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supernotnatural2005 · 21 days ago

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A Christmas Miracle: Timestamp - First Snow

Paring: Dean x Reader

Summary: It's the heaviest snowfall in years and Olivia can’t wait to introduce her favourite person to the magic of the Winter season.

Prompt-Mas Day two - First Snow

Word count: 1k

AN: Ahh so i couldn’t leave this little family alone and had to add on a little timestamp. Just so happens it worked perfectly for @chevroletdean Prompt-Mas for the Supernatural Writers Community, i hope you all enjoy this as much as i did writing it 💕

Warnings: Daddy!Dean, again just tooth-rotting fluff

Read part one HERE!!!

Main Masterlist

~ 2 Years Later ~ The sound of tiny feet pitter-pattering through the bunker was a welcome reminder of just how much had changed in the years since that unforgettable Christmas morning. Now, a couple of years older, Olivia had taken to being a big sister with all the enthusiasm you could have hoped for. She also got her second wish. You in fact did have a boy, and she got her little brother. She was practically Bobby's second mother—always looking out for him, sharing her toys, and making sure he felt like the centre of her world. Dean had been right. The chaos and the love had only multiplied, but it was the kind of mess you wouldn't trade for anything. Today, however, was special. Snowflakes had begun falling softly outside, the first real snow of the season and the last two years. Olivia was practically bouncing off the walls, eager to show Bobby what winter was all about. "Mom! Dad! You have to come see! It’s snowing! It's Bobby’s first snow!" Olivia's voice echoed through the bunker’s halls as she guided a newly walking Bobby to the bunker’s entrance; her excitement contagious. She had been checking the little window in the garage, which gave, pretty much the only view you had of the outside world, every morning for snowfall. Dean looked up from his phone and placed it on the map table, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Bobby, now a sturdy two-year-old, stood in Olivia's grasp, his round green eyes wide with curiosity. You stood from your seat beside Dean, where you’d been nursing your coffee, and joined them by the steps, Dean following shortly after and wrapping his arms around you from behind. “How’d we make such incredible kids?” You whispered, leaning back into Dean as you watched Olivia help Bobby into his coat. Your heart incredibly warm and full. “I honestly ask myself that every day, that and how lucky I am to have the three of you.” He mumbled into your neck along with a sweet kiss against your skin. You squeezed the arms wrapped around you in understanding. Olivia, now pulling on her boots and jacket, glanced over her shoulder at you, her face alight with joy. “He’s gonna love it, Mommy. We can make snowmen, and he can catch snowflakes on his tongue! He’s going to think it’s magic!” Bobby, still mostly unsure of what was happening but sensing the excitement, let out a giggle as his sister placed his sock-monkey hat upon his sandy-blonde locks. “Well, kiddo,” Dean said, kneeling down beside Olivia and adjusting her own purple-knitted hat. “Looks like you’re in charge of showing him the ropes. How about we all get bundled up and head outside?” Olivia nodded eagerly, already making her way up the steps whilst Dean slipped on his jacket and scooped up Bobby in his arms. “Come on! We gotta hurry before it melts!” You and Dean shared a fond look and both shook your heads at her impatience, but you slipped on your coat and followed Dean up the steps, slipping by him to help unlock the heavy bunker door. Once outside, you gasped in awe. The snow had fallen heavily, the heaviest it had in years, and the world around you felt like a magical winter wonderland. Flurries of snow fluttered down from the grey sky, and the ground was blanketed with a thick layer of glistening snow. It was beautiful, almost unreal, like something out of a fairytale.

Olivia practically leaped into the snow, spinning around with her arms outstretched, her laughter ringing through the chilly air. Dean gently placed Bobby on the ground, holding his tiny hands as he took his first tentative steps in the snow. His little boots crunched in the fresh powder, and his wide green eyes followed each falling snowflake in wonder: his tiny face lighting up with delight. "Catch a snowflake, Bobby! Like this!" Olivia crouched down, her mittens catching snowflakes that dissolved almost instantly, her voice bubbling with excitement. Bobby stretched his chubby hands upward, attempting to catch the snowflakes, his face breaking into a grin as the icy crystals melted on his skin. His giggles were music to your ears, a sound so pure, so full of joy. Dean stood beside you, his eyes locked on the children as they explored the wooded area across from the bunker. The weight of the moment wasn’t lost on him. He turned to you, his voice soft. “Can’t believe we’re here. After everything," His words died in his throat as he shook away the past, wanting nothing more than to focus on his future instead. "Just... look at them.” You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his waist as the cold air swirled around you. Feeling very much the same as Dean. “I know. We’ve got everything we could ever need.” “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice full of emotion. “Everything.” His arms tightened around you for a brief moment, as if trying to hold on to this perfect moment. As Olivia scooped up a handful of snow to begin building a snowman, Bobby, eagerly trying to imitate her, you couldn’t help but giggle. The playful chaos that followed soon after—a snowball fight between you, Dean, and Olivia—had you laughing so hard, it was as if you were a little kid again yourself. Wanting, quickly out of the attack, you scooped up Bobby, using him as your immunity from the incoming barrage of snowballs holding him close as he squealed with glee. You stood there, watching the scene unfold around you in a daze, unable to quite believe how far you’d come. After all the pain, all the heartache, you had your family—your happy ending—right here in this moment, in the snow. You held Bobby tightly, feeling his little arms wrap around your neck as he tried to get a better view of his big sister’s snowman, his soft giggles a constant reminder of how beautiful life had become. Dean was right. Despite all the madness, all the fighting, together you had built something unbreakable. A family. Your family.

AN: Okay guys! I hope you enjoyed this little snippet into their lives, are you glad Olivia got her wish for a little brother? And how sweet she is with him 😭

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copperboom82 · 20 days ago

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Southern Cross

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (female)

Word Count: 4k

Prompts: "Try focusing on your life and less on mine" and "first snow."

Title credit: Southern Cross by Crosby, Stills, and Nash

Summary: Holidays aren't always easy for everyone. As Christmas approaches, neither Dean nor Katrina are having the best time. Can they find solace in each other, or is it just too natural to push each other's buttons?

Set mid-season 6. Precedes my other one shot, Something, but can absolutely be read on its own.

AN: Hello! This is my second submission for @jacklesversebingo and my first story for @chevroletdean's Promt-Mas for the Supernatural Writers Community (First Snow prompt). Also - please forgive me, I wrote this in one go, while sick. I did proofread, but will definitely do another round when my head's a little clearer.

Warnings: Mild language and themes of loss and grief. Please let me know if I missed something - I don't think I did, but I'm also very new to posting my writing.

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“Hey, I was using that!” Dean exclaimed as the TV remote was yanked out of his hand. It was the middle of the day on a cold, dreary Wednesday, and while he was sure there was plenty he could be doing, with Sam still out cold in Bobby’s ghost-proof panic room, taking up residence on Bobby’s couch and flipping through crappy day-time TV seemed to be his best option.

God forbid he do it in peace though. Katrina looked over her shoulder at his outburst, that irritating grin of hers in place, and stuck her tongue out at him before flopping down onto the other side of the couch.

“Get better taste in TV and maybe I’ll share,” she quipped, settling in and starting to do her own flipping. Dean grumbled but settled deeper back into the couch himself. It wasn’t worth the fight. Even if he won, she wouldn’t stop complaining, and Dean wasn’t all that invested anyway. Everything was just white noise these days anyway.

“You’re one to talk about taste,” he retorted, eyeing her outfit… though the term seemed generous. She was dressed down today, or rather, she hadn’t gotten dressed yet, still clad in black and red plaid pajama bottoms and an orange t-shirt that had an illustration stretched across the chest, with Crosby, stills, Nash & Young printed under it and clashed horribly. “I don’t know what’s worse, your fashion sense or the band.”

Katrina rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at his head. “Fuck off. I don’t say anything when you dress like a wanna-be biker, do I?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, but Katrina ignored him, her own gaze intent on Bobby’s crappy TV.

It had been a few months since Katrina Black had come into Dean’s life. She’d been an unwelcome but seemingly non-negotiable addition to his found family when Sam had shown up at his door back in the Fall and he’d had to bring Lisa and Ben to Sioux Falls in search of a safe landing spot while they took care of the djinn. It had taken some time, but what had started as a begrudging tolerance had given way to a genuine friendship, one that Dean had trouble imagining at times how he’d done without. But she still had a way of grating on his nerves at times. Today was one of those days.

He’d been there for just about a week, not counting the day he’d spent trying and failing to fill Death’s shoes. Kat had only shown up the day before, but from what Dean understood, she was planning on staying until after Christmas. He’d been more than a little surprised, considering from what he understood she had a full-time job and was missed when she disappeared for too long. The surprise had immediately been replaced by annoyance when she’d told him someone needed to check in on Bobby after Sam’s failed attempt at patricide. As if Dean weren’t perfectly fucking capable.

Bobby was more than fine. The old bastard was tough as nails. Even robo-Sam didn’t have a shot of taking him down. He didn’t need Kat checking up on him. Neither did Dean, for that matter. Or Sam. The three of them were fine, and if Kat was just going to lounge around all day and steal his remote, he wasn’t sure what help she thought she was being.

“What are you doing here anyway?” he asked after a few minutes of silence. To that point, she still hadn’t settled on a channel, but the wrist she had extended towards the TV faltered at his question, and he noticed the shadow of a frown cross her face.

“I told you; I came to check in on Bobby.”

She clicked the channel button a few more times, slower than before, and then dropped her arm back to her side and curled deeper into her chosen spot.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean allowed, even though he still thought it was stupid. “He’s fine though, and last I checked, you were planning on staying till after Christmas, which is still over a week away.”

Katrina shrugged, eyes still fixed on the TV. Dean followed her line of sight and noticed she’d landed on I Love Lucy. He had to work not to snort at the predictability. In the months they’d known one another, he wasn’t sure he’d seen her pick anything aside from I Love Lucy, Bewitched, Gilligan’s Island, or The Munsters. Creature of habit, she called it. Boring was the word Dean used, but it was mostly to get a rise out of her. Given the way she kept him on his toes most of the time, he found it oddly endearing that she had some quirks that were so insanely consistent.

“So what? I have some time off. You got a problem with it?”

“No.”

It was a mostly honest answer. He didn’t have a problem with it… he just wanted to be left well enough alone. There was enough shit on his mind… the nonstop anxiety over whether Sam was going to wake up and whether he’d be Sam when he did… the near constant ache for Lisa and Ben that only seemed to grow as the holidays approached… his growing concern over whatever goddamn war Cas was fighting but keeping them out of… the bitter anger he was still feeling towards dear old gramps.

The last thing he needed was Katrina and the complicated feelings her presence stirred in him.

“You seem like you’ve got a problem with it,” she prodded, and Dean held back a groan. Why did she always have to poke and prod? “You’ve been in a mood since I got here.”

“I have not been in a mood,” Dean deflected, giving an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Katrina snorted and shook her head, clearly not convinced, and Dean’s eyes narrowed further. “Just doesn’t make sense is all. Christmas with a grumpy old hunter, a coma patient, and a – what did you call me the other day? A stubborn ass? Doesn’t exactly scream holiday cheer to me.”

A wry smile formed on Kat’s face, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and Dean thought he noticed her shoulders tense.

“What do you mean? Sounds just like home to me,” she jabbed back.

“Aw, c’mon, Kat,” Dean pushed, finding himself curious now. “Don’t you have a younger sister? Wouldn’t you rather spend it with her than with us hacks?”

Dean definitely didn’t imagine the reaction that time. Katrina’s jaw definitely clenched.

“Jenna’s on a cruise with her boyfriend and his family,” she informed him flatly. Dean frowned, his mind working overtime to recall what he knew of her situation. From what he understood, she and Jenna were close. Freakishly close… though he understood the irony in having anything to say about something like that himself.

“What, and bailed on you for Christmas?” he asked in disbelief before he could stop himself. Katrina rolled her eyes.

“She didn’t bail on me; we talked about it. She’ll be back in time for me to see her before she goes back to school. It’s no big deal.”

Dean doubted that very much, but he wasn’t stupid enough to voice as much. He was, apparently, stupid enough to keep digging, however.

“Alright, fine, your sister’s not around. Still, though, you gotta have something you’d rather be doing.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to watch,” she dismissed, but Dean snorted. He was fairly certain that she could quote these episodes by now.

“Bullshit. C’mon, Kat. What’s the rest of your family up to? You should spend the time off with them, not watching crap TV on Bobby’s couch and helping man the phones.”

He realized seconds too late that he’d pushed too far, and when Katrina’s head whipped around, he nearly gulped when he saw the fire in her eyes.

“The hell is your problem?” she hissed. Dean felt his mouth drop open, feeling stupid when the words he needed suddenly evaded him.

“Kat, I’m – “

“Save it, Winchester. Why don’t you try focusing on your life and less on mine?”

And without another word, she pitched the remote back in his direction and took off towards the stairs, leaving a bewildered Dean in her wake.

The next few days were tension filled to say the least. While their spats typically blew over of their own accord, there was something different about this one that Dean didn’t know how to put his finger on. It was a small house, but Katrina still managed to find a way to mostly avoid him. He tried to apologize, but any time he got close, she made up an excuse to be anywhere else, or quickly struck up a conversation with Bobby.

When they were occupying the same space, the snark that had permeated every conversation they’d had in their early days returned tenfold. Dean couldn’t seem to say so much as a word without Kat having some sarcastic comment or biting remark to throw back in his direction, even when he was talking to Bobby. It was bad enough that Friday night Bobby cornered him about it, and given Bobby’s preference to stay as far out of their disagreements as possible, that was saying a lot.

“What’d you do to Trina?” the old man asked, dropping into a seat at the kitchen table and sliding a beer across the table. Dean looked up from the article he’d mindlessly been scrolling through on Sam’s laptop, surprised at the question – though not too surprised to scoop up the offered bottle, even as he pushed the laptop aside.

“Oh, c’mon, Bobby. I didn’t do anything. You know how Kat gets. She’s been in a mood since she got here.”

Bobby, however, looked back skeptically, raising his eyebrows as he took a pull from his own beer.

“Is that so?”

Dean nodded, knocking back his own beer. It was late. There still hadn’t been any change in Sam, a thought that was gnawing at Dean like nothing else. The house had been quiet since dinner – pizza Bobby had ordered before Katrin had slipped upstairs, citing she needed an ‘early night.’

“Yeah. She came in the other day while I was watching TV, stole my remote, and told me I had no taste. Typical Katrina.”

A voice in the back of his head nagged at him that he knew there was more to it than that, but Dean didn’t want to get into it with Bobby. He didn’t understand what had gone so wrong himself, and he wasn’t in the mood to rehash it. Bobby, however, seemed to be able to sense the damn voice.

“Oh yeah, that sounds like her alright,” Bobby agreed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m sure you didn’t clap back at all Mr. Calm and Collected.”

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Bobby. I gave her shit for wearing a Crosby Stills shirt, and I tried to ask her why she was hanging here for the holidays. If that got her all bent outta shape, I gotta say… I thought she was made outta tougher stuff.”

Dean had hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but he’d anticipated maybe a bit more ribbing… maybe another round of prodding on the subject. What he didn’t expect was the look of utter exasperation tinged with disappointment that flashed across Bobby’s face, and Dean found his brow furrowing automatically in confusion.

“What?” he asked. Bobby was quiet for a moment, before he ultimately exhaled, shaking his head slowly. The disappointment seemed to win out over the exasperation.

“You know, Dean,” said, his voice surprisingly quiet, “did you ever stop to think that you ain’t the only one that’s got baggage?”

And just like with Katrina, Bobby was gone before Dean could get any real answers. He kicked at the chair next to him in a bout of frustration before he could think better of it. Why did everything have to be so damn complicated?

The next day, there was still no change in Sam, and Dean found himself sitting once more at the kitchen table, mindlessly flipping through one of Bobby’s books, looking for anything they might have missed about souls, when a hat and a pair of gloves landed in front of his face. He looked up in confusion that quickly morphed to surprise when he saw Katrina standing in front of him. She was bundled up in one of her heavier coats, a scarf draped around her neck, hair pulled into a messy side braid, and her hands shoved into her pockets.

“Let’s go,” she said simply. “I’m getting a Christmas tree to brighten this place up, and you’re helping me. Move your ass.”

For a moment, Dean stared back at her blankly, too caught off guard for the words to register. But as they did, the skepticism took hold.

“The hell I am,” he tossed back. “What do we need a Christmas tree for?”

“If I’m spending my Christmas here, we’re getting a tree, and I need your help.” And despite the inexplicable guilt that Dean had been feeling for the last few days, he felt a flare of anger.

“Yeah, well no one asked you to spend Christmas here, did they?”

Katrina was already walking towards the door but called back to him over her shoulder.

“Wrong again, darlin. Bobby asked me months ago, which makes you the interloper. C’mon, we’ll take my car. Wouldn’t want to scratch your precious baby.”

