#dean + the symbolic giving of the heart

[shallowseeker]

Happy "It's-- amazing. You did-- amazing," Monday!

"It's-- amazing. You did-- amazing."

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Do you even realize how amazing you are to me?

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15x09 The Trap (Text Attributions// Supernatural scripts here via @spnscripthunt. Transcripts are located here via SPNWiki. Visit their Tumblr to donate.)

[incesthemes]

in provenance, the impala is depicted as quite dirty and beat-up, scuffed up and covered in mud. this is not the typical image that comes to mind when you say a man loves his car. in later seasons too, the impala tends to look shiny and new, and dean is seen performing maintenance on it pretty regularly—at least, there are many scenes that show dean taking care of it, and there are also many scenes which touch on dean's possessiveness and care for his car.

this isn't the case in season 1. season 1 dean has a beat-up hand-me-down from his dad which he loves and admires but is still willing to let it get dirty and dented and scuffed.

in season 1, the impala represents john.

based on how john talks about the car in dead man's blood, he still has a semblance of ownership over it: john gave dean the car, but he still considers it "his" in the sense that he feels entitled to judge how dean cares for it. dean, too, doesn't argue with this. in season 3, dream dean even uses this against real dean to drag out his insecurities and his abysmal self-esteem:

both john and dean agree that the impala is john's car. this makes sense because the impala is also sam and dean's literal home, or the closest to home they've ever gotten.

you have a good "home is where the heart is" kind of connection here: the impala is home, and john is the impala—john is home, john is their father, john is the thing that connects sam and dean by blood. et cetera et cetera.

so if the impala represents john, then how dean treats the impala gives the audience a lovely visual metaphor for how dean feels about john. provenance is just one episode after something wicked, where dean is finally starting to extricate himself from his father. the entire season has followed dean as he experiences betrayal after betrayal from his father, and in shadow we see evidence that he doesn't actually believe that his father will come to protect them anymore—he's effectively given up on john as someone to rely on, and he's spent the whole season separating himself from john and attaching himself to sam instead. provenance gives a nice wink and nod at this by showing the state of the impala—dean is upset with john, their relationship is crumbling, and dean doesn't know how to repair it.

one episode later john remarks on the state of the car, and one episode later dean finally defies his father for seemingly the first time.

so when dean starts destroying the impala in everybody loves a clown, what dean is actually destroying is john.

he feels angry, upset, hurt, betrayed all over again. john is dead, and his final words to his son gave him an impossible task. dean takes the crowbar to the impala right after sam corners him into another conversation about john—this is an outpouring of his emotions about him, all concentrated on the last remaining symbol of his father.

but what i think is interesting is that sam doesn't see the impala this way.

sam sees the impala as dean. the symbolism here is very, very obvious. if sam gives up on the impala, then he's metaphorically giving up on dean. and sam refuses to let dean die, so he can't let the impala die, either. to sam, the impala is dean. which necessarily means that to sam, dean is his home, as well.

which is exactly what he just chose in the season 1 finale when he picked dean over his revenge. sam spent the entire season scared to "go home," and in devil's trap he finally returns for good to his home—to dean.

and in bloodlust, the impala is fixed, and she's shining like new. from this moment on, dean shows a rather pointed possessiveness over his car.

this is also the first time dean calls the impala "baby." this is the first thing that happens after dean destroyed it in the episode prior. the dissonance gives a sense of rebirth: something happened between dean destroying the impala and dean fixing it. something happened between dean using the impala as a stand-in for his father and dean calling it his baby.

in season 2, the impala no longer represents john. john is dead, and dean killed him. "home" is no longer centered around john; their father is no longer the thing that connects sam and dean. in devil's trap they chose each other, they chose codependency, they created a relationship between them that transcends the family structure they inherited from john. john is not part of this new relationship—it's just sam and dean now, and john is dead.

dean assimilates to sam's perspective when he rebuilds the impala: his car is now an extension of himself, and he is the home that sam chose. this is now his car, not john's; he is now sam's family, not john. and throughout the first half of season 2 dean struggles with this new responsibility and what that means for him—how their codependency should work, whether or not he should try to fill john's shoes, what "home" is supposed to look like for them without john in it.

i think it's an interesting way to depict dean's emotional shift across this stretch of episodes. seasons 1 and 2 especially do a lot of great work to depict john even in his physical absence, from allegorical substitutes to his haunting presence to this, representing him through the symbol of their literal home. noticing this makes me much more emotional about the impala's role in the story, because it's a physical manifestation of the effort dean put in to become sam's home and commit to their codependent relationship. he loves his car because it's his home, and his home is where sam and dean's hearts are.

[starrylanex]

I Think He Knows - Sam Winchester.

pairing- sam w. x fem!reader; summary - inspired by miss swift’s song; warnings - nothing really, lower case intended; word count - 1,4k

———

the impala's engine rumbled beneath you as the car sped down the long, empty highway. dean was behind the wheel, as usual, focused on the road ahead, while sam sat next to him in the passenger seat, flipping through a book on ancient symbols. you sat in the back, trying to keep your thoughts in check, but it was almost impossible when sam winchester was in the car, just a few feet away.

it was ridiculous, really. the way your heart picked up speed whenever he was around, the way your eyes seemed to follow his every move, even when you tried to play it cool. sam probably had no idea how he affected you. he was always so wrapped up in the hunt, in research, in the next big case.

but lately, there had been moments—fleeting glances, subtle touches, small smiles—that made you think *maybe* he knew. maybe he could feel it too, the energy between you, the way the air seemed to hum when the two of you were close. maybe he wasn't as oblivious as you thought.

as if on cue, sam glanced up, his eyes catching yours in the rearview mirror. it was just for a second, but the look sent a rush of warmth through you, making your heart skip a beat. you quickly looked away, pretending to be interested in the passing scenery, but the way his gaze lingered made it clear that you weren't the only one feeling this.

the impala slowed as dean pulled into a small, rundown motel on the outskirts of some nowhere town. "alright, this is home for the night," dean announced, killing the engine and stretching as he got out of the car.

you followed suit, grabbing your bag from the trunk and trying to ignore the fact that your hands were shaking just a little. it was ridiculous how much sam affected you, how just being around him turned you into a bundle of nervous energy.

"two rooms," dean said, tossing you and sam each a key. "guess it's you and me tonight, sammy. sweetheart, you're on your own."

you felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment at dean's words. relief because you needed some space to collect yourself, but disappointment because part of you had hoped—well, maybe more than part of you—that you and sam would end up sharing a room.

"sounds good," sam said, though his eyes flickered toward you as he spoke, like maybe he wasn't entirely happy with the arrangement either.

the three of you made your way inside, and after a quick exchange of goodnights, you found yourself in your small, dimly lit room. the bed was lumpy, the walls were thin, and the air smelled faintly of stale cigarettes, but you didn't care. all you could think about was the way sam had looked at you back in the car, the way his gaze had lingered just a little too long.

you sighed, flopping down onto the bed and staring up at the cracked ceiling. this was getting out of hand. if you didn't do something soon, you were going to drive yourself crazy wondering if sam felt the same way you did.

meanwhile, while you dwelled in your thoughts, in the room next door, a soft ‘ow’ was heard as a brunette hunter brought a hand up to back of his head and massaged it a little, “dean what the hell,”

“you are an idiot, thats what” dean says, dropping his bag next to his bed and going down with it.

“i have no idea what you are talking about” sam mutters, glancing away from his brother’s narrowed eyes.

“have no idea my ass,” dean presses on, “if you dont do anything about your girl, someone else will and dont give me that ‘i have no idea what you are talking about’ crap again, or i swear” dean pitches up his voice to mock sam.

sam freezes, not knowing what to say or do. because dean is right, he knows that the two of you have been having these stare offs, these moments for weeks now, and dean admitting it now, made it sound even more real than feeling like it was all in his head.

“i’ll be right back” sam says, now sounding determined. he doesn’t know what he plans on doing, but he knows he needs to get it off his chest before its too late.

a knock at the door interrupted your thoughts, and your heart leaped into your throat. you knew who it was before you even answered.

when you opened the door, there stood sam, his tall frame filling the doorway. his hair was slightly tousled, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made your pulse quicken.

"hey," he said softly, his voice low and careful. "you mind if i come in for a minute?"

you nodded, stepping aside to let him in. he walked in slowly, his hands shoved into the pockets of his flannel shirt, like he was trying to play it cool. but you could see it in his eyes, in the tension in his shoulders—he was feeling it too.

"what's up?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, even though your heart was pounding.

sam didn't answer right away. instead, he moved to stand by the window, looking out at the dark, empty parking lot. for a moment, you thought he was going to say something about the case, or ask you for help with research—something safe, something normal. but then he turned around, and the look in his eyes was anything but normal.

"i've been thinking," he started, his voice still soft, but there was an intensity behind it now. "about... us."

your breath caught in your throat, and you could feel your pulse racing in your ears. *us.* the word hung in the air between you, heavy with all the unspoken feelings you'd been trying to ignore for weeks.

"sam—"

"I think you know," he interrupted, taking a step closer. his eyes locked onto yours, and suddenly, there was no space between you, no distance to hide behind. "i think you've known for a while now."

you swallowed hard, trying to keep your cool, but it was useless. the way he was looking at you—the way his eyes traced your face, the way his voice had dropped to a near whisper—it was overwhelming.

"what do you mean?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

sam smiled softly, but there was something serious in his expression, something that made your stomach flip. he reached out, his hand brushing against yours, a light touch that sent a jolt of electricity through your whole body.

"you know exactly what I mean," he said, his voice low and full of meaning. "the way you look at me... the way I look at you. we've been going around it for weeks now."

your heart was racing, your mind spinning, but you couldn't look away from him. because he was right. you had known. maybe not from the very beginning, but somewhere along the way, you had realized it—that he saw you the same way you saw him.

"and now?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly as you looked up at him. "what happens now?"

sam's hand found yours, his fingers lacing through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. he smiled, that soft, almost shy smile with dimples that made your heart melt.

"now," he said, stepping closer until there was no space left between you, "we stop pretending."

before you could say another word, sam leaned in, grabbing your jaw, his lips brushing softly against yours in a kiss that felt both familiar and brand new. your heart soared as you kissed him back, your hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

when you finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, sam rested his forehead against yours, his fingers still intertwined with yours.

"i think i knew," you whispered, your voice light and teasing, even though your heart was pounding in your chest.

aam chuckled softly, his breath warm against your skin. "yeah. i think i knew too."

and in that moment, with sam's hand in yours and the weight of unspoken feelings finally lifted, everything felt right. you didn't have to wonder anymore. you didn't have to pretend.

because now, you both knew.

[artyandink]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐱𝐲𝐳 1

SUMMARY: You’re the first female president of the USA, having won the 2014 elections against Amara Shurley by a landslide. Now that you were a symbol of feminism, reform and a better country, it meant that there were a lot more assassination attempts bound to be on your head. For that, you needed a personal bodyguard, so you had to pick right. And you picked right in convicted ex-hitman Dean Winchester. Right?

TW: assassination attempts, ex-hitman!Dean, POTUS!reader, politics!au, politics, murder, gunfire, boss reader, angst, major sexual tension between reader and Dean but also romantic tension cause we love that, slow/quick burn, y’all will have to figure that out

A/N: In honour of our queen Kamala Harris, who didn’t win the 2024 elections, so I give you what could’ve been

NOW PLAYING: Power by Little Mix

office fever

God, the wait was killing you.

You were sitting in a bar, hoping that when the results of the final poll came you were drunk enough that you’d cheer and scream like a madwoman to counteract the inevitable news that you’d lose the 2014 presidential elections to your only eligible opponent, Amara Shurley. Either way, you both had incredibly good future legislations and laws, and whoever was elected there’d be a woman as the President for the first time, which was good. Really good.

“Come on, babes, cheer up!” Stephanie, one of your two best friends, drawled, checking her manicured nails while absent-mindedly sipping on a Long Island Iced Tea like it was merely water, but that was Steph O’Donnell for you, plain and simple. Eh, she was a bit nails-obsessed, but you loved her anyway for it, she did always look immaculate.

Bella, your other, redhead best friend, sighed and smacked Steph upside her blonde head, earning a gasp at the potentially ruined heatless curls (no, they weren’t ruined, she’s just being dramatic). “Maybe you just need to get less alcohol in your system.” She said pointedly, plucking the vodka shot out of your fingers.

“Bels, if anything, she needs more.” Steph pointed out after checking if her hair wasn’t frizzed up in a pocket mirror. “If she wins, it just means she’s capable of partying harder.”

Bella sighed and rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a small laugh, tsking internally at the notion. “She needs to remain sober for when she gets the results, and she’s going to win.” Bella turned to you with a sparkling smile and took your hand, squeezing it. “We’re here for you, girl. Sure, it’s totally possible that the Amara Shurley woman could win the election — she’s older — but if the country’s not stupid, then you’ll be the next POTUS.”

