#dean Winchester x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

losers-clvb · 3 days ago

Text

"what am i supposed to do, if there's no you?" dean winchester x wife!reader

content: canon typical violence, depictions of blood, death, depictions of grief, angry grief, pre-death grief, angst, denial, mentions of cancer (and treatments), non-descriptive mentions of throwing up, death, dean shows emotions, fluff

word count: 5.5k

note: this one gets pretty heavy, but ultimately there is a happy ending. be careful with yourself if any of the content listed above is harmful to you. also, there is some mary winchester erasure because i didn't feel like writing her (sorry girl). and, jack has been given some special secret powers in order to fit this plot.

m.list

You hadn’t known there was so much blood in the human body.

All of it seemed to be laid out on the ground around you, puddling up in the creases of your elbows.

You had to be dead. There was no way your heart could still beat when you were drowning in a sea of red.

You could remember the pain of the initial slash, claws digging into your side as you ran from the attacker.

But now?

Now you were numb.

The only sensation you had was cold. You shivered in the warm night air, staring up at the tree branches looming over you. You wished you could see the sky, just glimpse the stars one last time.

“Shit,” you heard breathed out from the side of you.

Dean.

Your Dean.

His hands grazed over your wound, making you flinch away out of instinct.

“Honey, please,” Dean begged, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. You didn’t know exactly what he was asking for.

You to not be hurt? You to not die?

It wasn’t as if it was up to you.

Dean, you tried to say, but his name caught in your throat. You couldn’t talk, you could barely move.

“Shh, shh,” he tried to soothe, but you could hear the tremble in his voice. You could always hear the tremble when he was scared. “Don’t move.”

Dean glanced around wildly, his eyes falling on dead leaves and broken branches.

“Sammy!” He yelled, tears streaking through the dirt coating his face.

This was all his fault.

It was supposed to be an easy hunt.

One werewolf ripping hearts from the chests of anyone who stood in its way. Dean was gonna kill the poor bastard and get back in time for dinner.

That was the plan, until you begged to come along with him. He’d been hurt on the last hunt, an injury that left him in your care for weeks afterwards. You were nervous about him getting back out there. You didn’t want it to be the last time you’d see him.

He’d agreed on your tagging along under the condition that you stay locked in the car, safe with a sweater wrapped around you.

The same sweater that was tattered beyond belief.

Blood, your blood, trickled over your ring, turning the diamond a splotchy red.

“No, no, no,” Dean mumbled, brushing his hand over your cheek to get your attention. Your eyes fluttered back open.

“You gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please--,” he choked on a cry that almost escaped, “please just… stay awake.”

Your breath was shallow. Not good. Black dots spotted your vision. Not good. Dean looked scared. Not good.

Footsteps ran up, nearly tripping on the soft grass when their owner saw the scene in front of him. Sam stared down at you, Dean crouched over you.

“Sam, get over here, now.” Dean demanded, heaving out breaths.

“Dean--,” Sam started, but his brother cut him off.

“Get the hell over here!” Dean yelled, chin trembling.

Sam stumbled over, helping Dean hoist you up.

Suddenly, you could feel the pain.

You cried out, head lolling back into Dean’s chest.

“I know, honey, I know,” Dean choked, trying not to utterly lose it while you were in this condition. He’d seen people, good people, die from wounds less intense than this.

Stop.

He couldn’t think about that right now.

You were going to live. There wasn’t any way he could live without you.

“Sammy, faster!” Dean had urged from the backseat, where he cradled your head in his lap.

They needed a hospital now. He would figure out a lie to tell the doctors later, something that would explain how you had gotten so hurt. He couldn’t think right now, not with the blood still flowing out.

“Dean,” you crackled out, your hand falling onto where his help pressure on the injury. His eyes snapped to your face, searching wildly for a clue of what you were gonna say.

“I,” you took in a breath, wincing when the inflation of your lungs pushed more pain through you, “I love you.” You were whispering as loudly as you could muster up.

Dean shook his head, brushing your hair from your forehead.

“You’re fine.” He promised you, but his voice wavered. You weren’t fine. You were dying.

“I love you so much.” You felt tears stream from your eyes. You didn’t know if it was from the thrumming pain or the fact that you were scared to die. Maybe a mix of both.

“You--,” Dean started to say, but the screech of Baby’s tires skidding to a stop in front of the emergency room doors cut him off.

Sam helped pull you from the car, placing you in Dean’s arms to be rushed into the hospital.

That had been almost seven months ago.

You had almost died. Almost.

And so had Dean, not from any monster or slice in his skin. He almost lost you. You, his only reason to live, his lifeline, his everything. In his eyes, the sun rose and set with you.

Now, he sat by your side on the light blue couch you had picked out from a second-hand store. The quilt you had spent weeks sewing together lay over your legs.

“We should get this.” You pointed a finger at the laptop screen in front of you, a book pulled up just under your fingertip. On the cover was a trio of bears, two big, one little. Baby Bear’s Family stood out in thick letters. Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at you.

“Babies can’t read, honey.” He reminded you, eliciting an eye roll from you.

“We read to the baby, Winchester.” You added it to your cart regardless. A pop-up message informing you there would be a wait on the item showed, but you figured it would show up in a timely manner.

“You read to the baby, Winchester.” Dean added that last part with a grab of your hand, your wedding band cold against his skin. You furrowed your brows. “I teach it what real music is.”

“It? You can’t call our baby it.” You laughed, a sound that Dean let sink into his being. He loved your laugh.

“What else do I say?”

“Umm…,” you hummed as you thought, searching around for a name to put to the nonexistent person.

You weren’t pregnant, not yet, at least. You and Dean had begun to care less about using condoms, opting to let fate decide whether or not you two would be parents. It wasn’t until two days ago when you had woken up from a dream in the middle of the night, nudging Dean awake with a I want a baby that you two had really started trying.

He wasn’t complaining.

He hadn’t let himself imagine much of a future before you, but with you as his? He could see it all: white-picket fence, you waking up with him every morning, little feet tittering across floorboards. Now he had it.

Well, the fence was a red color, and there were many times he’d woken up to the smell of bacon, you having gotten up before him. No matter, it was still perfect. You were perfect.

He was ready to have perfect children with you.

“Baby Bear.” You decided, eyes falling back to the book. Dean snorted a laugh.

“I am not saying Baby Bear,” he argued, not catching onto the fact that he just did.

“Why not?” You frowned, memorizing every line of the artwork on the front of your new favorite book.

“It’s girly. I’m a man.”

“Dean, you were wearing my fluffy pink bathrobe yesterday.” You reminded him. If he was going to claim to be a man, whatever his definition of it was, you weren’t going to let him make exceptions.

“It’s warm!” He defended, a smile crossing his face. You two had fought over who would wear the robe all morning, up until the point you had pulled it off of him before pushing him back into bed, continuing on your mission of making a baby.

“Baby Bear.” You said with finality, letting him know you weren’t letting this go.

“Baby Bear.” Dean begrudgingly let out, giving you a soft kiss.

You pushed the laptop to the coffee table in front of you two, letting him guide you onto your back as he deepened the kiss, his hand snaking up your shirt.

That must have been the time it stuck. Or maybe it was from the next day, or that night after.

Either way, you were one-hundred-percent, without a doubt, sure that you were pregnant.

You’d been more tired than usual, getting some morning sickness, and your breasts were sore.

It had to be pregnancy, right?

“Why can’t I go get you one of those sticks to pee on?” Dean asked, watching you flutter around the bedroom in preparation for your doctor’s appointment.

“Those things are wrong all the time, I wanna know for sure.” You muttered, brushing through your hair.

“You really think Baby Bear is makin’ an appearance?” Dean looked to your middle. You weren’t showing, obviously, but he could imagine a little baby taking form in there. You stopped in front of him, giving him a kiss on the nose.

“I know it.” You assured him.

The trip to the doctor’s office was filled with your plans for the nursery, what dress you would wear for the baby shower, what Baby Bear’s first birthday party would look like.

You couldn’t stop chattering on to everyone you interacted with: Dean, the nurses, the older woman waiting next to you in the waiting room.

You talked and talked, a bright smile on your face. You had just moved onto what brand stroller you wanted when the doctor entered the room again, a clipboard in hand.

You looked at him expectantly, but confusion sparked at the second physician that entered. She was about your height, with light purple scrubs. An enamel pin of a pink ribbon was fastened to the pocket on her chest.

Your face dropped as the doctor, the one who was supposed to tell you those words you had waited to hear all your life, explained the test results.

His words blurred in your mind, like you had dunked your head under water. Dean’s grip on your hand tightened.

There was something growing in you, but it wasn’t Baby Bear.

Metastatic stage IV breast cancer.

I don’t know how they didn’t catch it before, the doctor had told you. Apparently, this foreign thing had been growing in you since before your werewolf attack. Maybe it was the reason why the scratch hadn’t turned you, why you hadn’t been given lupine abilities.

You would have preferred that to this.

Chemo, radiation, pills upon pills.

Those were your options.

No surgery could get all of the cancer.

Nothing could. You weren’t going to get better, you would just slow down the dying. You knew it, the doctors knew it, your friends and family knew it. The only one who didn’t seem to get the memo was Dean.

He carted you around to every appointment. He made notes in that illegible scrawl of his. He set alarms for every round of pills you had to take, waking you up and making you swallow each and every one. He held your thinning hair back when you got sick after the chemo, sitting on the bathroom floor with you.

He had work, yes, his mechanic job he had picked up after quitting hunting. His boss, thankfully, was kind. He let Dean miss work, even offering to have his wife bring you to appointments. Dean always declined. He could take care of his girl.

You were sitting on the couch in the same spots you had just a few months ago, only this time you were watching Dean scroll through articles on cancer treatments instead of ones about different baby cries.

