#dean/oc

[eluciis]

A shot in the heart doesn't make it unbreak || Dean Winchester

Notes:

This is reposted from my ao3 (Elucii)

Hello! I've been thinking of starting this story for a while and finally decided to give it a go. I know the child trope isn't everyone's favorite choice for supernatural, but I'm throwing my hand at it anyway and will try to update every week. I admit that it's fully self indulgent, but I hope you enjoy anyway! Kudos and comments are always welcome but not expected.

TW: Minor character death, canon typical violence, Zachariah being a giant piece of shit.

Story title comes from Hayloft II by Mother Mother. Highly recommend it, because it captures some great emotions that'll relate to the story at some point.

The face claim for Jenna Reed is Ellen Pompeo (think early seasons of Greys Anatomy)

The face claim for Nora Reed-Winchester is Katherine Langford (think 13 reasons why)

-Luci

Lifeless. 

The entire house looks lifeless, as if it has been devoid of life for weeks. In reality, it has only been about six days. Nora had been in the hospital for four and with her uncle the other two while the police finished their investigation. It wasn't overly messy (aside from her mother's room) and it hasn't been long enough for dust to accumulate, but that isn't what made it feel lifeless. It's the absence of her mother. The lack of scrubs strung throughout the house from a week of working, no humming in the kitchen, and the missing scent of her favorite candles burning. It's an empty shell of a home without her. 

Nora ignores the deep chill that settles over her and heads upstairs towards her moms room for the first time since her death. She remembers her uncle mentioning that they had a forensic company come in to deep clean the room, but it doesn't make much of a difference in her eyes. She had already seen the damage first hand and no amount of chemicals or scrubbing could erase that from her memory. She's right, because when she opens the door the scent of heavy chemicals hits her before she can fully take a step into the room. She takes in the sight before her and notices just how much is missing. The broken side tables, the dresser with the shattered mirror, and her mom's favorite blue rug. It would frustrate her more, but the dark stain on the hardwood floor catches her attention instead. It's smaller than she remembers and she knows they tried their best to clean the mess, but they didn't try hard enough. If anyone else were to see the stain, they may assume that it's red wine or spilt paint. Not Nora. She knows that spot is where her mother bled to death, where the blood seeped into the wood and would stay there for years to come.

_____________

Nora startles awake to the sound of glass shattering. She's still drowsy when she pulls her sleepy body out of bed and reaches her bedroom door, but rouses back to full consciousness at the sound of her mom yelling at someone down the hall. She practically falls through the door from the speed of her sprint and freezes at the sight of an older balding man towering over her mom. He has one hand in her blonde hair, gripping her tightly as tears stream down her face. Nora lets out a gasp and he turns to her with a creepy grin on his face before he holds a finger up as if to shush her. Whatever he does works, because she can't even get a squeak out.

"I'll get to you in a moment," The man says. Nora sees her mom struggle against him when he says this and he clicks his tongue at her disapproval, "Calm down, Jenna. We both know I can't kill her, she has Winchester blood. We might need her later on," 

"Leave her out of this," Jenna hisses. 

"Tell me where he is and I'll think about it," 

"I haven't seen him in years!" She exclaims.

He gives her this look, one that shows that he knows she's lying, "Are you sure about that?"

"I only saw him in passing. I didn't even talk to him," 

"Let's try that again," He says calmly. He draws back his arm, large and fisted, and strikes her. She lets out a cry and blood is pouring from her nose, but he's still gripping her hair with no reaction.

"Let me go and I'll call him. I'll tell him I want to meet up," 

"Smart but not smart enough. Do you think I'd just walk into a trap like that?" He laughs. 

"I'll tell him that I still love him," Jenna explains. Her voice is shaking, but even Nora can tell that it's genuine. She does still love him, "He'll think it's just drinks," 

"No, he wouldn't." He says, "Thanks for being a giant waste of time," 

In the blink of a second the man is wielding a silver blade. One second his hands are empty and the next the blade appears out of thin air. It feels as if the stuffy air is suffocating Nora, all she can think about is her moms bloody face and the fact that they’re both going to die. They’re both going to die and she’s standing here, gasping for air like a fish out of water. She can’t just stand and let it happen.

Nora doesn’t know how to fight. She’s never been in a fight and she learned everything she knows from crappy cop shows on tv. She knows she can’t take on a man four times her size, she can't even wrestle with her best friend without tapping out immediately and he's nearly the same size as her. She does know that everyone has similar weaknesses. That much she knows. She’s rethinking her choices as she runs at the man, because he looks like a brick wall between her and her mom. She isn't a quitter though and follows through with a hard kick behind his knee. He buckles forward from the unexpected force and she takes the advantage to reach for the blade's handle. 

For two seconds, two very meager hopeful seconds, she thinks she may have managed to get a good grip on the blade. But the hope fades just as quick when he pulls the blade away, slicing her hand open in the process. With the flick of his wrist, Nora flies across the room. She crashes into the wall with a sickening crack and she isn't sure where exactly the sound came from. Electrifying pain bursts through her body in white hot waves and it's hard to pinpoint where it's originating from. She attempts to pull herself back up again, but the applying pressure to her arm makes her buckle with a loud cry.

 Everything feels blurry around the edges, as white stars dot her vision. She sees her mom bloody and screaming out, but the brick wall of a man crouches in front of her and blocks her line of sight. He's uglier up close.

