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godmadeaterribleerror · 5 days ago

Text

If You Need To Hear It

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, pre-established relationship (sort), light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (fingering, p in v), humor.

Summary/Warnings: After a tense case, Dean decides to remind you of what you mean to him on the roof of the Impala.

Author's Note: Request from @grosskyjaja! Once again, I can't just be horny, I gotta have feelings too. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4.4k

You’re drenched in things that should never be outside of bodies. Your hair is stuck to your brow, and your fingers are caked in dry blood. Something thick is spattered over your jeans, and there might be hair that isn’t yours in your mouth.

And that was a good hunt.

No deaths. No major injuries, either. Just a few traumatized housewives, and fingernail marks on your palm from when they’d been flirting with Dean in front of you. So you have no real reason to feel horrible. You’ve been covered in worse. You’ve killed more things, and come a lot closer to losing Dean—and actually lost him—in a much realer way.

But you were tired. The week had been filled with women—who had teeth that were straighter than yours, and hair that was better kept—shooting you bitter glares as you stood a little closer to Dean than you needed to. Now, you just want to go home.

And Dean hasn’t fared much better, in the aftermath. At least he remembered extra clothing, though. Clothing that he ditched in favor of his stupid fake-fed suit, in favor of you—after a long, hot shower and a lot of scrubbing your skin until you skin is raw and untouched by blood—wearing his extra shirt and too big boxers.

“They look like shorts-“

“Not they don’t.” You’d grumbled, and Dean had sighed.

“We can stay the night,” he’d said your name, not fully looking you in the eyes. “Most places are closed, I’ll go out and get you a new shirt and pants in the morning.”

“From where?”

“Store.”

“Dean.” You’d given him a flat look, shoving your bra—the only thing you’d been wearing that wouldn’t have to be burned—into your bag. “We’re in Northern Idaho.”

He shrugs. “They got stores. Don’t be classist, sweetheart-“

“I’m not. They won’t have anything I’ll wear twice.”

“They might-“

“They won’t.” Maybe he doesn’t want you to keep wearing his shirt. The thought just makes you more exhausted. “I’m being pragmatic, not elitist.”

Dean frowns. “I didn’t say elitist.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your chest. “I know. Elitist is what you meant.”

He snorts. “I love it when you talk dirty-“

“Dean.” You’d snapped, and he’d stilled. Your distress must have been audible. “I just want to go home.”

That had been enough. You had fresh clothing at home, and a bed without lumps, and—if you were lucky—maybe Dean would let you crawl into his arms and not let go until morning.

He’d packed everything up and into the trunk of the Impala without another joke, and when you crawl next to him on the bench, his arm goes over your shoulder and stays there. He doesn’t stop touching you for the entirety of the drive. Lots of fields and forests and sky, Dean’s hand either rubbing small circles on your upper arm or resting on your thigh.

You know he’s pushing Baby to her limits, just to get you home. Or get away from your sulking sooner. You can’t blame him. You’re glaring out the window as if the trees are responsible for your exhaustion.

And it’s so stupid. It was a good hunt. It was an objectively good hunt. And Dean didn’t even flirt back.

But you’re not his. Not officially—though through your whole body you’re only ever sure of one thing, and it’s that you’re Dean’s—and not in a way that gives him any claim over you.

Which means that Dean’s not yours. And you have no claim over him. So if he’d decided to indulge one of those housewives, you’d have no good reason to stop him.

You try not to think about it too often. How Dean could, on any day, just decide that he was done with you. You’d wake up, and suddenly last night would be the last night. The last time you’d touch him. The last time he’d touch you.

And you really, really try not to think about it. But the floodgates have been opened, and now you can’t stop.

Dean might be able to sense it.

Maybe that’s why he’s touching you, even as the air becomes wired with silence. He’s trying to remind you that for now, he’s here with you.

For now.

“It’s gettin’ late.” He mutters, and you only hum. You’d left at dawn, but Montana was a big state. You’d only just crossed the border into Wyoming, and the sky is already dark and scattered with scars.

“You know where we are?”

Dean shakes his head. “Think it’s nowhere. Haven’t see a sign for miles. And I can soldier through, sweetheart-“

“No.” You sigh. “It’s fine. I can-“

“You’re not driving.”

“Dean-“

“It’s not cause I don’t trust you,” he says your name, giving you a pointed look. “It’s cause you’re tired. We’ll just sleep out here.”

“Out-“ You blink at him. “In the car?”

“Yeah, Baby’s safer than a motel. I used to sleep in her all the time, when it was just me-“

“But it’s not just you-“

“We’ve been closer than squished in the car, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is a drawl, and he squeezes your thigh like a reminder. As if you could ever forget. “It’ll be fine. I’ve got a gun, and you’ve got me.”

You don’t have him.

You give in anyway.

And it’s only an hour before it’s too much. Dean pressed up right behind you—there wasn’t any cold to huddle against, but he hadn’t seemed interested in hearing that—with his knee almost between your thighs, his face near your neck, and his arms wrapped around your stomach.

Everything smells like him. Even the blanket he’d pulled from the trunk. And you’d thought it would be good for him to hold you like this, but this isn’t in the sanctity of his bedroom. No one but you has ever been allowed in his bedroom. You know for a fact other girls have been in this position.

In the Impala, Dean wrapped around them like he’s never wanted to be anywhere else.

You used to be jealous of them, and how they got to be close to Dean, even for a night.

Now, you know it’s never enough. And you’ll never be able to admire those girls more, for having Dean once, then walking away.

There’s a chance they didn’t have him quite like you do. His laughter and company and stupid blanket, his shirt over their body and his total vulnerability as he sleeps.

You’re trying not to think about it.

But it’s hard with Dean pressed right behind you.

It’s another hour before you squirm away and climb outside. You need the air, the isolation, the anything but Dean holding you like he’d like to keep you, when he doesn’t.

You just need space.

And there’s a lot of it, above you. Glittering in the sky as you climb onto the roof, and seemingly infinite with the flat skyline. You lay flat on your back and watch it until you feel sleepy again. And Dean will be pissed if you fall asleep outside, but you’re so tired-

“Come back inside.”

You feel a tap on your knee, and push up to see Dean frowning at you.

“You’ll get sick, sweetheart-“

“I’m fine.” You mutter, lying back down. “I’ll be in soon.”

Dean makes an odd sound. “Will you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you come out in the first place.”

“I- Just wanted to watch the stars.”

“Could’ve woken me up.”

You rise back up, and Dean’s almost glaring at you. As if you’ve offended him. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

His jaw twitches. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“What I-“ You frown at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He lets out a long sigh, rubbing his brow with a hand. “Alright. We’re doing this.”

“Doing- Dean!”

He’s yanked you forward until your knees are dangling off the side, and he’s standing between your legs. Pressed between your legs. Pressed into you, and barely a breath away as he scans over your face.

“Dean?” You whisper, unable to move away, and his face tightens. “What’s-“

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I- I’ve been in the car with you all day-“

“But you’re not talking!” He snaps, his tone heavy. Like this is painful. “Ever since we did the interviews, you haven’t talked to me or let me touch you, and I don’t know what I did wrong, baby, but I can’t fix it if you keep-“

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You grab Dean’s face between your hands, shaking your head. He can’t be allowed to think that. “I- It was me. And it’s stupid.”

He frowns. “Not stupid if it makes you upset.”

“It is,” you mumble. “It’s- Don’t worry about it. You didn’t even do anything, or pretend you would, but I- Never mind.”

Dean’s not pulling away. He’s just examining you. Like the answer will be written all over your face.

It might be.

Because you can see the exact moment he gets it. His eyes widen, he lets out a sharp breath, and then he presses in closer with a small smirk.

“Were you jealous?”

“I- no-“

“Yeah, you were.” He shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh. “You were upset I might- Son of a bitch-“ He says your name, and looks far too amused for how your face might be burning. “Why didn’t you say something-“

“Because it’s dumb!” You snap, and he doesn’t even pretend to flinch when you shove at his chest. “You weren’t doing anything, and it’s- it’s not like we’re together-“

Dean catches your hand and tugs you forwards, all but pinning you to his chest and scanning over your features with a small frown. “Say that again.”

“I- It-“ You voice is going a little hoarse, but Dean won’t stop staring at you. “It’s not like we’re together-“

“Wrong.” Dean certainly looks offended now, shaking his head with a tight frown. “I got two women in my life, and it’s her.” He pats Baby’s hood with a grin, and it’s hard not to roll your eyes at him. “And- Hey. Saw that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You’re starting to smile.

You’re not sure how he always pulls that out of you.

But he’s Dean. So he does.

“Stop getting smart with me,” He mutters, leaning forward to bump his nose with yours. “I’m trying to be helpful-“

“You are being helpful.” You sigh, dropping your head into his shoulder. “I told you it was stupid.”

“Wasn’t stupid.” Dean’s hand finds its way into your hair, running it carefully through his fingers. “Nothing you do is stupid. Can be dramatic, but not stupid.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs, his fingers stilling suddenly in your hair.

When he speaks again, his voice is impossible low, and rough, and right in your fucking ear. “You still doubting that I mean it, babygirl?”

“Mean what?”

He chuckles, and god, his voice is getting deeper. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I-“

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart,” Dean’s palm starts to rub right over the cloth of your shorts, and your breath hitches against his skin. “You’re not that good at it.”

“‘m good at it.” You’re already a little dizzy, but Dean’s all around you and pressing down. “You- I-“

“I know. You need some extra attention? Need me to fuck you until you get that I damn mean it?”

There it is. The deepest voice. The sex voice, that he’ll almost growl in your ear on a case before pulling you into a closet, or hum at you in the kitchen before herding you back to his bedroom.

Asshole.

He knows you’d jump off a roof if he asked you with that voice.

“Answer me,” he mutters your name, teasing his thumb up and down your still-clothed slit. “Gotta hear it.”

“Ye-“ You let out a breathy moan into his shoulder. “Yes, please-“

“There she is.” He’s almost crooning at you, and it’s enough to make you start grinding onto his hand. “Never anything stupid with you, my smart girl.”

You squeak as Dean tugs you back by your hair, and even in the dark of the night, he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. Pretty green eyes darkened and focused wholly on you, an expression of something dangerously close to reverence all over his face as he scans over you.

His hand moves away from your core, bracing him on the hood of the Impala, but you don’t get a whine in protest before he’s pulling you into a long, deep kiss. Taking his time, pressing his tongue into your mouth and humming when you part without a thought, never coming up for air because you don’t need it. You have Dean, grunting when you almost fall over his body, moaning his name against his mouth because if he’s going to let you have this, you’re going to take all of it.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean mutters your name, pulling you back with a lazy grin, and you can only pant and drop your brow against his. “Never think I want anyone but you. Ever.”

“Dean, you-“

“No.” He shakes his head, pressing a softer kiss and mumbling against your lips. “You’re my girl, baby. Don’t forget it.”

You sigh. “I can’t tell if you’re talking to me or the car.”

Dean barks a laugh, and it pulls a smaller smile onto your lips, that splits into an almost stupid grin when Dean grabs you back into another long, slightly rougher kiss. More teeth and spit, a little bruising and mind-numbing. He might be trying to sedate your brain into not overthinking.

If he is, it’s working.

“Right now I’m talking about you, pretty girl.” He hums, the outline of his cock pressing against your inner thigh, and you can’t even think of a quick comeback.

All you can really think is Dean, handsome and somehow yours. Against all odds and reason, Dean seems to think he’s yours.

And you could never hate yourself enough to deny him.

“That’s good.” You whisper, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, it is. C’mon,” his hand goes back to pressing between your thighs, and your hips buck. “Lemme show you, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You nod, already humping his hand as he rubs around your clothed clit, and Dean hums your name.

“Words-“

“Yes, please.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

“Hold on.”

Dean hooks his fingers on your underwear, pushing it to the side before shoving one finger right into your pussy, and you let out a high squeak.

“Jesus.” He mutters, glancing down to where you’re squeezing around him. “You’re fuckin’ soaked, baby. This all for me?”

You nod, your brow pressed back to his. “Only for you, Dean, only ever for you-“

“Fucking-“ Dean groans, pulling your lower lip between his teeth. “You’re so perfect baby. Always so ready for me-“

You moan as two fingers slam into you, scissoring and pumping with a rough, precise speed, Dean grabbing your chin and angling your head to the side. His kisses fall to your neck as you start to hump against him, scratching at his neck and whining whenever he lets his thumb flick over your clit. You’re already going out of your mind, Dean’s somehow still tucked into his pants, and you want more.

You must have said it aloud, because Dean chuckles against your neck. “This not enough for you, sweetheart?”

“I- It is- I- Feels so good-“ You moan, your hips jerking as Dean crooks his fingers against the deepest spot inside of you, and his grip tightens.

“Gotta stop squirming, baby.”

“But I want you-“

“You got me.” Dean starts to rub over your clit, and you shake your head, your voice almost a whine.

“But I want you,” You repeat, grinding over his bulge, and he lets out a long hiss, his fingers in your cunt picking up to a brutal pace. “Please.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pulling back to watch you with that reverence again. “This not enough for you, babygirl? You wanna take my cock too?”

You nod frantically, squeaking when his fingers start to rub on that deep spot, his thumb teasing feather-light touches over your clit, and you’re going to fly out of your skin-

“One time.” He holds your gaze, and you might fall apart just from the sight of him. Blown-out pupils on yours, his jaw set as he watches you, so handsome and somehow yours-

“Dean-“

“Just one, babygirl.” His thumb presses down and starts to roll firm circles around you, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “There you go, wanna see you cum one time before you take my cock, you can do it-“

It’s like he flips a switch. Your orgasm crashes through you with a high, wanting sound of Dean mixed with pleas, and he swallows it with another rough kiss. You’re only seeing stars and feeling an impossibly good rush of pleasure through your whole body. There’s a brief moment where Dean fingers are gone and you whimper at the lost, but Dean’s knee presses right against your cunt, and you let out a soft, easy sigh.

“Feel good, sweetheart?”

If his question is teasing or mocking, you really don’t fucking care, and nod dumbly as he pulls away.

Dean only laughs, his fingers—the ones that had just been fucking in you—coming up to his mouth. He licks them clean, his gaze never leaving yours, and your hips roll against his knee.

“I- C’mon, Dean, please-“

“Christ,” Dean mutters your name, brushing some of the hair stuck to your brow away. “You’re like- My dream girl. You know that, right?”

“I- I think I do.” You lean forward, continuing to grind onto him as your hand wanders down to squeeze his cock, straining through his pants. “Can you show me?”

His eyes flash, and he swats your hand away, pinning it to the hood. “You still need my cock, sweet girl? Still need me to fuck you on the roof, make you scream so all of Montana can hear?”

“We’re in Wyoming,” you whisper, and Dean shrugs.

“They can hear too. You want it?”

You nod, not breaking Dean’s gaze. “Yes.”

He’s so fast you almost aren’t ready. Kissing you so harsh you think he’s trying to meld his lips to yours, before pulling you right into his chest and sucking a sloppy line along your jaw and neck. Your fingers dig into his shoulder in a desperate play to keep steady, but it’s not needed.

Dean won’t let you fall.

There are a few things that break through the haze of Dean’s lip, nipping on your neck. The sound of the Impala door opening and the rustle of a belt, as well as the feeling of big, calloused hands kneading up your thigh before pulling down your shorts, and taking your panties with them.

It’s a quick second, where you’re completely bare and shivering from the cold air on your pussy. But then you hear the door close, Dean’s mouth slams back over yours in a demanding, harsh kiss, and you’re never going to be cold again.

His dick slams into you in one, movement, and your mouth falls open at the perfect stretch of him inside you. Dean takes advantage of it, pushing the kiss further until you’re melted over him, fluttering slightly around him as a second, tiny orgasm rips through you.

“God, fucking-“ Dean groans your name, pulling all the way out before slamming back in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know baby. You’re so fuckin’ tight, feel so good wrapped around my cock, wanna-“

“Do it.” You mumble, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Wanna feel it, please. Need to feel it.”

He groans, his hand moving back to brace himself against the Impala’s roof. “You sure-“

“Yes.” It’s the easier question to answer.

And the certainty in your voice pays off. Dean’s will snaps with a half growl of your name, and you’re gone.

Usually, Dean lets you lead with sex. And you almost always make it slow. You’ve wanted to savor it as much as you could, to stretch out the stolen moments because you’d thought, one day, you’d never have them again. You’d give Dean everything you had—on your knees and riding him and splayed out below him, trying to put on a show when he’d bury his face in your cunt—because you’d thought it was what you needed to do for him to come back.

He’s going to come back no matter what.

And it seems to be your turn to take.

Dean’s almost feral against you. Hammering his hips into your sensitive cunt, splitting you open and pressing against that needy spot over and over until you’re a moaning, writhing mess in his arms. His lips never leave your skin for a second, kissing and biting over your shoulder, nipping at the base of your neck before rising back up to mutter filthy praise against your lips.

“Takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for my cock,” his thrust are already starting to grow uneven, and when you bite on his lower lip, he slams into you so hard stars start to form behind your eyes.

“Dean.” You gasp, and he groans as you squeeze around him. “Feels so good, you’re- God-“

“You like takin’ my big dick, baby?” He drawls against you, adjusting your hips to hit you impossibly deeper. “Shit, you feel like heaven, wanna- Fuck-“

There’s a tension in his voice, even if he doesn’t stop moving, and you frown. “What’s-“

“Forgot a condom.” Dean grunts, rutting against you as he drops to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m not gonna last, sweetheart- I gotta-“

“Inside.” You mumble, your breath hitching as he bottoms out again, the angle making your clit rub against his abdomen. “Dean, please- I said I wanna feel it-“

“Shit,” he moans your name against your skin, cock twitching in your cunt. “You’re so- Fuckin’ love you, baby, I’m gonna-“

He moves back up to kiss you as he chases his release, still fucking moaning down your throat as he fucks you desperately through it.

But then he doesn’t stop. Dean’s cum is dripping out of your pussy, down your thighs and onto the roof of the car, but he’s not slowing down. Still half-hard and grabbing your waist until you’re sure it’s going to leave a bruise—you hope it does—and fucking his cum back into you, until you’re so impossibly full you think you’re going to fucking die from it, and he- He’d said-

“Dean-“

“Last one,” he mutters against your lips, rolling his hips in a sharp circle that makes your squeak. “You can gimme one more, pretty girl, c’mon,” his thumb moves to your clit, and your hips jerk off the bed.

