I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t help anything. If it happens, it happens.”

He nods in agreement, then yawns. You chuckle and sit up a little more so you can stand without fighting against the mattress. Dean always complains that it’s too soft, but you like the way you can sink into it after a long day. 

“Get to bed, soldier,” you order, patting his arm. “You’ve got work in the morning.”

A month ago, Dean had decided he was ready to get back to work. You’d offered to put him on the payroll at camp as a maintenance worker or groundsperson, but he’d opted for an online position, at least for the time being. It’s a dull job compared to his work with the military. Secretly, you’re thankful that he’s chosen a safe route and that he’s feeling well enough to get back to work, but you also worry a little. For as long as you’ve known him, Dean’s been a hands-on type of person. He likes to build and fix and create. His therapy appointments are virtual too, which means that he spends most of the day cooped up in the cottage, sitting at the kitchen table or on the couch in front of a laptop. Not only is it not the healthiest thing for him physically, you know that he pushes himself to work harder than anybody should, simply because the job seems so much easier than what he used to do. Plus, being that he’s home most of the day, he’s taken on most of the cottage upkeep, cooking, and shopping so that you can spend as much time together as possible whenever you are home. You don’t mind that as much, but it does make you feel a little guilty.

“I’ll wait for you to be out of the shower,” he replies, but you shake your head.

“It’s okay. You’ve waited up long enough for me, De. You need to sleep—you’ve been burning the candle at both ends just so you can see me in the morning and at night, and I’m starting to get worried. You were falling asleep during your meeting the other day when I came home for lunch, remember?”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

Sighing, you wrap your arms around his waist, reaching up until your hands press against the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades. Your cheek presses up against his chest and you close your eyes again. He returns your embrace, and after several long moments, you feel his body relax against yours. 

I could go to sleep right here, you think with a tiny smile.

“Come on,” you say as you finally pull away, then pat him on the chest with one hand. “Go lay down. I’ll be there in a minute, okay? Get the bed warm for me.”

He nods in agreement, and you step away. You hurry to get your pajamas from the dresser before heading into the bathroom. Dean had changed long before you’d gotten home, as he always did on late nights like these. You need to shower, but you know Dean would force himself to stay up until you’re ready to go to bed too, no matter how much you push him and try to coerce him to take care of himself first. You’re exhausted, too, and the thought of having to shower before you can crash isn’t appealing.

So, you forgo your normal shower and stick with simply washing your face and brushing your teeth after changing into the pajamas. You can shower in the morning, even though it means you’ll need to change the bedding sooner than usual. Though it isn’t quite as hot as it normally is this time of year, the humidity makes everything sticky, and you’ve spent most of the day outside. A thin layer of sweat coats your skin, making even your pajamas feel gross.

When you turn off the light and step out of the bathroom, Dean looks up from the book he’s grabbed from his nightstand. It’s a novel, if you remember correctly, but you’re not sure what about. The cover picture has a cactus on it. It’s probably another western—he’s been catching up on some of his favorite authors since Sam convinced him to get a library card in December.

“You didn’t shower,” he notes, clearing his throat and sitting himself up further against the headboard. He doesn’t fool you, however. You know that he’s been nodding off instead of actually reading the library book. He’s been on the same page the past three nights.

“I’ll shower in the morning,” you reply. You throw your clothes in the hamper against the wall. “I need to change the sheets anyway, so it’s not a big deal.”

Dean hums and sets his book back in its place, then reaches over to pull the covers open for you. You climb into bed and wait until he’s dimmed the lamp beside his nightstand to cuddle up against him. The room grows darker once he does, and your eyes take a second to adjust, but you can still hear Dean’s dog tags clink as he shifts to get into a comfortable position with you at his side. You slip one arm over him, resting your hand on his chest as you close your eyes. To no surprise, it doesn’t take you long to fall asleep. 