Christmas tree shopping was not Dean’s idea of a good day. But something about the tension of the last few days and how it had been eating at him pressed in, and Dean found himself pushing to his own feet and following after her, shrugging on his coat as he went.

“Whatever, Black. Just don’t expect me to decorate the damn thing.”

Christmas tree shopping with Katrina was an experience, to say the least, but Dean had to admit it felt better than sitting around the house had. For a few merciful hours, he was distracted from the constant pull he’d been feeling towards Bobby’s basement. Even the memories of doing the same thing with Lisa and Ben the previous year – the only other time Dean could remember going tree shopping – skewed to the sweet side of the bittersweet scale, a gift in and of itself these days.

She was still a little prickly, taking any opportunity she could find to take a stab at him, but Dean gave it back as good as he got, and the tension melted back into the playful banter he had become accustomed to. It was about halfway through the second field that Dean made the mistake of complaining that he was cold, immediately regretting the slip when Katrina’s face lit up in her I-told-you-so expression.

“I thought Winchesters didn’t get cold,” she teased, elbowing him gently. Her hands were still tucked into her pockets, despite the fact that she’d donned gloves for the occasion. Dean rolled his eyes good naturedly.

“I did not say that,” he disagreed, and Katrina chuckled.

“No, you were just adamant that you didn’t need the hat and gloves I found for you. Because, and I quote, it’s only thirty degrees out.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t expect to be at this for hours,” Dean pointed out. Katrina laughed, and Dean tried not to let himself get too drawn into her dazzling smile, or dwell on how pretty she looked with her cheeks all flushed from the cold. That was a path neither of them were equipped to go down, and even with all her rough edges, Dean wasn’t willing to risk the friendship they’d formed.

“Joke’s on you. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled half-heartedly. “C’mon, what do you think about this one? It looks like it would fit downstairs well enough.”

Katrina came to stand next to him, frowning as she studied the tree.

“I dunno, what about there? That’s a huge gap,” she complained. Dean followed where she was pointing but squinted, not seeing whatever she was talking about.

“What are you, high?” he asked, bending down. “This is the best looking tree we’ve seen so far.”

Suddenly, however, it felt like ice had been poured over the back of his neck, and he yelped, in a way that he never did, too caught off guard at the sensation to do anything else. As he stumbled forward and upright, Katrina’s laughter filled his ears, and when he turned around, he found her grinning at him, mischievous glint in her eye and suddenly bare hands visible in front of her. Dean felt his mouth fall open in shock, and Katrina’s laughter only grew louder.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” he told her, and she wasted no time arching an eyebrow at him in challenge.

“Oh yeah? Good luck.” And the next thing he knew, she was off to a running start, her laughter floating back to him over the air. Dean tore after her without a thought, glad they seemed to be the only ones this far out.

Katrina was fast, but he was taller, with a longer stride, and he caught up easily enough. Of course, Kat also had feline-like reflexes, and before he knew it, they both ended up on the ground, both winded, but laughing.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he complained. She snorted.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

Dean ran a hand down his face and tried to catch his breath.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, I think I’ve had enough fun for one day. What did you actually think of that tree?”

They were halfway back to the front of the farm, Dean hauling the tree with them, when the snow started to fall. He’d never had any particular attachment to the snow himself, it was just colder rain, but he couldn’t help smiling at the way Kat’s face lit up.

“Seriously?” he asked. “You getting’ all excited about snow?”

Of course, in typical Katrina fashion, she didn’t pay him any mind and only grinned wider.

“It’s the first snow of the year, don’t be a curmudgeon.”

“I’m not a curmudgeon, I’m just an adult. Snow’s a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, well. Being an adult’s boring. Live a little. You might enjoy it.”

The snow was still falling, already sticking to the ground and coating the earth in a thin layer of white powder when they reached their destination. The world seemed to grow quieter, muffled against heavy flakes, and with it, Dean noticed Katrina did too. They were almost done, when the kid running the machine to put the net around the trees ran into a problem and had to go inside to get help. That was when Dean noticed Katrina had drifted to the side, leaning against a fence, a faraway look in her eyes and she stared out blankly towards the road. Frowning, Dean approached, hands in his pockets, his expression morphing into one of concern.

“You alright?” he asked.

Katrina jumped, turning quickly and flashing him a smile when she realized he was next to her, but Dean noticed it didn’t reach her eyes. Her dark hair was dotted with fresh flakes of snow, growing wet as it melted into her braid. She nodded, but Dean knew better.

“Yeah, I’m good, sorry.”

Dean’s frown deepened, and he shook his head.

“You don’t have to be sorry. What’s up, Kat?”

She bit her bottom lip, seeming to wrestle with herself for a moment, her eyes darting back to the road, away from him. Finally, she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, the expelled breath rustling a few loose strands of hair.

“Nothing, really. I, uh… thanks for coming with me today. I’m sorry, about the other day. About the last few days. I was a real bitch.”

Dean had been so caught up in their afternoon that he’d almost forgotten about how they’d ended up there, but at the reminder, he suddenly felt that weird guilt again, and scratched at the back of his neck, feeling the heat creeping up it.

“Oh. No, Kat. You don’t have to – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“

But Kat finally turned to look at him again, and he fell silent at the look on her face, the subtle shake of her head more powerful than anything he could have said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I overreacted. My uh… my mom… this is the first Christmas since she died. It wasn’t too long after the new year that she passed. It’s been… harder… than I expected. I had sort of hoped that Jenna and I would still do something, but Jenna said it was too hard. She just wanted to get away this year, not celebrate. And, um… well, you know what it’s like looking out for your younger sibling. The second she told me that’s what she needed, I knew that was the way this year was gonna go, but… it’s still been a little rough. It’s just been the three of us since my dad walked out. That’s why Bobby invited me to come stay for a bit. We happened to be on a hunt together when Jenna and I had that conversation, and he didn’t want me to be by myself. But, uh, that… that doesn’t give me the excuse to treat you like crap. You didn’t know, and I should have just told you. I’m sorry. It was stupid.”

Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut, especially when he noticed water pooling at the edges of Katrina’s eyes. He may not have known her long, but he knew she wasn’t a crier. He’d known her mom had died, but he hadn’t realized when.

Without a second thought, Dean reached up and brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, cradling her face and keeping her from giving into that instinct he knew she had to look away. Neither of them were good with emotional vulnerability, but somehow that made it easier for him with her, and he was determined to try and give her that same outlet.

“That’s not stupid, and you don’t need to apologize. I’m so sorry, Kat. I wish I could say something that would make it better, but I’ve been there, and I know how much it sucks.”

Katrina sniffed but nodded, still biting her lip.

“I know you do,” she whispered. “And thanks, I appreciate that.”

Dean smiled softly at her, and before he could second guess the gesture, he kissed the top of her head. When she leaned into it and wrapped an arm around his middle in a hug, Dean felt his breath catch in his throat, but he wasted no time in returning the embrace and holding her against him.

“No need to thank me, sweetheart. That’s what friends are for.”

He wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, letting the snow fall over them while the world continued to quiet around them, but he savored every second of it, and for just a little bit the rest of his worries fell away. All that was left was him, and Kat, the stupid tree farm, and the damn snow… and he almost wished it could stay that way.

Of course, it couldn’t, and all too soon the kid was back, with his manager trailing behind him, bringing reality with them. Katrina disentangled herself from him, a different kind of flush gracing her cheeks now. Dean spared her a small smile and squeezed her hand – gloved once again, of course – before backtracking to collect their tree.

Their lives may have been a mess, and Dean wasn’t particularly happy about what the past year had brought him… but if there was one thing he was grateful for it was probably Katrina Black worming her way into his reluctant heart, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the next year might bring.

#jacklesversebingo24 #supernatural writers community #spn fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester x ofc #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfiction #annie writes

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chevroletdean · 7 days ago

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Tainted — Chapter 3: Bruised Fruits & Rotten Cores

SUMMARY: Although they’ve brought Dean back to the bunker, the problem remains. His demonic side has taken over. Can they find a cure for the curse before things escalate?

SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (MOC!Dean x Reader, Demon!Dean x Reader) GENRE: Angst TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Season 10 spoilers, established relationship,angst, torture, needles and syringes, use of y/n (twice), cussing, violence, demon!dean being an asshole again, some suggestive remarks, mentions of cheating, poorly proofread by yours truly WORD COUNT: 4.8k A/N: Three things heavily inspired this chapter: Did you know that 10x03 is my favorite Supernatural episode? Jensen did a fantastic job directing it. You'll notice a pattern here, by which I roughly follow the plot of some of season 9's and season 10's episodes. Another thing is that one scene of Princess Mononoke, iykyk. Last but not least, the @jacklesversebingo challenge inspired this chapter, but honestly gave me the final push to write the whole fanfiction. PROMPT: The Blade of a Knife Glinting in the Moonlight CREDIT & LINKS: header & divider by me ──〃★ series masterlist ──〃★ jacklesverse masterlist

⏪PREV. CHAPTER ⏯️PLAYLIST

Who knew how blurry the lines between torment and salvation could get?

Watching Sam inject yet another dose of purified blood into his brother’s arm had her instinctively clutch her own. It felt as though she was the one being tortured, not Dean.

They’ve thought back and forth on what to do, and this was the best plan they could come up with.

Exorcising him was out of the question as Dean was technically not possessed. If a demonic entity were to leave his body, surely nothing but an empty corpse would be left behind. Plus, what vessel without the Mark of Cain could he even use, then, and what damages would that cause for him and the poor bastard he’d possess?

No, they had to turn the corrupted soul back into a human one.

Curing a demon, according to the lore, was possible, even though they had never completed an experiment like this. In theory, it could be done, though. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself as she observed the situation with increasing anxiety.

The mere sight of Dean in heavy chains, tied to an iron chair in the middle of a dungeon, surrounded by pentagrams and protective sigils all around, was enough to burden her with concern. The Latin incantations, the holy water, the purified blood — they were inflicting obvious pain on him.

At least to the demonic part of him.

It wasn’t easy to tell where the one version of Dean ended and the other began. If there was even any particle of the old, human Dean left.

She could barely look at the needle, let alone listen to Dean’s pained grunt.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?,” he sneered, the smirk on his lips taunting regardless of his labored, pained breathing. “Can’t even look at the damage you caused, huh?”

A low blow, but he was hitting where he knew it would hurt. She already felt like shit for making him go through this. She already felt responsible for even letting it go this far.

Mumbling a half-assed excuse in Sam’s direction, she made a beeline towards the exit. She slipped through the heavy iron door and into the hallway, where she wasn’t able to take a breath deep enough to soothe her frayed nerves.

There was more screaming coming from the room they had imprisoned Dean in and never before did she wish she could drown out a sound more than now.

There was no indication of how much time had passed. It could’ve ranged anywhere from a couple of minutes to a solid hour.

To her, everything felt like an eternity lately.

She had spent an eternity without Dean, another eternity tailing him, now barely 48 hours have passed since they finally caught him and her perception of time was still warped.

“Hey,” a familiar voice behind her startled her into a wince.

She turned to Sam, whom she gave an apologetic expression and a silent nod.

“Sorry for leaving you hanging just now,” she muttered, voice laced with the kind of exhaustion sleep couldn’t fix, “I couldn’t bear watching all of that.”

Sam, ever the patient and understanding one, gave a empathetic nod. Bless his kind soul.

She still saw herself as the culprit in all of this. Even if she hadn’t actively been the one to turn Dean into a demon, he had a point: She was a co-artist of this mess, yet too pathetic to own up properly. For Sam to treat her with such compassion, then, seemed unfair.

“I hear you, I need a break too,” Sam sighed, a similar fatigue etched into his demeanor. “Dean could use one as well.”

At that, she tensed visibly. Tight-lipped, she only managed a brief, but meek hum. They were all on edge, and while the pressure of it all definitely crushed Sam and her, this was still about Dean. Ultimately, he was the one subjected to all the pain.

“What if it won’t work?,” she asked, her fear-filled question barely intelligible with how breathless her voice was. “What if we just end up hurting him more?”

Sam placed a soothing hand on her shoulder, but nothing could console her entirely.

“I think we’re making progress,” he responded, though they both knew there was no way of truly telling that. “It’ll be done soon.”

Neither them nor anybody they knew had ever performed the curation of a demon. They tried it with Crowley before, but couldn’t go through with it. What if this was just another experiment prone to failure?

She remained silent at his side, neither knowing what to say nor having the motivation to find the right words for her concerns.

“Just a little more, right?,” Sam sighed insistently and emphasized his words with a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. “No need to push it. Let’s take a breath for now and grab something to eat. I’ll buy some takeout, wanna come with?”

Reluctantly, she shook her head. She had enough of feeling useless.

“Someone has to keep an eye on him,” she replied.

It was the least she could do.

“Will you be okay?,” Sam probed.

Biting her lower lip, she nodded and forced a crooked smile unto her face. Not that she was looking forward to the task, but at the same time it was something she wanted to do, something she needed to do.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

She walked alongside him towards the War Room on the pretext of reminding him what food to order for her. Of course Sam already knew everyone’s go-to burger toppings by heart. She was stalling. Any minute she did not have to spend in the Dungeon was valuable to her.

“You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes, Sam, I promise,” she sighed. “I’ll call if I freak out, okay?”

While not entirely convinced, that seemed to reassure Sam just enough to head out.

A deafening silence befell the Bunker right away. It wasn’t any less crushing than the atmosphere in the Dungeon, so she steeled herself with a deep breath and decided to take the bull by the horns.

Each step down the stairs was more dreadful than the last, but she made her way back to that damned iron door, which she opened with as much confidence as she could muster. Within, Dean still sat tied to that chair, his expression a miraculous triad of bemusement, being pissed, and exhaustion.

“Came back all by yourself, sweetcheeks?,” he huffed and she could tell the effort it took him to curl his lips into a teasing smirk. “Where’d you leave Sasquatch?”

Purposefully ignoring his taunts, she ventured to the sink, grabbed the handtowel and held it under lukewarm water for a bit. While she could barely manage to look Dean in the eyes, she did approach the chair with a confident stride.

“How’re you feeling?,” she asked, the softness lacing her voice surprising even herself.

“Like I’m being cooked from the inside,” Dean rasped bitterly. He certainly looked the part, skin pale and sweat sticking to his forehead. The treatment was definitely an intense one. His blood must be boiling not only in the figurative sense.

Against her better judgement, she stepped inside the circle. Dangerous or not, she had to get closer to Dean somehow if she wanted to help him.

His sharp eyes did not leave her form, though she thought it to be a good sign that it was that familiar green she was met with instead of the jet-black.

It might be noteworthy to say that she wasn’t scared. Not of Dean, anyway. While the demon was definitely capable of hurting her, they had taken enough precautions. Plus, it was still Dean she was dealing with. Turned comically super-villain, maybe, but she trusted herself to know how to handle him either way.

She was worried, if anything, to mess up again. To harm him further. All she wanted was to help him.

Thus, her hand was steady as she placed it on Dean’s forehead. Even as his brows furrowed and he narrowed his eyes at her — both in confusion and annoyance — she didn’t falter. Just as she had guessed, he was burning up.

If only for a short moment, she felt him lean into the touch, as if the cool sensation of her skin against his was soothing. Even if Dean wanted to lash out like a caged animal, he was in no condition to fight back much currently.

She slowly withdrew her hand, replacing it with the damp towel instead to gently dab away at his skin. Her gaze wandered to the table Sam had set up, an arrangement of syringes, holy water, and cooling boxes filled with bags of purified blood sitting atop.

“Think you can handle another round?,” she asked, though she wasn’t exactly a huge fan of the idea. Just watching Sam do this had given her nausea earlier. Still, they couldn’t just give up now.

“Is that supposed to be a kinky question?” Dean’s quip lost half of its jeering nature due to the strain in his voice. “What’s next, you telling me you’ll be gentle before you jab that needle into me?”

At least he was still joking around at all. Bitterly so, but she preferred that over lethargy. She took his attempt at humor and jabs as him being in high enough spirits for another shot. The faster they’d get this over with, the better, right?

Dean’s eyes remained glued to her even as she assessed the equipment on the table.

“What’s this whole good-cop-bad-cop act for anyway?,” he scoffed. His fists clenched and unclenched, just the way his jaw locked repeatedly. “Fuck, what’s this whole cure bullshit for anyway?”

Her head spun towards him, bottom lip jutting out into a frown. Looking at her was like looking at a car crash, the view just stirred unwanted discomfort in him, but he couldn’t bring himself to peel his eyes away.

This whole procedure was seriously messing with his head.

“We’re just trying to help you, Dean,” she mumbled, sounding almost disappointed.

“I didn’t ask for any help,” he hissed harshly. His attempts of pulling away were, of course, for naught. The cuffs were on tight, metal and leather biting into his wrists and elbows. “How’re you so sure your savior complex will even work in your favor?”