“God-“

“Not god. Just me” Dean laughs at his own joke, pinching you and rolling the nerves between his fingers, and there’s a tight coil deep in your gut that about to snap, and-

“Dean, please-“

“I know,” he hums, and this is too soft a kiss for how he’s still bruising your cervix, how you’re on fire and he’s still using his sex voice. “Squirt on my cock, baby, you can do it, so fuckin’ gorgeous all fucked out ’n full of me-“

He gives a small, harsh slap to your clit before pressing his palm and rubbing it back and forth, right as his cock presses on that hypersensitive place inside of you, and you cum with a scream that echoes through the night.

Something is flooding out from between your thighs, but in the white-hot daze of your orgasm, you really can’t tell if it’s pee or Dean’s cum-

Not Dean’s cum. He’s still buried inside you, mumbling low words as he kisses all over your face, holding you as you shake slightly against him.

“You fucking soaked me, sweetheart.” He chuckles, kneading gently against your skin. “C’mon let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”

There’s no way you’re in danger of catching a cold. You’re all warm as Dean slowly pulls away, making a movement like he’s considering diving between your legs and licking you clean, but deciding against it and hauling you fully into his arms instead.

You’re grateful. Right now it feels like one touch could set you over the edge again, and you’re not sure you’d be able to take it. Dean’s mouth on your still aching cunt might actually kill you. It can be an experiment for another time, when you’re not in the middle of nowhere.

Because there will be another time. Dean wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want more times. Wouldn’t be cleaning you up with his own shirt, and grinning at you so affectionately when he tries to replace your shirt, and you shake your head in a cock-drunk daze.

“Sweetheart, it’s covered in-“

“I know.” You mumble. “I like it.”

He laughs, kissing you once with a grin. “Alright then, dirty girl. Keep the freakin’ cum shirt, see if I care.”

You smile like an idiot as he pulls away—likely cleaning the roof—and then it hits you again. There will be more, because Dean- He- He said-

You sit up suddenly, pushing open the door, and Dean is running back in a second. He doesn’t get to bend down to your level, though. You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his stomach before he gets the chance.

“I, uh-“ He clears his throat, tugging on your hair until you look up to meet his gaze. “What’s- Are you good?”

In the dark, with all the shadows and lights, and the vast night sky above him, he looks like an angel. Not the real kind, but the story kind. That only protect and care and guide you home, even if—as long as Dean is here, with you—you’ll never need to be guided.

Dean is home.

“I love you too.” You whisper, and his eyes widen. “And you don’t have to say anything. I know you feel it too, and I- you’re mine, and I’m yours, and that’s it.”

He nods slowly, his thumb dropping to trace over your lips.

“Only competition I have is Baby, right?”

Normally, Dean would laugh at that. But tonight, his throat just bobs as he shakes his head.

And his voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“Never any competition for you. I feel it.” He mutters your name with that same reverence returned. “Always feel it. And I- Thank you.”

You can’t stop your smile. “Of course. I love you, Dean. I mean it.”

His lips twitch. “I know.”

End Note: God, help me. I'm giving myself impossible standards.

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caplanbuckybarnes · 28 days ago

Text

Heartbeat

Summary: dean's in love with your belly.

Warnings: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Protective!Dean, Established Relationship, pregnant reader, Mild language, pregnancy themes, soft!Dean

WC: 627

Read on ao3!

A/N: idea came from a prompt from this list!

Your feet hurt.

That was the first thing Dean noticed when you walked through the bunker’s door—shoes in hand, a scowl between your brows, and your other hand bracing the small of your back. The pregnancy was nearing its final stretch, and your body had made its rebellion known in every possible way.

Dean was across the war room in two strides. “Hey, hey, come here.” He swept the shoes from your grip and helped you ease into a chair like you were made of porcelain. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

“I went to the store, not war,” you huffed. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

Dean crouched beside you, hands already on your calves, fingers moving to rub the arches of your aching feet like it was second nature. He was obsessed with touching you lately—not in a weird way but more like he couldn’t believe you were real. Couldn’t believe this was real.

“I just don’t like you carrying anything heavier than a craving,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your knee before looking up at you with those damn forest-green eyes. “You okay?”

You softened. Always did with him. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded, reaching up to cradle your belly with both hands. Your shirt was stretched tight over it now—his shirt, really, soft cotton with an old Zepp logo, permanently claimed by you months ago. His thumbs traced light circles on either side of the bump, reverent.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I can feel her kick now. Stronger than yesterday.”

You smiled. “She’s definitely your kid. Already throwing punches.”

His jaw ticked slightly, and there was that look again—the one you were starting to recognize. It wasn’t just awe. It was something deeper. He looked at you like he was scared the world would take you from him. Like he was scared of being happy.

“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up,” he confessed, voice low. “Like this is all some dream I’m not allowed to have. You. Her. A home.”

You reached down, fingers sliding into his hair. “It’s not a dream, Dean. You built this.”

He leaned into your hand. “No. You built this. I just… I’m the guy who got lucky.”

You both were quiet for a moment. Then his hand shifted again, thumb brushing just under the curve of your bump.

“I’ve got this list,” he said suddenly, eyes still fixed on your stomach.

You blinked. “List?”

“Of things I wanna do before she’s born. Stuff I wanna be ready for. I, uh…” He looked a little sheepish. “I read all the books. Sam caught me watching a diaper tutorial on YouTube the other night. Thought I was watching porn or something.”

You laughed, heart swelling.

Dean grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanna be good at this. Better than I ever had. You know?”

You cupped his cheek. “You already are. She’s lucky, Dean. We both are.”

His eyes shimmered just a bit. He didn’t cry—Dean Winchester didn’t cry, at least not where you could see it—but you felt it in the way he kissed your palm, slow and grateful.

He stood and pulled you into his arms, careful but close. “Swear to God, Y/N, I’ve faced monsters, angels, Lucifer himself—but nothing terrifies me more than the idea of not doing right by you and her.”

You leaned your head against his chest, hearing the steady thump of his heart.

“Then stop worrying,” you said softly. “You’re already doing everything right.”

His arms tightened just a little.

And when the baby kicked again, right against his ribs, you felt him smile against your hair like it was the best moment of his entire life.

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samuelsdean · 11 months ago

Text

Flicker

pairing: dean winchester x reader

summary: "can i hold your hand?" you blurted out, surprised by your own boldness. a flicker of surprise crossed dean's face, quickly replaced by a ghost of a smile that sent a jolt through you. "yeah," he said, his voice softer than you were used to hearing. "yeah, you can."

genre: fluff

word count: 1.3k

author's notes: hi! here's another dean fic because i'm having a winchester brainrot after choosing to rewatch the show for the nth time. it's fluff again because i'm a sucker for soft!dean and i like it when idiots who are mutually pining for each other finally hold hands after 9989 years.

THE WIND HOWLED LIKE A WOLF ON A FULL MOON ON A PERPETUALLY OVERCAST NIGHT. It scoured the dust from the abandoned house's roof, a skeletal silhouette against the bruise-colored sky. The once-white picket fence weathered to a sickly gray, stood like crooked teeth in a decaying grin. The trees behind it, looming and stark, clawed at the sky, their branches whispering secrets the wind refused to carry.

You shivered, the cold a mere whisper compared to the unsettling feeling that prickled your skin. This place, nestled in a forgotten fold of a desolate highway at the edge of a forest, vibrated with a wrongness that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

"This place feels… dicey," Dean muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. He scanned the deserted midway, his eyes narrowed in a way that spoke volumes of past encounters with the unsettling.

"Think the rumors were true?" you asked, swallowing hard against the lump of unease in your throat.

The "rumors" were the reason you were standing in this creepy house at dusk. A string of disappearances, whispers of screams echoing in the dead of night, all traced back to this desolate stretch of road. Apparently, there was an urban legend of sorts in the area where a couple would get a flat tire out of nowhere, and with the area being nothing but just a highway and trees, the couple would choose to trek to a nearby house, only for them end up missing right after.

"Why? Are you scared?" A wry smile tugged at the corner of Dean's lips as he teased you. Before you could shoulder-check him for bugging you, he added, "Maybe, maybe not. But sticking together's the best bet we got, wouldn't you say?"

His gaze met yours, and for a fleeting moment, you saw a flicker of something akin to concern beneath the gruff exterior. It was a rare glimpse into the man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Dean Winchester grew up suppressing whatever emotion he had besides his usual cocky demeanor and smirks because he had to raise Sam, his younger brother while hunting whatever it is that crawled out of the depths of hell. And Dean did a damn great job at that, Sam was now off to Stanford.

At that moment, the fear dissipated, replaced by a fierce determination.

"Yeah," you said, your voice firmer than you felt. "Let's get out of here."

He extended his hand, his calloused fingers surprisingly warm against your own. You hesitated for a beat, the implication of the gesture hanging heavy in the air. It was more than just a practical suggestion; it was a silent promise of support, a brief moment of connection you craved with this gruff hunter.

"Can I hold your hand?" you blurted out, surprised by your own boldness.

A flicker of surprise crossed Dean's face, quickly replaced by a ghost of a smile that sent a jolt through you. "Yeah," he said, his voice softer than you were used to hearing. "Yeah, you can."

You laced your fingers through his, the gesture a silent affirmation that went beyond the immediate danger. But for you, it was also a chance for something more, a stolen moment of skinship you yearned for.

As you walked, the wind seemed to whisper secrets around you, the creaking of the dilapidated house a morbid soundtrack. Each creak sent shivers down your spine, but Dean's grip remained steady, a reassuring anchor. You couldn't help but steal glances at him, his profile etched sharply against the dying light. The way his worn jacket barely contained the heat radiating from his body made your cheeks flush.

His hand, usually so quick to let go, lingered in yours. You weren't sure if he noticed the way your thumb brushed against his calloused skin, a silent plea for a little more contact. Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through your veins, or the way the danger heightened your senses, but Dean felt like a furnace beside you.

Suddenly, a flash of movement in the corner of your eye. A hulking shadow, all wrong angles, and unnatural speed darted behind a boarded-up ticket booth. A guttural growl, unlike anything you'd ever heard, ripped through the air. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"Did you see that?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Dean squeezed your hand, a silent acknowledgment, his hold tightening almost imperceptibly. This time, you were certain it wasn't just the danger.

"Stay close," he said, his voice low and gravelly.

He unsheathed his knife, its silver glinting in the fading light. You drew your own weapon, a wave of nausea washing over you. You hated this part, the constant feeling of being on the edge of a knife.

Stepping cautiously forward, you and Dean crept toward the source of the movement. The closer you got, the more the air crackled with an unnatural energy, the scent of decay thick and cloying. As you rounded a corner, the full horror of the creature revealed itself.

Towering over you was a monstrous figure, its once-human form twisted and warped. Its skin, a patchy mix of worminess and sickly shade, hung greasy. Claws, like sharpened daggers, protruded from its elongated fingers. But the most terrifying aspect was its face. A grotesque mockery of a human, its eyes burned with a bloodshot sclera devoid of any humanity.

The Rougarou, a creature born of insatiable hunger and despair, let out a bone-chilling roar, the sound echoing through the abandoned carnival. It lunged a blur of teeth and wormy skin.

The fight was a desperate ballet of survival. Dean, drawing on years of experience, moved with practiced efficiency, dodging the Rougarou's attacks while searching for an opening. You fought with a mix of fear and determination, adrenaline fueling your movements.

The Rougarou swiped at you with a clawed hand, leaving a searing mark across your arm. Pain flared, but you gritted your teeth, refusing to let it slow you down.

Dean created an opening, shouting, "Fire!" You lunged for your pocket, the familiar weight of the lighter a comfort in your hand. Snapping it open, you flicked the wheel, a flame erupting in the dying light. Hurling it with all your might, you aimed for the Rougarou's chest.

It shrieked, a sound that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself. The flame erupted on its body, a blossom of searing orange against the decaying flesh. The Rougarou thrashed, its inhuman roar turning into a desperate, pained yowl. It stumbled back, clawing at the burning fur, an unholy stench filling the air.

Fear, raw and primal, flickered in its eyes. But fear was a fleeting emotion for the creature. It roared again, charging at you with a desperate, burning lunge. This time, you were ready. You rolled to the side, the creature's claws missing you by a hair's breadth. Taking advantage of its momentum, Dean drove his silver knife into the Rougarou's back.

The creature howled in pain, clawing wildly. With a final, earth-shaking tremor, it collapsed, dissolving into a cloud of black smoke that dissipated with a sickly sweet stench.

You and Dean stood there, chests heaving, sweat clinging to your skin. The silence that followed was deafening.

"That was..." you started, your voice raspy.

"A Rougarou," Dean finished, his voice grim. "Nasty sons of bitches."

He reached out, checking the wound on your arm. His touch was surprisingly gentle. "You okay?"

You nodded, a weak smile playing on your lips. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Thanks to you."

Dean met your gaze, a flicker of something warm passing between you in the fading light. He didn't say anything, but the way his hand lingered on your arm spoke volumes.

Together, you walked out of the abandoned place, the wind whispering through the trees, no longer sounding ominous but strangely peaceful. The horrors you'd faced had brought you closer, forging a bond forged in danger and shared survival. You knew this wouldn't be your last hunt, but for now, you had each other. And in that knowledge, you found a flicker of hope, a warmth that chased away the lingering chills of the night.

#supernatural #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #supernatural fluff #supernatural angst #supernatural smut #dean winchester #dean winchester fandom #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x oc

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wvyik · 1 month ago

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s’more than you can handle. d.w. ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: dean takes you on a ‘proper date’ which apparently involves fire, sugar, and him trying to one-up you in marshmallow roasting.

⤿ warnings: fluff, banter, marshmallow chaos, sticky kisses, fire safety violations, dean being competitive over s’mores, reader nearly burning the forest down (affectionate), pre-established relationship, idiots in love.

⤿ notes: this is just soft chaos and sweet nothings by the fire. dean’s a menace. you love him anyway. thank you for reading, I hope this made you smile!

You’re halfway convinced this is just an excuse for Dean to play with fire and eat chocolate, but you’re not mad about it.

The Impala’s parked near this little clearing he found off a back road, far enough from town that it’s quiet except for the crickets and the occasional owl that hoots like it’s judging you. He’s got a fire going like it’s second nature, and you’re sitting on a worn blanket, legs stretched out in front of you, hoodie zipped halfway up, and Dean’s flannel draped over your shoulders because “you always steal it anyway, might as well make it official.”

He’s crouched in front of the fire now, focused like he’s defusing a bomb, turning a marshmallow slowly over the flames. His tongue is poking out a little in concentration and it’s so unnecessarily cute, you’re kind of obsessed.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you note, eyebrows raised.

Dean doesn’t even look at you. “Sweetheart, if we’re doin’ this, we’re doin’ it right. No charred marshmallow nonsense. I have standards.”

You lean back on your hands, grinning. “Okay, Gordon Ramsay. Impress me.”

“Oh, I will.”

A minute later, he’s stacking the marshmallow between graham crackers with a square of chocolate that’s already melting in the fire’s heat. He finishes and holds it out to you like it’s a priceless gift. “For you, m’lady.”

You snort, “I feel so honored.” as you take a dramatic bite, your eyes widen. “Oh my gosh. This is amazing.”

Dean puffs his chest like a smug golden retriever. “Told ya. Ten outta ten.”

“Okay, my turn,” you say, already grabbing your stick. “Let’s see if I can live up to your high-class marshmallow standards.”

You try to mimic what he did, but yours catches on fire almost immediately, burning like a tiny marshmallow torch.

“Whoa—oh my God—” You start flailing the stick around like you can put it out by waving. Dean’s already laughing, grabbing the stick from your hand and blowing on it dramatically until the flames die.

“You were supposed to toast it, not summon Satan,” he teases, dropping the blackened marshmallow into the grass.

“I panicked!” you cry, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “It escalated fast!”

Dean’s grinning at you, full dimples, all bright eyes and boyish charm. He brushes his fingers through your hair quickly, like he just can’t help touching you. “You’re dangerous with a sugar stick, babe.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “You still love me.”

He smirks. “That’s true. But I’m making your s’mores from now on. For safety reasons.”

You roll your eyes, but let him build another one for you anyway. This time, you feed it to him, smearing chocolate on his lip on purpose just so you can lean in and kiss it off, giggling against his mouth.

He licks his lips afterwards, and like he’s in heaven— flops back onto the blanket. “You’re killin’ me, woman.”

You crawl over and lay beside him, resting your head on his chest while he steals another marshmallow straight from the bag and pops it into his mouth. He offers you one too; no stick, no roasting, just plain and pillowy, and you take it with a happy little hum.

The stars are crazy bright, the fire’s still crackling, and Dean’s arm curls around you like he was made to fit there.

And sure, your fingers are sticky, your hoodie smells like smoke, and there’s chocolate on your jeans, but it’s still the best night ever.

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

#༊*·˚ wvyik #sofia writes ✎#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x female!reader #supernatural #dean winchester one shot #dean x you #dean winchester x you #jensen ackles x reader #supernatural x reader #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fluff #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader fluff #dean x y/n

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zepskies · 5 months ago

Text

'Twas the Night...

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean listens, sometimes when you least expect it. This year, Christmas begins to become something new for both of you.

AN: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone! This is my @spnfanficpond Secret Santa gift for @eldritchlibertine! The idea is based on this request from @whichwitchwanda (a story prompted from the header image).

Word Count: 2.4K

Tags/Warnings: Fluff and more fluff! Christmas feels. ❤️

A door burst open, and your eyes raised from the page. You nearly dropped your book into your lap when you saw it—the wide, bristled top of an evergreen tree trying to shove its way through the door of the bunker.

Or rather, it only seemed that way.

All the way up at the top of the rod iron staircase, grumbled cursing and muttering and arguing filtered down to you in the common room, where you were leaning back in your seat with an old copy of Wuthering Heights. You sat up, an incredulous smirk beginning to curve your lips.

“Dean, it’s not gonna fit.” That was Sam, obviously. You’d recognize his testy bitching anywhere.

“You kiddin’ me? All that work I spent sawing this thing outta the ground, I’m gonna damn well make it fit. Come on, put your big boy pants on.”

The equally familiar gruff, grousing tone of your man’s voice almost made you snort. You set down the book on the table and debated whether you were going to get up and try to help, or let them hash it out. You were surprised they hadn’t called out for you yet.

After a few more seconds of listening to their frustrated huffing and puffing, you shook your head and got up. You reached the top of the stairs, and their sounds of irritated, breathless struggle became even clearer.

“Dean,” Sam protested.

“Shut up. I’ve almost got it…”

“You’re gonna break the damn frame—”

“Something tells me you didn’t get this thing at Home Depot,” you remarked.

There was a pause, and Dean called your name questioningly. He also sounded a bit embarrassed.