“I’m not sure whether to feel better or worse.” You playfully rolled your eyes, but let the vodka shot go and gestured to the bartender with a resigned sigh. Yeah, you could go without alcohol for tonight. “But ok. One mocktail, and surprise me with it. Cheers.” You looked to Bella with raised eyebrows, tipping your head slightly. “So, what if I lose the election?”

Bella tutted, and Steph looked up from her nails in shock— damn, that’s how you knew you were in deep shit. “Baby girl, you better get that thinking out of your head right now.” Steph gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in shock. “You are an icon for a feminist nation— a non-toxic feminist nation. If people don’t vote for you, I’m gonna kill those who didn’t, those who did can live.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Steph, no—”

“Yes—”

A loud squeal from Bella distracted both of you and almost made Steph spill the Cosmo that matched her nails and also made her shoot a you bitch look that she really didn’t mean, but then Bella started flapping her hands and making squealing and unintelligible, Brittany from Alvin and the Chipmunk-esque sounds that made you and Steph share a look. “You ok, Bels?” You asked in severe mild concern, while Steph just looked either repulsed or amused.

“Are you having a stroke?” Steph continued, checking for any signs of maybe a heart attack or an ice cube lodged down her throat so her speech becomes little whistles.

“Do you smell toast?” You waved a hand in front of your nose, but then her phone was shoved in front of your face so the screen and everything went blurry, not to mention the sting of the light on your eyes— shit, that burned until your retinas. Grabbing the phone from her, you held it at a distance and squinted (“grandma”, said Steph) but then saw the headline.

2014 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS, FINAL POLL RESULTS

Then you scrolled down, with bated breath and clutching Bella’s hand like you wanted to rip it off, and you took a shaky look at the numbers.

AMARA SHURLEY — 36%

That means you got… 64% of the vote, now that you did the math. Holy shit. “Holy shit!” You gasped, letting out a Bella-reminiscent squeal just as Steph did, and you were smothered by two heavily-perfumed hugs, the wind knocked out of you, but did that matter? No.

You were the President. The first female President. POTUS. The youngest ever elected too, at 35.

Holy fuck, holy shit, holy crap. This was the most beautiful day of your life, beside the day you met Bella and Steph, that day was important. “You’re POTUS.” Steph grinned, waving for, like, six whiskeys for all of you to down.

“You’re POTUS, baby girl.” Bella giggled, squeezing your shoulders and then spinning around on her bar stool, pointing obviously to you and yelling “POTUS!”, earning a round of cheers and applause from the patrons that made you bury your face in your hands.

But you did it with a grin. You were the President.

Honestly, being the President was exhilarating, cause that meant you got to make real change, it was incredible. Your new security team had fended off the paparazzi from smothering you Bella and Steph style except more annoying as you were escorted into the White House, a woman only a little younger than you waiting with an eager grin and a clipboard hugged to her chest.

“Welcome to the White House, Madam President.” She grinned, holding out her hand nervously then retracting it— she didn’t know what new bosses wanted, alright? “I’m Becky Rosen, I’ll be your assistant. Anything you need, I’ll handle it. Do you want anything? Tea, coffee, water, a martini— if you want a martini I’ll have the barman get one ready and waiting for you in the Oval Office…”

During that time she’d been rambling you’d examined Becky, getting a feel for what she was like. Thank God your assistant was a woman also and she seemed like good fun, lively spirit, definitely someone who won’t make your schedule sound boring. But she looked overworked and tired, maybe from the last president— that’d be Raphael Easton, right? Yeah.

“Two things,” you started as you were walking through the halls to the Oval Office, “do you have the files for personal bodyguard applicants that I can cycle through before making official speeches?”

“They’re all on your desk, ma’am.” Becky answered almost immediately— damn, she was rather eager, and happy with her job, clearly, but also had dark circles and eye bags that made something twinge in you. It didn’t sit right.

You nodded, then gave her a warm smile, gently taking the clipboard. “How ‘bout you take the day off, yeah? It’s only my first day, I don’t need anything yet, and I can get the applicants from…” You looked through the labels on the file: FBI, CIA, private agencies, ADX Supermax— ADX Supermax?

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” Becky asked, seeing the way your words trailed off upon seeing the file amid all the other incredibly professional outlets for protection, an applicant from the ADX. Well, you did say unorthodox applicants can apply if they wanted to, you just didn’t expect a dude in prison to put his file through.

Oh. Upon opening it, it was just a letter.

You looked up to Becky, biting your lip in thought, cause if this guy’s in the Supermax, he’s prolific.

“Do I have a direct line to the director of the FBI?”

ADX Florence was a fortress, a high-tech prison designed to keep America’s most dangerous criminals sealed away from the world. It wasn’t a place where hope grew. Dean Winchester, prisoner 11347-7, wasn’t the kind of guy to expect hope anyway. A hitman with a list of bodies long enough to fill a small town cemetery, he had resigned himself to spending the rest of his days in this tomb of concrete and steel.

It wasn’t regret that gnawed at him in the sterile silence of his cell. Regret wasn’t his style. He’d made his choices, taken his hits, and lived by the only code he knew: survival. But that didn’t mean he liked being locked away. Dean had always been a man who thrived on freedom—the smell of asphalt under the Impala’s tires, the weight of a weapon he knew as intimately as his own heartbeat, the thrill of a job well done.

Now, his days were measured in three meals delivered through a slot and the endless monotony of isolation. Until that morning in 2008 when the guard, a surly guy Dean called Mustache, slid a newspaper into his cell along with the breakfast tray.

Dean didn’t read newspapers often. What was the point? The world moved on without him. But that day, boredom got the better of him. He skimmed headlines about wars, scandals, and the economy’s nosedive. Nothing he hadn’t expected. Then his eyes landed on something that made him sit up straighter on the cot.

“Wanted: Elite Personal Security for First Female President. Apply Now.”

The ad stood out like a neon sign in a desert. Beneath the bold letters was a glossy image of the President standing in front of the White House, flanked by Secret Service agents. The text outlined the need for a personal bodyguard—someone with impeccable skills, discretion, and a willingness to take a bullet if necessary. Experience required. Unorthodox candidates welcome.

Dean read it twice, then a third time, the words stirring something he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t quite hope, but it was close.

ADX Supermax wasn’t the kind of place where people left easily. But this ad…this ad was a door, cracked open just wide enough for someone like him to slip through.

“Unorthodox candidates,” he muttered, smirking. “Guess I qualify.”

By lunchtime, Dean had a plan. It wasn’t perfect—nothing he did ever was—but it was a shot, and that was more than he usually got in this place.

He spent hours staring at the blank sheet of paper he’d salvaged from a previous legal memo. Writing wasn’t his strong suit. Hell, if he’d been good at words, maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in the killing business in the first place. But this wasn’t about flowery language. It was about convincing someone that a convicted hitman could be trusted with the life of the most powerful person in the country.

Dean leaned over the small desk bolted to the wall of his cell, chewing the end of his pen as he started to scribble.

To Madam President,

I am writing to express my interest in the position of personal security for the President. I realize my application may raise questions, given my current circumstances, but I ask for your consideration based on my unique qualifications.

Before my incarceration, I was highly skilled in tactical operations, surveillance, and neutralising high-level targets. My ability to assess danger and act decisively has been tested in some of the most dangerous environments.

Though I am serving time for my past actions, I believe in redemption. This position represents an opportunity for me to use my skills for a greater purpose. I have spent my years here reflecting on my choices, and I am prepared to dedicate my life to protecting someone who stands for hope and progress in this country.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I am available for an interview at your convenience.

Sincerely, Dean Winchester

He read over the letter a dozen times, making minor adjustments. It was rough, sure, but it was honest. And honesty was something he didn’t traffic in often, neither were fancy words, and he used a lot of them.

By the time he was done, his hand ached, and the paper was smudged from his grip. He folded it carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his jumpsuit.

The next step was trickier.

Dean’s lawyer, a wiry man named Feldman who’d been paid off by some shadowy client years ago to keep an eye on him, didn’t usually show up unless Dean demanded it. This time, Dean played the card of “urgent legal matter.” When Feldman arrived, looking mildly annoyed but curious, Dean slid the letter across the table during their monitored meeting.

“You want me to…submit this?” Feldman asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean nodded. “Straight to the President’s office. No detours, no ‘I’ll get to it later.’ This is priority one.”

Feldman stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You realize this is insane, right? You’re in here for life. They’re not going to let you out just because you can write a heartfelt letter.”

“They might if they’re desperate enough,” Dean countered. “And that ad says they’re looking for someone who can do the job, not someone who looks good on paper. I can do the job.”

Feldman sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “And if I say no?”

Dean’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You won’t. You owe me.”

Feldman muttered something under his breath but pocketed the letter. “You’re lucky I like long shots.”

Weeks passed. Dean didn’t hear anything, and for a while, he wondered if Feldman had tossed the letter in the nearest trash can. But then, one morning, Mustache appeared at his cell with an unreadable expression.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he said gruffly.

Dean frowned. “Who?”

“Didn’t say. Get up.”

Visitors were rare, especially unannounced ones. Dean followed Mustache down the cold, narrow corridors, his curiosity growing. When he reached the visitor room, his breath caught.

The woman sitting on the other side of the plexiglass partition was dressed in a crisp suit, her posture radiating authority. She wasn’t Feldman, and she definitely wasn’t a typical visitor.

Dean picked up the phone on his side of the glass.

“Mr. Winchester,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “I’m here on behalf of the President.”

He leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Guess you got my letter.”

Her expression didn’t change. “We did. It was…unconventional.”

“That’s me in a nutshell.”

She glanced at a folder on the table in front of her. “Your record is extensive. Multiple charges of murder-for-hire, conspiracy, weapons trafficking…” She looked up, her sharp eyes locking onto his. “Why should we trust you?”

Dean leaned forward, his tone serious. “Because I know what I’m doing. You want someone who’ll lay down their life for the President? Someone who’ll see the threats before anyone else does? That’s me. I’ve been on both sides of this game. I know how killers think because I’ve been one. And if you give me this chance, I’ll prove that I’m more than what’s in that file.”

The woman studied him for a long moment before standing. “We’ll be in touch.”

Dean hung up the phone, watching her leave with a mixture of hope and disbelief. For the first time in years, it felt like the world outside ADX Supermax wasn’t as far away as it seemed.

You’d been running interviews for a bodyguard for about a week now, and you’d only started them once Becky had gotten a good rest, as well as the rest of the staff at the White House so they could spend good time with their families. First few weeks of presidency were busy ones, so you wanted your employees to have some time for themselves before anything happened.

Nobody seemed suitable to you, even though you’d been presented with the best FBI, CIA and private outlet’s security detail they had, they’d each and all failed your every attempt to make them seem credible, you didn’t want anyone like that. Tabloids had already gotten to smearing your name regarding this, but you were more concerned with your final applicant.

Dean Winchester.

You’d asked the FBI to send over every file they had on him, and the list was — you hated to say it — extensive. Many assassinations of high and low-level targets, and he was credited with over 100 assassinations in the past two years— you had your doubts about this guy, the director of the FBI had said he was in there for a reason.

You’d find out if he was unhinged, or just a normal man.

Well, Dean had been escorted as covertly as possible with a bunch of military and secret service agents, which didn’t make sense as his hands were shackled to his feet. The only way he’d be getting out of these chains was if he was a magician, and he wasn’t, just incredibly good at marksmanship and fighting, thank John for that.

“Alright, alright.” He scoffed, almost tripping out of the car as he was practically shoved up the steps by the agents by his head. “I’m moving, I’m moving, Jesus fuck, you ladies are uptight.” He got to the door of the White House, and holy shit, he was really here. He got let in, hearing a Secret Service agent blabbing in his ear.

“Any funny business, 353, and we’re sending you straight back. You’re gonna address Madam President with respect, no cheek—” Ugh, the sound of his voice was grating, but all Dean could do was let out a terse nod as he was led to the door of the Oval Office and led inside. He stepped in, glaring at the service agent who had been yapping about decorum. Then, suddenly—

“Oi! Hey, hey!” A woman’s voice snapped, and he looked up from his shackles to see you, and boy, were you young for a president. You had to be his age, right? Yeah, and you were surprisingly gorgeous for a POTUS, but the way you’d stood up with a loud chair screech from your desk, snapped your fingers and pointing at Dean’s shackles with a livid expression, he knew the agents were in deep shit.

“The fuck is this?” You gestured to the heavy shackles on Dean’s wrists and ankles— they were quite heavy and uncomfortable, now that he paid attention to it, but he was more focused on how much of a little Spitfire you were. Young, but you were snapping at these middle-aged men as if they were 5 year old children. “You might as well put a chain around his neck, for God’s sake— whichever of you has the key, take those things off and leave my office, if he kills me, fine, just have Amara take my place, she’ll do a damn good job as well.”

The service agents stood there, stunned, and then a stern look from you — “Damn,” Dean muttered — got the agent next to Dean to shove the key in the lock to his wrists and ankles, letting the chains fall free, and they were promptly carried out. You sighed, returning to your desk, running a hand through your hair.