The next morning, Dean’s asleep when you wake up, which is a rarity. Despite the fact that you’re somehow still exhausted, you know that you need to get up before he does. If you doze until he’s awake too, he’ll want to get up and make you breakfast while you shower, meaning that he won’t get the rest he needs. His PTSD symptoms start rearing their ugly heads whenever he’s overtired, and you don’t want that for him.

Showering without waking Dean would be tricky, but after a few moments of lying in the dark, you find a solution. There’s a small bathroom attached to your personal office in the main camp building, and though you haven’t used it in a while, you know that it’s clean and that it still has your normal soap and shampoo. Before Dean, you spent most of your late nights sleeping on the futon in the office, then showering and dressing in the bathroom, rather than trekking all the way back to your cottage. You hadn’t had a reason to go all the way home back then, but now you do. The shower hasn’t been used in almost a year. This morning, however, it will come in handy.

As silently as possible, you roll out of bed and gather up the few toiletries you’ll need that aren’t already in the office bathroom. You pull on a pair of sweatpants over your pajamas, plus the faded Stanford hoodie you’d gotten in support of Sam shortly after marrying Dean. You grab a bag for the toiletries and a set of work clothes to change into after you shower, then shove your feet into a pair of sandals and slip out of the cottage to head towards the main cluster of buildings.

The sun is barely up. It casts an ethereal glow over the grassy field that separates your cottage from the rest of the camp. Dew dampens the path, and it makes wildflowers and the tips of grass blades glitter in the lingering sunrise. In the trees, birds sing and coo. The soft tap of your feet on the stones is the only other sound.

You pause to breathe in deeply, then exhale. Mornings at New Moon are special to you, especially after a long, stressful night. They remind you of why you stayed—every girl needs the peace and calm that the morning brings. They deserve it. You’ve certainly needed it many times yourself.

“You’re up early.”

You turn, already speaking as you meet Meg’s steady gaze. “I needed to shower, but I didn’t want to wake Dean. He’s been staying up late for me every night.”

She mutters something in acknowledgement, then tucks her phone in her jacket pocket as you close the distance to join her outside the only empty cabin, which she’s been checking for trespassers. It’s on the outskirts of the camp, and the four girls that had occupied it for most of last year transitioned to a more traditional foster home only last month. From what you’ve heard from their social worker, they’re on the path to reunification with their family.

Now that you’re closer, Meg’s giving you a strange, almost curious look, and you frown when she lifts her chin. Her eyes glitter with a secret. 

“I’m a little afraid to ask,” you say, “but do you know something I don’t?”

She chuckles and crosses her arms in front of her. Her lips press together in a smug smile. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

Unsure of what she means, you start walking towards the office. Meg falls into step beside you, just as you knew she would. 

“Fine, I suppose,” you slowly reply. You’re careful to give vague answers, just in case she’s looking to start a tiff just for her own amusement. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Just wondering.”

A minute of silence passes as you walk together, and the path changes from stone to gravel. It crunches beneath your feet, and all around you, life begins to stir in the cabins as the girls wake and get ready for the day. They’ll be coming outside with their counselors and gathering outside the dining hall within an hour, which means time is running out if you want to shower and have time to mentally prepare for the day.

Meg holds the office door for you and you mutter your thanks, then head down the hall to your personal office. You’re just reaching the door when she calls your name from the lobby.

Turning, you raise your eyebrows expectantly. She stands near the receptionist desk, her hands at her sides, and for a second, a genuine smile flashes across her face. It’s quickly replaced with her usual nonchalant look, however, so quickly that you aren’t entirely sure that you’d seen it. You must be more tired than you’d thought.

“You should take a test,” Meg says.

You frown at her, confused, and set your bag of clothes and toiletries at your feet, against the wall. “A test?”

She nods, widening her eyes as she repeats, “A test, Y/N. You know, the tests you keep in the first aid closet? For those rare, special emergencies?”

For a moment, you just stare at her. There are very few emergencies that you handle at the camp. True, due to the nature of your job, you’re trained in a litany of thing, ranging from first aid and de-escalation to basic animal control and building maintenance, all of which is in addition to your psychology degrees and training, but the rest of the camp staff is so well-trained that rarely do situations ever become actual emergencies that you need to handle.