He saw the twitch in her brow and he knew he was getting under her skin more than any needle could ever penetrate his.

“Sore topic?,” he huffed and tilted his head. “My bad, thought I might ask the doc about any side effects before she pumps more medicine into me.”

She wished she could say there were no side effects. But she saw the aftermath of this treatment right in front of her, didn’t she?

“You’ll be fine,” she grumbled more to herself, and hoping to make herself believe it too. It earned her nothing but a dismissive scoff from Dean.

“At least be honest with me here,” he quipped. “You haven’t got any goddamn clue what you’re doing. All you’re worried about is killing your precious loverboy, but honestly? That part’s long gone already, so whenever you’re ready with playing nurse, feel free to drop the cuffs and let me leave, before you make it worse than it already is.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly offended that this was all a game to him. To her, it was serious.

Syringe in one hand, flask with holy water in the other, she positioned the needle. Dean tensed visibly and he did try thrashing against his restraints, but temper tantrums were getting him nowhere.

“Son of a–!” Dean growled, face scrunching up in pain upon the liquid traversing through his veins. It was like a sizzle in his stream, a sharp sting flowing through his whole body.

What had her heart throb the most were snippets of the old Dean slipping through the cracks. While it should nurture the hope within her that he was not fully gone just yet, it filled her with dread to inflict this pain upon him all the same.

He inhaled sharply and groaned upon exhaling, glaring at her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. Dean’s anger she knew to be fiery and burning. Demonic Dean’s was eerily icy in contrast.

“You’ll regret this when I get out of here and tear your pretty face off, princess,” he threatened, the tremor in his voice all due to raw fury.

It was then that her phone rang.

Dismissing Dean’s dagger-throwing glare, she withdrew from him and stepped outside to accept the call. Turns out, amidst all the chaos, she had forgotten to reach out to her friend about the case.

“Where the hell are you?,” they inquired, nearly shouted. “I thought you finished that job! Care to fill me in on why the fuck I just found out there were two more victims?”

“Shit,” she grumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose. As if there wasn’t enough going on already. “Something came up, I had to leave. I forgot to call you, I’m so sorry.”

“Damnit, Y/N! That ghost isn’t going to get rid of itself,” they argued in frustration. “Did you at least figure out where the guy’s buried?”

Glancing back towards the door for a moment, the huntress bit her lower lip. “No, he was cremated, but there’s that journal of his,” she mumbled, contemplating. “Give me a second, I’ll go over what I found and text you the details.”

Figuring it would only take two or three minutes, she hung up the call and scrambled back upstairs. The door to her room— her and Dean’s room, might as well have been a thick brick wall to her. With a creak, she opened it and stepped inside.

Immediately she was hit with a wave of emotion.

Since getting back to the Bunker, she hadn’t even unpacked that duffel bag. She had just thrown it near the bed and left it there to rot. The past couple of weeks her sole focus had been on finding and curing Dean.

She had barely been in this room, mostly staying up all night in the library or falling asleep there. Without Dean, these four walls were nothing but a prison for heartache inducing memories.

“Just three minutes,” she reminded herself as she flicked on the ceiling light.

A moon-shaped sphere-pendant from the kid’s section at Walmart.

She remembered Dean’s teasing smirk when she had pointed at it, but no matter how much he made fun of her for liking that childish thing, he installed it the very same day. Dean always went out of his way to make this sterile, dusty building feel like a home. Their home.

Without any windows in this underground hideout, she sometimes wondered how the Men of Letters had not spent their research days missing natural light. Not even a glimpse of a star? Despite her appreciating the security of the layout, that lamp was a must-have to reclaim some sense of freedom.

Later that same evening, even Dean had admitted that the different settings, which ranged from dimmed, warm white to bright, blue-ish hues had a soothing effect.

“So whenever I’m making out with my girl, there’ll be aliens watching now?,” Dean had joked back then, cheeky grin flashing across his face as the dork wiggled his eyebrows. Leave it to her boyfriend to venture from the romantic atmosphere of a full moon to silly jokes about conspiracy theories.

She had just rolled her eyes and snorted. “Sure, aliens,” was her bemused response, because Dean’s laughter in particular was always contageous. “We better give E.T. one hell of a show.”

Pushing aside memories of easier days, the hunter grabbed her bag and shuffled through it.

After tossing aside dirty clothes, one moldy apple so smushed it nearly fell apart, and various other junk, she finally pulled out a folder. As she flipped through the documents, she took pictures of her notes and sent them to her friend. Luckily, she had written down all the information necessary to put the ghost to rest.

Sending…

Since when were the messages loading this slowly? Squinting at her phone, she realized her connection was broken. Considering Charlie and Sam had spent a good amount of time modernizing the Bunker’s setup, this was definitely odd.

As if on cue, the glow of the moon was no more. In fact, every light, every electronic device, every buzzing noise was suddenly snuffed out.

Startled by the blackout, her heart sank.

The emergency power roared to life, painting the location in a deep, red glow of neon. She knew then this wasn’t just a system error — someone had locked all exits and entrances on purpose.

Few things could cause the Bunker to just shut down like that, all of which were someone’s intentional, manual doing. Unless Sam was back and feeling like pulling a prank on her today, it could’ve only been…

Swiftly, she fished for her bag again, pulling out an angel blade. The weapon was heavy in her clammy hand, threatening to slip from her grip. She hurried out of the room, back sliding across the wall as she scavenged the area.

“Tag, I’m It,” Dean’s sing-sang voice all but boomed through the hallway. “Here’s how it’s gonna go, sweetheart. I said I was gonna make ya regret all that nonsense down there. But, to be fair, I should say thanks. All the human blood just made the cuffs and the devil’s trap straight worthless.”

Along with his words, an unsettling scraping noise echoed off the grey walls. Whatever object Dean was holding, he made sure to let it ring and clank loudly whenever he tapped it against the stone.

She sure as hell didn’t want to find out what weapon he had picked out, but given that his heavy footsteps were too close for comfort, she didn’t know whether she had a say in that. Realizing she was practically moving in his direction, she stepped back quickly.

He was just rounding the corner when she made the quick decision to slip back into their bedroom and hide behind the door. Of course this, of all places, would be her deathtrap.

Praying he wouldn’t hear the noise, she locked the door from inside and held her breath. Her heart was beating up to her throat, a relentess thrumming that rattled her very bones. Her ears perked up at the slow thuds of footsteps outside, getting closer and closer.

“You wanna play dirty, sweetheart?”

His voice appeared right by the door.

And his steps stopped right in front of it.

Fuck.

“Fine,” he hummed. “Let’s play dirty.”

With that final warning, wooden splinters flew across the room. Suppressing her yelp did not secure her hiding spot. Dean took another swing at the door, slamming the hammer right through it and chipping away at the barrier piece by piece.

“Dean, you don’t wanna do this,” she pleaded as she leapt backwards, dodging the debris and holding up her blade. She backed up to the other side of the room, but she was still cornered.

His lips curled into a victorious grin, as dark and sinister as his eyes. “Oh, no, I definitely wanna do this.”

Before she could even think about an escape route, he kicked whatever was left of the door open and charged at her, leaving her to duck. Instead of striking her across the head, the hammer smashed right into the wall behind her.

Still, she was far from being in the clear. Dean as a hunter was a force to be reckoned with as is, but as a demon his strength was downright terrifying. His speed remained unmatched as he shoved her backwards and pinned her in place.

Déjà-vu.

Again, he had her right where he wanted her. Except she wasn’t so positive anyone could come and save the day this time around. Dean was smarter than to mistake her for a damsel in distress, but they both knew even with her skills she was walking on thin ice.

“Where did we leave off last time?,” he grinned. “Or should I just skip straight to the good part?”

By squirming under his grasp, she tested his grip, but he only tightened it further. One of his hands prevented her from using her weapon, the other firmly pushed her shoulder into the wall.

“See, even the old Dean definitely fantasized about this,” the man smirked.

That revelation shouldn’t have shocked her as much as it did. She knew the dark urges the Mark of Cain bestowed upon her boyfriend. But somehow, in her naïveté, she believed that she was not part of these twisted desires.

Not directly, anyway. He’d always speak of slaughtering monsters, sometimes just craving to sink a blade into anyone in general. Never did he specifically mention her involvement in these violent fantasies.

However, as hard of a pill that it was to swallow, it made sense.

The Mark wouldn’t distinguish between monsters to kill or humans to murder. And why should she be excluded? If anything, the more sinister the urge, the better for the curse, right? And what better way to drain Dean’s sanity — to drain his humanity — than by planting the idea of killing his beloved into his brain?

While she knew to not take it personal, it was still a horrifying, numbing thought.

Dean’s eyes were jet-black, yet she could tell that the direction of his gaze followed the movement of his hand. He trailed his palm down her collarbone. Down the valley of her breasts, where he splayed his fingers.

“Of course, goody-two-shoes Dean was too much of a damn coward to actually do it,” he went on bemusedly, his touch ghosting across her chest.

He could feel her pulse dancing just underneath his hand. The pitter-patter of her heart resembled that of a little, helpless rabbit. Struggling to stay alive. Kicking and screaming.

Prey trapped in a spider’s web.

He was milking it, savoring the taste of her shallow breath and the victory of her wide eyes.

“Upgraded Dean, though?” He paused to whistle briefly. “He wants to rip that pretty little heart out and take a nice bite of it while it’s still fresh and beating.”

“And they say romance is dead,” she scoffed through a tight throat and gritted teeth. “Is that how you flirt all the girls?”

“Still upset about the whole unfaithfulness thing?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not the problem here, stop trying to deflect.”

“I think you’re the one deflecting, acting all tough and brave. C’mon, you can admit that you’re jealous. And scared.”

This fucking guy. He was unbelievable.

Of course he couldn’t just go through with his threats, he had to be insufferable about it. Playing into her guilt, poking and probing where he knew it would upset her.

She knew he was trying to make her angry. And of course it was working. Fueled by her rage, she twisted her arms and broke free from his grip with a sudden tug. All that hunting and training wasn’t just for show.

The demon definitely deserved that elbow to his face.

She popped him right in the nose, a cringeworthy cracking noise echoing off the walls. Even with his enhanced powers, the blow did stun him and he tipped his head back with an agonized grunt.

God, was that satisfying. All this pent up stress and his constant teasing.

“I spent months trying to find your sorry ass!”

Dean laughed, head falling forward again to reveal the crimson dripping down his nostril. In the bright red glow surrounding them, it almost looked black. The blood drizzled down to the curve of his lips and even partially stained his teeth that he flashed at her when he grinned.

“Sounds like a you problem, dollface. I didn’t ask for your help.”

Except he had. Why else had he begged her to make that stupid promise?

“You—”

She’s had it. Shoving him roughly, she pushed him off. Or rather, she jumped straight into him, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Even though she was on top of him, straddling his waist, pointing the tip of the angel blade right to the hollow of his throat, did she really have the upper hand on him?

How could she call this a victory? This was not what she wanted. None of this. It was, for whatever reason, his wish, if anything. He was making her play right into his cards.

“Feisty as ever,” Dean smirked. If she didn’t know it any better, she’d almost say he was praising her proudly. “You know how much I enjoy you taking charge.”

Her grip on the weapon tightened. Even now he was letting glimpses of their past bleed through. Even positioned underneath her, knife to his throat, he acted like he had full control over the situation.

As if he was the victorious one. Like any of this was what he wanted. All of it.

“Why?” The tremor in her voice was obvious.

“It’s hot,” he shrugged for an answer.

“Shut up,” she scoffed. Clearly not what she was asking. “Why are you so desperately trying to make me do this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Asking me to kill you, going behind my back to chase after Metatron, running away from me. Now this? Tricking me into stabbing you? Why are you trying so hard to make me give up on you?”

He remained silent underneath her, unmoving. Not even the smirk on his lips faded, though the mischevious spark of it no longer reached his eyes.

Suddenly, the power went back to normal. Sam’s alarmed voice rang through the hallway as he called out for both of them in panicked fashion.

The LEDs of the emergency lights faded, the glow in the room no longer an alarming red, but a dimmed, soft white. Their own little artificial moon, illuminating their homemade little world, shone down on the couple.

Dean tipped his chin back, as if arching further into the glint of her knife.

His patient eyes, emerald again, did not leave hers for even a second, still waiting for her to deliver that final blow. When her trembling hand threatened to pull away, Dean’s darted up to grasp her wrist and force the weapon closer to him.

“‘Cause I can’t move on until you do,” Dean spoke, calmer than she had heard him speak in forever.

Still, she shook her head, eyes softening.

“I promised you I wouldn’t,” she reminded him.

He scoffed, mouth twitching into what could only be described as a sad smile. “Not what I asked you to promise me, technically.”

“Since when do we get what we want?”

His jaw clenched and she watched the turmoil in his stormy eyes.

Hurried footsteps indicated Sam’s arrival, but finally, she had the situation under control.

“Y/N—”

She dismissed Sam by holding up her free hand, indicating for him to wait.

For once since this whole curse tainted their lives, she was finally able to get through to Dean.

“We’re so close, Dean,” she muttered. Even if they were miles away from the goal, she wouldn’t give up on him. But they were right at the finish line. “It’s working. The chains, the traps, you’re less and less demon. Let me help you. Please.”

Sam looked back and forth between her and his brother, briefly scanning their surroundings — a trashed door, a hammer sticking in the wall, blood smeared around Dean’s nose. Complete silence occupied the space and although instinct told him to intervene, he let her handle the situation.

Dean’s gaze wandered to the hand he was still holding, then back to her eyes. He let up on his grip, fingers now merely resting around hers, and parted his lips.

“Okay.”

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chevroletdean · 14 days ago

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Tainted — Chapter 2: Breathe Me In, Bleed Me Out

SUMMARY: The world caves in for Dean’s girlfriend when she gets a panicked call from Sam— Dean is gone. And she has to find him. Can she keep her promise?

SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (MOC!Dean x Reader, Demon!Dean x Reader) GENRE: Angst, smuttish (nothing explicit, but definitely suggestive so MDNI) TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Seasons 9-10 spoilers, established relationship, angst, little bit of a time jump from chapter 1, more time jumps within this chapter, temporary character death, grief, canon level violence, demon!dean being an asshole, suggestive making out (while consenual, definitely laden with guilt), implied cheating WORD COUNT: 5.2k A/N: This chapter was honestly difficult for me to write. My struggles with writing Y/N stories bite me in the butt again, lol. I never know whether Y/N is too flat to be interesting or too fleshed out to be relatable, it's a fine balance. Feel free to let me know your opinions. Fair warning: A good amount of this is basically the plot of the episodes 9x20 and 10x01. CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by myself ──〃★ divider edited by myself ──〃★ series masterlist

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“Slowly, Sam,” she spoke through the phone despite the tremble in her own voice.

She’s had this bad feeling in her guts, teetering on the edge of panic. It’s been like this the whole day. The second her phone had started vibrating, the moment she saw Sam’s name on the display, she knew it was bad news.

She couldn’t put her finger on as to why.

She just knew.

Maybe it was the timing; Sam rarely called her out of the blue. Not like this, anyway. Not under these circumstances. He never had a reason to, until now. He always promised to give her a call should he need her help and even then they usually would text each other instead.

Maybe it was the way Sam stumbled across his own words, barely able to choke out a single coherent sentence. She could probably count the amount of times he sounded this freaked-out on one hand. He went on and on, rambling about “Metatron” and “Crowley” and “a knife” and “blood, so much blood.”

What else could it have been then, if not bad news?

A dull ache throbbed in her head as much as it did in her chest. She took off just two days ago, since a friend asked her to help with a hunt.

She had been reluctant about leaving the Bunker — they had enough on their plate already: Searching for Metatron was annoying, and then there was Dean’s insistence on killing him with the First Blade. Sam had locked the weapon away ever since he noticed the effect it had on his brother.

That knife paired with the Mark of Cain was a recipe for disaster. Until they’d find a cure for the curse, it was best to keep it hidden from Dean.

“Deep breath,” she said — at this point she wasn’t sure if she was trying to calm down Sam or rather herself. Her own exhale was shaky. As were her clammy hands that had an iron grip on the phone. “What happened?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Every second of it filled her with an absolute sense of dread.

“Where is he?,” she asked then. Hopeful, worried, terrified. “Where’s Dean?”

Sam’s voice was barely audible on the other end, yet his words hit her with the force of a thousand screams: “I’m sorry.”

It was a weird feeling. She wanted to cry and scream, to deny and to bargain. But she remained absolutely stiff and silent. Numbness was taking over.

“Where is he?,” she repeated her question, voice barely above a breath.

“I put him on your bed.”

Their bed, the only place remotely close to a sanctuary after long days of hunting and having to face the ugly of the world. She didn’t even want to think of the implications of their situation now. That bed, once a warm haven, would forever feel cold now.