“Yep, I’m here, Chevy Chase,” you said, laughing as you grabbed the branches that were stuck in the doorway. You bent them at the angle the guys needed to get the whole thing inside, and all too quickly you had to step out of the way as Sam and Dean broke through the doorway with the rest of the tree.

Sam caught himself on the wall, while Dean threw a hand out to grasp at the railing of the stairs. You grabbed Dean’s arm to help steady him. Once he had his feet planted, he slung an arm around your waist and looked down on you with a satisfied smile—one that he then aimed at Sam.

“See? Told you it would fit.”

“Where did you even get this thing?” you asked. You eyed Dean in curiosity, even as you were helping him stream the lights around this seven-foot monstrosity. You’d also taken great delight in putting on some holiday music. Now, Frank Sinatra’s “White Christmas” was playing from a Bluetooth speaker on the War Room table.

Dean shot you a distracted smile as he worked in concentration, bringing a string of lights around the part of the tree that was closest to the wall. He handed off the other end to you, and you wrapped the line of multicolored lights around.

“Eh, there’s a nice bit of forest a few miles out of town,” he said. Your brows raised high. You’d suspected, of course, but you still shook your head with a smile.

“You know you need a permit for that, right?” you said.

“I tried to tell him,” said Sam. He was on his way up the stairs, heading out back to the car to get the box of ornaments he and Dean bought at Walmart this morning along with the pretty multicolored lights, all while you were still sleeping.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, but just kept focused on his task. Once he started something, he had to finish it, you noticed. And when he got into something, he was Mr. DIY, putting in his all. You liked watching the crunch between his brows, the set of his lips, the sureness of his hands while he mentally calculated what they were going to accomplish next.

Most of all, you liked the look of self-satisfaction when he was done, and happy with his finished product. It didn’t matter if he was tuning up the Impala, making a home-cooked meal for the three of you, or decorating a wild tree. That face was the same.

“Illegally obtained tree aside,” you said, not bothering to temper your smile, “I thought you guys didn’t really celebrate Christmas. Or any holidays, for that matter.”

Dean gave you a small grin, though again, he seemed a little embarrassed. He freed one of his hands to scratch at the back of his head.

“Yeah, well…weren’t you the one who was talking about the Christmases you had growing up?” he said.

You blinked, your mouth gently falling open in surprise. That had been a couple weeks ago, when the first snow of December began to fall over Lebanon. Late that night, after settling into bed together, you’d turned towards him in his arms. Maybe it was the turn of the season making you nostalgic, but somehow the conversation drifted into you making a confession, about what you missed the most about your family.

Your parents had passed on, and your sister was distant. She had her own family and her own life, and she wanted to keep it far away from the things you hunted. You couldn’t blame her, even if the thought of her always pierced your heart.

Beyond than that, what you missed was the house where you grew up, small but cozy and lived in. You missed the smell of pine and cinnamon that filled the living room every day of December. You missed the nights you and your sister curled up by the fire late at night playing imaginary games, long after your parents’ had put you guys to bed. You missed your mother’s cooking, and helping her bake molasses cookies on Christmas Eve.

You missed togetherness, the feeling of warmth and safety.

You tilted your head at Dean.

“Yeah, but…” you trailed, not willing to finish the thought as another suspicion grew in your mind.

“Just thought we could do some of that this year for you, that’s all,” he said. And he shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. His hands were busy untangling some lights. “Matter of fact, we could all use the time off.”

You couldn’t help but pause. Your breathing shallowed, and no matter how much you fought it, tears stung in your eyes. You bit your lip to try and hold it all at bay. When Dean glanced up at you, he had to do a double take. It made you smile, despite your slightly blurring vision.

“Hey, what—”

You dropped your end of the lights and went to him. You raised up on your toes so you could wrap your arms around his neck in a warm hug. Dean uttered a surprised huff, but his arms came around your waist and gathered you closer. He soon realized he was still holding onto the tangle of lights, and he hung them on a nearby tree branch for now. His smile overtook his surprise and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“I love you. You know that right?” Your voice was muffled in his neck, but he heard you well enough. He chuckled and slipped a soothing hand up and down your back.

“I do know, actually,” he said, his voice warm and teasing.

A giggle escaped you. You tugged on his short hair in retaliation, making him chuckle.

“Hey,” he warned, but it had heat of a different kind. His hand began venturing down to your ass, but before he could do some retaliating of his own, a door swung open and Sam came down the stairs hefting a couple different boxes of ornaments.

He raised a brow, though he smiled at the way you and his brother were entwined. You half pulled away to nod at Sam, sniffling at quickly wiping at your face. Dean dried some of the wetness from the corner of your eye with a curled finger. You glanced up at him and couldn’t help blushing, smiling, despite your embarrassment.

Dean still had an arm wrapped around your waist as you peered over at the boxes Sam set down near the tree. One of them caught your attention and made your eyes widen.

“Oh my God. They’re Scooby Doo themed!”

The rest of the afternoon was spent decorating the tree with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby echoing throughout the common room. After you made a trip to the grocery store, soon the smell of cinnamon, brown sugar and rich molasses joined the scent of pine throughout the entire bunker.

It was a Christmas Eve well spent. The night was filled with a rewatch marathon of Home Alone and Christmas Vacation. You agreed to Dean throwing in Elf into the mix, as long as you got to watch Love Actually, and The Holiday with Jude Law. Dean complained more than Sam about your girly chick-flicks, but he became just as invested in Colin Firth pouring his heart out in mangled Portuguese to Aurelia as you were, if less teary-eyed.

When The Holiday came around though, he was half asleep as he laid sprawled across your lap and the couch. Your nails gently massaging his scalp nearly did him in, along with Sam’s heavy-ass pour of eggnog. It was tradition, at this point.

By the end of the movie marathon, you were the one snoozing from your corner of the couch, your hand still in Dean’s hair.

He carried you to bed that night, your eyelids heavy as you teetered back and forth between slumber and the waking world. At least you were already in your pajamas. All he had to do was tuck you under the sheets on your side of the bed, then slip in behind you afterwards.

His arm draped around your waist, and you curled towards him, half on instinct as you let out a deep breath. Dean smiled as you settled against his chest. Your soft snores soon greeted his ears. Only then did he let himself rest…

Just not for long.

You woke earlier than you planned to in the morning, mainly because your man pillow was no longer beside you. You reached out a hand and found Dean’s side of the bed empty and cold, the covers pulled back. With a frown, you opened bleary eyes and checked your phone. It was around the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m.

What the hell was Dean doing up at the crack of dawn?

Unless… You paused as your memory served you a grim reminder. Unless he’d had a rough night, kept up by memories and dreams he didn’t always want to talk to you about. It wouldn’t be the first time he came back to bed after a few hours with the heady smell of bourbon on him.

You got up with a sigh, rolling your neck as you did so. You just wanted to check on him. Maybe you could even persuade him to come back to bed.

You threw on a sweater over your pajamas and some fluffy slippers Sam bought you for your birthday—all to shield you from the bunker’s chilly air and ice-cold floors. You’d have to remind Dean to check on the heater.

You padded out of the bedroom and down the long hall…and became distracted by the Christmas tree in the common room. It really was beautiful all lit up. The lights softly flashed in green, red, purple, and gold. Traditional red and gold ornaments hung beside the Scooby Doo themed ones, with Fred and Daphne front and center, along with the rest of the gang scattered throughout.

And then you found Dean.

“Damn it…friggin’ piece of shit ribbon…”

Dean’s muttering drew your attention to his hunched figure kneeling at the base of the tree. Your head tilted in wonder as your face broke out into a smile. What the hell is he doing? You tried to be light on your feet as you approached him from behind. Peering over his shoulder, you could almost see what he was trying do with some shiny red wrapping paper and a big golden bow.

Your heart swelled. Had he really gotten you and Sam something for Christmas too? He didn’t need to get you anything…

Dean’s hunter reflexes must’ve been tingling though, because suddenly he sat up straighter and looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw you standing there in your pajamas, arms crossed over your robe.

He actually jolted, muttering a curse as he tried to cover up what he was doing.

“What’cha doin’, babe?” you asked. Your eyes gleamed with amusement.

Dean tried to get up, but his foot slipped on a stray ribbon. He careened back onto his ass and knocked into the tree. Not only did its branches poke into his face and arm, making him wince, but he managed to displace a couple of ornaments, sending them tumbling to the floor by his hand. He grunted and raised up onto his forearms. For the pièce de résistance, that lovely golden bow landed right in his lap.

With raised brows, you took in the sight of your man—all bedraggled and looking sheepish (and adorable) as hell. Your hand went up to cover your mouth, but you were unable to quiet the giggle that bubbled up and escaped your lips.

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey.”

You glanced down at the bow, almost perfectly placed in his lap.

“Hey,” you replied, your lips curving into a smile.

You lowered down to kneel in front of him, and you took his face in your gentle hands before you leaned in for a sweet, sensuous kiss. Dean breathed into it. Your eyes shut along with his as you savored the moment, and him.

When you parted, your smile remained as you fingered the shiny edge of the bow. Dean began to smirk as well, despite how warm his face had gotten. His big hands found their way to your hips, welcoming you when you took a comfortable seat over his thighs.

You whispered against his lips, “I already know which present I’m gonna unwrap first.”

AN: Lol there we go, a cheeky ending for you! Let me know if you liked this! ❤️💚

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 14 days ago

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Not Without You Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester xf!reader, Dean POV and Reader POV

Summary: A cursed crown, teenagers, an evil goddess bent on revenge, and two best friends who have secretly been in love for years. What could go wrong?

Word Count: 11.7K

Tropes: Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers (Eventual), Cursed Objects, Supernatural Scenarios.

Warnings: Fluff, Flirting, Cursing, Violence, Drama Mutual Pining, A little bit of self deprecation (Dean), Sadness, Angst (it's me are y'all surprised?). KIDNAPPING (or adult-napping?), Older Dean? A little bit of a fix it fic to the ending of Supernatural, Reader is also a hunter but a bit soft, Reader likes to cook and tease Dean, Sexual Innuendo, Sexualish thoughts? Dean might be a little bit OOC.

A/N: Hey y'all I started writing this fic for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! She made the super awesome moodboard pictured above! I'm not going to lie I didn't mean for this to be more than one part, but I couldn't stop.

Internal monologue is in first person and is in italics.

Here In A Forest Dark and Deep, I Offer You Eternal Sleep...

There is a place where the sun dare not go, where shadows slip and curl over smooth rocks glazed with dew, where the river boils and froths with white, and where a snarl of branches twist and tangle overhead.

A place where the wind breathes through the eaves, sending leaves to scuttle and crackle over stone. A place that no one man can find. A place that time no longer touches.

An ancient place deep and dark and full of secrets.

A hidden crag overgrown with grass and vine where darkness writhes, silent, restless, shielded from sun and storm. Waiting in the broken remnants of a forbidden grove lost to time.

She slumbers there.

Forgotten.

Buried.

Nothing more than a myth from a world bathed in blood and silver. The cave rumbles with the memory of times forgotten. The clash of swords, the sharp tang of blood, the caw of the birds that feasted on the fallen, the roars of men scorned, and the cries of despair from the women left behind to waste into nothing waiting for them to return

Still she sleeps.

Enrobed in emerald.

Entombed in cobwebs.

Waiting in the still silence for someone to speak her name and call her forth from this forgotten tomb.

And when the world burns she will claim what is owed her.

Dean POV

Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong.

Frankly, in his life something was always wrong, and years of him living out on the road chasing after things that went bump in the night meant that he was usually better at pin pointing directly what that was.

But not right now.

Right now, Dean Winchester felt like a cardboard box that went toe to toe with a semi-truck.

He groans to himself as he stirs from an unfit sleep, feeling the bones of his arms pop as he stretches them above his head, groaning again before settling down into the creaky bed. He'd been up late researching a case, the evidence of which was strewn all over the small motel room he was inhabiting.

Scraps of paper, books, and printed newspaper articles were in different stages of crumple all over the bed and the small table under the front window was covered in papers and stacked high with ancient books, kept company by a week old half-drunk bottle of beer and a greasy bag full of stale fries that stagnated nearby. A broken pen drips black ink from the table in a steady thump, the sunflower shaped stain growing steadily across the musty red carpet.

Dean presses his palms into his eyes, with another groan, the throb of his head like a thunderclap.

Fuck, I drank too much last night.

He had.

Dean was stuck in a rut and he'd thought that by drinking a little more, maybe he'd be able to crack the case that had held him hostage for the past two weeks in the armpit of America, but he still had nothing.

Zero, Zilch, Nada.

The three murders that had caught his attention two weeks ago now mocked him from every angle of the disheveled motel room. He'd exhausted every option, read every page of his dad's journal, called every number in his phone, but no one seemed to be able to find a connection between the three men who were killed.

The only person he hadn't called was Sam.

A frown pulled on the end of Dean's mouth at the thought of his brother. He hadn't spoken to him in… Dean scrunches up his face trying to remember the last time he talked to Sam.

Can't have been more than a few days? Okay maybe a week-

The thought of his brother made a dull ache throb in the center of his chest, the guilt that Dean was trying to ignore coming to the surface when he was still half asleep and vulnerable.

Things were different now.

Dean didn't want to bother his brother with something like this, not when Sam was living the white-picket fence American Dream out west with Eileen who was pregnant and due any day. Dean knew that his brother didn't need the extra stress, Sam had a new job, he was moving on from all of this, and Sam didn't need a reminder of the life he used to have. Not when Sam had a new life that made him happy.

And not when Dean didn't know who he was or what he was hanging on to anymore. Sometimes Dean wasn't sure if he was still chasing after things that other people ran from or after the young man he used to be.

Dean was reminded of that every morning when he woke up, the gray flecks in his hair and beard that had become more prominent, the crows feet beneath his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and the way his back and knees cracked when he stood up. Dean was still in good shape, but lately he was feeling his age more than anything else.

Maybe it was because everyone else was moving on and he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

The lack of sleep didn't help, but Dean had been dealing with it all the way he usually did, by pushing down his feelings into the deep dark hole where they wouldn't see the light of day. The same feelings that began to unravel in the middle of the night when all was quiet and kept Dean from the sound sleep he so desperately needed.

Dean sits up a little too quick and sighs to himself when his head spins. He was in desperate need of coffee, or something to make the hangover stop. He sniffs the air, still not opening his eyes, and runs his right hand through his hair shaking through the blondish-brown strands.

The strong smell of coffee and cinnamon floats through the air making Dean’s stomach rumble.

Shit. I want it so bad I’m imagining it. Oh wait no. Maybe I’m having a stroke. Is that toast?!

"Morning Sunshine." A familiar voice sing-songs. "How'd you sleep?"

Dean's head snaps up to the small kitchenette, while one of his hands instinctively goes for the gun underneath his pillow.

You're standing there with a wide smile on your face, a spatula in one hand, and wearing one of Dean's favorite t-shirts over a pair of blue jeans. Your eyes sparkle with mirth at the sight of Dean, hair mused from sleep, eyes just a little manic in surprise at your greeting.

Dean blinks for a second, not sure if it's really you or if he's still dreaming. The cold metal of the gun shoved under his pillow grounds him. He says your name hesitantly. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop in, see if you were eating trash." You gesture with the spatula to the greasy brown paper bag on the table by the door and the large pile of to-go boxes in the trashcan. "Something you want to confess to?"

"Those aren’t mine officer." Dean cracks an easy grin holding up his hands in surrender, the gun forgotten.

It felt good to smile. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had.

"Still a bad liar." You roll your eyes and turn back to the hotplate. "I'm borrowing your shirt, because it was pouring when I got here and my duffel got wet. And before you say anything, I know, I know I should get a new one, but it's my lucky bag! And my lucky bag just so happens to not be waterproof."

Dean spots your duffle by the front door where it's split open and multicolored clothes erupt out of it. He leans forward to look into his bathroom, catching a peak of your clothes hanging from various places to dry. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach when he sees a collection of bras hanging from the towel rack, and he tries to avoid getting too excited at the image of you wearing them.

Dean and you had been best friends since you were both twelve. His dad and yours had served in the war together, a fellow soldier who stumbled upon the supernatural in his own right. And every few months your dad and Dean's would plop Sam, him, and you in front of a tv in a motel room and go off to get a drink. They'd be gone for hours, while Sam, Dean, and you gorged yourself on junk food and late-night TV.

And despite what Dean thought about girls at that time, you were cool. You knew just as much about cars as he did, you too were obsessed with rock music, you knew how to handle yourself, and you weren't afraid of anything.

As the two of you grew up, you never lost touch. You’d text each other from the road, complain about your dads, exchange mix tapes of music that you’d burned (Dean had a whole box under the front seat of Baby that was purely music you'd given him), shared motel rooms, joined each other on hunts, and you’d call him whenever you could, talking for hours into the night so long that Dean would close his eyes and pretend that you were laying there right beside him instead of miles away.

Dean loved it when that happened. When his mind wouldn't shut up and he needed something to distract him, and all it took was you calling in the middle of the night to send him off into the sweet abyss of sleep while he imagined you laying beside him.

Dean didn't know how you did it, but you always seemed to know when he needed you, almost as if you had a supernatural alarm that went off in your head whenever he was lonely.

Which was a lot especially now that Sam was gone. And usually Dean would try to find someone to occupy his time at a local bar, but lately he hadn't wanted to, all he'd wanted was to talk to you. Every time that something happened, you were right there, the person that Dean always needed when things went to shit.

But it wasn't just in the bad.

Whenever he and Sam were out on the road, sometimes you'd bump into them calling it a 'happy accident,' and Dean and you would lay on his bed at a motel talking and listening to a mixtape through a walk-man, sharing the earbuds just like you used to when you were teenagers lounging in Baby's backseat drinking milkshakes and eating French fries. And when Dean woke up in the morning with his body curved protectively around yours while you curled into him, your soft breath on his neck and his face buried in your hair, it felt right, as if you belonged there in his arms.

But despite everything the two of you had been through, you were just friends.

A thirty-four year friendship and Dean didn't want to mess that up. He'd messed up so many things in his life, lost so much, and he couldn't lose you. You were more than just his friend, you were his family as much as Sam. And Dean knew that his feelings had passed friendship forever ago, but he refused to act on it.

Not when Dean was sure he wouldn't recover if you ever cut him out of your life.

So Dean did his best to pretend. Pretend that he didn't imagine a life with you beyond all of this, beyond all the running, and the hunting. Because Dean would never admit this out loud, but he was tired.