You wore the hat that Jody and the girls had gifted you when you had to shave your hair, their initials stitched into the side by Donna. It was your favorite. It reminded you of all the love that was around you, even if the hat only existed because of the poison coursing through your veins.

“Look at this one,” Dean pointed, much like you had to the baby book, the same one that still hadn’t arrived. Not that it mattered now.

“It’s in Toronto.” You told him after reading the first few lines. You and Dean lived in South Dakota, only an hour or so from Sioux Falls.

“We can move.” He said as he scrolled through the different tabs of the article.

“I don’t want to.” You argued, exhaustion lacing your voice. You were always tired lately.

“It won’t be forever, just until you’re better.”

“I’m not going to get better.”

That made Dean pause to look at you. His grief from your words, words he knew were true, was masked by disappointment and irritation. He hated when you talked like this.

“Yes, you are.” He gritted out, determination in his eyes.

“No, Dean, I’m not. I’m dying.” You looked away at the mention of the “D” word. You weren’t supposed say it, no one was supposed to say it. Dean had forbidden it.

“No. Don’t say that. You’re not--,” he cut himself off, unable to say the word himself. He felt the emotion choking at him, a metaphorical hand around his throat restricting air flow.

“Yes, I am.” The constant denial of what was really happening was weighing on you. You didn't want to pretend like everything was okay, that this was just a flu you needed to get over.

“I need you to understand, Dean.” You took in a shaky breath. “I need you to tell me that you know I'm dying.”

“I'm not sayin’ it because it's not happenin’.” Dean stood up, laptop resting on the couch cushion next to you. “You're not dying.” His voice shook on the last word.

You pulled your cardigan tighter around you, goosebumps chilling on your arms. As you lost weight from your treatments, you got colder.

“Dean--,” you began, but he already knew you were going to say a bunch of the same stuff. He shook his head, running a hand down his face.

“No. I'm not gonna listen to you talk like you're already dead. We can fix this. I can fix this.” Dean watched your face contort to anger, but he spoke before you could. “Cas can--,”

“Cas said he can't. You were there.” You cut him off, fumbling with the loose thread on your quilt.

The angel had been Dean's first call when the diagnosis came. It’d taken Castiel less than five seconds of his hand on your shoulder to know he couldn’t do anything. The masses had weaved themselves so deep into your body that even divine intervention couldn’t save it. Couldn’t save you.

“He can try again.” Dean almost growled, pacing in front of you. He was on the verge of a breakdown.

He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t done much of anything other than refuse to accept the situation.

He was teetering on a very thin tightrope that was about to snap from the weight of everything.

“No.”

Dean stumbled to a halt. He turned his head to you, a wild look in his eyes. You matched him, narrowing yours to him.

“I don’t want him to.”

It wasn’t that you wanted to die. You had just become less scared of it, more okay with the idea of a semi-peaceful death.

“You don’t want him to?” Dean seethed. You scoffed and looked away.

You hadn’t fought much before this whole thing, maybe a spat here and there, but never anything that hurt.

This? This was a war, one that had been brewing since the word cancer left the doctor’s mouth.

You’d seen something switch in Dean. He’d gone from that borderline-suicidal man you had met almost ten years ago to… whatever the hell he was now. Uncharacteristically optimistic, you had decided to name it.

But Dean Winchester could only look on the bright side for so long before he reverted back to that disbelief in anything good.

“What do you mean you don’t want him to?” Dean repeated your words again. He was looking at you like you had said something offensive, which, to be fair, it was offensive to him.

“I’m tired, Dean. Exhausted. Nothing is going to make this better. I just want to live the rest of my life peacefully, with love.” You argued back, fists clenching in anger. You were getting a migraine again, the same one that seemed to never go away, only crashing and retreating like the ocean.

Dean opened his mouth to talk, but squeezed his eyes shut and took in a breath instead.

“I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.” Dean tried to keep his voice steady, but as he spoke, the anger rushed in, taking hold and raising the volume of his words.

“I know you love me. And I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.” You rose to your feet, legs feeling slightly weak. You hadn’t eaten much that day, nausea crawling it’s way up your throat everytime you looked at the kitchen.

“And what is it that you think you’re doing?” Dean asked, jutting his head out in question, gesturing to you. “Do you think this is good, that this is healthy? Do you think it’s healthy to talk like you already have a death announcement posted?”

“Yes, Dean, I do. I really, truly do.” You spat at him, nodding your head. “You need to accept it. I’m dying,” Dean flinched at that goddamn “D” word, “and you need to understand that. I can’t be here to coddle you when it happens.”

“Shut up.” Dean was growling now, fire flaring in his green eyes. You winced, looking at him like he was batshit insane. He had never told you to shut up. He’d shushed you a few times, maybe asked you to be quiet, but never to shut up.

It slammed through the last of your strength to hold back. Your frustration, all of the fucking pain of the last few months, hell, even your grief for everything you would be missing out on unleashed into a monster you would be forced to regret later.

“No, Dean, you shut up!” You yelled, pointing a finger at him. “I have to listen to you talk like I have a future every fucking day, like you’re gonna magically fix everything and I’ll grow old and we’ll have a family. You talk like Baby Bear,” you hadn’t said that name since the day of your appointment, “is gonna be real. Well, newsflash: you can’t fix this. A goddamn angel of the Lord can’t heal me. What makes you think you, a human man, can do anything to stop this?” You had swayed a bit on your feet, the intense situation making you even more light headed than usual. You wanted to throw up, you needed to throw up, but instead you stood staring at Dean.

His eye twitched and you saw it, just for a split second, but it was still there. He wanted to fight back, he wanted to scream and yell and insult you. You watched a wall build back up. It was flimsy and you could have easily broken it back down, but he turned away before you could decide if you wanted to.

“I’m goin’ out.” Dean muttered tersely as he stomped to the garage, swiping up his keys from the little bowl you made him keep them in. The keychain you had bought for him after your fifth date swung down, the little rubber duck looking back at you with the same malice you had spotted on Dean’s face.

The door slammed at the same time you made a run for the bathroom, a mix of emotions flying out with the minimal contents of your stomach. You heaved over the porcelain of the toilet, an image you knew too well after so many trips to it.

You slumped against the wall as the water swirled down, carrying away any agitation you had felt.

You just wanted your husband, your Dean, here. He would help you get through your bouts of nausea, then tuck you into your favorite fuzzy throw blanket. He’d even begun to brush your teeth for you, moving the bristles about your mouth to wash away any sour taste while you fluttered your eyes shut.

You were still thinking about his gentle care when he came back home, boots slipping off before tip-toeing to the bedroom. You had to be asleep, he figured. It was late, maybe too late, but that would be a problem for morning-Dean.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the bed empty, sinking when he heard the retching in the room over.

He rushed to the bathroom, flipping on the light to show you, bent over. Tears streamed down your face, giving your pretty eyes a tinge of red that Dean noticed when you looked up at him.

He sank to his knees, pulling you into his arms once your body relaxed. You were wearing the same clothes from earlier, meaning you hadn’t even tried to go to bed. Had you been here the whole time, through all the hours he had spent crashing through the nearby woods like the monsters he used to hunt?

“I’m sorry.” He whispered into your hair, rocking you. You curled into him, body shaking with soft cries.

You cried for the way your body rejected everything. You cried for the words he had said. You cried for the words you had said. You cried for the future you would never have.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I love you.”

Those had also been the last words he’d said to you as you drifted off into a sleep you would never wake from. You were in a hospital bed stationed in your home, surrounded by your favorite flowers.

Dean had walked out of the room after your final breath, placing a shaky kiss on your forehead. His tears had fallen to your face and he brushed those away like he used to brush your hair away.

Everyone was there. Your family and his own, makeshift version of a family. He had swallowed down a sob, not wanting to break in front of a crowd. That resolve had crumbled when Jody had wrapped her arms around him.

He’d soaked her shirt, knees nearly buckling underneath him as he tried to think of what life would be like without you. He couldn’t even imagine it.

There was no life without you.

The next few weeks he hadn’t remembered. He didn’t dare to go back to the house. He stayed with Jody, taking up residence in her last remaining guest room after your funeral. He only left the room to go to the bar, only left the bar to cry in the Impala.

It was torture.

Everything was.

It wasn’t until he had decided enough was enough, he would go back home, that he moved onto the next stage of grief: anger.

He thought he had been familiar with the emotion, but whatever he had felt before was nothing compared to what surged through him when he saw that book.

There had been a package on the front steps, raindrops sliding down the plastic of the envelope. He’d picked it up with curiosity. He didn’t remember ordering anything.

He ripped through the covering to reveal a trio of bears, two big, one little. Baby Bear’s Family stood out in thick letters.

His blood ran cold.

Dean must have blacked out, because the next thing he remembered was the ringing of his phone. All around him was a mess; table flipped over, dishes shattered, splintered wood on the hinges of what was once a cupboard door.

In the middle of it all was him, panting and crying, and the book, untouched by his destruction.

Dean scrambled to the phone, hoping, despite knowing better, that it would be you.

Sammy

The caller ID broke his heart further, but he answered. He couldn’t ignore his little brother forever.

“Dean,” Sam breathed out, like he had been in a fight just moments prior, “we need you.”

If he’d known what exactly they needed help with, he would have hung up and rotted away in a pile of your clothing.

Instead, he now found himself sitting in the bunker, a place you had found homey but in a dungeon kind of way, across from this newborn twenty-something kid that wouldn’t shut the hell up. He found a fascination in everything, from the salt shakers to the water that flowed from the sink.

You would have loved Jack.

The thought made Dean shoot up and stomp to his room, cutting off Jack’s ramble about what kind of lightbulbs he preferred.

The boy frowned, looking down at the glass of whiskey Dean had left behind.

“I don’t know why he hates me.” Jack breathed out, heart aching. He didn’t like this emotion. He just wanted Dean to love him as the others did.