“You’re lucky I can’t kill you. Not yet. Her though,” He waves the blade towards Jenna, “She’s fair game,"

Nora gathers the strength she has and pulls herself forward just enough to spit in his face. It lands perfectly between his eyes, "Fuck you," 

"Big mistake," He glares. With a twist of his hand, she can't breathe. Her lungs are constricting and she's gasping, flailing her hands towards him and digging her nails into the first piece of flesh she feels.

"Please" She chokes out. 

"That's more like it," He grins. 

The pressure in her chest loosens and she falls limp while heaving oxygen into her sore lungs. She's never really thought about breathing in depth, but she is now and she knows not to take it for granted. Her breathing finally slows and she has splinters under her nails from digging at the hardwood floor for stability. He's still watching her with a bored expression as if stealing the air from a teenager's lungs is a normal occurrence for him. His fat fingers reach out and grasp her chin and he forces her to focus her attention on his face. He seems pleased with the watery eyes, splotchy cheeks, and blue tinted lips. 

"Now, if you're ready to listen. I can kill you if I really wanted to, then bring you back and do it all over again. But I think that was a good lesson, right?" He questions. 

"Yes," Nora whispers. Her throat is raw and burns with the single word. 

"Good," He smiles. He runs his thumb over her lip as the shade fades back into its fleshy pink color, "When you find your father, I know that you will, I want you to tell him that Zachariah paid you a visit," 

She closes her eyes and grits out an, "Okay," 

"And tell him that if he doesn't do what we want, we'll just use you and do whatever we'd like with your precious little meatsuit," 

"W-What?" 

He gives her face a few light slaps and stands back up, "He'll understand," 

Zachariah stalks back over to Jenna. Nora can't move and she isn't sure if it's from injuries or the weird power the man seems to have over her. All she can do is watch as he crouches in front of her mom, just as he had done in front of her seconds ago. He moves just enough for her to see her mom's blue eyes staring back at her. She turns her head and forces her eyes shut, but her neck moves against her will and forces her to stare at them once more. 

"It's okay, Nora. It's fine," Jenna calls out. She doesn't sound scared at all.

"Mom," She cries out. 

"Nora Marianne, I love you," Her voice is watery, "Your dad, he'll take care of you," 

"No, I don't-"

Jenna cuts her off, "Baby, find him. I know you two will fight, but it'll be fine. Tell him I love him just like I love you," 

"That's sweet," Zachariah gives them a fake smile, "But enough of that"

Then he brings the silver blade up and slices across her neck with ease. Blood pours from the wound like a waterfall, transforming her once grey sweatshirt into a deep crimson. Her body thuds against the floor moments later, her wide eyes twitching and hands attempting to reach for her neck. Nora's screaming, pleading, and praying. It still doesn't block out the sound of Jenna gasping and the blood gurgling in the back of her throat. She's fighting, trying to move but stays glued to the floor. Zachariah is pacing back to her and she's screaming every curse word she can think of at him.

"Remember this and hopefully it won't be you in the future," Is all he tells her. 

After a swift kick to the side of her head, he's gone. And all she's left with is the horrifying sight of her mother soaked in blood and turning a ghostly shade of white. She's fading into unconsciousness, she knows it. Everything feels cold, dark and raw. Before everything goes dark, she has a single thought she burns into her memory. 

If this is her father's fault, she’ll make his life a living hell. 

[justmytype95]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Arthur Ketch/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Ketch/Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Dean Winchester, Arthur Ketch, Sam Winchester, Mary Winchester Additional Tags: Love Triangle, Spies & Secret Agents, Slow Burn Summary:

Morgan moved cities for a fresh start- and because she needed the bump in pay to help her make payments on her mounting credit card debt. after surviving a vampire attack which turns out to be more than it seems, morgan is pulled to the world of supernatural, monster hunting, and the men of letters. But the men of letters don't like loose ends, and offer Morgan a job with them to keep her closer. At first the bump in pay seems like exactly what she needs to wipe her slate clean, but slowly Intrigue and tension form and she finds herself torn between the affections of two men.

On the one hand, Dean is fun loving and compassionate, and the two share a mutual attraction, but Morgan doubts he's ready for a relationship, with all the commitment and baggage that goes along with it.

Arthur is harder to win over. Morgan isn't sure if his interest in her is superficial, but they form a bond working alongside each other that makes her wonder where the relationship could go.

[hallowshumour]

WARNING‼️⚠️☢️

[bunglehead]

I don't have anything to say about this one, guys

[jibberjibbsart]

Supernatural “Power Hour” Part 1

This idea has been rattling around in my brain for awhile, I can’t write fanfic but I can draw!

First (You are Here!) | Next

[sacr1ficialang3l]

I can handle me a dangerous man˚୨୧⋆｡ (no really I can)

OLDER!DEAN WINCHESTER X YOUNGER!READER (based on this)

SUMMARY: Mid 40s Dean is trying really hard to resist the temptation that you are, but you're making it really hard. 3.7k

WARNINGS smut (MDNI). oral f receiving. age gap. implied penetration.

NOTES: He is here! I am not very used to writing smut, so I tried my best. Can you tell that dilfs telling stories about their life is so hot to me? anyway, this was incredibly self-indulgent. As always, English is not my first language. Enjoy<3

It’s another night of you walking around the bunker in a tiny, white lace dress. Long legs visible, looking even longer because of the slight heel of your boots. There is a necklace resting softly against the hollow of your throat, and your cheeks are rosy, lips glossy and full. Dean doesn’t know if it is makeup or if you simply look like that, but it is killing him. 