“Wait for me,” she muttered weakly. There it was, that long awaited lump in her throat. She tried to swallow it, along with the tears that threatened to dwell up and spill over. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

Without hesitation she checked out of the motel, ditched her current case, and drove back to the Bunker. While there was no point in fretting over it now, she did curse herself for giving in to Dean’s suggestion.

“It’s just a hundred-something miles, you should take the case,” his encouragement had been. He had practically been urging her to chase that ghost. How could she not have seen it? Why did she not question his adamancy?

“I guess it’s a simple salt and burn, shouldn’t take too long,” she had given in so easily. Why did she brush it off so quickly? Why did Dean have to push her away?

Why did she let him?

If she had to guess, she would’ve said she expected him to act differently.

Since that particularily restless night, she thought his calmer, more reserved mood was a good sign. Oh, how wrong she had been.

After weeks and months of battling with himself and the Mark of Cain plaguing him non-stop, she had grown accustomed to Dean’s shitty moods. She had braced herself for an explosion in case the curse would take over.

An outburst, she would’ve understood. He could’ve been rude to her, cold even, anything to try and make her hate him. All of that, she already mentally prepared for. But instead, he put distance between them so subtly and gently that she didn’t even recognize it for what it was:

A silent suicide mission.

This fucker knew trying to rile her up into driving her away would fail. He knew that if he wanted her out of the way of his plan, he’d have to resort to softer methods. To distracting her with a case, to plotting in secret.

Dean had been planning to use the First Blade against Metatron all this time. All by himself, despite the warning signs. He’s reduced himself to a weapon, again, even though they all tried to convince him that they were in this together.

Lebanon, Kansas was roughly two hours away. Thanks to violating multiple traffic laws, she arrived there in just under one and a half. It was honestly a miracle she made it there in one piece.

The first strange thing she noticed was Baby’s empty parking spot. The black Impala was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed, she thought Sam might’ve drove off to do God knows what.

Immediately she rushed inside, downstairs and into the war room. An eerie silence occupied the space. Dominated it. A silence she didn’t want to get used to, but she could already feel it settle in as if the Bunker was its new home.

Sam was nowhere to be seen, presumably — hopefully — keeping watch in Dean’s and her room. Did she even want to see what would await her there? Was any of this even real? It felt like such a joke, a twisted prank of a cruel fate. A nightmare she just wanted to wake up from.

Her heavy feet carried her down the hallway, but her legs were dragging along the floor like she was walking through water. Cold, heavy water slowing her down.

The door was slightly ajar and for a second her body refused to move entirely. Pushing it open and stepping inside felt impossible. No amount of time could help her brace herself for seeing her boyfriend’s corpse anyway. Thus, with a heavy heart and bated breath, she slipped inside.

Sam’s tall figure stood at the end of the bed, his back facing her and blocking her view, effectively.

Except, as she dared to take a glimpse, her eyes fell on an empty bed. Rustled sheets, stained with some blood. But no body.

Her stomach churned, racing mind unable to make sense of any of this.

“What did you do?,” she rasped. Casting her eyes towards Sam, she caught a glimpse of a piece of paper in his hands. Snatching it from his hands swiftly, she read the note over and over again.

Let me go.

Undoubtedly Dean’s handwriting, sharp and confident brushstrokes of a ballpoint pen. Let me go? What was that even supposed to mean?

“Sam, what did you do?,” she repeated her question, more urgently this time.

The younger Winchester stood there all frozen and speechless.

It was so difficult to contain her pain and her anger. Didn’t she tell Sam to wait until she was there? Didn’t she tell him to keep an eye on Dean just before she left two days ago?

Oh, how badly she wanted to yell at him for this mess.

But wasn’t that too easy? Pointing the finger at someone else, when she failed Dean all the same.

Not only was there no point in blaming Sam, it also didn’t look like he knew what was going on either. He looked about as distraught as she felt. She had to actively grab his arms to gain his attention.

“What the hell happened? Where’s Dean?”

Sam shook his head and she could see the wheels turning behind those knitted brows.

“Crowley,” Sam stuttered out. “He… I called him and—”

Her eyes almost popped out of her head, she widened them so much. Another cycle of sold souls might just be her last straw. Why did these boys always have to sacrifice themselves for each other?

“You made a deal?,” she interrupted him, furious.

“No deal. I told him to make it right,” Sam mumbled, more to himself, continuously shaking his head in disbelief. “When I came to check, they were both gone.”

Baffled, she blinked at him, seeking the truth in his words until her expression softened. She had no idea why Crowley would take Dean’s body, or what that note meant. Whether it was a petty, sick joke by the King of Hell or if it meant Dean was still out there somewhere, they had to find him.

“We will make it right,” she muttered, loosening her grip on Sam’s elbows. “Like we always do. We’ll find him.”

Hunters go through the five stages of grief like it’s a regular routine. A ritual, if you will. This life came with so much loss and pain. You’d think at some point you’d get used to it. To death all around you, to preparing yet another hunter’s burial.

But the fact that Dean was gone hit her like a whiplash. She didn’t even get to process any of it, no closure, nothing to make her know for sure where he was, whether he was okay, if there was still a chance. If she was still allowed to hope.

It took them weeks. Several weeks of trial and error. Tracking down Crowley did nothing. They had zero clues. No matter how many demons they asked, nobody knew what happened to Dean Winchester. The angels were fighting their own battle. Fellow hunters hadn’t seen or heard from him either.

She felt like she was slowly going insane. Her mind was a liminal space — she got the sense that she was thrown into cold water without knowing how to properly swim. She managed to keep her head up somewhat, but for how much longer could she take all of this?

At this point Sam and her were grasping at straws. The bigger fish in that vast ocean of questions were no help, so they had to dive deeper. They couldn’t afford to leave a stone unturned.

And who knew that a seemingly random case would prove to be their number one lead so far?

“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” the cashier sighed and awkwardly rubbed his neck. A young man, probably working a part-time job at this gas station. The poor bystanding citizen went over what he saw once more. “This guy was just browsing through zines, then this other guy charged at him and he— KAPOW! BAM! — He just stabbed him. Kinda badass, honestly.”

Maybe not so poor after all. The guy seemed ecstatic about his eventful day at a rather boring job.

Sam and her exchanged a glance, unsure of what to make of the worker’s thrilled testimony.

Pointing at the surveillance cameras in the corner, she asked: “Mind if we check the tapes?”

They were lead to the computers in the back and the gas station attendant opened the recordings for them. Sam put three of the videos side by side, two showing the interior of the store, one being an angle from outside.

As she saw the Impala roll in on one of the clips, her eyes widened. She physically leapt forward, pushing Sam aside and zooming in on the figure stepping out of the familiar vehicle.

Her heart began racing a thousand miles per hour as she recognized what was undoubtedly her boyfriend walking into the gas station.

Then, Dean was alive after all? But it made no sense. Why was he not calling her, how did he survive that fight against Metatron?

So many questions flooded her mind that she was barely paying attention to the footage of some man coming up to Dean, clearly going for a strike. Dean dodged the attack and sunk the First Blade into the stranger. After that, he just left, taking that magazine along and driving away.

She barely registered Sam’s arm reaching over her to pause the video. He rewound it and played it again in slow motion, frame by frame until his trained eye prompted him to hit pause again.

Dean’s eyes were entirely consumed by a pitch black darkness. Demonic, soulless pits of black.

Something deep within her core collapsed as she connected the dots. Ignoring Sam’s attempts of stopping her, she made a beeline towards the exit. Clumsy fingers fished for her phone and she hastily dialed Crowley’s number.

His thick accent and smug tone made her want to reach through the line and rip out his tongue. “Colour me surprised. What can I do for the Winchester’s dearest?”

She didn’t even bother with a proper hello, let alone with reacting to his teasing greeting.

“I swear whatever demon is using Dean’s body as a meatsuit, I’ll send both them and you straight into hellfire myself,” she snarled through gritted teeth, fueled by a rage she’s never experienced before. She could only imagine the anger the Mark of Cain always caused for Dean, but she assumed her own came pretty close to the same level just then and there.

It earned her little more than a bemused chuckle.

Oh, that bastard was done for on so many levels.

“Crowley, I swear to all that’s holy I will—”

“Charming,” he interrupted her cursing, “But it’s all him, love.”

What?

“Call it the new and improved Dean,” Crowley hummed nonchalantly. “I did say the Mark of Cain would give him a nice and fancy upgrade, didn’t I?”

Surprisingly, a scavenger hunt to track down Crowley and/or Dean was even more frustrating than finding Metatron. Now, they all had good reason to getting ahold of that asshole, but Dean came first.

He always did. Plus, she didn’t make that promise for him just to fail him after.

Truth be told, she had no idea what she’d do once she would find him. Or rather, what was left of him. Judging by what Crowley said, the Mark of Cain had finally turned Dean into a monster.

For all they knew he was dangerous, yet she couldn’t care less.

It took her a while, but she managed to find a trail. Apparently the demonic version of the green-eyed hunter was a little more reckless when it came to covering up his traces.

Or maybe he didn’t particularly care about if or who might find him.

Either way, there weren’t many black ’67 Chevys cruising from motel to the next. If her hunch was correct, he was staying at one near her current location — lucky her, on one side. On the other hand, Sam was following a different lead one state over.

She couldn’t just let this chance slip, though. There was not enough time for backup. And, who knew, maybe it was a nothing burger anyway.

To be safe, she sent Sam a text that included the address, and purposefully ignored his reply about how she shouldn’t take risks by going alone.

She made her way to a motel that looked more run down than most of the ones even she was used to. It almost looked abandoned, definitely old, were it not for the bar on the other side of the street. That one was buzzing with light and music even from the buildings adjacent to it.

And wouldn’t you know it — Baby was parked right in front of said bar, empty.

This was her chance. She was ready to pick every lock of every room if it meant a chance at getting Dean back. The motel was definitely as hauntingly quiet and empty as your average ghost-filled mansion.

But it played into her hands. There wasn’t even any staff present.

Quickly, she snuck behind the reception’s desk and flipped through every document she could find. One name in particular struck her as odd — Joseph Perry. Unless the actual Joe, Aerosmith’s lead guitarist was renting a room in one of America’s most shabby motels, she hit the nail on the head.

One quick text message to Sam — ‘Found him. Room 205, he’s out. I’m going in.’ — and she tiptoed down the hallway. Picking the lock was almost too easy, because not even a minute later she found herself standing in the middle of a two-bedroom.

Instead of flickering on the lights, she resorted to using her phone’s flashlight. No need to draw any attention.

Eagerly, she rummaged through the room. The small closet space was filled with flannels and denim she recognized. Even their scent was familiar, though that brought back emotions she couldn’t focus on right now.

She didn’t even know what she was looking for exactly. Clues to what Dean’s been up to the whole time, where he’d go next. Heck, maybe even the First Blade, if only to take it away from him again.

The dresser between the two beds was next, the drawers of which were empty.

Her snooping and investigating was cut short by the light switch turning on.

Fuck.

Her breath hitched in her throat and she didn’t dare to move a muscle. She knew she’d be done for if he’d catch her trying anything funny.

A deep, gravelly yet smooth, and painfully familiar voice appeared behind her: “Didn’t I say to leave me be, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t possibly know the sting that petname caused. The hollow ache it stirred. How long has it been since she’d hear his voice at all, let alone have him call her that?

His presence alone was enough to make the ends of her hair stand up tall. She wished she could call it a bittersweet reunion, but with these circumstances, it was more of a fight-or-flight instinct than anything.

“You mean that lousy note?,” she choked out and she cursed herself for the way her voice quivered. Damn it, her heart was aching so badly. “You were never a poet, but I was hoping for a more heartfelt goodbye.”

With her back still facing him, her hand slowly slid into the inner pocket of her denim jacket. Her fingers were shaky and sweaty as she curled them around the handle of her angel blade.

His voice echoed in her memories; “When things go to shit, you have to stop it.”

The look of desperation in his green eyes.

The very same green eyes she was met with upon spinning around and raising her weapon. She felt as though she was the one being stabbed.

“Stop me.”

How could she possibly do it? How could she keep such a promise? How could he ask something like that of her?

Her movement faltered midway. Not that she stood much of a chance anyway. Within a flash of a second, her wrist was captured by Dean, her arm twisted forward and around until she dropped the blade.

The silver object clattered on the floor and along with it, her heart dropped too.

“I thought I recognized that car of yours outside,” Dean hummed thoughtfully, his intense gaze scanning her up and down. “You just couldn’t let me be, huh?”

The huntress yelped softly as he shoved her back against the dresser.

The wooden edge was digging right into her lower back, an uncomfortable bite against her spine as she found herself trapped between the furniture and the twisted version of the love of her life.

His body pinned hers into an immobile state. He was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear.

“So what’s the grande plan here?,” he grinned, lips brushing against the juncture of her jaw ever so slightly. “Your pretty face shows up, you bat those eyelashes and then what?”

She tensed up visibly, clenching her jaw. She didn’t have an answer. Maybe she should’ve thought this through, but then again, she didn’t think that she’d actually run into him.

Using her other hand, she tried reaching for her other pocket. However, before she even had the chance of pulling out the anti-demon handcuffs, Dean grabbed that hand too, encircling both of her wrists in one iron grasp.

The cuffs fell down right next to the angel blade and for good measure, Dean kicked both items haphazardly into a random direction, so long as it was out of reach for her.

“Don’t get sneaky on me now, doll,” he muttered and the dangerous, grumbling edge in his voice had her shudder. “I asked you a question.”

Her only chance of getting out of this was to buy more time.

“Can you run that by me again? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Whilst Dean’s lips twitched into a smirk, he didn’t appreciate her teasing attitude. His other hand darted up and found home around the delicate of her throat. A choked gasp errupted from her as she felt his fingers wrap snugly around her windpipes.

While it definitely hurt, it wasn’t enough to do any actual damage. He was applying just enough pressure to make her head all dizzy and her panic all spiked.

“Always a witty comment,” he tutted, clicking his tongue as he leaned closer. “Never knows when to shut that pretty mouth of hers, until it’s put to good use.”

She couldn’t suppress the heat rising to her cheeks if she tried. Not that she wasn’t used to him being assertive, but the intensity of this was downright dangerous.

“You clearly didn’t think this through, doll,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her lips. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

Black flashed across his eyes, dark and consuming.

It should’ve scared her, and it’s not like she wasn’t aware that he could so easily snuff out her life. He’d have to squeeze just a little harder. He’d just have to flick his wrist. But how could she focus on fear when every fiber of her being was consumed by guilt?

She swore she’d save him from this, and she failed so miserably.

“Promise me you’ll put an end to it if things go wrong. Please.” His plea rang through her mind still, clear as a bell.

“I promise I’ll do everything I can,” she had nodded back then. “If we run out of options, I’ll do it.”

An ultimatium. The last resort. As long as there was so much as a slither of hope—

It was still Dean. Her Dean, demon or not. That thought was equally comforting and devastating. The lines were as blurry as the swirl of her emotions.

“You’re not my enemy, Dean,” she tried, her voice strained through the chokehold he still had on her. “It’s the Mark, you’re not yourself.”

Dean barked out a laugh and shook his head, his eyes emerald once more. “And that’s where you’re wrong, doll. I’ve never felt better.”

As if to demonstrate, his hands vanished from her wrists and throat, seizing her hips instead. He lifted her up with ease and shoved her on top of the dresser with such sudden force that her hands instinctively sought an anchor in his arms.

Arms she used to rely on — they’d lull her to sleep, they’d welcome her home, they’d provide her with warmth. Arms she had taken for granted. Arms she had missed feeling around her.

Large hands slipped under her jacket, greedily pawing at her waist and she stiffened at the sensation of his warm fingers slipping under her shirt. His touch still felt the same and she didn’t know which was worse: That it still had the same effect on her or that Dean knew.

“Dean,” she uttered, all breathless and not even coming close to making it sound like a protest.

“Isn’t this what you came here for?”

He didn’t even give her time to process his question, let alone come up with an answer. Rough hands pulled her impossibly closer until he stood between her thighs, towering over her like some unyielding wall.

“To see me,” he went on — and damn it if months of lonely, sleepless nights didn’t turn his voice into the most alluring siren’s song for her. He brought his forehead down to hers and all her eyes could focus on was the shape of his lips. “To feel me?”

Guilty as charged, evident by her giving in to the magnetic pull.

The question of who closed the gap between them was overshadowed by the fact that their mouths all but crashed together. A burning hunger took over, consuming and demanding, and leading to a devouring rather than just a kiss.

It wasn’t pretty by any means. Just a tangled mess of bumping noses and clashing teeth, of hands wandering and exploring and claiming.

A whimper of hers fueled Dean to shove her jacket off her shoulders, whereas pride filled her upon drawing a grunt from his lips with just a simple tug on his sandy hair.

The taste of him was as intoxicating as she remembered it to be, not least because of the whiskey sticking to his tongue.

Her body fell into old habits as if no time had passed. Her back arched instinctively and she completely melted into his embrace — those arms welcoming her home once more —, even as his warm lips worked a path down her jawline.