He was so tired and sometimes when the world slowed down and there was only the quiet of the night, the buzz of the whiskey in his system, and the whisper of your voice in his ear, Dean imagined more. He imagined what it would be like if the two of you had something like Sam and Eileen, what that would look like, if it could happen.

Dean wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to have what his brother had. If he deserved that. He'd tried with Lisa and he still couldn't think about her without feeling an ache in the pit of his stomach.

Sometimes Dean wondered if you wanted that too. He'd heard you talk about slowing down in the past, finally settling down, getting away from all of this, but other than a handful of boyfriends that Dean never once got along with (including one whom he broke his nose), Dean had never seen you try.

He wished you would. Not that Dean wanted you to be with anyone else, just that Dean wanted you to be safe, not out along the road God knows where dealing with this shit alone. He'd been doing this as long as you had and he still knew that sometimes he needed help even if he didn't ever admit it aloud or want to.

Not to mention that lately all he could think about was you. His anxiety since Sam left had only worsened and his phone calls to you had gone from 3-4 a week to every day.

Dean needed to hear your voice. He was an addict of the worst kind, but he didn't care. Not when hearing you say his name was like a soothing balm, a cold beer after a long hunt, a hot shower that made each muscle un-tense and unwind, and a strong but steady hand braced against his shoulder.

But being here with you in person, couldn't compare to that feeling.

"But I'm pretty sure this is mine and you stole it." You continue, thumbing the soft fabric at the bottom of the shirt with your free hand, oblivious to Dean's train of thought. "Been looking everywhere for it."

"No way!" Dean exclaims getting out of bed. "That's my Metallica shirt. Got it twenty years ago."

"I remember buying this shirt from a vendor young enough to be my son, who kept mispronouncing the name of the lead singer, while you complained that we were missing the opening song." There's a flash of silver from a knife as you begin to cut up a handful of strawberries with a practiced precision, twirling it in your hand once for show.

"We were missing the opening song." Dean laughs. "And I paid for it!"

"Yes, but you said you wanted to get me something and I wanted to get a shirt before the concert, because who knows what would be left over after!"

Dean only shakes his head at you. "I think you're just getting old Sweetheart. They say the memory is the first thing to go." Dean smirks, while you give him a death glare over your shoulder.

"Say what you want," You point the knife at him in a cute, but threatening way, "but you've had custody of this for twenty years, and now it's my turn."

Dean rolls his eyes, before his gaze sweeps through the small kitchenette and he notices the collection of plastic bags on the counter. It looked like you’d brought enough groceries to feed a small army despite there being only two of you. You always did that whenever you showed up, toting food that Dean wouldn't usually have around. He frowned at the prospect of eating vegetables.

But Dean didn't care, you were here and that's all that mattered. And he also hoped that the large amount of groceries meant that you would be staying with him for a while.

He'd missed you more than he realized.

Sure the two of you talked on the phone at least four times each week and Dean always got a random text from you at sometime during the day, but nothing compared to being here with you.

He approaches slowly, sniffing the air again while he tries to figure out what you're cooking and if he'll eat it. Dean wasn't sure he'd like it. Not that you were a bad cook, but over the past few years you'd been trying to get him to eat a little healthier. Sneaking vitamins into his burgers, making things that had less grease and more greens, and Dean would sigh and eat every bite because you told him to.

Of course you would complain almost as much as he did about eating healthy. You weren't exactly a health food nut and loved fast food, but you knew that Dean rarely got a good home cooked meal and Dean thought it was kinda cute when you'd show up toting bags filled with fruits and vegetables out of the blue talking about A1C numbers.

He stops about a foot behind where you're fusing with a frying pan on the stove, turning over some white object with the spatula.

"Hey." Dean says softly, leaning back on his heels.

You turn around to look at him, really look at him. "Hi." Your smile makes Dean a little weak in the knees.

The hug that follows sets Dean on fire.

You pull him in tight, nuzzling your face into his chest with a happy sigh, while Dean curves his entire body around you. It was moments like this that Dean thought that you were made for him, because there was a little you-shaped nook under his jaw that allowed him to rest his chin on the top of your head while he squeezes you just as tight against him.

The smell of cinnamon and something citrusy comes as he holds you closer, the same perfume you'd had since you were sixteen, the one that you always left behind when you stayed with him. Sometimes Dean found himself using the pillow you borrowed when you left, inhaling the smell of your shampoo until it faded and there was nothing.

When you were with him Dean actually slept, as if just being in your presence made all the anxiety and the memories of the past fade away.

He could feel a melancholic feeling bubbling up in the back of his throat as he holds you, something he can't name, but embraces. Dean feels your hands slowly rub up and down his back in a soothing motion that makes him tighten his grip and lean further into you so heavily that you stumble back a little step.

When you laugh Dean feels like he's in heaven.

"Missed me huh?" You murmur into his shirt, but you don't let go of him.

More than you know.

"Nope."

"Liar." Your body shakes with your giggle as you pull back to look at him, still not completely releasing him. "I missed you too."

"I know. You can't live without me." Dean smirks.

He watches you raise an eyebrow to challenge him.

"Says the guy holding on so tight he's going to snap my spine." You joke, but Dean watches something flash in your eyes that isn't humor, and you gently release him so you can touch his cheek. Your thumb gently traces over his cheekbone, palm cupping his strong jaw.

Dean swallows at the sudden contact, his heartbeat fluttering like a damn teenager, but he can't stop himself from leaning into your hand. Despite your time as a hunter, the palm of your hand is soft, your touch reverent as you cup his jaw, not bothered by the prick of stubble that Dean is sure you can feel.

It was longer than usual. Dean kept putting off shaving, it had been a few days and he was sure that you were clocking the beard.

"I was worried about you." You say with a soft sigh, a worried frown on your face. "You sounded bad on the phone last night, and when I called Sam he said you've been dodging his calls."

"I'm fine." Dean sighs, but he knows that you can see right through him, that there's no point of trying to lie. "And I have not been dodging his calls! He just happens to call at the worst time."

"Uh-huh. Well how come whenever I call, you pick up?"

"Because you have better timing than Sammy, always have Sweetheart."

You roll your eyes at him, but don't move your hand from his cheek. Dean watches your gaze soften as you study him, eyes tracing his features in a way that always makes Dean feel stripped bare, open, and vulnerable.

"Really Dean. How are you?"

He sighs again, debating if he should try to lie again, but he knew that it was fruitless. You knew him better than he knew himself, not to mention you could always tell when he was lying. Your internal lie detector for his bullshit was practically mystical. Dean never understood how you did it, just that he hated it.

Not really.

"Don't try to lie. We both know you can’t do that to me." You narrow your eyes, brow furrowed, but you don't lose the concern that hangs heavy in your gaze.

"I'm a little tired." He admits reluctantly.

"I could have told you that."

"Shut up." Dean snorts out a laugh, but then raises his own hand to touch the dark circles ringed under your eyes. "How long did you drive to get here?"

"Few hours." You shrug.

Dean's frown deepens. Just as you could tell when he lied, Dean knew every tick you had. The twitch of your upper lip, the subtle tilt of your head, the arch of an eyebrow- Dean knew you better than he knew himself.

"Fine, ten but-"

"Are you kidding me? Ten straight?! You should be asleep, not cooking for me."

Damn it she always does this. She always runs herself so thin.

Of course this was also the same thing that you'd said to Dean countless times and he never listened. It was different, he was him and you were you.

You were more important.

"I like cooking for you Deanie." You pinch his cheek with a grin, using the stupid nickname you made up for him years ago. Usually it makes Dean roll his eyes, but not tonight. He missed you so damn much that it makes him smile. "Plus I drank way too much coffee on the way in and I have so much energy. I'm waiting to hit the wall. While you were asleep I also thought about reorganizing your bag, but I didn't want to snoop through your dirty underwear."

"Hasn’t stopped you before." Dean smirks.

"Shut up, I do not snoop through your dirty underwear. Just your clean clothes for shirts that are mine."

"It's not yours and you're not keeping it!"

"It is and I am. Now sit down." You shoo him away to the small folding table that you'd pulled down from the wall and set for breakfast. "I would have woken you up, but you're like a damn grizzly bear in the morning so I thought I'd play it safe and let you follow your nose."

"For the fruity taste that shows." Dean chuckles.

"You can remember the Fruit Loops commercial, but you can't remember to not eat fried food at every meal?"

"Priorities, sweetheart."

“Dean I’m serious. We’re not kids anymore, you can’t eat how you usually do without consequences. You know that cheese looks exactly the same in your arteries as it does on a plate and I-" You continue to chatter, subtly scraping a spatula along the bottom of the pan on the stove, but Dean doesn't hear any of it.

Yeah. We’re not kids anymore.

He thinks to himself as his eyes trace your figure. Dean could still see the shades of the girl he met when he was a boy, the one with the bright eyes that always saw through him and the wide smile that made him feel like his insides were molten lava. The same girl who knew whenever Dean needed her, the same girl that always made sure he was taken care of, the same girl who always had his back, and the same girl that Dean had loved since the moment he first saw her.

Sitting there, watching you cook in the small kitchenette Dean couldn't help but admire the woman you became. Although you were only a few months younger than him, age had been kinder to you than him.

The few gray hairs that wove through the hair you had tied at the back of your head were like braided silver, the curves of your figure softened by a gentle hand, and the smile lines on your face only made you look kinder, softer. Nothing like the hunter Dean knew you were. There were signs of wear around your eyes that Dean didn't like, the permanent dark circles that curved under your eyes a little more prominent this morning, but you were still just as beautiful as the day Dean met you.

And even though you kept saying that it was your shirt, Dean was trying not to focus on how good you looked in his clothes or how it made him think that you looked like you were his.

The thought makes an uncomfortable feeling rise in his chest.

As much as Dean wanted you, there was another part of him that whispered that you deserved better than him, that out there was a man who was worthy of your love, not him. Not someone broken down from years of hunting, not someone who barely knew who they were anymore, and not someone who would only drag you down.

“Dean did you hear what I asked?” You say raising an eyebrow.

“Nope.” He clears his throat, shaking off the feeling that makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

You huff out a sigh as if you're not surprised. “I asked when was the last time you ate something green?”

“Last night.”

Dean watches you narrow your eyes in suspicion. “A piece of lettuce on a burger does not count.”

“It’s green-“

“And I bet you picked it off.”

“It left it’s essence behind!”

“Ah yes essence of wilted leaf. How nutritious.” You huff out an annoyed sigh, but when you turn back to him there’s humor flickering in your eyes. “Here.” You place a plate in front of him. “Egg white omelet with spinach and onions, a piece of bacon, fruit salad, and oatmeal.”

Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust and mashes his spoon down into the oatmeal like a toddler, squishing it around on the plate.

This looks like brains.

“And if you eat it all," You continue as you turn back to the counter for the glass decanter of coffee. "I’ll give you an extra piece of bacon.”

“Real bacon?” Dean perks up at the thought.

“Yep. 100% heart attack inducing, cholesterol raising, pig bacon.”

“Fine.” He grumbles.

“Good boy.” You snort setting down a cup of black coffee to the left of his plate. “You know, Sam didn’t give me any trouble when I used to make breakfast for him too.”

“Sam’s a health food freak. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Eileen are vegan now.” Dean says beginning to shovel the omelet into his mouth.

He fights the urge to moan out in pleasure. He wasn't expecting it to taste so good. You were always a good cook, but Dean still hadn’t expected this to taste anything like this.

Dean glances up and sees the triumphant smile on your face. "Good huh?"

"It’s okay." He mutters through a mouthful of egg and spinach.

"You're insufferable." You throw a grape at him. "But I don't think they're vegan. Eileen's got the ultimate diet now. None." You sigh mournfully, trailing one hand down to your stomach, squeezing and make a face. "Oh to be pregnant and not worry about gaining the extra weight. I swear I've been trying to exercise more, and it does absolutely nothing-"

"I think you look beautiful." The words slip out of Dean's mouth before he can stop them, and he tenses, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Aww." You lean over to pinch his cheek with a sweet smile. "Thanks Deanie. But no amount of flattery will get you any brown sugar for your oatmeal."

Dean laughs a little too hard for that to cover up his slip, but something inside sinks a little bit when you don't react to his compliment. He wished that you believed him. The uncomfortable feeling comes back, this time pinching just under his rib cage. He hated when you spoke that way about yourself, and Dean noticed that you had started to say things like that more and more as the years crept by.

Making faces at your reflection and making subtle comments under your breath mocking all the ways your body had changed and aged. But the truth was, you were beautiful, always had been beautiful to him. And even though you could never see it, Dean did. He thought that the years made you only look better, aged you like a fine wine as cliche as that sounded.

"Okay. I am going to take a shower and wash the road off, then we can talk shop and figure out how to solve this case." You say walking over to your duffle, sorting through for your toiletries bag.

"And how do you know I haven't solved it?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder at where you're bending over your bag.

He's trying not to stare at your ass, he really is, but damn it those jeans are his favorite. Somehow they're worn in just right, accentuating the natural curves of your body and your butt. He swallows the lump in his throat and starts to think about taxes, AI, Clowns, the skin that shapeshifters leave behind- anything to avoid the situation happening in his very thin sweatpants that would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination if his mind kept going down the road it was.

Damn it. Get it together Winchester.

"The beard is kinda a dead give-away." You straighten from the duffle, cocking your hip to the side, and lean back as you look through the smaller fabric bag of toiletries in your hand, looking for something that Dean can't see.

Dean clears his throat, trying not to notice the way your boobs are pushed out from your chest as you lean back.

Sam’s chubby imaginary friend. That ridiculous suicidal teddy bear. Rowena- Okay wait that last one is not helping.

“You don’t like it?” Dean clears his throat.

It’s so hot in here.

“Oh I love it. Very sexy. Like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.” You smirk. “But when I’m done I kinda hope you take one too.”

“Why?”

“Because you also smell like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.”

“I thought I’d commit to the role.”

“Very convincing.” You start to walk to the bathroom, but when Dean turns around to his plate he feels your arms go around him once more. “I missed you Deanie.” You whisper on a soft breath, burying your face in the space between his shoulder and his neck.

Dean inhales another gulp of your perfume like an addict, relaxing into your embrace. It was the first time he could remember in a long time feeling relaxed, probably since the last time he saw you a few months ago, when you were helping him on a vamp case and saved him from a near miss with a twisted piece of metal.

Dean didn't like to think about 'what if,' but you did. And after when the two of you got back to the bunker, Dean remembered you hugging him and refusing to let him go for a while. It took your favorite mixtape that Dean burned for you when you were seventeen and sitting on his bed for an hour after to help you relax, until you fell asleep curled up against Dean muttering things that he couldn't understand into his chest.

He sighs to himself feeling the tightness of your arms around his body, leaning into you. “I missed you too sweetheart.”

Reader POV

"I cannot believe that you couldn't figure out this was a vengeful spirit." You snort, grabbing the shovel that Dean holds out to you.

The half moon above the cemetery bathed the tombstones in a silver glow, washing the concrete slabs white beneath its rays. The wind that sifted through the trees overhead held the chill of winter, rustling the branches, and sending the loose leaves down around where Dean and you were standing at the back of Baby.

It had taken you exactly forty five minutes to solve the case that had taken Dean two weeks. Maybe it was because luck was on your side and a fourth (not so lucky) victim was found this morning, or maybe it was because Dean was well…

You bite the inside of your cheek as you examine your best friend.

Dean looked bad.

You had heard it on the phone last night when he talked to you, sensed it in the way he spoke. The long pauses, the heavy sighs, even the words he was using… you knew that something was wrong.

And it scared you.

It scared you even more when Sam told you that Dean was dodging his calls. That was also never a good sign.

So you packed up in the middle of the night, abandoning the case you were on, and took a ten hour drive to get to Dean. You'd driven far longer for far less, but you didn't care.

When you'd lock picked the motel room door and seen the mess Dean was living in, it only justified the drive. Yes, Dean was usually a little more messy than you, but this was different.

The stacked to-go boxes and bottles of whiskey in the overflowing trash can, the empty beer bottles scattered around the room, the mess of his clothes on the floor, and even Dean himself. The stale smell of him and the beard were dead give aways for you. It broke your heart. You knew that Dean was lonely, had been for a long time, even when he was with Sam at the bunker, but now was worse.

Making him breakfast had made you feel a little better, seeing that he still had an appetite for something that wasn't in a bottle was comforting, but you knew that you weren't going to leave him anytime soon.

You were going to prolong this visit for as long as you had to, to make sure your best friend was okay. Dean was the only person you had left, besides Sam, but Sam was different than Dean. Sam was better at handling his emotions in a healthy way (most of the time), but Dean, no way.

If suppressing your feelings was an Olympic sport, Dean would be a gold medalist a million times over.

Besides, Sam had Eileen now, and that meant Dean was going to have you even if you annoyed him to death.

The thought of you being to Dean what Eileen was for Sam made butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach. You knew that it was a complete cliché, the stuff of rom-coms and hallmark movies, falling in love with your best friend, but you had.

You can't exactly remember when... Okay you could.

When you were fifteen and Dean and Sam got dropped off at Bobby's, and Dean and you spent the night listening to mix-tapes in Baby's spacious backseat with your legs kicked up over the back of the front bucket seat sharing a milkshake. You remembered looking at Dean with the sound of Open Arms by Journey playing through the headphones and admiring the way the moonlight kissed his skin and how the starlight brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes.

But you couldn't act on it.

Nope, nope, nope.

Dean was Dean. And you didn't want to mess up the thirty four year friendship the two of you had by doing something stupid by confessing that you were in love with him and wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

You did.

The past few years as you'd gotten older you'd been thinking about settling down. Finding something a little more permanent, maybe finally trying to sell some of those paintings you'd been doing since you were a kid. The ones that your dad told you were a waste of time and Dean only encouraged by stealing the good paint and brushes from art stores to support your hobby. The backseat of your Bronco was loaded down with sketchpads bursting at the seams and each time you took a turn, there was always the roll of an oil pastel or a half-empty bottle of watercolor paint flying somewhere beneath the seat.

It would be nice to actually have a place to paint for real, maybe a small house or an apartment where the sun streamed through the open windows and a cool breeze rustled the hair at the nape of your neck while you lost yourself in the brilliant colors on the canvas. Somewhere it didn't feel like you were running around in circles doing the same thing over and over again, somewhere you could build a life with someone…

The problem was the only person you saw yourself building that life with was standing in front of you holding a shovel and a can of gasoline. And you knew that Dean didn't see you as more than a friend.

But could you blame me?

The years had been kinder to your best friend than to you. He'd grown so much from the little boy with the mischievous green eyes into a man with ruggedly good looks, freckles over his cheeks that kept Dean's boyish qualities, broad shoulders, and a sinfully perfect mouth that made your throat tight.