“I am so sorry about that, Mr Winchester, I’ve just always found those chains really inhumane.” You rushed the sentence, gesturing to your desk in front of you and sipping your coffee to calm down. Honestly, not your best option, it probably made you more jittery.

Dean didn’t argue, he didn’t want to get scolded, just made his way to the desk, grey jumpsuit — he was in protective custody in prison — rustling with every step until he sat down on the irresistibly comfy chair, cause wow, prison chairs were hard and low standard.

His ass felt like it was in heaven right now.

“No problem, ma’am, I see the point. Not exactly the cleanest slate.” He didn’t think it was wise to make a joke of how he’d assassinated people for hire, but it made you laugh, so maybe that was good going. Who knows? “And call me Dean.”

“I see that.” You smiled, then gestured to Dean with a warm smile, not something he was used to unless it was the smiles of his mom that he barely remembered. Otherwise it was either hungry, lustful smiles of desperate women and cunning smiles of ruthless businessmen and mafia bosses. “So, Dean, before we get started, would you like anything? Tea, coffee, water, beer, whiskey— one candidate asked for straight vodka. He’s not getting the job.” Damn. The new POTUS was cool.

“Water would be great.” Dean would have a drop of whiskey, but he wanted to make a good impression and hydrate himself with something other than low-quality prison water. So, when you passed him the water, he downed the tall glass in three gulps, but then paused when he saw you watching.

Then he swallowed. Shit.

But you weren’t judging him, you seemed understanding, that yes, prison water probably tasted like rat piss, so he finished the rest of the glass and wiped his hand with the back of his mouth. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise. Prison must be really rough, treat yourself.” You waved him off, shaking your head, then peered through his file. Rather interesting family background, how did he turn out that way? “Says here that your father’s a Marine Corporal veteran, thanks for his service, and your brother’s a prosecution lawyer that graduated from Stanford Law. Impressive.” You looked up at him, thumb playing with the ring on your middle finger, eyes focused on the paper.

Dean couldn’t help but note that you were beautiful. Not objectively, just factually beautiful. He’s not being a perv.

“My brother’s a nerd.” Dean stated with a smile as you talked about his family, he didn’t blame them, he wasn’t a bookworm, he wasn’t as smart as his little brother in that aspect, Sam was all about studying and being the good kid.

"Yeah, my brother used to say I was a nerd, now look at me." You chuckled, then nodded in acknowledgement. "You, however, you graduated just on the mark, no honours, didn't go to college and transactions show you started as a hitman when you were 20." You paused for a second, cause that was what you couldn’t put your finger on. "But the equal amounts of money went to Stanford in deposits. Why?"

Dean knew he was gonna be interrogated by the new President, that’s a given, and he made sure to prepare himself for the whole psychological evaluation of himself. His expression remained unreadable, only slightly surprised by how quickly you put together that he’d been paying for his brother’s college.

“He’s family. Sammy’s a good kid, he deserves to get away from this life.” Dean answered, it was a simple answer. It didn’t really dig deep into his past or his true relationships with his family.

Well, all you had to know was that his dad was paranoid after returning from deployment and taught him how to shoot like James fucking Bond and Sammy too, but Sam had left for college while Dean had nothing he could do for himself.

"Mhm." You hummed, looking through the rest of it. "Now my guys are finding that in the years since your brother left college, money you've earned from assassinations ordered by high level clients — that are now behind bars — has been wired to a rehab centre down in Delaware. I looked into it, and I found out your father's staying there. None of that money's going to you." Your voice wasn't judging. You instead sounded understanding.

The only reason why Dean wasn’t surprised or shocked by the fact that you knew this was the fact that you were the President. He should’ve guessed. He smiled slightly as you remained understanding about the whole situation though, most other politicians would’ve seen this as a chance to blackmail and threaten him.

“Yeah, my dad’s got severe PTSD. It’s the only good one nearby.” He explained as he crossed his arms. It would be hard to find a rehab centre that accepted his dad given the whole violent record he had.

You couldn’t help but feel sympathy at that. Dean’s juvenile record wasn’t the cleanest, so no shops would’ve hired him so he could make that money, only black ops would. It was strange, and you’d be under fire by the media if you voiced it, but you saw his struggle. “You did it for your family.” You were surprised at how softly you said that.

“Family don’t end in blood, ma’am.” Dean replied, honestly, and you were hit where it hurt by that statement. You were expecting a cold-hearted killer, not a man trying to do right by his post-traumatic father and little brother. “Not if I’m still breathin’. Sammy’s got a good life, a wife, by what I’ve heard. Don’t wanna burden him with all that shit, a-and I haven’t talked to him in a few years. My boy.” He cleared his throat to not get too emotional.

You had to do that too, just to be clear.

“I’m sorry.” But that wouldn’t just fix everything, so you took a moment to let that hang in order to give him some time. “Only important question I’m gonna ask. Hypothetically, we’re under fire at one of my events. You’ve gotten me to safety, and I give you the order to do the same for civilians. Do you do it?”

Dean took in the question, eyebrow raised slightly as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as he studied you. That was a odd but interesting question. This was a job interview for real, it seems.

But this answer was simple.

“Civilians. I’d get the innocents out first.” He said, there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation in his voice. Civilians, innocent people will always come first before anything and anyone. He’d made sure when performing hits that no civilians, women, fathers, men, mothers, children— were safely out of the way before taking a shot. If they weren’t, he refused. He wasn’t risking it.

He was expecting you to refuse him on the spot, but instead two words came out that almost made him go “holy shit”.

“You’re hired.”

You’re. Hired. He could die.

“I-I’m sorry, Madam President, I’m what?” He practically gasped, hands clutching the arms of his seat, watching you take out some already prepared parole papers and walking to the door in your heels, handing the file to one of the service agents.

“Hired.” You said simply, a shrug and a smile offered as you walked to the desk. Fucking hell, Dean had never seen a stranger president in his life. “Your parole is being passed effective immediately, and I wanna get you in touch with my stylist and wardrobe guy so we can get you some new and frankly more comfortable clothes. You’ll be staying here, at the White House, you’ll have full access to my staff for anything you might need, but most importantly, you need to call your family.” You tapped your landline that you had prepared on the desk with a small, encouraging smile. “I have Sam’s number and the rehab centre’s number both in your directory file, I’ll give you some time to talk rather than waiting like a creep.”

As you walked out, Dean couldn’t believe his ears. He was now the President’s bodyguard, he got to live in luxury, no doubt there was a large paycheck and he got to call Sammy again. His Sammy, oh, holy shit.

His hand shook as he reached for the landline, opening the file and there it was, Sam’s number, and it’d changed since he got put in prison a good six months ago. His fingers fumbled, clumsily dialling the number and waiting a moment as the dial tone stopped and the ringing shook his eardrum. Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, please pick up—

“Hello?” Dean’s heart broke upon hearing Sam’s voice again, and he took a shaky breath. Get a grip, Winchester, it’s only your little brother, the man you raised your while life.

“Bitch.” His voice sounded like he’d smoked cigarettes, and he’d quit that habit after high school, but all he could hear was the dead silence of realisation on the other side.

“Jerk.”

The motorcade pulled up to the white-brick colonial house just as the late afternoon sun began to dip behind the row of oaks lining the driveway. You leaned back in your seat, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. For months now, your life had been a whirlwind of campaign rallies, debates, and sleepless nights in cramped hotels. It all felt surreal. You were the President of the United States. Yet, somehow, coming home to this house—the one you’d grown up in—was what made it all feel real.

Secret Service agents stepped out first, scanning the quiet suburban neighborhood for threats. You glanced out the tinted window, catching a glimpse of the familiar front porch where your father had painted the railing a deep blue years ago. The door creaked open, and a small figure darted out onto the lawn before anyone could stop him.

“Austin!”

The call came from Eden, your sister-in-law, who appeared a moment later, balancing baby Wyatt on her hip. She looked harried but happy, waving at you from the porch. Austin, however, was already halfway to the car, his untied sneakers slapping against the pavement.

You smiled despite yourself. Rolling down the window, you called out, “Hold on, buddy, let them do their job.”

The boy skidded to a stop as one of the agents gently but firmly intercepted him, patting him on the shoulder and guiding him back toward the porch. Austin complied, but his excitement was evident in every bouncing step.

By the time you exited the car, your father, Mark, was standing on the porch steps, arms crossed but with a wide grin splitting his face. “There she is,” he said, his voice booming with pride. “Madame President.”

You felt your cheeks flush as you climbed the steps. “Dad, don’t start.”

“Oh, I’ll start, alright,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug. “My daughter, the leader of the free world! They’re gonna need to expand that Oval Office just to fit my pride.”

“Mark, give her some room to breathe,” your mother, Odette, chided as she stepped outside. She was smaller than you remembered, her hair streaked with more gray than the last time you’d seen her. But her smile was as warm as ever. She held her arms open, and you leaned into her familiar embrace, the scent of lavender and vanilla washing over you.

“It’s good to see you, Mom,” you murmured.

“We’re so proud of you,” she said softly, pulling back to study your face. “But I bet you’re exhausted.”

You nodded, glancing over her shoulder to see your older brother Ryan descending the stairs, a grin on his face. “Well, well, look who decided to come back down to earth,” he teased, reaching out to clap you on the shoulder.

“Someone’s gotta keep you grounded,” you shot back, the familiar rhythm of sibling banter falling into place as though no time had passed.

Eden appeared beside him, Wyatt still on her hip. She offered you a smile, and you leaned in to kiss her cheek. “How’s this little guy doing?” you asked, reaching out to tickle Wyatt’s chin. The baby let out a squeal of laughter, his chubby arms flailing.

“He’s teething,” Eden said with a weary smile. “So, you know…living the dream.”

Austin, who had been hovering impatiently at the edge of the group, finally couldn’t contain himself. “Auntie!” he shouted, throwing his arms around your waist.

“Hey, kiddo,” you said, ruffling his hair. “What’s new?”

“I got an A on my science project!” he said, looking up at you with bright eyes.

“That’s great!” you said. “What was the project?”

“Volcanoes,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Dad helped me with the lava.”

Ryan coughed. “Helped is a strong word. He mostly just told me what to do.”

“That’s because you were doing it wrong!” Austin protested, and the group dissolved into laughter.

Inside, the house was exactly as you remembered it. The worn hardwood floors creaked under your feet, and the faint scent of your mother’s cooking lingered in the air. The walls were covered with family photos—some old, some new—including one of you on election night, surrounded by your team, your face frozen in an expression of shock and joy.

Dinner was already laid out on the long wooden table in the dining room. A roast chicken sat in the center, surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, and your mother’s famous macaroni casserole. It was a far cry from the catered meals you’d been eating on the campaign trail, and your stomach growled in anticipation.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Odette said, ushering everyone to their seats.

You took your usual spot, sandwiched between Austin and your father, while Ryan carved the chicken. Plates were passed around, and soon the room was filled with the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation.

Mark raised his glass of water. “A toast,” he said, his voice cutting through the din. “To my daughter. The first woman to sit in the Oval Office. You’ve made us all so proud.”

“Here, here!” Ryan chimed in, lifting his own glass.

You felt a lump rise in your throat as you clinked glasses with everyone around the table. For a moment, the weight of your responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by the simple joy of being surrounded by the people who had always believed in you.

After dinner, you helped your mother clear the table, despite her protests. “You’re the President now,” she said, swatting your hands away from the plates. “You don’t need to be doing dishes.”

“Maybe not,” you said, grinning. “But I don’t think I’ve outgrown being your daughter.”

She relented, shaking her head with a fond smile, and the two of you worked side by side in comfortable silence. When the last dish was put away, you found yourself drawn to the living room, where the rest of the family had gathered.

Ryan was sprawled on the couch, flipping through a photo album with Austin perched beside him. Eden sat in the armchair, rocking Wyatt to sleep, while Mark stood by the fireplace, nursing a cup of coffee.

You sank into the armchair opposite Eden, your eyes drawn to the flickering flames in the hearth. “It feels good to be home,” you said softly.

Mark looked over at you, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve got a hell of a road ahead of you, kid,” he said. “But don’t forget—you’ve got us. We’re here for you, no matter what.”

You nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle in your chest. “I know,” you said. “And I’m going to need that. All of it.”

Ryan looked up from the photo album, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Think we’ll get to visit the White House? Austin’s dying to see the bowling alley.”

Austin’s head snapped up. “There’s a bowling alley?”

You laughed. “There is. And yeah, you’ll all come visit. But I can’t promise I’ll have much time for bowling.”

“Why not?” Austin asked, his brow furrowing. “You’re the President. Can’t you just…make time?”

The simplicity of his question made you smile. “It’s a little more complicated than that, buddy,” you said. “But I’ll do my best.”

Later that night, after the house had quieted and everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself standing in the backyard. The air was crisp and cool, and the stars above were brighter than you remembered. You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling the enormity of your new role settle over you like a heavy cloak.