You started hunting with Dean and Sam a few months ago after they found you trying to kill a whole werewolf den by yourself. You were young –too young– and didn’t have anyone else. You were alone in this world. It was almost instinct that the brothers took you under their wing. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, just until you gained a little more experience and could go on your own, or until they find you a hunting partner. 

But you never really left. Weeks started going by, and you stayed by their side. 

At first, Dean was annoyed. He was in his 40s, he was too old to be babysitting. He had to admit you were a damn good hunter, but you were too impulsive. Too ready to jump to action, too ready to put yourself in the line of fire. That was his job. But Sam wanted to make sure you would be safe after you got hurt in the werewolf incident, so he let you into the backseat of his car and drove you to the bunker. 

As annoyed as he was, he had to admit, you were gorgeous. Soft hair, pouty lips, shiny eyes. You had a halo of light around you, an innocence to you that was captivating. Not to Dean, of course. He couldn’t. Because the longer the time he spent with you, the more you dug your way into his heart. Your soft giggles echoing through the otherwise gloomy bunker, the sweet smell of cookies when you decided to bake, the gentle touches of your hands as you patched him up after an especially awful hunt (he hadn’t been touched so gently in… ever, actually), the adorable smile you gave him after he begrudgingly compliments your improving hunting abilities. 

You were too naive, too pure, too… good. 

So Dean kept his distance. Or he tried.

Because what Dean didn’t know is that you were anything but naive. You knew from the moment your eyes met his, that you wanted him. He was tall, and broad, and his hair was long, falling a little over those piercing green eyes. He was rugged in the ways you liked, and soft in the ways that mattered. But it was the wrinkles around his eyes, the ones that reveal a history of laughter and playfulness even as he glared at you, that charmed you. 

So you flirted with him, insatiably. Directly and indirectly. You ran your hand up and down his arm as you cleaned his wounds, squeezing his bicep tentatively. You complimented him in the worst possible moments, when he was concentrated in research or had just finished off a monster. You ran your fingers across his shoulders when you walked past him and you took any opportunity to press yourself to his huge frame. But you also flirted in other ways, wearing your shortest mini-skirts around the bunker, accidentally bending over to pick up a book in the library when you knew he was watching. You sucked on a lollipop as he tried to explain a case to you, and you blinked your big eyes at him, eyelashes fluttering and lips parting. 

But every time, you got the same response. For a single moment, Dean would lean in. He would stare down at your lips, or he would take a step closer, hand hovering over your waist, and then he would look away. He would tell you he is too old for you, that he can’t take advantage of you. That he is too broken, too damaged, that you deserved better, someone your age that could give you a normal life. He would tell you that you have no idea what you’re asking for, but you know what you need.  

So you walk into the kitchen late at night, past midnight, to get a snack after parading yourself around the bunker all day in your flimsy clothes while Dean did some work in the garage and tried not to lose his mind. You loved the way his eyes darkened when he saw you, the way his hands almost shook with the need to take you. His self-control was slowly crumbling, and you couldn’t be happier about it.

But this meeting is accidental. You are actually just looking for something to eat, not expecting Dean to be sitting at the dining table with a half-empty whiskey bottle and clouded eyes. You stop for a moment while he is lost in thought, not noticing you. He looks a little sad, and it is one of those few moments when the tough guy facade fell and you could witness the weight of the years on his shoulders. The years of hunting, of losing people, of nothing but fighting. As much as you desire Dean, you are also very much in love with him, and you didn’t like when he hurt like this, alone and drowning his thoughts with booze. So you clear your throat, making him turn to you.

“It’s drinking night and you didn’t tell me?” You joke, walking behind the kitchen island to grab a bag of chips from one of the cabinets. 

“I thought you were asleep.” He murmurs, voice even deeper than it already usually is. You turn to look at him, meeting his eyes. Dean is good at keeping his emotions in check, at controlling his expressions, but you are good at reading people. Especially him. And there is this glint in his eyes, the one that tells you he doesn’t want to be alone.

So you grab a beer from the fridge and walk towards the dinner table, sitting down across from him. You had always preferred sweet, fruity drinks, but thanks to the Winchesters you had learned to appreciate beer. Whiskey was a hard no, though. Dean stares at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, before lowering his eyes to his glass and letting out a low chuckle. 

“What were you brooding about?” You take a sip of your beer, opening your bag of chips and offering Dean some. He shakes his head, taking a swig of his whiskey instead. 

“Nothing, really. I don’t want to bore you with my old man stories.” He laughs, and some tension leaves his shoulders. 

You bite your lip. Oh, if he only knew how much you loved it when he went all old man on you. When he reminisced about the past, when he tried to give you advice, showing you how experienced he was in so many different things, and how much it made you want to find out exactly how experienced he really was.

“I like your stories.” You offer softly, a small smile on your lips. “Come on, tell me a good one.”

He looks up at you over the rim of his glass, and you give him your best puppy eyes.

He crumbles immediately. 

“Once, when I was twenty-three and Sammy was in college.” He starts, and he doesn’t stop.

You spend what feels like hours but also seconds sitting there, drinking beer after beer, listening to him. He tells you about this weird religious cult slash mental control witch he found once when hunting on his own. He tells you about the time he hooked up with some girl at a bar, and she ended up being an Amazon. He laughs at some of the memories and you laugh along. His expression gets somber when talking about certain people, the people he lost, and you give him a few seconds to wallow in it before you make a lighthearted comment that makes him smile again and move to another story. He talks about the times he died, the times he almost did. Sometimes, unconsciously, he rubs his hand over a part of his body as he tells a story, presumably where a scar marred his skin. All while you stare at him with shiny, attentive eyes, like he is the only person in the world that matters.