“He doesn’t hate you, he hates himself.” Sam sighed, tapping a finger against the glass of his own glass.

“Sam--,” Castiel started, but Sam shook his head, cutting the angel off.

“He needs to know, Cas. I can’t keep ignoring her.” Sam argued back, but his voice softened. “She was my family, too.”

So, Sam told Jack all about you. He left nothing out. The flour-kisses you had given to Dean during your baking phase. The way you always made sure to adjust Castiel’s tie if it was even slightly off-center. The piles of books you would bring to Sam whenever he would visit you and Dean.

He told Jack about Baby Bear and the way you had tried to get Sam to download dating apps during your frequent phone calls. Your love for flowers and the color blue and the ugly fish everyone always made fun of.

Jack couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he had decided to do it, but an idea had popped into his head during Sam’s sad laughter.

He found himself standing in a white hallway, identical doors lining the walls. On a plaque read your first name followed by Winchester. He was sure this was yours.

Pushing it open, he instantly felt warm.

The smell of cookies, ones he could tell would be the best he’d ever have without even tasting them, filled the air.

A pretty woman stood by a counter, cradling her swollen stomach and humming. Pictures of her and Dean lined the walls of the house your heaven was in.

He knew it without seeing a picture: this woman was you.

Jack called your name, startling you. You scanned his face, a frown on your face. He wasn’t a threat, but you hadn’t been expecting visitors.

“Who are you?” You asked, a hand shielding your stomach as best as possible.

“You’re her. You’re Dean’s honey.” Jack nodded his head while he spoke, making sure to use the pet name Sam had told him Dean would call you. “And that’s Baby Bear.” He pointed to your stomach.

You felt a rush of warmth at your baby’s name. You hadn’t picked a real one yet, but you had time. You had nothing but time.

“How do you know that?”

“I’m Jack.” He waved, giving you that gap-toothed smile everyone but Dean found adorable. You smiled warmly at him, confusion still lacing your expression.

“Do you want a cookie?” You offered, gesturing to the worn table, the same table Dean had destroyed.

Jack filled you in on everything, a flash of painful memories hitting you with every word about your death. He explained that you were in Heaven and that he was here to bring you back.

You had ached to see Dean again. You tried to think back on whether or not he had been here, in your heaven, but something was blocking you from it. It didn’t make sense: if this was Heaven, why weren’t you completely happy?

You weren’t in pain, you didn’t feel sadness, or anger, or anything. You only felt content.

It was Dean.

He wasn’t here. He was your heaven as much as you were his.

You agreed to go back to earth, ignoring the fact that it would mean Baby Bear would be gone, that this perfect life would go away. Scratch that, it wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t be, not without Dean.

You saw a flash of white and suddenly you were standing in a grassy outlook of a town. Not any town. Lebanon, Kansas.

You frowned and turned to Jack, but the nephilim only beamed at you.

Behind you, the Impala -- Dean’s Impala -- was parked. You caught a glimpse of dirty blond hair over the top of the car.

“Dean.” You whispered, not wanting to spook him.

Dean heard it. He always heard every noise you made, even if he was across the house.

He shrugged it off, taking a swig from his flask and letting the whiskey burn away the heartache.

“Dean.” You said again, a little louder.

He couldn’t shrug this off. That was definitely your voice.

Dean’s hunting instincts, the ones that had been engraved into him since he was a kid, forced him to his feet, hand flying to the knife on his side. He spun around, searching for you, or whatever thing was pretending to be you.

He choked on a breath when his eyes landed on you. You looked heavenly. You didn’t look how you had on your deathbed. In fact, you looked even younger than you had at the appointment where the doctor gave you your diagnosis.

It was as if your aura, the one Dean could never see but knew was warm and lovely, was glowing around you, cascading down the dress you wore. That dress. It was the same one you’d worn when he’d asked you to marry him.

He remembered that day, getting down on one knee in the middle of the garden you loved so much. It had been sunny, as it was now, and Dean swore the sun shone around your head like a halo. He’d suspected it before, but he knew it at that moment: you were his guardian angel.

You were the only thing that could save him.

There you were, standing a few feet from him, here to save him.

Save him from the grief. From the anger. From himself.

His hands flew open, the knife and flask clattering to the ground. He didn’t care that his whiskey, the good whiskey that he’d spent far too much money on, was flowing into the grass. The only thing that mattered was you.

Dean stumbled to you, but you met him halfway, crashing into him. He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your hair. You smelled the same. His favorite scent, the one he would never forget.

A little piece of him was screaming that this wasn’t real, you were a shapeshifter or a revenant or a demon or a million other things.

The part of him that had beaten down his happiness every day fought back. If he was killed by holding you one last time, that was okay with him. Life wasn’t much without you anyway.

Your bodies shook out sobs in sync. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been dead for, the days shifting into one perfect event of cookie baking.

But Dean?

Dean had it down to the minute. One year, three days, and twenty-two minutes -- twenty-three now. Each second had been worse than the last, leading up to this moment.

He didn’t let you go.

He was afraid if he even loosened his grip, you would dissipate into a mist, leaving him with nothing all over again.

“I missed you.” You shook out, brushing your thumb over the nape of his neck just like you had done every night before falling asleep. Dean heaved out a sound, like he couldn’t even speak.

He focused on you to calm him down.

Your hair, your skin, your warmth. It grounded him, and he twisted his fingers into the fabric of your dress.

“How?” He asked, a simple breath of air forming into one word. You knew what he meant. It reminded you of the fact that Jack was still standing behind you.

“Jack.” You mumbled, pulling your Dean in closer.

Dean’s eyes shot open and, through wet eyelashes, he saw the same boy he had resented for so long. Jack smiled at him, that innocent, little kid kind that told Dean all he needed to know.

Jack had done this for him.

He’d somehow found a way to harness all of his power to bring you back, just to make Dean happy.

Just to make him like him.

Dean would talk to him later. He would find the words to explain his gratitude, explain what this was.

Now, he let his ears catch on your heartbeat, focusing on the steady thumping reminding him that you were alive.

“You’re my heaven, Dean.”

everything taglist : @littlesoulshine @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl

jensen ackles taglist : @arcannaa

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fluff #taylor swift #soon you’ll get better

196 notes · View notes

emeraldcrs · 1 day ago

Text

it's almost the size of my head

♡tags: @soldiersgirl @figthoughts @briiverse @bejeweledinterludes @littlesoulshine @cowboysandcigarettes @soangelbaby @sugardean @angelblqde @sunsbaby @soldierboysdoll @scrmqwn @1967barracuda @thekhloediary @hischrrypie @pieandflannel @jays-bonnie-on-the-side

#jensen ackles #dean winchester #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #soldier boy #the boys #emeraldcrs yapping #beau arlen #i love big biceps #he's so huge

184 notes · View notes

snapesleftpinkie · 1 day ago

Text

This broke my heart and configured it anew. Really hit in my feels 💔💙

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are.

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference.

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord.

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean.

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away.

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree.

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?”

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe.

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide.

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile.

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much.

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off.

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck.

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you.

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater.

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps.

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep.

And you just watch him.

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign.

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost.

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can.

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake.

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot.

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot.

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches.

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns.

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep.

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint.

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care.

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window.

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all.

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice.

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands.

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles.

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word.

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it.

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow.

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever.

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic.

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered.

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost.

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more.

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours.

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace.

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression.

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath.

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.”

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them.

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it.

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch.

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head.

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all.

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain.

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins.

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before. “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him.

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn

#dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #supernatural fanfiction #love confessions #angst with a happy ending

2K notes · View notes

wvyik · 2 days ago

Text

morning snuggles. d.w. ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

dean winchester x fem! reader

summary; some mornings start far too early, but with a sleepy little girl snuggled between you and dean, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

warnings; tooth-rotting fluff, dad! dean being the softest, mentions of a bad dream (but nothing detailed), early-morning cuddles, milf reader lmaoo, and lots of love, dean & reader being disgustingly in love.

notes; prepare to melt into a puddle of mush… sleepy cuddles, tiny hands with stuffed bunnies, and dean being the most adorable dad ever. if you don’t feel warm and fuzzy after this, i’ll owe you a cookie. ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

words; 898

The room is still wrapped in darkness, the only light spilling in from the rising sun. It paints the walls in a soft, hazy glow, casting shifting patterns over the bed. The hum of passing cars on the highway outside is a distant lullaby, blending with the quiet rhythm of Dean’s breathing.

His arm is a heavy, familiar weight draped over your waist, his chest warm against your back, his presence anchoring you in the kind of peace you never thought you’d get to have.

The world is still, wrapped in the last remnants of sleep; until the quiet patter, patter, patter of tiny feet across the carpet breaks the silence.

There’s a pause, a little sniffle, and then, in the softest, most pitiful voice—

“Daddy?”

Dean doesn’t move at first, just lets out a low, sleepy groan, nuzzling his face deeper into the pillow. His arm tightens around you like he’s trying to block out the early-morning intrusion, his voice a deep, gravelly grumble. “Baby, it’s too early for this.”

You’re already awake, though— mama instincts kicking in the second you hear that sniffle. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you roll over just in time to see your little girl standing beside the bed, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny to her chest. She’s a mess of sleepy curls, her pink pajama top slightly askew, one tiny shoulder peeking out from the loose fabric. Her bottom lip trembles as she rubs a fist over her puffy eyes, her tiny frame looking impossibly small in the dim light.

“Had a bad dream,” she mumbles, voice wobbly with sleep.

That’s all it takes.

Dean is instantly awake, his grumpiness forgotten in an instant. His eyes crack open, bleary but alert, his body already shifting as he lifts the covers with one arm, making room. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep but filled with nothing but warmth.