You'd stupidly thought that over the years your crush would go away, but it only grew. And you didn't know how Dean did it, but the age looked better on him than it did on you. The flecks of silver in his hair made him look even more devilishly handsome, the crinkles around his mouth that shown with his easy smile, and the beard.

That damn beard.

Yes, you'd also thought that Dean looked adorable with his hair all mused from sleep, but the beard. You'd been trying your hardest not to stare at him this morning when he woke up. Made an off-hand joke about how the beard made him look like a lumberjack and homeless, but by the stars that beard made your brain short circuit. Not to mention coupled with the signature Dean Winchester smirk and the brilliant shine of his emerald eyes… fuck. It was like a walking Michelangelo sculpture. Each time you captured the planes of Dean’s face with charcoal, lead, or paint never seemed to compare to the real thing.

But you knew that your little crush was the exact kind of thing that could throw a monkey wrench into the most meaningful relationship you'd ever had in your life, so you pretended it didn't exist.

Pretended that each time you saw Dean and he wrapped his arms around you didn't make you feel like you were coming home, pretended that you didn't sleep the best you ever had curled up in his arms at night, pretended that you could not see a future with him outside of all of this with a stupid white picket fence and a baby that had his smile and mischievous green eyes, and pretended that you weren't in love with him.

More importantly, you pretended that being his best friend was enough.

That being said you did allow yourself the indulgence of cooking for and taking care of Dean. You didn't care how much he complained or how much you didn't like salad, you knew that Dean needed to eat a good heart-healthy, home cooked meal once in a while. And you didn't care if you had to force feed it to him.

Dean Winchester is going to live to be a hundred and five damnit!

"Whoa. You don’t get to judge me for this, not with that super sniffer you have glued to your face." Dean pokes your nose with his fingertip. "How was I supposed to smell the differences in the wife's perfume and the perfume of his mistress?"

"Vanilla and Lavender are two very different smells." You shrug, shouldering the shovel.

In hindsight smelling the corpse at the crime scene was probably not your best move, but the smell of vanilla that wafted up when Dean flicked the victim's collar was so obvious you couldn't keep your mouth shut. And after smelling the strong scent of lavender on the victim's wife had only confirmed your suspicion, that he had been cheating on her.

Everything else had fallen into place, finding the newspaper article about a man who had died in the same way as all of the men forty years ago, talking to the man's son who told Dean and you through tears of his father's sins against his mother who had disappeared a few days before his father was found, and following the trail to the town cemetery was the final step in the process.

Salt and burn. Just like clockwork.

Truth be told you were a little bit disappointed on how quickly you solved the case, now you were coming up with excuses for you to stick around with Dean, maybe even go back to the bunker with him for a bit.

You knew that Dean didn't love to stay there as much as he had. The emptiness only reminded him of Sam's life somewhere else, but you were willing to stay there with him forever if that's what it took.

Even if that meant watching Dean charm the pants off every co-ed on the East Coast.

Because that's going to be so fun for me.

"I thought that somebody as slutty as you would be an expert in women's perfume." You muse with a smirk to hide the hurt at the thought of Dean with someone else.

Him going off with Lisa had hurt enough. That had been a long year.

Sure Dean still called and texted, but it was awkward. You didn't want to step on Lisa's toes. She was his girlfriend and he was living with her. The one time that you'd come by to stay with them for a few days had been one of the most awkward experiences of your life.

For one, when you'd showed up Lisa had been surprised that you were a girl because apparently Dean hadn't said anything to clue her in about that. And when you made dinner for all of them as a thank you for letting you stay, the whole time there had been this weird energy sitting in the dining room with the four of you, like a giant purple elephant that you couldn't see, but you could feel behind you squeezing it's trunk around your chest.

The last straw had been when you accidentally overheard a conversation between Dean and Lisa where he was trying to convince her that he'd never been more than friends with you and she didn't believe him.

"Did you just call me a slut?"

"Yep." You reply.

The cemetery was eerily silent. Somewhere off in the distance you could hear the sound of the ocean, the harsh crash of water against sand and the jingle of the ships at the docks in town where the water gently lapped against the strong wooden boards of the seaworthy vessels. The cloying smell of salt came on the wind that pulled almost playfully at your clothes, beckoning you to the darkness of the vast sea in the distance.

"Takes one to know one sweetheart." Dean calls from behind you before he slams shut the trunk of Baby with a loud 'thunk.' "Not all of us are blessed with a super nose. And unlike you I don't go around smelling dead people. I don't even know if there's a name for that fetish. Kinda feels like necrophilia."

"It's a blessing and a curse."

The beam of light from your flashlight brings a yellowish glow over the smooth tombstones, each one beaten soft by the wear of rain and wind.

"My gut says over there." Dean nudges his arm into yours towards the right.

"Your gut couldn't tell this was a vengeful spirit, why should I trust it now?" You raise an eyebrow, flashing the light into Dean's face.

He squints his eyes at the offensive beam, but it does little to make him look ugly. There was nothing that could do that. You were speaking from experience because you'd seen your best friend covered completely from head to toe in blood and guts and you'd still wanted to lay a big one on him.

Maybe there's a support group online for people who are in love with their best friends. Because I should join that.

"One time I've been wrong-"

"Phoenix." You say immediately.

Dean frowns at the memory. "Okay two times I've been-"

"Tallahassee."

"You're just listing state capitals." Dean sighs heavily.

"No, I am listing places in which you've been wrong. If you want I can call Sam to cross reference my sources."

"Don't call Sam." Dean pushes past you and begins to walk to the right with you following behind him.

"So are you going to tell me why you're dodging his calls?" You ask, sweeping the beam over the tombstones again to see if you can find the right person.

"I am not dodging his calls!" He shouts increasing his speed.

"Dean." You gently catch the back of his flannel.

He stops dead in his tracks, but does not turn around.

"I know you." You whisper. "I know when something is wrong. Come on."

There was something wrong, you knew it the moment you picked up the phone last night before you drove ten hours to get to him. Felt it in your bones. The hard part was just getting Dean to tell you.

"Come on what?" Dean half-turns to look at you. There's something lurking in his eyes, a flash of vulnerability that makes your heart break for him.

The shovel you have no longer seems important, so you lean it against a tombstone and tug on the bottom of Dean's shirt until he turns around to face you.

"It's just you and me here. There's no cameras, no canned audience, no one else. Talk to me." Your hand falls on the arm that Dean is carrying the gasoline in, smoothing the fabric of his leather jacket.

He hesitates for a moment, long enough that the wind picks up and rustles through his golden brown hair. It too seemed just a little longer than he usually kept it, and you fought the urge to run your fingers through it.

"I didn't want to bother him with all this." Dean mutters. "He's out there living his life, a real life, something that he's always wanted and he doesn't need me dragging him back into all of my shit."

"Dean-" You sigh. "He's your brother, you're not bothering him-"

This is so much worse than I thought.

"I am." Dean shakes his head. "He's moved on and I'm still here doing all of this and I-"

"Hey." Your hand moves up to cup his cheek before you can stop yourself. The prickle of stubble beneath your hand is familiar, reminds you of when you would wake up in the morning before he did and his chin would be resting on the top of your head while your face nudged into the space between his shoulder and his jaw. The little place against his throat where you always fit. "You're not going to bother Sam by telling him about what you're doing. He loves you and he's worried about you and I am too. And yes he's doing something different, but what you're doing is a life too. It might look different, but what you're doing matters."

Dean frowns a little, but doesn't answer.

"Dean." You say his name, this time bringing your other hand up to hold on to the other side of his face. "Just because you don't work in a fancy office or have a white picket fence does not mean your life isn't a life. It is. Everyone finds their own way. There isn't one carbon cut copy about what life is supposed to look like. No one can tell you how to live it, the only thing that you should care about is if it's a life that makes you happy." Your thumbs drift to his cheekbones gently brushing back and forth in a soothing movement.

"Does it make you happy?"

Dean's question catches you off guard. He hadn't asked you that in a long time and certainly not before he'd had at least one or two drinks. Dean's shovel leans next to yours and he reaches for your wrist, the warm roughness of his palm against the skin comforting.

You think about lying, but you know that Dean will only clock it. You hated how much Dean knew you.

Not really.

"I mean-" You clear your throat. "Lately not so much." Your hands drop from the sides of Dean's face, but he doesn't release your arm. His thumb gently smoothed over the skin on the inside of your wrist, comforting you the way you had comforted him. "But being here with you is making me feel a bit better. It always does."

Why did I say that? That’s way too much-

"Me too." Dean breathes.

Electricity dances between the two of you, curling up your arm where Dean still has his hand around your wrist gently cradling it between the two of you. And you see something flicker behind the warm, familiar gaze of your best friend, a ghost of something that you can't put a name to.

His words reverberate in your head, vibrating through your skin, bringing a warmth through your body and sending the butterflies in your stomach fluttering.

Dean hasn't looked away from your face, his gaze focused as if he's waiting for something, watching for one of your ticks, but he won't find one. Not when Dean is looking at you the way you always wanted him to. You reach out to lay your hand against the front of his shirt, feeling the gentle beat of his heart beneath the palm of your hand.

Is this really happening?

Thunder rumbles in the distance over the sea, a storm brewing, the flash of lightning shattering the spell between the two of you.

"We better um- get this done." Dean clears his throat, releasing your wrist to find the shovel once more. "Don’t want to get caught in the rain."

"Yeah-" Your voice comes out a little high and squeaky. "Right."

The buzz of whatever the hell that was still thrums beneath your skin as you follow behind Dean, looking from tombstone to tombstone, trying to shake it off. And much to Dean's chagrin, his gut was correct, but he doesn't gloat, he just starts digging.

There's a part of you that wonders if it's because Dean is dwelling on what almost just happened- if there was an almost. You still were a little bit fuzzy about that. Your best friend was far from shy, when Dean wanted something he took it.

The silence grows between the two of you as you start to dig, so you decide to break it.

“How about after all this we drive out West and do some recon on Sam and Eileen?” You say, shoving the shovel deep into the hard earth.

“Really?” Dean asks with a grunt throwing a shovel of dirt over his shoulder.

“Yeah. We can stalk him when he goes to work, test out his security system at his house- just like how we used to when he was at Stanford.”

Dean and you had taken a few trips out West when Sam was at college. You'd always wanted to see the west coast and your dad was letting you go solo just as John let Dean solo. So naturally the two of you met up along the road and decided to cause some mischief.

It had been a nice trip, the feeling of the warm sun on your skin, the wind in your hair when Dean rolled down Baby's windows while the sound of classic rock pumped and hummed through the speakers. It was the closet you had come to a vacation, and something the two of you desperately needed. During the day you'd sit nestled in the front seat of Baby with a sketchpad perched on your lap that you didn’t have to hide from your dad, who told you that should be doing something else, something that mattered. At night Dean and you would share a motel room and when you'd woken up Dean was always on your side of the bed with his head buried in your hair, murmuring things in his sleep.

It was also nice to not worry about your dad for a while. He was as hard on you as John Winchester was on Dean, and you'd cut him out of your life a few years ago. Last time you heard from him was a voicemail two years ago telling you that he'd settled down somewhere in Texas and that he wanted to see you, but you couldn't.

Things hadn't ended well between the two of you and it was Dean who had blocked your father from getting closer to you while he shouted things over Dean's imposing figure that made you want to squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him.

"That was a fun trip." Dean half-smiles.

"It was." His smile is encouraging. You noticed that in the time you'd been here Dean had been smiling more often, but you were still worried at him.

“You’d do that? Go with me?" He sounds hesitant.

"Of course I would do that for you Dean." You nudge him with your elbow. "I’d walk through fire for you, you’re my best friend. I would sing karaoke to 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' for you." You hesitate. "Well maybe after a few drinks, but I would still do it."

He snorts. "I'd pay to see that sweetheart."

"Mhmm. And this time we'll be sure to bring sunscreen. Can't have you turning into a lobster again."

The only downside of the trip was that Dean had refused to wear sunscreen when the two of you stopped along the road at one of the beaches, and he'd turned the color of a tomato. Of course later when you were slathering him with aloe at the motel, dragging your hands down his arms and over his face, you could feel your own cheeks heating with your blush.

"How was I supposed to know that the sun was so damn powerful out there?!" Dean exclaims.

"Because I told you! You never listen to me."

"I do too listen to you!" He thrusts his shovel down into the earth with an increased enthusiasm, but instead of hitting the earth, there's a loud 'clunk.'

Guess we found it.

"No, you don't." You say as you crouch down to uncover the coffin with Dean.

"You know what? I'm not talking to you for five minutes."

"Toddler." You mutter under your breath. "You're a bit old for the silent treatment."

He doesn't answer and you roll your eyes again.

When the body is salted and burned, the warmth from the fire flares up from the grave, warming the chilled tips of your fingers, but you still shudder in the cold breeze. Dean's jacket comes down around your shoulders so fast you didn't realize that he noticed you shudder.

"Can't have you catching a cold Sweetheart." Dean flashes a signature grin that makes your knees weak. "Come on, let's get back to Baby. We can plan out where we're going on this road trip."

As the two of you make your way back through the cemetery, you see the beam of a flashlight on the other side of lot coupled with the high pitched squeal of laughter as it sweeps across the smooth weather beaten stones. Another rumble of thunder shakes the sky, rattling your teeth and vibrating against your skin.

Dean and you crouch down on instinct, and he makes a hand gesture.

You look at him confused.

The laughter gets closer, the people weaving through the graveyard, running after one another, oblivious to Dean and you.

He makes the hand gesture again.

"What?" You whisper.

He makes the gesture again.

"Dean, this isn't charades. Use your words. I can't understand what you're saying."

He sighs. "I was trying to tell you that it's okay, it's just kids." Dean whispers back.

"You could have just said that, you didn't have to make the gestures. Especially because you're the only person who understands them."

"I am not the only-" Dean huffs out a breath. He turns his head to watch two teenagers run by, giggling and laughing all the way as they do.

"Come on Shawn!" A girl shouts with a cackle lost on the wind, her blonde hair like a beacon, turning silver in the moonlight.

"I don't think we should be here!" The boy who you assume is Shawn shouts back, the beam from his flashlight flickers against his glasses.

"Don’t be such a wuss." The girl yells back over her shoulder. The lithe imprint of her form small and petite a contrast to the boy who stumbles behind.

Dean leans so close to you that his nose is pressed into your hair, his breath a warm exhale against your ear. "You wanna mess with them?"

A shiver travels down your spine with Dean's close proximity and you hope that he doesn't feel it. “You have to ask?”

“Come on.”

You leave your shovels and supplies behind, following behind the teenagers who laugh as they make their way through the lines of tombstones, but then something happens. They vanish.

"What?" You whisper in confusion, sweeping your eyes over the end of the cemetery. It came to an abrupt stop over a cliff that dropped off into the ocean over a thousand feet below. "Did they jump?"

The wind is harsher here, pulling and tugging at your clothes as if inviting you to fly with it, to jump into the darkness beyond and sink into the depths of the black sea below that writhes and splashes.

"This way." Dean tugs your elbow and turns you to a small set of steps that leads down the side of the cliff.

Okay. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Dean and you follow down the steps, unable to hear the laughter over the crashing of the waves against rock below, where the water rubs the stone smooth. And just when you think the steps will end, they twist and curve back into the cliff, depositing Dean and you in a cave.

"I still don't think this is a good idea Kayla." The boy, Shawn says. You can hear the tremor on the edge of his voice.

She obviously doesn't listen to him.

"Hey look at this!" You hear a girl's voice say. "I'm Queen of the world!"

Dean and you peer around the wet wall of the cave.

It's a crypt.

The walls further in are lined with bodies embalmed and wrapped in soft cloth, the musty smell of death wafting out to where the two of you are. Armor, chainmail, swords, and axes sit in neat piles to the left of the room, shining in the dull light of the beams. Various intricate designs are carved into the walls, semi-circles that entwine and tangle over the hewn stone, shining in the yellowed beam of the flashlights.

The two kids from the graveyard are standing just a few feet in front of Dean and you, the boy has his back to you while the girl with the blonde hair who you guess is Kayla stands proudly on a rock wearing a crown.

You're sure that she must have found it a few moments ago, but something about it feels wrong. The crown is made of a silver metal, each point encrusted with emeralds that seem to absorb the light in the room rather than reflect it. Odder still is that for something sitting in a crypt, it doesn't look old, it looks brand new, not covered in the thick layer of dust like everything else in here.

Kayla wears it proudly, posing for an invisible camera. A low hum vibrates through the cave, hidden to the untrained ear beneath the distant rumble of thunder, and the crash of waves outside.

But you can.

"Dean." You mutter.

"I feel it too."

"I'm definitely wearing this to prom! Who cares about that plastic tiarra? This is a crown." Kayla giggles, taking it off to admire it in the light. "Oh look there's something written on it."

Oh no.

Before Dean and you can step forward to shut her up and stop her from pulling an Evil Dead, she begins to read the inscription. You have no idea what language it is, just that this is not good.

As soon as she finishes the last line, every single torch mounted on the walls flare to life without being lit.

Oh shit.

Kayla screams, throwing the crown down to the stone floor, clutching her hand. Her palm is seared a bright red, the imprint of the jewels forever etched into her skin.

"Kayla!" Shawn shouts rushing forward to see if she's okay.

"You just had to do it didn't you!" Dean says not bothering to hide as he comes out from teh mouth of the cave. "You just had to read the inscription off the creepy crown!"

"Who the fuck are you?!" Shawn stutters.

"Well I'd say I'm your worst nightmare, but I'm pretty sure we're about to meet whoever that is." Dean throws a knowing glance at you, but you're not focusing on that.

Because the entire room has gone silent. You can no longer hear the rumble of thunder, no longer feel the power of the storm brewing outside, no longer hear the sound of the crashing waves against the rocky cliff outside- there's nothing.

Just an eerie silence that hangs thick in the air.

The temperature in the room drops, sending a shiver down your spine, and goosebumps puckering against your skin while the hair at the back of your neck stands straight up."What the hell is going-" Kayla begins to sob, her ruined hand clutched to her chest, but Dean shushes her.

Shadows flicker and move around the edges of the cave, shifting into the forms of men and women running together like oil over water, rushing towards the crown that lies a few feet away.

The woman forms from the shades, born of darkness, of flesh and shadow as the dark imprints weave together, twisting and knotting, creating her from nothing.

Her skin is almost translucent white in the firelight, her hair a darkly woven web that tangles over her shoulders, while her eyes glow a menacing green. There is a necklace at the base of her throat, a strong mesh of iron to match the crown on her head and a collection of emeralds each one the size of your little finger.