By the time you finish your third beer, Dean is already a tiny bit… not drunk, but definitely less guarded.

Still, he had such a high alcohol resistance. It was so hot.

“That case was crazy. I still wonder how the siblings are doing. I hope they’re okay.” There it is, the look on his eyes. The way they unfocus slightly as he absentmindedly traces the edge of his glass with his finger. It was in those moments that you can truly look at him, take in every small detail of his face. Every wrinkle, every scar, every evidence of every battle. The living proof of his resilience, of his experience, of his survival. You press your thighs together, trying to ground yourself.

You fantasize for a moment about sliding under the table, taking Dean into your mouth. Make his nostalgia turn into pleasure, make him feel good, remind him of the good old days.

“When was that?” You ask, gently coaxing him out of whatever place he got lost in his mind. He blinks at you, taking in your soft smile and sweet voice before replying.

“Right after Sammy started hunting again, so I was like… twenty-seven?” 

You quickly do the math in your head, calculating how old you were back then. Fuck. You were still a kid when Dean was already killing wendigos and vampires and shifters. Oh, there must be something really wrong with you, because that makes something on your lower stomach burn.

“So, you were quite the ladies man, huh?” You tease him, trying to shake away the desire building inside of you. You watch him chuckle and drop his head forward.

You already knew that, because he still is. You have to watch women throw themselves at him in every hunt and every bar. It was infuriating.

“You could say that.” He replies nonchalantly, but there’s a smirk on his lips as he down the rest of his whiskey. 

“Can you imagine me meeting you in your mid-twenties?” I giggle, and it causes Dean to snort and shake his head amusedly, refilling his glass. You lean forward on the table, your hand laying next to his. So close. “I can. I can imagine us meeting at a bar, or a diner.” You smirk. “Maybe even a concert! Can you imagine us meeting in a rock festival’s pit?”

Dean snorts again, eyes still down on his glass. He presses his tongue to his cheek, like he is trying to stop the words from coming out of his mouth, but they end up escaping him anyway.

“I was very different back then, sweetheart. I wouldn’t trust my younger self around a girl like you.”

And there it was. 

The comment makes your breath get stuck in the back of your throat, and you look up at Dean with wide eyes. 

I wouldn’t trust my younger self around a girl like you.

A girl like you.

Dean returns your heated gaze for a moment, his eyes sharp and deep in the way they only got after you teased him too much. 

“But you trust yourself with me now?” You ask with the most innocent voice you can utter, batting your long eyelashes at him. You watch as he takes in a sharp breath, swallowing harshly.

“Barely.” He whispers, looking down at your lips when you lick them and then back at your eyes. 

Shitshitshit.

“You don’t have to, you know?” Dean looks at you slightly confused, and you lean further forward before whispering. “Control yourself, I mean. You don’t have to.”

There is a second in which you think Dean will lunge himself at you, finally. His eyes are darker than you have ever seen them, because they weren’t dark with anger, they were full of pure, raw hunger.

His hand twitches, and then he pulls away. 

He gets up from the table, downing back the whole glass of whiskey before setting it down on the table with a little too much force. He starts to walk away, and you don’t know if it’s the beers you had or the desperation that had been accumulating for months, but this time you try to stop him.

You get up from the table too, quickly moving until you are blocking his way out of the kitchen.

He says your name in reproach, eyes glued to the floor. “We can’t-”

“Yes, we can.” You interrupt him, waking a step closer until your chests are almost pressed together. You grab his arm, making him look at you. “Please, Dean. I want it, you want it. Come on.”

Dean still shakes his head, deep frown on his face. “I’ve told you, I’m not good for you, you-”

You groan, rolling your eyes and stomping your foot on the floor. It didn’t help make you look any more mature, but you didn’t care.

“Yeah, I know. I’m too young, you’re too old. You’re broken and dangerous and all of that.” You say sarcastically, making him raise his eyebrows. “When are you going to stop lying to yourself, Dean?”

That makes him scoff, and he shakes his head while looking away again. “It is true. You deserve better than some guy old enough to be your father.” He grimaces at his own words, rubbing a hand over his face.

But you double down, pressing your body completely against his. You push forward and Dean lets you guide him backwards, and you know he’s letting you because you could not make him move an inch if he didn’t want you to. He ends up pressed against the kitchen island, hand still covering his eyes. You use your hand on his arm to pull it down, forcing him to look at you again.

“Dean, I want you.” You look deep into his eyes, and he almost looks pained by it. “I know you think I don’t know what’s best for me, but I do. I know what I need, and I need you.” You squeeze his bicep before your hand moves to the back of his neck, fingers tangling with the hairs there. 

He says your name again, almost as a plea.

He was breaking. He was caving in. 

“Please, Dean.” You whisper as your lips brush his, looking into those green eyes that consumed your every waking thought. “We both know I need a real man.”

And that seems to do the trick. He lets out something akin to a growl, and his hands are finally on you. One moves to your waist, grip bruising. The other one goes to your hair, fingers intertwining with the long locks and pulling your head back, hard, exposing the delicate curve of your throat. It makes you whimper. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” Dean leans in closer, but he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he lets the tip of his nose brush against your skin, from the apple of your cheek to your jaw and down your neck. “I’m no prince charming.”

“I want you, Dean.” You whine when his lips brush against the sensitive surface of your throat. You use the hand that is still tangled on his hair to pull him up, make him meet your eyes. “Ruin me.”