The back door creaked open, and Mark stepped outside, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He joined you on the porch, handing you a steaming mug of tea.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Too much on my mind.”

Mark nodded, staring out at the dark yard. “It’s a big job,” he said. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

“I hope so,” you said quietly.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’ve got what it takes,” he said. “And you’ve got us. Don’t forget that.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Thanks, Dad.”

He smiled, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.”

As you followed him inside, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in months. No matter how hard the road ahead might be, you knew you wouldn’t be walking it alone.

The Oval Office was as grand as you’d imagined—perhaps even more so. Its high, curved ceilings and rich, historic decor exuded authority, yet the warmth of the afternoon sunlight filtering through the tall windows softened the edges, giving the room an almost serene quality.

You sat at the Resolute Desk, a stack of documents waiting for your signature. Each one bore the weight of history. Education reforms. Trade agreements. Environmental policies. Every flick of your pen carried consequences that rippled far beyond the iconic walls of this room.

Across the room, Becky, your ever-efficient assistant, was perched on the edge of one of the armchairs, tablet in hand. “After this meeting with the education committee, you’ve got a fifteen-minute break before the press briefing,” she said, scrolling rapidly through the day’s schedule. “Then at three, there’s the Cabinet discussion on infrastructure. And don’t forget the call with the German Chancellor at four.”

“Got it,” you replied, signing your name with a practiced flourish. “Anything else?”

Becky hesitated, glancing at her screen. “Oh, and your new personal bodyguard will be arriving shortly. Dean Winchester.”

You kept your expression neutral, though you’d been briefed extensively on this particular appointment. A former hitman, Dean’s resume wasn’t exactly typical for someone tasked with protecting the President. But his unconventional background—and the skillset that came with it—was exactly why he’d been chosen.

“Right,” you said, setting your pen down. “I’ve read his file. Has he been through security clearance?”

“Thoroughly vetted,” Becky assured you. “And cleared. He should be here any moment.”

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Let’s hope he lives up to the hype.”

Just as Becky opened her mouth to reply, the door opened.

You looked up, and the words you were about to say caught in your throat.

Dean Winchester strode into the room with the kind of presence that made people stop and take notice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a casual confidence that hinted at years of facing danger head-on. He wore a dark gray suit that was tailored just enough to highlight his powerful frame but not so tight as to make him look polished or delicate. The crisp white shirt underneath contrasted against his tanned skin, and his black tie was slightly loosened, as if he’d deliberately left it that way.

Despite the formal attire, there was an undeniable ruggedness about him. His short, tousled hair was just slightly too messy to be regulation, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw added an edge that no amount of tailoring could hide. His green eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the room before landing on you.

You found yourself momentarily distracted by the way the suit accentuated his broad chest and tapered waist. It was a rare thing for someone to wear something so formal yet exude the kind of raw, unrefined masculinity that Dean seemed to embody.

“Madame President,” he said, his voice low and gravelly as he stopped a respectful distance from your desk.

You forced yourself to refocus, clearing your throat as you rose from your seat. “Mr. Winchester.” You allowed yourself a small smile, noting the way his gaze remained steady but professional. “You clean up well.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Thanks. I aim to please.”

Becky glanced between the two of you before standing. “I’ll step out and make sure everything’s ready for the committee meeting,” she said, gathering her tablet.

“Thanks, Becky,” you said, watching her leave before turning back to Dean.

For a moment, the room felt smaller. His presence was magnetic, and you couldn’t help but take him in once more, your gaze lingering on the way his shoulders filled out the suit jacket, the way his long fingers rested casually at his sides, the way they gripped his chair as he sat down. You snapped your attention back to his face before he could notice.

Dean leaned back slightly in the chair, taking in the sight of you as you scanned your schedule on the tablet in front of you. The soft lighting of the Oval Office seemed to highlight the sharp lines of your features, and the way you carried yourself—confident, composed, entirely in command—struck him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He’d done his research, of course. He knew your career milestones, your policies, even a few of your personal quirks. But seeing you in person was different. The photographs didn’t do you justice.

As you spoke, your voice clear and firm, Dean found himself watching the curve of your lips, the subtle tilt of your head when you emphasized a point. You had a presence that filled the room, a quiet strength that made it impossible to look away.

“Your main job,” you were saying, “is to ensure my safety, both here and when I travel. You’ll coordinate with the Secret Service, but your focus will be on close-range protection. You’ll accompany me to all public appearances, meetings, and events.”

Dean nodded, forcing himself to focus on your words rather than the way your blouse fit perfectly beneath your blazer. “Understood. Anything specific I should know about your routine?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze. “It varies. I keep a tight schedule, but unexpected situations come up all the time. You’ll need to be adaptable.”

“I’m good at that,” Dean said, his tone confident but not cocky.

“Good.” You swiped at the tablet, then set it down on the desk. “I’ve read your file. Your skillset is…impressive.”

He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “That’s one way to put it.”

You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving into a wry smile. “I’d call it unconventional, but that seems to be exactly what I need.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over you again, this time lingering on the curve of your jawline, the way your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the desk. He’d worked with plenty of high-profile people before, but you were in a league of your own.

“Anything else I should be aware of?” he asked, his voice low.

You tilted your head, considering him for a moment. “You’re going to see me at my best and my worst,” you said plainly. “Long hours, high stress, bad days, good days. It comes with the territory.”

Dean nodded. “I’m here to do my job, ma’am. Whatever it takes.”

Something in his tone made you pause, your gaze sharpening as you studied him. “You’ve been in worse situations, haven’t you?”

“Let’s just say I’m no stranger to high stakes,” he replied, his smirk returning.

You leaned back in your chair, satisfied. “Good. I’ll need someone who can keep a cool head under pressure. And someone who doesn’t mind telling me the hard truth when I need to hear it.”

Dean’s smirk widened slightly. “I can handle that.”

The conversation shifted to logistics—your upcoming travel schedule, security protocols, and daily routines. Dean asked a few questions, his tone professional, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was studying you as much as he was listening.

If you noticed the way his eyes dipped to your collarbone when you leaned forward to make a point, or how his gaze lingered on the curve of your wrist as you gestured, you didn’t let on. You were focused, deliberate, every bit the commander-in-chief he’d expected.

When the meeting wrapped up, you stood and extended a hand again. “Welcome aboard, Dean. I look forward to working with you.”

Dean rose, his hand engulfing yours once more. “The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

As he turned to leave, you called after him, “And Dean?”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“You really do look good in that suit.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alone again, you returned to your desk, your mind already shifting to the next task. But for a moment, you allowed yourself a small smile.

It was going to be an interesting partnership.

“Ok, excuse me?” Bella had practically squealed when the door to your bedroom behind you, her and Steph had been shut by Dean, who was now waiting outside to give you some privacy, and thank God those walls were thick enough to hide this conversation. “You didn’t tell us your bodyguard was a Ben Affleck and Brad Pitt combo.”

Steph scoffed, shaking her head. “Girl, no. He’s better than that, he puts Adonis to shame— where’s he been hiding?” They both turned to you expectantly, clearly not aware that your Adonis-transcendent bodyguard was fresh out of the United States Penitentiary, Administrative Maximum Facility. Oh, that’s gonna be a hard pill to swallow, right?

“Prison.” You swallowed, clearing your throat awkwardly upon saying it, cause you weren’t often the bringer of news that a guy like Dean used to be a prolific criminal who kills for money. “ADX Florence. An ex-hitman, to be clear, with over 100 kills in the past two years.”

“So he’s a bad boy.” Bella giggled, clearly not phased, which kind of concerned you with which brain they both were thinking from, and hopefully not the downstairs one. “Even better, oh my god, I was getting worried he’s a goodie.”

Steph raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Right? Like, you can’t just drop ‘ex-hitman with over 100 kills’ and not expect us to have questions. Or fantasies.”

“Steph!” you choked, glancing toward the door as if Dean could hear through the thick walls.

“What? I’m just saying!” She crossed her arms, leaning back against the bedpost. “Honestly, though? He’s got that whole ‘dark past but reformed bad boy’ thing going for him. You’re living every romance novel heroine’s dream.”

Bella, not to be outdone, clutched at her chest dramatically. “Forget romance novels—I’d climb him like a tree. That man looks like he could bench press me and not even break a sweat.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Can we not?”

“We absolutely can,” Bella countered, her voice rising with glee. “Seriously, you’ve got the hottest bodyguard in the country, and you didn’t think we needed to know this? Girl, where’s your sense of sisterhood?”

Steph was nodding in agreement. “Yeah, you’re withholding important information. Like, what’s he like in person? Is he all business, or does he have that smoldering, ‘I could kill you, but I won’t’ energy?”

Your cheeks burned, both from their shameless gushing and the mental image Steph’s words conjured. “He’s…fine. Professional.”

“‘Professional,’ she says,” Bella snorted. “Professional at looking fine as hell, maybe.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Come on. What’s he like? Does he flirt? Does he give you those ‘I’m secretly in love with you’ stares when you’re not looking?”

You glared at her. “No. Absolutely not. He’s just doing his job.”

“Sure he is,” Steph said with a smirk, clearly not buying it. “But don’t think we didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he shut the door earlier.”

You blinked. “What? He didn’t—”

“Oh, honey,” Bella interrupted, waving her hand dramatically. “He totally did. That man looked at you like you were the last piece of chocolate cake at a birthday party. And don’t even get me started on how he stood. You know, all broody and protective, like some kind of…” She trailed off, searching for the right words.

“Alpha wolf guarding his mate,” Steph supplied helpfully.

“Exactly!” Bella snapped her fingers. “Thank you, Steph. That’s exactly the vibe.”

You groaned again, resisting the urge to bang your head against the nearest wall. “You two need help.”

“What we need,” Steph said, grinning wickedly, “is for you to admit that you’ve at least thought about it. Because if you haven’t, you’re lying.”

“I haven’t!” you protested, a little too quickly.

Bella’s eyes lit up like she’d just won the lottery. “Oh my God, you totally have! Look at you—your ears are turning red.”

“Leave me alone,” you muttered, glaring at the floor.

But they weren’t about to let you off the hook.

“Okay, okay,” Steph said, holding up a hand as if to calm the chaos. “Let’s be serious for a second. He’s obviously gorgeous, and clearly there’s some…tension. But what’s the story? Like, how did you even end up with him as your bodyguard? I feel like there’s a Netflix series waiting to happen here.”

You hesitated, weighing how much to tell them. “It’s…complicated. He was recommended through some very high-level channels. Apparently, he’s the best at what he does.”

“And what he does is kill people,” Bella said, her voice dripping with mock solemnity.

You shot her a look. “Not anymore. He’s reformed. He went through a rigorous vetting process before he was even considered for the position.”

Steph tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “So, he’s done bad things, but now he’s protecting the President of the United States. That’s a redemption arc if I’ve ever heard one.”

Bella sighed wistfully. “And he’s doing it all while looking like a Calvin Klein model who got lost on his way to the shoot.”

“Can we not turn this into a thirst-fest?” you pleaded, though you knew it was a losing battle.

Bella leaned closer, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, sweetie. It’s already a thirst-fest. You’re just in denial.”

The conversation spiraled from there, with Bella and Steph taking turns crafting increasingly absurd fantasies about Dean’s hypothetical love life.

“He probably has a tragic backstory,” Bella said dreamily, lying back on the bed. “Like, maybe he lost the love of his life in some tragic accident, and now he’s sworn to protect others to atone for his past.”

“Or,” Steph countered, “he’s secretly a billionaire who does this for the adrenaline rush. Like, by day he’s your bodyguard, but by night he’s funding orphanages and saving puppies.”

Bella clapped her hands. “Yes! And in his free time, he restores classic cars and writes poetry.”

You stared at them, equal parts amused and horrified. “You two have officially lost it.”

“Or,” Steph said, ignoring you entirely, “he’s secretly in love with you, and this whole bodyguard thing is just an excuse to be close to you.”

Bella gasped, sitting up suddenly. “Steph, that’s it! That’s the one!”

You buried your face in your hands. “I regret ever letting you meet him.”

“Don’t be like that,” Bella said, patting your shoulder. “We’re just saying—you’re sitting on a goldmine of romantic potential here. If you don’t at least consider it, we will.”

“Noted,” you said dryly, standing up and heading for the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do. Unlike you two.”

Bella and Steph exchanged knowing looks as you opened the door to find Dean standing just outside, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

He straightened slightly when you stepped into the hallway, his eyes meeting yours. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze as you brushed past him.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Steph and Bella might have been onto something.

The drive to Sam’s place was smooth, the kind of easy journey Dean Winchester hadn’t experienced in years. Maybe ever. The hum of the Impala’s engine, a comforting growl beneath him, was as close to peace as Dean could imagine. His day off had finally rolled around, and he hadn’t hesitated to decide how he’d spend it.