If you’re handling a first aid emergency, however, you do basic triage before an ambulance can arrive. You keep most of the supplies in your office, both in a cabinet and in a bag, but there are also small first aid kits in all the cabins, as well as in every building and down by the lake.

You shake your head, a little baffled by Meg’s strange behavior and comments. Neither one of you needs any kind of first aid right now, at least not that you’re aware of. Turning, you reach for the doorknob on your office door, but you stop as soon as your fingers graze the metal. It’s as if lightning has struck you, and you immediately straighten, dropping your hand back down to your side as you whirl to face her again.

“What?” you exclaim, shocked at her brazen assumption. “Are you serious?”

She shrugs and leans against the wall opposite the desk, her arms once again crossed. Her stare, as always, is unrelenting, but suddenly it makes your skin itch with anticipation. Does she know something about you that you don’t? You pride yourself on being self-aware, but is it possible that you’ve missed something?

“You’ve been nauseous on and off for almost two weeks now, and you’ve been moody. More than some of the girls, actually,” she huffs.

You narrow your eyes and cross your arms, almost a mirror image of her. “Really? Moody? That’s your argument for this, Meg?”

“Don’t hurry to prove me right,” she teases, and you quickly drop your arms again, heat rising in your cheeks. “You’ve been constantly complaining of being too hot and then too cold all week, too. Didn’t you say that was one of the things your mother-in-law complained about when she was pregnant with Dean?”

It was, and a strange feeling rises inside of you now that you remember the conversation you’d had with Meg about it. How she remembered such a detail from a random discussion you’d had almost months ago is beyond you, but it doesn’t matter. She’s put the thought in your head, and with it comes another reminder—your period hadn’t come last month, and you’ve been due for almost a week now. If it was coming, it would have been here already.

You inhale shakily and give her a terse nod.

“Right,” you say. You smooth your hands over your thighs, trying not to seem so blown away by her hypothesis. “Okay. Okay. I’m—” Shaking your head, you close your eyes and try to focus on the mental to-do list you’ve made for yourself. Then, after a second, you grab your bag from the floor. “I have to shower.”

Meg nods. “Shower,” she repeats. 

“I’ll see you later.”

She nods again, then turns on her heel and walks out of the building, leaving you standing in the hallway. You stay still for a second, listening to the front door open and close. Outside, Meg shouts at someone for standing on a bench, but the sound of her voice fades as she gets farther away from the building. Finally, you turn and open the door to your office, then quickly close it behind you.

You close your eyes and press one hand to your stomach, over the sweatshirt. It’s bulky over your pajamas. Logically, you know that if you are pregnant, the baby would still be too small to show, but it feels wrong not to feel for a baby bump now that it’s been suggested.

Not daring to get your hopes up just yet, you let your hand fall as you march to the locked metal cabinet in the corner of your office. It’s mounted to the wall and reaches almost to the ceiling, and the pregnancy tests are at the back of the top shelf. You don’t use them often, considering that New Moon is only for girls, but you keep them on hand just in case you need them for a new arrival. You’ll be lucky if the test is still good, considering you haven’t had to use one in so long.

You dump the bag from your cottage on the desk, then fumble with your keys until you find the right one. The bag falls over and knocks a pen off the desk, but you ignore it as you unlock the cabinet, pull over your rolling desk chair, and carefully climb up on it to grab one of the tests. After checking the expiration date, you tuck the flimsy cardboard box under your arm and head to the bathroom, not even bothering to close the cabinet or right the bag that’s tipped over and dumped onto your workspace. All thoughts of showering and getting ready for the day are gone. They’ve been replaced with a nervous energy that buzzes beneath your skin, making your fingers feel weak as you open the box.

The lock on the bathroom door is sturdy enough to help you feel a little bit more secure as you take the test, all the while trying to take deep breaths. Your heart feels like it’s beating too fast, and you aren’t sure if it’s because you’re nervous or excited. Maybe you’re both.