She doesn’t hesitate, scrambling clumsily onto the bed, her little body wiggling between the two of you with all the grace of a sleepy toddler. She’s barely settled before she burrows into Dean’s chest, her tiny hands clutching at the worn fabric of his t-shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

Dean lets out a soft exhale, one hand coming up to rub slow, steady circles into her back. “S’just a dream, baby girl,” he soothes, pressing his lips to the top of her curls. “Daddy’s got you.”

She lets out a tiny sigh, her breathing already slowing, her warm little body melting into the safety of his arms. You watch, heart swelling, as her tiny fingers unclench, her grip on him relaxing as sleep starts to pull her back under.

You shift closer, reaching out to smooth a few unruly curls from her face, tucking them gently behind her ear. Her little nose scrunches at the touch, but she doesn’t stir, too warm and safe to even think about waking up again. When you glance up, Dean is already watching both of you, his green eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, filled with something deep and quiet and endless.

You smile, reaching out to trail your fingers gently over her soft, warm cheek. She makes the tiniest noise at the touch— half-asleep, fully content, and you swear your heart melts right there in your chest.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. It’s all there in the way he looks at you, the way he shifts just enough to pull both of you closer, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your forehead.

“Think she gets the cuddly stuff from you,” he murmurs, voice low and fond.

You let out a quiet laugh, resting your hand over his on your daughter’s back. “Oh, i think it’s quite the opposite,” you tease, your fingers lacing with his. “It’s funny when you try to deny it, because all I see is dad who turns into a total softie the second his little girl so much as blinks at him..”

Dean huffs but doesn’t even try to argue. Instead, he just sighs, shifting slightly to pull the blanket higher around all three of you, his fingers curling protectively against your back.

For a long moment, it’s just this. The warmth, the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest, the tiny little puffs of breath from your daughter, safe and sound between you both.

And then, in the tiniest, sleepiest voice;

“I love you, Daddy..”

Dean stills. His breath catches for half a second, so subtle you almost miss it. And then, his grip on her tightens, just a little, as he presses the softest kiss to her forehead.

“Love you more, baby girl.”

You swear you see the smallest, sleepiest little smile cross her face before she drifts off completely.

Dean glances at you then, like he knows. Like he feels it too, that overwhelming, all-consuming love that makes your chest ache in the best way. He leans in, pressing one last kiss to your temple, his lips lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your skin. “I got my girls.”

And as you let yourself sink into sleep, wrapped in the warmth of Dean’s arms and the soft weight of your daughter between you, you know,

You wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlesoulshine @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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

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

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

208 notes · View notes

starzify · 1 day ago

Text

Dean’s got you exactly where he wants—wrists pinned, body trapped beneath his, no room to move, no room to even think. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your waist as he drags you closer, forcing you to take every rough, unrelenting thrust.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with dark amusement. “Already a mess, and I’ve barely even started.”

His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed to him. He leans in, lips brushing over your skin, breath hot and teasing. Then he tugs harder, forcing your dazed eyes to meet his.

His other hand drifts lower, brushing across your breasts, squeezing with a firm pressure. You let out a soft, desperate whimper, and Dean’s smirk deepens, hearing your breath catch.

“Dean,” you gasp, unable to stop the sound that slips past your lips, and the word only spurs him on, his pace growing harder, more forceful.

“You wanted this, sweetheart,” he growls, snapping his hips against yours. “So take it. Like a good girl.”

tags: @ultravi0lence14 @titsout4jackles @bejeweledinterludes @xoswiftieprincess @littlesoulshine @figthoughts @haunteres @h8aaz @j2archives @deansbeer @chris444evr @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @immodestly-marina @rositaslabyrinth @vmiina @mourningthewicked @jensenacklesballsack

#cassie writes ₊˚⊹♡#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester smut #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #supernatural smut

167 notes · View notes

mostlymarvelgirl · 2 days ago

Text

Hear me out...

So, ever notice that both Sam and Dean have certain nicknames or terms of endearment for their (S/O)s. (From what I've noticed)

For example, if you squint close to their way of talking, you'd notice that Sam feels like someone who'd call their partner "mostly honey (it is something deep down very intimate for him and you never know why), sometimes darling (but this is more on serious occasions usually when he wants to convince you or during an argument) or maybe sweetheart (it usually comes out when he becomes super comfortable with the relationship) but that's super rare".

But with Dean, it feels more like he'd call his partner "sweetheart (in that deep voice in the morning or at night ;) or if you're both in the enemies to lovers phase it'dbe more sarcastic than sweet), baby (sometimes maybe during sex and also rarely cuz baby is for his first love, a.k.a, Imapla), when he wants to convince you, appreciate something you have done for him or make you understand something he'd call you angel (but that would more private kind of thing) and most definitely darling as he gets older he'd start calling you that more often subconsciously and it'd honestly very often.

`~°•.▪︎¤☆○■□●....................♤♡◇♧☆¤▪︎.•°~`

#dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural x reader #supernatural #dean winchester headcanon #sam winchester headcanon #jensen ackles x reader #jared padalecki x reader #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #fluff #cute #x reader

127 notes · View notes

missus-ackles · 2 days ago

Text

why is every single one exactly like him 😭😭😭😭

POV: Texts from Dean

2K notes · View notes

wendichester · 2 days ago

Note

hi, can you do a dean winchester one where the reader is his fiance, and when she is all sad and mellow on her birthday because she found it that her mom died. and dean comforts her and he does chessy stuff to get her to smile again. they obviously do the birthday traditions of course because it is her birthday

࣪ ִֶָ☾. happy sad birthday,

summary. dean will always do everything to make you feel better

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 604

notes. thank you for requesting hun! 😙

Dean knows something’s wrong the second he walks into the motel room.

You’re curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around your knees, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows on your face. You should be happy today. It’s your birthday. But instead, your eyes are red-rimmed, your lips pressed into a thin line, and the moment you look at him, he just knows.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is softer than usual, careful. He sets the bag of takeout on the table and crosses the room in a few easy strides. “Talk to me.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “My mom…” The words come out shaky, barely there. “She passed away.”

Dean stills. His heart twists, because he knows—he knows how deep that cuts. Losing a parent leaves something hollow inside you, and there’s nothing in this world that can truly fill that void.

“Aw, baby…” He sinks onto the bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. “Come here.”

And that’s all it takes. You bury your face in his chest, fists gripping his flannel like it’s the only thing keeping you together. His arms tighten around you, steady and warm, his hand stroking slow circles on your back.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I wish I could make it better.”

You sniffle, fingers loosening just a little. “You being here helps.”

He smiles against your hair, but it’s laced with sadness. “Always, sweetheart.”

For a while, you just sit there. Breathing him in, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against your cheek. And then, because he’s Dean Winchester and he can’t stand seeing you sad, he pulls back just enough to tip your chin up, his eyes sparkling with something mischievous.

“So,” he says. “You wanna get out of this motel room?”

You blink at him, wary. “Dean—”

“Come on.” He nudges your nose with his. “It’s your birthday, and birthdays mean cake and candles and obnoxious amounts of attention from yours truly.”

Despite yourself, you let out a tiny huff of laughter. “I don’t really feel like celebrating.”

“Well, tough luck, sweetheart, ‘cause I already got a plan.” He stands, grabbing your hands and pulling you up with him. “And I don’t half-ass birthday plans.”

“What kind of plan?”

“The kind that starts with burgers and pie,” he says, winking. “And ends with you having a damn good birthday.”

An hour later, you’re sitting in Baby, a burger half-eaten in front of you, Dean’s knee knocking against yours. He keeps the conversation light, making ridiculous jokes, telling you stories you’ve already heard a million times just because he knows they make you laugh. And when you do, when that first real smile breaks through, his whole face lights up like he just won the lottery.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and God, the way he looks at you—it’s like you hung the damn moon and stars in the sky.

And when he pulls out a tiny cupcake, a single candle flickering on top, you roll your eyes but can’t stop the warmth from spreading through your chest.

“Make a wish, sweetheart.”

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. You could wish for a lot of things. But right now, all you want is this. Him. The way he holds you, the way he makes the world feel just a little bit lighter.

You open your eyes, meeting his, and blow out the candle.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. And for the first time today, you believe it just might be.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx #.req

183 notes · View notes

emeraldcrs · 2 days ago

Text

i would grab his hair and ride him until i became completely sore *wet and skin slapping skin sounds* (i'm totally a virgin)

#i love being a freak #jensen ackles #dean winchester #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #soldier boy #the boys #beau arlen #emeraldcrs yapping #smut

183 notes · View notes

fullbelieverheart · 1 day ago

Text

I Love this so much ��

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!!

#older!dean winchester #dean x younger!reader #dean winchester x oc #supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #supernatural x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester one shot

795 notes · View notes

rubyvhs · 24 hours ago

Text

better than this | d. winchester

synopsis. dean notices how close you’ve stuck by him ever since you’ve decided not to kill cass tags. some angst, some mysoginy (dean’s thoughts), series not in order, I’ll just write when I feel like it. the beautiful @daylighted gave me the idea, can’t believe I actually wrote something guys, it’s cause of dahlia <3 series masterlist

Dean found it weird that you were hanging around the Winchesters without you sticking to his side, now it's just creepy. You're everywhere. He can't get a break— and at first he thought that was a good thing because he liked being around you but it's honestly getting ridiculous.

"Hey," He doesn't get past that because you jump up and off the couch to run over to him. Great, your enthusiasm is as much flattering as it is irritating, "Cass, you have anything?" He pours himself a cup of coffee, a headache coming on strong from having gone to sleep with a full stomach.

It happens sometimes but he doesn’t mention it to anyone, just lets the coffee work its magic. Except he doesn’t have the chance to do that because while Cass is explaining to Dean that the angels are now hunting both angels in the cabin, your hand is wrapped around his more muscular one and the headache is just gone.

He jumps away, his coffee just near dripping but he catches it just in time. "What— what did you do?"

"I healed you."