Clearly Dean still had her body perfectly memorized all the same, knowing exactly which buttons to push. Sharp teeth grazed across her pulse, before the swipe of a warm tongue soothed over the sting.

“Gotta say, sweetheart,” Dean muttered, his words husky and muffled by her flushed skin as he nibbled down her collarbones. “I did miss this. Always so damn responsive.”

Her fingers combed through strands of hair that had grown longer since she last saw him.

So much time has passed. So much has happened since. But have things really changed?

“I missed you, too.”

She knew that was neither what he said nor what he meant, yet she couldn’t help but yearn. She couldn’t help but trust. It’s always been her greatest weakness. Dean always has been her greatest weakness.

His grip tightened on her curves until she was sure she’d be covered in finger-shaped marks.

Good. ‘Cause if he were to ever slip away from her again, she’d want all the traces of him she could keep, locked deep within her. Every single bruise. She’d want his bite to infect her from the inside.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent with the intent to catalogue it into the depth of her brain.

A soft click from the other end of the room made her heart flip.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispered.

They only had this one chance.

Her hands cupped his jawline, fingers caressing stubbled skin as if handling porcelain, and her lips found his in a softer kiss.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated gently, letting him taste and swallow the words.

Her apology confused him enough to distract him.

Sam took the opportunity, capturing Dean’s arms from behind and securing them behind his back. The handcuffs snapped into place around his wrists, the engraved pentagrams rendering the demon pretty much powerless.

Dean growled and writhed in protest to his brother yanking him away. He was like a caged animal, baring his teeth as well as his inky eyes. Kicking and screaming got him nowhere, though.

With combined strength, Sam and her managed to drag him back to the Impala, where they pushed him into the backseat.

Sam slammed the door shut, taking a deep breath. She half expected him to scold her for tackling this by herself. But his expression held nothing but concern as his eyes gave her a once-over.

“You okay?”

Was she? Honestly, she didn’t even know anymore.

From the corners of her eyes she glanced through the backseat window. Dean sat there fuming silently, his dark eyes screaming bloody murder as he glared at Sam and her.

“We basically just arrested a demonic Dean, I’ll take it as a win,” she shrugged, deflecting the question with weak humor.

Sam’s eyes followed the direction of her gaze. Undoubtedly, he was also glad that they managed to find and capture him. But the real challenge was still ahead of them.

“Did he hurt you?,” he asked.

“I’m okay,” she said through a clenched jaw and shook her head. “Thanks for your help back there.”

With that, she slid into the passenger seat. That was as much conversation as she was comfortable with. She knew Sam had questions, but she didn’t have any answers. It was all a haze for her too.

Sam rounded the car and got behind the wheel. His nose scrunched up in disgust as he shoved empty beer cans off the dashboard.

“It’s just a car,” Dean scoffed from the back, rolling his eyes. Yeah, alright, the Mark of Cain had not just corrupted him, Dean was definitely beside himself. That might’ve just been the most concerning thing she’s ever heard him say.

Sam was still busy clearing trash out of his seat. A glance towards the woman next to him confirmed his suspicions that her side wasn’t any cleaner.

She picked up a black bra from the floor, along with a ripped condom wrapper. Lovely. Crumpling both the foil and the fabric in her fist, she sent the damned things flying out of the window.

“Good to know someone was having fun the past few months,” she grumbled, pain obviously lacing her tone.

Again, she had to remind herself that this wasn’t Dean. Not really. Or at least a Dean that wasn’t thinking straight. Still, the idea of him roaming the streets like the world was a banquet at his feet, while she was working day and night to save him, made her sick to her stomach.

Knowing she wouldn’t like Dean’s response anyway, she turned on the radio. She didn’t want an explanation, much less any smug mockery. All she wanted was to get back to the Bunker and put an end to this nightmare.

Just like she had promised.

Dean Winchester Taglist: @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126 @zepskies @calibootsgirl

@hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46 @midnight--raine @emmy21842

@whichwitchwanda @foxyjwls007 @lyarr24

#dean winchester x reader #supernatural x reader #spn x reader #supernatural fanfiction #dean x reader #moc!dean x reader #demon!dean x reader #dean winchester x y/n #supernatural x y/n #spn x y/n #dean x y/n #tainted #breathe me in bleed me out #chevroletdean writes

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zepskies · 2 months ago

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Agree with so many of these HCs!! Love me a NSFW alphabet. 😏❤️‍🔥

nsft alphabet [dean winchester] ── ✮⋆˙

genre: smut, explicit ─ minors dni! a/n: writing headcanons was easier than a kinktober one shot, oops. enjoy, i'll try to follow up with a sam version soon. and possibly other characters? (i'm feeling like writing one for alec mcdowell tbh) feel free to request any in my inbox! credit & links: alphabet ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ request here taglist: comment a green heart 💚 to be added to the dean x reader taglist (please note: ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts) @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

It honestly depends on where you guys are, but generally speaking, he always makes sure you’re okay. If there’s anything you need, he’ll tend to it – which can range from a clean towel to a gentle forehead kiss. Even if you’re technically on the run or have somewhere urgent to be, he at least makes sure you’re both good to go.

Preferably he likes to take his time with you though. The aftermath of sex is one of the rarer opportunities for Dean to be openly sappy and vulnerable. Even with hookups, to some degree at least, the warmth of a lover’s arms is one of the places he can fully relax and he wants them to feel just as comfortable.

That said, he can be a little lazy. He makes sure the necessities of aftercare are fulfilled, always, but don’t always expect a luxurious bubble bath and immediately changing the sheets. Oftentimes he just wants to collapse onto bed with you and catch his breath.

He’s 50% giddy and proud smile – all cocky grins and smug bragging – and 50% sleepy. Your embrace is the closest he can get to experiencing heaven, he’s sure and getting to rest his head against your chest is the best feeling on earth. The sound of your steady heartbeat will definitely lull him to sleep and he’s insistent on cuddling the whole night through.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He has a love-hate relationship with his face. People keep telling him he’s handsome and even call him a pretty boy and sometimes he can’t see what they see. Most of the times his face card is a useful tool when it comes to investigation and working his charms. Other times he can’t stand looking at his own reflection. But when you compliment him on his freckled nose, his green eyes and long lashes, he definitely takes pride in it.

This particularly applies to his lips. He knows you love how pink and plump they are. And how pretty you think that smile of his is. It gets him anywhere he wants. Plus, the things he can do to you with that mouth, speaking sweet nothings, kissing you all over… what’s not to take pride in?

As for you, he’s a simple man, sometimes bordering on caveman – he’s obsessed with your butt and not shy to let you know. Whenever he gets the chance, his hand is somewhere on or close to your ass.

Your hands too though, not a chance he passes up on to hold it, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t think about your hands on him 24/7. If you wear any rings or nail polish, he always notices.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Loves to ask “Where do you want it, baby?” but his personal favorite is definitely in your mouth. Not even down your throat, he loves seeing you stick your tongue out for him, all coated in his cum, before you swallow.

He’s tried tasting his own cum before out of curiosity and had conflicted feelings about it. He’s even considered changing his diet afterwards, but (unsurprisingly) he got tired of eating so much fruit pretty quickly.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Not really a secret, since it’s literally canon and we all know he loves wearing lacy panties, but yeah. He definitely stole a pair of your underwear before and he’ll deny having seen it anywhere if you’d ask.

Since he loves sexting, he definitely has a nude or two of you and after annoying Sam enough to show him how the stupid printer worked, he now keeps his favorite lewd picture of you in his wallet, because why not? It’s especially useful when you two have to be separated because you’re working on different cases or something of the sort.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Dean has obviously fucked around a lot (literally), countless of hookups under his belt. He definitely knows what he’s doing and he can be very annoying about it when he boasts.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

You on top of him is his favorite sight. His hands get to grab everywhere and he loves that he can focus on watching his cock slide in and out of you as you ride him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Sex, for Dean, is fun. It’s a good time, where you get to enjoy each other and make each other feel amazing. If he can’t get a giggle or a smile out of you, he thinks he’s not doing his job right.

However, there are definitely occasions that call for a more serious mood. Such as intimate moments after a rough day, where he and you just want to unwind and feel each other.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Short answer: He keeps his pubic hair trimmed, but not completely shaved.

Long answer: There’s other body hair he treats differently. Over the years he’s developed light chest hair, which he sometimes bothers to shave. He keeps his happy trail, as he’s never thought about it. His thighs are somewhat hairy. His body hair sometimes has a little hint of red color mixed into it.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Unfortunately there’s little room for the real big romantic settings, such as rose petals and lit candles around the bedroom. With life on the road for the most part, you have to make do with what you have. He tries to make each time as special as possible though, it’s always passionate.

Dean’s a big softie once he lets his guard down, which you manage with ease. Very verbal, huge on saying sweet nothings. Lots of kisses. Definitely likes holding or touching you throughout it all. If possible, not a sheet of paper will fit between you two.

Eye contact is his strong suit. Doesn’t matter what position you’re in or what you’re doing, he loves getting lost in your eyes. If you ever avert your gaze or close your eyes, he reminds you to keep them on him.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Dean, as a certified porn addict, beats his meat a lot. His libido is high and he can’t always come crawling to you, so he relies on trusty lube and his hand more often than he likes to admit.

Definitely has a fantasy of you walking in on him and lending him a helping hand.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Roleplay! Just the thought of you in a sexy costume gets him hard. You’d make him the happiest man alive if you greeted him in a nurse costume. He’d also be into a police officer costume, handcuffs included. It’s fun and it allows you two to play pretend for a bit.

Praise, both ways. He’s always gushing about how good you are, how amazing you feel, how pretty you look while you’re fucking. In return, he loves getting praised by you. Nothing fuels him more than pleasing you and he’s so eager for those compliments.

Food play, to some degree. He loves seeing your pretty mouth stuffed, lips wrapped around a sweet treat in seductive fashion. Or when he gets to lick whipped cream from your skin? Again, playful and fun.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

His favorite location for sex remains a bed (bedroom, motel, he’s not too picky in that regard), because there he can take his time with you.

Of course making sweet love to you in the backseat of his car is always an option, too. The way the Impala's windows fog up is addictive for him.

That said, he won’t say no to other options. Not an inch of the bunker has not been defiled by the two of you. Shower, kitchen, the table in the main hall, the library, even Sam’s room while he was out. You name it, he’s fucked you there at least once.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Dean Winchester’s mind runs dirty at the smallest things. It doesn’t take much to pop the idea into his head that he wants to bend you over the nearest furniture or pin you against the nearest wall to have his way with you.

When you’re in a grumpier mood – that might sound shitty, but hear me out: He loves your gruffier, feisty side, because it makes him wish he could make that tension in your shoulders melt under his touch. He wants to kiss that scowl away and make you see stars until you forget about why you were even mad in the first place. You are hot. You being angry is even hotter, and it’s like a challenge for him to do something about it. Plus, you could always take it out on him, dominate the shit out of him until you’re no longer pent up and frustrated.

What never fails to drive him absolutely crazy is you wearing his clothes. You in his shirt or jacket makes his heartbeat skyrocket and his dick rock hard. It awakens something primal and possessive within him.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

A hard no for him would be anything involving causing you (intense) pain. I’d go as far and say he’d not even be into spanking, unless it’s like a playful slap on your ass. He’s not even a fan of choking or biting you. He hates seeing you hurt and if things get too intense, it’ll only trigger memories of him being forced to torture others in hell. There's already enough blood and guilt on his hands.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Hear me out when I say earlier seasons Dean goes weak in the knees when you suck him off. Nothing more of an ego boost than you drooling over his cock.

Later seasons Dean though? He likes to give head like a starved man. Getting you off is a huge turn on for him and admittedly, you riding his face is a high that he can’t compare to anything else. He’ll use every part of his mouth, lips, tongue, teeth until your legs give out and he has to hold you against him.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends on the mood. He can do both, but he prefers slow and sensual. Dean loves taking his sweet time with you, worshiping every inch of your body. He wants to cherish the moment and really commit every detail to memory.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Again, proper and passionate sex is his preferred way to go. But even then he has a high sex drive and more often than not, you don’t have much time for anything but a quickie. Most of the time, actual proper sex is a luxury, so you make do with what you can.

If you two have to rush it, you might as well have fun with it: It’s turned into a challenge of how quickly he can make you come undone on his cock versus how long it’ll take for you to make him orgasm.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Leaning towards no. Referring back to the fact that he doesn’t like hurting you, he also doesn’t like putting you into danger. Safety comes first, otherwise it’s not enjoyable for him.

On the flipside, he’s experimental when it comes to new things. You wanna try out a new kink? Sure! He won’t say no to spicing up your sex life. Just nothing involving potential damage.

He definitely is risky when it comes to public spaces. Likes to steal touches, sometimes subtle, sometimes not so much. The thrill of potentially getting caught red handed with his fingers between your legs under the table? Fuck, yes.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He’s not done until you are.

Lasts an average time, but that doesn’t mean he can’t go for a round two. Or three. Or more, you get the idea. Unless the situation calls for anything out of the order, he makes sure to be gentleman enough to make you cum first.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Handcuffs for him, or anything to tie him up with, you can get creative, so long as you tease him until he’s a whimpering mess unable to touch you.

Once you pulled out a butt plug and initially he thought it was for you, but, oh, was he wrong. Since then it has turned into a regular part of your bedtime activities.

He’s not one to get jealous of a toy, so if you want to use anything to rile yourself up further, he sees it as an aid more than a competition. Plus, there’s something insanely arousing about seeing you play with yourself, whether it is with the help of a toy or not.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

More than anything he enjoys being on the receiving end of teasing. You can make him beg so prettily.

However, that’s during the sex itself. When it comes to working you up beforehand, he’s a master. Teasing touches, sultry words, dangerous spark in his eyes and a cheeky grin? He’s bold and he’s not afraid to bite off more than he can chew.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

If you want him to be, he can be so damn vocal. Big on the whimpering department if you dominate him. And, again, just as enthusiastic regarding sweet praise and dirty talk.

Other than that, he’s usually all heavy panting and grunting. Not so much moaning and screaming, that’s what he tries to make you do.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He knows it’s cliché, but he likes to turn on the record player when he has sex. Playing some music during the hanky panky makes the whole experience even better. His playlist, of course, consists mostly of classic rock, but he’s genuinely picked the more romantic songs. Nothing Else Matters by Metallica, Fool in the Rain by Led Zeppelin, Love in an Elevator by Aerosmith… you get the idea. After an especially passionate night to a whole LP of Led Zeppelin, he couldn’t help but flinch and turn bright red when the same songs started playing in his car the next day. Dean also made a mixtape just for the occasion as a gift for you.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

A good six and a half inches, about seven when he’s hard, in size and definitely on the thicker side in girth.

It’s smooth minus that one prominent vein on the underside.

Pink tip that turns even brighter when he’s aroused.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

He broke the scale, Dean is one horny bastard.

He’s either going to town on you, much to the dismay of anyone else in the bunker, or he’s pent up most of the time.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After making sure you’re okay and putting in some effort to clean up (at least a little), he’s out like a light. Dean is a light sleeper, but the blissfully exhausted state he finds himself in after exerting himself makes him clock out. It takes everything from him to not just collapse on top of you and say hello to dreamland sometimes.

#nswf alphabet #supernatural headcanons #dean winchester headcanons #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #chevroletdean writes #zepskies reads

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chevroletdean · 22 days ago

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Tainted — Chapter 1: Practice My Confession

SUMMARY: As his nightmares get worse, Dean realizes he’s turning into something he’s terrified of; he needs his girlfriend to promise him something.

SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (MOC!Dean x Reader, Demon!Dean x Reader) GENRE: Angst TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Seasons 9-10 spoilers, established relationship, angst, alcohol, violence & gore (a little grittier than canon level), mentions of torture WORD COUNT: 2.5k A/N: This is the first chapter of Tainted, and my second post for the @jacklesversebingo challenge! PROMPT: "I don't want to find out what I would do if I lost you." CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by myself ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist ──〃★ series masterlist

⏯️PLAYLIST ⏩NEXT CHAPTER

The clock's digits stared back at him, mockingly so — 4:06 AM. Their glow matched the same crimson shade that had originally startled him awake.

He was still breathless, too, after jolting up into a rigid, wide-eyed state.

Every fiber of him felt as if it was made of stone. Lifeless, cold, paralyzed. Everything except his heart, anyway. That part of him defied his stillness, hammering relentlessly against his ribs and threatening to leap into his throat.

Squinting, he averted his gaze by lowering his head. Reluctantly he blinked down to his hands, which were trembling in his lap. Though his clammy palms felt sticky and cold, a pang of relief washed through him when he realized it was simply sweat that was sticking to his skin.

He had half expected to see the blood still.

Just a nightmare, then.