Calm down, Y/N! Freaking out isn’t going to help anybody!

You wash your hands and read the back of the box again, checking the wait time printed in tiny black letters. The test sits precariously on the countertop, in between the sink and the edge of the counter closest to the toilet, and you give it a wary glance before unlocking the bathroom door and going to sit in your office while you wait. After setting the timer on your phone, you end up pacing in front of your desk instead, from the wall to the futon and back again. 

Finally, the timer goes off. You flinch at the loud ringing, then hurry to silence it. Your hands fumble with your phone and you stay tense when the office falls quiet again. Silently, you slip it back into your pocket and go back into the bathroom. When you reach the sink, you brace your hands against the front of the bowl, on the thinnest part of the counter. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a long few seconds, pointedly not looking down at the test that’s resting only a few inches from your hands. Inside your chest, your heart pounds even harder than before and your hands shake. Everything feels so unsteady, from your head to your feet, and for a second, you worry that you might pass out. Closing your eyes, you try to take a few deep breaths to calm yourself and to slow your racing pulse.

You’re reaching for the test on the counter when there’s a knock at your office door.

“Y/N? You in there?”

“Yes!” you yelp, almost too loudly. Your hand, outstretched and only an inch from the test, knocks it sideways, sending it clattering to the floor, along with a tube of toothpaste.

Dean calls for you again and you frantically scramble to right the bathroom. You practically throw the test onto the counter. It slides into the sink, and you’re pulling the bathroom door shut behind you just as Dean pushes the office door open from the hallway. He meets your eyes and you force a smile that you hope seems normal. 

“You left before I was up,” he says. He’s dressed already, in jeans and the green jacket you’d got him for his birthday, and his hair looks damp from the shower. 

Accepting a kiss on the lips, you hum a little and let go of the door handle to wrap your arms around his waist. Can he feel your heart beating too hard inside of your chest? What about your hands trembling against his back?

“I needed to shower and I didn’t want to wake you up. I have a shower here that I used to use when I was by myself.” You tilt your head back slightly, towards the door behind you.

Dean frowns. “You could’ve showered at home.” He looks down at you, and not only does his frown deepen, but the furrow between his eyebrows appears again. His worry lines are out in full force. “What’s wrong?”

Your stomach drops. Are you supposed to tell him? What if the test turns out negative? What if—?

“Sweetheart,” Dean soothes, pulling away so there’s space between the two of you. He takes your shaking hands in his and searches your face for an answer to his concerns. “What’s on your mind? I can see all the gears turning in there.”

The tips of his fingers touch your temple. You swallow thickly and look away. A line of dust lays gray on the hardwood where your old rug used to be. You moved it just last week to clean, but apparently, you’d missed it.

“Did I do something?”

Frantic, you shake your head and find his eyes. “What? No! No, of course not.”

“Then what is it?” Dean steps closer, crowding close in a tentative way that allows you enough time to move away, if you want. You don’t, and you let your eyes fall closed as you breathe in his scent and soak in his warmth. Your hands move to clutch the sides of his shirt, pulling him infinitely closer until your front is pressed against his again. Then, for the first time all morning, you relax. Your shoulders slump and you rest your forehead against him.

“I think…” you finally say after a minute. You take a breath, willing the words out on your next exhale. “I think I might be pregnant.”

There’s silence in the moments that follow, and though you know he’s probably just processing the news, it kills you. You stay frozen in place, unable to move as you wait for Dean to speak. 

Finally, you release his shirt and step back, just enough that you can see his face without tilting your head at too uncomfortable of an angle. He’s staring at the closed bathroom door behind you, with both eyebrows raised and with long creases along his forehead. His whole body is tense and the longer he stares at the door, the deeper the furrow between his brows becomes.

“Dean?” you prompt. “Say something, please.”

“You think? Or you know?” His voice is hoarse and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, then looks back down at you. 

“I don’t know. I took a test. I was just about to look at it when you knocked.”