"I know that! Why? Why did you heal me?" The look on your face almost makes him regret yelling but he stands his ground, his hand burning from the hot coffee but your response is the only thing that'll make him move from his spot.

"Because you were hurt."

"I wasn't hurt, and you usually ask before you do that, you know?"

Cass perks up, "Yes, he has mentioned countless times how important consent is." When y it’s put like that… stop. Dean is not a chick. "Wait, you healed him? You know you shouldn't do that."

Dean's eyebrows furrow. "Why not?"

Cass looks up from the laptop, sensing Dean's change in demeanor. "Oh, well, you have angel blood in you, don't you?" Dean's about to deny the words religiously but he doesn't stop. "It makes it harder for you to get hurt, just as it makes it more difficult for us angel to heal you. It takes more power than if you were a mere human— and you," he faces you, "you're not strong enough to heal evenpeople."

"Not strong enough?"

"Yes. Before he left," Dean doesn't have to ask who 'he' is, "he made one last generation of angels. There are arch-angels, angels, and guardian angels. She's a guardian Angel." Dean wants to hear more but when he looks over at you, your eyes are narrowed and the only thing your missing is steam out of your ears. Alright, testy subject.

"Okay, whatever. What do you have, Cass?" He asks and tries to listen to Cass but his eyes keep straying to you, still bubbling, still so damn gorgeous. Still so wrong.

"She's always everywhere! Tell me you don't see it." Dean whispers aggressively but his brother only laughs. They pass the corner, Dean slams the beer cans into the shopping cart and Sam scoffs.

"It's not that big of a deal, man. So she cares about you, what's wrong with that?"

"She doesn't 'care about me', she's like… attached to me! It's creepy, Sam." The taller brother's response dies on his tongue as they make a turn around the corner and she spots your eyes on them from outside the store. Shit.

"She can hear you." Dean immediately looks around, sighing in relief when he sees you're outside. "She's an Angel, asshole. She heard everything." Dean turns around and your face only falls further, getting in the backseat of the car.

The drive to the next town is quiet, like most of them, except for the cassette Dean picked out. The volume is slightly higher than usual though and Sam notices so he offers a gas station break that Dean gladly accepts.

The second Sam's out of the car, pulling Cass behind him, Dean looks back at you, "You know I wasn't trying to be mean, right?"

"You were though."

"You aren't actually— look, you're not my guardian Angel. They only call you that because, and no offense, you're weaker than the others. It's a name they gave you, but it isn't your purpose."

"It's not a name, it's a title. So it is my purpose. I'm supposed to guard you but you don't want me around—"

He sighs, pinching his nose. "Uncross your arms." You listen to him. "And looks at me." You pry your eyes off the window to glare at Dean. "It is not your—"

"Don't tell me what my purpose is! I like protecting people."

"Okay, great, maybe just cool it on trying to protect me, okay?" You shake your head. "Why not? I can take perfect care of myself, darlin', I have for twenty nine years."

"I have been in this world for centuries. Many, many, many centuries. I am weaker than the other angel but a thousand times stronger than you, Dean Winchester, and yet you underestimate me." Your soft sigh tugs on something in his chest. "And I don't know why it matters so much to me."

Sam chooses that moment to rip the door open and dean starts arguing with him about it, his eyes still on you in the rear view mirror. He won't let you stay angry for long, a few nice words will get you smiling again. And never questioning your closeness.

join the taglist. @loverslantern @justwhisperingfantasies @saltcxrcle @blossomingorchids @darling-eos

@ltotheucyy @1967barracuda

107 notes · View notes

ultravi0lence14 · 2 days ago

Text

BLOWING SMOKE

TEENAGE DEAN ! AU

SUMMARY: everyone thinks it’s just teenage love. . . a stipulation that will pass after high school. . . but you and dean both know better.

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

FULL THROTTLE

smoke furled around the two of you like a vice, gripping dean’s lungs like an agent of mass destruction. he never wanted you to come with him when he snuck out behind the science building for a smoke, but this was the only time you got to see him at school without judgment.

the first time your friends saw you two walking hand in hand, you swore one of them was going to have an aneurysm.

“what the hell are you doing with dean winchester?”

“he’s not good enough for you.”

“y’know he smokes. what would your dad say?”

your father was a conversation you never wanted to have with your friends, though they always pushed and prodded you into having one. he was an affluent man, rich, and known for a multibillion dollar company that he created from the ground up.

everyone worshipped the ground he walked on, taking in his opinion like it was a bible passage.

on the other hand, you could not stand him.

he was never around, always too busy with work. which you would be fine with, if he wasn’t always poking around your life like it was his to claim.

do this. wear that. smile like so. it was all so flashy and fake, and each and every day he dictated your life made you want to claw your own hair out.

his knowledge on your relationship with dean was non existent. his insanely high standards would rip dean to ribbons, and you found yourself wanting to protect the boy from his harsh judgements.

no one was good enough for you, and dean — the son of a mechanic who lived in a one story house with his younger brother and single father, was not up to parr with who your dad pictured you to marry some day.

what no one seemed to understand is that you didn’t judge like your father. everyone deserved a running chance, and just because your dad thought he was god himself didn’t mean you had that same mindset.

dean was somehow who you found yourself loving easily. he was a good man, one who treated you with more respect than any of the conquests your dad had sent to you in the past.

yes, he was a little rough around the edges. getting into fights, sneaking behind buildings at school to spark up a cigarette or a blunt, and a straight C student at best; but just because dean wasn’t some world renowned golden boy didn’t mean he wasn’t perfect for you.

the badgering voices trying to put doubts into your head silenced as dean wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling your back towards his chest. your head leaned below his collarbone, and the palm of his hand around your waist splayed across your stomach, his other hand occupied with his cigarette.

“what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, baby?” your head turned as his breath tickled your ear, his face dangerously close to yours. pressing a light kiss to his cheek, you found yourself shrugging at his words.

dean’s arm tightened around you, his face becoming more passive as he stared down at you. “seriously, what’s going on? you’ve got that look.”

brows furrowing, you spun around in dean’s arms and wrapped your arms around his neck. his arm stayed snug on your waist, and he made sure his cigarette was burning far away from you.

“what look are you talking about?” dean only smiled at your confused words, taking a drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke into the air away from your face. “the one you’ve got on right now, pretty girl.”

instantly, your face dropped down, muscles loosening, making you realize that your face was pursed into a sour like expression.

a soft laugh escaped dean’s lips, his smoke filtered lips pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “you’re too cute.”

“shut up.” you protested, looking down at both dean’s converse and your sneakers.

in an instant, dean’s hand grabbed at your chin, lifting it up gently so you were looking into his eyes. “seriously though, what’s on your mind?”

sighing, you slightly shook your head, hands vibrating at the thought of voicing your worries to dean. he knew about your dad, knew how protective and judgmental he was. though dean had never met him, he saw the stress he caused you, and it broke his heart to see you in such a detrimental state.

“it’s my dad.” you whispered, your fingers playing with the strands of hair at dean’s nape. “y’know i hate sneaking around, but you also know how he is. i don’t want to lose you dean, but i just feel like there’s some impending doom coming our way.”

dean’s face was impassive, the cigarette burning idly from his fingertips. “would it be mean of me to say your dads a dick?”

cackling loudly, you threw your head back as snorts ripped from your throat. you didn’t even care how you looked at the moment, finding dean’s statement too funny. “honestly,” you replied. “you’re not wrong. he’s a fucking asshole.”

“then who cares what he says?” dean spoke softly, your body slightly swaying at his piercing gaze. “you’re your own person, baby, he can’t put you in a box.”

“unlike you, i’m not eighteen.” dean had the luxury of having a january birthday, while you had to struggle with being seventeen for a couple more months. while dean’s eyes hardened, yours softened, and you moved your hands to clutch his shirt and ground him. “i’m not an adult just yet, and he’s got me on a short leash.”

pursed lips and a stoic expression, dean was deep in thought. with one last puff of his smoke, he declared a statement that almost had you keeling over.

“i want to meet him.”

“what?!” you exclaimed, backing away from dean. he was crazy, fully insane. no way was dean going to swoon your dad over. he was too stuck in his ways. “if you think schmoozing my dad is going to work, it won’t, trust me.”

“i don’t want to schmooze shit, baby. i just want him to know that his daughter is my girl and that she likes it bad.” his words had you gaping, while dean had the most shit eating grin on his face.

“you’re not saying that!” you exclaimed, hands going to your hips as dean approached you like a predator would it’s prey.

smirking, he held up his cigarette to his lips. “don’t worry, i’ll be nice. now open those pretty lips for me.”

you obliged, lips parting slowly as dean took a drag of his cigarette. reaching out and grabbing your jaw, dean put his lips an inch away from yours, blowing smoke into your lips in a precarious manner.

inhaling, you couldn’t even form a coherent thought before dean’s lips attacked yours, hand tight in your hair while his lips devoured you.

it was all such bliss, and you hoped your dad would be more understanding of this relationship.

because a life without dean winchester wouldn’t be a life at all.

TAGS: @starzify @titsout4jackles @daylighted @deansbeer @bluemerakis @figthoughts @haunteres @littlesoulshine @h8aaz @cowboysandcigarettes @honeyryewhiskey @j2archives @florchids @beausling @deanswidow

NAT BABBLES: literally saw those two photos on pinterest and this idea came into my head

#nat writes ˚౨ৎ˚#teenage dean winchester #ultravi0lence14 #dean winchester #supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural x reader #imagine #fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester au #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic

130 notes · View notes

snapesleftpinkie · 1 day ago

Text

Yea this confirm it. I do like being called baby like that

undercover dancer

dean winchester x reader

synopsis while working a case with the winchester, you go undercover at a strip club to track down a siren, but things don’t go as planned.

warnings mdni, porn with plot? (pwp), oral sex (m rec.), missionary, pet names (sweetheart, baby), fem reader, breeding kink (if you squint), light d/s dynamic, no use of y/n.

word count 6.5k

working a case with the winchesters meant long nights, bad coffee, and sifting through endless lore. the three of you were holed up in a rundown motel, buried in research about sirens. three men had murdered their wives, all while insisting they were in happy, loving relationships. something wasn’t adding up.

sam had bobby on speakerphone as the older hunter explained an old piece of folklore—sirens could be killed with a bronze dagger dipped in the blood of one of their victims.