Sam had settled in a quiet neighborhood outside Washington, D.C., where tree-lined streets and neat, white-picket fences painted a picture of suburban serenity. It was a far cry from the lives they’d led growing up, but Dean couldn’t deny it suited his little brother.

Pulling up to the house, Dean killed the engine and climbed out, adjusting his leather jacket as he took in the sight. The two-story home was modest but inviting, with a tidy lawn and a swing set in the backyard visible through the side gate. He could hear faint laughter—probably from Dean Jr., Sam and Jess’s kid, who, much to Dean’s delight, was his namesake.

Dean’s boots crunched against the gravel path as he approached the front door. Before he could knock, it swung open, and Sam stood there, looking every bit the family man.

“Dean,” Sam greeted, his face lighting up in a grin. “Right on time.”

“Of course,” Dean said, stepping inside. “I’m punctual now. Didn’t you hear? I’ve got a government job.”

Sam chuckled, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he shut the door behind him. “I’m still getting used to the idea.”

Inside, the house was warm and lived-in. Pictures adorned the walls—Jess and Sam on their wedding day, little Dean Jr. blowing out candles on a birthday cake, snapshots of family trips to the beach. The scent of something delicious wafted from the kitchen, and Dean’s stomach growled in response.

“Jess is cooking?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She insists,” Sam replied with a shrug. “Says you need a proper meal after all that ‘White House food.’”

Dean smirked. “Tell her I’m not gonna argue with that.”

Jess appeared moments later, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She was glowing, as she always seemed to be, her blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail and her smile bright enough to light up the room.

“Dean!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a quick hug. “It’s been too long.”

“Too long,” Dean agreed, glancing over her shoulder. “Where’s the rugrat?”

As if on cue, the sound of small feet thudding down the stairs filled the house. Dean Jr. appeared, his face lighting up when he saw his uncle. The kid was a spitting image of Sam, with floppy brown hair and wide hazel eyes, but he had Dean’s mischievous grin.

“Uncle Dean!”

“Dean-o!” Dean crouched, catching the boy as he barreled into him. “What’s up, kiddo? You keeping your old man in line?”

Dean Jr. nodded enthusiastically. “Dad says you work for the President now. Is that true?”

Dean ruffled the boy’s hair. “Sure is. Cool, huh?”

“Super cool,” Dean Jr. said, his eyes wide with awe.

“Alright, enough hero worship,” Sam teased, though his smile betrayed how much he enjoyed seeing his son and brother bond. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”

The meal was hearty—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables—and filled with easy conversation. Dean filled them in on the basics of his new job, skirting around the grittier details of his past. Sam and Jess shared stories about their life, from Jess’s latest work project to Dean Jr.’s adventures in Little League.

It was only after the dishes were cleared and Jess had taken Dean Jr. upstairs to bed that the conversation turned serious.

The brothers sat in the living room, each nursing a beer. The light from the fireplace cast a warm glow, and the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards above.

“So,” Sam began, leaning back on the couch, “you gonna tell me how this happened?”

Dean took a long swig of his beer, then set the bottle down on the coffee table. “What, me working for the President? Thought you already knew.”

“I know the headlines,” Sam said, his brow furrowing. “But what I don’t know is how you went from ADX Florence to the White House.”

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Figured you’d ask eventually.”

“Of course I’d ask.” Sam’s voice was gentle but firm. “You were in prison, Dean. The kind of prison people don’t just walk out of.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It started with a newspaper.”

Sam blinked. “A newspaper?”

Dean nodded. “I was in my cell, flipping through this paper someone left behind. Saw an ad for a private security position with the President. They were looking for someone who could think outside the box, someone with…unconventional skills.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “And you thought, ‘Hey, that sounds like me’?”

“Something like that.” Dean’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Figured I didn’t have much to lose, so I wrote up a resume. Handed it off to my lawyer, told him to file it.”

Sam stared at him, his disbelief evident. “And they just…hired you?”

“No,” Dean said with a chuckle. “They didn’t even call me at first. Took weeks before I heard anything. When they finally did, they put me through the wringer—interviews, background checks, psych evaluations. The works.”

“And they still hired you?” Sam asked, shaking his head in amazement.

“Guess they figured my track record spoke for itself,” Dean said, his tone turning more serious. “I’ve done things, Sam. Bad things. But I’ve also done what needed to be done when no one else could. They saw that.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, processing his brother’s words. “And now you’re protecting the most powerful person in the world.”

Dean nodded. “Guess you could say I’m making up for lost time.”

Sam studied his brother, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Jess and I were talking about you the other night. About how far you’ve come. We’re proud of you, Dean.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, not used to hearing such straightforward praise. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Sammy.”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m serious. You’ve been through hell and back, and somehow you’re still standing.”

Dean took another sip of his beer, his gaze distant. “Yeah, well. Standing’s about all I’m good at.”

“That’s not true,” Sam said firmly. “You’ve got a purpose now. A second chance. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Dean glanced at his brother, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam returned the smile, then leaned back with a sigh. “So, what’s she like? The President.”

Dean hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “She’s…different.”

“Different how?”

“She’s smart. Sharp as hell. Tough, but not in a fake way. And she actually listens, which is more than I can say for most people in her position.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you respect her.”

“I do,” Dean admitted.

“And for your type…” Sam smirked, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “She’s pretty hot.”

Dean nearly choked on his beer. “Sam!”

“What?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying. You’ve got a thing for strong women, and she sounds like she fits the bill.”

Dean shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” Sam said with a grin. “Besides, you deserve someone who can keep up with you.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through him at his brother’s words.

The rest of the evening passed in easy conversation, the kind that only happened between brothers who’d been through it all together. When Dean finally stood to leave, Sam walked him to the door, clapping him on the shoulder as he stepped outside.

“Take care of yourself, Dean,” Sam said, his voice quiet but steady.

“You too, Sammy,” Dean replied, his gaze lingering on his brother’s home—the warmth, the love, the life Sam had built.

As Dean climbed into the Impala and drove away, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him in this world after all.

NEXT UP:

“Dean,” you said, a touch of surprise in your voice. “I thought you were on your break.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, his gaze locked with yours, and the air seemed to thicken. There was something different about him—an intensity in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken.

Without a word, he reached up and tugged at his tie, loosening it further before slipping it over his head and tossing it onto one of the chairs.

Your eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing?”

Dean didn’t answer. He shrugged out of his suit jacket next, draping it over the back of a chair with deliberate ease. His movements were slow, calculated, and impossibly confident.

“Dean?” you repeated, your voice catching slightly.

His shirt followed. Button by button, he undid it with maddening patience, his green eyes never leaving yours. Your breath hitched as he peeled it off, revealing the broad, chiseled planes of his chest and the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin—a testament to a dangerous past.

By the time his hands went to his belt, your pulse was racing.

“What are you—” you began, but the words died in your throat as he stepped forward.

In one smooth motion, Dean swept the documents off your desk, scattering them across the floor. He leaned down, his hands bracketing you on either side as he effortlessly lifted you onto the polished wood surface.

TAGLIST: @goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

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@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @bitchykittenconnoisseur @underground-secret @heartiella

@bollzinurmouth @globetrotter28

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

[1lizard-onemonkey]

I made mention before of the gates, but they could still be two different gates

The first is at the front of the school

The second is close to the hide out or in view of it

But i want to talk about the design of the second gate

It's similar to the logo (that's what it's called, right?)

But in place of the wings, they look to be tentacles

At first I thought it was wings on a down stroke or something, but no, those are tentacles, there's eight of them

So between the logo, a combination of Annabel's Spectre and probably Lenore's (it'll be a big surprise if she doesn't have wings in some way) and the metalwork of the gate, which could be based of the Deans, it just adds another connection between the four, or maybe give some insight into who the Deans are? Maybe foreshadowing? Or is it just a cool looking gate? Maybe hearts are just an important symbol in the story so there'll be a bunch of images of them? We'll see

[swifty-fox]

What did you think of The Bikeriders?

omg Im a lilll drunk so.

SPOILER FREE REVIEW:

I honestly think its the best movie I've seen since Green Knight. The sound design is phenomenal, the soundtrack is deeply immersive. I think (not sure) they used real film so it had that lovely 60's grain and bloom that made me feel like I was watching a documentary more than anything else. I think the plot was clear and concise and enjoyable without being overcomplicated or trying to make any sort of broad statements. It knew what it was and it did it well.

Jodie Comer/Kathy was PHENOMINAL!!! She was funny qitty, she made me Feel like she was a 60's housewife in Chicago. The accent was flawless, her hair and wardrobe reminded me of my grandma (in the best sort of way) and you really feel for her and connect with her the entire time. Her facial expressions had me laughing several times.

Tom Hardy/Johnny was wonderful of course, it's Tom hardy. he nails the accent, honestly everybody did. And like. It's Tom Hardy man. He acts like he wants to fuck whoever he's talking to its his signature. but he plays the sensitive biker so well, he was great in every scene he was in and It felt like watching an aging lion with his pride. This bittersweet melancholy colored with utmost respect. i won't give spoilers but once you watch it you'll understand.

Norman Reedus/Sonny!!!!! he wasnt in it a ton but he CRUSHED every scene he was in I was cracking up every time he opened his mouth you could just tell he was having a blast playing an absolute Bum. He's not hugely important to the plot but he was just a delight to watch.

Austin Butler/Benny was just....beautiful. It won't make sense until you watch it but he doesn't exist. but he does. but he also doesn't. He's a real man but he's symbolic of the biker spirit. We know nothing about him but we come to understand him so well. he's a tomcat who desperately wants you to scratch his head, and then he's a prize thoroughbred who will run until its heart gives out if given the chance and he wouldn't choose to be any other way. he has very few speaking lines but he OWNS every scene he's in. He's got all the sex appeal of Marlon Brando and all the bad boy charisma od James Dean. but jesus christ give this man a shower and some clean clothes. He's. hot. He's vulnerable. he's unkillable because he's a mythological figure more than a man. he takes a role that could have been deeply 2D and makes it something DELICIOUS.

My only complaint is sometimes it was hard to hear lines over the background noise/the motorcycle engines.

[deepdisireslonging]

No Cum November Part 8: Exorcism Play

Dean ramps up the challenge by handing the reigns to the Reader to control the pace. Can she manage that control, or will Dean’s stronger side overpower her?

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader

Warnings/Promises: SMUT, anti-demon handcuffs, exorcism play (is that a thing? It is now), edging, oral (male receiving), light degradation

Word Count: 1400

Note: Had a bit more fun with this one. Wanted to play with both Dean’s subby side, and his proud Deanmon side. Let me know your thoughts and reactions in the comments and with reblogs. Happy reading!

Part 7: Double Possession

You awoke to the sensation of being watched.

Two eyes, eclipsed with demonic black, stared down at you. The hand over your mouth muffled your scream. The other hand around your wrists controlled your thrashing until you could recognize the familiar face.

“Hey there, sweetheart.” He gently lifted his hand off your face.

“Dean?” Panting, heart racing, you hesitated inching away from him. “Are- are you alright?”

He grinned. “I am myself. It’s just contacts. You can find just about anything on the internet these days.” He leaned back, giving you room to recover. “How are you? That is- is this okay? Are you up for a little game?”

Intrigued, you sat up in your bed. “A game?”

Two pairs of cuffs landed on the sheets next to your hips. Eagerly, you started to slide back down into place, but Dean stopped you with a chuckle. Taking hold of your wrist, he tugged you to stand so he could take your place. You watched as he closed the first cuff around his wrist. Only then did you recognize the anti-demon symbols engraved into the metal. You clicked the second cuff around his wrist with shaking hands.

With another grin, Dean leaned back into the sheets. “Ready to ride the demon out of me, baby?”

You hesitated. “But, with you tied down… you-“

“I won’t be able to stop you? I know. I trust you. And even if you do cum, you’ve done so well. Taking both Sam and I, having to watch us cum without getting to orgasm. If you cum tonight, it’s alright. We start over. And we keep going till the end of the month. We’ve got a few more plans for you.” He tilted his head to get a good look at your face. “Y/N. Look at me, sweetheart.”

You did.

“You can do this. Trust me.” He wriggled. “Now take that shirt off so I can see you.”

“Who’s in charge here? You, in the cuffs, or me?” A teasing smile played at your lips as you toyed with the hem of your sleep shirt. Despite not being able to see his irises, Dean’s eyes followed your hands as they dipped under the fabric. Despite the dark contacts, his eyes still lit up as you removed your shirt, tossing it to one side. Your bottoms followed suit, making him lick his lips. “Let’s see if we can exorcise you with a bit of cardio?”

He was still clothed and arched into your reach for his shirt buttons. One by one, you slipped them through the fabric until you could see the expanse of his chest and soft tummy. His stomach contracted as you first gently ran your fingers across his skin, then grazed the same path with your fingernails. He softly whined your name as you started to undo the button and zipper on his jeans. When you dragged the fabric out of the way, and then his boxers, his member sprang up stiff against his stomach. You took it into your hand, making Dean pull on the cuffs with your slow movements. His loud groan as you twirled your thumb around the tip froze you. Maybe a gag was in order?