The corpses that line the wall tremble in their cubbies, the rattle of bone and metal, and the stale smell of decayed flesh filling the room as they stir.

"Holy shit." Shawn gulps.

You can say that again.

Her robes are old fashioned, dark green, woven from strong fabric and imprinted with a twisted silver thread that forms sigils of stars and moons, the garments flowing out behind her on some invisible wind that drifts through the crypt, but only seems to touch her. She makes no move towards you, only watches, her eyes piercing in the firelight.

The sound of the thunder outside is back, shaking the walls of the tomb and making the light from the torches flicker over the cold walls of the crypt.

Dean and you draw your guns at the same time, a reflex given you have no idea who or what she is.

You mentally go through the filo-fax in your head categorizing her into classes of what she could be. Comparing her to things you'd seen along the road. If not for the green robe she could be a woman in white. The way her skin is so sallow you can see the criss-cross of black veins beneath and the way her hair falls over her shoulders. But there's something about her you can't place, some throb of energy in the room that scuttles over your skin like a swarm of cockroaches, feels different than any other creature you've come along.

The woman's form flickers once as if she's not quite in the room with you, the motion sends a rustling through the bottom of her skirts, and the crypt fills with the smell of wet earth and dead leaves.

Dean pushes you behind him, a subconscious action that the woman clocks with a twitch of her bottom lip. Her head tilts just slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction.

We have to get the kids out of here.

"Look. We don't want any trouble-" You begin to say as calmly as possible.

Being diplomatic felt like a good idea right now or at least a good enough idea to buy you some time.

The woman moves faster than you thought possible. There's a terrible flash of green light and you feel an invisible force hit you in the center of your chest, propelling your body backwards through the cave. Dean shouts your name, but it sounds far away. Your stomach plummets with the few seconds of weightlessness, before your head hits the rock wall sending a jolt of pain through your body.

You lay there stunned, listening to the sound of the kids screaming, unable to move for a few seconds. Your mind is hazy, memories of the past slipping into these few moments.

The smell of the Impala, the soft scritch of a pencil against paper, the feeling of Dean's arm over your shoulders, the soothing motion of a paintbrush stroke-

You gasp as you come back to reality shaking your head once, twice to clear itself.

The kids are no longer in the crypt and you guess that the screaming you heard was them running for their lives, instead the woman floats in the center of the room, her hand clasped tightly around Dean's throat. She appears to be examining him, her eyes trace his features, unaffected by Dean struggle to get free.

A cold feeling of fear trickles down you spine, a raindrop in a thunderstorm finding the curves and plains of your back, melting snow against warm flesh.

"Put him down." Your voice is hard, the gun in your hand heavy as you train it on the woman.

She turns to look at you.

The rumble of thunder outside shifts to a higher pitch, a crisp sound, the clash of swords and the roar of a battle-cry merging into the howling of the wind.

"Now." You say.

Her mouth opens, and a language you don't know vibrates through the stale air, the sound of her voice is musical, a soft lullaby. The edge of her triumphant smirk curls back to reveal pearly white teeth, but she doesn't release Dean.

Your eyes flick to where Dean struggles in her grasp, his own emerald gaze focused on you. The fear you see in his eyes is not for himself, you know that. Years of hunting together, you knew that your best friend couldn't care less about himself, not if it meant you were hurt.

"Dean-" You whisper.

You didn't know what to do. You had a hunch that the rounds in your gun wouldn't do anything to her, and Dean and you had left the salt in the cemetery overhead, not to mention the iron knuckles you usually carried were still on the front seat of Baby where you'd left them.

And the lady was covered in iron so you doubted it would do anything to her.

"It doesn't have to be this way. We can talk this out. Just put him down. Please." You say it as calmly as you can, trying to think of something anything to do, but nothing comes.

The woman's smirk deepens. "No, more talking." Her voice slips into something harsher, speaking English through a thick accent.

The ground beneath her feet opens, the sharp sound of stone cracking while the crypt trembles around you, sending you stumbling to the right as the cave begins to tear itself apart.

Before you can do anything, the woman drops into the cavernous fissure dragging a struggling Dean with her.

"DEAN!" You shout, throwing your gun to the side and grabbing for his hand as he's pulled into the earth.

Dean gasps your name, his hand tight in yours, as the woman works her way down his body to hold tight on to his ankles. She hangs there in the space below, smile triumphant, as she playfully tugs on Dean's body as if it's a game.

"I'm not gonna let go okay?" You grunt, tightening your grip on his hand.

The weight of his body and the woman is too much, almost ripping your from it's socket, but you can't let him go. Not when Dean is the only person you have left. The ground beneath your body begins to crack, the stone flaking off to fall into the dark chasm below. You can't see the bottom, the cold hand of fear closing hard around your throat.

Dean says your name again. "It's gonna be okay."

"What?"

"I promise that it's going to be okay."

"I know it's going to be okay because I'm going to pull you up!" You struggle, tugging hard on his arm as you squirm to try and shuffle your body back on the ground, but it only makes more cracks spread and more earth fall into the chasm. "And then we're going to send her back to wherever the hell she came from."

His lips are pressed into a tight smile, eyes flashing with something melancholic you can't place. "Sweetheart. I promise that it's going to be okay. You just have to let go."

"No! I can do it!" You shout back, tears burning and falling from your eyes. "I-"

More of the bodies fall from the crypt into the chasm, disappearing into the darkness around Dean. The ground beneath your body shifts as more of it falls away. And you know at any moment you'll get dragged in too.

Dean looks down at the woman who hangs from his legs enjoying the scene in front of her, her dark eyes glinting as her green robes float out around her, then back up at you. The cold determined look in his eyes familiar.

"Dean please, I can't do this any of this- not without you!" You sob as you see the plan form in his mind. "So no to whatever you're thinking!"

"The only thing I'm thinking is how beautiful you are sweetheart." He flashes a signature smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "And that I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

He lets go, the final flash of his eyes the last thing you see before the darkness swallows him whole.

"No! DEAN!" You scream his name, prepared to dive in if that's what it takes, but the ground closes, shutting up the cavernous mouth that swallowed your friend, smoothing over so that there's nothing left but the cool stone floor of the cave.

Leaving you alone in the chill with the rumble of thunder and the crash of waves against stone, smoothing away the rough edges and taking them out to sea.

A/N: Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger 😅 Or for yah know, throwing Dean into a ravine... I promise that this one will have a happy ending. Eventually?

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think and the comments keep me going! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for the next part please let me know!

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maddie0101 · 1 month ago

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crashing into you

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it @helena-helly ! ❤︎

𓇼 summary: dean never planned on letting anyone close—but then he met you. what started as a friendship quickly spiraled into something deeper, something he couldn’t escape, even if he tried.

𓇼 warnings: fluff!, tension, reader isn't a hunter, friends to lovers, soft!dean, sexual tension, reader falls hard but dean falls harder, cute shit ngl.

𓇼 word count: 5.5k

The first time you met Dean Winchester, he was sitting on the hood of a beautiful Impala outside the local library, eating a gas station sandwich like it was gourmet.

He didn’t belong there. You could tell that from a mile away. His leather jacket stood out against the quiet seaside town and the way he scanned everyone walking by, was like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

You were just curious enough to say something. Just brave enough to walk up and ask, “That sandwich any good?”

He looked up at you and for a second, he seemed startled, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to speak to him.

But then his eyes met yours, and damn.

Those eyes. Bright green. Like spring after a brutal winter, like pine needles after rain, like the kind of forest you could get lost in and never want to find your way out of. They were sharp and soft at the same time, catching the light like glass but holding something deeper, something that made your breath catch.

They were the kind of eyes that made you forget what you were about to say, that made your heart stutter just a little in your chest. You really didn’t mean to stare, but you were frozen, caught in his gaze.

And then he grinned. Easy, charming, and just a little crooked, like he wasn’t even trying, but still knocked the breath right out of you. And just like that, you knew you were in trouble.

Because nobody should be allowed to look at someone like that and smile like that. Not when it made the whole damn world tilt on its axis.

“Best five-dollar mystery meat money can buy,” he said, voice full of charm and sarcasm, but there was something behind it, something tired? Like he hadn’t had a real conversation in a while.

You smiled, tilting your head as you stood in front of him, one foot tapping lightly against the cracked pavement. “Well, now I feel like I’m missing out.”

He laughed, quiet and surprised, and God, it looked good on him. Like it hadn’t had a reason to come out in a while.

“You’re not,” he said, holding up the half-eaten sandwich. “It tastes like regret and mustard.”

You grinned. “That’s oddly poetic.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You always talk to strangers outside libraries, or am I just lucky?”

“Maybe a little of both,” you said, then nodded toward the empty spot beside him on the hood. “You gonna make me stand here all day, or do I get a seat?”

Dean blinked, then scooted over without hesitation. “Be my guest.”

You hopped up, the metal warm under your legs from the sun. There was a comfortable silence for a second, broken only by the wind rustling the trees and the faint sound of some country song bleeding from the radio inside the car.

“I’m Dean,” he said eventually, glancing over at you like he wasn’t sure if he should be offering that up.

You smiled again. “Y/N.”

You didn’t know it then, but Dean Winchester would soon become one of the most important people in your life.

It started simple, quiet conversations outside the library, late-night drives when neither of you wanted to go home, sitting on the roof of some random high school eating greasy takeout while the sky turned shades of violet and gold.

You learned early on that Dean never talked much about himself, not the real stuff. But he listened. He listened like he was starving for something real. But sometimes, on rare occasions, he’d let something slip.

“My dad’s kind of intense,” he said once, picking at the label on a beer bottle as you both sat in his Impala, a blanket stretched beneath you. “Keeps us moving a lot. Job stuff.”

You didn’t push, just handed him your fries and said, “Well, when you’re in town, you’re not allowed to disappear without seeing me first. Deal?”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him the damn moon. “Deal.”

Before he left that first time, you gave him your number, written in your messy handwriting on a scrap of napkin from the diner.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said, standing beside the Impala, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn’t trust himself to stay. Like if he touched you, he wouldn’t be able to go.

You smiled anyway, even though something in your chest ached. “That’s okay. Just… text me or call me. So I know you’re not dead.”

He chuckled at that, but you could tell it meant more than you were letting on. “Yeah. Okay.”

And he did text you. All the damn time. Sometimes just—random.

Dean 🩵🙄: diner pie in Iowa sucks. why is everyone lying about it?

Dean 🩵🙄: saw a cat today that looked like you when you’re pissed.

Dean 🩵🙄: hey. not dead. you?

And then sometimes it was a bit heavier..

Dean 🩵🙄: been a rough week. wish I was there.

Dean 🩵��: you ever think about just… running away? starting over?

You’d text back until your fingers cramped. You’d fall asleep with your phone on your chest, wake up to a reply at 3:47 a.m. because Dean was always up late. Always thinking too much. Always carrying too much.

And every now and then, he’d show back up, unannounced, like some kind of dream you didn’t want to wake from.

──────────────────────

The first time Dean came back into town, your fingers hovered over your phone longer than you’d like to admit.

You: Movie night? I’ve got popcorn, bad horror movies, and a blanket with your name on it.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then sat back on the couch, chewing your bottom lip as your stomach twisted with nerves. But the reply came faster than expected.

Dean 🩵🙄: Be there in 10. You better not start without me.

A grin broke across your face and you shook your head, already getting up to head to the kitchen.

“Of course he texted back that fast,” you muttered to yourself, pulling out the popcorn and digging through the cabinets for the snacks you knew he liked.

You were halfway through microwaving a bowl of buttery popcorn, standing barefoot in the kitchen, the familiar hum of the appliance filling the quiet, when you heard a knock at the door.

Your heart did a little skip as you wiped your hands on your pajama pants and made your way to the door, pulse quickening even though you told yourself not to read too much into it.

And there he was. Leaning against your doorframe like he’d stepped straight out of some daydream you didn’t know you’d been having. That worn leather jacket hung open over a faded Zeppelin tee, and his jeans were dusted with the kind of road grime that came from too many miles and too little sleep.

But it was his face that made you pause—that cocky, familiar smirk tugging at his lips, sure, but underneath it? Something softer. Like he was relieved to see you. Nervous, even. Hopeful in a way that made your chest ache.

“Hope you didn’t start the movie without me,” Dean said, lifting a massive crinkling plastic bag with one hand. “Figured if we’re doing this right, we need snacks. Like, all the snacks.”

Your eyes widened. The bag looked like it had its own zip code. “Dean, that’s not a snack bag. That’s a grocery haul.”

He shrugged, stepping inside like he’d never left. The scent of him hit you as he passed—leather, soap, a hint of motor oil and something else that was just him. “I couldn’t decide,” he said casually. “You like salty, but then sometimes you want sweet, and then there’s that weird trail mix with the pretzels and chocolate chips you make me eat. So… I got everything. Sue me.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you closed the door behind him. “You remembered all that?”

Dean shot you a look, playful but soft, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing worth remembering. “Of course I did. You made me try those chocolate-covered pretzels last time and now I crave them every time I pass a gas station. That’s on you, by the way.”

A soft laugh slipped from your lips as the two of you made your way to the living room. It was easy. Natural. Like no time had passed at all.

The old horror VHS you’d picked out—some gloriously terrible ’80s slasher flick complete with fake blood and girls screaming into foggy forests—was already waiting in the player, screen paused in grainy, retro anticipation.

Dean flopped onto the couch beside you, boots off, body sinking into the cushions with a satisfied sigh. He tossed the snack bag onto the coffee table like a trophy and cracked open a root beer before passing you the remote with a lazy grin. “Let’s get scared, sweetheart.”

You laughed and pressed play, settling back beside him.

At first, there was a respectable distance between you, each of you leaning into opposite corners of the couch, legs stretched out, a shared blanket tossed loosely over both your laps. But as the movie went on, and the room filled with eerie music and over-the-top screams, something shifted. Slowly. Only naturally.

His knee brushed against yours and didn’t move. You reached forward to grab a handful of candy, and when your shoulder bumped his, neither of you leaned away. The warmth between you built in the quiet moments, in the closeness, in the way your laughter blended with his.

Then came the jump scare—a sudden scream and you flinched with a sharp gasp, instinctively grabbing the nearest thing.

Dean’s arm.

“Shit,” you breathed out, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. Your fingers were still wrapped around the firm muscle of his bicep, and you could feel the heat of him even through his shirt. You were about to pull away when you glanced up and caught him looking at you.

Really looking at you.

That stupid, crooked smile was back, but it was softer now. His green eyes glowed in the flickering light of the TV, and there was something new behind them. Something unspoken. Like you’d just cracked open a door in him he wasn’t sure how to close.

“That was adorable,” he smirked, his voice lower than before.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning as you finally let go of his arm, but you didn’t move far. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Wasn’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Just… didn’t know you still scared that easy.”

You nudged him playfully. “Didn’t know you still carried around ten pounds of candy like a damn trick-or-treater.”

Dean chuckled, and just like that, the moment passed, but the air between you had shifted. A little warmer. A little closer. Like something that had always been there was finally starting to wake up.

──────────────────────

Another time you two hung out, the Impala was parked facing the water, the windows cracked just enough to let in the salty breeze. A couple burger wrappers crinkled on the dash as you leaned back in the seat, chewing the last bite of your fries while Dean dug into his milkshake like it owed him money.

“So,” he said around a mouthful, “worst date you’ve ever been on. Go.”

You snorted. “Oh, easy. The guy who took me to a reptile house and then tried to make out with me while a snake was literally watching.”

Dean barked out a laugh,“That’s not real. That can’t be real.”

“I swear on your stupid leather jacket.”

“You are never dating without me background-checking first.”

You grinned, letting your head fall back against the seat, watching the sky turn gold outside the windshield. “Alright, your turn.”

Dean looked thoughtful for a second, then grinned. “I once took a girl out for pie and halfway through, she told me she was just using me to make her ex jealous.”

“Ouch.”

“She paid for the pie, though, so I consider that a win.”

You both laughed, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt a little. These were your favorite kinds of nights—just you and Dean, greasy food, and the kind of comfort that came from years of being each other’s person, no matter what.

Then, mid-slurp of your shared milkshake, you said, “You know what I’ve never done?”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “Please don’t say drugs. I don’t have bail money on me.”

“A tattoo.”

Dean blinked. “Seriously? You?”

You shrugged. “I’ve always wanted one. Just never got around to it.”

“Well, hell,” he said, suddenly grinning like a madman, “there’s a shop ten minutes from here. Let’s do it.”

“What, now?”

“Why not?” He pointed his straw at you. “You said you wanted one. Let’s make it happen.”

Twenty minutes later, you were in the chair, laughing as Dean teased you about getting a daisy on your ankle.

“C’mon,” he said, chin in his hand, watching you from across the room. “You’re totally gonna go basic. Butterfly? Moon phases? Maybe a quote in cursive?”

You just smirked at him. “You’ll see.”

He squinted at you suspiciously.

──────────────────────

When you emerged from the back, Dean stood up, stretching. “Alright, let’s see it. Wrist? Ankle? Lemme guess—behind the ear?”

You smiled innocently. “You’ll see.” That should’ve been his first warning.

The two of you climbed back into the Impala, and Dean turned the key but didn’t pull away just yet. He gave you a look, playful but curious. “So? Don’t leave me hangin’. Where is it?”

You turned slightly in your seat, fingers reaching for the button of your jeans.

Dean blinked. “Wait—what are you—”

The zipper came down with a soft zzzt, and before he could even process what the hell was happening, you pulled the waistband down just enough.

And Dean's breath stopped.

The tattoo sat just above your pelvis, delicate black ink etched into soft skin still a little red from the needle. Right beneath it was a sliver of black lace—your underwear peeking up from your jeans, the curve of your hipbone exposed like you didn’t even realize how wrecked you were making him.

Dean stared. Actually stared. His brain short-circuited. “Jesus,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You really went for it.”

You tilted your head, all innocent curiosity. “Too much?”

Too much? It was perfect. And hot. And wrong. And so right that Dean had to drag his eyes away before he did something stupid—like reach out and touch.

His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. Every single muscle in his body tensed as he stared straight ahead, trying not to look at you, trying not to think about the lace, the skin, the goddamn tattoo that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Because now? Now he was hard. Painfully hard. For you. His best friend. The one person he wasn’t supposed to want like this.

He shifted slightly, legs angling awkwardly as he tried to hide the growing situation in his jeans. His hands clenched the steering wheel like it was his last tether to sanity.