“Oh.” His eyes flick up again, over your shoulder at the door, then down to your face. The second hand on the wall clock ticks as you stand near each other, Dean processing the news and you holding your breath as you wait for a more concrete response from him. The ticking feels louder than it did before. Has it always been that loud?

His fingers against your cheek make you look away from where you’ve been watching the black plastic line clunk around the circumference of the clock face.

“What do you want it to say?” Dean asks.

You inhale shakily and search his eyes, hoping for an answer to the question. “What do you want?” you ask in return.

Dean shakes his head, then runs his hand over your shoulder and down your arm until he can lace his fingers with yours. You glance down at your joined hands, unsure of why he’s not answering. He’d told you only just last night that he wanted kids. His hesitation makes you wonder if something’s changed in only just a few hours.

“It’s not up to me. It’s your body, Y/N.”

The words tumble out before you can even formulate the thought. “I just wasn’t expecting this so soon. I thought we’d have more time with just the two of us. What if this changes everything? What if it’s not everything we thought it would be?”

“We’ll still have time together,” he tells you, gently squeezing your hand. “It just might be less than we’d anticipated.”

“Would it even be a good thing if I was pregnant now? I know you said last night that it’s what you wanted, but we also said—”

“We said that if it happens, it happens,” Dean interrupts. “And if it’s happening now, then that’s a good thing. If it happens later, that’s also a good thing.”

You nod and take another deep breath. The butterflies in your stomach are out in full force. You have to close your eyes as you take breaths, trying to stave off the sudden wave of nausea that accompanies your worries. Dean’s hands in yours keeps you grounded as you breathe through your nose.

When you’re finally feeling more settled, you open your eyes and silently glance behind you at the bathroom door.

“You want me to wait out here?” Dean asks.

Swallowing thickly, you shake your head. Tears burn in your eyes, and you wipe them away with one hand, embarrassed by your reaction. “Why am I so scared? We just said that this is supposed to be a good thing.”

Dean squeezes your hand again. “This is a big thing, Y/N. It’s okay to be scared. I can be brave for both of us, okay?” He smiles a little, his lips pressed together, and you nod in response, inhaling deeply through your nose.

You feel stuck in place. Part of you wants to go look at the test, but another part of you is rooted to the floor, keeping you in this moment. The results of the test could turn your life upside down for the second time in a year, and you aren’t sure if you’re ready for that. What if you aren’t a good parent? What if you aren’t able to do your job while you’re pregnant? What would you do instead?

“Hey.”

You blink, then meet Dean’s eyes again. Another tear rolls down your cheek and you sniffle, wiping it away with the back of your free hand. His smile has disappeared, and now he watches you with a concerned frown that makes his lips turn downward at the corners and makes the wrinkle between his eyebrows reappear.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, sweetheart. We’re in this together, and I’m with you no matter what. Do you want me to look first?” he asks.

After a few seconds, you nod. You don’t know what to say, but you know it won’t matter to Dean whether you speak or not. He’ll do and be whatever you need in this moment, just like he always does.

He releases your hand and carefully steps around you, opening the bathroom door to retrieve the test from the sink. You’d left the light on in the bathroom when you’d shut the door, and now it floods your office from behind you. Dean’s footsteps are soft and his jacket rustles as he picks up the test, and you hold your breath as you listen for some kind of sign or clue as to the results. When there isn’t any, you turn in a circle to look at him.

“What’s it say?”

His profile gives you very little information about the results, and you take a tentative step forward when he doesn’t move or say anything. Maybe he just didn’t hear you? His bad ear is on the other side, but it’s still possible.

“Dean?” you prompt, stepping closer a second time. You wonder if he’s disappointed and that’s why he hasn’t said anything. The thought makes you nauseous again.

“You’re pregnant,” he answers. His voice shakes as he stands staring down at the plastic stick. It’s so small in his hand, and an image of him cradling a tiny newborn flashes in your mind.

You freeze a few feet from the bathroom threshold. “It’s positive?”