“Where’s Sam?”

“Out.”

“Hmm.” You slid your hand down to grip the base of his cock. “Nobody here to save you but me.”

Catching his eye, you situated yourself between his legs and began to suck him off in earnest. He writhed and twisted, trying to both push his length deeper into your mouth, and pull away to catch his breath. With your nails digging into his hips, and the cuff into his wrists, there wasn’t anywhere for him to go. So he begged. He begged for you to twirl your tongue how he liked. Begged for you to hum around him. Begged you for mercy after you quickened your pace. Begged for you to move when you slowed down too much. He knew what you were doing. You were edging him. And you were toying with his pleasure the same way that he and Sam had been teasing you all month. It made his cock twitch in your mouth with the thought.

You pulled off with a pop. “Getting close, darling?”

All he could do was nod. Through the contacts, you knew his eyes were glazed over in pleasure.

You began again, giving no mercy. Dean filled your mouth a few moments later, crying out your name. Even after you removed your mouth to kiss across his tummy, you still weren’t done. You straddled his hips, trapping his cock under your wetness. Then he understood. With him at only half-mast, you would be able to ride him with less of a chance of ruining the challenge. While still overstimulating the man trapped beneath you.

“Feeling vengeful, sweetheart?”

“Maybe just a little.”

Dean’s head fell back into your pillows. The drag of you across his length was torture so close to his release. But his cock did it’s best to stiffen again anyways. He shivered as you rose just high enough to sink down onto it. You stopped when you reached his base. On either side of his hips, your thighs quaked. If what you had planned was going to work, you would really have to focus.

“Ah, this was easier when your mouth was full, wasn’t it?”

With a start, the dark glow in Dean’s eyes sent a fearful zing through your body. It made you clench with the pseudo-danger of the scene. Especially with the way Dean’s voice remembered that growl that came with his demon days.

“What’s your plan, sweetheart? Ride the demon out of me? Make me cum so hard I see grace?” His voice cracked as you flexed your walls around him. “You’re off to a good start,” he muttered.

You took a deep breath and began to move. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-“

Dean laughed high. “Alright. Let’s see you try.”

Where you had been controlling the pace, Dean began to match your thrusts. He snapped his hips hard, and twisting his hips to put pressure on your clit. Your chanting was interrupted. You restarted phrases and lines over and over, trying to make it through the whole exorcism. Dean continued to move. Continued to knock you off rhythm with his hips, and with his words.

“You look so good up there, sweetheart. Riding me like only you can. Like you were meant to be. I love a blowjob as much as the next guy… but watching you bounce on my cock is the best thing. How close are you? Can you feel that orgasm building?”

“Ergo- er…. ergo, draco male- oh, Dean, maledicte-“

“How bad do you want it, Y/n? You’ve been so good. What’s one orgasm? I could give you so many, and Sam wouldn’t have to know. But no, you’re our good girl, aren’t you? You won’t cum. But I bet you’re close. Bet your nipples are so hard. Squeeze your breasts for me. Wish I could touch you-“

It didn’t register that you were supposed to be in charge. You’d lost that long ago.

“Oh, God-“

“He’s not here. Keep bouncing. I’m- keep going-“

Dean’s body stiffened. His cock twitched and filled you. While Dean fought to catch his breath, you fell to one side. You shivered from head to toe, just barely short of the release Dean’s demon side had tempted you with. How much longer was this challenge? You needed to cum.”

Warm, trembling lips pressed against your forehead. “You did so good. Just a bit longer.” He breathed deeply, guiding you to calm down from your denial. “Alright. Let me outta these things.” He rattled the cuffs against your headboard.

“Maybe I want to leave you in them for a bit longer. You’re not fully exorcised yet.” You giggled under his glare. “Besides, maybe I want to sleep right here.” A yawn broke though your next words with perfect timing.

“But if I’m tied up, I can’t cuddle my good girl to sleep.”

“Very true.” You released the cuffs. Dean turned to one side, removing the contacts and placing them onto your nightstand. Then he embraced you, holding you tight and nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. “Sleep tight. And rest up. Sam’s got something planned for you soon.”

***

On the King’s Blade (King of Hell!Sam)

Series Masterlist

[follows-the-bees]

How windows are used to show the growing friendship of Cas and Dean in Free to Be You and Me

I posted my first analysis on the cinematography of 5x03 and this time I want to focus on windows.

I noticed that windows in this episode are used for the lighting and cinematography a lot more than normal episodes.

Rooms without or less prominent windows

First, we have Cas showing up in a mirror with Dean, and while this is done for comedy, mirrors are often used to reflect the true feelings of characters.

Cas asks for Dean's help. As they talk they stand closer to each other. The mirror prominent on one side and a closed curtain window on the other.

The other scene without a window is when the duo are in the "den of iniquity." At this point, they are at odds. Dean thinks he's helping his friend experience something before he dies but Cas is not enjoying this. He is visibly uncomfortable. While their friendship is growing, they are not on the same page, lacking understanding just like lacking windows.

Windows

After driving for who know how long in Baby, Dean and Cas work on the case together. The first time this has been done. They are in an office full of windows and an open door, symbolizing how they are on their way, open to a deepening friendship.

The walls are solid, visceral colors. From the pink tones in the brothel to this greenish blue of the hospital room. Something about these color choices as well.

They continue on their case with confronting Raphael. They stand physically apart but emotionally supportive.

The window blinds are open. Later when Raphael's in his true vessel and confronting Cas and Dean, we see very prominent windows behind them. These windows show the opposing elements: fire inside the building symbolizing Cas and Dean strength over Raphael and the rain/storm happening outside, representing Raphael's strength. When he blows out the windows bringing the elements inside, instead of separating or lessening the duo's power it brings them together physically and emotionally.

Before they confront Raphael, some of my favorite cinematography happens. Cas and Dean are sitting in the abandoned house. A giant window shining the only light into the room is behind them. This is the moment where Dean finds out Cas will probably die during this mission he chooses to try and give Cas a nice time (according to Dean) before this happens. The light through the open curtains shines on them like the budding of their friendship.

Baby

Cas and Dean spend probably what is the longest time so far together in Baby. Dean insists they drive to Maine which would at the very least take a day depending where they are.

At the end of all of this journey, they end up having a heart-to-heart in Baby. While Dean does not believe in Cas' cause, Cas is down trodden, and Dean decides to lift Cas up instead. By this time, the case and everything they go through has strengthened their friendship.

Outside

We have two scenes of Cas and Dean outside. First, when they arrive in Maine for the case, they go to the police department. Dean fixes Cas' tie and puts the fake FBI badge in his pocket, a gesture to make Cas look presentable.

The other outside scene is after Cas and Dean escape the brothel. Dean puts his arm around Cas and laughs and Cas smiles - for only the second time. At this point, these are the highpoints of the growing bond between them.

They are at odds in scenes without windows and grow closer in scenes with open blinds, light streaming through. And are at their closest when outside, free to be themselves.

This episode is not only about Raphael but about the growing bond and friendship between Cas and Dean.

[scoobydoodean]

Everyone (besides the Braedens) is so annoying about Dean in 6.01. In a way, he's almost treated like some sort of exotic animal by other hunters—"the hunter who got out" is considered an impossibility in the hunting world—both from a moral perspective, and from a trauma perspective.

Bobby keeps repeating "You were out" when Dean gets mad at him and Sam for keeping Sam's resurrection a secret, and while there is obviously a loving angle in Bobby wanting Dean (someone he views as a son) to live a long life, the secret is so unapologetically cruel in the face of Dean's grief that Bobby's actions also suggest more personal motivations. This, along with Dean's demand "Good for who?" when Bobby insists he made the good choice, almost lends itself to the idea that this wasn't just about Dean. It was about something Dean symbolized for Bobby. Dean was living proof that hunters could get out, and have families, and live long lives, and this probably soothes something in Bobby as someone who lost his wife tragically right after an emotional betrayal. In "Death's Door", Bobby is implied to have had a vasectomy he never told Karen about. He was the child who ruined everything he touched according to his abusive father, and decided never to have children because of it. Bobby still grieves losing Karen, and he grieves what could have been if he hadn't let his dad get in his head. Like Bobby, Dean is also a person accused of having a corrupting touch, and Bobby is very aware of Dean's self-worth issues (2.22) and I think sees a lot of his own emotional hangups in Dean. So I think it's possible that for Bobby, seeing Dean get to be happy is something Bobby needs... for himself in a sense? While being something he wants for someone he loves, it also just... soothes something inside him, symbolically and personally.

Other characters don't react so positively to Dean as a symbol representing hunters being able to get out and overcome the tragedies that generally bring them into the life to begin with. The Campbells immediately look down on Dean for not being a hunter anymore, treating him as a greenhorn, suggesting he was never meant for the work they do (his features are too "delicate"), poking around his house like it's a zoo exhibit. Sam also joins in, mocking Dean for having golf clubs.

Samuel feigns sympathy, saying he "gets it" because Mary wanted out of the life too, but it's just a little carefully placed pathos before he launches into giving Dean the same speech Mary was likely subjected to repeatedly, telling Dean they need all hands on deck, that he has a responsibility but would rather "play golf" (which is really what shows most that Samuel has zero understanding of why Dean or his own daughter wanted normal lives).

Sam also completely switches up on Dean by the end of the episode, going from justifying keeping his resurrection a secret because Dean was happy, to saying that Dean can't be normal and should return to hunting because he's putting Lisa and Ben in danger by being with them. Of course, soulless Sam flip flops because he doesn't actually care about whether or not Dean is happy. He was going through the motions of wanting Dean to be happy because he thought it was what he should want based on his memories, and he didn't have any emotional need for his brother and therefore no reason to bother him or care that he was grieving someone who was alive. But the moment he saw Dean display the heart of a hero, rushing to try and save his neighbors when all hope was lost, he saw something that he thought would be useful—someone with a heart who might make the "rules" of how to conduct himself more clear. Dean then seemed like a useful asset.

[jackles010378]

Dean in glasses 🥵🔥

(I don't know what it is about seeing Dean wearing glasses that I find so hot 🔥 so I had to write a little fic about it, enjoy)

Y/n had always found Dean Winchester irresistible. There was something about his rugged charm and devil-may-care attitude that made her weak in the knees. The two of them had been hunting partners for years, and the chemistry between them was undeniable. But there was one thing that Y/n found particularly captivating about Dean - whenever he wore glasses.

It was a rare sight to see Dean with his glasses on. Most of the time, he preferred his sharp green eyes to be on full display. But during one particular hunt, Y/n caught a glimpse of Dean wearing his glasses as he read through a lore book. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

As they set out on the hunt, Y/n found herself stealing glances at Dean whenever she got the chance. His glasses added an extra layer of intensity to his already piercing gaze. Y/n couldn't help but imagine what it would be like if Dean turned that intense focus on her.

The hunt itself was challenging, as they were up against a particularly cunning creature. Y/n's mind should have been fully focused on the task at hand, but she couldn't shake the distraction that Dean in glasses presented. She found herself mesmerized by the way they balanced on the bridge of his nose, making him look even more handsome and intelligent.

As they finally cornered the creature in an abandoned warehouse, Y/n's heart raced with a mixture of fear and excitement. She knew this was their chance to put an end to the hunt, but her thoughts kept wandering back to Dean in his glasses. The tension between them was palpable.

With a burst of energy, they fought the creature with all their might. Y/n glanced over at Dean, who was a whirlwind of determination and strength. His glasses had fogged up slightly from the intensity of the fight, giving him an even more enticing appearance. After destroying the creature, Y/n couldn't resist any longer.

In a daring move, she grabbed Dean by the collar of his shirt and pulled him into a searing kiss. Dean responded instantly, his own desire matching hers. The glasses clattered to the ground as they gave in to their pent-up feelings. The hunt was forgotten, replaced by a passionate connection that neither Y/n nor Dean could deny.

Afterwards, as they caught their breath and picked up their scattered gear, Y/n couldn't help but smile. She realized that Dean's glasses were just another aspect of him that made her fall even harder. And from that moment on, whenever Dean wore his glasses, Y/n couldn't help but feel a surge of desire that fueled their hunts and their undeniable connection.

And so, their hunting adventures continued, with Y/n cherishing every moment when Dean would put on his glasses - a symbol of their shared passion and the electrifying spark that kept them coming back for more.

TAGLIST: @k-slla @cevansbaby-dove @kaleldobrev @janineb86 @deans-daydream @alternativeprincess94 @tmb510 @nescavaneck

[jays-bonnie-on-the-side]

𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

PAIRING : dean winchester x original female character

STORY SUMMARY : in series masterlist

CHAPTER WARNINGS : age-gap. pining. fluff. bloody dean. language. sam near death (literally). possessed sam.

A/N : sorry for the wait! i've been super busy but here's the second chapter. hope you all enjoy. check out masterlist if you missed the chapters before this!