You zipped your jeans back up with a soft little smirk. “Dean?” you asked sweetly, turning to him like you hadn’t just blown up his whole world.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Peachy,” he said through clenched teeth, eyes fixed forward. “Totally fine.” Dean swallowed hard.

He was fucked.

──────────────────────

The two of you had always made the most of the time you had together.

It didn’t matter where or when, some diner off a highway at midnight, a motel room with flickering lights, the front seat of the Impala parked beneath a sky full of stars—being around you had a way of making everything feel just a little bit lighter. A little less heavy. You made the sharp edges of the world dull down enough to breathe.

Dean had never been great at the whole feelings thing. Hell, he avoided them like the plague. But from the moment he met you, something shifted.

At first, it was subtle, barely a nudge in his chest. A flash of amusement when you made some smartass comment. A second glance when you laughed with your whole body, like you hadn’t been burned by the world yet. He chalked it up to admiration. Friendship. Nothing more.

But over time, that small spark inside him turned into something else. Something slower, deeper. And damn if it didn’t terrify him.

It happened in the little moments—when you’d throw your legs across his lap without asking, like you belonged there.

When you’d sing along to classic rock in the car, off-key and dramatic, just to get him to laugh.

When you’d fall asleep next to him on drives around town, your head resting on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean didn’t know when exactly it changed—when liking you turned into loving you. Maybe it was the night you patched him up after a hunt, your fingers gentle but firm, your voice soft and steady. You had no idea what Dean really did for a living but when he stood at your door, bloody and bruised you couldn't turn him away.

Or maybe the time you defended him in front of a stranger like your life depended on it. Or maybe it was just a million little things building up over the years until one day, he looked at you and realized he was done for.

Because he was in love with you.

Stupid, aching, gut-punching kind of love. The kind that settled in his bones and wouldn’t let go. The kind he couldn’t run from no matter how hard he tried.

And God, he tried.

He told himself it was fine. That being your friend was enough. That he could live with the ache as long as you were still in his life. He convinced himself he was okay with the casual touches, the shared laughter, the midnight calls when you couldn’t sleep. He told himself he could deal with the way your smile made something stir in his chest, the way your voice calmed every storm in his head.

But it was getting harder.

Because you were always there, burned into his thoughts in the quiet moments. When he couldn’t sleep, he thought about the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. When he was on the road alone, he found himself reaching for his phone just to hear your voice. When something good or bad happened, you were the first person he wanted to tell.

You weren’t just some girl he had a crush on.

You were it. The one.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because Dean didn’t get the good things. He didn’t get forever. And you? You were a forever kind of person.

So, he sat with it. With the weight of everything he couldn’t say. With every almost-confession he’d swallowed down at the last second. With every glance he held too long, every touch that lingered, every night he dreamed about what it would feel like to finally kiss you.

He was grateful, truly, deeply grateful to have you in his life. You were his best friend. His anchor. His light in the dark. But none of that changed the fact that he was in love with you.

And it was getting harder to pretend he wasn’t.

──────────────────────

The knock at your window came just past midnight. You stirred beneath your blanket, squinting at the clock before stumbling over to the window, your bare feet cold against the floor.

Tugging the curtain aside with a yawn, your eyes landed on the one person who could make crawling out of bed at this hour feel like an invitation to something bigger than sleep.

Dean stood there beneath the glow of your porch light, grinning like a damn kid on Christmas. His leather jacket was unzipped, the duffel bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing, and in his hands, two steaming gas station coffees, lids fogged from the chill in the air.

His smile widened the second he saw you, hair mussed from sleep, wearing that ancient band tee you swore you’d throw out and never did. The sight of you like that, soft and half-asleep, made something in his chest pull tight.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he said, voice low and teasing. He lifted one of the cups like an offering. “Wanna come stargaze? Or are you gonna be responsible and sleep like a normal person?”

You blinked at him, lips twitching with a sleepy smile. “Dean, it’s a Monday.”

“So?” He tilted his head. “Stars don’t give a damn what day it is.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest gave you away.

He knew what he was doing—he always did. With that look in his eyes like you were the only person worth waking up for. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. And God help you, you never could say no to him.

You rolled your eyes, but you were already reaching for your hoodie. “Ten minutes. You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know you like me,” he called, cocky and smug in that familiar Dean kind of way, but his voice was a little softer than usual, almost hesitant for some reason.

──────────────────────

The beach was only five minutes from your place, but it felt like another world.

Quiet. Still. The kind of silence that only existed this late at night, when the rest of the town had shut down and gone to sleep, too small and tucked away to care what the stars were doing. The sky was a deep, endless black, cut open by the moon and those scattered constellations you only ever saw in small towns forgotten by time and light pollution.

Dean kicked off his boots and laid a worn blanket down in the cool sand like he hadn’t just driven two states to get here. Like this was just another stop, another night.

But it wasn’t, not to him. Not when it was you.

You flopped down beside him, the sand damp and cool beneath the blanket, the air crisp enough to bite. Without thinking, because it never was something you had to think about—you let your head fall against his shoulder. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like gravity just decided for you.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t tense. Just let you settle in like he was built for it. And hell, maybe he was.

His body was warm beside yours, steady and solid in the way only he could be. You felt the rise and fall of his chest, slow and even, like this quiet moment had pressed pause on whatever chaos had been chasing him before.

Neither of you said a damn word for a long while.

The waves came and went like they had forever to do so, crashing soft and steady in the distance. The only sound in the whole world.

And Dean just stared up at the sky, at the stars that didn’t offer answers, just more questions. But he looked anyway. Maybe because it was easier than looking at you.

Because fuck, you were close.

Close enough for him to catch that familiar smell of your shampoo—the same one that clung to your clothes, your pillows, the passenger seat of his car.

The one that hit him hardest when he was far away, in some dingy motel with blood drying on his hands and pain blooming under his ribs.

That scent reminded him of better things. Of safety. Of softness. Of you. Of home.

God, he was so screwed.

He’d known it from the beginning. The first time you smiled at him outside that library, the first time you teased him about his sandwich, the first time you saw through all his walls like they weren’t even there.

He’d thought it was just attraction. A passing thing. He’d had that before—quick, easy flings that didn’t ask anything of him. But with you, it was never quick. And it sure as hell wasn’t easy.

You’d become the first person who really knew him. Not the hunter. Not John’s soldier. Not the screwup older brother trying to keep it together. Just… Dean.

And he couldn’t fucking lose that.

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched as he looked over at you. Your eyes were closed now, peaceful and unguarded, like being beside him was the safest place in the world.

And maybe that was the problem. You trusted him. You needed him. And for once in his life, Dean had something good—something real. He didn’t want to fuck it up by saying the wrong thing. By turning this into something messy.

But God, he wanted to touch your face. He wanted to kiss you like he meant it—slow, desperate, worship you.

He wanted to tell you how much it killed him when he was gone. How every hunt, every town, every monster meant nothing compared to one night on a beach with you. So instead, he laid there in silence. Let the waves keep talking for him.

And you? You couldn’t stop looking at him.

The way the moonlight kissed his face, tracing over the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the freckles littering his nose and cheeks you always loved. He looked like something out of a dream, too perfect to be real—like if you reached out, your fingers would go straight through him.

But he was real. So damn real. And warm beside you, breathing in sync with the ocean.

Dean Winchester, your best friend. The guy who texted you more than anyone else, who remembered how you liked your coffee, who showed up at your door with pie and that stupid crooked smile that made your stomach twist every time.

You were so in love with him it hurt.

And it didn’t help that he looked like that—hair messy from the breeze, eyes on the stars like they held some kind of answer, lip caught between his teeth like he was trying not to say something out loud.

God, what was he thinking?

Your chest ached with it, the want. The need to just reach out, to slide your fingers against his jaw and kiss him like you’d imagined a hundred times.

But the fear stopped you. The voice that whispered, What if you ruin it? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if you lose him?

Still… you couldn’t look away.

And maybe that was what did it because Dean felt your gaze and he turned his head, slow, eyes meeting yours in the dark. And the second your eyes locked, the world around you dropped away.

The crashing waves. The night breeze. The stars above. None of it mattered.

Only him.

And the way you were looking at each other like it was the first and last time. Like the feelings you’d both been swallowing down were finally bleeding out into the open. You didn’t blink, and neither did he.

Your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it. But he didn’t look away.

He couldn’t look away.

You were staring at him like he was the only thing in the world that made sense. Like you knew him. All of him. And wanted him anyway. And that was what killed him.

Dean’s breath hitched, shaky, uneven, like it hurt to hold it in anymore. His eyes didn’t leave yours, wide with something unspoken and raw, something that had been clawing at the edges of him for far too long. And he was still fighting it—fighting the way his heart pounded like it wanted out of his chest, fighting everything in him that screamed to just take the damn risk.

To stop pretending this was just friendship. To stop acting like you weren’t the most real thing he’d ever had in his life. His jaw clenched. Don’t do it, some part of him whispered. You’ll ruin everything.

But the louder voice—the one that sounded like hope and need and pure fucking longing was done being quiet.

“Fuck it,” Dean murmured, the words barely audible.

His hands were on your cheeks in an instant, calloused and warm, fingers cradling your skin like you were something fragile. Like you were already his, and he didn’t know how to live without you anymore. And when his mouth finally found yours—Jesus. It was everything.

Every unspoken word. Every almost. Every lingering look and late-night laugh and sleepless motel night where he laid awake thinking about you.

It was soft, almost tentative at first. Like he was still afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You leaned in, kissed him back with every bit of feeling you’d been holding inside, your fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket like you never wanted to let go.

The ocean kept crashing behind you but all you could feel was him. Dean. Kissing you like it had been building forever. Because maybe it had. And now… it was finally real.

Dean kissed you like he’d been dying to. Like he’d been holding his breath for years and this—this—was the first time he could finally breathe.

And you kissed him like you never wanted to stop.

His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing gently against your skin, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face. Like this was something fragile and precious and he didn’t want to rush it. The kiss deepened slowly, naturally, like you were both learning each other all over again—except this time, it was with mouths and sighs and the way your body curved into his.

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t go far. Your forehead rested against his, breaths mingling, both of you a little dazed, like you were afraid to break whatever the hell just happened between you.

Dean huffed a soft laugh, the kind that came from his chest. “Well… guess I’m not sleeping tonight.”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Yeah, me neither.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, and damn if that smile of his didn’t ruin you. It was soft, shy even, but so full, like all the walls he’d built up just crumbled around you and he didn’t care who saw anymore.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, heart thudding in your chest. “Try me.”

His cheeks flushed slightly, and it was so damn human, so un-Dean-like, that it made you fall for him all over again. “That night we watched a scary movie,” he said, “when we cuddled for the first time and your hair was a mess… I almost kissed you then.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Dean, that was years ago.”

“I know.” He laughed again, but it was breathless, like even he couldn’t believe he waited this long. “I kept telling myself not to screw it up. That I finally had someone who gave a damn about me for me, and if I crossed that line…”

You reached up and gently cupped his face, running your thumb along his jaw. “You didn’t screw anything up. You just made it better.”

Dean leaned into your touch like it grounded him, eyes fluttering closed for a second before opening again. “You sure? ‘Cause if I kiss you again, I’m not gonna stop at just one.”

Your stomach flipped, heart full. “Good. Because I’m not done kissing you either.”

And God, that grin.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Sweeter. Like he was trying to show you everything he hadn’t said in years of friendship—every text, every call, every visit, every longing glance that lingered too long. His hand slipped into your hair while your fingers found the space beneath his jacket, curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

You shifted closer, practically in his lap now, the blanket bunching beneath you as the sand gave way beneath your knees. He didn’t seem to mind—just held you tighter, as if anchoring himself to this moment.

“Can’t believe I finally get to do this,” he whispered between kisses, brushing his nose against yours.

You smiled against his mouth. “Well, now that the floodgates are open…”

Dean chuckled, and it was the happiest sound you’d ever heard. “Yeah, you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The waves kept crashing behind you. The stars burned quietly above. And wrapped up in Dean’s arms, his lips on yours, his heart finally open and right there for the taking. You knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

author’s note:

sooo I love the beach vibes with this one! figured I’d switch something up because it’s always so gloomy? don’t get me wrong I love it & spn, but sometimes we need a cute little getaway?

I’ve honestly had this one sitting in my drafts for a bit, but I finally came around and finished it! lol and as y’all can see I’m back on my bullshit :) feels great to be back!

@helena-helly I’m so sorry this one took forever to come out! I hope you like it and it’s up to your expectations? ❤︎

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

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lila-lou · 9 months ago

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✨A Winchester Apology✨

Summary: Dean forgot your birthday. Good thing he knows exactly how to apologize to you.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language, Fluff

Word Count: 3010

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Dean Winchester had never been one for forgetting important dates, but somehow, your birthday had slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t like him at all, and you knew that his guilt was eating him alive. Dean was never great with apologies, especially when he felt truly bad about something. But he was determined to make it up to you in his own way—Winchester style.

The Impala’s headlights cast long, eerie shadows as Dean pulled up to the small cabin he had rented for the night. You sat beside him, arms crossed, doing your best to keep your anger simmering just below the surface. He turned off the engine, the sudden silence deafening in the forested seclusion.

“Hey”, he said softly, turning to you, his green eyes filled with regret. “I know I screwed up. But just… let me try to make it right?”.

You sighed, looking away from him. “Dean, it’s not just about forgetting my birthday. It’s about feeling like I’m not important to you”.

His face fell, and he reached out to take your hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re the most important thing in my life, Y/N…Besides Sammy of course..But…I… Look. I don’t know how I messed this up, but I’m going to spend tonight making sure you know how much you mean to me”.

Reluctantly, you nodded. “Fine. One chance”.

Dean’s expression brightened, and he quickly got out of the car, moving around to open your door. “Thank you. Now, let’s get inside. I have a few surprises planned”.

The cabin was rustic but charming, a fire crackling warmly in the fireplace. Dean had decorated it with strings of fairy lights, their soft glow casting a magical aura over the room. A table was set with a delicious-looking spread—your favorite foods, of course. Dean might forget dates, but he never forgot your preferences.

“Wow, this is… actually really nice”, you admitted, feeling your anger begin to melt away.

He grinned, that classic grin that always made your heart skip a beat. “Only the best for you, sweetheart”.

You sat down at the table, and Dean poured you a glass of whiskey, knowing you hated wine, before joining you. The meal was delicious, the conversation easy, and you found yourself relaxing more and more. Dean was a natural charmer, and he was laying it on thick tonight, determined to win back your favor.

After dinner, he took your hand again and led you to the couch in front of the fire. “There’s something else I want to give you”, he said, pulling a small, neatly wrapped box from his jacket pocket.

Curious, you took the box and unwrapped it, revealing a delicate silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of an angel wing. It was beautiful, and you knew immediately that it held deep meaning—both of you had been saved by Castiel more times than you could count.

“Dean, it’s gorgeous”, you whispered, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift.

He moved behind you, gently brushing your hair aside to clasp the necklace around your neck. His fingers lingered on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “I’m so sorry I made you feel unimportant. Let me show you how much you mean to me”, he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. The intensity in his gaze took your breath away, and suddenly, you were very aware of how close he was. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks.

“I love you, Y/N”, he said, his voice low and husky. “And I’m going to spend the rest of the night proving it to you”.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, kissing you with a passion that left you dizzy. You melted into him, all the anger and hurt dissolving in the heat of the moment. His hands roamed your body, caressing and teasing, and you could feel the desire building between you.

Dean pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark with lust. “I want you”, he whispered. “Right here, right now”.

You nodded, unable to find your voice, and he wasted no time in stripping you of your clothes. The firelight danced on your skin, and you felt a rush of excitement as Dean’s hands and mouth explored every inch of you.

“You’re beautiful”, he groaned, his lips trailing down your neck to your collarbone. “I can’t get enough of you”.

You arched into him, your hands tangling in his hair as he moved lower, kissing a path down your body. His touch was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. By the time he reached your hips, you were trembling with anticipation.

“Dean, please”, you gasped, needing him more than you’d ever needed anything.

He looked up at you, a wicked smile on his lips. “Patience, baby. I’m going to make this unforgettable”.

And he did. Dean took his time, driving you insane with his mouth and hands until you were writhing beneath him, begging for release. He teased you with his tongue, tasting you slowly, intimately, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin.

“Oh, fuck, Dean”, you moaned, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. He knew exactly what you liked, how to push you to the brink and keep you there, hovering on the precipice of pleasure.

When you finally couldn’t take it anymore, he moved up your body, kissing you deeply as he positioned himself between your legs. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he entered you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made you cry out.

“Fuck”, he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “You feel so good, baby”.

You clung to him, matching his rhythm as he moved inside you, the connection between you stronger than ever. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of love and desire was a promise—Dean would never take you for granted again.

As he increased his pace, you could feel the tension building in your core, the pleasure intensifying with each thrust. Dean’s hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, deeper, and you gasped his name, the sensation overwhelming.

“Dean, I’m so close”, you panted, your nails raking down his back.

“I know, baby”, he groaned, his lips brushing against your ear. “Come for me. I want to feel you”.

His words were your undoing. With a cry, you came undone, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. Dean followed soon after, his own release triggered by the feeling of you tightening around him. He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer.

When it was over, you lay in each other’s arms, the fire crackling softly in the background. Dean held you close, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back.

“I’m never going to forget your birthday again”, he said with a soft chuckle.

You smiled, resting your head on his chest. “You’d better not. But this was a pretty good apology”.

He kissed the top of your head, his hold on you tightening. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if I have to”.

And you knew he meant it. Dean Winchester might be a lot of things, but when it came to you, he was always sincere. As you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the love you shared, imperfections and all.

The next morning, the sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. You stirred in Dean’s arms, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. As you opened your eyes, you found him already awake, watching you with a tender expression.

“Good morning”; he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Morning”; you replied, your voice still groggy from sleep. “Did you sleep well?”.

“Best sleep I’ve had in a long time”, he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Having you in my arms makes all the difference”.

You blushed, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Last night was… pretty amazing”.

He chuckled softly. “It was. And I meant what I said, Y/N. I’m going to make sure you know how much you mean to me, every single day”.

You spent the morning lazily wrapped in each other’s arms, talking about everything and nothing. The peaceful solitude of the cabin was a welcome change from the constant chaos of your usual lives, and you savored every moment of it.

As the day wore on, Dean suggested taking a walk through the woods. The idea of spending more time with him, away from everything, was appealing, so you agreed. You wandered through the trees, the sound of birdsong and rustling leaves creating a serene soundtrack to your conversations.

After a while, Dean stopped, turning to face you. “I know I haven’t always been the best at showing it, but I don’t know what I’d do without you”.