His lips are on you in less than a second. The kiss is bruising, violent with months of repressed want. He pulls you even closer, his beard a little scratchy against the soft skin of your face. You love it.

He pushes your lips apart with his tongue and you let him in, whining at the way he bites your lip before licking behind your teeth. You weren’t inexperienced like Dean thought, you had hooked up with people once or twice, but nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing could compare to the way Dean’s experienced tongue explored your mouth, or the way he spins you two around until you are pressed against the kitchen island, callused hands running down your sides until they’re gripping the sensitive skin of your thighs, lifting you up until you are sitting on top of the counter.

You gasp at the sudden movement, but you part your legs and let Dean slide in between them, shuddering as his fingers run up and down your legs. 

“You’re so fucking sensitive.” Dean grunts, lips moving down to kiss your neck. He bites the skin softly, and then a bit harder, making you moan. 

You pull his hair harshly, and it is his turn to moan, a sound you wanted to hear every day of your life. You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him closer, until his clothed cock presses against your core over your dress. You two groan at the same time, and you pull Dean into another kiss.

“Come on, Dean. Show me how a real man fucks, teach me what real pleasure is.” You whisper against his lips, and he seems to go a little insane at that. 

In seconds, his hands have already pulled the tiny white dress off your body, leaving you only in your lacy black underwear. He grunts again at the sight, hands running over all the new skin visible.

“You’re so sweet, so fucking beautiful.” He whispers, almost adoring, as his fingers brush over the curve of your breasts and down to your stomach. You bite your lip, enjoying the feeling of his rough hands on your smooth skin. It is hot, to be only in your underwear while Dean is completely clothed, but you want to see him too.

So you pull his shirt off him before he can say anything, and your mouth waters. He is all lean muscle and tanned skin. There is the tattoo on his chest you’ve fantasized so many times about licking, and you decide to go for it. You first bite softly over his collarbone, trying to subtly suck a hickey there. Judging by Dean’s chuckle, you’re not very subtle. You make your way down, trace his tattoo with your tongue, bite down on the flesh of his pectoral. You kiss over every scar you find, licking over the larger ones. It makes Dean shiver every time, and the way he holds you turns a little softer. 

Then you press your hand over his bulge, and his breath hitches. It makes you feel proud that he is this affected by your touch. You rub him over his jeans for a moment, just basking in the feeling of it cupped in your hand and the fact that this was actually happening. You use both hands to undo his belt and unbutton his jeans. You pull them down along with his underwear, and Dean takes a step back to be able to step out of them. And that is when you finally see all of him. 

You have to bite your lip before doing something too crazy. Dean was big. Curved up against his stomach and flushed. And so fucking hard. 

I did that, you think deliriously as you feel yourself getting wetter.

You lick your lips, craving to feel the weight of him on your tongue, but you need Dean to touch you right now.

Another time.

“One day I will suck you off until you pass out.” You breathe out, and it makes Dean groan. He presses back against you, kissing you harshly.

“You’ll be the death of me, baby.” He whispers against your lips before undoing your bra with just one hand, sliding it off your body. He pushes you backwards until your back touches the cold surface of the counter. It makes you shiver, but it is all forgotten when Dean takes one of your nipples into his mouth.

He sucks softly, and then a little harder. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention until your nipples are wet and flushed and hard. You are a whining mess by this point. He continues to make his way down your body with his mouth, lips brushing against your inner thighs and leaving dark purple marks on them. Because you were his now.

He takes off your boots and leaves your socked feet resting against the edge of the counter. The position leaves your legs wide open, and your chest rises and falls more rapidly the closer Dean’s face gets to your clothed pussy. 

“Dean.” You whimper when he presses his face to your mound over your panties.

“Have any of those little boyfriends of yours ever eaten you out, or are they too much of a coward to do it?” You don’t respond, because your head is spinning and your vision is hazy. “It doesn’t matter, because I will show you how it is done.”

And he does. He pulls your panties off and devours you. He has you whining and moaning in seconds, hands pulling on his hair for dear life. He sucks on your clit and runs his tongue through your folds like a starved man. You come on his tongue once, and then again. You basically have to peel him away from you before you lose your mind when he keeps going, keeps sucking until you’re twitching with oversensitivity. 

“Please, I need you inside.”

And how could he ever say not to that.

It is almost morning by the time you two are laying under the covers of Dean’s bed. He had fucked you there on the kitchen island (Sam can never know), and then he had fucked you again on his bed. You were both exhausted as you laid on his chest, drawing figures with your fingernails across his skin. You chuckle and look up at him, only to find him already staring at you. His eyes are softer than you have ever seen them as he seems to bask in the sight of you all fucked out and soft. It makes you blush.

“You might have actually ruined me for anyone else.” You joke, biting your lip. But it was true, you were sure that your body would reject anyone who wasn’t Dean Winchester from now on. 

The joke makes some heat come back to Dean’s eyes, but also something else, something softer. Something so warm and delicate and absolutely terrifying. 

“Good.” he rasps out. “Because you won’t need anyone else.”

NOTES: I can't believe all of this came out of a half-asleep horny thought that I had. Anyway, thank you so much for the overwhelming support, you are all the best.

Older Dean MAY come back because I am too obsessed with him, only if college doesn't kill me first.

TAGS: @h8aaz <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[wendichester]

hi! I was thinking if you could write something kinda angst??? where reader have been acting kinda strange and having those little moments where she looks sick, and then she tells dean she's pregnant ! how you think he is going to take it?