Those weren’t anything out of the ordinary for Dean Winchester. The man had spent more sleepless nights in his life than he’d ever had the luxury of a full night’s rest.

However, this one was different. It was raw. Violent.

Last time his tormented slumber left him this hollow and shaken was years ago — back when the memories of Hell were still fresh in his mind. Even to this day, seven years later, the times of fire burning flesh and endless torture sent shivers down his spine. But it’s been a while since his dreams were this vivid.

The soft rustling of bedsheets pulled him back to reality.

“Dean?” — Her voice was thick with sleep and laced with concern. Just mere moments ago she had been fast asleep. Peaceful and calm at his side, grounding him as always. Except he was still unable to shake it off.

This feeling, which was just as attached to him as the symbol embedded into his skin.

“Hey,” was the only lame reply he could muster. Even the movement of his mouth felt askew and wrong. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

Instead of replying, she reached towards the nightstand, flicked on the lights and sat up. Dean remained perfectly still at her side, his eyes still glued to his trembling hands.

That was until her hand entered his field of vision. The second he understood her attempt of grabbing his hands, he pulled his away. His shoulders stiffened further as he cleared his throat.

“Just a nightmare, ‘m fine,” the hunter grumbled, more to himself than anything, whilst swiftly swinging his legs over the edge of his side of the bed. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs thrice, then ran his wiped hands through his messy hair only to realize his forehead was just as sticky with sweat.

Even with his back turned towards her, quite a literal manifestation of the impenetrable walls he liked to build around himself, she recognized the gravity of his ‘nightmare.’ His shoulders were slumped yet tense, and the way he avoided not only her gaze but also her touch caused her stomach to churn.

Right away she understood this was about more than just an unpleasant dream.

She watched in silence as he got up, barely making out the mumbled word “shower” as he slipped into the bathroom.

Part of her wanted to follow after him, just to make sure he was okay. As okay as he could be, anyway.

They’ve all noticed how on edge Dean was lately. Not that anyone blamed him for it, given the stressful nature of the past few weeks. Defeating Abaddon has taken a toll on Dean, more so than any of them wanted to admit.

They could’ve never killed a Knight of Hell without the Mark of Cain.

However, it became more and more obvious that the strings attached to this curse were heavier than originally anticipated. Desperate times had called for desperate measures. But seeing Dean slip away from sanity more and more made her question whether it was really worth it.

Ever since killing the demon, his temper became unpredictable.

Even his appetite had diminished as of late, shocking both Sam and her when he downright refused to order a cheeseburger at one of his favorite fast food spots. Furthermore, Dean’s patience ran thin lately, his recent behavior during cases increasingy reckless — if not downright suicidal. He’d charge into the enemies’ nest, guns blazing, just like that and without regard for any possible dangers.

Not to mention, the frequency of those nightmares have reached an all time high, a new record if you will. It wasn’t just the usual disruption of his four hours of shut-eye either; these were the kinds of nightmares that had him instinctively reach for the gun under his pillow, nightmares that left him giving up on going back to sleep at 4 AM.

She would’ve asked him to open up to her, but she knew that would be like talking to a brick wall. Whenever she’d test the waters, he’d dismiss her and avoid awkward conversations about his feelings.

Still, it was worth another try.

As she listened to the water running in the bathroom, she decided to slip out of bed as well, despite her own fatigue. Grabbing her fluffy robe and putting on her slippers, she used the small time window to head to the kitchen. Since it was the middle of the night, the bunker was eerily silent, every step of hers echoing off the bleak walls.

Once in the kitchen, she grabbed a kettle and two mugs, brewing up some tea. Something to warm and soothen those nerves of Dean’s. For good measure, she added more ingredients to both cups, then walked back to their shared room.

She kicked the door shut behind herself just in time for Dean to leave the bathroom.

Dean only stole a brief glance in her direction, before he sat down on the bed again, back leaning against the headboard. “You didn’t go back to sleep?”

“Figured a cup of tea would do us good,” she shrugged, crooked grin on her lips. She handed one of the cups to him and maneuvered herself to join his side. “Roiboos-Orange.”

Dean sniffed at the steaming liquid.

“Not to sound ungrateful, sweetheart,” he sighed, already moving to hand the cup back to her. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for a tea-party.”

“That’s a shame, ‘cause I even added the special secret ingredient,” she replied with a feigned pout and fished a small flask from the pocket of her robe, wiggling it in front of him. The quiet sloshing of rum inside indicated the bottle’s half-empty state.

Dean paused, then choked out a weak chuckle. Convinced, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Behind the sweet aroma, a spicy note lingered, which admittedly did fill him with some warmth, at least.

“Bribing me with drinks now, huh?”

“Only for the special occasions,” she mumbled and went for a sip of her own cup. Normally she didn’t like endorsing Dean’s drinking habits, but she could tell he needed something to steel himself. Deseperate times, and such.

“Special occasions,” Dean echoed. He sure didn’t like the sound of that.

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” she sighed, her fingers closing around the warm ceramic as if she could brace herself for a heavy conversation that way. “Your nightmare, what was it about?”

Unsurprisingly, silence followed.

With great effort, Dean stared at the golden colored mixture in his hand. He focused on the swirls of steam emitting from it, along with its herbal scent. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. Then again, he knew better than anyone that he couldn’t bottle it all up forever.

Then, Dean took a big swig of the warm tea, deeming it to be his liquid courage.

“Abaddon,” he vaguely answered at last.

“Abaddon,” she echoed, skepticism obvious in her tone. “But… you killed her months ago, Dean. She’s no longer a threat, right?”

“Right,” Dean hummed and allowed his finger to circle the rim of his cup. “She isn’t.”

At that, her brows knitted together in confusion. Admittedly, she didn’t understand what Dean was hinting at. If he wasn’t anxious about Abaddon, what else made him so skittish?

“It’s the Mark,” he gruffed through a strained voice, and he definitely did feel his throat close up, no matter how often he’d try to swallow the lump inside. “It’s this burning sensation, I— it felt good, killing her, you know?”

She remained silent at his side, listening with increasing confusion and tension.

“Because we had to defeat her,” she nodded in agreement, but Dean shook his head and she saw him clutch the cup until his knuckles turned white around it.

Clearly, she didn’t get what he was saying. Not at all.

Dean paused for a moment, unsure how to put it into words. Killing Abaddon hadn’t been a task of necessity. It had been one of urgency, the personal kind. He needed to kill her, yes, because every fiber of him had demanded it.

Because he wanted to do it.

“Because it was satisfying,” he corrected her with just a mutter under his breath, barely audible, as if he was ashamed to admit it. “The First Blade sinking into her was just, well, powerful. It was like scratching an itch.”

He stared ahead, blankly. Even in the dim light of their bedroom she saw the green of his eyes being swallowed by something dark and cold.

“It keeps replaying in my dreams, me killing her,” Dean mumbled.

He remembered every detail of it, even though at the time it had felt like he had just blacked out. Impaling Abaddon smoothly, her pained scream melting into her last breath, him stabbing the lifeless body again. And again, for good measure.

And again, and again, and again.

Sam had struggled to make him snap out of it, to make him drop the First Blade.

The familiar voice of his girlfriend reeled him back from the flashbacks. “You did what you had to do,” she reassured him, but he knew that it wasn’t as easy.

“I kill other demons in my dreams, too,” he continued, clearing his throat. “Tonight, I dreamt one attacked you and I just… I snapped and I ripped him apart. I’m talking limb after damn limb, severing sinew and muscle and tearing flesh from every fucking bone, until there is nothing left but pulp.”

It was the way he said it that sent cold shivers down her spine.

It was not as romantic as it may initially sound, not when his hands were twitching, jaw clenched and eyes filled with a sinister bloodlust. That was what it was all about.

The Mark of Cain was singing a siren’s song, calling for violence. Demanding bloodshed.

She knew her boyfriend would do anything to protect her. He’d kill for her in a heartbeat, without regret, if it meant keeping her safe. After all, Dean Winchester was known to be ruthless when it was necessary.

But was it really about fighting for her, or was it about ripping the enemy to shreds?

Dean’s small ministration — him scratching mindlessly at his lower arm where the Mark was embedded, burnt into him like a scar — told her he was after the latter. After the thrill of gutting foes like animals and drawing enough blood to quench the curse’s thirst.

It was an unsettling thought, both for her and for Dean.

They had already seen the darkness that came with the Mark of Cain, but the real grasp it had on Dean suddenly seemed much more terrifying.

She, too, remembered seeing him practically slaughter Abaddon.

But she also remembered him taking back control, and she knew he still held the reigns.

What he needed most now was trust. And she did trust him, with her life, always. Mark or not. So she reached for his hand for the second time this night. This time, her fingers grasped his wrist successfully, gently but firmly, and she pulled it away from his arm so he’d stop scratching the Mark.

“It was just a dream, baby.” Despite her greatest effort, there was a slight tremble in her voice.

Her eyes searched his green ones and she saw the turmoil within. The look of exasperation.

He was so tired.

“You don’t get it,” he huffed, his voice breathless and broken. “I enjoyed it.”

Was it about vengance? Maybe.

But even more so it was about the sheer simplicity of it. The twisted needs falling into place so perfectly whenever, dream or not, he’d sink a knife into flesh, crack bones and drain as much blood as possible, until it was hot and sticky on his hands.

The Mark craved it, corrupting him slowly but surely into madness. It was constanty calling for him to do unspeakable things, even now.

It demanded him to kill.

“I’m scared of what I’m capable of,” he whispered through a strained voice and squeezed her hand, clinging to her like his life depended on it. “In that nightmare, you were just gone and I… I couldn’t control it. I just saw red and it felt so fucking real.”

Without hesitation, she reached over him, placing her cup of tea on the nightstand on his side and adding his right with it. With both of her and both of his hands free now, she interlocked their fingers together.

“It wasn’t real,” she reassured him. “You can control it, you always did.”

Dean took a shaky breath and scoffed. So far, yes, she was right. But what if one day he’d fail and lose his composure? He felt like he was hanging on by a thread. And he was way too weak to hold on for much longer.

He was slipping. He knew he was. It was only a matter of time.

His voice was so defeated, weeks of exhaustion weighing down heavily on him: “I don’t want to find out what I would do if I lost you.”

Those words were a stab to her chest. She didn’t even know what to reply with. No words could console him, she felt just as helpless.

“We’ll find a way to get rid of it,” she whispered, but they both knew she couldn’t promise something like that.

They could try, and they have looked into just about everything. But it was a losing battle, honestly. There wasn’t much lore on Cain, much less on the curse and how to remove it.

“No,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “No, ‘cause if not, then— I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Dean—”

“You have to stop it,” he interrupted her. “If things go to shit— when they go to shit, you have to stop it. Stop me.”

The invisible stab-wound in her chest froze to solid ice. He was talking as if he had already given up on a cure. Was it so wrong to still have faith?

“Nothing will go to shit,” she insisted, letting go of his hands only to cup his face instead. “Look at me. We won’t let you down like that, you know that, right?”

He regarded her words for a moment, but the silence between them was heavy and the despair palpable.

“Promise me you’ll put an end to it if things go wrong,” he spoke, begged. “Please.”

NEXT CHAPTER ➡️

Dean Winchester Taglist: @ladysparkles78 @deaniemyboo @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126

@zepskies @calibootsgirl @hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46

@midnight--raine @emmy21842

#jacklesversebingo24 #dean winchester x reader #supernatural x reader #spn x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you #supernatural x you #spn x you #dean winchester fanfiction #tainted #chevroletdean writes #practice my confession #spnangst #angst

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chevroletdean · 1 month ago

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Jacklesverse Bingo 2024 ── ✮⋆˙

Very hyped for the @jacklesversebingo challenge! <3

This Masterlist is still a WIP and will be updated regularly (summaries and stuff will be added and might undergo changes). Every work will be linked here after it is posted.

⚠️ Works marked with an *asterisk will include 18+/smut content. Always read the warnings, please. ⚠️

Prompt: "I don't want to find out what I would do if I lost you." Pairing: MOC!Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader Summary: (⚠️ season 9-10 spoilers ⚠️) As his nightmares get worse, Dean realizes he’s turning into something he’s terrified of; he needs his girlfriend to promise him something. Type: Chapter 1 of the "Tainted" Series

READ HERE

Prompt: Forgotten Birthday Pairing: Alec McDowell x GN!Reader Summary: Alec is new to the concept of birthdays, considering he doesn’t even really have one himself. When his s/o is sulky all day, he’s confused, until their friends throw them a surprise party and he realizes he has messed up big time. Type: One-Shot

READ HERE

Prompt: "Of course, you're good enough, you idiot." Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC Summary: Dean came up with 'The Bunker Ranking' to motivate their group of hunters. A little competition never hurt anybody, right? It was how he first met her, after all. Type: Part 2 of the "Ambitious" Mini-Series

Prompt: Work Adversaries Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC Summary: It seems like the Winchesters have found themselves a rival. A mysterious huntress is one step ahead of them, whatever case they’re working on. While she’s a thorn in his side, who is Dean to say no to a challenge? Type: Part 1 of the "Ambitious" Mini-Series

Prompt: Character A has to pick up Character B from the police station Pairing: TBA Summary: TBA Type: TBA

Prompt: Sensory Deprivation* Pairing: TBA Summary: TBA Type: TBA

Prompt: The Blade of a Knife Glinting in the Moonlight Pairing: Demon!Dean x Fem!Reader Summary: (⚠️season 9-10 spoilers ⚠️) Although they’ve brought Dean back to the bunker, the problem remains. His demonic side has taken over. Can they find a cure for the curse before things escalate? Type: Chapter 3 of the "Tainted" Series

READ HERE

Prompt: Biting* Pairing: MOC!Dean x Reader Summary: (⚠️season 9-10 spoilers ⚠️) The Mark of Cain is like an itch that needs to be scratched. Most of the times it calls for blood. Other times it's hungry for a taste of something else. Type: Part of the "Tainted" Series

Prompt: "If you want something, then ask for it."* Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader Summary: People dance attendance on him all the damn time, so why can't you? He's Soldier Boy, America's Greatest Hero, and he's used to taking what he wants. Type: TBA

#jacklesversebingo24 #jacklesversebingo24 masterlist #dean winchester x reader #alec mcdowell x reader #soldier boy x reader #supernatural x reader #the boys x reader #dark angel x reader #divider by enchanthings #chevroletdean writes

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thebiggerbear · 2 months ago

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WIP Wednesday - 11/6/24 - Michael!Dean x Reader

A/N: This is an excerpt from "This Time The World Burns and You With It" that I've been working on since mid-July. Working on this has gotten me through some recent stressful personal stuff (don't ask me why it's this project or this character lol) and kept my writing going despite the absence of any kind of energy or time and the desire to just give it all up. I really do wish we had gotten more time with this character with Jensen playing him in the show but what we did get is pure gold.

Forever Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel; @hobby27; @impala67rollingthroughtown; @ladysparkles78

Michael!Dean Taglist: @chevroletdean

Supernaural Taglist: @just-levyy; @heartlessdelusions; @brightlilith; @muhahaha303; @mariahoedt

@solacedthistest; @deansimpala; @foxyjwls007; @onlyangel-444

JA Character Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat; @deansbbyx; @lyarr24; @rebel-paladin; @deans-spinster-witch

@bts24; @roseblue373; @nancymcl; @c1gs-coffee; @peachhiz

@kickingitwithkirk; @fanfic-n-tabulous; @illicithallways; @mentallyillandgae; @ladykitana90

@radioactivatedspider; @zepskies

You couldn’t even make sense of why you felt the way you did, especially after seeing the evidence of what he’d done just mere moments before hearing Maggie’s scream, watching her painfully die, and knowing everything he’d done on Apocalypse World and planned to do here. How could you feel anything for a monster like that?

Something you kept in mind when Michael showed up in your motel room a few days after the incident, once again wearing Dean. You tightened your grip on your angel blade though you knew you wouldn’t really use it; you wouldn’t kill Dean for your mistakes. Naturally, without lifting a finger, Michael knocked it out of your hand before he sent you flying up against the wall, holding you there.

“That’s a different greeting than I got the last time we saw one another,” he mocked you in that voice that was anything but Dean’s.

“It’s the only greeting you’ll be getting from now on, you son of a bitch,” you hissed at him through gritted teeth.

“It’s a shame. I got the impression you wanted me to stick around.” He came even closer with his crooked smile.

“Not anymore.”

Green eyes stared into yours as he leaned in closer. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours and just like that, your brain short-circuited and you were kissing him back. Within moments, he released you and you grabbed at him, keeping yourself from falling while also fervently kissing him, your fingers knotted in his hair. His arms came around you and he turned, walking you both to the bed.

dividers by @firefly-graphics

#michael!dean x reader #wip wednesday #thebiggerbear writing previews

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zepskies · 2 months ago

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“I‘ll make it up to you,” he whispered, his promise wrapped up in his hot breath and darkened eyes, like a little present.