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere, Dean”.

He leaned down to kiss you, a slow, tender kiss that conveyed all the emotions words couldn't. The peacefulness of the forest, the warmth of his embrace, and the intensity of his gaze all combined to make you feel completely cherished.

As the kiss deepened, Dean's hands roamed your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own private universe.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, Dean rested his forehead against yours. "I love you so much", he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

You smiled. "I love you too, Dean".

You talked about everything under the sun—your favorite memories, your hopes for the future, the little things that made you laugh. It was as if a weight had lifted, allowing you both to be completely open and honest.

After your walk, you returned to the cabin, where Dean had another surprise waiting. He had set up a cozy picnic by the lake, complete with a blanket, pillows, and a basket filled with your favorite snacks.

“You really went all out”, you said, genuinely touched by the effort he had put into making the day special.

Dean shrugged, a shy smile playing on his lips. “You deserve it”.

You spent the afternoon lounging by the lake. The sun set in a blaze of colors, casting a warm glow over everything, and you felt a deep sense of contentment.

As the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, you lay back on the blanket, your head resting on Dean’s chest. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you both gazed up at the constellations.

“You know”, Dean said after a while, his voice a low rumble in the quiet night, “I used to think I didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. But being with you, it makes me realize how lucky I am”.

You turned to look at him, your heart swelling with love. “Dean, you deserve all the happiness in the world. And I’m lucky to have you too”.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, his lips lingering on yours. The kiss deepened, and soon you were lost in each other once more, the world around you disappearing as you focused solely on the feeling of his body against yours.

Dean’s hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer as he kissed a trail down your neck. You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair as he continued his exploration. The heat between you intensified, and soon you were both breathless with desire.

“Let’s go inside”, Dean whispered against your skin, his voice husky with need.

You nodded, and together you gathered your things and made your way back to the cabin. Once inside, Dean didn’t waste any time, his hands and lips finding you once more as he backed you against the wall. You gasped as he pressed his body against yours, his arousal evident through his jeans.

“Dean”, you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom. He laid you down gently on the bed, his eyes dark with desire as he looked at you.

You reached for him, pulling him down for a kiss. The feel of his body on yours, the weight of him, the heat—it was intoxicating. Dean moved against you, his hands sliding under your shirt, his touch igniting a fire within you.

You helped him remove your clothes, your breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps as his hands and mouth explored your skin. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of love and desire heightened your senses, driving you wild with need.

When you were finally bare before him, Dean paused, his eyes raking over your body with a mixture of reverence and hunger. “You’re fucking perfect”, he said, his voice filled with awe.

You blushed under his gaze, feeling both vulnerable and incredibly aroused. “Dean, please”, you whispered, your body aching for his touch.

He didn’t need any further encouragement. Dean moved over you, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss as he settled between your legs. You could feel the heat of him, the hardness pressing against your core, and you moaned, arching into him.

“Do you want this?”, he asked, his voice rough with restraint.

“Yes”, you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders. “I need you, Dean”.

With a growl, he pushed into you, slow and deliberate, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, and you cried out, your fingers digging into his back. Dean paused, giving you a moment to adjust, his eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?”, he asked, his voice tight with control.

You nodded, your body humming with pleasure. “Yes, I’m perfect”.

He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, each one sending waves of ecstasy through you. You matched his rhythm, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. The connection between you was electric, every touch, every kiss, every breath bringing you closer to the edge.

Dean’s pace quickened, his control slipping as the intensity of the moment overwhelmed him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, your moans mingling with his as you both chased the peak of pleasure.

“Y/N”, he groaned, his voice a raw whisper. “I’m so close”.

“Me too”, you gasped, your body trembling with the force of your impending release.

With a final, powerful thrust, you both tumbled over the edge, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. You cried out his name, your body shaking. Dean followed, his groan of satisfaction echoing in your ears.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting and spent. Dean rolled to the side, pulling you into his arms, holding you close as you both came down from the high.

“I love you”, he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “So damn much”.

“I love you too”, you replied, snuggling into his embrace.

You fell asleep in his arms, the warmth and safety of his embrace lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Dean humming softly in the kitchen.

You stretched, feeling deliciously sore from the night before, and smiled as you remembered the events of the previous two days. Dean had gone above and beyond to make it up to you, and you felt more connected to him than ever.

You got out of bed and made your way to the kitchen, where you found Dean cooking breakfast. He turned when he heard you, his face lighting up with a smile.

“Morning, beautiful”, he said, setting down the spatula and pulling you close. “I made breakfast. Hope you’re hungry”, he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You sat down at the table, and Dean served you a plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. The meal was delicious, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the simple, intimate moments you shared.

As the day turned into evening, you found yourselves back at the cabin, sitting by the fire.

“Dean”, you said after a while, your voice soft. “Thank you for everything. This weekend has been perfect”.

He smiled. “I’m just glad I could make it up to you. I never want you to feel unimportant again”.

You squeezed his hand, your heart full of love. “You’ve more than made it up to me. I feel more loved and cherished than ever”.

Dean leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a sweet, lingering kiss. “Good”, he whispered against your lips. “Because you are. More than you’ll ever know”.

You kissed him back, your heart swelling with emotion. The love you shared was a rare and precious thing.

As the fire crackled softly in the background, you and Dean held each other close, savoring the quiet, intimate moments that made your love so special. You knew that life would continue to throw obstacles your way, but with Dean by your side, you felt ready to face anything.

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the love of the man you adored, you knew that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny

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saltcxrcle · 3 months ago

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valentine ── . ✶ s. winchester

summary: you've never fallen in love before until you met sam

pairing: sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x gn! reader warnings: none really, no use of 'y/n', fluff, pure fluff, going on dates, kissing, title is a song by laufey of the same name, fic is lowkey based on the song, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own word count: 3.0k a/n: wow look at me writing a fic for in time for a holiday! anyways happy valentines day to me and sam winchester bc hes my valentine fr! also is the reader just the projection of my own experiences? maybe... lol but enjoy the fic <33 [heart divider by @bernardsbendystraws ] sam winchester masterlist

YOU DIDN’T HAVE the best experience when it came to love. Scratch that; you didn’t have any experience when it came to romance at all. You didn’t grow up capturing anyone’s attention romantically, which, in hindsight, should have stung, but that was just the reality of your life.

While other people were getting into their first relationships and experiencing young love for the first time, you were in the library studying or surrounded by your friends (the very little that you had). It wasn’t like you didn’t want to have a relationship with someone, but the people in your high school didn’t capture your attention. Besides, being a kid of a hunter didn’t allow you enough time to stay and like anyone in that capacity.

You were content with being alone with yourself, even from a young age. You had a morbid understanding that the life you lead didn’t allot a lot of time for living, going from state to state and town to town killing monsters always ran the risk that you wouldn’t come out the other side of those encounters.

But that all changed when you ran into the Winchesters while hunting a wendigo in the dense forests of Washington. You remember almost shooting one of them when you heard rustling in the thick bush before you heard a man’s voice shout for you to not fire your gun.

When they made it through the brush of foliage, you were met with two tall men dressed like an average hunter, but what had taken you aback was how attractive they were. You had come across some hunters in your life, but most of them didn’t look like they came off of a photo shoot for GQ Men. You had heard about the Winchesters from word of mouth (some good things, but a lot of bad things), but a key detail they missed was that they were almost devilishly handsome.

They had introduced themselves as Sam and Dean when they realized that you weren’t a lost hiker on a trail but a fellow hunter like themselves. The three of you worked out what you were hunting, and with some reluctance, you agreed to help them (Sam’s puppy dog eyes really reeled you in and sealed the deal).

It was hard to focus on the hunt when you were distracted by how much you gravitated towards Sam. In the short interactions that you had with him before the three of you found and killed the wendigo, you could tell that he was an intelligent and genuine person—but you could tell he had his walls up, and gaining his trust wasn’t going to be a one and done situation. But you couldn’t blame him. You were the same and didn’t dwell on it for too long because the three of you were in the middle of a hunt and couldn’t afford to be distracted.

You soon learned that the Winchesters weren’t that bad to be around, and it didn’t hurt that they were easy on the eyes. You were surprised when Sam asked for your number, but you gave it to him anyway, thinking that it would be an easy way to get in contact with him if either of you needed help on a hunt.

Soon enough after that initial hunt, the Winchesters (Sam) would reach out for your help, and you didn’t think at all before agreeing—leaving the town you were hanging around and meeting them in the next state over.

You found that the more you worked with the Winchesters, the harder it was not to work a hunt with them, and your growing attraction to Sam was getting harder to control. You had never felt this way towards someone in your many years of living. Sure, you’ve found plenty of people attractive as you passed through the plethora of towns you’ve traveled to, but there was something about Sam that drew you to him and, to be quite honest, scared you.

Sam was like your dream person come to life. He was like he plucked out of the romance books and novels that you liked to indulge in from time to time and dangled in front of your face—somehow always seeming to be just out of reach.

Your pining worsened after a particularly rough hunt with a pack of werewolves. You had a deep gash in your thigh from a she-wolf that was enraged that you had killed her mate and threw you into a cement wall, cracking a few of your ribs, breaking two of them, and giving you a concussion. You managed to stay standing until the three of you killed all of the werewolves, but when Sam came to check on you, you practically collapsed into his arms—which would have embarrassed you at the moment, but the pain was consuming any rational thought that was running through your brain.

Sam acted quickly and barked out to Dean that he’d have to clean up on his own as he dragged your barely conscious and pain-riddled body back to the Impala and patched you as best as he could until you guys could get back to the motel. Dean was quick to dispose of the bodies, and Sam sat in the backseat with you, tucking you into his side and providing you some comfort from Dean’s erratic driving back to the motel. You would have freaked out by being that close to Sam, but the pain was enough of a distraction from the scent of Sam filling your nostrils.

Once you guys got back to the motel, Sam was able to patch you up properly, but the damage was already done. Since you were in no condition to drive and didn’t have anything lined up for you, Sam had invited you back to the bunker with them to rest up and heal. They had invited you to see the bunker a couple of times before, but you never took them up on their offer because you didn’t want to feel like you were intruding.

You were going to say no, but Sam’s hazel eyes were wide and pleading, and you couldn’t resist the look he was giving you—so you agreed that you would stay with them until you were back at 100% again. And there was your downfall. You had a feeling that you were falling for Sam, but being at the bunker— being in close proximity to him for more than a week and having him basically wait on you since your mobility was limited, just solidified the fact that you had fallen head over heels for the taller Winchester.

Hell, your pining became so evident that Dean picked up on it and asked you about your feelings towards his brother as soon as Sam left the library to grab your pain medication from the room you were staying in for the time being. You remember your face heating up at the sudden interrogation, but you didn’t deny the fact that you liked his younger brother.

Dean teased you a little bit but turned sincere, telling you that the two of you would be a good match before teasing you again, but Sam had walked back into the library and given you your pain medication along with a glass of water to take them with.

Unbeknownst to you or Dean, Sam had overheard your conversation with his older brother. Even though he felt a little guilty that he had inadvertently intruded on a private conversation, Sam couldn’t help but feel relieved that you felt the same he did. But when Dean started to tease you again, he came back to the library, and he couldn’t help the small smile on his face as he went back to researching.

Later that night, Sam knocked on your door, and you could tell something was up. The air in the room had shifted as Sam’s nervous demeanor entered your room.

“So what’s up?” You asked him as you sat on the edge of your bed. You were wearing some sweatpants and a well-worn T-shirt you had for years.

Sam’s eyes scanned your pajamas, a smile on his face before he met your gaze—scratching the back of his neck. “I heard your conversation with Dean earlier.”

“Really?” Your heart dropped to your stomach as panic washed over you, staring wide-eyed at Sam.

Sam sensed your panic. “Yeah, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to but I heard my name and my curiosity got the better of me.”

“Oh.” You swallowed thickly as you tried to find your words. But you honestly had no idea what to say. You were mortified that Sam had overheard you admitting that you liked him to his brother, and you were stuck between leaving the room and dying of embarrassment in front of Sam.

“This isn’t going the way I thought it was.” Sam muttered under his breath before moving to sit next to you. He gently took one of your hands and held it. “I really like you. I was going to tell you soon, I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You just did.” You had finally snapped out of your mortified state and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

Sam chuckled at your words, making you laugh alongside him—his laughter was infectious and helped quell the panic you were feeling earlier, now being replaced with contentment and nervous excitement.

He used his free hand to grasp your chin in between his thumb and index finger. Sam looked deep into your eyes, a gentle smile on his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yeah.” Your response came out weaker than you expected, but any other thought was wiped away when Sam placed his lips on yours, drawing you into a soft kiss. Your heart soared as Sam’s lips moved against yours in a gentle rhythm. You’ve kissed people before, but none of them were like this—they paled in comparison to how Sam was kissing you.

From then on, the two of you were inseparable. After you were all healed up, Sam took you out on your first date together to a bookstore that he’d been wanting to show you if you were ever in town. However, you did have some awkward moments here and there during the date due to your lack of experience in the dating realm.

You and Sam were walking through the bookstore, looking through each of the shelves for something you might want to take back to the bunker and read. Sam was on the opposite of the aisle you were in, and as you pulled a book off the shelf, you were met with Sam’s hazel gaze and bright smile.

“Hi there.” You whispered playfully.

Sam smiled wider. “Hey.” His eyes trailed over your face before meeting yours again. “God you’re so pretty.”

His compliment and the sincere tone in which he said it made your face feel hot and giddy. You couldn’t help but let out a small giggle before clamping your free hand over your mouth so as to not disturb the quiet atmosphere of the bookstore.

“Thank you. Uh, you’re pretty too.” Your response made you wince internally. You didn’t know how to respond to his compliment exactly, but Sam sent you a wide grin that showed his dimples, and you couldn’t help but mirror him.

Regardless of how awkward you felt in the moment, Sam made you feel anything but. He was aware of the lack of experience you had with dating and took it in stride. He did everything at your pace, and that made you fall for him even harder.

Though you hadn’t said those three little words to him yet, you planned to do it while the two of you were out on a date for Valentine’s Day. Yes, it was cheesy, but you wanted to let him know that you did. Sam had planned the day for the two of you, getting out of Lebanon and heading to an aquarium in Kansas City. Then, after, the two of you would get dinner and spend the night there before heading back the next day. So you packed a day bag before getting dressed, wanting to look good for the date.

It seemed Sam had the same idea because when the two of you met in the garage, Sam wasn’t wearing his usual uniform of flannel and a t-shirt underneath, but wearing a white knitted sweater you had gifted him for Christmas, some medium wash jeans, and a denim jacket of the same wash over the sweater. He looked absolutely handsome as he leaned against the truck the two of you were taking (Dean refused to let him take the Impala for the night).

“Wow! Look at you wearing something else other than a flannel.” You teased as you walked up to him.

Sam rolled his eyes at you, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Are you saying I look bad?” He joked as he reached out and took the bag from your hands.

You rested your hands on his chest, looking up at him with a smile. “Quite the opposite actually. You look handsome.”

Sam flushed slightly at your compliment, pride swelling in your chest at the sight. You couldn’t help but peck his heated cheek before patting his chest.

“Thank you.” He murmured before pecking your lips. Sam quickly placed your bags in the backseat before opening the passenger-side door for you. Then he got in the driver’s seat, and the two of you were off to Kansas City.

Before you hit the freeway for the four-hour drive, you guys stopped by the store to pick up some snacks and drinks, and the drive was filled with the sounds of the two of you singing to the shared playlist that you and Sam had or of the two of you talking.

As you got closer to the aquarium, you became excited. You had only been to the aquarium twice when you were younger and when you stayed at a school long enough to go on a field trip. You practically jumped out of the car when Sam parked it, and he couldn’t help but smile at your enthusiasm.

The two of you walked hand in hand throughout the aquarium, going through all of the exhibits and admiring what the place had to offer. But what you really wanted to see was the jellyfish exhibit. Something about them had always fascinated you, and you had been dying to see them.

Once you got to the exhibit, you were immediately enthralled with the sea creature, looking at the vast glass wall that the jellyfish were on the other side of. Sam stared at you as the spark in your eye grew, and you looked in awe at the jellyfish. He felt his heart warm at the sight as a contented smile played on his lips.

You felt Sam tug at the hand he was holding, capturing your attention. You managed to rip your gaze away from the sea animal, only for them to be captured by Sam’s eyes. They looked blue due to the glow of the water reflecting into the room.

The room was empty, save for you, Sam, and the jellyfish. He pulled you closer to him, Sam’s hand landing on your cheek as his eyes glazed over with love and adoration.

“I love you.” Sam said as he stared deep into your eyes.

You couldn’t help the shock and the slight fear that flooded your veins at hearing the words falling from his lips. Although you had planned to tell him later that day, it signified that now you had something serious with Sam and that you had more to lose.

Sam saw the flicker of fear in your eyes. “You don’t have to say it back now, but I needed to tell you before anything happened. This life we live, it doesn’t–”

“I know Sam.” You cut him off, placing your hand on top of the hand that was on your cheek. You smiled at him reassuringly before a small laugh escaped you. Sam sent you a confused smile at the sound of your laugh.

“It’s just, I planned to tell you after we went to dinner.” You explained after answering his unasked question.

Sam smirked. “Well, it’s not like you said it back or anything, you still have time.”

“I wanted to be the one to say it first.” You couldn’t help but give him a mock pout.

“I can take it back if you want honey.” Sam teased as he leaned closer to you.

You rolled your eyes at him before placing your lips on his. Sam chuckled against your lips before sinking into the kiss.

“I love you too.” You muttered against his lips when you drew back from the kiss.

Sam smiled wide before pulling you into another kiss, pouring all of his love, devotion, and passion into it. You returned the kiss with as much fervor as he did, but before it could get any more heated, you were reminded that the two of you were in public and pulled away from him. He chased your lips, making you giggle. Sam’s eyes snapped open; it seemed that he was reminded of where he was, and he chuckled.

Sam looked down at his watch. “There’s some time left before it closes, did you want to look around some more or grab some dinner early?”

“We can look around some more, I’m not hungry yet.”

Sam nodded. “We can do that.”

The two of you made your way out of the jellyfish exhibit—Sam’s arm was around your waist as he kissed your temple before the two of you looked at other exhibits in the aquarium.

You honestly still can’t believe that Sam was yours, but you were incredibly grateful that he was. You silently thank whatever higher power that was out there that you were able to love Sam and that he reciprocated your feelings. You had a lovesick smile stuck on your lips all night, and Sam couldn’t help but match the one on your lips until the two of you fell asleep in each other’s arms.

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