Or maybe secret baby ! dean and reader see eachother again after a little bit more than a yer and she's with a pretty baby that looks like him !

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ not ready yet,

summary. you've been keeping your pregnancy from dean and he doesn't take it well.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 681

notes. i do feel like his initial response would be flight--too scared that he'd turn out like john, that we'd mess you and the baby up. though he would eventually get his head straight and come running back, wanting to do this with you. thanks for the request, love! 🩷

Dean Winchester knows when something’s wrong.

You’ve been acting off for weeks now—ducking out of conversations, getting quiet when Sam asks how you’re doing, disappearing to the bathroom for longer than usual. And the worst part? You won’t tell him what’s going on. It’s eating him alive.

So, when you sit him down in the motel room with that look—wide-eyed and scared, your fingers twisted together like you’re holding yourself together—it feels like a punch in the gut before you’ve even said a word.

“Alright,” Dean says, leaning back against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, his jaw tight. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird for weeks.”

You flinch at his tone, but you don’t blame him. He’s been patient, and you’ve been distant. Still, his frustration only makes the knot in your stomach tighten.

“I need to tell you something,” you start, your voice shaky.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean snaps, and immediately regrets it when he sees the way your shoulders tense. He softens, exhaling through his nose. “Sorry. Just... talk to me, alright?”

You take a deep breath, trying to find the words, but they feel stuck. Heavy. Impossible.

“I’m pregnant.”

It comes out barely above a whisper, but it feels deafening in the silence that follows.

Dean blinks at you, his expression blank for a moment. And then he laughs—short, sharp, bitter. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke,” you say, your voice trembling. “I’m serious, Dean.”

He stares at you like you’ve just told him the world’s ending. “You’re serious,” he repeats, more to himself than to you. He rubs a hand down his face, pacing a few steps before stopping and turning back to you. “How the hell did this happen?”

You bristle at his tone. “You want me to explain the birds and the bees, Dean? Because I thought you had that part figured out.”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, his voice rising. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this a joke.”

“I’m not joking!” you snap back, standing up now, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I planned this? Because I didn’t. I didn’t ask for this, Dean.”

“And you think I did?” Dean fires back, his voice breaking. “We’re hunters, for God’s sake! We don’t get white picket fences and diaper changes. This isn’t our life!”

“I know that!” you shout, tears stinging your eyes. “But it’s happening, Dean. Whether you want it or not, it’s happening.”

The room falls into a tense, suffocating silence. Dean looks away, his hands on his hips, his head tilted back like he’s trying to find some kind of answer on the ceiling.

“I can’t do this,” he finally says, his voice barely audible.

The words hit you like a slap, and your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

“I can’t...” Dean shakes his head, his voice rough. “I’m not... I’m not built for this. I’ll screw it up. I’ll screw you up. I can’t—”

“Stop,” you cut him off, your voice breaking. “Just stop. If you don’t want to do this, fine. But don’t stand there and act like you’re protecting me by walking away. You’re just running, Dean. Like you always do.”

His head snaps back to you, hurt flashing in his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this,” you say, tears spilling over now. “But I don’t get to run. I don’t get to walk away from this. So, if you can’t handle it, just say that and go.”

Dean stares at you, his jaw working like he’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out. Finally, he shakes his head and storms out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

The silence he leaves behind feels heavier than any words he could’ve said.

You sink back onto the bed, your hands trembling as you press them to your stomach. You’re not sure if you’re more angry or heartbroken, but it doesn’t matter. All you know is that you’re doing this alone.

⋆˚࿔ read part 2

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos

[samuelsdean]

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.

[the-offside-rule]

Castiel Novak (Supernatural) - Baby Winchester

Requested: yes

Prompt: Cas being like a guardian angel to Y/n and Dean's baby

Warnings: none

Y/n stirred awake to the faint sound of her daughter’s cries through the baby monitor. She squinted at the clock on the nightstand; 3:14 am. Beside her, Dean was sprawled on his stomach, snoring softly, clearly exhausted from his recent hunting trip. She sighed, her heart swelling with affection. He needed rest. Silently, she reached over, turned off the baby monitor, and leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Thisis for your own good, Winchester." She whispered before slipping out of bed.

Padding softly down the hall, she stopped at her daughter’s room. The dim nightlight cast a soft glow across the nursery, and her breath hitched when she noticed someone standing by the crib. "You know, peopleusually knock before they come in." She said, gently knocking on the doorframe. Castiel turned sharply, startled. "Y/n. I apologize. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave now." She stepped inside, her expression calm. "It’s okay. What are you doing here?" Castiel shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering back to the baby. "I… thought something was wrong." He said, but the lie was transparent, his usual stoicism faltering. Y/n chuckled softly. "Cas, you’re a terrible liar. What’s really going on?"

He sighed, looking at the baby. "It… has no arms." Y/n blinked before realizing what he meant. "Oh no, Cas. She’s swaddled. Here, look." She gently unwrapped the blanket, freeing her daughter’s tiny arms. "See? She’s fine." Castiel tilted his head, his intense blue eyes studying the baby. "Ah. I see. My mistake." He stepped back awkwardly. "Well, if I’m not needed-"

"Wait-" Y/n interrupted, her tone warm. "I need to feed her anyway. Would you like to hold her and feed her downstairs?" His eyes widened slightly. "You would trust me with this?" Y/n chuckled at the ever-so-serious face Cas had made so many times before. "Of course. You're a literal angel." She said, scooping her daughter up. "Come on." He hesitated, then nodded, following her downstairs.