Maricela's POV

Dean strides into the room but not with Crowley. A tall man follows behind him, eyeing me as he enters. The older Winchester stops at the foot of Sam's bed as the stranger walks to the opposite end, giving his full attention to the unconscious man.

"Who's this?" I ask, my defensiveness prominent.

"Ezekiel. He's an angel," Dean introduces. "You were right about one thing: Some ain't here to help. Another angel tried taking me out, but this one here stopped him."

I nod before inquiring, "And Crowley?"

"Still in the trunk, alive." Ezekiel places a hand on Sam's chest. Dean crosses his arms, looking skeptical of the angel. "You still able to cure things after the fall?"

"Yes, I should be, but...he's so weak."

The sound of Dean's phone ringing sparks my curiosity. He uncrosses his arms, reaching his slender fingers into his jeans pocket to retrieve the device. His brows draw together as he stares at the screen.

Without wasting another beat, he brings the phone to his ear and warily asks, "Who is this?"

I watch as Dean visibly perks at their answer. "Who is it?"

In a fleeting moment, his eyes meet mine, wordlessly mouthing 'Cas.' Relief and excitement surge through my heart, quickening its speed. He moves towards the door to take the call outside. As much as I wanted to follow and hear from my dear friend, I didn't trust the stranger enough to leave Sam alone.

"So," I break the silence once the door shuts. "Will you heal him?"

"If only it were that simple. Your friend is not doing well." He patiently spoke as if I was receiving the news for the first time.

"Yeah, I know that. That's why you're here." I respond harshly as my anxiety begins to climb. "Use the powers God literally gave you!"

"The fall has left me weak, and entangling with my brother back there did me no favors. But what strength I have left, I offer to help Sam." He pauses, taking his eyes off the youngest Winchester to look at me. "You know, others like me still believe in Castiel. There's no need to fear me."

"Oh buddy, I don't fear you. I don't trust you. There's a difference."

Before he could reply, the building began to shake. Ezekiel yanks his hand away from Sam, and a glimpse of terror emerges on his face. Though, just as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared. He scrambles to peek outside the large window as loud, frightened, and indistinct muffles erupt in the hallway. Had I not been familiar with what an angel searching for a vessel consisted of, I, too, would've believed it was an earthquake. Just then, Dean rushes back into the room.

"One of yours?" He asks.

Ezekiel turns before addressing Dean, "Trying to secure a vessel. We need to move."

"No, no. If we move him, he dies." I highlight.

"If we stay, we could all die." The angel counters.

Dean looks at Sam's unconscious body before turning towards the wall across from the bed. His eyes land on the dry-erase markers underneath the whiteboard. He grabs the black marker before tossing the red one to me. We quickly draw angel-warding symbols on each wall, including the door, to keep out unwanted celestial visitors.

"Long as these are up, no angels are coming in," Dean informs Ezekiel, tossing the marker to the ground. "No one's coming out. You gonna be okay with these?"

"I'll manage." He answers.

Dean nods before studying Ezekiel's alertness. "What?"

"They're here."

At that moment, a high-pitched ring seeps into our ears, almost drowning out the distant screams that echo through the hospital's halls.

"Okay, do not open this door for anybody but me." Dean points to himself. His right hand grabs the doorknob before pointing a firm finger at his brother. "Save him, you hear me?"

Without waiting for an answer, he leaves the room. People screamed in fear as the glass began to shatter. The fire alarm sounds before Dean shouts from afar.

"Everybody out! Now! Get out!"

I stare at the door, debating whether or not I should help the man I love save people or stay and ensure the angel heals my best friend. I groan, knowing what Dean would want me to do. Suddenly, an unmistakable beeping jolts me out of my thoughts. My head snaps towards the monitor, searching for the cause of the horrific sound. His heart rate, oxygen saturation, and respiration levels spike significantly higher than what they should be. Uncertainty gripped me as I stood motionless, paralyzed by fear and unsure of how to help. Meanwhile, Ezekiel remained calm, observing my distress without making any move to offer Sam assistance.

"What are you doing? Help him!" I cry.

The angel lays his hand on Sammy's chest again. His eyes glow with light, showcasing the use of his power, but it quickly fades before he stumbles back. He sits on the nearby chair, clutching his side.

"No, no, no! Get up, he's dying!"

"There's nothing I can do." He croaks out.

"What do you mean? You're an angel. Please, help my best friend." I beg as tears flood my eyes.

"I'm afraid I'm too weak."

I groan in agony, hating that I couldn't help Sam. "Fuck it. I'm gonna go find a doctor."

I open the door to see glass shards coating every inch of the hallway floor. Coming from the left, a man and the counselor from earlier drag Dean towards the room. I mutter a few choice words before slamming the door shut behind me. Bracing for a fight, I grab Sam's angel blade from his belongings. An axe strikes the wooden door straight through the warding, causing it to disarm. I stand guard at Sam's bedside, ready to protect him at all costs. My hand tightens around the blade's handle as the tension builds, waiting for the angels to burst in.

Instead, a white light shines through the axe-shaped hole as the angels wail in anguish. Dean then barges in with his face covered in blood. His eyes follow where the only sound in the room comes from to see the red 'ALERT' warning flashing on the monitor.

"What the hell's happening?" He questions.

"This just started. And the warding. I'm afraid I'm weaker than I thought," Dean grabs a nearby marker and begins to cross lines in the nearby wardings, disabling them. "I am sorry, Dean."

Dean stops marking the symbols and rushes towards Ezekiel. "No. No, no, no. No, we had a deal, okay? I fight. You save."

"And would that I could. I'm just afraid it's too late." The angel delivers the bad news.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean asks breathlessly. "Are you saying there's no way to save my brother's life?"

"No good ways, I'm afraid," says Ezekiel.

"Well, what are the bad ones?" I frantically inquire.

When he hesitates to answer, Dean jumps in, yelling impatiently. "We're out of options here, man. Good or bad, let us hear them."

"I cannot promise, but there is a chance I can fix your brother. From the inside."

"From the inside? So, what, you gonna open him up?" Dean asks, confusion laced in his words.

The angel shakes his head, making him quickly realize his implication. "What, possession? You want to possess Sam?"

"I told you," Ezekiel whispers.

"No way," says Dean.

"Understood. It's your call."

"No, it's Sam's call. There's no way in Hell he'd say yes to being possessed by anything." I tell them.

The room falls silent as the dreadful reality sinks in: we're out of options. I pocket the angel blade and take Sam's hand in mine. My heart physically aches, knowing this could be the end of the road for my best friend. The watchful eye of the angel shifts from me to the injured man beside me.

"He would rather die." He says aloud, finding the conclusion to our silence.

Dean nods in sorrow as he stares at his little brother. Ezekiel pushes himself off the chair, trying to hide his discomfort. Painfully sighing, he angles his body towards the monitor next to him. With a swipe of his hand, he shuts it off, ending the activity.

"I'll leave you three alone, then."

My heart races as I turn to Dean for answers. His eyes dart with a sense of urgency, almost as if he was scanning through all the possible options to find a solution to heal Sam. His gaze fixed on his brother's frail body, brows furrowed with concern as he contemplated the best course of action. Panic washes over me as I see our only hope of saving Sam reach the door.

"Wait," Dean utters, getting the angel to stop. He slowly turns towards the angel. "If I consider this—and I mean just consider it—I need something, man. You got to prove to me how bad he is."

Ezekiel looks at the pained Winchester with sympathy. Without saying a word, he walks towards us. I move out of the way and behind Dean, giving them space. The angel places his right hand on Sam's forehead before instructing Dean.

"Close your eyes."

The hunter's eyes flutter shut as Ezekiel places his free hand on Dean's bloody forehead. My gaze shifts between the three men, unsure of what the hell was happening. A few moments pass before Dean returns in a state of panic, his eyes wide with terror.

"What are you doing, Sam?" He whispers to his little brother.

"As you can see, there's not much time." The angel tries reasoning.

"I know. Damn it, I know."

"What? What is it?" I solicit, my attention shifting between them.

Dean reveals that Sam is currently engaged in a conversation with Death. Sam seems to be seeking assurance from Death that if he decides to depart with Him, there wouldn't be an option for his return. I curse under my breath, not surprised Sam wants out. I remain quiet, not dumb enough to go against Dean. Instead, I listen as the men hash it out.

"How will it work?" Dean inquires.

"Mutual benefit, I suppose. I heal Sam while healing myself." Ezekiel confesses.

"And when he's healed?"

"I leave." He tries convincing. "It's the best of a bad situation, Dean."

"Even if I said yes, it doesn't mean squat. Sam will never say yes—not to you."

"But he would say yes to you," Ezekiel persuades.

Dean hesitates but nods, wanting his brother back. Ezekiel shuts his eyes and goes to work, Dean along with him. I finished crossing out every symbol so the angel could switch hosts effortlessly. After Dean returns, the room begins to shake as Ezekiel goes from one vessel to the next. We turn away to shield ourselves from the bright, angelic light. Once in the clear, we turn to the angel in Sam's body, sitting upwards in the hospital bed. He pulls the breathing tube and other wires out of his vessel before standing. I grab the plastic bag and hand him Sam's clothes.

"We'll leave you to change," Dean and I step into the hallway before I shut the door. My eyes meet his. "C'mon, I'll clean you up."

"No, it's fine. I can handle it." He passes.

"I'm not asking," I fixed a stern gaze on him, conveying my message with unwavering determination.

Realizing there was no use in arguing, he nods. I take his hand and wander to the closest family restroom. Once found, I ushered Dean inside, quickly checking for any onlookers who could witness us entering together. Confident it was clear, I closed the door behind us. The sound of the bolt locking into place bounces off the small bathroom walls.

I grab a handful of paper towels from the dispenser near the sink. The running water fills the silence as I wet a few napkins. Dean's figure catches my eye through the mirror above the sink, ceasing my movements. He stands beside the door, hesitant and shy. I turn around and tease him lightly.

"Well, get over here. I don't bite."

A deep chuckle leaves his throat as he slowly approaches. "I know you, Maricela, and you certainly do bite."

I fight a smile but quickly lose when I catch sight of his wicked grin. "Maybe...but not now. I promise."

He stops a few inches away from me. The faint scents of whiskey, sweat, and his favorite cologne fill my nostrils. I slowly and discreetly take a deep inhale, welcoming the aromas. My eyes meet his forest-green ones, and time stops. Even covered in blood, he still looks handsome. How? I thought. How is that possible?

Before allowing myself to drown in his pleasantness anymore, I quickly ask, "Ready?"

Dean nods before watching me raise a wet paper towel to his blood-stained face. Careful not to press too hard, I gently wipe the blood away. Thoughts of trepidation cloud my mind: Sam's situation, how Dean's handling it, an army of angels after Castiel, how we'll get them all back to Heaven. I bite my lip, hoping to hide my worrisome expression as I concentrate on cleaning his crimson-coated, angelic face instead. My height disadvantage forces me on my tippy-toes once I begin to wipe his forehead. He stifles a laugh, prompting me to stop my actions.

"What?"

He shakes his head but doesn't attempt to hide his wide grin.

"Nothing, nothing." I squint at him, silently coaxing his answer forth. "You just look cute, having to stand on your toes."

I roll my eyes and switch to a clean paper towel, trying my hardest not to blush at his comment. Despite my efforts, the hot flush painted my cheeks red.

"I'm glad my struggle is so amusing to you." I joke, battling the smirk he's responsible for.

"Here, let me help you," Without wasting another beat, he pulled my body against his.

With one hand on the small of my back, his other hand runs down to my thigh before pulling it towards his hip. I'm so enamored with his touch that I don't question when he advises me to jump. I wrap my arms around his neck and hop, straddling his hips. His hands land under the base of my ass before sliding me onto the counter with a thrust. An audible gasp left my lips, stunned to have felt the front of his jeans shove against my core.

I bowed my head, letting my hair fall around my face to shield the color it wore. My eyes landed between my thighs, and as if on cue, he took a few steps back. I clear my throat before holding up the clean napkin, silently asking if I should continue. With a nod, he permits me to start again. I lean off the counter to tend to his wounds but quickly struggle with the distance he set between us.

"Dean," I straighten myself before urging, "I need you closer."

"Huh?" He inquired, taken aback, with a glint of panic in his eyes.

"Closer."

As he stands still, showing no signs of movement, I reach out and firmly grasp the fabric of his jacket. With a gentle but insistent pull, I guide him toward me. His lips, coated with dried blood, slowly parted as his eyes carefully studied the details of my face. I try my best to ignore his attention as I dab the blood off of them.

"Oh, right..." Dean spoke as the wet paper towel rubbed against his lips. "Sorry."

"Don't sweat it," I reassured in a hushed tone.

A stack of power towels piled on the counter after cleaning blood that had trickled down his face, neck, around, and even inside his ear. I focus on the clump of blood that had collected in his hair before feeling his hands rest above my knees. Tingling sensations run up my thighs as he slowly rubs higher, applying light pressure. My breath becomes uneven, having never been touched by him like this before. So many intimate thoughts race through my mind. He steps closer, grazing the front of his jeans between my legs. My hand begins to tremble as I take a shaky breath.

I soon regret looking into his majestic green irises. His eyes hold me hostage as he stares into my soul. If he searched hard enough, he would find my unwavering love for him. Maybe if he found it, I could grab his cheeks and pull him into a kiss. I could show him how much I love him. I could show him how good we can be together. I could give him what he couldn't find in any other girl. If only he could see that eyes really are windows to the soul, then maybe it could be different. My disappointment reminds me of the harsh reality of 'never gonna happen.' I tuck my hair behind my ears along with my hopes and dreams.

I toss the bloody napkin with the rest before murmuring, "All done."

"Thanks."

He takes a few steps backward before extending his hands, offering to assist me off the counter. I hesitate but place my hands in his before jumping down. Without intent, I stumble into his stiff body. I mutter a quick apology before straightening myself and standing independently.

"We should go."

"Yeah, yeah." He clears his throat before distancing himself. His heavy boots clatter against the tile floor as he walks towards the door. Holding it open, he says, "After you."

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST

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[shallowseeker]

Happy, "Just-- take it. Please," Sunday!

"But just in case. 'Cause I never stopped wanting to fix it either. So we got something in common. (re: the coat) Just-- take it. Please."

///

The damaged, blood-spattered overcoat as sublimated longing and stand-in for the heart.

///

(Text Attributions// Supernatural scripts here via @spnscripthunt. Transcripts are located here via SPNWiki. Visit their Tumblr to donate.)

[idledreams4]

Guess what I did

I made a flag

Yup

The idea came to me in a vision

Wincesties, I present to you our new flag:

In case you're wondering why we need one, we don't.

But the Hellers don't give us the respect we deserve considering Wincest was responsible for keeping spn on the air, building the spn fandom, building Ao3, AND the omegaverse. Yeah, that's right, we did all that. So I'm giving us a symbol we can all rally behind or smth idk

It's colourpicked from Sam and Dean's finale outfits: Dean is on top, Sam on the bottom (sorry to any bottom!Dean truthers)

And the heart, as well as being the gay pride flag, also happens to be using three colors that represent familial love. That's right: green, blue, and white all represent family. Blue is associated with the deep devotion and loyalty that bonds family members. Green symbolizes finding balance with eachother. And white is representative the peace and tranquility you find with your family.

I think it's a pretty cool design, and the server that sparked the idea for this flag is even cooler. I don't have the authority to offer invites, but if you enjoy supernatural and you're looking for some friends to chat, hang out, and discuss your favorite incest ships with: check out the pinned post on @pleasure-as-a-means-of-survival 's blog

We are a super welcoming bunch and would be happy to have you!

[ananke-xiii]

little convoluted thought that ends beautifully, I promise.

So Purgatory Dean/Benny and Summer of Love/Demon!Dean Dean/Crowley stories are structurally very similar and I would even go as far as saying that they are the fundamentally the same but I can't because Dean/Crowley is a deterioration of Dean/Benny in the sense that while Benny did indeed help Dean, even though he had an ulterior motive, their relationship was based on more or less equal footing (Dean had more power in their dynamic) and respect of the terms of agreement.

Both stories have two more characters in them, i.e. Sam and Cas but their function is not the same. While Sam's is a sort of wake-up call for Dean to go back to reality, Cas is the one who bookends these two stories. Both Purgatory arc and Demon!Dean arc are closed when Dean and Cas reunite.

Now.

These two arcs are basically about Dean escaping reality. Which means he doesn't like his reality and probably needs/wants something more, different or for the first time out of it. Purgatory is pure and easy, Crowley's summer of love is fun and free. And yet they both REALLY end when Cas is back into the picture.

Mmmmm.

The fact that Dean wants/needs more and that his heart desires something he can't or doesn't want to admit is not something I'm making up. This is literally the core theme of both s10 and 11. S8 Purgatory is about the realization that there is indeed something that Dean needs and perhaps even wants (he's very adamant about it in Purgatory where he could feel "pure" and where purity means black and white mentality and free killing) but s9 tells him that he can't have that. Not having all of his wants and needs met dangerously leads Dean to a dark path from s9 onwards when he tries to symbolically go back to Purgatory via Mark of Cain (black and white mentality, more black than white lol, free killings without guilt, fake and consuming feeling of being in control of your life if you only have that ONE thing.... ((the blade, the imaginary lover, the stripper etc))). Of course it doesn't work because Purgatory was real but it was also a different place than the everyday world where its rules don't apply (no free killing for you here, Dean. Well, more or less, only your usual).

S11 pointedly ends with Amara telling Dean she gave him something that he needs, his mother. Which is true for all human beings: maternal love is indeed the primary need to be nurtured and cared for. So Amara did learn one thing or two about humans after all. And since we're here, she presumably didn't have to give Dean what he wanted because he could get it himself.

Because if his stints in Purgatory and demonhood were Dean looking for something he needed and wanted that ended when Dean reunited with Cas... and now Dean got what he needed because Amara didn't have to give Dean what he wanted because he could get it by himself... Would that mean?! Yeah, it does.

We're back again to "the one thing I want I know I can't have". It's always about desire, not limited to the physical sense but desire for that something or someone that you want. And maybe even get.

Which made me think of this beautiful poem by Fyodor Tyutchev (ACTUALLY, thinking about this poem made me think of the rest, so this post should be read end to beginning lol):

The Dull Flame Of Desire

I love your eyes, my dear,

their sparkling dancing fire

as they suddenly rise

to embrace everywhere

like lightning in the wilderness -

but there's a stronger charm

when your eyes are lowered

during passionate kisses

and in their downcast lashes

glows the dull flame of desire.

[lovemydarkestsecrets-blog]

Past Dean gets home

This is part 2 of this post: https://www.tumblr.com/lovemydarkestsecrets-blog/754399997181739008/future-love-past-memories

The sun begins to set as Sam and Dean prepare for the ritual in the secluded clearing they found just outside of town. The air is heavy with anticipation and the scent of the herbs they gathered. Dean watches Sam work, his heart aching at the thought of leaving his brother behind once more.

Sam draws the final symbols on the ground, his hands steady but his eyes betraying the turmoil within. He glances up at Dean, the fading light casting long shadows across his face. “Are you sure about this?” Sam asks, his voice tight with emotion. “There’s no turning back once we start.”

Dean takes a deep breath, stepping closer to Sam. Dean’s hand rests gently on Sam’s cheek as Dean uses his thumb to rub the soft, clear skin. “I’m sure, Sammy. I need to get back. Your future depends on it. But… I wish I could stay.”

Sam swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back tears. “I know. I just… I hate saying goodbye.”

Dean places a kiss on Sammy’s forehead and nods. “This isn’t goodbye, not really. You and me, we’re always connected. No matter where or when.”

Sam manages a small, sad smile. “Yeah, I know. Still, it feels like I’m losing you all over again.”

They stand in silence for a moment, the weight of the impending farewell pressing down on them. Finally, Dean pulls Sam into a tight hug, holding him close. “You’ve grown so much, Sammy. I’m so proud of past and future you. Don’t ever forget that.”

Sam clings to Dean, his voice choked with emotion as the tears start to fall. Dean feels his shirt dampen, but he doesn’t mind. “I won’t. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure our future is better. I promise. I’m going to call past Dean the moment you leave…”

Dean pulls back, looking into Sam’s eyes. “Why?”

Sam’s eyes glisten in the moonlight as Dean watches intently. “This relationship, the one you and future me have. I need it. What I’ve always wanted, it was you. It was always you, Dean.”

Dean gives Sam a small, sad smile. “He’ll feel the same way. He’ll always feel the same way.” A smile starts to tug at the corners of Sam’s lips as he looks down at the book once more.

“Let’s get it done, Sammy.”

With a nod, Sam steps back and begins chanting the incantation, his voice steady despite the tears streaming down his face. Dean watches him, memorizing every detail, every sound, knowing this might be the last time he sees this version of his brother for a long time.

As the ritual progresses, a bright light begins to emanate from the symbols on the ground, enveloping Dean. The air crackles with energy, and Dean feels himself being pulled away. He locks eyes with Sam one last time, his heart breaking at the sight of his brother’s tear-streaked face.

“I love you, Sammy,” Dean says, his voice barely audible over the roar of the magic.

“I love you too, Dean,” Sam replies, his voice cracking. “Take care of yourself.”

The light intensifies, and Dean feels himself being lifted off the ground. The last thing he sees before everything goes white is Sam’s anguished expression, a sight that will haunt him until they meet again.

---

**Dean's Return to the Future**

Dean stumbles as he lands back in his own time, the familiar surroundings of the bunker coming into focus. He feels disoriented, but the sight of the familiar walls brings a wave of relief. He’s home. He’s finally in his timeline.

Sam rushes to his side, worry etched across his face. “Dean! Are you okay?”

Dean nods, pulling his brother into a desperate kiss. Dean doesn’t want to let go; he can’t let go. He knows younger Sammy is in there and he knows this kiss is for him.

Once Dean pulls away, Sam’s cheeks flush. “What was that about?” Dean pushes a stray hair out of the way and tucks it behind Sam’s ear.

“I just… missed you, is all.”

Sam smiles softly to himself before he speaks back up. “I-uh, have a few new memories of an older Dean… Thank you.”

Dean’s expression turns into confusion. He wasn’t aware that’s the effect time traveling would have had, but who was he to question it?

“For what?”

“What you said, about me, current me. How you were so delicate with me, how each kiss you gave me was sweet and tender. You were gentle with me. Thank you.” Sam’s gaze no longer met Dean’s as he rambled, embarrassed with how much Dean’s kindness touched him.

“Don’t thank me for something like that, you deserved it. Such a soft and sweet boy.” Sam’s face turns bright red as Dean talks, and Dean can’t help but find himself smiling like a madman.

“Are you still my soft and sweet boy?” Dean hooks his finger under Sam’s chin and with a soft shove, Sam can’t help but love it.

“I guess I am.”

Dean’s smitten gaze settles on Sam’s lips before he leans in for a softer kiss than before.

“Good, now let’s make up for lost time.”

[writingoncloudydays]

Starlight Date Night

Summary: Dean goes on a cute starlight date with Castiel to have a break from their chaotic lives.

Warnings: None, just some cute short fluff since I haven't posted anything yet.

0.62k words

Castiel and Dean found solace from the chaos of their daily lives in the sleepy town of Kanas, nestled under a blanket of twinkling stars. The night was warm, the air alive with the symphony of crickets and the whisper of the wind rustling through the trees. But it was the company they cherished most, lying side by side on the hood of Dean's beloved Chevy Impala.

Dean's Impala was more than just a car; it was a sanctuary, a symbol of freedom, and a steadfast companion on countless adventures. And tonight, it served as the perfect stage for their private rendezvous under the celestial canopy.

Castiel gazed up at the vast expanse of the night sky, his eyes tracing the constellations with a childlike wonder. "Dean, look," he said, pointing to an exceptionally bright star. "That one reminds me of the first time we met."

Dean followed Castiel's gaze, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, I remember," he replied, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "You fell from heaven and landed right in front of me."

Castiel chuckled, the sound like music to Dean's ears. "I suppose you could say that," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "But I prefer to think of fate as bringing us together."

Dean reached out and intertwined his fingers with Castiel's, their hands fitting together perfectly like puzzle pieces. "Yeah, well, whatever it was, I'm sure glad it happened," he said, his voice filled with sincerity.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, content to bask in each other's presence and the tranquil beauty of the night. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two and the promise of endless possibilities stretching before them.

Dean couldn't help but marvel at the sheer perfection of the moment as they lay there. Here he was, with the person he loved more than anything, sharing a quiet moment of intimacy beneath the stars. Moments like these made all the struggles and sacrifices worth it.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel replied, turning to look at him with a gentle smile.

"I just wanted to say...thank you," Dean said, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything. For always being there for me, never giving up on me, even when I gave you every reason to."

Castiel's smile softened, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Dean, you don't have to thank me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You've given me more than I could ever ask for. You've given me love, hope, and a reason to keep fighting, even when the world seems dark and hopeless."

Dean felt a lump form in his throat as he reached out to cup Castiel's cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "I love you, Cas," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Castiel leaned into Dean's touch, his eyes shining with love and adoration. "And I love you, Dean," he replied, his voice filled with warmth. "More than words could ever express."

They closed the distance between them, their lips meeting in a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes of their love. And as they lost themselves in each other's embrace, the stars above bore witness to the beauty of their love, a love that would endure for eternity.

For in each other's arms, Castiel and Dean had found their home, their sanctuary, their reason to believe that no matter what trials life threw their way, as long as they had each other, they could weather any storm.

And so, beneath the starlit canopy, they lay entwined, hearts beating as one, two souls bound together for all eternity in a love that burned brighter than the stars themselves.