Probably my favorite line^, and all of this was absolutely delicious -- a gift in and of itself. 🥵❤️‍🔥

(Also, would love to be tagged in future Dean x Reader or OC fics if there's room on your list! 💚)

masturbation [dean winchester] ── ✮⋆˙

kinktober 2024 (open to suggestions for this year's list) ship: dean x afab!fem!reader genre: smut to note/warnings: explicit – minors dni, vague descriptions of the reader, horny dean and mentions of his porn addiction, panties word count: 1.1k

People don’t call Dean a porn-addict for no reason.

His laptop has frozen on questionable websites more than he cared to admit and there’s also the not so subtly hidden stash of magazines scattered across his room. Some are carelessly shoved under his bed, for others he at least had put in the effort of storing them in the drawer of his desk.

However, despite his impressive collection, they pretty much only serve the purpose of collecting dust nowadays. At most, they had a collectible value, or some nostalgic keepsake. But they don‘t come in handy as much as they used to.

After all, why would he need any of that when the mere thought of you is enough to drive him insane?

Memories of you, specifically of the two of you together, are organized and cataloged in his brain more neatly than the special editions of his zines could ever be. And replaying them in his mind makes him harder than any video ever could.

There’s the vivid image of the first time you shared a motel bed with him – sprawled beneath him with your hair a messy halo that spilled across the pillow, framing that flushed face of yours.

Or that one evening that ended up in both of you being a little more than tipsy and a lot more than touchy – he can practically taste the whiskey on his tongue whenever he thinks about your hot tongue pushing against his. He can certainly feel the ghost of your touch across his heated skin, your hands uncharacteristically soft for a hunter’s.

In fact, everything about you is so damn soft.

Your pretty lips, whether they’re locked with his or wrapped around his cock. Your voice whenever you let out those shaky breaths and sinful moans. Your curves, especially those damn hips of yours that he loves to latch onto with a death grip every time he sinks into you and drowns in you.

Like last night in the backseat of his car, you straddling his lap in nothing but those cute little panties and that pretty bra. His favorite set; the lacy one with the tiny bow in the front, green in color (you insisted they are sage when you bought them, but he only remembers that because you also mentioned they’d match his eyes — and they say romance is dead).

Your body curved into a perfect arch while his mouth moved from your jaw down to your chest, his tongue circling your nipples through the thin lace and his large hands sliding around your back to undo the clasp with a mixture of practiced ease and the usual impatience.

He always wants to take his time with you and then he never follows through with it, because he can‘t wait to feel your tight heat envelope all of him.

“I’m never gonna find that one again,” you had protested as he tossed the garment somewhere to the front seat. Your pout made him want to kiss you until your lungs ache from the lack of oxygen.

Other than that, your complaints did little to distract him from the task at hand, which was shifting you on his lap, his hungry fingers hooking through the waistband of your underwear.

“I‘ll make it up to you,” he whispered, his promise wrapped up in his hot breath and darkened eyes, like a little present. “Lift your hips for me, baby.”

Baby. Him calling you that never failed to send shivers down your spine. It was a loving nickname he had reserved for his beloved car, and maybe you should take offense to the fact that he’d put you on the same level as a vehicle, but he’d always say it with such reverence. As if you were above it all.

You bit your bottom lip, a sight that made his grip on you tighten further, and obediently lifted your hips, enough for Dean to pull the lace down your legs. “Are you gonna toss them somewhere around here too?”

“No, sweetheart,” he chuckled whilst he slowly removed your panties, his hands running along your skin and his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “These are going in my pocket for safekeeping.”

He carefully folded the lace, slipping the panties into his jeans as if they were something precious. Something to be treasured.

And they were. They are.

Why else would he have the lace scrunched up in his fist right now, along with his throbbing cock?

The texture of the lace wrapped around his arousal doesn‘t compare to your warm cunt clenching around him, of course. But damn it all if stroking himself with the panties that would cover your pretty pussy doesn‘t come close.

Dean‘s head rolls back against the headboard of his bed and his legs tense and stretch over the mattress as he continuously works his hand up and down on himself. He‘s all ragged breaths, heaving chest and fluttering eyes and he can‘t help but wish you were here.

He grunts quietly at the idea of you walking in on him like this.

How beautifully your eyes would widen if you got to watch him drench your panties in his precum. Fuck, maybe you‘d lend him a helping hand and make sure not a drop goes to waste. Your delicate fingers always look so good around his length and Dean bets the sage green lace would only enhance the sight.

Maybe you‘d even put them on right after, soiled and covered in his seed, practically marked by his scent.

Dean‘s breath hitches in his throat at the mental image he has just painted. That fantasy of you walking around in dirty panties does something to him, something that makes the jerking motion of his hand increase in pace. His hips meet the thrusts with purpose at this point, the added friction of your underwear pushing him closer to the edge in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

Your name falls from his lips, his voice merely above a whisper and trembling at that.

God, he misses you. Your smile, your touch. If only he could touch you right now, let his hands wander across every dip and curve of your body. But you‘re out helping a friend with a case and he can only resort to touching himself, and to pathetically using your clothes as a substitute.

His hips buck upwards and stutter and he glances down on himself. His thighs flex briefly, his dick twitches in his hand and he hisses through his teeth as thick, white beads spill through the green lace. They sit atop the fabric like pearls for only a second, before the material soaks some of it up, the sage tone darkening into a wet spot. The rest of his release dribbles down, coating his fingers and sticking to the garment.

credit & links: ao3 ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ request here ──〃★ kinktober

taglist: comment a green heart 💚 to be added to the dean x reader taglist (please note: ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts)

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #chevroletdean's kinktober #supernatural x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean x you #kinktober #dean winchester smut #lovely mutuals #chevroletdean writes #zepskies reads

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chevroletdean · 2 months ago

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biting / marking [sam winchester] ── ✮⋆˙

kinktober 2024 ship: sam x afab!fem!reader genre: smut to note/warnings: explicit – minors dni, vague descriptions of the reader, sam being a bit rough and unfair, oral (fem receiving), petnames (doll, princess and such) word count: 1.3k a/n: this isn’t proofread, sorry. i’m rushing through the kinktober at this point, wahhh taglist: comment a book emoji 📚 to be added to the sam x reader taglist (please note: ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts) @s7nburn

It started innocently enough, but the process definitely wasn’t a slow one. The first time around, a cozy morning after a long night, the sight of a hickey peeking out of your turtleneck awakened something in him. That’s all it took for him to know he likes a trace of himself on you. Ever since then, he’s deemed it his mission to make it as difficult as possible for you to cover up the evidence of your passionate moments.

Sam has always loved the aftermath, the remnants of your bliss – and why gradually pick things up when he could just wreck you right away? You always look so pretty when he’s done with you.

The way a sheer layer of sweat would stick to your flushed skin, making you glow. The way your hair would spill over the pillows, framing your reddened face and creating a messy halo. The way your eyelashes would flutter weakly against your cheekbones as you struggle to keep your eyes open. The way your lips would slightly part as you’d try to catch your breath. They’re prettiest when they’re kiss bitten, pink, plump and swollen.

But his favorite are the constellations of purple scattered across your body.

Because those stick for a while and they fill him with pride.

If he can have it his way – and for the most part, he does – he treats your body as a canvas. You’re already a work of art, but there’s this primal urge of his to add his signature. To mark you as his muse. Every artist has a favorite tool and his preferred method is his mouth.

Sure, his large hands never fail to find home in the plush of your skin and leave behind a print or two; just like right now. His grip is like iron as his fingers deftly sink into your hips to pin you down.

But his mouth creates the prettiest patterns on you.

You’re already covered in hickeys from his lips latching onto you; not to mention the indents of his teeth. Like little nicks, deep enough to bruise just slightly without drawing any blood. He could break you so easily, yet you continue your attempts to push yourself impossibly closer to him still, wanting more. The blind trust you offer him is addictive. You seem so fragile underneath him like this, completely at his mercy.

“You squirm too much, doll,” he grumbles. As if he could ever actually be annoyed by your adorable little reactions. Those noises fuel him further, if anything.

His voice is half-muffled by the flesh of your inner thigh, which he sinks his teeth into in warning fashion. You respond with a soft sob and he licks over the tender spot apologetically. His tongue is searing hot against your sensitive skin and despite your best attempts to still your movements, he still makes you shudder. In your defense, Sam has spent a good amount of time just kissing up your legs and thighs. You’ve long lost track of time by now, but you’d have an even harder time counting all the marks he’s left behind on your skin. There have been too many soft, wet kisses planted against your tummy and between your legs for you to keep track of.

Not an inch of you is spared by his hungry mouth.

“Sorry, ‘m s-sorry… just–” you whine, interrupted by yet another playful nibble of his sharp teeth. His lips ghost over your clit and you hold your breath. You know better than to make any commands – not that you’re in any state to form any coherent sentence anyway –, unless asked for otherwise. Even if you’re on the brink of melting after all his teasing, Sam’s the one deciding when he’s had enough, and his thirst for your taste is far from satiated.

“Shhh, I know,” he hums and you swear you can feel the victorious smirk on his lips right against your core. “Just stay still f’me, princess.”

Not that you have much of a chance anyway with your movement restricted by his strong hands. Sam shifts below you so his head is slotted between your thighs, one arm wrapped around your lower half enough to hold you against the mattress. Instinctively your trembling legs drape over his broad shoulders. You feel daring enough (and needy for an anchor) to reach down to him and he obliges, using his free hand to interlock his fingers with yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers and his warm breath tickles your slick.

He’s even more thorough when it comes to diving into your folds than he is kissing your thighs. His mouth is hot against you, drinking you in like you’re the finest liquor – and to him, you’re just as intoxicating. His tongue nestles into you with the intention to suck you dry and his sharp nose presses against your clit.

You whimper, your voice almost broken as your breath stutters in your throat. The sound is strained enough for him to pull back and place a gentle kiss to your center, giving you a second to breathe.

“You good, baby?”

You nod your head eagerly and squeeze his hand, but he lets go of it and gives your thigh a light pat or two, firmly enough to get you to respond properly. Sam always needs to make sure you’re still with him, attentive and enjoying yourself.

“Feels s’good, Sammy,” you confirm shyly. “Don’t stop, please.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, pretty,” he chuckles darkly, returning to feasting on you until his chin is glistening with your juices. You’d be bucking your hips wildly to grind against his face were it not for his strong arm holding onto you like a damn vice. It just makes you whine all the louder, but Sam’s in a giving mood. “Almost there, you’re so good f’me,” he mumbles, slurring and babbling his words like a drunk.

He pushes you right to that edge of pleasure, a familiar coil tightening in the pits of your stomach. Sam’s tongue flicks against you with practiced ease, alternating between flattening the muscle against you and curling his lips in a way that makes you moan. You’re on the brink of ecstasy, when he suddenly pulls away.

“N-no, please,” you complain desperately. He’s teased you enough! This is just cruel.

“Not done with you yet,” Sam huffs. “Gotta give some extra attention to more obvious places too, hm?”

Your mind is too hazy to make sense of his words, let alone respond, until his lips wander upwards steadily. He licks a languid stripe up to your navel, followed with soft nibs over your ribs. You swallow thickly as his lips close around one of your pebbled nipples and you yelp softly as he uses his teeth to give it a playful tug. He only switches to the other breast to give it the same treatment, working another hickey onto it. It’s a harsher bite close to your collarbone that makes you squeal, which in return makes him chuckle.

“Sorry, got a bit greedy there,” he grins, those hazel eyes of his clearly satisfied with seeing your cute pout. He decides to soothe that little frown away by pressing his lips to yours and making you taste yourself.

It should shock you how easy it is for him to make you forget all your annoyances. After all, you’re still left high and dry, and all it takes is a simple kiss for you to melt under him. His mouth wanders yet again, following a path across your cheekbone. His teeth catch your earlobe, pinching it gently. His kisses suck reddish marks along your jawline and down your neck.

Flushing, you arch your back, realizing he’s marking you up on purpose. He’s busy with a spot under your chin, making you gasp softly. “Sammy, the weather is way too warm for scarves,” you protest within a weak huff. “There’s no way I can cover those up.”

“That’s the whole point, doll,” Sam replies, the curl of his smirk pressed against your throat. “By the time I’m done with you, a scarf wouldn’t make a difference anyway.”

credit & links: ao3 ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ request here ──〃★ kinktober

#dividers by cafekitsune #sam winchester x reader #chevroletdean writes #supernatural x reader #chevroletdean's kinktober #spnsc #spnsmut #sam smut #spn x reader #spn x you #supernatural x you #sam x reader #sam winchester x you #sam x you #sam winchester one shot

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chevroletdean · 2 months ago

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lingerie [rowena macleod] ── ✮⋆˙

kinktober 2024 (open to suggestions for this year's list) ship: rowena macleod x afab!fem!reader genre: smut to note/warnings: explicit – minors dni, vague descriptions of the reader, slight humiliation kink, massive praise kink, public, exhibitionism, power imbalance (rowena is queen of hell) word count: 1.9k

Being the Queen of Hell’s lover came with its perks. Not only did Rowena make sure you had everything you needed and more, she’d almost treat you as if you were Queen as well. Of course, you were to dote on her much like a devotee was to worship their deity – devotion, which you gladly carried out for your beloved. Regardless, your status differed greatly from that of a mere demon. You were more than just a servant.

The privilege of the crown was her own to carry, but you were her dearest darling.

Sitting in her lap was the closest you’d get to reigning a throne, yet you accepted that place with pride as if it meant you’d rule over her. And in a way both of you knew her rotten heart belonged to you like the underworld belonged to her. She practically said so herself: Your arms loosely draped around her neck were often compared to the best jewelry a woman could hope to wear, more valuable than any arrangement of pearls and gems. A forehead kiss of yours was a second crown, lipstick stains in her hairline carried like rubies and diamonds nestled in her locks. And her hand would find home in the small of your back whenever she had the chance to, holding you at her side like a mighty scepter.

You played an important part in her royalty.

Princess treatment was the standard for you. You were Rowena’s precious treasure and she made sure you knew. She made sure everyone knew.

“Look at you, doll,” she beamed with joy and the spark in her eyes matched that in your heart.

You quite literally were a doll, her prized possession to fuss over and dress up. You were a couple of hours deep into what could only be described as some sort of fashion show, modeling for her as if you were her muse. She’d always look at you as if you were the only thing worth looking at. As if it wasn’t her that was the most captivating thing in the room. Hell, in all of… well, hell. Yet she made you twirl around in front of her for her own entertainment, and subsequently that of her servants surrounding the throne.

It had started innocently with you showing off rich, silken fabrics. You had long lost count of the amount of long dresses, ruffled skirts and chiffon blouses of various colors. Every little outfit earned you an approving nod of your mistress and her smile would widen more with each one. Undoubtedly the reason for that was the increasingly revealing nature of your clothes. The more of your creamy skin peaked through the luxurious materials, the happier she seemed.

Next you stepped out in just nightgowns, the fabric almost translucent and leaving little to the imagination. Underneath you had only the thin material of underwear to protect some of your dignity, your most private parts still hidden. All of the lace and straps were expensive and tasteful, hugging your curves as if they were tailored and customized specifically for you.

Rowena had handpicked every item herself, yet each time you stepped out from behind the partition screen, she’d let out a delighted gasp as if surprised. However, sensing her anticipation, you could already see where this was going.

Insecurities and self-consciousness found no place in her realms, ever. She made sure you felt pretty, always, because that’s what she declared, like a rule. It’s simply what you were and the Queen’s words were always final. But you couldn’t help the warmth creeping up your neck as you changed into a rather skimpy bra and panties next. If you could even call them that.

Your legs were entirely bare aside from the bows wrapped around your thighs. Their red silk was connected to the harness around your waist, a golden chain adorned with pearls in between each link. The bottom part of this set was made of the same material, threads of gold metal sitting around your hips with just a small slither of crimson silk around your vulva. The ‘panties’ were crotchless, your folds only decorated but not covered by anything. There was more fabric at your hips, another delicate bow on each side. A string of pearls sat right between your lips, one of them nestled directly against your clit. The slightest of movements caused a friction that would make your breath hitch.

Your chest matched the rest of the set, an intricate design of golden chains sitting around your shoulders and collarbone. It came with lace that covered your breasts – albeit its black fabric was so thin, your hardened nipples strained against the material –, yet another blood-colored bow sitting neatly right in the valley of them. A cascade of gold and pearls followed the pattern of your ribs, dangling against your skin. The harness was without doubt elegant and you initially struggled to put the charms on correctly. A soft jingle emitted with each rise and fall of your chest, so you purposefully kept your breath as shallow as possible.

The metals and beads felt cool against your heated skin. As did the chilled air in the dark room, the stone walls of which were only dimly lit with candles that provided little warmth. Yet you felt like you were on fire, your heart pumping liquid flames through your veins. Blood rose all the way to your cheeks at the prospect of presenting yourself like this to anyone.

There wasn’t an inch of your body Rowena had not already thoroughly explored with her eyes, her hands and her mouth before – as for the other demons in the room, however…

Sensing your apprehension from the other side of the partition wall, Rowena hummed in that irresistible sing-sang voice, and you both knew her words were always able to coax you out of your shell: “Don’t be shy now, love.”

Reluctantly, you stepped in front of the throne. Your eyes were cast down in a poor attempt to hide your flushed face and at the bottom of the couple of steps leading up to the Queen, you sank to both knees. The dark stone tiles were cold and rough against your knees, but they provided a sense of comfort regardless, since they allowed you to curl slightly. An innocent maiden trembling at the altar of her Goddess. A sacrificial lamb amidst a den of wolves. The silence was thick and the tension so palpable you thought you could burst on the spot.

Still, the vulnerability wasn’t unwelcome, nor was it anything new for you.

Rowena loved putting you on display. She always relished the jealousy in the demon’s eyes, the hunger in them. They were allowed to look, because your beauty enhanced her power as Queen – and no matter how much they might wish they could, touching the Queen’s property was off limits.

“Up,” came Rowena’s sultry command then.

You swallowed thickly, but the lump in your throat would not dissolve. Slowly, you rose to your feet. Despite your best efforts to ignore everyone else’s eyes on you, you were painfully aware of the demons staring holes into you.

“Those pretty eyes of yours too, dear.”

You obeyed without hesitation, your eyelashes fluttering as you lifted your head to meet the Queen’s gaze. Her eyes were filled with adoration as she eyed you up and down, like a painter admiring his own work.

“The rest of you as well now, come on,” she chuckled and beckoned you up the steps with a flick of her wrist. The witch held her hand out for you and you followed her command, your feet moving up as if on autopilot until you were close enough to place your hand in her inviting palm. Rowena pulled you closer, spinning you once into a pirouette.

“I knew red would be your color,” she spoke, her thick accent laced with appreciation and pride. Maybe she was exaggerating a little, considering that the only red on your body was made up of the four bows and your warm face. The tip of her nose twitched ever so slightly as she smiled at you. “You look absolutely regal, dear. Ethereal. Worthy of a Queen’s lap like the Queen is of a throne.”

You got the hint immediately, but still waited for her to pat her thigh and hum the longly awaited “Come sit” which was immediately followed by the approving “Good girl” once you assumed position. You sat down in her lap like always, almost bridal style with the length of your legs draped across her thighs, one arm snaked around her neck, the other hand placed on her shoulder to form a loop.

“Isn’t she just a sight for sore eyes?” Rowena giggled, her eyes glued to your form and raking over every little detail thereof. She didn’t expect an actual answer from anyone in the room. In fact, if any demon would step out of line to make a wrong comment, that might just be the last thing they’d do.

The witch’s slender fingers danced from your knee up to your thigh in giddy fashion, toying briefly with the bow there. “Like a little Yule present, just for me to unwrap.”

You squirmed subtly and bit your lower lip. Her touch never failed to send shivers down your spine and make you crave more. Make you crave everything your Highness had to offer.

She caught on quickly, her smile twisting into a mischievous smirk as she leaned in closer to your ear. “As much as I enjoy making everyone know you’re mine, I think we should get rid of the audience, what do you say?”

Her whispers made you shudder as did that hand of hers, which wandered higher and higher. You nodded shyly, fearing your voice would fail you, were you to attempt uttering a single word. Sometimes she’d tease you into asking nicely or downright begging, but it seemed she was in a generous mood today. Or perhaps she was just as pent up from watching you flaunt all the pretty outfits as you were from giving her a show for hours.

“Out,” Rowena said sternly, and even though that single firm command was enough to make everyone else scatter through the door, she couldn’t resist adding fuel to the fire. “Let me enjoy my pretty little princess in peace.”

Her keen eyes followed the demons that made a beeline to the door until she closed that shut with a blink of her eyelashes. To you it was always impressive how effortlessly she worked her magic. Whether it was in general or specifically on you – such as when she let those slender fingers of hers slide down your exposed skin.

Her nail grazed right down your middle, over your navel and gave the chain around your hips a playful little tug. The gasp she was able to draw from you as a result made her chuckle, which in return made you arch your back and buck your hips. Usually Rowena would tease you further for your impatience, but this time she was just as eager. Her hand dipped between your thighs and she experimentally rolled that one pearl over your clit right against your sensitive skin. You didn’t even realize how you’d shifted in her lap, your head rolling back until it fell against her shoulder and her warm breath tickled the spot right beneath your ear.

It occurred to you then that she was more than just a Queen, she was your Goddess. One that made the lines between saint and sinner blur so beautifully, you didn’t know whether you were in heaven or hell.

“As much as I love showing off my darling, some of you is reserved only for me.”

credit & links: ao3 ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ rowena gif ──〃★ request here ──〃★ kinktober

taglist: comment a crystal ball 🔮 to be added to the rowena x reader taglist (please note: ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts)

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chevroletdean · 3 months ago

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backstory stuff (req.) ── ✮⋆˙

pairing: dean x fem!reader genre: fluff to note/warnings: objectifying dean bc he looks edible, shameless ogling, kissing and making out, cussing word count: 2.5k a/n: tysm to @midnight--raine for requesting this! i definitely had the "blablabla place name proper name backstory stuff" audio stuck in my head writing this, hence the title for this drabble; btw i, too, would not be able to focus. other than that, this is written in 3rd person pov, which is actually my preferred style of writing/reading.

“Don’t forget the pie,” Dean called out, just before the door closed shut with a thud. That was about the last coherent sentence she was able to make out – and not because what followed was inaudible or anything like that. The priorities of her focus have simply… shifted.

Plus, and that was a much more favorable explanation for her own conscience, silence filled the space currently. Usually silence between them was comfortable, but at that moment she felt like her heart was hammering against her chest so intensely that the sound echoed off the walls, and like her blood was rushing through her veins was as loud as a waterfall in her ears.

With Sam off to buy some much needed food, she and Dean were left behind in the motel room, the space of which suddenly seemed awfully cramped. Ironic, considering how insistent she had been on not minding to share a room with the brothers, despite Sam’s double-inquiry if they should rent separate ones:

“They have another spare room,” Sam said.

“It’s fine, Sam,” she replied.

“Are you sure?” Sam followed up.

“Positive,” she confirmed with a nod.

“Dean might snore again and–”

Cue his older brother: “Speak for yourself, Sammy!”

“One room is enough, Sam,” she chuckled, clearly amused by the familiar bickering.

Two beds and a couch were plenty of space, after all, and it would only be for a night – whoever lost at rock-paper-scissors (Dean, of course) would survive a couple of hours on a couch.

Except she wasn’t sure if she could even make it through the next thirty to forty minutes.

This case was a tricky one and her attention span was pretty much dead as is, especially on an empty stomach. In hindsight, she still regretted grumbling about being hungry. Maybe she should’ve volunteered to make the trip to the convenience store instead of Sam. Then she wouldn’t be stuck here, making a fool of herself.

Neither the tablet in her lap nor the books sprawled around her on the bed were of interest to her anymore. Not with her blood sugar low. Not with too many frustrating hours of not finding anything. And most importantly:

Not with Dean sitting on the couch right across from her.

Not with the way his hand was holding his book open in his lap, long fingers nestled right in the joint of the pages, wedged in the folds in a way that shouldn’t look half as erotic as it did to her. Christ, she had to snap out of it.

As if on cue, Dean cleared his throat, startling her to the point of flinching. Her panicked eyes darted away from his hands and to his face while she silently begged – more like downright prayed – he hadn’t caught her staring.

His eyes remained glued to the pages, unbothered as ever and indicating the coincidental nature of his actions. Relieved, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Not that the fear of getting caught made her stop gawking at him. And, honestly, could anyone blame her? Nobody.

Not with the way he rolled up his sleeves, exposing freckles and veins on his arms, which he – to make matters worse – just had to stretch out, first forward, then upward, his muscles flexing. Not with the way he tipped his head back too, straining his neck until it gave a soft pop and he gave a soft groan.

Snapping out of it was no longer an option. Except it had to be. Dean and her were friends, partners in crime only in a jokeful and strictly platonic matter. In a poor attempt to distract herself, she decided to speak up. Anything to disrupt this silence, the tension of which was as palpable as it was torturous for her.

“If the couch is too uncomfortable, you can have my bed,” she offered, watching as he shifted around on the cushions. Lost game or not, Dean was the one who always had to endure hours behind the wheel and she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about denying his sore body the comfort of a proper mattress.

“Worried for me, sweetheart?” He scoffed with a teasing grin that made her simultaneously roll her eyes and feel the tips of her ears turn red.

“You’re the one cracking your joints like you’re suffering from arthritis,” she huffed.

“Nah, ‘s fine,” he mumbled in response, rotating his shoulders briefly, before redirecting his focus to his book.

Silence befell the room once more and she had to admit his diligence was admirable, compared to her own. She was still way too distracted to think about the case, while he was purposefully flipping through the pages. His brows were knitted together in deep concentration, those emerald eyes of his squinted slightly as he skimmed over the words. Not to mention his mouth.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of his tongue poking out. Its tip ran along the seam and over his bottom lip briefly, moistening the skin there into a glossy state. As if their pink shade wasn’t mesmerizing enough to look at already. His pearly whites followed close, biting the glistening skin of his lower lip, sucking it in for a second, before releasing it with a click of his tongue.

How soft those lips would probably feel, she wondered. She bet they were warm. They probably tasted like whiskey.

Their shape was worth obsessing over, too – plump and full, the soft curve of his cupid’s bow so perfect it might’ve as well been painted by an artist. The left corner of his lips curled upwards suddenly, his mouth forming words, the content of which went straight over her head. She registered the sound of his voice, but the actual syllables fell on deaf ears.

She was so busy observing the movement of his lips that she didn’t realize he wasn’t just mumbling to himself, but actually talking to her. Only when he tilted his head and said her name did her eyes widen.

“Sorry,” she uttered, her own voice breathless and strained and her throat feeling tight. And so very dry, no matter how often she’d try to swallow the lump in there. “What was that?”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up and his gaze wandered down on her, swiftly.

“I said: Could you look up–,” he repeated, but interrupted himself mid sentence with a sigh and a sheepish grin. “Nevermind, give me that.”

Discarding his book onto the coffee table, Dean lifted himself off of the couch and made his way over to her bed with a confident stride. He plopped down right next to her. Her breath nearly hitched in her throat as she felt the mattress sink slightly beneath them, but she didn’t resist as he reached for her tablet.

Usually she would’ve protested at him touching her stuff without asking, but the subtle brush of his fingers against her own sent an electric jolt down her spine that made her forget all her words. Either oblivious to her reaction or simply not caring, Dean proceeded to type away on the screen. She figured he must’ve had an epiphany and was trying to look up a possible solution to whatever creature they were searching for. But with every fiber of her searching for the details of Dean’s body next to hers, she couldn't care less about any monster.

His lips were moving again. That is to say, he was speaking, but the auditive part thereof blended into the background while the visual aspect grasped her full attention. She couldn’t help it; up close the view was even more alluring.

She thought she recognized the vowels O and E in there somewhere, though her reception of that was purely based on what speech patterns she thought she saw his mouth produce.

“Huh?” She asked, which made him erupt in a short laugh. That sound she definitely perceived. Not only with her ears but also with her heart, which skipped yet another beat.

“You’re not a great thinker on an empty stomach, eh?” Dean teased, gently nudging his elbow against hers and turning the iPad for her to look at. Whatever he was showing her on the screen, she didn’t care. She couldn’t bring herself to care. Instead, her eyes remained glued to him, albeit by now her gaze had at least wandered back to his eyes.

“Or maybe you’re hungry for something else,” he spoke, in such a bold and direct tone that she nearly jumped.

“What?” This time she wasn’t asking because she didn’t hear him, but precisely because his words had been loud and clear.

“No offense, but you’ve basically been gawking at me like you want a bite.”

Oh, fuck, he did catch her staring. Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but she struggled to come up with a snarky response on the spot. All she could do was scoff coyly.

“Have not,” she puffed, her body language betraying her even now as her eyes remained glued to his, despite her flustered state. “You wish.”

That’s what this was, right? Bickering, bantering, teasing – they’d always throw quips at each other playfully. Albeit they usually weren’t remotely close to touching a subject like this. Whatever this was, even. Romance? Longing? The aforementioned hunger?

Dean’s voice dropped an octave as he echoed her half tongue-tied denial. “Have not?” He was so smug about it too, victorious grin on those irresistible lips, mischievous spark in his green eyes, tone laced with mockery. “What’re you so flustered for then?”

“I’m not flustered, shut up,” she groaned, before turning her head away from him.

Or trying to, anyway. She was stopped in her tracks by Dean’s hand, his knuckles nestled just beneath her chin and tipping her head back. Just like that, she froze. Her heart froze. Time itself froze. Instinctively she held her breath and she did not dare to move a muscle.

His breath was a warm summer’s breeze against her skin, yet it made her shiver. His whisper tickled her senses — How was it possible for a voice to be as smooth as velvet and gravelly enough to make her tremble at the same time, anyway? “Then I’m sure you don’t mind me doing this?” She was pretty sure there was nothing Dean could’ve done right then and there that she would mind, flustered or not.

His knuckles brushed against her jawline, fingers opening slowly and cupping her cheek properly this time. As he pulled her closer, she couldn’t help but find his ministrations surprisingly tender. If she didn’t know it any better, she’d say Dean Winchester, notoriously known for being a flirtatious womanizer with an inflated ego, was just as nervous as she was. There was a tremble in his fingertips, a slight twitch in the flutter of his long lashes. A flicker of emotions in his darkened pupils.

Perhaps it was her imagination, or maybe she was projecting her own agitation onto him.

Either way, it was on her to fill that space between them. As if on instinct, her body moved on its own, leaning forward, closing her eyes, capturing his lips with her own. Even though the kiss was chaste, she already knew Dean’s pillowy lips were like a soft cloud she wanted to sink into and get lost in. His mouth was, as she had guessed, sweet and smokey with whiskey.

Their lips brushed together, tentatively at first. His fingers gently carded through her hair. The warmth that had blossomed in her chest lingered even as she pulled back again, just enough to be able to look into his eyes again.

“Who’s flustered now?” she teased within a whisper, the pink color on her cheeks betraying her confident act. However, she definitely had a point, considering that Dean’s flushed shade matched her own.

He lunged forward with enough force to pin her down onto the mattress. The sudden fierceness had her grasp onto his broad shoulders, pulling him down with her. His mouth was on hers again in an instant, hot and searing and with the intent to devour her whole. They breathed each other in, their lungs craving the depth of the kiss more than oxygen itself. Raw desire replaced the initial shyness of their first experimental peck. Dean’s tongue moved against hers as if he was trying to erase anything else from her mind. She kissed him back with equal fervor, finally bursting the bubble of endlessly long yearning and pining.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted t’do this,” Dean slurred as if drunk on her taste, his words muffled by the silky texture of her lips.

His hands traced down her sides, outlining a curve for her that her body willingly arched into. She pulled him impossibly closer and closer still, even when his mouth proceeded to wander down her jaw, down her neck. He marked a path down the column of her neck until his teeth grazed her throat to pull broken gasps and mewls from within. The meek sounds fueled him. She was practically sending him on a mission to coax all the pretty noises from her puffy, kiss-bitten lips. She was an instrument, his fingers strumming her chords. She was his favorite song.

“Should’ve done this a long time ago,” he purred and the rumble of his chest buzzed straight into her heart, down her spine all the way through her core.

“Agreed,” was the simple and only response she was able to choke out.

Her shaky fingers tightened their grip on his shirt, the fabric wrinkling under her impatient pulling and tugging. One hand snaked around his shoulders, finding home in the nape of his neck as she allowed her fingertips to comb through the tresses of his hair. Touching him was grounding, while the low growl she was able to draw from him had her feel all dizzy and fuzzy.

Dean lifted his head again to crash his lips into hers with newfound vigor. Their hands were everywhere, running over every plane of muscle, every hill and valley to the point of their limbs tangling together messily. Nothing could separate them from their magnetized state.

Except the rustling of keys at the door. As quickly as they had found each other, their lips withdrew from one another. Both her and Dean quickly sat up, faces flushed and chests heaving with ragged breaths. He cleared his throat while she busied her shaky fingers with smoothing over her hair. By the time Sam returned and closed the door behind him, they had reluctantly pulled away. The inches between them were as sobering as Sam’s voice.

“They were out of apple pie, here’s cherry,” Sam sighed, placing the plastic bag onto the coffee table. He glanced over to the two, his eyes flickering back and forth between them with wonder. She could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to piece together the clues. Their flushed faces, Dean’s disheveled hair, her messy shirt.

“I think I had enough sweets for today,” Dean muttered half-awkwardly towards his brother and with a half-smug wink towards her.

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