In the living room, Castiel perched stiffly on the armchair, glancing around the cozy space as Y/n went to the kitchen to prepare a bottle. When she returned, she handed him the baby, guiding him on how to hold her properly. "Like this." She said, adjusting his hands. "Support her head." After a moment, he frowned. "No, no. Take it back. I fear I might break it." Y/n laughed softly. "Cas, you won’t break....it. Just relax." She handed him the bottle. "Now, feed her."

Castiel began feeding her, his expression softening as he watched the baby suckle. "Oh wow. Humans are remarkable." He murmured. "So fragile, yet so resilient. Especially the little ones." Y/n smiled, settling onto the couch. "You’re practically human yourself, Cas. You’re pretty remarkable too."

Before Castiel could respond, footsteps creaked on the stairs, and Dean appeared, holding a crowbar. His serious expression melted into one of surprise when he saw Castiel feeding their daughter. "What the hell’s going on?" Dean asked, setting the crowbar down. "Why’d you turn off the baby monitor? I thought something was wrong." Y/n shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I wanted you to get some sleep. You looked exhausted."

"Why’d you say that this was for my own good? I thought you were possessed or something." Dean added. "And ypu didn't stop me then and there? You figured an extra ten minutes of beauty sleep would've helped you fight a demon better?" Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze shifting to Castiel. "And what’s he doing here?" Y/n grinned. "Found us a babysitter." Castiel looked up. "I would be adequate for that position."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. "As long as you don’t teach her any bad habits." Y/n scoffed, smirking at Dean. "I’d trust Cas to be a better influence than you." Dean smirked back, dropping onto the couch beside her. "You'd trust Cas?" She nodded. "I like Cas." Dean grabbed the remote and pulled her in closer. "You like me a lot too though, right?" She didn't answer, instead she grinned over to Cas. "Don’t give him that look. I know you two are gonna plot something against me soon enough."

"What? You don't live with Sam anymore so I can't plot anythin with him anytime soon."

[bajablastlover1]

me after i remember i can’t marry my fictional crush bc they don’t exist

[hallowshumour]

Jingle horse. 🦓🔔

[meinkatzchen]

Gift for friend!

Full

[jibberjibbsart]

Supernatural “Power Hour” Part 17

Luz tries to explain what a Stonesleeper is without saying what a Stonesleeper is, and Dean is old.

First | Prev | Next

[sacr1ficialang3l]

older!dean headcanons˚୨୧⋆｡

OLDER!DEAN WINCHESTER X YOUNGER!READER (read here)

WARNINGS: mentions of/implied smut (MDNI). age gap.

NOTES: He is back! My psych final is tomorrow and i am going insane, so this is shorter than usual. You have all been so sweet and supportive, and I just wanted to give you a little something as a thank you while I study. I love you all, thanks for the kind words. As always, English is not my first language. Enjoy<3

˚୨୧⋆｡ After months of resisting you and denying his feelings, he is the sweetest man ever when you two get together. He adores you, and he makes sure to show you. He spoils you rotten, lets you get away with almost anything, and he always needs to have a hand on you.

˚୨୧⋆｡ He is protective!!! Like, very protective. He always keeps an eye on you during hunts, and makes sure to kill any evil motherfucker before they can even think of putting their hands on you. And when you do get hurt, you think it pains him more than it does you. He patches you up with gentle touches he didn’t think his blood-stained hands were capable of. He looks at you with sad, deep eyes as he kisses over the wound, and then he doesn’t even let you get up from bed, even if the injury is as tiny as a paper cut. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ After every case, he loves, or more like needs to cradle you against his chest and hold you close. He wraps his huge arms around you and presses you to his side, or on top of him, and he just buries his face on your hair and breathes in. He tells you it is to calm you down after hunts, to make you feel safe. But you think it is more about him. Like he needs to remind himself that you’re okay. That you’re there next to him, and that you’re not going anywhere. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ You love to annoy him, it is your favorite hobby. Play with his hair while he and Sam research in the library, brushing it right in front of his eyes while he tries to read. You love to sit in a barstool in the garage while he works on Baby and talk his ear off when he has no way to escape (not that he would). You force him to watch rom-coms and chick-flicks that he pretends to hate, but you catch him smiling to himself a few times. You poke him, and bite him, and jump on him all the time, and he wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

˚୨୧⋆｡ You have a habit of sinking your teeth into his biceps any chance you get. There are always teeth marks on his flesh that he wears with pride. (There are always hickies on your thighs and collarbones to match, of course.)

˚୨୧⋆｡ He claims not to be the jealous type. “I'm too old for things like that, sweetheart.” But you knew he was. He didn’t mind when people stared at you when you walked into a bar or around a small town, always that his arm was around your shoulders or your hand was on his. He is proud that such a pretty girl chose him. But the moment some frat boy tries to approach you at a bar when you are alone, he feels his blood boil. He watches from far away for a few seconds, trying to keep his cool, but he loses it when the guy decides to brush your hair behind your ear. He quickly walks across the bar until he is right behind you, pulling you against his chest and glaring at the dude over the top of your head. The boy is gone in less than a second.

˚୨୧⋆｡ You try to show your love for him in every way you can. Dean was confident and strong, but it sometimes felt like he doubted your feelings for him, like his brain was trying to convince him that you deserved better and that you would get tired of being with some old guy eventually. So, you shower him in love. You learn how to bake pies just for him, making him a new one every week. You wash his hair in the shower, massaging his scalp to help him relax. You get him naked in bed and go on a journey of kissing every scar you can find. You press your lips over the small ones, run your tongue over the long and raised ones. And of course you make sure to tell him how much you love him. You murmur soft i love you’s against his lips. You remind him every day of how beautiful he is, how good he is. You whisper in his ear about how hot he is, how he makes you lose your mind and how no one could ever compare to him.