“alright, thanks, bobby. we’ll call if we need anything else,” sam said, snapping his phone shut.

you sighed, leaning back in your chair across from him. “okay, but how exactly are we supposed to get the blood of an infected victim?”

sam thought for a moment before suggesting that the doctor who performed the autopsies might still have blood samples from the victims.

as the boys geared up, putting on their usual fbi disguises, you made no move to change. noticing this, dean shot you a look. “what? you’re just gonna sit this one out?”

“no,” you replied smoothly, standing up and grabbing a duffel bag from under the bed. “while you two are handling that, i’m going to see if i can get a lead on who the siren might be.”

sam and dean exchanged confused glances but didn’t question it. they had learned to trust your methods—even if they didn’t always understand them.

as soon as they left, you dug through your bag, pulling out a dark red costume. undercover work had its perks, but being a woman in the hunting business often meant playing into certain expectations. and right now, that meant infiltrating the strip club where you suspected the siren was hiding.

after a quick shower, you grabbed a fresh razor and got to work. if you were going to sell this, you had to look the part. you remembered the club owner’s strict policy—pretty faces and smooth bodies only.

once you were done, you pulled out your small cosmetic kit and carefully applied your makeup, matching it to the deep red of your outfit. a final swipe of lip gloss and a touch of glitter later, you gave yourself a once-over in the motel’s long mirror.

damn. you looked like an expensive stripper.

the two-piece outfit was a dark red sequined swimsuit, just a size too small, leaving very little to the imagination. perfect.

packing a change of clothes and slipping a pair of heels into your duffel, you hopped into your camaro and drove to the club.

pulling into the back lot, you wrapped yourself in a long trench coat and slipped inside through the rear entrance. in the changing room, you stashed your bag, swapped your boots for heels, and took a moment to observe the other women.

they moved in and out, chatting and adjusting their outfits, but none of them immediately screamed “siren.” the only clue you had was that sirens tended to work alone.

you adjusted your stance, getting used to the ridiculous height of your heels. with one last check in the dingy mirror, you stepped out onto the club floor.

the heavy bass of electronic house music pounded in your chest, the flashing led lights momentarily disorienting. you focused, forcing yourself to move with the rhythm, blending in as you made your way toward the bar.

“well, aren’t you something,” a voice drawled behind you.

you turned, slipping effortlessly into character, flashing a sultry smile as you took in the man eyeing you. mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard, expensive watch—if you weren’t here on a case, you might have been a little more interested.

smirking, you sauntered closer, batting your eyelashes. “what can i do for you tonight, handsome?”

“how about something special?” his voice dipped, gaze never leaving your body. “one of those private rooms in the back?”

shit.

if you left the main floor, you’d risk losing sight of your real target. you needed a way out of this—fast.

glancing around, you spotted the upstairs balcony overlooking the club. if you could get him up there, at least you’d still have a vantage point.

“i don’t have all night, sweetheart,” the man said impatiently, waving a wad of cash. “you want this or not?”

plastering on a flirtatious smile, you grabbed his hand and led him toward the stairs. he chuckled behind you. “aren’t you an eager thing?”

this was probably a bad idea.

as you reached the top, your attention flicked to a nearby table where two men in suits sat across from each other. the back of one of their heads looked disturbingly familiar. short hair, slightly spiked—no way.

then you heard it. that familiar gravelly voice, thick with a kansas drawl.

dean.

what the hell was he doing here?

panic kicked in. you needed to get past him before he saw you in this very compromising outfit. you picked up the pace, walking past as quickly as you could.

just when you thought you were in the clear—

a low whistle pierced the air.

fuck.

the whistle came from dean.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

you could’ve kept walking. you should’ve kept walking. just pretend you didn’t hear it. play dumb, keep moving, disappear into the back rooms before this whole thing spiraled into something worse.

but, of course, the man you were leading had to open his damn mouth.

“hell of a body, huh?” he slurred, clearly buzzed and feeling bold. “bet she’s worth every damn penny.”

your stomach dropped, then it got so much worse.

“hey, buddy,” the man continued, elbowing dean like they were old friends. “why don’t you come with me? we can both get a little taste.”

you clenched your jaw. this fucking guy. not only was he disgusting, but now he was trying to bring dean into this?

“hey, sweetheart!” he called, motioning for you to come back. “c’mon, don’t be shy now.”

you stayed still, facing away from the table, hoping—praying—that dean would just ignore him. maybe he hadn’t recognized you. maybe he was just reacting to the fact that you looked wildly out of place in a club like this.

maybe pigs could fly.

because you felt dean’s eyes burning into your back, and you knew—this was about to happen.

your breath hitched as you forced yourself to turn around.

and the second your gaze met dean’s, his jaw literally dropped.

eyes wide, mouth hanging open, pure shock written all over his face. like he’d just been smacked in the head with a crowbar.

you saw the exact moment realization hit. the way his gaze flickered down—taking in the too-small, blood-red sequined outfit, the heels, the sheer ridiculousness of what you were wearing—before snapping back up to your face.

his lips parted, but no words came out. just a stunned, incredulous stare, like his brain had short-circuited and he couldn’t even begin to process what he was seeing.

you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

dean winchester—your hunting partner, your friend, the guy you spent way too much time with—was seeing you like this.

and he wasn’t looking away. dean blinked. once. twice. then his jaw clenched

in dean’s mind, this was not what he expected when you said you were going to get a lead on the siren.

a lead? sure. maybe some surveillance, some questioning—hell, even some light flirting to get information if needed. but this?

his brain had completely short-circuited.

for a few crucial seconds, he forgot where he was. forgot the case, the siren, the fact that there was a real fbi agent sitting across from him. forgot that he was supposed to be an fbi agent, too.

because fbi agent dean winchester wasn’t supposed to know a stripper.

you weren’t supposed to know him.

you were just two strangers existing in the same space—passing glances, exchanging pleasantries, nothing more. that’s what this cover was supposed to be.

but instead, you were standing there, looking like that, and dean was sitting here, looking at you.

the noise of the club, the flashing lights, the pulsing music—it all blurred in the background. the only thing in sharp focus was you.

and then, of course, the drunk asshole had to make it worse.

“so, what do ya say, man?” he gestured sloppily between you and dean, slurring his words. “you in or what?”

dean blinked, jaw tightening.

this guy had no idea. no idea that the woman he was treating like an object was actually a badass hunter who could take him down in a heartbeat. no idea that dean wasn’t some random customer, but someone who knew exactly what you looked like covered in blood and sweat, tearing through monsters like it was second nature.

but more than anything, he had no idea how much dean didn’t want to share you with him.

dean finally closed his mouth, schooling his face into something more neutral. his grip tightened around the glass in his hand, but he forced out a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

“tempting,” he said, voice low, edged with something dangerous. “but i think i’ll pass.”

he saw the way your shoulders subtly relaxed, the way your fingers twitched like you were seconds from reaching for a weapon you weren’t carrying.

the guy huffed, shaking his head. “your loss.” then he turned back to you, giving you a sleazy grin. “guess it’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

dean barely restrained himself from breaking the guy’s nose.

this was a case. you were undercover. you had a job to do.

but damn if dean didn’t want to burn this whole place down just to get you out of here.

after that incredibly unfortunate turn of events, you decided to call it a night.

you led your drunk, handsy gentleman away from prying eyes, coaxing him into a quieter, less crowded hallway. the second you were sure no one was watching, you turned on your heel and decked him—one solid punch right to the jaw.

he crumpled like a sack of potatoes.

rolling your shoulders, you exhaled sharply and stepped over his unconscious body. he’d wake up with a hell of a headache and probably no memory of what happened. good. you didn’t have the patience for anything else.

when you walked back onto the main floor, you instinctively glanced toward where dean had been sitting—only to find his chair empty.

of course.

you didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now.

navigating through the club, you made your way back to the dressing room, grabbed your trench coat, and threw it over yourself. no time to change. you just wanted to get out of here and back to the motel.

enough undercover work for one night.

but as soon as you stepped outside into the cool night air and headed toward your car, you stopped dead in your tracks.

because parked right in front of your camaro, like a goddamn roadblock, was the impala.

and leaning against it, arms crossed, expression unreadable, was dean. there he stood—still in that goddamn suit, still looking good as ever.

the neon lights from the club flickered against his face, casting sharp shadows across his jaw. he was staring straight at you, and even from a distance, you could feel the weight of it.

yeah. you definitely weren’t getting out of this conversation.

you wished you could just ignore him, pretend you didn’t see him, slip into your camaro, and drive the hell away from this whole mess.

but dean obviously had different plans.

his arms were still crossed, his stance casual, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he was watching you. his sharp green eyes followed every step you took, unreadable yet intense.

you swallowed hard and kept walking, forcing yourself to act like you weren’t dying inside from sheer embarrassment. maybe if you just made it to your car door without saying anything—

“hey, sweetheart,” dean called, voice smooth but edged with something else.

you closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose.

slowly, you turned to face him, plastering on your best unimpressed look. “you waiting for someone, winchester?”

dean huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “yeah. you.”

of course.

you shifted your weight, gripping the edges of your coat a little tighter. “well, you found me. so what do you want?”

dean pushed off the impala, stepping closer—just enough to make your pulse spike. he tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he was trying to piece together.

“what the hell was that back there?” his voice was low, curious, but definitely not amused.

you lifted a brow. “i was working the case.”

dean’s jaw ticked. “that’s what we’re calling it?”

you crossed your arms. “got a problem with it?”

he scoffed, looking away for a second before his eyes flicked back to yours. “yeah, i got a problem with it. watching you prance around in that getup, having some drunk asshole treat you like—” he cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “what the hell were you thinking?”

you rolled your eyes. “i was thinking that someone had to actually get close enough to find the siren. and considering i didn’t see you shaking your ass in sequins, it had to be me.”

dean made a face, clearly not a fan of that mental image. “damn it, you know that’s not what i mean.”

you shrugged, pretending like your stomach wasn’t twisting at how tense he was. “relax, dean. i had it under control.”

dean let out a humorless laugh. “oh yeah? looked real under control when that guy was trying to buy a damn two-for-one special.”

you bristled but kept your face neutral. “i handled it.”

dean stared at you for a long moment, jaw still tight. then, finally, he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

your lips twitched. “that sounds like a you problem.”

dean exhaled, then gave you that look—the one that always made your chest tighten. a mix of exasperation, concern, and something else. something you didn’t have the guts to name.

“get in the car,” he muttered, nodding toward the impala.

you frowned. “i have my own car—”

“yeah, and it’s staying here.” dean’s voice left no room for argument. “you’re riding with me.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but the glare he shot you made you shut it just as quickly.

fine. whatever. if it got you out of this conversation faster, you’d deal with it.

sighing, you walked past him, letting him open the passenger door for you. you didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered over you again, how his fingers twitched like he wanted to do something but held himself back.

you slid into the seat, crossing your arms as dean shut the door behind you.

as he walked around to the driver’s side, one thought ran through your mind—

this was not how you expected tonight to go.

the car ride was quiet.

the tension, while still there, had stopped being suffocating, allowing you to relax a little. you leaned into the familiar comfort of the impala, the soft hum of the engine settling something in your chest.

which meant, unfortunately, you forgot what you were wearing underneath your trench coat.

as you shifted in your seat, adjusting yourself for a more comfortable position, the movement caused the coat to gape open slightly, revealing slivers of bare skin and dark red sequins.

dean only glanced over at first, probably just checking why you were moving—

but then he saw.

his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

a quick flash of your thighs, the curve of your waist, and the unmistakable shimmer of the too-small, too-revealing getup you still had on underneath.

dean immediately snapped his gaze back to the road, jaw clenching so tight it could crack a molar.

but it was too late.

because now the image was burned into his mind.

you, in that tiny outfit, all legs and soft skin, sitting right there next to him like it was no big deal. like it wasn’t driving him insane.

he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like it would somehow shake the thought loose.

you didn’t seem to notice his sudden shift in posture, too caught up in getting comfortable. you adjusted again, crossing one leg over the other, which caused the coat to part just a little more—

dean did not look.

he was not looking.

he was absolutely not going to look.

but then the impala hit a small bump in the road, jostling you slightly—and out of sheer reflex, his eyes flicked over.

fucking hell.

he gritted his teeth, forcing his focus forward. “jesus, could you—?” he cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “do you wanna maybe, i don’t know, close that thing?” he flicked a pointed glance at your coat, then back at the road like his life depended on it.

you blinked, glancing down—and finally realized what he was talking about.

oh.

a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “my bad,” you said innocently, making zero effort to fix it.

dean shot you a look. “not funny.”

you bit your lip, suppressing a laugh. “kinda funny.”

“not funny,” he repeated, gripping the wheel tighter. “you’re gonna give me a damn heart attack.”

you chuckled, finally tugging the coat closed—not out of modesty, but because you were pretty sure dean was about three seconds away from swerving off the road.

“relax, winchester,” you teased. “it’s not like you haven’t seen a woman in less before.”

dean made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a strangled groan. “yeah, well, i don’t usually have to drive them back to a motel after watching them hustle some drunk asshole in a damn strip club.”

you snorted. “please. like you weren’t enjoying the view.”

dean didn’t say anything.

didn’t even look at you.

and that was interesting.

your smirk widened. “oh my god,” you drawled. “you were enjoying the view.”

dean clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the road. “you done?”

you hummed, pretending to think. “not really.”

“too bad.”

you laughed, finally letting it go—for now.

dean just exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this was his life.

and for the rest of the ride, he did not look over again.

finally.

for dean, the ride was over. they made it to the motel.

he could get away from you and that damn outfit without feeling like he was losing his goddamn mind.

but you? oh, you were not letting it go.

stepping inside, you took a quick scan of the room. no sam. he was still off doing whatever research he had gotten sucked into, which meant it was just you and dean.

perfect.

you kicked off those ridiculous heels with a sigh of relief, shrinking down several inches in the process, and tossed your duffle bag onto the bed. dean did the same, loosening the tie on his suit with a grumble, ready to just shower this night off and forget it ever happened.

but then he looked up—

and oh, god.

you were shrugging off your trench coat.

right in front of him.

and you weren’t doing it quickly, like someone exhausted after a long night.

no.

you were doing it slowly.

tantalizingly.

dean didn’t know if that was just his brain making it seem like slow motion, or if you were actually torturing him on purpose—

but oh, god.

the way the coat slipped from your shoulders, revealing the smooth stretch of your skin, the way the deep red sequins shimmered against the cheap motel lighting—

dean felt like he’d been hit with something.

his mouth went dry. his brain stopped working.

all he could do was stare.

and you knew.

he could see it in the tiny smirk playing at your lips, the way you tossed your coat onto the bed like this was all totally normal. like you weren’t standing there, still in that tiny little outfit, acting like you didn’t just completely wreck him.

dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to snap out of it. he turned away quickly, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying to gather whatever frayed pieces of self-control he had left.

“you are killing me,” he muttered under his breath.

you laughed, low and amused. “something wrong, winchester?”

dean let out a humorless scoff, not daring to look at you again. “yeah. you.”

you just grinned. “aw, poor baby.”

dean clenched his jaw, staring very intently at the wall.

this was not how he expected his night to go.

especially when you were right there, looking at him like that—like you knew exactly what you were doing to him?

when his eyes couldn’t help but drink you in, no matter how hard he tried to not look?

that stupid, stupid red sequined outfit stretched over the swell of your breasts, hugging every curve, glinting under the dim motel lights like it was taunting him.

the bottoms—if they could even be considered bottoms—barely hid anything. just thin strips of fabric teasingly covering your most intimate parts, leaving long lines of bare skin on display.

dean was screwed.

his jaw was locked so tight it ached. his fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something—grab you, touch you, tear that damn outfit off just to put an end to this torture.

but he didn��t move.

didn’t say a word.

because if he did, if he let himself react at all, there was no coming back from it.

you tilted your head slightly, watching him with amusement, curiosity, and something dangerous.

“you keep looking at me like that, dean,” you mused, voice dripping with mischief, “people might start to think you actually want me.”

dean exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze to the floor, the wall—anywhere but you.

“you really don’t know when to quit, do you?” his voice came out rougher than he intended.

you stepped closer—too close. close enough that he could feel your body heat, smell the faint traces of perfume and sweat lingering on your skin.

“not when i’m having this much fun,” you admitted with a smirk.

dean clenched his fists.

he had two choices.

get the hell out of this room right now—

or finally give in.

of course he gave in. one second, he was standing there, fists clenched, trying so damn hard to hold himself back.

the next, his lips crashed against yours, hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for this and just now realized how badly he needed it.

you gasped softly against his mouth, but you weren’t surprised. not really. you knew exactly what you were doing, how to push him just far enough until he snapped—and now, here he was, grabbing onto you like he’d lose his mind if he didn’t.

his hands found your waist, rough fingers gripping tight as he pulled you against him. the thin sequined fabric did little to separate the heat of his body from yours, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

you barely had a second to breathe before he was kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip like he was trying to devour you.

and god, you loved it.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging slightly just to hear that low, frustrated growl rumble from his chest. his hands slid lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and before you could even process what was happening, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“fucking tease,” he muttered against your lips, walking you toward the bed with no hesitation.

you smirked, breathless. “took you long enough.”

dean let out a low, dark chuckle.

“oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with want as he dropped you onto the mattress, climbing over you with a dangerous glint in his eyes—

“you have no idea what you just started.”

your hands roamed over dean’s suit-clad body, feeling the heat beneath the fabric, the tension coiled tight in his muscles.

you pulled him closer by his tie, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips. his weight pressed into you, his body solid and strong, like he was trying to get as close as physically possible—like even that wouldn’t be enough.

his big, calloused hands slid down your sides, rough fingers trailing fire along your bare skin until they found the thin ties of your bottoms.

with practiced ease, he tugged at the delicate knots, the flimsy fabric loosening instantly. his lips never left yours, too caught up in the way you felt, the way you gasped softly when the last knot came undone.

meanwhile, you worked fast to undo your top, the sequined fabric falling away as your fingers fumbled at the clasp.

dean pulled back just enough to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, his expression dark and unreadable.

“jesus,” he muttered, voice rough, like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

you smirked, reaching up to tug at his tie again. “took you long enough, winchester.”

dean’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

“you’re gonna regret saying that,” he warned, voice dripping with promise.

and then he kissed you again—harder, deeper, like he was determined to make up for every second he’d spent holding back.

separating to catch your breath, your chest heaved as you watched dean make quick work of his clothes.

and god, was he a sight.

his toned stomach, the ridges of muscle shifting with every movement, the broad expanse of his chest—every inch of him was built for this. his strong arms flexed as he tossed his shirt aside, and for a second, you were too distracted to do anything but stare.

dean smirked, catching the way your lips parted, your eyes dark with something between hunger and awe.

“like what ya see, sweetheart?” he teased, his voice dripping with cocky amusement.

you swallowed hard, dragging your gaze up to meet his, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering you—even if you were absolutely drooling inside.

with a smirk of your own, you tilted your head and let your fingers trail slowly down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the solid muscle beneath.

“i don’t know,” you mused, lips curling as you leaned up, voice dropping into something sultry, “guess i’ll have to touch to be sure.”

dean let out a low chuckle, but the way his breath hitched when your hands slid lower?

he wasn’t laughing anymore.

your hand trailed lower, teasing, until your palm pressed against the hard length straining through his unbuttoned trousers.

dean sucked in a breath, his body tensing under your touch. his head tilted back slightly, jaw clenched, as if he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart right then and there.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, gravelly, like the word had been dragged out of him.

you smirked, feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the heat of him even through the fabric.

god, you had to feel him inside your mouth.

with slow, deliberate movements, you slid off the bed, sinking to your knees before him. your fingers made quick work of his zipper, tugging his pants and boxers down just enough to free him, and fuck.

dean winchester was big.

your mouth practically watered at the sight, your fingers wrapping around his thick length, giving him an experimental stroke.

dean let out a low, wrecked groan, his hands automatically flying to your hair, his fingers curling at the roots as if he needed something to hold onto.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, looking down at you with blown pupils, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

you just smirked up at him, pressing a teasing kiss to the tip before licking a slow, deliberate stripe up his length, making sure to keep eye contact the whole time.

“fuck,” he cursed again, his grip in your hair tightening slightly. “you’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

you only hummed in response, lips parting as you finally took him into your mouth—

and dean completely lost it.

his hands flew to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he held on—not forcing, just holding, like he needed the anchor while you worked him over with that sinful mouth of yours.

dean’s head fell back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as a deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, looking back down at you, watching the way your lips stretched around him, the way your head bobbed up and down at a steady rhythm.

the slick, filthy sounds of you gagging on his cock filled the room, mixing with his grunts and sharp exhales.

“jesus—look at you,” he muttered, breathless, his grip tightening just a little when you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him even deeper. “taking me so fuckin’ good.”

your eyes flickered up to meet his, glossy and dazed, and that—that look on your face, the way you were so eager, so desperate to take all of him—had him teetering on the edge.

“shit,” he groaned, one of his hands trailing down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin in contrast to how filthy this all was. “goddamn mouth of yours—feels so fuckin’ good, baby.”

you hummed at the praise, sending vibrations through his length, and that—that nearly broke him.

“oh, fuck,” he growled, hips jerking slightly despite himself. “keep that up, and i’m not gonna last, sweetheart.”

but that only made you want it more.

so you sucked harder, hollowed your cheeks even more, letting him feel every inch of your tongue, every bit of heat and wetness—

and dean absolutely wrecked.

before he could finish, dean suddenly jerked you off his cock, a slick pop sounding as he pulled free from your mouth. his chest heaved, pupils blown wide, lips parted in a mix of pleasure and frustration.

“shit,” he muttered, breathing heavy as he cupped your jaw, wiping away a bit of spit from your swollen lips with his thumb. “as much as i wanna come down that pretty throat of yours, i need to feel you first.”

his words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

dean didn’t give you time to process before he hauled you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your hips as he practically tossed you onto the bed.

you barely had time to gasp before he was on you—pressing you down into the mattress, kissing you deep, his tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to devour you.

his hands roamed your body, squeezing, exploring, before settling between your thighs. his fingers teased at your slick folds, making you whimper against his lips.

“fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned, dragging his fingers through your wetness before pressing one thick digit inside. “was sucking me off that good for you, sweetheart?”

you whined, hips bucking into his touch, gripping at his shoulders. “dean, please—”

he chuckled darkly, adding another finger, stretching you slightly as he watched you, drinking in the way you squirmed. “oh, i got you, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with promise. “gonna give you exactly what you need.”

and with that, he lined himself up, teasing the tip against your entrance—

then thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt in one slow, deep stroke.

dean was relentless.

his hips snapped against yours, the sheer force of each thrust making the bed creak beneath you. his grip on your hips was tight, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted—like he needed to keep you in place while he fucked you deep.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, jaw clenched, eyes locked onto where your bodies met. “so goddamn tight—taking me so fuckin’ good.”

the stretch was intense, overwhelming in the best way, and all you could do was moan, gripping onto his arms, his back, anything to ground yourself.

then—he shifted.

one of his hands dragged down your leg, rough fingers tracing your skin before he hooked it over his shoulder, pressing in even deeper.

“oh, fuck—” you cried out, back arching as he hit that new angle, that devastatingly perfect spot that had your vision going white.

dean felt the way you clenched around him, heard the way his name spilled from your lips in a wrecked, breathless moan—and he lost it.

“that’s it,” he growled, his pace somehow getting rougher, each thrust harder, deeper, sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. “this what you wanted, huh? needed me to fuck you like this?”

you could barely form words, too lost in the blinding pleasure.

“dean—please—!”

he grunted, leaning down, pressing his forehead against yours even as he kept up his punishing rhythm.

“i got you, baby,” he panted, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. “not stopping ‘til you come all over my cock.”

one of dean’s calloused fingers dragged down your body, rough and deliberate, until it found your achingly sensitive clit.

a sharp cry tore from your throat as he pressed down, rubbing slow, teasing circles that contrasted the relentless snap of his hips. the combination had your entire body trembling, pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you, coiling like a spring ready to snap.

“that’s it,” dean groaned, watching your every reaction like a man possessed, his finger working you over with precision. “so fuckin’ perfect—gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

you were already there, so close you could taste it, every thrust, every roll of his fingers sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“dean— oh my god—” you gasped, gripping onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

he growled at that, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he doubled down—hips slamming into you, fingers rubbing tighter, faster, overwhelming you with everything.

“come on, baby,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “let me feel it—let go for me.”

and then—you snapped.

your orgasm ripped through you, body arching, legs shaking, a desperate, wrecked moan of his name spilling from your lips as waves of white-hot pleasure crashed over you.

dean groaned at the feeling, the way you clenched down so tight around him, the way your body trembled beneath him, and it sent him tumbling right after you.

“fuck— fuck,” he choked out, burying himself deep as he came, his own release spilling inside you as he gasped your name like a prayer.

dean slowly pulled out, a low groan leaving his lips as he watched the way your body trembled beneath him. his eyes darkened when he saw the mess he made—his release spilling out of your wrecked little hole, glistening against your flushed skin.

his smirk was downright wicked as he dragged two fingers through the slick mess, gathering up every drop before pressing them right back inside you, pushing deep, so slow.

“don’t want it going to waste, do we, sweetheart?” his voice was gravelly, teasing, full of satisfaction as he watched you squirm, still sensitive and wrecked from your orgasm.

a whimper slipped from your lips, your overstimulated walls fluttering around his fingers as he gently fucked them into you, as if he owned you—like he could still feel every aftershock running through your body.

“fuck, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your thigh, his breath hot against your skin. “look so damn pretty like this. completely fucked out.”

he finally pulled his fingers free, but not before bringing them up to his lips, smirking as he licked them clean, groaning low in his throat.

“taste so fucking sweet.”

dean’s smirk softened as he took in the sight of you—your body still trembling slightly, chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. your skin was flushed, glowing in the dim motel light, and fuck, if you weren’t the prettiest damn thing he’d ever seen.

but as much as he loved seeing you like this, spent and wrecked from him, he also knew you needed him now just as much as before—just in a different way.

with a deep breath, he leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before slipping off the bed.

“be right back, sweetheart,” he murmured.

you barely had the energy to respond, only humming in acknowledgment as you stretched across the sheets, already feeling the exhaustion settle in.

dean moved around the room quietly, grabbing one of his clean shirts and a warm, damp washcloth before returning to your side.

“hey, baby,” he said softly, brushing your hair back before running the cloth between your thighs, being so careful, so gentle as he cleaned you up. “still with me?”

“mhm,” you mumbled, sighing at the warmth of his touch.

once he was sure you were all cleaned up, he tossed the cloth aside and helped you into his shirt, the fabric drowning you, but he couldn’t help but grin at the way you looked in it.

“there we go,” he murmured, pulling the blankets over you before sliding in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart was soothing, his body warm and solid against you.

“you good?” he asked, voice softer now, rough edges smoothed over with something gentler.

you nodded, nuzzling into his neck. “yeah… ‘m good.”

dean pressed a kiss to your temple, rubbing slow circles into your back.

“get some sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. “i got you.”

just as you were getting comfortable, wrapped up in dean’s warmth, the motel door slammed open, making both of you jolt.

“what the hell—” dean started, reaching for the gun under his pillow, but then—

“where the hell have the two of you been?!”

it was sam.

standing in the doorway, pissed, arms crossed, eyes darting between the both of you—dean half-naked under the blankets, you drowning in one of his shirts, curled up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your face burned.

“uh…” you started, scrambling for some kind of excuse, but what could you even say?

dean, ever the smooth talker, just cleared his throat and smirked, stretching an arm behind his head. “y’know, sammy… you could’ve knocked.”

sam’s expression darkened. “are you—? oh, come on!” he rubbed a hand down his face, looking genuinely distressed. “i’ve been out chasing a damn siren while you two were—” he gestured wildly. “—doing this?!”

you bit your lip, shrinking under his glare, but dean?

dean just grinned. “hey, don’t get all worked up, man. we got plenty done tonight.”

“yeah, i bet you did,” sam deadpanned.

the silence was painfully awkward.

finally, sam just let out a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “i don’t even wanna know.” he turned on his heel, grumbling something under his breath as he walked to his bed, clearly done with both of you.

you and dean exchanged glances before cracking up, muffling your laughter into the blankets as sam shot you both a glare.

“idiots,” he muttered, flopping down onto his bed. “absolute idiots.”

still grinning, dean pulled you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “totally worth it,” he whispered.

and honestly?

yeah. it was.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut

680 notes · View notes