He nods and looks up, meeting your eyes. Tears glisten on his lower lash line, and you press your hands over your mouth, inhaling deeply as your heart leaps inside your chest. The wrinkle between his brows is gone once again, replaced with the kind of shock you’ve only seen a few times, the first being when you’d told him you’d loved him all those years ago.

“We’re having a baby,” Dean tells you, letting out a laugh. A smile grows on his face as tosses the test onto the counter and closes the distance between you in two long steps. He crushes you against him in a tight hug.

Too shocked to hug him back, you let Dean wrap his arms around you and lift you off the ground. Your feet dangle for a second before your instincts catch up with you. Hurriedly, you move your hands from your mouth to his back as your legs come up to wrap around his waist. You bury your face in the crook of Dean’s neck as you smile. Your cheeks already ache and you’re blinking away tears, but it doesn’t matter.

“We’re having a baby!” you exclaim. He spins around with you in his arms, and you push away from his neck and pull one hand from his shoulders so you can cradle his cheek in your palm. 

Dean’s eyes are alight with joy, making the green of his irises seem even more vibrant in the morning sunshine coming in from the office window. Your smile matches his as the scruff on his jawline scratches at the soft skin of your palm.

“You’re gonna be a dad,” you tell him, gently rubbing your thumb over his cheekbone. “You’re gonna be a great dad.”

He takes a few steps, then sets you down on the only clear space on your desk, beside the bag you’d brought with you this morning. You let your legs fall from around his waist so they bracket his hips, but you don’t drop your hand from his face.

“I love you,” Dean says. He brushes the backs of his knuckles over your abdomen, and you laugh when it tickles. There’s no bump yet, but the effect is all the same. Dean smiles wider, his eyes flicking to your stomach, then back up to your face. “I love both of you.”

You laugh and pull him down for a kiss. “We love you too, Dean Winchester. Forever and ever.”

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[dark-dragon-8]

I need a fic where Dean and Crowley are quote unquote "Besties" but in completely different ways.

Like, Crowley gets into the bunker on a daily basis to mess with the brothers and Dean keeps complaining about how much he hates it and it's driving him mad, when in reality he's the one that keeps leaving backdoors specifically for Crowley so that he could come visit whenever he wants (because they both know being the King of Hell isn't necessarily easy and those are some of the only times they can actually meet and hang out with each other).

Dean noticing that Crowley seems a little down, so he buys him his favorite (overpriced) whiskey (steals is honestly more like it, he doesn't plan on spending money on this damn thing unless he's one of the richest men alive, and even then that's a hard maybe) and casually offers to drink it together next time the demon stops by (the crime just makes it taste even better, in Crowley's opinion).

I want Crowley to give Dean exposure therapy using his hellhound, Juliet, so that he'll stop being afraid of dogs (hellhounds) and let him bring her over for a play date with [whatever pet they have] already (I imagine Sam would have a dog if they had time to adopt one and get it in the bunker).

Then, after Dean finally learns to like his precious terror, he gifts him his own hellhound as a way to support his progress (and also because he finds it hilarious how scared Dean gets when he first tells him about it).

I want Dean to teach Crowley empathy the same way he tried to teach soulless Sam empathy, only a lot less patient and a shit ton more aggressive, because that's not his brother, he's not going to be gentle with him about that, but that is his friend, which means he gets to do whatever the fuck he wants and Crowley will be fine with it because that's how their friendship works (they already had a "summer of love" together, they don't have any "uncomfortable stages" left).

I want Sam to be so done with these two, every time Crowley sneaks up on him, he shoots him right in the suit (IYKYK), sometimes several times, without even flinching or changing his expression besides the occasional frown, before actually letting him speak. He's proud to announce that he so far managed to ruin at least fifty suits and Crowley has stopped sneaking up on him while eating.

Castiel just straight up threatens to kill Crowley and rip his heart out whenever he's interrupting one of Dean and his dates. He does that in public, in front of people, with a 100% blank, indifferent expression that shows nothing but intent and honesty. He once even stabbed him in the middle of a restaurant, Crowley just smiled and called him a flirt, people there still believe they are either ex-lovers or serial killers.

[stumptation]

Sam and Dean’s Story: A Morning of Care

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In the quiet of their San Francisco apartment, the morning sun spilled through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor. Sam, 27, stirred in bed, his lean frame nestled against the pillows. His husband, Dean, 28, was already awake, his green eyes soft as he watched Sam stretch. Sam was a high double above-knee (DAK) amputee, his legs amputated just a few inches below his hips due to a rare bone cancer diagnosed at 22. The decision to amputate had been agonizing but necessary—osteosarcoma had spread aggressively, and surgery was the only way to save his life. Now, five years later, Sam had embraced his transformed body, and Dean’s devoted care was a cornerstone of their life together.

Sam’s stumps were short, each about 10cm long, ending in smooth, rounded tips. The skin was soft, with minimal scarring thanks to meticulous surgical work and Dean’s diligent care. The muscles around his hips and upper thighs had adapted, giving his stumps a defined, almost sculpted look. Sam’s confidence in his body was infectious, and Dean found his resilience—and his stumps—beautiful.

Dean slid out of bed, his bare feet padding across the floor. “Ready for the morning routine, babe?” he asked, his voice warm. Sam grinned, nodding. Dean gently lifted Sam, his arms strong from years of practice, and carried him to their accessible bathroom. The space was equipped with a padded shower bench and grab bars, tailored to Sam’s needs. Dean set Sam down, ensuring he was secure, and turned on the warm water.

The stump care routine began with a gentle wash. Dean lathered a soft cloth with unscented soap, kneeling beside Sam. He started with Sam’s left stump, gliding the cloth over the smooth skin. The stump was compact, the muscle firm under the surface, with a slight curve where the femur had been removed. Dean’s fingers followed the cloth, checking for any redness or irritation. “Looking perfect,” he murmured, his touch both clinical and tender. Sam sighed, the warmth of the water and Dean’s hands soothing him.

Dean moved to the right stump, which mirrored the left in its neat, rounded shape. The skin here was equally smooth, with a faint sheen from the water. Dean massaged the stump gently, working the soap into the creases where the thigh met the hip. He paid special attention to the end of each stump, where the skin was slightly thicker, ensuring no dryness or pressure points. “You’re taking such good care of me,” Sam said, his voice low, a smile playing on his lips.

After rinsing, Dean dried each stump with a soft towel, patting carefully to avoid abrasion. He reached for a bottle of fragrance-free lotion, warming it in his hands before applying it. His fingers glided over Sam’s left stump, massaging the lotion into the skin in slow, circular motions. The stump felt warm and pliable under his touch, the muscle responding subtly to the pressure. Dean repeated the process on the right, his hands lingering as he admired the symmetry of Sam’s body. The care was intimate, a ritual that deepened their connection.

Dean then checked Sam’s skin for any signs of breakdown, a habit born from years of vigilance. The stumps were healthy, their smooth surfaces free of scars or sores. He applied a light layer of silicone gel to the ends, a preventative measure to maintain skin integrity. Sam’s stumps, though short, were strong, a testament to his physical therapy and Dean’s care. Dean leaned in, kissing the tip of Sam’s left stump, a gesture that made Sam chuckle. “You’re too much,” Sam teased, but his eyes were warm with affection.

The routine wasn’t just practical—it was a moment of closeness. As Dean’s hands worked, Sam’s breathing deepened, a flush spreading across his chest. Dean noticed, his own desire stirring. He leaned up to kiss Sam, their lips meeting in a slow, heated exchange. The care routine paused as they leaned into the moment, Dean’s hands resting on Sam’s hips, their connection palpable.

Dean helped Sam back to the bedroom, settling him on the bed. The stump care was complete, but their morning wasn’t over. Dean’s touch grew more purposeful, and Sam’s response was eager. Their intimacy unfolded naturally, a celebration of their love and Sam’s body, exactly as it was.