˚୨୧⋆｡ Dean liked being rough with you in bed. He loved manhandling you, leaving purple fingertips marks on your hips, pulling your hair. He was careful at first, too scared to hurt you. But you wanted him to, you begged him to make it hurt. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ Because you loved it when it hurt a little. When he sank his teeth into the flesh of your thighs, when your knees ended up bruised from kneeling on the floor for too long, when you could still feel him days after. You love the marks that he leaves, a living reminder of his touch on your body. It made you feel complete, it made you feel his.

˚୨୧⋆｡ Dean tried to go slow with you at first, thinking that you might be too inexperienced for everything he wanted to do to you. But he didn’t know that you were just as much or even freakier than him. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ Your favorite thing to do was, when Dean and you were alone in the Impala for a long drive, to rest your head in his lap. You lay across the front seat casually, looking up at him with innocent eyes when he sends you a warning look. You start by “accidentally” rubbing your cheek against his crotch, loving the way the scratchy fabric of his jeans felt against your skin. You would tease him until he was hard and his breath was ragged, and then you would take him in your mouth. You order him to keep driving as you suck him off slowly. You drag it out, edge him until he is desperate and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. And when he finally comes, you swallow it all like a good girl, moaning in satisfaction, enjoying the way his cum coats your tongue. It makes him groan every time, nostrils flared with the need to fuck you. Sometimes you keep going, keep suckling on him until he is whining in oversensitivity and has to pull you away by your hair.

˚୨୧⋆｡ In return, Dean gives you pleasure every time he can. He can eat your pussy for hours on end, in the kitchen counter, or the Impala, or in a lonely classroom when you have to infiltrate a school for a case. He will fuck you on his bed, or the floor, or against the wall. He just loves to make his girl feel good, see you shaking with pleasure, begging him to stop and to keep going at the same time. He loves when you tell him that he’s the best you have ever had, and the best you will have. He loves when you scream his name and your thighs close around his head because of the overwhelming sensations. He loves to make you cry with pleasure. 

˚୨୧⋆｡ But after, he is the sweetest guy ever. He takes aftercare very seriously, murmuring reassuring words against your skin and softly kissing every bruise and bite mark. He reminds you of how much he loves you, of how much you matter to him. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you, baby. You keep me sane.”

“You’re such a good girl, my beautiful princess.”

“I will take care of you forever. Nothing will ever hurt you while I'm here.”

“I love you.”

NOTES: wish me luck on my final! I will be back after I'm finally free.

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[wendichester]

i see your requests are open. could i please request something where the reader is taking care of dean 👉👈 your fics are so sweet 😄 💞

.˖`₊⊹ʚ ۶ৎ stitches,

summary. dean is reckless, but luckily, you're always there

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 537

notes. thank you so much for requesting this, love. soft dean is everything 😮‍💨

Dean Winchester is a stubborn man. You’ve known this since the day you met him, and yet, every time he gets himself hurt, he somehow manages to surprise you with just how hardheaded he can be.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, wincing as you press a damp cloth to the gash on his temple. His green eyes avoid yours, but the telltale twitch in his jaw gives away his discomfort.

“Sure, you are,” you reply, your voice flat. “That’s why you were swaying like a drunk on a tightrope when you walked in here.”

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he sits on the edge of the motel bed, his shoulders slumped and lets you clean the wound. It’s rare for Dean to let someone take care of him—rarer still for him to sit still while it happens.

“Could you hold still?” you ask, raising an eyebrow when he flinches under your touch.

“Your hands are cold,” he mutters, sounding more like a petulant child than the seasoned hunter he is.

You bite back a smile, dabbing at the cut gently. “You’re lucky I have steady hands. Or should I let Sam stitch you up next time?”

That earns you a low chuckle, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “I’ll take my chances with you, thanks.”

The silence between you is heavy but not uncomfortable as you work. The warm glow of the bedside lamp casts soft shadows on his face, highlighting the lines etched by years of hunting, of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“You really scared me today, you know,” you say quietly, focusing on wrapping the bandage around his head.

Dean’s eyes flick to yours, guilt flashing across them before he looks away. “Didn’t mean to,” he says softly. “Things just got... messy.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you murmur, tying off the bandage. You lean back to survey your work, satisfied that the wound is cleaned and secure. “You’re all patched up now, but you’re not off the hook. You need to rest.”

Dean snorts, leaning back on his elbows. “Rest? Come on, sweetheart. There’s no rest for the—”

“If you say ‘the wicked,’ I swear I’ll make you sleep on the floor,” you interrupt, hands on your hips.

His grin is wide and boyish, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat despite your exasperation. “Yes, ma’am.”

Shaking your head, you grab a bottle of water from the nightstand and hand it to him. “Drink this. And no beer until you’ve had some actual sleep.”

Dean takes the bottle, his fingers brushing against yours. He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face. “Thanks,” he says, his voice low and sincere.

“For what?”

“For putting up with me,” he says, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

You roll your eyes, though your heart swells at his rare moment of vulnerability. “Somebody has to. Now lie down before I knock you out myself.”

Dean chuckles, but he does as he’s told, stretching out on the bed with a groan. As you pull the blanket over him, his hand catches yours, his grip warm and firm.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, his eyes already fluttering shut.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl