#everything sam won’t let himself be and it feels good.)

[wvyik]

NSFW ALPHABET.

sam winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: my take on the infamous NSFW alphabet where each letter represents a different aspect of sam's freaky, loving, and sometimes unexpected side in bed!!

♯ warnings: mdni!! extremely explicit content, mature themes, adult language, graphic sex details, explicit descriptions of intimacy, kinky stuff, too much masturbation going on, hair pulling, choking, body worship, switch! sam, light voyeurism, unhinged, highly detailed cock description.

♯ notes: thank you for the anon that brought you this post!!! this has been on my mind for way too long. if you missed it, here’s the dean version of this post. i’m officially registering as a whore.

A = AFTERCARE..

Sam is top-tier, elite, gold-star certified in aftercare. Like, let’s be real. Sam Winchester has a guilt complex the size of Kansas, deep emotional intelligence (even when he tries to bottle it), and a lover boy heart under all that trauma. So after sex? He’s gentle as hell.

It doesn’t matter if it was rough, slow, quick, emotional, or downright feral; he’s checking in. He’s the type to brush your hair out of your face while your chest is still heaving. He cups your jaw and whispers, “You okay, baby?” with that raspy, post-orgasm voice. He won’t stop touching you, but not in a sexy way. Like, soft touches. His palm on your thigh. His fingers lacing with yours. That kinda thing.

Sam’s also super intuitive. If you’re the talky type after sex? He’s gonna lie there and listen to you ramble and giggle with you like you’re both drunk off each other. If you go quiet? He’ll pull you to his chest and just breathe with you. Run his fingers down your spine. Let the silence feel safe.

Lowkey, he’s a clean-up king too. Grabs a towel, helps you wipe down, maybe even carries you to the bathroom if you’re too wobbly. You just know he’s the kind to whisper “I’ll be right back, don’t move” before slipping out of bed to get you water or a snack.

And let’s not forget: he’s always gonna be overthinking. Like even if everything went perfectly, Sam’s still gonna be laying there like, was I too rough? did I make them feel good? do they still like me? So if you curl into him, praise him a little, you can feel his body relax like you just unclenched every knot in his soul.

B = BODY PART..

Sam’s favorite part of himself? His hips.

This man is so unaware of how lethal he is until you’re under him, and suddenly that slow, deep roll of his hips becomes his favorite weapon. Sam doesn’t walk around thinking he’s sexy, but the second he sees the way you react to the way he fucks? The way you grab his waist, beg for more, whimper when he grinds deep and doesn’t let up?

That’s when it clicks.

And it turns into obsession. Not in a cocky way, but a hungry one. He’ll hold your legs open and grind slow, steady, deep— not just to get himself off, but to feel you fall apart. It makes him feel powerful. Grounded. Needed. Like you were made for him and he was made to fit into you just right.

However, when it comes to you… your stomach.

Soft or toned, flat or plush, he’s obsessed. The gentle curve of it. The way it twitches when he runs his fingers low. The way it stretches when you arch. He’ll pull your shirt up just to kiss it. Slide his palm over it slowly while you’re laying together, like he’s memorizing you. During sex, he’ll rest his hand there, right under your ribs like he’s holding all of you together while he fucks you open.

And if you’re insecure about it? Sam’s the guy who will not shut up about how beautiful you are. “Don’t hide from me, baby,” he’ll whisper, lips hot against your skin. “You know how crazy you make me?” And then he’ll show you. With his mouth, with his hands, with every inch of himself.

C = CUM..

Sam Winchester is not some careless, casual spur-of-the-moment guy when it comes to this, nah. When Sam finishes, it’s a whole experience. He’s in his feelings about it. His soul is involved.

Where he likes to finish? Sam’s a deep finish kinda man. He wants to come inside. Always. That doesn’t mean he does every time (he respects boundaries 1000%) but he’s obsessed with the idea of being inside you while he fills you up. Like it does something to his brain. You’d feel his hips shudder and he’d bury himself all the way in, holding you still, letting out this low, broken groan like he’s losing his entire mind.

And if you let him? That whole “dripping out of you” thing after? He stares at it. Literally lays there between your legs and just watches it slowly spill out while you whine and try to close your thighs. He’ll spread you open again and mutter something like, “God, look at that… made you take all of it.”

How he cums? LOUD. Like, Sam does not cum quietly. All that control, all that restraint— gone. He’s whimpering, panting, moaning into your neck or your shoulder or your fucking mouth if you’re kissing when it happens. It’s deep, it’s needy, and it’s so goddamn personal.

His hands will be locked on your body like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he lets go. Thumbs bruising into your hips. Forehead pressed to yours. All that tension? It explodes.

Kinks around it? Breeding kink. Sorry. Sorry but NOT sorry. That man does not casually cum in someone, he breeds. He fucks like he’s trying to own you. Doesn’t even mean he wants babies, necessarily (though that fantasy might linger in his brain on bad days when he wants a soft life he thinks he doesn’t deserve) but it’s the claiming. The act. The feeling of “I gave you everything I had.” That gets to him. Hard.

He also loves watching it drip down your thighs if he pulls out. He’ll tease you about it. Drag a finger through it. Maybe push it back in just to see you squirm. All slow and lazy and smug with that post-nut, hair-sticking-to-his-forehead kinda look.

D = DIRTY SECRET..

Sam Winchester’s dirty secret? He fantasizes about being corrupted.

Yeah, I said it. It’s not even about you being some evil little seductress or whatever, it’s about him not having to be good for once. He grew up being the “responsible one,” the “good son,” the guy who overthinks every moral choice. But in the dark, behind closed doors? He dreams of letting go. Of someone dragging the sin out of him, teasing it out, making him beg for things he’d never say out loud.

In his head? It’s always messy. Shameful. Hot.

He pictures you tugging his hair while he’s on his knees. Telling him he like being used. He does. He fucking does. He likes the idea of you riding him until he’s whimpering. Scratching your nails down his chest while he stutters apologies for how fast he came. Of you pulling him in by his dog tag or his belt loop and saying, “C’mon, Sammy. Be bad for me.”

He’ll never admit this to you. Ever. He plays it cool. Maybe a little dominant, a little protective. But behind his eyes? He’s imagining what it’d feel like to lose it. To fall apart under you. To be the one who’s teased, overstimmed, punished a little, not cruelly, but like he’s yours. Like he doesn’t have to hold it together anymore.

And the dirtiest part of all? He touches himself to the thought of you ruining him. Not hurting. Not degrading. Just… undoing. He’ll come fast. Embarrassingly fast. And then hate himself a little for how bad he wants it.

E = EXPERIENCE..

This is not a “yes or no” question with Sam.

Here’s the truth,

Sam hasn’t slept with as many people as Dean, not even close. His number isn’t low-low, but it’s definitely selective. He’s never been the one-night stand guy unless he’s in a full-on emotional spiral (see: post-Ruby, soulless Sam era, or when he’s trying to shut his feelings down). He doesn’t fuck just to fuck. That’s never been his vibe. But when he does fuck?

He means it.

Sam’s got emotional experience. He’s got intensity. He listens to your body. He feels everything, and that makes him dangerous in bed, not ‘cause he’s reckless, but because he’s so focused. He’s a fast learner, a people pleaser, and painfully observant. You gasp a little louder when he sucks there? That’s now in the rotation. Your legs twitch when he angles his hips just right? He will not stop until you’re begging.

So does he know what he’s doing? Too fucking well. And he doesn’t brag about it. Doesn’t have to. He’s got the kind of confidence that makes you nervous when he starts kissing your neck like he’s got all night.

He’s experimental, but only if you are too. He’s not scared to try new things. Wants to explore. Communicates really well. That whole Stanford brain? It’s in the bedroom too. He analyzes what makes you tick.

And don’t even get me started on his stamina. That man can go multiple rounds and still have the audacity to ask, “You okay to go again?” while your legs are shaking. Long fingers, long tongue, long everything. And he uses all of it.

But what makes it even hotter? That little rookie edge that never fully goes away. He’s not cocky like Dean. He gets flustered sometimes when you praise him. Looks down at you with those big brown eyes like he can’t believe you’re moaning his name like that. He blushes if you say something filthy. That mix of power and softness?? Deadly.

F = FAVORITE POSITION(S)..

1. MISSIONARY. BUT.. I’m talking feral missionary. Let’s get this straight: Sam loves eye contact. He wants to watch you fall apart. Wants to see every flutter of your lashes, every little twitch of your mouth when you moan his name. He’s a romantic. A bit of a control freak. So missionary? When he’s deep inside you, his hands pinning your wrists into the mattress, sweat dripping down his neck, his forehead against yours while pounding into you? Yeah. That’s peak Sam Winchester.

And if you wrap your legs around his waist? Or hook your ankles behind his back and pull him in deeper? He’ll literally lose his mind. That skin-on-skin closeness is everything to him. He loves the intimacy. Loves the grip he’s got on you. Loves that he can thrust slow or hard or hold you still and grind into you while you gasp like he’s in your lungs. He lives for your reactions.

2. YOU ON TOP, FACING HIM (COWGIRL). Not reverse. Face-to-face. Sam likes seeing your body, your expressions, your hands on his chest. But what kills him is the power. You’re in control. You set the pace. And he LOVES that. He’ll put his hands on your waist, let you ride him until he’s groaning through gritted teeth, whispering things like, “God, just like that… keep going, baby…”

But the moment he sees your thighs start shaking? He flips the script. Grabs your hips, starts thrusting up into you while you whimper, overwhelmed. He lives for that whiny, fucked-out look you give him when he takes control back just enough.

3. FROM BEHIND, BUT… Make it emotional. This is like, on the bed, both of you half-naked, bodies tangled. He’s kneeling behind you, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist or rubbing slow circles over your clit. Deep, controlled strokes while he leans in to kiss your shoulder, whisper in your ear, “You feel so fucking good… you take me so well, sweetheart.”

If he’s feeling unhinged? He’ll hold you by the throat and fuck into you like he needs it. But afterward? He’ll press kisses down your spine like he’s sorry for ever letting go like that. Because that’s Sam. Gentle and a freak.

G = GOOFY..

Sam is serious in the sheets… Most of the time.

He’s intense. Focused. Like he’s got a fucking mission; to worship you, ruin you, and make you feel so good you forget your own name. Especially if he’s in a soft or angsty headspace? He takes sex seriously. Like it matters. Every moan, every stroke, every look? Feels like a fucking prayer.

BUT…

He has a very chaotic goofy side that only comes out when he’s really comfortable with you. Like you’ve been fucking for a while, there’s trust, there’s closeness, there’s banter… THEN it starts.

To give out a few examples: He’ll chuckle when your stomach growls mid-foreplay and be like, “We should’ve eaten first…” while still pulling your panties down, Or he’ll groan dramatically when he realizes he forgot a condom again like, “Okay this is the fourth time this week, I swear I’m not doing it on purpose..” If you make a stupid joke while you’re on top of him? He’ll laugh, but then thrust up suddenly and say, “Still funny?” with that smug fucking face.

And if you’re shy or embarrassed about something mid-sex? He instantly makes you feel better. Might joke gently. Kiss your forehead. Murmur, “You’re perfect, baby. I promise.” He keeps things light without making it unserious. He’s the king of making you feel safe enough to laugh and moan in the same breath.

And oh the post-nut giggles? Oh he gets them. Not every time, but if it was extra messy or especially intense? He’ll bury his face in your neck and laugh like, “Jesus Christ, what the hell did we just do.” It’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s sexy as fuck.

H = HAIR..

Let’s start with the obvious: Yes, the carpet matches the damn drapes. Brown. Thick. Yeah. He’s not fully shaved, he’s neatly groomed down there. Enough that it’s never in the way, never too wild, but still super Sam. Like, you pull his pants down and you’re greeted with trimmed hair, a big cock, and the scent of his skin and it’s just so real. So raw. You’re instantly feral.

Chest hair? OH MY GOD. YES. It’s there. It’s fine but it’s still enough to feel when you’re laying on him after sex. A little patch between his pecs, trailing down his stomach in that V-line of sin. That happy trail™. It leads straight down and you follow it with your lips every time like it’s ritual.

Facial hair? Depends on the era. Sometimes he shaves. Sometimes he’s stubbly. But when he’s got that little beard scruff going on? Oh yeah. You feel it burn your thighs when he’s going down on you. You feel it drag along your neck when he kisses your collarbone. You tell him not to shave and he listens. Every time.

I = INTIMACY..

Like i already said, sex with Sam is emotionally based. And that’s what makes it so intense. Sam’s the kind of lover where even if it starts rough, needy, desperate, somewhere in the middle of it always turns into something deeper on a personal level.

He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When he’s inside you, it’s like the whole world disappears. Like nothing else matters except the way you’re holding onto him, moaning into his mouth, whispering his name like it’s the only word you remember. He’s so focused. So connected. He makes you feel like you’re the only person who has ever touched him.

Kissing? Always. He has to kiss you during sex. Even if it’s messy, even if you’re turned away or on top, he’ll find your lips. He’ll guide your face to his with shaking fingers, panting against your mouth like he needs it more than air. That closeness? That skin-to-skin, soul-to-soul type of thing? That’s what he lives for.

He says the softest things, too. Especially when you’re not expecting it. It hits harder because he means every single fucking word.

And the thing is? Sex doesn’t always have to be soft to be intimate with Sam. He can rail you into the mattress and still make you feel like you’re the center of his universe. That’s the duality. That’s what fucks you up. He holds your heart while he ruins your body. Because for him? Intimacy is everything. Not a bonus. Not some accidental side effect. It’s the whole reason he’s there.

J = JACK OFF..

First of all, how often? Sam pretends he doesn’t do it much. Like he’ll act all focused, always reading lore, training, being the world’s biggest buzzkill, but behind closed doors? He’s so fucking down bad it’s unreal.

If he’s around you and can’t have you? It’s a problem. Like, he’ll lock himself in the bunker’s bathroom after seeing you walk around in one of his hoodies with no pants on, cheeks red, muttering to himself like, “Fucking hell, get it together, Sam.”

And then… yeah. The pants come off. Fast.

When? At night. In the shower. When he’s on a hunt and misses you so bad he can’t sleep. When you send him a voice message that wasn’t even hot or something, but your voice alone has him rock fucking hard. And sometimes? Middle of the day, unexpectedly. You laugh a certain way. Bite your lip. Call him “Sammy” with that soft little look in your eyes? Yeah. He’ll be hard for hours and finally give in when he’s alone.

How? He starts slow. He tries to keep it clean. Like, he’ll palm himself through his sweats and sigh like, “Just a quick one, get it out of your system” but that is never what ends up happening. Because the second he wraps that big hand around his cock and thinks about you moaning? Whining his name? Riding him? Begging him to come inside you? He’s done for.

Sometimes he leans back against the wall and imagines you straddling him, fingers digging into his shoulders while you whisper in his ear. Other times he gets on his knees in the shower and pictures you standing over him, telling him what to do. Either way? He finishes hard. With a groan he tries to muffle.

And afterward? He’s so ashamed. Like full hands-over-his-face, “God, what’s wrong with me” energy. But it never stops him from doing it again the next night.

What does he think about?

You. Always you. Not even just the sex. Sometimes it’s your laugh. The way you pout. The little sigh you make when he kisses your neck. He builds entire fantasies in his head, like you sneaking into his bed in the middle of the night and grinding on him under the sheets… or dropping to your knees while he’s trying to study lore and saying, “You’ve been so good, baby. Let me help.” It’s the emotional + the physical. He goes feral for both.

K = KINK(S)..

1. PRAISE KINK. Sam needs to hear how good he’s making you feel. Not in a cocky way, but like, he craves that validation.“You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.” He’ll literally start panting harder, fucking deeper, the second you whimper that shit. He never grew up being told he was good enough. So in bed? When you make him feel like a god with your voice? It wrecks him. He’ll mutter little broken replies too, all breathless, “Yeah? I got you, baby… s’only me, right?” (YES IT’S ONLY YOU SAMUEL.)

2. OVERSTIMULATION KINK. Sam is lowkey addicted to watching you come over and over again. The first orgasm isn’t even the goal; it’s just the beginning. He’ll use his fingers, his tongue, his cock… and he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, pulling at him, whimpering that it’s “too much.” But he’s so sweet about it. He whispers, “You can do it, baby… gimme one more. Just one more.” And when you cry for him? That’s when he praises you even more, calls you his good girl, pretty thing, perfect angel while he works you through it with those perfect fucking fingers.

3. LIGHT DARCYPHILIA. Hear me out, if you ever cry during sex, (From the pleasure of it or from being so emotionally overwhelmed?) Sam loses it. He goes into full soft-mode. Whispers your name over and over. Kisses your tears. Tells you how beautiful you are, how you feel so good, how he has you. It’s never power thing with him. It’s connection. He’s never felt anything like that before, and it makes the orgasm hit harder. For both of you.

4. HAIR PULLING (ESPECIALLY HIS). If you tug his hair when you’re on top or while he’s between your legs? He literally moans. Like chokes on it. His hips will stutter. He’ll let out this rough, low, “fuck— do that again.” And he loves to gently pull your hair too. Mostly to make you look up at him while he fucks you. To get that eye contact he’s obsessed with. To see your face while he ruins you.

L = LOCATION..

1. HIS BED. This is his main HQ for sex. Why? Because it’s safe. Private. Cozy. He can take his time, strip you slowly, light a candle or two if he’s feeling soft. The sheets are always warm. His pillow smells like him. There’s usually a lore book or journal half-open on the nightstand that he shoves aside to pull you underneath him. He’ll fuck you into the mattress like it’s the last time every single time.

2. THE IMPALA. He tries to not do this often because Dean would literally murder him if he found out, but when you’re both desperate on a hunt, there’s only one room available at a shitty motel and you don’t wanna traumatize Dean? Yeah. That backseat becomes your whole universe. You straddle him, bouncing in his lap with your panties shoved to the side, and he’s gripping your hips like his life depends on it. One hand braced on the ceiling, the other shoved up your shirt, and he’s groaning your name like a prayer. Everything’s cramped and sweaty and messy and ughhh. Yeah.

3. MOTEL ROOMS. You step into a cheap, flickering-light motel room and the second the door locks? Sam turns into a different man. He doesn’t care about taking it slow, he wants you. Against the wall. On the desk. On that creaky-ass bed with the ugly blanket bunched up under your knees. He loves fucking you in front of the mirror there, too. One hand in your hair, the other on your waist while he watches you both move. And God forbid the shower’s working. That’s where he gets especially filthy, pressing you to the wall, sucking water off your skin, fucking you under the spray until it runs cold.

4. LIBRARY TABLES IN THE BUNKER. You’re sitting in his lap. Trying to “study.” His laptop’s open. His eyes are locked on your neck. And before you can even flip a page, his hand is sliding under your skirt. He eats you out on top of lore, bends you over old books, moans your name into the crook of your shoulder while he fills you from behind. You’re panting. He’s groaning. Pages are fluttering off the desk. And when it’s over? He marks the page and says, “We’ll come back to that later.”

M = MOTIVATION..

Sam is not the type to just randomly get horny and go jerk off like Dean does. Nah. He builds up. Here’s what gets him going:

1. YOUR VOICE. Soft. Whiny. Teasing. Anything. You could just be reading off a menu, and he’ll suddenly be thinking about your lips around his cock. You whimper his name when you’re sleepy? His brain short-circuits. You moan a little too loud during a stretch? “Goddamn it…” He’s hard. Fully. And now he has to figure out how to not fuck you into the kitchen counter.

2. YOUR BRATTY BEHAVIOR. Sam doesn’t know how to handle it when you talk back. You roll your eyes? Get a little snarky? Say ‘make me’? He gives you that look. That “Are you sure you wanna start this?” look. And the second you smirk or sass him again? You’re pinned to the mattress in 0.4 seconds with his hand on your throat and his voice in your ear, “You’ve got a mouth on you tonight, huh?”

3. NEEDING HIM. You curl into his lap and whimper “Sammy, please”? You grab at him mid-kiss like you’re gonna break without him inside you? He gets this overwhelmed, aching urgency to take care of you. To fuck you slow. To kiss every part of you like he’s trying to fix something inside you. Because what turns him on most isn’t just sex. It’s that you trust him. That you want him. That you’re so fucking soft with him and no one else gets that.

4. FEAR OF LOSING CONTROL. Oh yeah. Sam’s biggest turn-on? Is that moment where he realizes he can’t not have you. It’s psychological. A little dark. That feeling like, if he doesn’t touch you, fuck you, hear you fall apart for him, he might lose his mind. It’s what makes the sex rougher. It’s what makes him whisper “Mine.” It’s what makes him finish so deep and so desperate that he can’t even open his eyes for a second afterward.

N = NO..

Anything non-consensual, degrading, or humiliating. Even in roleplay, even in dirty talk, no means no. Period. Sam’s not into anything that makes you feel small. He’s obsessed with you, babe. He’d never be able to look you in the eye after calling you names or slapping you across the face. He doesn’t even like it when you say you’re not good enough.

Also, public sex where you could actually get caught. He’ll bend you over in a secluded spot, sure. He’ll pull you into the backseat on a lonely road. But the second there’s even a chance of someone seeing you? Absolutely not. Not even a little exhibitionism. Not his thing. It makes him tense. He’s so protective, and the thought of you being exposed, humiliated, or seen like that by some random asshole makes his stomach twist. He wants your body to be just for him. Not a show. Not a joke.

Pet play, daddy kink, or calling you baby girl is a big no for him, too. It’s just not his language. It makes him feel weird. He’s not into calling himself “Daddy.” Or calling you “Baby girl.” He’ll call you baby, sweetheart, angel, his girl, but nothing that gives off weird power dynamic vibes. Especially not the kind that messes with your innocence or infantilizes you. That shit makes him uncomfortable. And pet names like kitten, princess, puppy? No.

And Meaningless sex. Maybe he could’ve in his soulless era. Maybe during some fucked-up grief spiral post-Jess or post-Ruby. But normally? If he doesn’t care about you, he’s not hard. He’s not in it. He’s not mentally or emotionally there. He’s an intimacy guy. That’s his fuel. He needs that trust.

O = ORAL..

Let’s start with the only thing that matters, Sam loves going down on you more than he loves himself. No exaggeration. That man lives between your thighs. You sit on his face and it’s like home sweet home. He’ll literally moan into your pussy, his big hands gripping your thighs like they’re sacred.

He’s slow at first, torturously slow. Draws lazy circles with his tongue, looks up at you through those ridiculous lashes while you twitch. And the eye contact?? He’s obsessed. Keeps his mouth on you the whole time, staring up at you with that ruined, messy face like he wants to see your soul leave your body.

And oh my god, he talks. You grind on his tongue and he’s saying shit like, “That’s it… tastes so fucking good… look at you.”

He eats pussy like he’s starving. Like he has to. And when you cum? He doesn’t back off. He locks you down and rides it out, tongue still working you while your legs shake around his shoulders and you’re whining his name like a prayer. If you push at his head, he growls, “Uh-uh. One more. Gimme one more.”

And yes, he jerks off to the memory of it later. One hand wrapped around his cock while he thinks about the way you screamed when he sucked on your clit. Degenerate. Oh my god who said that??…

Now let’s talk receiving.

He loves it. He’s just not needy about it. He’ll never ask for it, but the second your hand brushes his thigh, he spreads his legs a little wider, eyes locked on you like; Are you sure? Are you really gonna do this right now? And when you drop to your knees his head tips back. He moans like you just saved his life.

But what kills him isn’t just the sensation; it’s the look on your face while you do it. The soft glances. The way you worship him. He gets overwhelmed fast. Starts gripping your hair. Moaning through his teeth. Begging you with breathy little, “F-fuck, baby, you don’t have to—oh my God…”

There’s definitely a few times he accidentally finished faster than he wanted to and blushed for the rest of the day. But he’ll make it up to you. Oh baby. He’ll drag you onto the bed and make you cum twice with his mouth before you can even breathe.

P = PACE..

His default pace? Slow. Deep. Sensual. He moves with full strokes, hips grinding slow, keeping his forehead against yours or his mouth on your neck. Every thrust has weight. Has meaning. He needs to feel all of you, how your body grips him, how your breath catches when he rolls his hips just right, how your thighs tremble when he doesn’t pull back all the way and instead just grinds into your spot again and again and again, “That feel good, baby? Yeah? That’s it. Let me take my time.” Sam wants to witness you falling apart. He wants to be right there, eye-to-eye, panting into your mouth while you gasp and squirm under him.

But oh, when he gets desperate…

Fast. Rough. Deep. Unhinged. It happens when he’s been holding back for too long— on a hunt, or when he’s been jealous, or if you tease him all day and act innocent. Suddenly you’re bent over the desk, hands braced, and Sam’s behind you pounding into you so hard the books fall off the shelf. He’s gripping your hips, his voice tight, low, groaning things like, “This what you wanted? Huh? Couldn’t wait five minutes?” He’s not always vocal, but when the pace picks up? He’s feral. He moans. He curses. He says your name like it’s the only word he knows. You’re not walking straight tomorrow if he’s in one of those moods.

Q = QUICKIE..

He’ll pretend he doesn’t like them. Sam will act all rational like, “I’d rather wait till we’re alone… I don’t want to rush anything… it’s better when we have time…” But deep down??

That man is a fucking liar.

Because when he’s hard, when he’s needy, when you press up against him in the hallway and whisper “Five minutes. Please, Sammy.” he’s already unzipping his jeans.

It doesn’t happen super often. Sam doesn’t crave them as much, but when they do happen? It’s because he’s so overwhelmed by you he can’t think straight. Like; when you wear something provocative, grind on him and stuff like that. Suddenly he’s grabbing your hand, dragging you into the nearest room, locking the door like, “Okay. Bend over. Now.”

How he feels after? Lowkey guilty. But not for long. He wipes you down with his shirt sleeve and kisses your forehead like it was a sacred act even though your legs are still shaking. He always promises to make it up to you that night.

R = RISK..

Public stuff / getting caught? Like i said. NOPE. IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN. Sam is not into getting caught. He will risk your back being blown out in a gas station bathroom, sure, but he needs control.

But like… fucking you with the bunker door unlocked while Dean’s asleep down the hall? Yes. That kind of “you have to stay quiet” risk?? He lives for it. He gets off on the idea that he’s the only one who knows how ruined you look under him. It’s secret. Not public. That’s the difference.

HOWEVER, THERES A FEW RISQUÉ THINGS HE WOULD DO, LIKE..

⭑ Letting you tie him up. (Nervous at first, but goes feral once he trusts you. He begs so pretty.)

⭑ Phone sex in the middle of a hunt. (Voice all low and strained while he jerks off in a motel bathroom.)

⭑ Letting you suck him off while he’s on the phone with someone.

S = STAMINA..

First round energy?? Foreplay for a solid 20 minutes minimum. Fingering you slow, teasing kisses down your body, tongue between your thighs until you’re a sobbing mess and he’s still calm as hell, like, “One more before I even touch you, yeah?”

Then when he finally slides in? It’s slow. He doesn’t like to rush. He doesn’t even care if he finishes right away, his entire goal is to make you cum at least twice before he even thinks about pulling out.

But when he gets close? He lasts. Like… too long. You’re still on round one, shaking, nails clawed into his back, and he’s still going with sweat dripping off his jaw and his voice all raspy like, “Almost there, baby… just hold on for me a little longer.” Like no. Sir. I can’t. I physically cannot take any more. And yet you do, because he holds you through every stroke and tells you how good you are the entire time.

Multiple rounds?? YES. ABSOLUTELY. CONSISTENTLY. He’ll go two rounds minimum on a regular night. If you’re both worked up or he’s been gone for a while? Three. Four.

Recovery time? Quick. Man’s metabolism is on crack. Give him 10-15 minutes and a sip of water and he’s ready again, hard against your thigh while he kisses your shoulder and whispers “Can I?” He doesn’t even need sleep after, just a cuddle. A praise session. A little pillow talk about how fucking perfect you are. And he’s back in action.

T = TOYS..

First of all, YES. Sam owns toys. He just keeps them very private. Hidden in a locked drawer in his bunker room, tucked under layers of boring-ass lore books, so Dean never even thinks about touching it. He doesn’t have a million flashy things. No neon-colored silicone junk. His collection is intentional. A little sleek. A little intimidating. And all designed to make you scream.

On you? Oh babe. That’s his favorite. He uses toys like a study tool. Like he’s learning your body from scratch.

Vibrating bullet while he fucks you? He watches your face while he turns it higher. Moans softly when your back arches. He’ll hold it against your clit and stay buried inside you, whispering, “Come on, baby. Let it go. I’ve got you.” He does not move until you’ve cum twice. He lives for how soaked it makes you.

Wand vibrator?? That thing does not leave the nightstand. He’ll strap you down or hold your legs apart and just… watch. Tells you not to move. Keeps his hand firm on your stomach to feel you twitching. And when you beg to cum? He leans down and murmurs, “Then do it for me. Right now.” And when you do? He praises the hell out of you, while flipping it back on for another round.

On himself? He doesn’t usually need them… but for you?? He’ll do anything.

You ask him to try a cock ring? He nods, already flushed. You want to ride him while controlling the vibrator against his dick? He’s breathless, trying not to bust instantly just from how filthy it looks. And handcuffs?? Don’t even get him started. You cuff him up one time, sit on his face, and he’ll be ruined for the rest of his life.

U = UNFAIR..

First of all, He lives for it. He’ll spend hours making you squirm just because he loves seeing that pretty little tension in your jaw. You whimper? He smirks. You roll your hips toward him? He backs away. And when you pout and beg? “You’re so cute when you’re needy, baby.” AND THEN DOESN’T EVEN TOUCH YOU.

Physical teasing? He’s a literal terrorist. He’ll touch everywhere but where you need. Kiss your thighs. Suck your neck. Drag his fingers up your stomach and stop right before your clit, just to hear you whimper.

One of his favorite moves is holding the base of his cock, rubbing the tip through your folds for what feels like forever, grinning at how messy and needy you get. AUGHGGSGG.

V = VOLUME..

Sam is a moaner… Like, a real, honest-to-God moaner. The first time you go down on him? He gasps. Whimpers. Whines. His hand tangles in your hair and he’s trying so hard to hold it together, but that first swirl of your tongue? He chokes out a guttural “Fuck—baby…” and it just keeps going from there.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He gets so wrapped up in the moment, so into you, that his brain just shuts off and all that’s left is raw sound.

OH AND When he goes down on you? He moans into your pussy like it’s his job. Low vibrations, messy tongue, and every single one of his desperate little grunts are just as much for your pleasure as his own. He gets off on your sounds. Groans louder the louder you get.

However, Sam is the loudest when he cums. All that control he usually has?? Gone. He’s cursing, moaning your name, whining, clutching at your hips like he might fall through the bed. If it’s intense, like one of those long, slow, emotional kind of finishes; he’ll whimper. Full-on, breathless, high-pitched whimpers. And he collapses on top of you, still murmuring, “So fucking good… Jesus… I love you so much…”

W = WILD CARD..

Sam has a very specific, deeply repressed kink for being caught jerking off. AND LISTEN. He doesn’t want to want it. It goes against everything he thinks he is. But somewhere in the deep dark crevices of that messed-up Stanford dropout brain of his?? There’s a wire that got twisted. A part of him that lives for the shame of it.

He has a whole-ass fantasy of you walking in on him. Not in a hot, “oops babe caught you” way. No. He wants it messy. He wants to be red-faced, panting, fist wrapped tight around his cock, back hunched, completely wrecked, sweaty hair sticking to his face and his mouth hanging open like a desperate animal.

And then the door creaks. And you’re standing there. Watching. “Oh my God— Sam?” He freezes. Eyes wide. Hands still. “Fuck—I thought you were asleep—shit—” He scrambles for a blanket but it’s too late. You’ve already seen everything. And instead of looking disgusted, you tilt your head and give him a look. And that’s it. That’s the fantasy. That look you give him. That sick little thrill that comes with being caught with his guard down, not in control. It makes him cum so hard he blacks out.

Realistically? He’d NEVER bring it up. Too mortified. Too wholesome on the surface. He WANTS to be humiliated, but only by you. Don’t be fooled though. He’s still your good boy. Even when he’s trembling with guilt and cum all over his hand.

X = X-RAY..

You better listen carefully because im about to get real fucking specific out here.

Let’s not even lie about it, this man is hung. Like not pornstar fake-looking veiny monster but in that “why is that shit still growing??” kind of way.

Soft? It’s still intimidating. Like you accidentally brush his thigh and think it’s a wallet or a knife but no, ma’am. It’s the holy weapon. Hard? You’re staring at it like, “Okay. That’s gonna hurt. And I want it to.”

We’re talking like 8.5 inches BUT HE FUCKS LIKE IT’S TWELVE. Because he knows how to use it. It’s not just big, it’s mean. It curves just slightly up and hits your g-spot like he’s got a goddamn degree in it. A little too wide to comfortably deepthroat without tears but you still do it like a patriot!!

When it comes to girth, this is where he’s unreasonable. Thick. Like genuinely. Your hand doesn’t close all the way around it and the first time he slides in.

⭑ Tip? Pink. A little swollen when he’s worked up.

⭑ Shaft? A couple veins, nothing too crazy, but one nasty one that runs up the underside and THROBS when he’s close.

⭑ Curve? Slight, upward, aka DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

⭑ Balls? Big. Warm. Hang low when he’s relaxed. He’ll literally grunt if you play with them too long like an old man getting up from a recliner.

Oh, and i imagine he’s got that silky skin but steel underneath kind of vibe. When you jerk him off, it’s smooth as hell but you can feel how rock hard he is. Sometimes when he’s super turned on, it jumps in your hand. Like it literally twitches just from the sight of you.

Overall vibe check? (…Yes im doing this.) That dick has the audacity to look polite and wholesome and then ruin your cervix like it’s personal. Like it didn’t ask for permission, it gave a gentle kiss and then wrecked your shit for hours. The kind of cock that ends friendships, starts wars, and has you sitting there the next morning with shaky legs and a religious awakening.

Y = YEARNING..

I feel like I may be repeating myself, (That’s what I get for caring way too much just to write one paragraph for each headcanon.) Sam’s sex drive is pretty high, but it’s rooted in emotion. When he loves you?? When he’s in it?? He wants you all. the. time. In ways that go way beyond just “I’m horny” and straight into “I need to be inside you to feel like a person again.”

It’s the longing that kills him. He could go days without touching you and still be craving you like he’s starving. Just seeing you laugh across the bunker? Feeling your hand brush his thigh under the table? He’s hard. He’s aching. He has to excuse himself to the hallway to take a few deep breaths.

He’s SO emotionally attached to sex. He jerks off just thinking about your moans. Not your tits. Not even the way you ride him. Just the sound you make when you whimper his name. I gotta drive that point home.

Z = ZZZ..

It depends on the type of sex.

If it’s a full-blown, body-shaking, filthy, 3-round, “I’m gonna wreck you” session? That man is out like a fucking light. He rolls over, panting like he just ran 15 miles, wraps one massive arm around your waist, and just… collapses.

If it’s slow and emotional? He stays awake a little longer. Just to soak it in. You’re all pressed against his chest, sticky and glowing, and he’s whispering shit like, “That was everything.” He strokes your hair while you fall asleep first. He tucks the blanket around your shoulders and passes out with his mouth slightly open against your hair. Probably drooling a little. Would lick it up ngl.

But if you’re not okay? If you seem shaky? Sensitive? Just need aftercare?? Sam will stay up all night. No matter what. He gets soft and focused, cleans you up real gentle, makes sure you’re warm, gets you water, and pulls you into his chest.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @tendertulip @tinas111 @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @lunaleah @anxiety-prime-max @amsliajskxkxkx @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @kimxwinchester @incubusimmolation @riteofpassage77 @ohangeleyes @kcundercover4 @southernimpala @laceandlipstick @bowbowrry @fernsplace @freds-chocolate-starfish @uchihasenpai2000 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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[sweetiebugwrites]

Marvel VS Kissing

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers

Pairing: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Thor Odinson, Peter Parker, Sam Wilson

Notes: Marvel Headcannons. As always, I've not proofread and let me know if you have any feedback. <3

Steve Rogers – The Gentleman 

Style: Slow, deliberate, and reverent.Steve kisses like every moment with you is precious. He’s the type to pause just before he kisses you, letting that one breath of tension build before he closes the distance. There’s a sense of awe in the way he touches you—his hand often gently cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he’s memorizing every part of you.

Forehead kisses? Constant. He adores them.

He’s not overly possessive in public, but when the moment’s private, he’ll kiss you like it’s the last time before a battle.

Whispered “You okay?” or “I missed you” between kisses. He’s verbal. He wants you to know how he feels.

Freebie: Rain. Slow dancing. Quiet after an argument. He’s all about emotional resonance.

Sweet Love in Jazz Park

They ducked beneath the edge of the old park gazebo, where the string lights swayed gently in the breeze. The crowd was thinning, laughter fading under umbrellas and retreating footsteps, but Steve didn’t want to leave—not yet.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones caught off guard.” You said, wringing the fresh water droplets from your hair, your eyes never leaving Steve’s.

He smiled softly, wiping a drop from his nose. “Yeah, but I’m glad I’m with you.” The words felt like an unexpected gift, as if they were both testing the edges of something new. His voice, low and honest, felt steady and sure.

A few seconds passed, the rain still pouring down in sheets around you both, but it didn’t matter anymore. The world had narrowed to just this—a small, quiet space where you don’t need words to feel everything that needed to be said.

Steve stepped closer, one hand gently brushing your cheek, his thumb catching a stray raindrop, and without hesitation, he leaned in.

It wasn’t a kiss born from fireworks or passion—it was softer than that. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of beginnings, of the small moments that create something bigger. A kiss of trust, of vulnerability, of something still unfolding.

Bucky Barnes – The Desperate Softness

Style: Raw, emotional, and grounding.Bucky’s kisses feel like they’re pulling him back into the present. He kisses you to remind himself he’s alive, that he’s loved, and that he’s safe. He can go from slow and soft to desperate and needy in a heartbeat, especially when he’s scared of losing you.

Often buries his hands in your hair, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go.

Prefers private moments—he’s uncomfortable with too many eyes, but behind closed doors, he’s endlessly affectionate.

Loves quiet, close kisses where your foreheads rest together after. He breathes with you.

Freebie: Kissing your knuckles or the back of your hand when words won’t come.

I’m Done Holding Back

Bucky had been quiet in your shared room when you had asked if he was alright. He insisted he wasn’t but it was okay, that he had you and that he was just thinking, which was never fully a good thing when he was left to simmer too long by himself. You let him rant, only offering silent encouragement.

“I want to show you something, though. Something that’s mine. That’s ours.”

He stepped closer to you, closing the distance between you with a purposeful stride. You didn’t back away, didn’t hesitate. Instead, meet him halfway, your breath hitching as your bodies were just inches apart.

Bucky hesitated for a moment, then reached up, his fingers grazing your cheek gently, almost as if testing the sensation of having control of this moment—having control over himself. His eyes searched for any trace of doubt, but there was nothing. Only love. Only trust.

And then, without another word, he kisses you.

It wasn’t a tentative, unsure action. It wasn’t a soft or gentle press of the lips. It was a kiss of desperation—the kind of kiss you give when you need to remind yourself of your own humanity, when you need to prove that you are alive.

Thor Odinson – The Gentle Storm

Style: Passionate, dramatic, and joyful.Thor is an all-consuming romantic. He kisses like he loves—with the force of thunder and the warmth of sunlight. There’s no holding back. Every kiss feels like he’s celebrating life, like you’re the most important moment in the universe right now.

Likes to dip you without warning.

Palm cradling your face, leaning in with eyes sparkling, then brushing your lips like it’s a ritual.

Loud laughter after kisses. “By the Norns, you’re magnificent.”

Freebie: He kisses your forehead and nose when he’s being playful, but crashes into your mouth when he’s serious.

Let Me Worship You

The fire crackles low. Outside, rain falls in sheets. Inside, Thor kneels behind you on the fur-draped floor, brushing your hair away from your neck with the gentleness of a poet.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He presses a kiss just below your ear, slow and reverent. Then another, lower. His breath is warm, his touch even warmer. You tilt your head slightly, giving him permission.

He murmurs something in Old Norse against your skin—his voice like velvet and thunder.

You twist to face him, and when your eyes meet, he looks almost shy for a second. Then his lips find yours—deep, slow, sacred. Like you’re the treasure at the heart of Asgard. Like kissing you might bring back the stars.

“I have seen a thousand galaxies.” He says softly, lips brushing yours again. “None are more radiant than you.”

Peter Parker – The Tender Enthusiast

Style: Sweet, nervous, and always 100% invested.Peter kisses like each time is a gift—and he doesn’t want to waste a single second of it. He’s so in love it radiates off him. Early on, he overthinks everything (Where do my hands go? Am I too much?), but once he’s comfortable with you, he’s golden.

Can’t help but smile during kisses. His lips twitch mid-kiss. He’s hopeless.

Loves quick, constant pecks throughout the day: cheek, temple, top of your head—he’s a hummingbird of affection.

But when he’s serious? He’s surprisingly good at slow, deep kisses, with hands on your waist and a whispered “You’re everything.”

Freebie: He apologizes after first kisses. “Sorry if that was—uh, I mean, was it good? You’re amazing. Can we—can I do it again?”

Unexpectedly Bold, Unshakably Confident

You’re rambling. Peter’s watching you with this half-lidded smile—quiet, focused, and something else. Something... new.

“You’re staring.” You say, finally catching it.

He tilts his head. “Yeah. I am.”

You blink. “What?”

“You look really good when you ramble.” He says, standing from his chair. He walks toward you slowly, a subtle swagger in his step. “And I’m kinda done pretending I don’t want to kiss you every time you do.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already there—his hands at your hips, his mouth finding yours with certainty and heat. It’s not sloppy or shy—it’s deliberate. Practiced. Grown.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless. “Where the hell did that come from?”

His lips pull to form a sly smirk. Offering a wink to you before going back for more. (He’s been watching youtube tutorials.)

Sam Wilson – The Steady Flame

Style: Smooth, slow, and deeply reassuring.Sam kisses with intention. He’s confident, relaxed, and knows exactly how to read your energy. Every kiss from him says “You’re home.” He’s present in every moment, and he makes you feel like the most grounded, loved person in the world.

He makes eye contact first. That lingering, soul-seeing kind.

His kisses are full of warmth and pressure, but always gentle. He doesn’t rush.

Will lean in and kiss you mid-sentence if you’re rambling or worried. Just to calm you.

Freebie: Pressing a kiss to your temple and murmuring, “You’re doing great” when you doubt yourself.

I’m Not Letting You Walk Away

You’re halfway to the door, shoes on, jaw clenched. The argument was low-key but heavy, and you need air.

Sam moves before you can turn the handle.

He grabs your wrist—not hard, but firm. You turn, about to snap, but he steps into your space. No words. Just presence.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not casual. It’s him saying everything he couldn’t get out in the heat of the moment. His lips are demanding, his grip strong as his mouth claims yours like he’s trying to erase the distance between you. You kiss back, surprised, breath catching in your throat.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath shallow.

“I don’t care if we fight. I don’t care if we’re mad. But you don’t walk away. Not from me. Not from this.”

You nod, dazed. He kisses you again—softer this time—but it’s still fire under the surface.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Beyond Misconceptions

summary: joaquin is usually the poster child for positivity, but sometimes the doubt creeps in.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: angst, jealous/insecure!joaquin, arguing, depictions of anxiety

wc: 1,675

an: based on this requested concept! it went a bit different than expected but i hope yall still enjoy <3 (and also hope it will hold yall over until vuelve pt. v is done!!!)

danny ramirez characters masterlist

Most of the time, Joaquin loves his job. He loves the brother he’s found in Sam, the tangible way he sees himself helping people day in and day out. The feeling of soaring through the sky, the invincibility that he seems to find in the wind.

But, what Joaquin doesn’t love about the job is the rift that it can sometimes create between you. One could say he’s being dramatic by using the word rift— you have never once complained, never made him feel guilty for the unpredictability of his schedule.

You always tell him that you know what you signed up for when you fell in love with him. And you do.

Joaquin is certainly grateful for your love and understanding, but it’s days like today that make him want to find some 9-5 to nurse.

When he steps into the party you two were meant to attend together an hour and a half late, he’s eager to see you. That eagerness twists into something ugly when he sees you. You, standing in a group, but primarily talking to some guy he doesn’t recognize.

You look…happy. Happy to be talking with a guy who showed up on time. With a guy who doesn’t put his life on the line, and your relationship on hold at the drop of a hat.

He can’t decide what he wants to do more— leave and let you be happy or put himself between you and this mystery guy.

As if you can feel him, you glance over in his direction, lighting up at the sight of him. That restless mix of jealousy and guilt fades a little with you so excited to see him.

“Quino,” You call to him, waving him over. When he makes it to you, you reach for his hand immediately, drawing him so that you can place a kiss on his cheek. “Made in one piece, I see, cariño.”

“Siempre lo hago,” he murmurs, snaking an arm around your waist. “So who’s this?”

You introduce Joaquin to the guy easily, slipping him into the conversation without missing a beat. Paul. Joaquin nods along, lets you pull him closer, listens as you chat, and laughs like nothing is wrong. Like he wasn’t late. Like you weren’t having a perfectly good time without him.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust you. He does. It’s just that tonight feels like a reminder of everything he isn’t—someone who shows up on time, someone whose job doesn’t put you second. And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it doesn’t matter, but it still twists something sharp in his chest.

His grip tightens just slightly on your waist. You glance up at him, brows furrowing in quiet question, but he just shakes his head, forcing a small smile. You don’t push, but something in your gaze lingers. You know him too well. You always do.

You’re driving the two of you home, music spilling softly out of the speaker when you decide to break the tension that’s been building.

“So what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You were being…possessive?” The word comes out of your mouth like a question because you’re not entirely sure. Nothing like this has ever happened with Joaquin— it’s unfamiliar territory.

“Claro que no,” he insists.

You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes. “Yeah, because that wasn’t defensive at all.”

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

Your eyes flicker over at him momentarily, and you soften at his visible tension. You’re gentler when you speak again, “Soy yo, Quino. We don’t lie to each other, we don’t do this… jealous thing that you did tonight. I don’t know that guy, I probably won’t ever see him again and I’m fine with that.”

“It wasn’t about that.”

“Oh, but it was about something? What could I have possibly done when I hadn’t seen you in days?”

“Querida— you didn’t do anything— it’s not… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You purse your lips, feeling a little frustrated. “I want you to tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. And if you can’t now, then think about it and we’ll talk about it before bed. Deal?”

The silence stretches between you, the music sounding much louder in the wake of your breaths.

Eventually, Joaquin says begrudgingly, “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“What do you want?”

“You,” He says softly, and nothing more.

—

Once you and Joaquin get home, you don’t push. You refuse to when he’s being so elusive, so guarded in a way he’s never been. You aren’t really sure what to do with it and it makes your stomach churn. You make your way straight to the shower without so much of a glance in his direction.

Joaquin wants to call after you, but can’t find his voice. Not a surprise when he feels his mind is completely scrambled.

All of this has tilted you off your axis. You make sure the water is scalding hot, hoping that the steam will steep out your thoughts of insecurity and unease. By the time you make it out, it just feels like they’ve grown louder, rooting deeper into your brain stem.

You make your way into the kitchen, walking past Joaquin where he’s sat on the couch. He watches you quietly as you make tea, unsure if you still want to talk or if he’s created the catalyst for his worst fear; losing you.

“So are we gonna talk about it or are you gonna keep staring at me?”

“Mi amor—“

You huff as you sit the chair across from him, “No, don’t mi amor me when you won’t even tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s not that I won’t, it’s that—“

“If you say you can’t, Joaquin, te juro por Dios.”

“I was gonna say that I’m struggling to figure out how. There’s too much up here, you know that. Usually, it’s just cheery.”

“I’m not asking you to be cheery, I’m asking you to be honest.”

Joaquin sighs, leaning forward to place his face in his hands. “When I saw you with him, I just— it made me wonder if you deserve better than me.”

Your brow furrows. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You’re in a relationship with a man you’re going to outlive. I’m never home, I’m always late as hell. Every day I force you to wait— for me or for a call that’ll break your heart. Don’t you think you deserve somebody that can be there for you? Someone, you aren’t afraid of losing every damn day?”

“I knew what I was getting into when I chose to start this with you. I know that you want to be around and be more consistent, but Quino, you’re out there saving the world. I can’t ask you to put down your dreams because you missed the first hour of a party.”

“I‘ve missed more than just an hour of a party. What happens when it’s our wedding? Or if you get sick? What if you need me and I miss something big? That guy, he could give you that.”

You lean forward, reaching across the coffee table to place your hand over his. “Then we’ll reschedule. Or my parents will take care of me. Or I’ll need you and I’ll be really sad that you’re not there but eventually, you will be. I don’t give a fuck about that guy. I don’t even remember his name. What I do remember, is how much I love you and how long it took me to have the courage to tell you that.”

Joaquin looks down at your hands before interlacing your fingers together. Your words soothe him even as he wrestles with the fact that he wants to give you more. He’ll try to give you more— you deserve it and so does the health of your relationship.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you?” you challenge, wanting him to truly think about it.

There are things about your relationship with Joaquin that are less than ideal and certainly compromise but that’s part of love. Compromising and making things work with the people that you love. Joaquin is loyal, loving, and tender; he always makes you laugh and takes your feelings seriously. He just happens to be a superhero, one you have to share with the world.

How selfish would it be to take him away from people that need him?

He squeezes your hand reassuringly, “I’m sure. ¿Me dirás si algo cambia?”

“Lo prometo.”

Joaquin leans back into the couch, patting his lap, “Ven.”

You quickly make your way to sit in his lap, wrapping both your arms around his neck as you let your legs dangle across the couch.

“Te amo, princesa.”

“I know, I love you too,” you murmur, running a hand affectionately through his hair.

Joaquin’s eyes fall to your lips, and when he finally leans in, his mouth brushes yours softly, a quiet promise that everything will be okay. His thumb traces your cheek, and it feels like all the unsaid words are finally spoken in the wax and wane of this gentle kiss. You close your eyes, grounding yourself in the feeling of him, of home. As he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath shaky, and you both linger there, knowing that in this moment, everything is enough.

After several moments of silence, Joaquin’s lips find your ear, “Paul.”

You lean away from where you’d gotten comfortable on his chest to look at him quizzically. “What?”

“The guy’s name— fucking Paul.”

You laugh, shaking the both of you. “I’ve already forgotten again. I’m more focused on this marriage you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m thinking under the cherry blossoms.”

“You should think about the blow your bank account is gonna take getting me a ring.”

Joaquin raises a brow at you, “Who says I don’t already have it, hermosa?”

You squint at him— usually, you’re pretty good at telling if he’s bluffing but his features are smoothed into the perfect poker face. “You lying?”

“Guess you’ll just have to find out, baby.”

lmk if you'd like to be on the sfw (or nsfw for 18+) joaquin taglist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @moonymeloncholymoney

[myardentheart]

peaches n' cream

summary: robby learns something about his resident that he absolutely has no business knowing.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: f!reader, implied age gap, camming, masturbation (f & m), a hint of yearning, inappropriate conversations in the workplace, robby is lowkey nosy asf

a/n: hiii :) this is my first time writing in 4 years lol and first time writing smut but the pitt just does something to me so! enjoy :D

robby knows it’s wrong. knows he shouldn’t feel this way for the young, pretty third year resident who is too kind for her own good. he even knows that not a single good thing could come from how he feels. 

but does knowing any of this stop his feelings? no. no it does not.

instead he feels his heart rate pick up just at the sight of you. watching you yawn as you pull your backpack onto your shoulders before giving him a sleepy smile. hand resting on his arm and gently squeezing, “goodnight robby. see you tomorrow!” as you make your way out of the pitt with samira to walk home together.

he thinks he mumbles a, “goodnight,” to you too, but he can’t be sure. he was too busy making sure he doesn’t have a goddamn heart attack in his own er at the sight of your smile.

a patient coming in with a massive hemorrhage means he stays in the er an hour later than he usually does. 

starting his walk home, he pops his earbuds in. letting “trouble blues” by sam cooke play. the walk flies by as he thinks of all the patients he’s had today. the ones he saved and the ones he couldn’t. he knows it’s not his fault but can’t shake the feeling that if maybe he would have just done a little more, they could’ve lived.

getting home, he drops his bag beside the couch and heads straight for the shower. he just stands underneath the warm spray for a few minutes, trying his best to let the day wash off of him—it never quite works—and swirl down the drain. 

when he’s finished, he slips into his pajamas and heads to the kitchen to heat up his leftovers. he sits on his couch, not quite watching the old game he has playing, before he goes to bed.

when he gets in, he just lays there. staring up at the ceiling. the weight of the day—really everyday since he became a doctor—hitting him all at once. every patient from the day he thinks he should have saved or could have saved if he would have just been a bit faster or a bit smarter sinking in on him.

he knows if he doesn’t do something to distract his brain he won’t get any sleep at all. but he hates himself as his mind drifts to you. the only good part of his day. the hatred only grows as he feels the familiar jerk of his cock.

if he were to tell someone what it was about you that captivated him, he would tell them a bit of everything, really. how compassionate you are with patients. how you give everyone your undivided attention as they talk to you. your tenacity to push yourself to always be better than you were the day before. the list goes on. is endless for him really.

which is why he knows it’s wrong when right after thinking of you, his mind drifts to a very inappropriate conversation he overheard between shen and ellis.

“i’m telling you, this website is actually good,” is what shen is telling ellis as they finish filling out their last few charts that morning. 

the only reason shen even thinks to bring this up is because he’s finally finishing up the chart from the girl who came in at 2am with a cucumber she couldn’t remove on her own.

ellis, for reasons she could not tell you—she will blame it on delirium—entertains him asking, “okay? i feel like the bar is pretty low when we’re talking about porn. most things are at the very least decent.”

and shen is shaking his head, “no like… it’s all live stuff, but there’s something for everyone. i’m telling you.”

he— and robby— can both tell she’s not all that sold, but he’s still telling her the website name, just in case.

the website robby hadn’t realized he filed away the name of until this moment. 

the one he currently has open on his phone that he’s holding far away from his face so he can fucking see without his glasses.

and as he’s scrolling through—not finding anything that’s suiting his interests—he’s wondering why the fuck he’s taking advice from shen of all people. indirect and otherwise. 

nearly halfway through the first page is when he stumbles across a cute peaches n’ cream themed starting soon screen and decides to click on it. he won’t admit to himself or anyone else it’s because it reminds him of you.

when he clicks in, all he hears is upbeat lofi music as he wonders what the hell he clicked on before a soft sleepy voice—that sounds a little too familiar—rings out. 

“hiiii! i’m here, sorry guys. my room was a mess. didn’t want to be messy for any of you… at least not yet” 

as she giggles, the screen switches from the starting soon screen to a woman lounging against the pillows on her bed—looking entirely too cozy to be doing what he came here to get—in long sleeved, peach-patterned pajamas. camera angled from her lips down as she sits with her legs criss crossed on her bed.

“i know. i know. very on brand pajamas tonight. peaches for peach!”

that’s when robby knows he’s fucked. he’s thought about you too much and now he’s seeing you in a random woman who goes by peach. in his defense though, she looks just like you. her smile as she welcomes everyone is nearly identical to the one you gave him tonight. the one you’ve given him every night since you started at ptmc, but he convinces himself he’s just seeing what he wants to see.

in any other circumstance, he would have clicked off by now but because she reminds him so much of you, he has to see it through. listens as she thanks everyone for their tips before her lips pull into a pretty pout. one that reminds him of all the times he’s given you cases that you didn’t particularly want and your mouth pulled down before you could feign indifference. 

“tonight’s gonna be a short one. today was so long and i’m so sleepy but i promise to make it good for you.”

robby lets out an amused huff—even as he feels his cock twitch at her promise—at one of the tips telling her she shouldn’t have to work but he likes the answer she gives more as she giggles softly, ��that’s very sweet but i love what i do! wouldn’t trade it for anything… but i do need to go to bed sooo let’s get started.”

he watches as she stands up so she can wiggle her pajama pants down her legs before they disappear out of frame. only able to focus on the cute pair of panties that match her pajamas as she sits back down and starts unbuttoning her shirt, smiling sweetly into the camera again as she reads through some comments, “you’re all being so sweet to me tonight! thank you guysss!” 

and he can’t be helped as he lets his hand slide over the bulge in his pajama pants. just palming himself lightly as he watches her shrug her shirt off, tits free and jiggling as she does.

it’s all he can focus on at first before he lets his eyes roam her pretty full lips, the softness of her stomach, her pretty tattoo—two cherries with their stems tied together by a bow with little sparkles around it, right below the inside of her elbow—that he notices as she reaches out of frame.

the tattoo looks a lot like yours. 

in the same place too.

and it hits him like a fucking freight train when he realizes.

she is you.

his hand stills on his cock as he recalls the time he asked you about it.

there’s a chill in the air, not strong enough to make you leave the bench just yet, but enough to make you reach into your bag to grab your jacket.

robby, hyper aware of every move you make, catches sight of the cute little tattoo you have.

can’t help himself when he asks, “what’s it for?”

you look up at him, eyes bright, even if they are a little sleepy, “what? my jacket? ‘s cause i’m a little cold, but i’m enjoying the quiet out here with you.”

the night had ended the way it usually does. a few beers in the park after a particularly long shift. just shooting the shit with everyone, laughing away the hard day.

it didn’t take long for the yawns to roll in and for people to make their exit, leaving only you and robby. 

you, because the stillness of the night was the only way you could decompress after a shift. robby, because he has a soft spot for you. 

which is why he finds amusement in your question as he says, “not the jacket. your tattoo. i’ve been meaning to ask.”

he will not be unpacking the fact that his heart skips a beat as you give him a teasing smile, “you been thinking about me, robinavitch?”

even in the dark of the night, you can see the flush that runs from his cheeks to his neck as he rolls his eyes pretending to be annoyed, “you wish, kid.”

you murmur something under your breath that he can’t hear before telling him, “doesn’t mean anything. i kind of just told the artist to do whatever and when she showed me this, i really loved it so i got it.”

humming his acknowledgement, he nods, while definitively deciding that cherries are his new favorite fruit.

robby knew, from that moment on, he was eternally and royally fucked when it came to all things you.

now though, as you pull a lilac-colored, six-inch dildo into frame, robby knows there’s no coming back from this. you will be irrevocably ingrained in him until you inevitably leave ptmc, and subsequently, him. 

he should close the tab, block this fucking website, turn off his phone, and forget all about this. 

but he does none of the above.

instead he works his pajama pants just below his balls, grateful he didn’t bother putting on boxers tonight as you ask everyone sweetly, “do you guys think i deserve to use this tonight? or should i only be allowed to use my fingers?”

as you read the comments that roll through, you lick up the side of the dildo. the sight of it has robby’s cock twitching, almost like it’s begging for attention it knows it won’t get from you. 

he gives himself the next best thing—his fist—as you read out a tip.

“you’re only allowed to tease yourself with it until you’re a dumb little peach, then use your fingers to cum.”

robby can visualize exactly how your eyes look as you pout at the camera, “you guys are so mean to me.”

and he has no choice but to squeeze at his base as you hum, “you know you like it mean. well yeah but i thought you’d be sweet to me tonight. guess i’ll give you what you want though.”

with that, you’re propping your feet on the bed as you spread your legs wide. running the dildo over your tits and down your stomach before running it over your clothed cunt slowly. 

letting out a soft sigh, you spread your legs even wider which has robby using his thumb to spread precum around his tip. hissing between his teeth as his thumb dips into his slit.

his eyes don’t stray from the screen as you pull the dildo away, just to let it slap against you heavily as you moan softly. before letting your teeth catch your bottom lip. 

you run the tip over your clit before pulling it back again, letting out a quiet whine as it smacks against you. you keep it up until there’s a visible wet patch on your panties and everyone in the chat is begging you to just take them off, so you listen.

using the leverage your pillows give you, you lift your hips and wiggle your underwear down until you can kick them out of frame.

dozens of messages come through telling you how pretty your pussy looks when it’s all messy and wet like this and robby is inclined to agree with every single one of them. 

he squeezes at the base of his cock before giving himself one slow pump upwards, squeezing even tighter right below his base as you whimper quietly, “‘s mean you won’t let me use this. just need to be full of something.”

robby can’t help but think in that moment that he wants to be your something as he watches you sink two fingers inside your tight, wet cunt. 

the moan of relief you let out at finally being full has his balls tightening already. he knows he’s not going to last as he matches the steady pace you fuck yourself to.

but it doesn’t take any time at all for you to find your spot as you curl your fingers, palm rubbing against your clit.

when you lift your hips to grind against your hand, robby knows there is absolutely no hope for him to ever recover from this. but he can’t even think about that as you squeak out, “‘m gonna cum. holy fuck i’m–”

and he is right there with you. not taking his eyes off his phone, just adjusting the angle as his cum splatters all over his chest. 

his vision whites out just a bit and when he comes back to, he sees you stuff your slick-covered fingers into your mouth after saying something, but he can’t hear you for the ringing in his ears.

instead of staying to figure it out, he’s making quick work of closing the tab and turning off his phone as if it will erase what he’s done but he knows it won’t. 

the only thing he does know is that he won’t be able to resist the urge to come back tomorrow night.

[wendichester]

hiiiii i just started watching spn and found your account! love your works so much!!! I just got to the season 4 and Sam is just extra hot in these episodes its distracting. Especially that episode with Ruby….

I was wondering if I could request Sam and reader, maybe just starting their relationship… where they’re finally taking it to a new level since Sam was a little hesitant to start a serious relationship before bc of his demon thing but reader doesn’t care about it, yknow just both of them finally talk about it maybe can be a little steamy (or smut if you want it to its up to you!!!)

Thankyouu!!!🫶🏻

⋆˙⟡ safe here,

summary. sam will forever be haunted by his past. his mistakes. but he feels safe here, with you.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. angsty smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 642

notes / warnings. explicit sexual content (consented, soft, protected sex), oral (f!receiving), sam being so vulnerable it kinda broke my heart

You find him on the edge of the motel bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he's praying. He’s been like that for a while now—quiet, brooding, barely looking at you even though you’re sitting close enough that your knees are touching.

You hate that look in his eyes.

Like he’s already convinced he doesn’t deserve you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you say softly.

His jaw tenses. “You should be.”

You shake your head, leaning in, letting your fingers trail up his arm. “Sam, come on.”

He finally looks at you. Those soulful eyes, full of all the guilt he’s buried so deep he doesn’t even notice when it leaks out in everything he does. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I could still—”

“I do,” you interrupt. “I know what happened. And I know who you are now. You’ve been punishing yourself long enough.”

He swallows hard, eyes dropping to your mouth like he wants to kiss you but doesn’t think he’s allowed to.

You take his hand and place it over your chest, right where your heart is pounding under your shirt. “This—this is yours. If you want it. And I’m not gonna let some past mistake you can’t take back make that decision for us.”

He groans, like you’ve cracked something open in him, and suddenly he’s cupping your face and kissing you so desperately it steals the breath from your lungs. Like he’s drowning in you. Like this is the only thing tethering him to the earth.

You pull him down with you onto the bed, mouths never parting, and his body covers yours in seconds, all heat and hunger and trembling restraint. His hands slide under your shirt, slowly, reverently—he touches you like you’re the first good thing he’s ever had.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs against your skin, lips grazing your collarbone.

You nod, fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt. “I love you, Sam. All of you.”

That’s all it takes for the dam to break.

Clothes fall away piece by piece, like the layers of fear he’s been hiding behind, until he’s naked above you, flushed and hesitant but so damn beautiful you can barely breathe. His hands are shaking as he runs them down your sides, memorizing you, relearning what it means to be touched and wanted.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers, voice thick.

“You won’t.” You spread your thighs for him, tugging him closer. “You couldn’t.”

The way he goes down on you is downright reverent—he starts slow, worshipful, fingers gripping your hips as his tongue moves in tight, wet circles that have you gasping his name like a prayer. He moans when you tug at his hair, eyes fluttering shut like your pleasure is his own salvation.

And when he finally slides into you, it’s deep and slow and intimate—like he’s giving you every inch of himself, every haunted corner, every scar. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard, hips rocking in a rhythm that feels more like love than lust.

“You feel like peace,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

Your nails dig into his back, pulling him closer. “Then stay with me.”

He kisses you through every thrust, every gasp, every whispered "yes" that falls from your lips. His name is a song you can't stop singing, and when you come, it’s with a sob in your throat and his name on your tongue. He follows right after, shuddering against you, his body pressed so close it’s like he’s trying to crawl inside your heart.

Afterward, he doesn’t pull away. He wraps himself around you, arm slung tight around your waist, lips brushing your temple.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he breathes. “Not this time.”

And you believe him. Because whatever darkness he’s carrying, you’ll hold the light steady for both of you.

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

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Imagine...Catching Dean Off Guard

Pairing: Dean x reader

________________

You were used to Dean being cocky and defensive. You were used to the sarcasm and gruffness. You were used to occasionally seeing him angry and downright terrifying. When you walked past his open bedroom and glanced inside though, you weren’t expecting to see him, head in his hands, knees in his chest.

“Dean?” you asked, his body jumping a little at the sudden intrusion. He quickly unfolded his legs, and moved his hands away, putting up a strong face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just have a headache,” he said, shrugging his shoulder.

“No you don’t,” you said, Dean’s eyes flashing with betrayal.

“How would you know? It’s my head,” he said, putting his walls back up. You took a step inside and saw him puff out his chest. “I’d like some peace and quiet if you don’t mind.”

“You’re lying,” you said, tilting your head. “I won’t make you talk-”

“Good. Now leave before I make you,” said Dean, standing and getting in your face. You had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze but you could see the sadness in his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay,” you said, Dean hardening his face to try to get you to look away first. “I get sad too sometimes ya know.” 

Dean looked a little surprised at your omission as you sucked in a big breath.

“I think about all the ways I screwed up in the past, all the ways I continue to screw up,” you said, forcing yourself to keep eye contact. “I don’t like myself very much sometimes. But I know I’ve got my guys to like me when I don’t. I know I’ve got my best friend there for me if I need him. I can think a million bad things about myself but he can look at me and I know he doesn’t believe any of those. I hope he knows the same goes for him.”

Dean cleared his throat as he looked away, vulnerability too close to the surface for him to hide.

“I do,” said Dean, looking down at his feet. “I’m like that every once in a while too. But that’s not what this is right now.”

“I told you I wouldn’t make you talk, Dean,” you said, running your hand up and down his arm. His lips parted as he found your face again and you looked up gently. 

He leaned in slow, slow enough for you to realize what was happening. You let him come most of the way before going the last inch and connecting his lips with yours. You understood his behavior perfectly well now. It was you he was worried about. 

Dean pulled away after a short moment, your hand finding the back of his neck as he opened his eyes back up to see yours staring at his lips.

“Like I said, not going anywhere,” you said, standing up on your tip toes, tilting your head back as Dean leaned down again, more confidence this time. When he pulled away you were breathless, a grin on your face.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” said Dean, cupping your cheek, his breath fanning over your face. “I don’t feel so screwed up around you, like I’m okay.”

“I get that more than you know,” you said, threading your fingers through the short hairs at the back of his head, tickling his skin. He blushed and you felt heat rush to your face at the sight. This was the side of Dean you wanted to know more of. The one that loved himself as much as you did.

“Thanks for checking on me,” said Dean, brushing his lips against yours.

“My pleasure,” you said, moving his lips with yours. You stayed like that for a beat, feeling each other’s heat before Dean’s hand on your cheek tilted your head up and you were kissing again. This was a side of Dean Winchester you were sure not many had ever seen.

But you were lucky enough to be one of them. Soon enough, Sam and Cas got to see that side of Dean too, the younger Winchester stopping you in the hall one day and wrapping you in a hug.

“Thank you for everything you do for him,” said Sam. “I’ve never seen him so happy, content. How’d you convince him the world doesn’t rest on his shoulders?”

“He knows he isn’t trying to carry it alone anymore,” you said. 

_______

[zepskies]

Here are some of my favorites! (A revamp of my old rec list.) They will span Tumblr, Ao3, and FF.net, as I did a lot of my early reading/writing on other platforms.

Keep in mind, I probably like several fics from each of these authors, but I'm featuring one or two that I very much enjoyed.

SUPERNATURAL FIC RECS

[OS] = One-Shot || [S] = Series || [HC] = Headcanon

Dean Winchester x Reader or OFC:

Stories are Dean x Reader unless noted OFC.

✦ Alisha Ashton

Clear the Area - [S | Excellent 4-part series!] This is the story of you and Dean, and how he manages to slip past your defenses. Written so that you can put yourself in the OC's shoes. Sorta set end S8. Slightly AU in the fact that Dean, Sam, Castiel, Kevin, and YOU all live in the MOL Bunker. Everyone is healthy. Cas is still an adorably clueless angel with zero tact.

✦ @luci-in-trenchcoats

Feral [S] (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) Feral is an Alpha’s most dangerous state. Pure raw instinct. A killing machine with no thought. Only an Alpha under extreme duress can submit to their feral side and they rarely can come back out of it. It takes highly specialized rehabilitation to even have a chance at working. When a feral Alpha comes into the reader’s low level rehab facility one night, she knows he’s a dead man walking. But he doesn’t deserve to die and a split second decision to help him escape before that can happen will put them both on the run. He’s no ordinary Alpha though. He’s Dean Winchester. The boy who went missing all those years ago. The boy that made everyone realize no one was safe from the Alpha black market. The man that could destroy them both with one wrong move…

Headcanon: How They Meet Their Plus Size Girlfriend [HC] (Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy, and Russell Shaw included)

✦ @deanbrainrotwritings

Wild Flower [OS] Dean gets hit by a spell when fighting a witch and assumes it was harmless or ineffective. He was wrong, but at least he wasn’t dead. He’s a woman now. 

✦ @waynes-multiverse

Creature of the Night [OS] When her car breaks down on a dark lonely road, she is lucky a handsome stranger takes her in. Grateful, she is willing to do anything to repay his kindness.

Headcanon: Valentine's Day [HC] (Dean Winchester // Soldier Boy // Beau Arlen // Russell Shaw – Edition) How would your favorite men surprise you for Valentine's Day?

Headcanon: Gettin’ Down and Dirty with Dean [HC] Smutty headcanons with Dean...

✦ @rizlowwritessortof

Take a Shot [OS] Let’s face it, his henley looks good on both of you…

Late Night Show [OS] You’re spending a little down time at Bobby’s when HE shows up with his brother. You try to ignore those old feelings for him, but when you accidentally walk in on him pleasuring himself, all bets are off. 

Lost in You [OS] A casual flirtation leads to a violent encounter, and Dean’s reaction is a little more than you expected.

That’s How It Should Be [OS] (Sheriff!Dean x Reader) Sheriff Dean Winchester/Reader have to escape, quick - but Dean won’t let being on horseback stand in the way of showing a lady a good time…

✦ @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

The First Time Series [S] Even though he's a lot older than she is, and more experienced in every possible sense, Y/N finds herself incredibly attracted to Dean Winchester. Amazingly, one day she starts to think that maybe the attraction isn't all one-sided.

The Dangers of Hope [S | Endverse!Dean] When Y/N shows up at Camp Chitaqua with her little girl in tow, her bloodshot eyes leave no doubt that she's infected. Or is she? Everything Dean has come to know for certain over the last five hellish years, is about to be challenged.

It's All For You [OS] After a hunt gone wrong, all Y/N wants is to make Dean feel better. Will he let her?

Things Learned and Unlearned [S] Y/N has spent her life trying to outrun her mother's reputation. When she meets the rich and successful playboy, Dean Winchester, how quickly can he get her to stop running?

✦ Lindsey D. Perez

Say I'm Beautiful [OS] You're feeling a little self conscious about your weight so Dean decides to show you how sexy you are. Dean x Reader Warning: negative body image, swearing Rated M for smut so go forth with caution.

✦ @ejlovespie

It Ain't About Pity [OS] (Dean x Plus-Size!Reader) Dean Winchester has eyes for the reader. She has no idea. When he finally figures out why she’s been dieting, he isn’t pleased. 

✦ kittenofdoomage

More to Love [OS] (Alpha!Dean x Plus-Size Omega!Reader) Reader is a hunter, and an Omega, an unusual combination. She’s always been mocked for her size, so she keeps to herself but a case Garth persuades her to take ends up with a confrontation she never saw coming.

Never Spoken, Always Said [OS] He doesn’t say the words much but he shows her every day.

Taste [S] (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) The reader is pregnant with Dean's baby. Spanning the first year or so, we join them as they discover new things about each other.

✦ @impala-dreamer

A Simple Kinda Man [OS] Dean’s a pretty simple man. He likes the things he likes and you can rarely get him to change his mind about it. 

Like Heaven [OS] (Dean x Curvy!Reader) Y/N’s request might throw him off for a second, but he’s never going to deny her, not when it feels so good in her arms…

Take a Break [OS] Laundry can be annoying and overwhelming, so it's important to take breaks now and then...

✦ @justagirlinafandomworld

Remind Me [OS] (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) There was no escaping what happened to you. There wasn’t a magical number of days in which you would simply get over it either. It happened and you had to live with it. But your alpha would never leave you to work through it alone.

Delicate [OS] Dean made you feel things no one else ever had. But is it a good idea to see this through?

The Fallout (Alpha!Dean x Beta!Reader) [S] When Sam meets his true Omega, you fear your time with the Winchesters is fated to end. Before they can hurt you, you decide to distance yourself. But Dean isn’t willing to let you get away so easy.

✦ @spnbabe67

Girls, Girls, Girls [OS - Part of a Series] (Dean x OFC) While on a witch hunt Dean gets hit with a spell. Later at the hotel, Dean feels the effects of the spell and Tori has to help him through it.

✦ @chevroletdean

NSFT Alphabet [Dean Winchester] [HC]

Masturbation [Dean Winchester] [HC]

✦ @thatonewriter15

Unspoken [OS] How many reasons are there to love Dean Winchester...?

✦ @iprobablyshipit91

Twenty Minutes or Less [OS] Dean raises an eyebrow at you, cocky smile firmly in place. "I bet I could get you there in twenty minutes or less.”

Magical Blooms [OS] After all, there was a flurry of customers walk through the doors to Magical Blooms each and every day, and quite a number of these were regulars. Just because one of those regulars was an undeniably gorgeous man that flirted shamelessly...

✦ @jawritter

Feral (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) [S] True mates don't exist, at least that's what everyone tells you. It's nothing but a childish, fairytale notion to believe that such a person exists. Someone that is made just for you, your person. Who knew they were so wrong…

✦ @marvelfanfn2187a113

Here For You (Dean x Little Sister!Reader) [OS] You help Dean through a couple different kinds of pain.

✦ @deanwinchesterswitch

The Girlfriend Who Remade Christmas [S] Dean’s holiday spirit is nowhere to be found. Fed up with his Grinch-like behavior, Nicole is determined to open his heart again to the wonders of the world around them and help him find joy in the Christmas season.

✦ @spnexploration

Collared [S] Sam and Dean save a woman from where she has been held as a slave by a witch. But things turn dark whenever they try to take her magic collar off, leaving them with a slave to look after and a curse to break.

✦ @kaleldobrev

Old Man [OS - Part of a Series] Dean never had a problem with the age gap between you two; not until now any way.

✦ @deanwritings

Friends with Benefits [S] After walking in on Y/N following a fun encounter, Dean and Y/N decide it would be beneficial and much easier to use each other for their needs. But can they keep it just about sex?

✦ @waywardxwords

Safe [OS] You had hoped to get in and out when you heard what town the next hunt was in. Unfortunately, you can’t outrun your past. You, also, can’t outrun those old feelings--panic, anxiety and fear. You had hoped you’d never have to share this part of your life with Dean, but things don’t always work out the way we had hoped.

Witches [OS] While hunting a witch, you accidentally stumble upon her collection of sex pollen. 

✦ @acreativelydifferentlove

Carry On [S] (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) You’re an Omega in a small rural town. When your father’s gambling and drinking leaves him with a debt he can’t afford to pay, he offers you to a group of Alphas. Dean Winchester is an Alpha desperately trying to escape his past and pain. Can you save each other?

You're Home [S] (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) After years away at college, you have finally returned to your home town. In order to settle back into the community, you have to seek permission from the Head Alpha. What happens when you see his son for the first time since presenting as an Omega?

✦ @deanwanddamons

Helping Hand [OS] Dean is tired after a hunt, so asks Sammy to drive Baby. You and Dean cuddle up in the back seat.

✦ @mind-empty-just-fictional-people

Love Language [OS] You’ve never said it, neither has he…is that weird?

✦ @pink-sparkly-witch

The Widow [S] Sam and Y/N are happily married, but everything changes after a fatal car accident leaves her a widow. The Winchester motto: “Family Don’t End with Blood,” takes on a whole new meaning for Y/N as she navigates her new normal with the help of her brother-in-law, Dean. But what no one can tell her is what happens when she falls in love again.  

✦ shirleypositive72

While They Dance On A Pin (Jane Series 5) [OS - Part of a Series] (Dean x OFC) Sam, Dean, and Jane have been on the road almost constantly since Dean's return from Hell. They're finding Seals, finding danger, finding out each other's secrets. But it's what they find when they open the door to one more motel room that sends Dean back into his darkest moments. An OC's experience of episode 4x16, On the Head of a Pin.

✦ BeccabooO1O

She's My Cherry Pie [OS] Dean was drunk. So terribly drunk. And it was hilarious. Just some karaoke!Dean (aka the best Dean of them all).

✦ @pamwritessometimes

Roots in My Dreamland [OS] Dean encounters a mysterious forest spirit who’s an enigma.

✦ @supernotnatural2005

Sexual Encounters with Dean Winchester - Edging [OS] Exploring new kinks with Dean. How far can you push him before he breaks?

Happy Accidents [OS] (Dean x Plus-Size!Reader) You haven't seen the Winchester's in over a year, but the case you're working has you scratching your head, and who better to call than some old friends. However, insecurities arise as well as the reprise of a long time crush. Little do you know, it's reciprocated.

Lebanon [OS] A wish gone wrong right brings back a familiar face. However, you all soon discover it's not as simple as it seems when what you’ve all accomplished, and your family, hangs in the balance.

Burning for You [OS] You're pregnant and it's awoken something feral, something instinctual in Dean.

✦ @ambiguous-avery

When He Slides In [OS] And says “Fuck, I missed you.” After a hookup with the (in)famous Dean Winchester, you figured that would be the end of it. Too bad you could never seem to get him out of your mind. People always told you that you got attached too easily. And they were right. You were just another notch in his belt. He couldn’t possibly remember you...

✦ @bettystonewell

To You I Belong [S] (Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader) Dean isn’t looking for a mate. Not only does he think he doesn’t deserve one, but the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain’t real. He still has free will, and saving you from monsters is just another part of the job.

Another Notch on His Belt [OS] Every little part of him is holding onto every little piece of her, and any other woman he’s been lucky enough to escape his life with. Even if it’s only for the night - or - Dean replaces intimacy with sex.

✦ @lamentationsofalonelypotato

It's Not a Big Deal [S] (Dean x Reader x Soldier Boy/Ben love triangle) Dean's in for a rude awakening when he finds out exactly what you did when you got stranded in another universe.

✦ @thoughtslikeaminefield

Deep [OS] Dean shows her more about pleasure than ‘deep’.

✦ @cheynovak

Four Men, One Birthday [OS] A birthday gift to me from lovely Cheyenne. 💜 Four birthday themed stories with Dean, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Russell Shaw.

Dean Winchester x Lisa Braeden:

✦ adventuresinposting

Damages [S] Ben is in a car accident causing a fractured skull. Consequentially he remembers Dean. Ben tries to find Dean, who is now a retired hunter after losing Sam in a final battle. This is the story of Dean finding something and someone to replace the hole in his life left by Sam.

✦ FaithDaria

One Step at a Time [OS] The Winchester way of life changes, and Dean adjusts accordingly.

✦ bloodmagik

A Dad By Any Other Name [OS] Ben is sick and Dean stays home with him while Lisa is at work. Lisa learns something about Dean's relationship with Ben.

Sam Winchester x Reader or OFC:

Stories are Sam x Reader unless noted OFC.

✦ Avrilando

While You Were Sleeping - [S] (Sam x OFC) A seriously injured unconscious man is in the hospital Rachel volunteers. With no idea who he is and if anyone is looking for him, Rachel decides to keep him company while he's sleeping. With The Eyes of a Loving Man [S] (Sequel to While You Were Sleeping) Continuing through Sam and Rachel's relationship with all the highs and lows of dating a hunter. Mostly a collection of oneshots and some connecting stories.

✦ Lindsey D. Perez

It's Your Birthday [OS] The Winchester's find out it's your birthday and insist on celebrating with lots of alcohol. Sam introduces you to body shots and things get heated. 

If You Give a Moose a Muffin [OS] ...he'll want kisses to go with it.

✦ ALoversDream

All of Me [OS] (Sam x Plus-Sized!Reader) Request where the reader (even thought she's usually pretty confident) is slightly insecure about her looks, and because she's plus-size. It ends in fluffy weight smut.

✦ BeccabooO1O

Could Have Told You That One, Winchester [OS] Imagine sitting one Sam's lap while you two are researching. She was reading one of the books about mythology for the Winchester's current case when she heard a frustrated groan from across the table. Sam Winchester had his laptop in front of him and various books of lore scattered around it.

✦ @princessmisery666

Samnesia [S] (Sam x OFC) Brooke is a calming distraction from the chaotic mess of Sam’s life. When a hunt keeps them separated for over a month, Sam returns to find she no longer remembers him. The need to find out what happened while he was gone sends Sam on a case that will change the course of his life. What he discovers along the way will change the way he looks at love.

✦ @ohsc

Delicate [OS] Sam being intimate with an inexperienced reader.

**I will keep adding to this list as I read and explore! Please reblog the fics you read and let these amazing authors know what you thought of their work. 💜

I have several more stories favorited on my FF.net account. (Beware if you try to read any of the stories I wrote there though. Some of those are old as hell and not to my current standard. 🤣)

Dean Winchester AU Fic Rec List

Original SPN Fic Rec List

Supernatural Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 6 - All The Noise

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: May the trials and tribulations of Sam Winchester putting up with some grade A bullshit begin.

Chapter title from Gold, Guns, Girls by Metric

Word Count: 16.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You ask for Dean's help on a hunt, and he leaves immediately. Sam has to go too. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 5 - Chapter 7

Read on A03!

Sam wouldn’t shut his big mouth about Her. 

Dean was getting sick of it. 

He knew that She was cool. He knew that She was smart, and funny, and a good hunter. He knew that they could use Her help all the time, because She probably would’ve gotten that stupid crazy girl in the painting immediately. She would’ve ganked the shtriga without blinking. They’d spend half the time doing the research, because She’d take one look at the Mordecai house and say This is a tulpa, De. none of those are related cultic symbols, but that one means blah blah blah, and Dean would stop paying attention because she looked almost inhumanly attractive when she got all freakin’ bossy and smart, and Her voice was like anesthetic to his thought process. 

But She didn’t want to stay with them. She still picked up Dean’s calls, acted like everything was normal, and Dean would feel a fucking lesion in his chest every time she’d ask how he was doing. He’d taste blood as he bit down a shout of fucking shit, Princess, because my brother’s going crazy, my dad’s hunting a demon, and my-

No. She wasn’t Dean’s anything. He understood that. She was made of stardust, and She’d fallen onto Dean by pure chance. He had no right to keep Her, and no right to demand more than just her voice in a phone.

Sam didn’t seem to get that, though. And no matter what Dean said, he wouldn’t just freaking drop it.

“What are these?”

Dean had frowned, glancing up at Sam to see the little bitch standing at the foot of Dean’s bed, his hands in Dean’s bag, holding-

Fuck.

He had vaulted over the motel couch, snatching the flash and jacket from Sam’s hands and shoving them back to the bottom of the bag.

“They’re my things.” Dean had snapped, slapping Sam’s hand as he’d reached down to grab them again. “Hand’s off, buster.”

Sam had rolled his eyes. “Buster? Really? Are you a low-grade 1920s gangster?”

“First of all, I’d be the fucking kingpin, Sammy, and you know it. Second, stop going through my bag, or I’ll break your hand.”

“No, you won’t.” Sam had shrugged, and Dean didn’t appreciate how his threats weren’t being taken seriously. “And that was not your stuff, Dean.

“Yeah, it was-“

“Do you wear women’s jackets?”

Sam had given Dean a pointed look, and Dean had scowled.

“Shut up.”

“Whose jacket is it? I mean, you never keep the stuff girls leave with you, and you don’t really know any women-“

“I know women-“

“Dude, you know one woman, and-“ Sam had cut himself off, his mouth slightly open. “Dean…”

“What.” 

Sam had made the sympathetic puppy-eyes, and Dean should’ve punched him right there. Would’ve saved him a lot of trouble. 

Because Sam said Her name with a painfully gentle voice, and Dean felt something clench in his chest. “That’s her jacket, isn’t it.”

Dean hadn’t been able to think of a good lie, so he’d just let out and unconvincing scoff, grabbed his bag, and stomped back to the couch. 

“It is.” Sam had trailed after him, saying Her name again, and he needed to stop fucking doing that. It always made something in Dean bright and hot, and it was annoying. “Why do you have her jacket-“

“She left it with me a while ago.” Dean had muttered, and Sam had given him a disbelieving look.

“How long is a while?”

Dean refused to dignify that with an answer, only turning on the shitty motel box TV.

Sam had moved to block it, his arms cross as he frowned down at Dean on the couch. 

“What about the flask?”

“That’s mine.”

Sam had given him a disbelieving look. “I’ve never seen it.”

“So? It’s not like I see all your shit-“

“You do, actually. We live on top of each other, and I never hide things. That shit,” Sam had pointed to the bag, his brows raised. “Was hidden.”

“Shut up.”

“Was that her flask?”

Dean had scowled, and that was apparently an answer for Sam, who had let out a long sigh and given Dean an exasperated look.

“Just for the record, I don’t think it’s weird that you have her stuff. It’s sketchy that you’re hiding it-“

“I am not hiding it-“

“Yeah, you are.” Sam had braced his hands on his hips, a small frown on his face. “Were you hiding it from Dad?”

Looking back, Dean should’ve figured out that silence was not an effective method of getting Sam to shut up. All it seemed to do was fuel him.

“You really haven’t told him anything about her, have you?” Sam’s voice had almost been awestruck. “Dude, I don’t think Dad would be that against you having a girlfriend-“

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Dean had snapped. “And you know what Dad found on her. He’d be right not want me around her.”

“But you want to be around her, Dean.”

Dean had scowled. He did. He felt fucking alive around Her, felt seen, and he’d never been happier to be an idiotic, easily manipulated dumbass when it meant he was in Her orbit.

And that didn’t matter.

“Drop it, Sam.”

Sam still hadn’t dropped it. He’d give Dean an odd look, dropped down to sit on the coffee table, and kept pushing. “Have you ever thought that maybe, if Dad got a chance to talk to her, he’d realize she’s not what we thought she was?“

“Doesn’t matter. And Dad has enough to worry about.”

“But I don’t think she’s something to worry about. I mean, if she got you to come around I’m sure that Dad-“

“Sam-“

“You obviously like her, Dean!” Sam had run a hand over his face, his voice rising to a half-shout. “Even if it’s just as a friend, you like her!”

Dean had let out a long, low groan. Sam didn’t get it. Nobody but Dean seemed to understand that She was awesome, but she was still a liar. Dean could never feel anything but golden around Her, but then she’d always walk away and he’d be left hollow. Because She was still too good to stay with him. She was too good for anything, and Dean hated her for it.

He hated that Dad was right, that She wasn’t made for this life, and she’d move on when she got that rush she was chasing. 

He hates that, no matter how hard he tried, he’d want to be Her rush. To share Her smiles and jokes and light, to ensure that She didn’t crash too fast when everything fell down.

“It doesn’t matter if I like her,” Dean had muttered. “She’s not in this shit like we are, Sammy. She’ll move on in a year-“

Sam had shaken his head. “That’s what Dad told you five years ago-“

“And he was just wrong about the timeframe. She’s not sticking around. So fucking drop it,” Dean had narrowed his eyes in a final warning. “Before I hit you.”

He’d thought Sam had gotten it then. He’d been wrong. Because over the next few weeks, every time Dean left the bar with a woman on his arm, Sam would give him a strange look and spend the next day talking about Her. And Dean didn’t fucking need to hear it.

He was living it. He was the one who had to miss Her, not Sam. Sam seemed entranced by Her, but the way everyone but Dad was. The way everyone who saw her knew that they were in Her presence, not the other way around. She spoke with an authority, and looked like She’d fallen from the sky, and moved like the world had been made for Her. Even when she threw a punch it was like she was dancing, and when She screamed it seemed to move the earth itself.  

Dad was strong enough to resist it, because Dad was the toughest, smartest son of a bitch Dean knew. And Dean couldn’t blame Sam for thinking about Her, because she was meant to be thought about. 

But nobody thought about Her like Dean did. Dean was weak and empty and She looked at him like he was something, so he missed Her. He was the one who couldn’t do anything but trail after Her, the one who always wanted to close the space between them and take Her hand. The one who was being cast in Her light, absorbing it and letting it linger around his body when She was gone. Who was always suffocating in the smell of fruit, who couldn’t ever find eyes as blinding as Her’s, who kept hoping he’d kiss someone else and they’d erase the phantom feeling of Her skin on his mouth.

Night after night and town after town passed in long, blended months, and Dean couldn’t find a woman he wanted to touch like he wanted to touch Her.

He wanted to hold Her hand. He wanted to grab Her by the waist and press her against to his chest. To lay his body over Her’s, make Her giggle and press her face against his neck, and demand to know how She was doing this. Why She’d laugh and tease and smile at Dean, just to tell him She didn’t want to stick around. Why he was the one who had to be haunted by Her, why She couldn’t just let Dean actually hate Her. Let him pull himself together and force his will to be as strong as Dad’s. 

Dean was addicted to a drug he’d never even fucking taken. He dreamt of a woman he had no right or desire to dream about. He washed the blood off his skin after every hunt, found another meaningless body in every backroad bar, and cursed himself every night when he fell onto the mattress and She wasn’t at his side. 

But he’d asked Her to be there, and She’d said no. She didn’t want this life in a way that counted, and Dean couldn’t blame Her, or hate Her, or even stop picking up the fucking phone when She called. 

Because the phone rang on his nightstand, he saw Her number on the small, fuzzy display, and he shot up, answering before he could think better.

“Dean?”

She needed to stop saying his name like that. Like She wanted to say it, and it was more than just a word, when She didn’t want Dean.

“Hey,” he muttered Her name, glancing at the sleeping lump of Sam in his own bed. “What’s up?”

“Are you busy?”

“Yeah, we’re talking.”

“No, I-” She let out a long sigh, and Dean could almost see the pout of Her lips. “I meant are you busy with a hunt?”

Dean frowned, because She sounded tired. Heavy. “You good, Princess?””

“Yeah.”

Lie. Dean could hear it. He could picture Her looking at him with a wide explosion and giving him a small smile, standing too tall and fidgeting with Her rings and holding Dean’s gaze as She fucking lied. 

And that was Her voice after long hunts, or gruesome deaths. The voice She used after one of her weird episodes. It always made Dean uneasy, made his heart and lungs itch.

And She was not good.

Dean moved into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and said Her name with a frown. “What’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on-“

“Why’d you call, then?”

She sighed. “Maybe I just wanted to talk, Winchester. Not everything has to be wrong for us to talk.”

“Uh huh.” Dean didn’t believe Her. Nobody ever just wanted to talk to him. “Where are you.”

“Colorado?”

“Sammy and I are in Virginia, sweetheart, and it’s 5am. With the time difference-“

“Maybe I just can’t sleep, Dean.” She snapped, and that sounded like the truth. It didn’t make Dean feel any less sick “And if you don’t want to talk, we don’t have to-“

“No, that’s not-“ Dean sighed, rubbing his brow. “Can you just tell me what’s happening? We can talk after, but I’m not saying a damn word until you stop freaking me out.”

There was a moment of static silence, and something like iron dropped on Dean’s shoulders. He’d fucked it up. He’d never really had Her but he’d pushed too hard and stepped out of line, and she was going to hang up the phone and Dean would be alone-

“Can you please just tell me if and Sam are in the middle of a hunt?”

He let out a long breath. “No, we just finished one up, in New York. Creepy fucking painting. Sammy got laid.”

She let out a soft laugh, and something warm grew in Dean’s gut. “And how many people have you told?”

“Just you,” he shrugged, leaning against the wall. “And the cashier at the gas station, and the motel cleaning lady. I’m proud of him, sue me.”

She hummed. “Does Sam know you’re telling people?”

“Yeah, he was right next to me-“ Dean cut himself off. “You’re trying to change the subject.”

“No, I’m just-“

Dean grunted Her name. “I’m serious, whatever’s going on-“

“It’s not-” Her long sigh hummed through the speaker. “It’s really nothing, Dean. I’m okay.”

She kept saying that, and Dean knew She wasn’t, and it felt like it was snapping along his spine and festering in his gut. 

And he couldn’t let it go.

“You know, you owe me one.”

He could hear the small frown in Her voice. “I owe-“

“A question, Princess. I’ve got one up on you.”

“Dean, we haven’t done that in a year-“

“And I’m bringing it back. I owed you, but you just asked me how many people I’ve told about Sam. I’m up, sweetheart. What’s going on.”

It was flawed logic. They’d asked each other a million questions, and answered all of them, and Dean had long lost track of it. But it was his in. His chance. And She could probably talk her way out of it easily, but he couldn’t let Her go-

“I need help. Please.” 

Her voice was a whisper through the phone, and Dean’s grip on the phone became painful. 

“You’re in Colorado?”

“Yeah, um, outside of Lakewood-“

Dean nodded, bracing his hands on the bathroom sink and frowning at his reflection. If Lakewood was where he thought, he could get there in a day. He’d have to leave now though, and not stop for anything but gas.

“What do you need?”

“I- I’ve got everything, it’s not even that big a case-“

“What is it?”

“Kelpie. And I can handle it myself, Dean, you don’t need to-“

“You just said you needed help.” Dean snapped Her name. He didn’t understand why the hell She was pushing back. This what She was asking, Dean always did what she asked, and She wasn’t going to have to speed halfway across the country because she didn’t know how to not go to her. “I’ve got nothing going on, and if you need help-“

“I- It’s complicated-“

Dean rolled his eyes. “Hypocrite.”

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Send me the address, Princess, we’ll be there by Friday, we can gank the, uh, the what?”

She sighed. “Kelpie. Scottish water monster, I think there’s one nesting in the pool-“

“In the pool?”

“Modern times, Deano.”

“Whatever, just,” Dean ran a hand over his face, frowning at the bathroom door. “I’ll have Sammy text you an update. Don’t move until we get there.”

He could hear Her scowl through the phone. “I’ll move as much as I want, Winchester-“

“Yeah, I know you will, just- Be careful.” He paused, letting out a slow breath. “Please.”

“I always am.” There was a long moment of silence, Dean unable to figure out how to move his body and hang up the phone, and then- “You really don’t need to, Dean. I can figure it out.”

Dean drew his lips into a tight line. “You need help?”

“Yeah, but-“

“Then we’ll be there. I’ll see you soon.”

He managed to hand up, because he didn’t want to listen to Her protest. To try and walk back that She wanted hishelp.

It ached in his chest that She regretted asking him. That She didn’t actually want him there.

He was going anyway.

Dean almost didn’t bring Sam. He stared at his brother in bed, rolling and grunting in his sleep, and didn’t want to wake him up. He’d told Her he’d take Sam, but he didn’t need to. Dean could go and have Her to himself. He could laugh and joke with Her like nothing was complicated, and forget about this whole fucked up mess. He wouldn’t have to deal with Sam’s pointed looks and questions about Her and how Dean felt. He wouldn’t have to remind Sam over and over that She was just like that—kind and magnetic and bright—for everyone, not only Dean. That it didn’t matter what She did and didn’t tell him, or what the hell those episodes were, or why Dean never told Dad about Her. None of it mattered, because they didn’t matter.

She mattered. She had people and a future outside of the mud. Dean was just Dean, and he didn’t matter enough to matter with Her. She could see that. And Dean wasn’t going to test Her willingness to be near him, to ask him for things.

And that was the worst danger to brining Sam. She and Sam seemed to get along. Sam liked Her. She and Sam fit well together, because they were both weird little nerds. And if She and Sam became friends, that would be another thing that tugged Dean back to Her side. Another reason for Her to fit against him, another reason to grin at and care about Her. 

Then Sam rolled over in bed, blinking up at Dean with a frown, and he was screwed.

“Dean, it’s like,” Sam leaned over to frown at the blinking motel clock. “Five in the morning. Why the hell are you up?”

“Get packed, Sammy.” Dean picked Sam’s bag up off the floor and tossed it onto the mattress. “We’re going in fifteen.”

“Fiftee- What?”

“We’re going-“

“Yeah, I heard you. Where are we going at five in the morning?”

Dean grabbed his own phone, tossing it Sam without a word as he went to pack his own bag.

“Golden, Colorado?” Sam looked up at him with a frown. “What’s in Colorado?”

Dean grunted Her name, and Sam’s eyes widened.

“Shit, is she-“

“She’s fine.” Dean snapped. “Needs some extra hands for a hunt.”

Sam repeated Her name, his tone disbelieving. “Needs some extra hands?”

“Yep. I’m gonna go start the car-“

“Dean, what the hell are we hunting that she needs a hand?”

“Kelpie.” He muttered, walking towards the door. “You’re gonna need to return the motel keys-“

Sam grabbed his arm, stopping Dean in his tracks. “A kelpie?”

“That’s what she said. C’mon, dude, move your ass-“

“How do you hunt a kelpie?”

“You can ask,” Dean yanked his arm from Sam’s grip, snapping Her name. “When we get there. Let’s fucking go.”

Sam gave him an odd look, but nodded, and they were out of Virginia before the sun broke the sky. Sam, for once, seemed to know what was good for him, and wasn’t pressing about why Dean was wired and edged the longer the drive crept on. Didn’t taunt him about running to Her side with barely a question, didn’t push on why She’d asked for help at all.

Because Sam was right. One weird and rare monster shouldn’t throw Her. Hell, it should be right up Her alley.

But She’d sounded so damn tired over the phone. She’d said please.

Dean wasn’t a vic, or witness, or random bartender. She never said please to Dean. Not in a real, nervous, pleading way. Where She acted like she actually needed his permission. Needed him.

So Dean was already flying through Missouri, so there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d turn back now. Not when She needed him. When She’d chosen to call Dean, and he’d picked up, and he could help.

He would help. Whatever the hell was going on with Her, Dean would do what he did best and have Her back. 

It didn’t matter if Sam was up his ass all weekend. It didn’t matter that She’d sounded reluctant for him to actually come. All that mattered was that he’d be there, for Her.

In Golden, Colorado, pulling up the long, dirt road of the address She’d sent, parking in front of a house.

A huge house. 

Something started to twist in Dean’s gut. This was the kind of house rich people lived it. Well-designed, surrounded by open land, so big he could probably park Baby in the living room. The kind of house She belonged in, the kind of house Dean only stepped foot in for pest control, before returning to the road.

The kind of house Her family might live in.

“Dean.” Sam was scanning over the well-trimmed bushes and cars, something close to worry written over his face. “That looks like a house.”

“I know, Sammy, I got eyes-“

“What kind of house had a parking lot?”

Dean’s brow furrowed, and he scanned over the rest of the area. Mowed grass, parking spots with little metal signs, a white picket fence and a painted-

“Country club.” He muttered, dropping his head to the wheel. “We’re at a freakin’ country club.”

“Oh.” Sam nodded. “Yeah. That makes more sense.”

It did make more sense. She wouldn’t lie to Dean about Her family for years, then ask him to drive for days straight to meet them. Dean would probably never get to meet them. One day the thrill would run out, and She’d just stop picking up the phone. She’d return to a house like this one, would live an Apple Pie life with someone just as untouchable as she was, and Dean would be a memory.

Not today, but someday.

Today She was waiting for them on the curb of the sidewalk, and looked up to great Dean with a wide smile.

“Dean!” She pushed herself to Her feet, saying his name the same way She always did. It was going to kill him. “You’re here!”

“Said I would be.” He shot Her a grin, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on Sam, sorting through Baby’s trunk. “You might wanna tell Sammy-“

Dean cut himself off with a low grunt, because She was hugging him. Tight. Her arms wrapped around his torso, fitting perfectly. Her face smushed against his chest, Her hair near his nose, and fuck she still smelled like strange fruit and Dean still couldn’t figure out what the hell it was-

She was gone too fast. Dean had to curl his fists to not lunge forward and grab Her. To not pull Her back into him, because goddamnit She’d felt right there, and Dean had no right to want Her there, but he did and She shouldn’t go-

“Thank you.” She mumbled, rolling slightly on Her feet. “I could’ve handled it, I swear-“

Dean sighed Her name, frowning slightly. “I-“

“But I’m glad you’re here.” She gave him a small smile, and Dean’s whole body seemed to have a chemical reaction to it.

The world was sharper, and colors were brighter, and something to the right of his heart was golden and pounding against his ribs because She was looking at Dean, so he was real. This was, at least for now, real. She wasn’t a dream, because She’d hugged Dean and he’d felt the press of Her body. She was glad he was here. She wanted him here. Where he could help Her, and he’d be repaid by just being allowed to be around Her. Allowed to look at Her.

She didn’t look good. 

She looked beautiful—She always look beautiful, in an indescribable and ethereal way—but She also looked exhausted. Her eyes were still brilliant, but there was something dulled beneath them. Her hair was still shiny, but it was messy. Unkempt. Her skin looked soft, and but Her clothing was dirty, and there were no rings on Her fingers. The skin around her nails red and raw. 

She’d been picking at them.

Something was really wrong. 

“Kelpie, huh?” Dean raised his brows. He couldn’t just ask, just demand She tell him what was wrong. That never worked. “How’d you find this one?”

“Paper clippings. The news goes crazy when they think rich people are being targeted for something. Four drownings were bound to capture some attention.” She raised up onto Her toes, frowning over Dean’s shoulder. “Is Sam okay?”

Dean shrugged. “He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine. So the kelpie’s targeting these golf douchebags?”

“No, it’s targeting the people in its immediate vicinity.”

“What-“

“Anyone at the club. There were actually six drownings. Two were staff members, they didn’t make the paper. Sam!”

Sam called Her name back, and Dean turned to find his brother’s face split into a wide, easy grin as he hauled their hunting bag across the parking lot. “Hey!”

“Hi!” She returned Sam’s smile, nodding to the bag as he set it down. “What’s that for?”

“The hunt.” Sam crouched down, hunching over the bag as he unzipped it. “I didn’t get a chance to research kelpie’s on the drive, so we’ve got some of everything. Salt, holy water, bullets, uh, I can find you a knife-“

She hummed, leaning over Sam’s shoulder. “Do you have silver?”

Sam glanced up at Her. “Silver bullets?”

She nodded, and Sam shrugged.

“Yeah, we should. Why?”

“That’s all you’ll need.” She glanced around the lot—mostly empty expect for them and a handful of old people—and Her brow furrowed. “We should go inside. Uh, Sam, you can grab the silver, but I don’t think-“

“Bag goes back in the car.” He nodded, rising back to his feet. “I’ll meet you guys in there.”

Sam wandered back to the Impala, and Dean didn’t even have time to look back to Her before she was grabbing the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him inside. 

“Shit-“ Dean steadied his pace, staying one step behind Her. “Princess, I don’t think we can just walk inside-“

“Of course we can.” She waved him off, pushing through the doors. “You can go anywhere as long as you act like you belong there.”

Dean frowned. He did not look like he belonged here. He was wearing slightly torn jeans and a leather jacket that might still have blood on it. His hands were awkwardly in his pockets, and he hadn’t slept in a little over a day, and anyone with eyes could tell he was an imposter. An invader, trailing in Her wake like a feral street dog.

But She did belong here. She carried herself with purpose, and held Her chin high, and when they walked past the entrance desk She gave the receptionist a sweet smile, and nobody stopped her. Dean got an odd look, but She was still holding onto him, so he was allowed in. 

He was a little worried about Sammy, walking in with matted hair and a bunch of bullets in his jacket. 

It would probably be fine. She was here, and She knew what the hell she was doing all the damn time, so it would be fine.

“Do you want a drink?”

Dean blinked at Her, letting her guide him down into a chair. “A drink?”

“Yeah, they’re free.” She pointed to an empty glass, resting on a side-table next to her own chair. “I’ve had like, seven cokes.”

He snorted. “That’s too many cokes, sweetheart-“

“Fuck off, Winchester. I’ve seen you eat three pies in one night.”

“I earned those pies-“

“And I earned these cokes. So, shut up.” 

She raised Her brows in a silent challenge, and Dean chuckled, raising his palms up.

“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced back to the empty glass. “They really free?”

She nodded—Her smile wide and a little intoxicating—and Dean leapt out of his seat, half running to the sleek bar to order the fanciest, more expensive and stupid whiskey they had. 

By the time Sam joined them—Dean had been right, She vouched for Sam and he walk right past the desk—Dean had added a large basket of pretty terrible fries and a ribeye steak to their table, and was inhaling them like he’d been stranded in the desert for a hundred years.

“Holy shit, dude.” Sam laughed, dropping into the final empty chair. “This is why I said we should take an hour and eat.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but She blinked, leaning forwards in her seat.

“You guys stopped, right?“ She looked between them with a pretty, pouting frown. “On the drive here?”

“Nope.” Sam shook his head. “Not even when I really had to pee-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted, a little bit of fry falling onto the plate. “Shut your mouth.“

It was too late. She was sitting up a little taller, glaring at Dean with Her arms crossed over her chest.

Her tits looked great like that.

“Dean.”

He gave Her his best innocent look. “Yeah, Princess?”

“How long was the drive?”

“I dunno, I left right after you called-“

“Sam?”

“Twenty-two hours.” Sam said, looking a little too thrilled with how Dean was about to be flayed alive. “Dean drank fifteen coffees.”

“Fucking- Dean!” 

“Sammy’s being a dramatic little bitch.” Dean shot Sam a glower. “And I’m gonna fucking kill you- shit-“

Dean winced as She kicked his shin, Her whole expression a little violent. It was kinda hot.

“You need to go sleep-“

“Nah-“

“Winchester.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You either sleep, or I cut you off from the free food.”

Dean scoffed. “You can’t cut me off-“

“It’s my fake account, Deano. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean looked between Her and his steak with a pout, his voice becoming mournful. “C’mon, sweetheart, it’s free food-“

“And it’ll keep being free, as long as you go fucking sleep-“

“How about this.” Sam raised his hands, saying Her name as hell of a lot nicer than he ever said Dean. “You tell us what the case is, and what you need us for, so we,” he gestured between himself and Dean. “Can know what we’re in for. Then Dean and I will go to a motel, get some sleep, and we’ll regroup tomorrow. Deal?”

She let out a low, adorable huff, but nodded, and Dean rolled his eyes and grunted an agreement.

“Great.” Sam turned to Her, leaning forward in his seat. “What’s the deal with the kelpie?”

“There’s really not much,” She shrugged, still mostly glaring at Dean. “It’s living in the pool, kills about two people a week, and I can’t find it during the day to kill it.“

Dean frowned. “Have you checked the pool at night?” 

“Yeah, but it’s in the filtration system, and I’d have to break the whole water pump to get into it.”

“’S why don’t you do that?” Dean wiped his mouth of a little steak juice, and She gave him an unreadable look.

“Because that would flood the supply room, and give the kelpie an advantage in the fight. It’s a last resort, because we should be able to get it during the daytime.”

“Kelpie’s are shape-shifters, though, right?” Sam looked around the room, his face drawn in concern. “It could be anyone here.”

She nodded. “Technically, yeah, but we’ll be able to identify it. It’ll have water weeds in its hair, so we’re probably looking for someone with a hat, and it should have a piece of iron jewelry.”

Sam raised his brows. “Iron?”

“It’s bridle. If you take it off, it’ll revert back to its normal form. We can start looking tomorrow, but,” She turned back to Dean, raising Her chin slightly. “You’re going to rest first.”

Dean was ready to protest, to push on the fact that this sounded like it could be quick—like they could gank this asshole in an afternoon, then spend several days eating free food and just hanging out together—but Sam was a freaking traitor and stood up, making Her promises that they’d get some rest and get going tomorrow morning. 

They found a motel room only a few doors down from Her’s, and Dean had to bite down the demand that they all stay together. It would save money, and time, and he’d be able to figure out what the hell was up with Her faster. Because he got that stupid sleep, Sam passed him a coffee in the morning with an amused grin, and they started to look for this pool-dwelling son of a bitch, but something was still wrong.

She was off. When they saw Her the next morning, She didn’t look like she’d rested. The entire time they were making a game plan—gathered around one of the country club’s fancy tables, She and Sam talking as Dean stuffed his face with some pretty freaking awesome scrambled eggs and bacon—She kept glancing around them, beautiful features bloodless and her hand rubbing on her palm. When they actually started the hunt, Sam had barely said the words split up when Her hand shot out and grabbed Dean’s elbow. 

“Dean and I can go together,” She said, and Dean was pretty sure She was going to break his arm. “In case I need something shot.”

Sam nodded, moving on, but Dean just stared at Her. She never needed something shot. She only ever scoffed and rolled Her eyes when Dean suggested she’d need a gun, whenever he insisted on walking ahead of her because he was better armed. And he’d never once heard Her request that they not split up. 

Something was really fucking wrong. Something She wouldn’t tell Dean about. Her eyes kept wandering around every room they walked through, and She was far too rigid every moment, and Dean wished She’d just tell him what to do. Just show him what was wrong, so he could take care of it for Her. That was what he’d come to do, and now he was stuck in some sort of fucked up limbo between needing to help Her and never wanting this to end.

Because Dean was a selfish douchebag, and his worry was only barely outweighed by how good it felt for Her to be this close all the time. The hunt started to stretch into days, and She was barely leaving Dean’s side. He and Sam would wake up, and She’d already be waiting outside their door. She’d curl up in the Impala backseat as they drove to the country club—Her eyes always drooping slightly, and Dean’s gut always rolling with a rotting, taut worry—and She’d let Dean help her out of the car. They’d spend the day trying to talk to the staff and patrons, countless polo wearing, hair-gelled, manicured douchebags would try to hit on Her, and she’d barely even look at them.

She seemed to be only looking at Dean.

Only at Dean, and only around every room, like the furniture might come to life and attack Her.

And he was fucking confused.

“How you feeling, sweetheart?” Dean watched Her carefully—beautiful, exhausted, scanning around the dining hall with a tight expression—and took a large bite of his sandwich.

“I’m okay,” She mumbled. Lie. “Why is Sam taking so fucking long. We agreed to meet at noon-“

“He’s probably just gettin’ hit on by grandma’s again.” Dean shrugged, crumbs falling out his mouth as he spoke. “Or maybe he finally got somethin’.”

She hummed, but Her shoulders were still too tight, her brows drawn together. She wasn’t eating that much. She seemed to mostly be drinking coffee and chewing gum, and it was just another reason to be worried about Her. He’d started to get extra food, placing it in Her path to try and bait Her into eating it. Even now Dean was pushing his food half across the table for her to take, but She was barely even looking at it. 

“Maybe we should go find him- Sam!”

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Sam sat down, leaning back in the chair with a sigh. “The old lady with the beetle broach was trying to talk to me again.”

Dean laughed, nudging Her foot under the table. “See, Princess, I told you-“

“Shut up.” She muttered, running a hand through Her hair as she frowned at Sam. “You good?”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, I’m fine. Little hungry-“

“Go grab some food, Sammy.” Dean nodded to the bar, taking another bite. “’S free.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam frowned, glancing at Dean’s plate. “Dude, that’s like your third meal of the day.”

“Fourth.” She corrected, giving Dean a pointed look. “He made us stop for fries earlier.”

Dean swallowed, shooting Her a smirk. “You ate some of them too, sweetheart.”

“I ate like, two-“

“Hold on.” Sam raised his hand, looking between them with a frown. “You let her eat your food?”

Dean shot Sam a glare, because if he took this where Dean knew he was trying to, he’d get his ass beat. “There were a lotta fries, Sammy. And it’s free, I got another basket right now-“

“But you never- fuck-“

Sam leaned down—rubbing his shin where he’d be kicked—and Dean raised his voice, holding Sam’s annoyed gaze with a glare. “Stop wasting time, dude. You find anything?” 

“No, nothing.” Sam gave him another odd look, but got the fucking message, and moved on. “How about you guys? Did the golf team pan out?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, nothin’ but a bunch of assholes in boat shoes tellin’ us fuckin’ shit-“

“Dean.” She shot him a glare, holding a cloth napkin across the table. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

He rolled his eyes but took the napkin. “Bossy-“

“Dean-“

He raised his hands in mock surrender, and let Her take over. He’d probably have gotten stabbed if he didn’t, and She was always hot when she thought aloud. 

“He’s right, we don’t have anything.” She let out a long breath, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “No hints, no suspicious activity, and everyone’s clean. There hasn’t even been a murder since you guys got here-“

“Could the kelpie have left?” Sam asked, and She shook her head.

“No, especially not in a place without any other bodies of water. Something’s… I don’t know. This is weird.”

Dean agreed. This was weird. And as She and Sam started to talk about new plans and ideas, Dean knew something was really, really wrong.

She was the starting to be the one who trailed after Dean. They only separated at night, when he and Sam would go to their room, and She’d go to hers. He knew She’d asked him—just Dean, no one else—to help, and that she didn’t seem to be looking anywhere but him, but he also knew She still wasn’t telling the truth. Still wasn’t telling Dean what the hell was up with Her, wasn’t explaining what was making Her so freaking jumpy, all while clinging to Dean like he was a lifeline. Everything about this was strange. 

Because it wasn’t just Her, acting as if Dean going out of Her sight was the worst thing in the world. It was this whole damn case. Dean had to watch Her get hit on by countless, undeserving assholes, and every time one would move a little too close to Her, the wind seemed to blow them back. He’d thought he was just seeing things the first two times it happened—the stress of the case and his worry for Her getting to his head—but then one son of a bitch placed his hand on Her arm, something started to strangle Dean in his chest, and the trust-fund dickhead stumbled back. 

Dean hadn’t moved. She’d just been standing there with an unreadable expression, hugging Her body so tight Dean was worried she’d bruise herself. And Dean was certain he was losing his mind.

But then it happened again. And again. Strange things building up and up on top of each other, none of them making any damn sense. Random people would brush against Her in the hall, she’d side-step into Dean, and he could swear the whole building would creak. They’d chase something that seemed like a lead but ended up being a dead end, and something would fall off a shelf. Every time She spoke to someone that wasn’t Sam or Dean, Her eyes would narrow and she’d rub her palm like she was trying to wipe the scar off Her body. Sometimes Dean could swear the pavement was cracking under Her, and the water of the pool would always crash up at Her feet, and the flowers in the garden would lean towards Her as they walked through the grounds. She and Dean would turn a corner, bump over each other until Dean steadied them both—one hand around Her waist and another braced on the wall—and the hallway lights would spark.

And they still had nothing. And the deaths had stopped. 

Which only made Dean more confused. Because things were weird, but She never mentioned all the strange shit Dean was seeing, and this case was boring. It wasn’t something that should be making Her—sexy as hell, smart-mouthed, impossibly fucking confident Her—look like She was the one being hunted.

And there hadn’t been another murder, or any leads, or a hint to anything at all.

They were on day four, and Sam had been smart enough not to push about Her and Dean being more than hunting partners, but he was still pressuring Dean about checking on Her. Sam had noticed things were odd too. Every night, when they’d separate from Her until dawn, Sam would press about if She was good. If She’d been having any episodes, if She’d mentioned anything odd, if Dean wanted to push a little harder to ensure they could wrap this up quicker.  

And Dean caved. He felt like he was winding tighter and tighter with every passing day that She remained hollow and on edge, and he agreed with Sam. For Her, they had to wrap this up now.

Dean said Her name carefully that morning, watching Her in the rearview mirror. “It’s last resort time.”

She shook Her head, and Dean knew that if he turned around, she’d be picking at her fingers. “No, we can give it another day-“

“We’ve given it four other days. We’re doing this now.”

“Dean-“

“Nope. You asked for our help, Princess, and this is us helping. You and I are gonna go into the pump room, Sammy’s gonna keep the staff away from us, and we’re wrapping this shit up. Got it?” Dean shot Her his best stern glower in the mirror, and She swallowed. And flushed. 

He tried not to think about it too much. How She was letting him do this for her. How She was almost pressed to Dean’s back as they snuck into the staff only area, and how She was touching him. Holding his arm like She wasn’t sure he was real. Fully listening to Dean for maybe the first time since they’d met.

It was jarring. And kept doing funny things to his lower stomach, when She’d wrap a hand around Dean’s bicep, and he’d get to lead her through the darkened hallways. She trusted him. She wanted him here.

For this, She actually seemed to want Dean. 

And he wouldn’t let Her regret that. He’d prove himself here, and maybe She’d fucking listen to him more. Maybe he could get Her to keep holding him. Maybe he could even convince Her to let him hold Her. In the dark, on every hunt, in broad daylight where nobody would ever try and touch Her again because Dean would be hanging around Her shoulders-

He needed to pull himself the fuck together. These were pointless, impossible fantasies that were distracting him from the hunt, distracting him from actually keeping Her safe, from doing his damn job. Just as Dad had warned.

Dean couldn’t afford to disappoint Her and Dad. He needed to wrap this case up now.

“Ready?” He whispered when they reached the pump room, glancing over his shoulder to see Her eyes wide, her grip on his arm becoming bruising.

“Ready.” Her voice was a breath. Dean didn’t believe Her.

He said Her name slowly, scanning over Her too open features. “I can still have Sammy do this with me, and you can do the distraction-“

“No!” Her voice was almost a shout, almost frantic. “I’ve got this, De. I’m just tired.”

She was tired—Dean could see it all over Her gorgeous face—but there was more. There’d been more, this whole week. And Dean had never learned how to just let it go.

“I’m serious, I can even do it myself-“

“Fuck off, Winchester.” She snapped, and Dean felt odd relief through his body. “You’d never let me do this alone.”

“That’s cause you wouldn’t bring a gun, Princess. I got silver bullets and some food in me, I can kick this things ass easy-“

“And I’ve got coffee and a knife.” She pointed Her knife at Dean’s frown, and fuck, that shouldn’t turn him on as much as it did. But She looked more like Her again—a hot, annoying pain in Dean’s ass—and that was the knife he’d given Her. Comfortable in Her hand, like Dean always wanted to be.

He needed to pull it the fuck together.

“Fine.” He let out a long, slow breath, glancing down the hall behind Her. “Ready?”

“Born it.” She muttered, and at least Her blinding, impossibly secure confidence was back. Even if Dean would see that give-away wrinkle in Her brow. Even if She was leaning into Dean’s body in a way that set him ablaze. “Let’s go.”

Dean nodded, raised his gun in a defensive position, and slammed his shoulder into the door with all the force in his body. 

The room was dark. Pitch black and strangely silent, something wet pooling around Dean’s ankles, and he almost doubled over at the first breath. It smelled horrible. Like rotten fish and trash and sulfur and chlorine-

“Holy shit,” She muttered from behind him, sounding just as choked on the air as Dean felt. “Dean, light-“

“On it.” He fumbled in his jacket, pulling out the flashlight She’d shoved into his hands as they’d walked down the stairwell.

The moment he switched it on, he wished he’d kept it off. 

A young, dark-haired man was slumping against the already broken tank, and his body way fucking mauled. Chest ripped open and mouth unhinged in a permanent scream, eyes clouded and staring into nothing for the rest of time. It seemed like he’d started to decay—clumps of hair missing and skin sagging off his body—and adding that with the smell, Dean guessed the poor son of a bitch had been down here for days.

“Goddamnit.” He muttered, scanning around the rest of the room. The water was red with blood and the tank looked like it had been bashed in, but there weren’t any other signs of danger. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and She wasn’t looking at him. Or around the room. Her attention seemed trapped on the man on the floor, Her every breath so shallow and rapid Dean was a bit worried She’d pass out. 

Dean said Her name, his voice low and cautious, and She just shook her head.

“No.” She whispered, and she was starting to cave in. Curling into Herself as all the color seemed to drain from the world, and Dean watched Her shake her head, repeating the word once more. “No, that’s- no-“

Dean said Her name again, reaching out an arm to hold Her upright, and she flinched away.

He could swear the water filling the room was starting to turn at Her feet.

“Fuck, no. No, I can’t, fuck-“

“Princess, you’re starting to freak me- hey-“

She started to walk in unsteady steps to the body, dropping to Her knees in the water with only another shake of her head. “No, it’s- I’m not-“

Dean snapped Her name, his voice rising to a shout as She didn’t even look at him. Her hands only rested on the neck of the corpse, pulling down the collar of his ripped and tattered shirt. Dean heard a choked, distressed sound, and when he came up behind Her there was a thin, gray chain glinting around the man’s neck. 

She ripped it off, and the body started to transform. Limbs growing longer and thinner—almost bone-like—and skin turning green. Hair started to grow down the man’s neck, his eyes peeling and stretching to the side of his head, his hands fisting and becoming rock solid and hoofed-

Those were hooves. Those were fucking hooves. That was a fucking horse.

That was the kelpie. Still with its chest carved apart and bleeding, still rotting and glassy-eyed, but now in its true form.

Dean hadn’t thrown up on a hunt for a long, long time. He was pretty damn close to losing his lunch now.

But then he glanced at Her, and the whole world narrowed down. She was panicking, scratching at her throat and scrambling backwards—slipping in the blood-stained water and hyperventilating with glassy eyes—and She needed him.

Dean didn’t care that the hunt was suddenly and strangely over. He didn’t care about who or what had killed the Kelpie, or cleaning up a horse from a basement, or how the water was definitely starting to swirl and crash like an ocean at his feet. He cared about Her. About how She was falling apart, and Dean could help. She’d wanted him here for Her, to help, and that’s exactly what he’d do.

He ran to Her side, ignored Her weak and strangled protests as he hauled Her up in his arms, and carried her out of the pump room, away from the body.

He didn’t bother to look anywhere but Her and the immediately steps ahead of him as he carried Her away. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and Her face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck as her breathing didn’t steady, but slowed. They were both covered in the reek of blood and chlorine, and when he lowered Her onto the curb of the parking lot, she seemed to just collapse. Hugging Her knees to her chest and clawing at her face, muttering low words Dean couldn’t make out.

He could swear he heard his name, somewhere in this impossible, confusing mess. But it didn’t really matter, because there were tears flowing down Her cheeks, and Dean needed to take care of this. Take care of Her.

Just make this better, somehow, because every weak noise that left Her mouth seemed to be a poisoned stab into his intestine. 

He didn’t know how to do this. She was fucking crying, and he’d only ever dealt with this for Sam. And She wasn’t six years old. Dean couldn’t promise Her ice cream and TV, or tell Her about how he was afraid of the dark sometimes too. He didn’t think She’d be that comforted knowing Dad would always protect them. 

He knew She wouldn’t give a shit that Dean would always be there to keep Her safe, even if that was truer than he’d ever say aloud. 

But he had to do something, so he knelt at Her side and raised slow, careful hands to frame her face. He wiped away her tears, and his thumb moved on what might be becoming instinct, stroking a slow, firm line down Her nose.

The tight furrow in Her brow vanished. Her breathing started to find a long, slow rhythm. And when Her eyes blinked open they were glossy and a little red, but still brilliant. 

Her hands shot to his chest, and for an infinite, painful moment Dean thought She was going to push him away. That he’d be sent stumbling down to his ass, and She’d shout that he didn’t need to coddle or touch Her. That he should be going to Sammy and focusing on the hunt, because she could take care of herself and Dean should’ve stayed on the target, no matter who fell in his path. Even if it was Her, and she was the most important thing he’d ever been allowed to be close to.

But She didn’t shove him. Her fingers curled in his shirt, she leaned a little further forward, and Dean was pretty sure that if the sky fell, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but remain like a statue or suit of armor at her side.  

“I-“ She swallowed, Her eyes wide and open on his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, Dean, I’m sorry-“

She fell silent as Dean squeezed his hands on Her face, a frown pulling at his lips. “What the hell are you sorry for.”

“I- I can’t- I don’t- I’m sorry-“

Her voice started to grow pleading, and She was leaning forward like Dean needed to breathe in Her words to get them.

Once again, he didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Dean grunted Her name, shaking his head. “It’s good, Princess. I’ll clean it up, Sammy’ll figure out what killed it, and you’ll go rest until we’ve got something.”

She gave him an odd look, shaking Her head again. “Oh. Um, I can help-“

“You can get some sleep.” He made his voice firm and commanding again, holding her gaze as he spoke. “You need to lie down, Princess.”

“But-“

“You called us for help. This is us helping. If we see you on the grounds before we get back, I’m driving you back to the motel and sitting on you until you sleep.”

She let out a long breath, Her voice becoming a little sharper. “You suck.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean fished around in his pockets, pulling out his keys. “I’m driving you back, and then you’re getting some sleep.”

He expected Her to protest. To push back and say that she could help with clean-up. That She’d just freaked out a little—even if Dean had seen it, and that was one of the worst episodes She’d ever had—and She was more than capable of at least researching with Sam.

Dean needed to stop trying to predict what She’d do. He was bad at it. 

“Okay.” She nodded, and went without a fight.

She let Dean pull Her to her feet, and curled into the passenger’s seat of the Impala as Dean drove her back to the motel. He called Sammy as they pulled out of the country club lot, keeping his voice low and his words simple—Sam needed to get a good look at the body in the basement, keep everyone away from it until Dean got back—as She remained silent at his side.

“Is she okay?” Sam asked, and Dean sighed.

“We’re alright. Hold down the fort, Sammy, and I’ll be back soon.”

Dean hung up, because he didn’t need Sam to push this right now. He’d explain more later. Explain how he still felt sick, long after leaving the basement, because She wasn’t okay. She was staring at Her hands and picking at her skin, and Dean was really fucking worried. 

It wasn’t his place to worry. It was barely his place to take care of Her at all.

But that didn’t stop him for helping Her out of the car, half-carrying her into his motel room, and moving her into his bed. From muttering that this way, when he and Sam got back, they wouldn’t have to wake Her up to check on her. From putting a glass of water on the nightstand, and saying he wouldn’t move until she drank it.

Dean wasn’t sure how the hell water was supposed to help. He knew that Sammy was always telling him to drink more, and it was supposed to be healthy, so he’d have Her drink some. He’d kiss Her brow before he left—because he was weak and bendable, and She was like a flame he would follow until it turned him to ash—and he’d wait until she lay down before walking back to the Impala, and driving back to the country club.

For the rest of the afternoon, She kept spinning around his head. He kept replaying how She’d been so silent. Heavy silence that lodged itself in his throat and rotted in his gut, reminding Dean that something was wrong. That something had been wrong. That, even as he explained everything to Sam—almost everything, leaving out how She’d cried, how she’d leaned into Dean’s touch and gripped onto his shirt like him walking away would be the worst thing in the world—there was something scratching at Dean’s skull that he shouldn’t have left.

She might have needed him, might still need him, might want him there. 

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. Dean had helped, and that had been Her orders, so he’d done his job. With the kelpie dead, She probably wouldn’t want to stick around, because who would.

And that was the worst fear. That She might just be gone when he returned. That he’d open the door to his motel room, and the bed would be empty. That he’d knock on Her door, and she’d be gone. That Her car would be missing from the lot, and Her number would be dead, and Dean had stepped out of line by helping her too much—by showing too many cards, holding Her face and kissing Her brow—and She’d left forever, because everyone always did. 

Sam got out of the club first. He came up with a complex lie involving gas leaks and bugs that kept everyone out of the basement and the pool—the water filtration bursts apparently proving to be a problem—and muttered to Dean that he was going to stop at the library to start working out what the hell could rip a kelpie to shreds like that. Dean nodded, grumbled that he could use some freakin’ hands with this mess, and Sam had just shrugged and told Dean to call when he needed a ride back.

Dean was not a fan of this plan. For one, he was now cleaning up a disguising corpse alone. Two, whatever the hell had gotten the kelpie might still be wandering around, and Dean wasn’t looking to get ripped to shreds. And finally, worst of all, Sammy was getting his grimy nerd hands on Baby.

But the plan made sense. The motel wasn’t far, they had done a sweep of the ground and patrons for anything immediately suspicious, and Sam knew the day he scratched the Impala would be the same day he died, but Dean still didn’t like this.

What if She lost it again. Sam didn’t know how to calm Her down. Dean didn’t want Sam to calm Her down. He’d probably be better at it—Sam was great at soft words and emotional bullshit—but Dean wanted to be the one who did it. Whose shirt she clung to. Whose hands wiped Her tears, and who carried her away from danger.

Dean wanted to do that. He was a hollow, greedy ass, so he wanted to be the one She held in the dark, for comfort or more.

And he wouldn’t be that. She still didn’t trust him enough to tell him what the hell had actually been going on all week, and what the fuck was up with Her family, or why She always lied about such weird shit.

He’d have to live with it. Even as it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Even as he hated himself for allowing it to get to this. For being so fucking weak that he’d fall this far down.

But he’d fall further. Because when he finished up in the basement, walked up to the parking lot to call Sam for pick up, he spotted a lone car still in the lot.

Her car. The dark blue, four-wheel drive She’d been using for this hunt. Dean wasn’t sure where the hell She got all these cars—he didn’t really want to find out, because that would just be another reason to hate Her that he couldn’t hold onto—but that was Her car.

When he scanned around the silent yards and walkways, there wasn’t a soul but his. Only the dead of night making long shadows and odd shapes on the building wall, only crickets and soft wind, only the pool lights still glowing through the fence.

There She was. 

She was glowing. Literally freaking glowing. Blue and white light shifting over Her features, every shadow cast on her face made the right places sharper and softer, and the golden light of the overhead lamps giving the impression of a halo.

Dean felt like he shouldn’t be looking.

It felt like he was invading something, watching a piece of beauty that no one person should be allowed to witness. She couldn’t be human, not when She looked like that. When the whole world seemed to be bending to make Her more beautiful. The colors around Her seemed brighter to compliment her. The wind drifted around and though Her hair like a movie. The shifting water reflected onto Her skin, giving the impression of a strange water spirit or fallen star, resting for only a moment at the edge of the pool. 

For a brief moment Dean was frozen. Watching the water move, watching Her like she was a secret he’d really like to keep.

Then Her eyes drifted up and met his, she smiled, and Dean was pretty sure that time stopped. That they were the only ones left in the universe.

It didn’t matter why She was here and not Sam. It didn’t matter why She wasn’t doing as he’d told her and resting. It didn’t matter how blood was caked and dried and itching on Dean’s hands, staining the fence as he crawled over it to join Her.

He’d just wash it off in the water.

“Sam was eating really loud.” She said, looking up at Dean as he dropped to Her side. “And I needed some air, so volunteered to pick you up.”

“Huh.” Dean scanned Her over. Still impossibly beautiful. Still tired. “And he let you?”

“He’s not my boss, Winchester, I don’t need permission-“

Dean raised his brows, and She sighed.

“He lost rock, paper, scissors.”

“There it is.” Dean chuckled, glancing back to the lot. “Where’s my car?”

“Back at the motel.” She shrugged. “I never learned stick.”

He could teach Her stick. His hand would touch Her’s. It would cover Her’s and Dean would guide her movements, and she’d smile and he’d maybe find an excuse to touch Her thighs, or trail his fingers over Her lips-

“Are we in the clear?” Her voice was soft, but it still grabbed Dean’s attention. He blinked at Her—feet dragging small circles in the pool, head slightly bowed to watch the water—and frowned.

“In the-“

“The kelpie.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Dean held his hands up, displaying the blood under his nails. “Wrapped the son on a bitch up and burned him in the furnace.” He made a face. “What kinda country club has a furnace.”

She let out a soft laugh. “One that was built in the 1900s.”

“How would you know-“

“It says established 1923 on the sign, Deano.” 

“Oh, c’mon, how am I supposed to tell-“

“It’s a pretty easy thing to spot.” She gave him another small smile, and he was going to explode. “And it’s either just an old building, or,” Her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “That’s not the first body that’s been burnt in the furnace.”

Dean laughed. “You think they’re running a front for boat shoes and shorts?”

“I think they just murder people for fun. That’s why there were so freaked out about the kelpie deaths.”

Dean gave Her an amused look, raising his brows, and She grinned, leaning closer as she continued.

“Unsanctioned. No one filled for the murder permit.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “That’s so fucking dumb-“

“You’re laughing.”

“Yeah, cause it’s dumb.” 

She scoffed. “Like you could do better-“

“Oh, I could, Princess. My bet is that the furnace was for orgies.”

“What?”

“Furnace for orgies.” He smirked at Her, wiggling his brows as he leaned closer. “Shit gets so wild with these assholes that they have to burn the evidence, because there ain’t enough condoms in the world to just clean it up after.”

She wrinkled Her nose. “De, do you know how much jizz they’d have to be producing for a trash can not to work?”

He winked. “You know I do, sweetheart- Son of a bitch!”

She’d pushed him into the goddamn pool. When Dean wiped the water from his eyes, She was still sitting on the side, a wide grin of challenge on Her face. Her body so close to his, and She looked so fucking beautiful, and everything about Her goddamn blinding. Dean really could fall further. He could crash all the way down. 

And he could take Her with him.

She opened Her mouth, and any words turned into a yelp as Dean grabbed Her wrist and pulled her down over him. 

“Dean!“

He laughed, watching Her brush wet hair from her eyes, swimming over to hang off of the wall. “You gotta be able to eat what you dish out, Princess-“

Dean choked on chlorine, as She splashed water right into his mouth, Her annoyance seeming to have vanished into thin fucking air.

And this was too simple. Too easy to feel like nothing mattered but Her and Dean in the dead of night, screaming at each other like children and laughing like their lives were nothing more that this moment. 

Nothing really felt real but this. But Her, trying to possibly drown Dean and squeaking when he pushed Her away, looking more and more like something that couldn’t have been born on earth. Mascara was running down Her cheeks, her face flushed and hair clinging to Her neck, but She might be the best thing Dean had ever seen. And when they finally got out of the water—Dean finding some towel in the pool supply office, wrapping two around her shoulders and one around his own—and silence began to stretch on, he was certain she was a siren, or witch, or something made to loosen his tongue and say things he shouldn’t.

Because She asked if he was tired. Just asked it like it was a normal question, and she wasn’t looking for any specific answer, watching Dean with bright, soft eyes, and it broke a dam that always caged over his throat.

“I’m fucking exhausted.” He muttered, dropping his head into his hands, and She was silent.

In the brief second, something started to wrap around Dean’s chest. Vile and toxic and sneering up his spine that he’d fucked it. That She didn’t actually care that Dean was tired, because Dean was supposed to be tired. He was supposed to keep moving and fighting and-

“Do you, um,” She swallowed, and when Dean looked over She was staring at her own hands, picking at the skin around her nails. “You wanna talk about it?”

Dean frowned. He wasn’t the one who had the big fucking freak out. He didn’t need to talk about anything. 

But then his mouth opened, and he was telling Her everything. The words fell out of him like a flood his didn’t know how to stop, didn’t know how to contain when She just listened with wide eyes and a gentle expression. She was dangerous. Dean couldn’t move away from Her gravity, couldn’t shut his mouth and keep down things he needed to keep down.

He told Her about Sammy’s weird visions and nightmares. He told Her about Dad in Chicago, and going back to Kansas, and his fight with Sam about tracking Dad down. And She listened. Silent, leaning forward with an open expression and eyes Dean would like to stay trapped against his forever. The only blatant reaction was at the end, as he told Her about the reapers, and something impossible to understand flashed over Her face.

“You almost died?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point-“

“The point?” She repeated, shaking Her head in what might be disbelief. “I don’t care what the point was, Dean, you almost fucking died-“

He frowned. That really wasn’t such a big deal. “Well, I obviously made it out alright-“

“Would you have told me?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“If Sam’s idea hadn’t worked, and you were still going to die in a few months, would you have told me?”

He said Her name, slowly, because he wasn’t sure what the hell was happening. “I dunno, I wasn’t thinking about it that much.”

That was a lie. Before Sam had found that preacher and his bitch of a wife, Dean had stared at his phone and thought about calling Her nearly every second. It would’ve been the time to demand some answers. To do some kind of sick, selfish test to see if She would stick around for Dean, when he needed Her. When he needed someone who was complicated, but not Sam let’s-get-all-hung-up-on-Dad-and-hunting complicated. She was complicated because Dean always wanted Her there, against all reason.

It was the exact reason he hadn’t called. She didn’t want him there. And Dean was pretty sure his heart would’ve just given out there if he’d called, told Her he was dying, and She hadn’t given a shit.

She seemed like She gave a shit now, though. She was glowering at Dean and hugging Her body, and Dean would’ve thought he’d stabbed Her.

“Would you have asked Sam to call me?” She asked, and Her voice was small again. It made Dean’s gut stretch and ache. “After?”

“Probably, yeah. But it doesn’t really matter-“

“It matters.” She muttered, and Dean blinked. “I- I would’ve spent months wondering where you were, what happened, and you’d be fucking dead-“

“I’m not dead.” He snapped, something spiking and irritated creeping over his skin, twisting his words in his throat. “And it’s not like you were sticking around in the first place, Princess.”

She blinked. “What?”

Dean rolled his eyes, every word bitter and hot on his tongue. “You didn’t want to stick with us. You don’t get to have fucking updates on everything we do.”

“This isn’t an update, Dean, it’s you dying-“

“Yeah? And would you give a fuck if I did?”

She recoiled, and Dean hadn’t seen that expression on Her face in a while. She wasn’t wounded, or nervous, or apologetic. She looked like a cornered animal. Every word spitting and laced with a silent, tight fury that burned like a hot poker in Dean’s chest.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She hissed. “Of course I’d care if you died, you’re my partner-“

“Only when you think it’s convenient.” Dean spat right back, everything winding up tight and vaulting out of him without control. “You don’t want to stick around for the rough shit, sweetheart? You don’t get to go all goddamn righteous on me, because this is the goddamn job. People die all the time.”

“You wouldn’t have had to die! I could’ve helped-“

Dean huffed a dry laugh. “You wanted to help, you could’ve been there.”

She shook Her head, her words becoming slower. Sounding more measured as she curled further into Her body. “I told you, it’s complicated-“

“It’s not,” he sneered Her name, and She flinched, and Dean hated that he still wanted to reach out at sooth Her. She didn’t want him. She didn’t get to act like She gave a shit when Dean was just her toy. 

He loathed that he liked being Her toy. He loathed that She always knew the right thing to say to make him follow Her further down. He loathed that She hadn’t been lying when she said she cared, but She also didn’t want to stick around. To lay in the mud with Dean, until they both drowned in it.

He fucking despised that he still didn’t know how to really hate Her. 

But he did know how to keep hurting Her. How to keep fighting, even as every word made him sick, because everything was spewing out of him like lava, and he was tired, and he never knew how to just fucking stay in line. 

“I drop fucking everything when you call. I drive across the goddamn country whenever you ask me to-“

“I do the same for you-“

“No, you don’t!” Dean was shouting. It was making something to the left of his heart cower. “It’s not the fucking same! I’ve got shit to lose, I’ve got things to do and people to look out for, but I still always go for you!”

Her lips curled as She sat a little higher—Her back straight and chin raised—and Dean’s blood went cold. She wasn’t cowering anymore. And She looked furious. 

“Do you seriously think,” Her voice was low. Quiet. Venomous in Dean’s brain. “That I don’t have shit to lose? That I’m here for fun?”

“Aren’t you?” He needed to stop. He couldn’t. “You fucking chose this, Princess.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice echoed around the grounds, leaving scars on Dean’s ribs. “You keep- you keep fucking telling me that I don’t get this life, that I’m not in the exact same situation you are-“

“Because you’re not! I fucking know you’re not! I’m fucking stuck here, Dad’s stuck here, hell, even Sammy can’t get out, but you can just fucking leave whenever the hell you want! You can just crawl home when you get sick of it, got back to your rich fucking family and pretend this never even happened!”

Dean realized what he said too late. He could almost see the words sink into Her skin, she her eyes narrow as something strange and hostile and bloody flashed over Her face.

 “How the fuck do you know about my family, Dean.” She hissed, and Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Dad. He figured you out immediately.”

She blinked at him. “Immediately?”

“On the moroi hunt.” He muttered. “And you could’ve fucking told me. But you kept never did. You kept lying to me, Princess. And that’s the shit you do when you don’t trust someone, don’t want them around-“ 

“You lie to Sam!” She shouted. “Sam lies to you! Why am I any different, just because I’m not a Winchester-“

“Yes! Sam and I are lying to protect each other-“

“Who says I’m not lying to protect you!”

“Protect me from what?!” Dean scoffed. “I’m the one who always saves your ass! You’re the one who freaks the fuck out, who would be dead if I wasn’t there! You’d be long fucking dead if it wasn’t for me, sweetheart. You’re just a spoiled fucking brat chasing a high,” Dean spat Her name, and toxics rooted deeper into his body. “So don’t fucking act like you give a shit about me.”

“I’m a spoiled brat?” Her laugh was loud, and cold, and set a chill over Dean’s bones. “You don’t have a fucking clue about my life, about my family-“

“I know that-“

“No!” She shot up, walking a few paces from Dean and shaking her head almost frantically. “You don’t have a single fucking idea, you don’t know what they are, you-“ She ran a hand over her face, leaving scratch marks on her skin. “They’d make the worst monsters your dad’s killed look like fucking bunnies.”

He let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Whatever. You couldn’t even kill a bunny without crying and panicking. Maybe they’re just fucking people, and you just don’t like that they don’t do whatever the hell you say. That you can’t control them.”

He wanted to take it back. The words had barely left his mouth and he wanted to take them back. He didn’t know where they’d come from, why the hell he’d said them, what the fuck was wrong with him. Because She didn’t look alive. Her jaw was clenched, hands curled into fists, so still Dean would think She’d be turned to marble, the only sign that She’d heard him the ragged sound of her breath. The wind was cold in Dean’s wet hair and biting at his ears, the night loud and creaking around him, but he could only look at Her. 

She didn’t look broken. She looked faded. Colorless. Silent as she just stared at him, and Dean started to beat himself black and blue in his chest. 

She didn’t insult him, or scream, or fight. She threw her keys at his face, didn’t look to see if he caught them, and just walked away. Vanished into the grounds, swallowed by the dark. Leaving Dean alone, like he deserved. He was a fucking monster. He’d done that. He’d shut Her down. He’d done what he’d sworn not to do and broken this. Taken the one good, easy thing and fucking bashed its brains in on the pavement. He could’ve never said anything. He could’ve kept pushing down the questions, kept moving in Her orbit until she cast him away, and he drowned himself in fruit perfume that didn’t smell quite like her, and beer she’d have never drank.

But he’d opened his mouth, and now he was alone. He’d pushed Her to leave, to wander into the darkness, when there-

Fuck.

Something had killed the kelpie. Something that might still be out there. Where She was. Without any weapons, without Dean there to protect Her.

And that something might be close, because everywhere Dean looked things were wrong. The trees were bend away from him, towards where She’d vanished. The water was crashing up on the deck with the howl of the wind, there were cracks on the pavement that hadn’t been there before, and nothing was good.

She was in danger.

And it was Dean’s fucking fault.

—————————

You can’t be here. You can’t be anywhere right now, not as it all becomes too much. Far too much. 

You never should’ve called Dean. You never should’ve let the lonely, cold exhaustion and fear and pain erode at your will until you caved in the White, and reached for Dean. You should’ve called Bobby. You could’ve told Bobby about the demons, told him you didn’t know what to do, and he’d have told you to come home.

You should’ve gone home.

You should’ve done anything but fucking call Dean.

But it’s been long. Long and dark and lonely for months, and you’d missed him, and you’d wanted to see his stupid, handsome face just to let the world fall back into harmony for a few days. You’d wanted to feel like you weren’t the burden, the sickness, the problem. You’d just needed to not be alone. You’d been sick of being too much and nothing at all in all the worst moments, and you couldn’t stop worrying about Dean anyway, so you’d called.

If you were smarter—if you could ever actually know something and care about it—you would’ve dealt with this yourself. This was your Darkness. This was your problem. The demons weren’t hunting Sam and Dean. They had enough problems without dealing with yours. 

Dean was right. He’d been such a fucking dick, but he’d been right. 

You can’t do anything. You can’t help anyone. You wouldn’t be dead without Dean, and he really didn’t know anything about your family or past, but you weren’t in control. You weren’t worth sticking around for, weren’t worth putting up with. You kept caving and crashing and losing control, and nobody should ever be around you.

Not before. 

And especially not now. 

The past months have been hell. Literal hell, let out to roam the earth and always tracking and hunting you. The plaguelike feeling of horror was always scraping at your head and hands, darker than the Darkness and making the White whine and riot with distress. It was wrong. Plain fucking wrong.

And it followed you everywhere. Every town you stopped in had a demon. Sometimes they’d just watch you on the street, and you only know they were there because you could feel that pitch fucking blackness. Sometimes—if you reigned in the Darkness with a bite of your hand or blood-drawing scratch on your skin—you’d be able to see them. Glinting and rolling and black in the body of someone as they passed you, faces painted and twisted like a lingering nightmare taken form.

But there were others now, too. Strange ones. Worse ones.

The first one had been only a week after the onryo hunt. You’d been hunting a werewolf in Washington, sitting alone in your motel room and scrubbing your skin raw as the Darkness sat at the top of your throat. You’d missed Dean. You’d wanted to call him, to take the risk and just join them. When they found John, you could run. Maybe you’d finally find a time to tell Dean that there was something wrong with you. Maybe you’d have figured out a way to make him stay for good this time.

And the next day—when you hadn’t called, but had been so fucking close to it—a strange woman had started to asking you questions about things you wanted. About how she could give you anything, but you’d have to barter with a different type of currency.

You’d honed the darkness—squinting and ignoring the pain that had gnawed at your organs—and she’d been red on the inside. Seeping and flowing like blood around her vessel, her darkness a little stickier, a little less violently chaotic. 

You don’t know how, but you’d trapped her. You’d gotten the jump and pinned her down, your hands moving of their own accord to draw a symbol you didn’t understand on her brow, and the demon inside had sunken a little further down. 

“Aren’t you a quick one.” She’d mused, scanning you over with a smirk. “It’s going to be so much fun once we have you. Once we get to see what makes you tick.”

She been the first crossroads demon. She’d taunted and mocked you until everything was too big, the Darkness rocketed out of your body and crushed her down into nothing, and you were left sitting on top of a terrified, very normal woman.

The yellow demon was still there. Still the same asshole, still only watching like the black ones, but he felt like ash, clogging around your throat and making the world gray. He wouldn’t try to hide from you like the others. He’d smile at you, following you around on a case and seeming to turn to thin air whenever you tried to confront him. 

And then he’d up and vanished. Fully disappeared. And in his wake had come the nightmare. The fucking blight. 

Green demons. Rock-like and solid and violent. Rioting around inside their vessels, barreling through the world and finding you wherever you went. 

It started in a bar. You’d been in the bathroom, a sweet old woman had come up next to you, and she’d attacked you with the force of a tank. With hands around your throat and a knife that seemed to be aimed near your heart. You’d kicked her off and let the darkness strangle her like all the others. 

But they’d kept coming. And you don’t know what to do. You don’t know where to hide. You didn’t know where to go. In all the months since that first one, you’ve been home once. Bobby had tried to get you to stop, to just rest and figure out what the hell was going on, and you’d said no.

And now you’re afraid all the time. You’re never not in pain anymore, and the Darkness has only grown more malignant as you push it down almost every waking second. It’s why you’d called Dean. He always made it better, just by being there. Everything would bend and turn to silver, and fear wouldn’t seem real because Dean was there. The pain would be worse when it came, but it would come less. 

All you’d wanted was to be in pain a little less. 

But Dean had been right. You’d just wanted him for you. He had enough of his own stuff going on, and he wasn’t yours to be angry about. He wasn’t yours at all.

That didn’t stop you from hating him. Knowing Dean wasn’t yours wasn’t nearly enough to stop the white-hot and boiling fury that he’d fucking left you. That he’d known about your family and never just asked you, that he’d looked at you and seen everything and acted like he could stick around, when he’d probably just been waiting. Waiting to see the part of you that wasn’t quite human burst out. Waiting for you to say what you were first, so he could…

You don’t know what he would’ve done. You just know that he’d known, and he’d left, and he’d lied, and you’d probably never see him again. He’d been noticing the episodes. He’d know you weren’t worth trying to fix anything with, because everything would always shatter around you. 

All those fractures in you were bursting again. Lodging deeper, searing along your guts and in the cavity of your chest. Dean wouldn’t stick around after this. You hated him for that.

You hated yourself more for wanting him to stay. Hated that, if he grabbed your face between his hands and apologized, you’d forgive him. You shouldn’t. But he’d plunged deep into your body, carved himself along your ribs, and you just didn’t want to be in pain anymore.

You don’t know how long you wander. You don’t know where you’re going. You only know you don’t want to hurt anyone until the Darkness—howling and stretching through the whole world around you, making rocks crumble to dust when you pass them and brush part to clear your path—falls back down into your body.

When it does, you make it back to the motel. The Impala isn’t in the parking lot. 

You’re not surprised. It still makes the White ache and whine.

You’ll have to go in the morning. The kelpie had been a message. You’re sure of it. It had been a demon—probably one of the green ones—telling you that you can keep running, keep fighting, keep hiding, but they’ll find you. They always find you. You’re like a beacon. A lighthouse splitting through the dark that seems to draw ships towards you rather than helping them coast away. And it’s not safe here. 

It’s not safe anywhere.

But you’ll get through this. You always do.

You don’t sleep that night. You sit in the corner of your motel room with your knife clutched in your hands, watching the doors and windows with stinging, heavy eyes.

And still, if Dean knocked on the door and told you he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it and he was an idiot, you would’ve fallen into his arms with a sob, putting a trust in him that you shouldn’t have, feeling a comfort you didn’t deserve.

But when there is a slam on the door, it’s not Dean. You peek out the blinders to see a beady eyed, red-faced cop standing outside, his expression painting with something hateful.

And you can feel it. The blood and disease and sense of worse. Everything around you is worse, and the Darkness is spreading not because you’re on edge and unable to control yourself, but because the fear in your body is justified. Because you draw blood biting on your inner cheek, narrow your eyes, and something foul and green was bursting inside of the cop. 

You could sneak out the back. The Winchester’s are gone, and likely won’t come back, so if you ran to your car and booked it down the road, you could get away without any destruction-

Shit.

You’d given your car keys to Dean. You’d been overwhelmed and everything had been too much—feeling how the water was disgusted and trapped in the pool, how the trees were aching from the country club’s rough trimming, and the wind felt lost and alone—so you’d thrown your keys at Dean because even their weight in your pocket had felt like a blade on your skin. And you couldn’t have stayed there, but you hadn’t wanted to leave him stranded.

And now you were fucked. 

You’re going to have to fight. You’re going to have to drag yourself together with bruises and bites and try to kill this thing without destroying the motel. The green demons are harder to kill—harder to shred apart with the Darkness, harder to aim at and not catch the rest of the world in the crossfire—but you’ll manage. You’ve done it a few times before, and been left wracked with pain and sickness for days after, but survived.

You don’t need Dean Winchester. 

You can do this.

You open the door with a sickly-sweet smile, your knife hidden behind your back, and raise your brows at the demon. “Can I help you, sir.”

The demon scans over you with a flat expression, and says your full name in an empty voice. “You’re gonna need to come with me.”

“Can I ask why?” You take a measured pace back, forcing your tone and expression to remain flat and bored. “No offense, officer, but unless you have a reason-“

“You’ve been turned in for theft.” The demon drawls, moving closer. You’re going to break your jaw. “I gotta warrant for your arrest.”

You raise your chin, still not moving. “Let me see it.”

The demon gives you a dry look, shaking his head. “Darlin’, we don’t have to do this.  You know what I am. I know what you are. We all do.”

“You know what I am?” You ask the question before you can think about it, and the demon smirks.

“We’ve been lookin’ for you for a long, long time.” He drawls your name, taking another step forward. ”C’mon, let’s just fuckin’ spill some blood so we can all go home.” He pauses, letting out a loud, cold laugh. “Well, I’ll go home. You’ll be comin’ with me.”

“I think,” you raise your knife, standing a little taller. “You should walk away. If you know what I am, you should’ve heard what I did to all your friends.”

The demon’s eyes narrow, you brace yourself, and an engine revs in the parking lot.

Sam and Dean didn’t leave. They’re climbing out of the Impala, and they look like shit. Both covered in dirt, both with bags under their eyes, Sam looking mostly relieved and Dean looking like he’s going to strangle you.

A small, glowing and colorful part of you is consumed with joy that Dean’s here. That he didn’t leave, and that he cares enough to roar your name and stomp across the small yard until he’s at your side.

The rest of you is still bleeding from where he’d twisted his obvious hatred for you into your body.

All of you is starting to collapse and panic, because he can’t be here. He’s in danger. You’re putting him in danger, and you’re fucked, and Dean needs to leave now but if you shove him away you know he won’t ever come back-

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Dean stops beside the cop, his attention and wrath so fixed on you that you’re not sure he notices you situation. “We’ve been looking all fucking night, we thought you’d gone and gotten yourself killed! That when we found you, you’d be ripped up like that damn kelpie-“

“Dean.“ Sam comes up to join you, eyeing the cop wearily, and Dean ignores him.

“No matter how pissed off you were that was fucking stupid, we know something else is out there, we know what it does, and we don’t have a goddamn clue what it is, so if it had found you alone you would’ve been fucked-“

“Dean.” Sam raises his voice. It doesn’t work.

“I mean, are you actually that fucking stupid?! Were you trying to prove a fucked-up point? Trying to find the monster first so you could gank it and rub it in my face, trying to get a rise out of me by giving me a goddamn heart attack-“

“Dean!” Sam steps between you, his tone firm and hushed. “Calm the hell down, you need stop talking-“

“I don’t need to do shit, Sam! What I need are some goddamn answers why little miss independent over there is trying to get herself fucking killed-“

“I wouldn’t worry about your little bitch, Dean Winchester.” The demon sneers, and there’s a brief moment of silence as Dean realizes what’s happening.

“The fuck did you just say?” You can’t see Dean over Sam’s massive body, but you can hear the cold fury in his voice. Imagine how he’s moved into a tense, battle ready stance.

Sam groans, running a hand over his face. “Dude, that’s a police officer. We’re, shit, we’re so screwed-“

The demon chuckled, shooting you a look Sam and Dean can’t see, his eyes flashing green just for you. Just in a silent promise of more blood and death and horror.

And this is suddenly about more than you. It’s about Sam and Dean, and keeping them safe even if they never want to speak to you again. 

“I think it’s best if all’a’ya’ll come with me.” The demon drawls, and Sam tense, taking a side-side back to frown at the officer.

It sounds like he’s arguing. You can’t really hear it over the ringing in your ears—twisting in your ear drums as you try to get a goddamn hold and keep it together—but you don’t really need to. You need to get Dean’s attention. You need to stare at him until he looks at you, to push down how it feels like there’s a corrosion along fractured pieces in your body as he ignores you. 

He won’t look at you. He’s furious and hates you and won’t look at you-

You’re about to take the risk and hiss his name when his eyes lock onto yours. There’s something sharp and wounded inside of them, and now is not the time to care about that. You can deal with how the White wants to walk over to him and hold him against you later, when he leaves for good and you have to teach yourself how to hate him again.

But for now, all you can do is blink at him. Two firm times, praying he’ll catch on.

He frowns. One blink.

You repeat your movement, tilting your head slightly to the demon, and it’s like your fight never happened. Dean’s face twists in a wrath that’s for you, not at you, and he slams his fist into the demon’s jaw without hesitation.

There’s a stumble in time, a brief moment where everything freezes and it’s only the demon’s shout of pain, Dean’s rage on his face, and Sam’s look of pure confusion.

Then the rush begins. You’re moving on blind instinct, and it’s stronger than usual. It might be Dean, or the demon, or both. You can’t really see anything but lights and shadows and colors until it’s over. The demon is green, a neon and toxic shade of it that’s made of everything savage and torrid in the world, and Sam’s still strange—he’s always strange, always in an odd time and just a shade off of the color he should be—and you’re made of vast and searing Silver. Contained and in harmony with something golden you’re pretty sure is Dean.

And the Gold is the realest thing you’ve ever see. You can almost taste is, almost feel it pull you, hear it call you. You know how to move with it, around it, in rhythm with it, more than you’ve ever known anything. 

It flares and rampages when something twists into your gut. The color that’s Sam starts to chant something—you don’t remember telling them it’s a demon, but they seem to have figured it out—the green begins to bellow, and when it all falls back to earth, you’re dizzy.

Clutching the blade in your stomach, the metal leaving blisters right under your skin.

Iron.

Fuck.

You hear Dean shout your name again, and it’s just Dean now. No strange, magnetic gold. Only pretty, furious eyes looking at you.

“Sam, get the-“

“Going.” You see Sam move away, heading back in the direction of their room, and just a second later Dean’s face moves into your vision. 

He looks pale. Worried. His face is firmly set and unreadable, but you think that’s just what he does when he’s concerned. Even his voice is steady, but tight, and his hands on your body feel restrained. Like he’s trying not to make it worse with just his hands.

“Keep the knife in,” he snaps, covering your hand where you’re clutching the blade. “And stay awake.”

You shake your head, wincing from only that movement. This is going to be more than just a stab wound. You can feel the iron dull and pushing on the Darkness, and it’s making this all the pain that always lives in your body become more. Your brain feels fogged and clouded, and you don’t trust your own hands or body to aim the Darkness how it needs to be used. You can’t figure out anything that will fix this, because you can’t think outside of pain. Horrible, consuming and tearing pain.

“I need to, fuck-“

“Stop talking.” He grunts, glancing over his shoulder to where Sam disappeared. “I’m gonna pick you up, move you to our room-“

“No, Dean, wait-“

“Listen, you wanna fight, we can tear each other to goddamn pieces. But only-“

“Shut up, Dean, I don’t wanna fight, I- Goddamit-“

His grip on your body tightens, and his face starting to get a little blurred. “Stop fucking moving, Princess, you’re gonna make it worse-“

“It’s already worse.” You mutter under your breath. “Dean, I, I need to go home-“ 

“Shit-“ He mutters, before raising his voice to a shout. “Sam, she’s fucking losing it-“  

You roll your eyes, letting out a low hiss of pain. “I’m not losing it, dumbass, you need to get me to- fuck- he’s gonna kill me-“ 

That gets Dean’s full attention, his words sharp as his gaze shoots back to yours. “Who the hell is gonna try and kill you-“ 

“Bobby.” You mumble, and there are strange, darkly colored spots clouding your vision. “You- Fuck, you need to call him, tell him I’m coming-”

“Bobby?” Dean repeats, and you wince. Bobby’s definitely going to kill you. “Bobby who? Not Bobby-“

“Singer.” It’s hard to keep talking. You don’t feel that all that good. “Use my phone, he always picks up for me.”

“For you?!” Dean says your name, his voice like thunder in your ears. “How the hell does Bobby know you?! How the hell do you know Bobby-“

“He raised me,” you mumble. “Sorry.”

 Dean says something. You don’t hear it. 

You’ll be alright. Dean’s shouting in the distance, and he probably hates you, but he’s not leaving you to bleed into the dirt and turn to ash. He sounds worried, and furious, and kind of like the ocean. Loud. Strong. Certain.

Everything is a little fuzzy and blurred, but there are also strong hands holding you, and they don’t feel wrong on your body. You’re in so much pain, but you’re completely yourself.

Safe, right here, with Dean. 

End Note: Poor Dean is about to spend a whole chapter in an existential crisis. Sorry my king it's for the growth.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[jossamology]

josssam headcanons. (part one)

josh constantly teasing sam, but there's always that soft, protective look in his eyes. like, sure, he throws out all the sarcastic comments and light-hearted jabs, but it's just to mask the fact he's been falling for her for way longer than he'd ever want to admit. humor's his shield, but the way he watches her—yeah, that says everything.

late-night drives to nowhere, windows down, music low, and josh's mind is racing faster than the car. every time he thinks about telling her how he really feels, the words just get stuck in his throat. he wants to say something—anything—but he always stays quiet, convincing himself she deserves better than the chaos in his head. so, instead, he just drives, stealing glances at her when he thinks she’s not looking, and keeps it all locked away.

sam brings josh coffee without even asking, knowing exactly how he likes it—way too strong. but she always sneaks in a little extra sugar, just for him. she has no idea how much it means to him that she notices the little things.

sharing headphones on rainy days, josh savoring the quiet moments, stealing glances at her. she looks so fragile, and all he can think about is how broken he is—how he’s too much of a mess to risk pulling her into his chaos.

josh uses his dark humor to calm sam after a nightmare, his jokes a shield for the fear he hides—that getting too close might ruin the one good, pure thing in his life.

josh lights a cigarette, smirking as he offers it to sam, knowing she’ll refuse. it’s their little routine, one of the few things that keeps him grounded when he feels like his mind is on the verge of unraveling.

arguments that end in soft apologies—josh running a hand through sam’s hair, guilt eating at him, because he’s hiding his feelings to protect her from the darkness he can’t escape.

sam pretends to be bad at things just so josh can give her tips, but secretly, she’s better than him. every time she smiles, he fights the urge to let her in, convinced she deserves better than the mess he is.

josh finds himself looking at sam’s journal when she’s not around—not to invade her privacy, but because he wants to understand her world. he craves that connection, even though he’s sure he’s too broken to ever fit into it.

josh and sam calling each other before bed—their nightly ritual. josh always feels like he can vent to her about minor issues, big problems, and everything in between. her voice is soothing, and it helps him calm his mind, allowing him to sleep easier. he confides in her about things he can’t tell anyone else, knowing she won’t judge him and that she’ll listen with a patient ear. sam never rushes him, always letting him say whatever’s on his mind, making him feel like he doesn’t have to carry his burdens alone.

[deansbeer]

hey girl. i love telepath! reader. ik it’s not halloween yet but i can literally see her trying to match bolt and be a playboy bunny. how do you think dean would react to that?🩷

oh, mans would so malfunction at the sight of her in a playboy bunny costume ‼️ + thank u sm for loving telepath!reader !!! it truly makes my lil heart so happy to hear <33

you're standing in your room, carefully applying the finishing touches to your halloween makeup as bolt lounges lazily on your bed, watching you with his twitching nose and curious little eyes. as usual, you're talking to him like he's your personal stylist.

"what do you think, bolt? the black ones or the pink ones?" you hold up two options of bunny ears in front of him. he doesn’t move, just stares, but you take his silence as an answer. "black it is. good choice, bub. classy."

he's your little partner-in-crime tonight, at least in spirit. you're going as a playboy bunny, and bolt, well, he's the inspiration behind the whole thing. he’s staying behind with dean and sam, though. you'd asked dean earlier if he could bunny-sit, and of course, he agreed. it wasn't like you asked him to do much—just keep an eye on the little furball while you were out.

you glance at yourself in the mirror, making sure everything is in place. the black satin bodysuit fits you like a glove, hugging your curves in all the right places. the sheer black tights make your legs look impossibly long, and the stilettos you chose—which you're still not entirely sure you won’t regret later—add the perfect touch. the bunny ears sit atop your head, completing the look.

"how do i look, bolt?" you ask, turning to face him with a grin. he twitches his ears, and you laugh. "yeah, i thought so. stunning, right?"

bolt doesn't answer, obviously, but you like to think he's silently hyping you up.

when you step out of your room, holding bolt in one arm and fixing the bunny ears as you walk, you head toward the library where sam and dean are. sam's sitting at the table, nose buried in some kind of research, while dean is leaning back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers.

you adjust one of your heels as you step into the room, the soft click of them echoing in the quiet space. both of their heads snap up when they hear you.

"so?" you say, smiling as you approach the table. "how do i look?”

sam's the first to speak, a warm smile spreading across his face. "wow, you look great. very… festive."

you laugh, setting bolt gently on the table in front of him. "thanks, sam. you're watching him while dean drops me off, right?"

"yeah, no problem," sam replies, reaching out to scratch bolt behind his ears.

then you turn to dean, who hasn't said a word yet. he's just sitting there, staring at you like he doesn't know what to do with himself. his jaw is tight, and his eyes keep darting between your face and—well, everywhere else. finally, he clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter.

"you look… uh, good. yeah. real good," he says, his voice gruff.

you notice the way he shifts in his seat, his hand briefly brushing over his thigh as if he's trying to adjust something. you don't think much of it, though, just flash him a smile.

"thanks, de. ready to go?"

he nods, standing up a little too quickly. "yeah, let's go."

the ride to the party is quiet at first. you're messing with your phone, checking for texts from your friends, while dean keeps his eyes firmly on the road. but you can feel the tension in the air, the way he keeps shifting in his seat every few minutes.

"you okay over there?" you ask, glancing at him curiously.

"yeah, fine," he says quickly, his voice a little too sharp.

you raise an eyebrow. "you sure? you've been squirming since we left. what’s going on?"

he hesitates, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "just… sore, that's all.”

you tilt your head, confused. "sore? why would you be sore? didn't sam say you skipped working out today?"

he grits his teeth, clearly regretting his excuse. "just drop it, okay?"

you roll your eyes but don't push it. whatever's going on with him, he'll tell you if he wants to. maybe you'll just have to get inside his head yourself. but that's an invasion of privacy and you'd prefer him to tell you, rather than you sticking your nose in his business.

when you finally pull up to your friend's house, the street is already packed with cars, and you can hear the faint thump of music from inside. you spot your friend waiting near the door, waving excitedly when she sees you.

"thanks for the ride, dean," you say, opening the door.

"no problem, sweetheart," he mutters, his voice tight.

you step out of the car, adjusting your tights and tugging the bodysuit into place as you walk toward the house. your friend meets you halfway, pulling you into a hug.

"oh my god, you look so hot!" she gushes, pulling back to look at your outfit.

"so do you!" you reply with a laugh, but before you can say anything else, a guy steps out onto the porch, joining your friend.

he immediately places a hand on your shoulder, leaning in to introduce himself. you're polite, smiling and nodding, but you can feel the older winchester brother's eyes burning into the back of your head from the car.

he's gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, his jaw clenched as he watches the scene unfold. the guys laughs at something you say, his hand lingering on your arm a little too long for dean's liking.

"sonuva bitch,” dean mutters under his breath, his foot pressing harder on the gas pedal as he pulls away from the curb. he doesn't even wait for you to go inside before speeding off, the tires squealing slightly as he turns the corner.

his heart is pounding in his chest, his mind racing with a mix of anger and jealousy. who the hell does the guy think his is, touching you like that? you're his girl. well, not officially, but still. you're his.

he spends the entire drive back to the bunker stewing in his own thoughts, alternating between cursing himself for not saying anything and cursing out the guy for daring to lay a hand on you.

back at the bunker, sam glances up when dean storms inside, slamming the door behind him.

"everything okay?" sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

dean doesn't answer, just heads toward the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge and mutters, "watch the damn bunny."

sam exchanges a confused look with bolt, who twitches his ears in response.

meanwhile, dean sits at the table, staring at the bottle in his hand, already counting down the hours until he can go pick you up—and maybe punch the guy in the face while he’s at it.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Says I'm his favorite (yeah, I better be)

(Boy king of Hell Sam Winchester x female reader)

Summary The King finds you while you sleep. You have a million questions - what will happen to you when he finally makes you his queen? But Sam is too distracted by you... CWs Consensual somnophilia. Sam the king. Memories of what once was. Fingering, prone bone and cockwarming. Rated 18+. 3.6k words.

Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Sam enters your shared bedroom, only to change his shirt because this one has blood on it, sees you lying in the big four-poster mahogany bed, naked, asleep, back rising and falling slowly, and he knows he won’t go back to work anytime soon.

It’s fine, he thinks as he walks towards you, mounts the three steps going up to the high bed as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. He’s the king, after all. Not like he’ll miss anything important.

He undresses while he looks down at your sleeping form. You’re on your front, face turned to the side, lips slightly parted in the most perfect, precious o-shape. Eyelashes resting on your skin. He sees that old scar high on your naked back from a case you took on years ago. He could heal it, make it disappear, but the truth is, he loves it, the shape of it so familiar. Loves feeling it under his lips when he’s buried deep inside of you. His cock twitches at that.

He discards his shirt somewhere behind him, then reaches a hand out, long fingers gripping the thin silk blanket lying over you as he slowly drags it off you. The fabric is so soft and light that it doesn’t wake you, you only make a small noise at the change around you. It drops to the floor, and you’re revealed to him entirely.

Your legs aren’t tugged close to your body for once, the way they always are. You make yourself into a small package when you sleep, and Sam used to tease you with how easy it would be to carry you off like that. It made you shake your head and smile. And who’s gonna take me? you’d ask. They’ll return me the next day. Sam knows you were joking, but still he didn’t like your reply. Anyone lucky enough to catch you would keep you forever, he knows that.

He tugs down his pants, lets them fall to the floor and climbs onto the bed. He disturbs the mattress as little as possible. When he was still human - mostly human, really - he was already able to move so quietly. Now he’s perfected it.

Your ass is slightly raised due to one of your legs being angled and he brings his face close to it, the buttery soft skin, ghosts his lips over it. He’s not sure if you feel it but it’s as much for his benefit as yours. He crawls up your body, nose and lips close to your skin, and you don’t wake from the disturbance.

He reaches the scar on your back, lips gently pressing against it while he keeps watching your face. He sees your eyes move under your eyelids for a moment, but you don’t wake. So, with a smile, he moves one hand to between your legs.

You’re not wet, but he’s sure to change that. He starts slowly, not wanting to wake you, wanting the climb to not rip you out of your dreams. He was always good at self-control, never one to give in to his urges without thinking about it. It’s how he’s made it this far. It’s how he’s accomplished everything he’s accomplished in his life, really. But you pose a challenge - you always have.

When he first started reigning Hell, you out there in the wastelands of the former world, not at his side, he was able to concentrate. The way his kingdom overran the earth is proof of that, of his focus, his determination. It was only when he’d lock himself in his chambers, despite not needing to sleep, that his thoughts turned to you. Thoughts about your skin and your hair and your smell and your voice. About whether you were safe. He’d be torn between the pain of you leaving him and the determination to get you back. Somehow. Someday.

But now that you’re here, never more than a few rooms away? It’s become torture, and Sam knows a thing or two about torture. He’ll be holding court, listening to some plan or proposal or other, and suddenly he’ll realize he hasn’t been listening for minutes, has been replaying what you and him spent the last night doing.

That’s why you’re sleeping now - because the time humans would spend sleeping, Sam spends ravishing you. He knew he’d never get bored of you, but he at least expected the absolute hold you have over his every waking thought to diminish somewhat after a few weeks. It hasn’t.

Instead, there are twenty or thirty demons, high ranking ones too, waiting just down the hallway, in the room he has designated the throne room, waiting for him with their important business, while Sam is here, fingers gently exploring the warm promise between your legs.

He goes slowly, no rush. One of the advantages of being immortal. He’s not a demon - he’s something more, time and sickness cannot touch him any longer, and neither can much else. As he pets you where you’re softest, a low sound emitting from you, he presses his lips to your scar again, not taking his eyes off your face.

He can feel your wetness building. Can feel your body starting to react to him. Deep sleep still has its hold on you, but you are clearly feeling him. Sam wonders if you’re dreaming of him, right now. If you’re imagining him, and if you are, how. How do you want him when no one, not even he, is watching?

Another small whimper leaves you and Sam moves his fingers, pushes two of them into your tight entrance. He sighs as the warmth envelops them, the silky softness of you. His cock twitches again, begging him to replace his fingers with it. But not yet. He’ll be too distracted if he’s inside you. He just wants to watch you, each minuscule change on your face, in your breathing. He’d never admit it, but the way he feels when he’s buried deep inside you, your arousal soaking his balls - he’s not in control then. Not really.

He finds that soft, spongy spot in you, long, dexterous fingers locating it easily. He still remembers the first time he got to feel that part of you. It was a mild summer day and you were on a case. You had worn a white and blue dress that had made Sam’s trousers too tight the moment he laid eyes on you. When you noticed, you dragged him away, to the side of the house of the witnesses whose backyard barbecue you were at. Had taken his fingers, pressed them into your underwear and into you. Sam had to steady his other hand against the wall behind you - that’s how much the feeling had overwhelmed him. 

He remembers the feeling of you coming on his fingers that day like it was yesterday. Your eyebrows knotted closely together as if you were in exquisite pain, lips parted to let out sinful sounds that Sam caught with his own mouth. You squeezed him tight, as if you were saying: this is where you belong. I’m never letting you go.

There’s a slight crease on your forehead now too. You’ve started moving your hips a little, sleep probably making you unaware of the fact that you’re searching out more of him. Sam feels the grin that spreads on his face. He can’t help but press his cock against the back of your thigh, just a little. You’re soft and warm there too. 

When you were done moaning into his mouth, that day back in that summer that might as well be a thousand years ago, you kissed him. Softly, lazily, while your hand rubbed the hard bulge in his pants. One of the thin straps of your dress had fallen off your shoulder, and Sam leaned his head down, far down, to kiss this new spot of skin revealed to him.

“Can’t let you walk around with that,” you said in a low, seductive tone, looked into his eyes. Eyes that Sam already knew he wanted to look into forever. You had sucked any objection out of him in the minutes that followed. One hand cupping his balls while your nose pressed against the dark curls of his crotch. Sam moaned and whimpered when he spilled down your throat, out there, for everyone who walked around the house to see. He couldn’t find that he cared.

Your hips are moving more, and small high sounds are leaving you. They’re soft, vulnerable, open. A side of you you don’t show many. But you do show him. He knows how much that means.

There will be no more sunny days, your back pressed against the side of a house, your hair and skin smelling like sunshine. The sun has been blacked out by him. Sam remembers how the grass smelled, freshly cut. How the bees buzzed. All of that is gone. He’d feel sad at that if he gave himself over to it.

Your eyes fly open a second before you come. Your mouth rips open and your hands twist the sheets below, knuckles going white, and then your wetness flows over his fingers while you shake and pant. 

You press your head into the luxurious bedding below while Sam teases you again, presses his fingers against that spot again, which makes you twitch and pull in your legs a little, so he finally retreats. He pushes his hand into the mattress next to you, ghosts the tip of his nose over your ear while you recover.

When you finally turn your head, your lids are low, your cheeks flushed. You press yourself up and back against Sam and he grinds himself against you, his cock now wearing a crown of pre-come that must smear against your smooth skin. He doesn’t see it, he’s too busy nuzzling your cheek, but he knows it’s there.

You press your face against him, and then you raise your hand to cup his cheek.

It stops midair with a rattle. You sigh and then drop it, the iron shackle around your wrist stopping it from fully meeting the bed. Sam places his hand right next to yours and you extend your pinkie to wrap it around his.

“Are they too tight?” Sam asks, pressing the tip of his nose into the side of your face. You hum, rub your cheek along him.

“They’re fine,” you say, tangling your fingers more with his, and then, in a lower, raspier tone: “Keep going.”

Sam smiles, kisses your cheek softly, your earlobe. Down to your neck, where he sucks the skin between his lips, your sweet, soft skin, until you make a small noise in your throat and he lets go.

His hand goes between your bodies. He doesn’t need to stroke himself - he’s already where he needs to be. But he guides himself between your legs, your ass raised to receive him, guides himself until he can feel your warm arousal at his tip. A perfect, little gasp leaves you and then you squeeze his hand and he pushes in.

In the throne room down the hall, none of the demons get shifty. No one gives away that they mind waiting, even for a second. They know what happens when someone does that. These breaks have simply become part of the job. One of them blows out some air he doesn’t need between lips. Another throws him a warning look. When the screaming starts, they know they’ll be here a while.

Your face is pressed into the bedding, your whine and whimpers and moans loud in Sam’s ears as he keeps thrusting into you, narrow hips snapping as he watches your face contort in orgasm after orgasm.

You’re nearly sobbing from the pleasure and overstimulation at this point, your hand formed into a claw where it is still gripping Sam’s, your cheeks flushed and your eyes wet and low lidded, lips plump from Sam kissing them and you biting and sucking on them.

“Sam,” you gasp, and it’s unclear from your intonation what you need, or if you just want to say his name. But Sam understands, lowers his head again and licks a long stripe along the soft skin of your cheek, picking up sweat and tears - both human luxuries he is no longer provided. 

He pivots his hips and only a second later, you begin shaking, crying out, desperately sucking for breath. Sam feels the swell of his balls, the twitch in his blood, in his cock, everywhere and he brings his mouth down to your jaw again, presses lips and tongue and teeth against you while your tight heat pulls all restraint from him.

He groans your name when he comes. It’s like a whisper in the dark but he might as well be screaming it. That’s what it feels like he’s doing, as he squeezes his eyes shut, presses his entire body against yours anywhere he can, just to be as close as possible to you. His face is pressed into your neck, your hair, and he takes a deep breath. You smell like sunshine.

After a minute, Sam moves. You stir under him and he untangles his hand from yours, but only to reach forward, grab something out of the bedside table. He brings his hand back and to your wrist. It’s the key to your cuffs and they open with a click.

Sam puts the key back, then rolls off you, on his back, staying close, turning to look at you. Your eyes are still closed, and you’re still breathing hard, but there’s a soft smile on your face. He moves his face, presses a kiss to your forehead, then one between your eyes. You hum, then blink your eyes open when he pulls back.

“They’re not gonna like that,” you mumble, your fingertips going out to touch his shoulder, gently stroking it. Sam smiles at your cracked voice.

“I don’t care,” he replies. “I was against it in the first place.” You look at his face, into his eyes. 

“They don’t trust me,” you say, and Sam doesn’t like the sound of sadness in your voice, how the demons’ mistrust, the one he’s threatened death over, but that still has managed to seep through to you, is making the soft light he just ignited in you diminish. He leans in again.

“They’re not gonna trust you more cause you tie yourself to my bed,” he says quietly, before a teasing smile comes across his face. “They already know you barely leave it.”

“Sam,” you say, tone just a bit admonishing, but it only serves to make Sam chuckle.

“Come here,” he says.

You press yourself up on your elbows with a slight groan while Sam stretches out  He helps you maneuver yourself as you crawl over him. He brings his hand to the back of your head to get you to lie down on his chest, but you shake your head. Sam raises his eyebrows at you, another amused smile on his lips.

“Please, Sam,” you say. “Just wanna feel you.”

Sam looks at your face for another moment, at your features. The love he holds for them, for all of you. Sometimes he still cannot believe he got you back.

So he kisses you briefly, then reaches his hand down between your bodies. He has perfect control of everything his body does, nothing like it used to be, so a couple of quick strokes get him hard again. You move your body, a little ungainly, but it only makes more love bloom in Sam’s heart.

You reach your hand down too, find him, and lead him to your pussy. You close your eyes and bite your lower lip as you sink down on him, take him in again, and when you’re flush, a little shudder goes through you. Sam can’t help but chuckle at that and so do you, and then you lay down on his chest.

Sam runs his fingertips slowly over your naked back. He likes it when you ask for this, for this indulgent connection, but the truth is, the fact that you want him close in this way makes him happier than he could ever say.

Your palms run over him, his arms, his chest, and content little sighs leave you that Sam would like to bottle up. You squirm on his cock only  a little, almost testing, and then give a little moan when you move in a way that moves him inside you. Sam wraps his arms tightly around you.

“I don’t mean to move,” you mumble, and Sam kisses the top of your head, “but it’s hard not to.” He huffs, gently pinches your side where his hand is resting and you squeak, clench down on him, make him pulse, before you quiet again, slow breathing.

“Can I ask you something?” you say, lying mostly still now and turning your head so you can look up at Sam.

“Anything,” he says. Your forehead creases, and Sam immediately wants to kiss the skin there.

“Do you really not care that they all think I’m here to trick you with, I don’t know,” you say, shaking your head a little, “my feminine wiles?” Sam chuckles again.

“I told you, I don't care,” he says again. “Their opinions don't matter. Mine do.”

You blink, gaze going down to where his and your hand are intertwining on his chest. 

“And once you're my queen,” he continues, knowing that usually you'd chuckle when he uses that archaic way of speaking, “they'll understand. They'll see.”

He moves his mouth to your ear and you close your eyes, let his words wash over you. He's still snug and tight and warm inside of you, so he's not gonna complain, he thinks, as he closes his eyes as well.

“What will it be like?” you ask, and Sam opens his eyes again, looks at your side profile. 

“The ceremony to become queen, I mean,” you clarify, almost seeming shy or unsure about your own question. “Will I become a demon?”

“No,” Sam replies, voice clear, and when he sees you open your mouth, he speaks first. “And not soulless either. I don’t want you to change.”

You close your mouth, chew the inside of your lip. Breathe out through your nose. Sam knows that means you’re thinking.

“But then how is it going to work?” you ask. He runs his fingertips over the skin on your shoulder.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he says with a soft smile. He likes that you’re impatient to be his queen. It’s exactly what he was hoping for. “Why it’s taking so long. But it’ll happen, don’t worry.” He turns his head slightly, presses the gentlest of kisses against your temple.

“It’s just…” you say and he turns his head so he can look down at you. You sigh.

“Just what?” he asks, voice amused. It’s not the first time you’re having this conversation.

“What if I get sick?” you finally say, voice lower. “Or hurt? Or… or old?” Sam can’t hide his grin now. There is actually a small pout on your lips at the last word and he brings his other hand up, runs his thumb over your lower lip and you look up at him

“Then I’ll heal you,” he says, watching the way the soft skin of your bottom lip gives way to the pad of his finger, how perfectly you yield to his touch. He presses his mouth against your forehead when he speaks, but his words are clear.

“If you get sick, I’ll heal you,” he says, pressing a kiss against your skin. “If you get hurt, I’ll heal you.” Another kiss.

“And if you get old, well,” he grins against you before kissing you again. “I’ll love you either way, but I can still heal you.”

You wiggle against Sam, get closer, his cock still pulsing in you, and your words are pleading when you speak again.

“I just want to be with you, Sam,” you say and turn your face up at him, making him look at you. Your eyes are glistening and the rotten lump of a heart Sam still has shines brightly and prettily at that. “Forever.”

Sam looks into your eyes. There it is. You still smell like fresh-cut grass sometimes, like sunshine. He knows it’s technically impossible for your skin to still be carrying that smell after all this time, but he swears it’s what fills his nostrils. 

He can’t have you lose that. He can’t turn you into something that is sulfur and ash instead of warmth and goodness. He can forgive himself for everything he’s done. He could not forgive himself for this.

“Forever,” he says, and you blink once, and then Sam leans in, kisses you and your hand flies to his face, pulls him closer against you.

As Sam turns the two of you around, rolls on top of you, big body covering yours while your hands run over his side, warming him, he swears it to himself again. That he will keep you the way you are, the way you were, the way you still can be. There is no other option.

He pulls out of you only a little, feels the drag of where the two of you are connected and when he pushes in again, you press your lips against his.

He’ll find a way. He knows that. No matter what it costs.

[bigsloppycrush]

lacrimal [sam winchester]

you can see his sadness. you’ve always been able to. he wears it like an undershirt, like a navy pair of boxers. so when you let him curl up to you at witching hour under the light of a grainy television, you know you won’t stop him when he kisses your neck. you know he sees what you wear when he takes off your clothes, too. 2k.

early spn, f!reader, no use of y/n, smut, angst, trauma avoidance. nobody orgasms (sorry). cross-posted to ao3. shout out to all my fellow criers during sex, you're all real ones and i'm sending you a million dollars.

⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Sam cries during sex sometimes. He’s done it before and you know to expect it. Sometimes he asks to stop and sometimes he keeps fucking you through it. It’s not something he’s navigating perfectly. He knows it’s something he should figure out instead of asking you to deal with. But he’s thankful for the grace you give him and for the spot in your bed that he thinks might be his. 

Sam isn’t like Dean. Sex to Sam is an overload of chemicals, his brain can’t disengage from his body and he feels. He feels so much, all the time. Why would sex be any different? He tried to explain it away the first time. Tried to dismiss his tears as nothing more than a crazy hard orgasm. That was the first and last time he ever tried to talk about them. He thought you might not want to see him again when it happened those first few times in succession. In fairness, you had thought about turning him away. Sleeping with a coworker was not and had never been the issue. Hunters live messy lives, and normalcy is hard to come by. You just didn’t want to be the thing Sam used to hurt himself. You told him as much once, in a dive bar somewhere in upstate New York. I won’t be your sharp object, you said. You slept alone that night. 

Sam couldn’t leave it alone, though. After a few days of distance he came knocking. He didn’t have much to say for himself, sitting beside you on the edge of your motel bed. It wasn’t on you to speak first so you didn’t. He couldn’t look at you. In his head he told himself it was something about the darkness in the corners and the green light of the lamp making you seem scarier than you were. You’re not. He was so quiet. You might be the only soft thing I have. 

All this way, you’ve met Sam wherever he is. You’ve held the map for him from the passenger seat, you’ve poured salt on his hand at the bar, you’ve knelt by his bed when he couldn’t get up. You’ve straightened his collars and unbuttoned his jeans. But he goes somewhere sometimes. His head takes him to places you can’t follow. Despite his denial that he’d ever use you like a knife, you don’t know if you can believe him. You know he says things sometimes, if only to soften the blow. But he keeps knocking at your motel room, nose pressed nearly to the door, falling inside before you can stop him. You can see his sadness. You’ve always been able to. He wears it like an undershirt, like a navy pair of boxers. So when you let him curl up to you at witching hour under the light of a grainy television, you know you won’t stop him when he kisses your neck. You know he sees what you wear when he takes off your clothes, too. 

Sam has sex like he does everything else: with his entire focus. When everything feels like it’s always ending, it’s easier to do one thing at a time, to focus only on the one disaster in front of him. If he’s lucky, it's something he can solve. If he’s lucky, it’s something he won’t break if he touches. Sam eats your cunt like he needs it. Like he needs to prove to himself that he can do something good, even if it’s just this one thing. You can feel his mouth everywhere, like he’s trying to learn the topography of your folds for the first time, every time. He licks you wholly, tongue spread to catch as much of your slick as he can. He does this thing sometimes where he sucks your clit into his mouth and savours it. As hard as you pull his hair or push his head further down, he never wavers, languishing in the feel of it between his lips. You know it gets him hard too. It gets you off to know he’s palming himself through his jeans, to know he won’t fuck you until he gets it right. 

He loves when he gets up on the bed and the sheets are already wet, whether from sweat or slick. He likes putting it in while you’re still coming down from your first orgasm. He tries to engineer your pleasure, to create a seamless high. It’s rare he’ll let you suck him off unless you get to him first. He has such a hard time accepting it. You’re so good at it, always just the right amount of messy, but he doesn’t like when it’s about him. Something about it makes him feel useless. 

He’s fucked you everywhere by now. Rural Montana, the east coast, the borderlands of Texas. It doesn’t matter though. It could be raining hellfire outside your dirty window but when you’re together it’s always just you. Sam doesn’t care to see anything but you. 

Tonight could have been any number of nights from the past year, except that it wasn’t. Wins and losses don’t always amount to much in this life. You could exorcise a spirit just for the house to burn down from an electrical fire the next week. You could be too far away to burn the bones in time but sometimes the death of a sole lonely man goes unnoticed. It’s strange, things that get to you. You talked to a ghost once, of a teenager haunting a school gym. It reminded you so much of a kid from your home town who died in a car crash. It was hard to explain. It picked open a weird wound. Something had gotten to Sam earlier, you weren’t sure what it was. Today counted as a win, you supposed, but that doesn’t always mean much. Dinner was quiet. Sam picked at a club sandwich for an hour before turning in. Dean knew more than you about it, whatever it was that Sam was thinking, and that gave you comfort. Maybe he could help where you couldn’t.

It had been a few days so you showered, but you put on the same pajama shirt as the night before. You ran your bare legs over the cooled sheets. You knew you wouldn’t be tired for a few long hours so you turned on the tv and waited. Your back was tight and your feet were sore. You thought about home and how far away it was. 

Really, you hadn’t expected a knock to come, but it did anyway. Sam’s hair is raked through and he’s looking behind him like he’s hiding from something. When he sees your tired eyes he looks sorry. He does this sometimes, second guesses his welcome. You’re always trying to show him that you keep an open space for him beside you but he doesn’t always see it. He kicks his boots off when he comes in and starts to undress. You wait for him in the bed and he slips under the covers when he’s down to his boxers. 

He curls into you tonight, his head under your chin and his legs brushing with yours. You like when he lets you hold him. You wish he knew how badly you wanted him to need you. The television makes noise and you brush his hair away from his forehead. His bangs aren’t long enough to tuck away behind his ear but you keep smoothing them in that direction. You hold him for a long time before he starts nosing at your neck, his warm breath a welcome difference from the overly chilled air. 

His hand is under your shirt even before he starts kissing you, looking for the softness of you. Your eyes stay closed as he rolls over you, finding space between your hips. He can feel your warmth through your panties, through his boxers. You tilt your hips up to feel the shape of him and he thinks you look so, so beautiful. 

He kisses down your body, over your shirt, over the center of you. He thumbs at your clit and loves hearing the familiar way you inhale. You look and he’s already waiting for you to open your eyes, his cheek pressed to your thigh. He’s so pretty like this, looking like he was made to adore you. You let him take off your panties and he sets them to the side, he never throws them. His fingers look for your wetness and find it, dragging it up before smearing it around. His middle finger teases your entrance and he keeps looking at you with his heavy eyes. You whine and he gives it to you, sinking in to the knuckle. He ducks to start mouthing at your clit before he finger fucks you. He’s good to you. So, so good. 

He dutifully gives you your first orgasm and it takes its time moving through you. He’s lining up his cock before you open your eyes and when he plays with your wetness, your legs twitch to close. One of his hands holds them apart and the other presses his head inside of you. His stomach drops at the feeling of your lips kissing his cock and he can’t hold himself there for long. Your pussy welcomes him, always a little tight until he gets going. He fits his hips against yours and waits for you to come down a little more. He keeps his thrusts short and punchy until you can look at him. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before he kisses you, although you wish he wouldn’t. You can’t kiss him for long, your breath still coming back to you, but he chases after your mouth anyways. He sucks on your lip and lets you breathe into him as his thrusts get longer, deeper. 

Sam knows he’s a feeler. He tried his whole childhood not to be to little avail. He still doesn’t understand where his emotions live or where to keep them when he’s not ready for them. He knows there’s a link between emotions and the body. He usually tries to exploit the connection, using his body as a way to move around his feelings. If he focuses enough on a physical sensation, if he swims a stupid amount of laps in the motel pool or fucks you hard enough, then he can put off feeling almost anything.

Sam doesn’t want to cry. He never does, but he doesn’t usually get what he wants. He can feel a sharpness behind his eyes as he watches you underneath him. He’s got you in that sweet spot, your lashes kiss and your mouth opens when he drags himself out of your cunt before fitting snugly back in. He wants to be good for you. He’s frustrated with himself for still not having this figured out. He doesn’t get why it happens some times but not others. He tries to outrun the tears he knows are coming by fucking into you faster. He whimpers and cages you under him, mouth pressed to your forehead. You make sick little sounds and he’s losing it. 

He tries, he really does, but he can’t keep up with what his body wants. You can tell when it gets too much. His thrusts get sloppy before he stops, his head bowed to press your temples together. He’s so far inside of you and he’s shaking. Sam, you whimper. He kisses across your cheekbone and his mouth is wet. He kisses you hard and you meet him there, licking into his mouth and holding the back of his neck. You tug on his hair and he can’t stop it from happening. He’s heavy, faltering in supporting himself, but you hold him to you anyways and he cries into your neck. His cock is twitching and you’re still so, so full. 

Let’s stop, baby. Your voice is soft. Sam’s breath shudders as he pulls out of you. He’s thankful that you don’t let go of him fully, tucking his head back under your chin where he started. He wants to tell you he’s sorry. He wants to make you come and hates that he couldn’t. He wants to say something, anything, but it’s all tears. 

After he cries himself out his breathing is still choppy. You rub his back as his hiccups lessen. You let him go when he’s ready to get up and he takes himself to the bathroom. He avoids his eyes in the mirror. He pees and blows his nose and wipes his face with wet hands. His eyes water again when you look at him as he returns to you. You sit up with him when he sits on the bed. Facing each other, Sam wants to kiss you. He kisses you because he knows he’s aching, because he knows he needs you, because he doesn’t have the words.

In the morning, you’ll wake up pressed together. Sam will use your toothbrush and you’ll get him some clean clothes from his room next door while he showers. You’ll skip the continental breakfast and pick up cinnamon rolls from the gas station. You won’t make him feel bad for breaking down and he’ll come back into himself once you’re on the road. You’ll let him keep sleeping in the back seat and Dean won’t say anything because he knows better. 

☆

[daylighted]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤBETTER BIRTHDAYS — vampire!dean

slowly, dean is learning to love his birthdays again, after going for decades without letting himself.

not what i intended to write, and not as good as i wish it was, but to be fair to myself i have sickness. and i'm NOT missing out on my beloved baby's birthday! if logistics don't make sense, i don't care. that's fiction baby! vampire!dean is just rent free so it was inevitable.

it wasn’t supposed to be possible.

it was one of those things that dean came to terms with when he’d been turned so long ago — a family? was not something that was personally in dean’s cards. he’d have an infinite life, yes, but any family he wanted would have to be made or created, and not in the way that he’d ever get a chance to hold something so small that was part him.

dean forgot often that the impossible seemed to happen a lot around him.

there was a moment when he thought that being with you was a fate destined for doom. but every step of the way, you’d helped convince him that decades of isolation did not equate to deserving said isolation, and slowly, he’d let you make a home in his heart.

you accepted him for what he was. you trusted him with all you had; let him into your heart, your house, and every room that was deigned yours. no secrets, you’d promised.

it was a promise you held true to, because on a day he’d always remember, june 27th, you’d sat him down and told him that you were pregnant. and, on top of that initial shock, you were three months along.

he’d used the word impossible over and over throughout your pregnancy. this was not something for dean to pour his hope into and get attached to. it had to be a mistake; it had to be a misunderstanding — something.

but on dean’s birthday, a day he refused to celebrate anymore because of how many he’d had, a day that you took into your own hands and made him celebrate anyway—

a little boy was born.

a son with his hair, his face, and your eyes. so human and so real that it stole his breath away, unable to breathe at all even if he wanted to try again.

and it only got more chaotic from there. the little boy was an absolute devil; just as dean had been before sam was born, and before his father sank into a depression that drowned both of them. cassius winchester was a little force with sharp teeth and an affinity for crawling after him everywhere that dean went.

everything about cassius was impossible. that was why he’d been given the name, after all; helmeted warrior, it meant, so nothing could take him, so nothing would try to. now that dean had him, it was not going to be so easy to pry him away.

it was cassius’s third birthday, which meant it was dean’s… he’d lost count, really. either way, it was an incredibly special day for you. your two boys, one grown and one anew, and while you didn’t fit the mold when it came to the family dynamic that your boys painted, you certainly made up for it with your enthusiasm.

“blood in the icing?” you’d asked dean the moment he stepped downstairs, cassius balanced on his hip. “would that make it any more edible for you? for cassy?”

dean, taken aback for a moment, raises his eyebrows. “what would you eat, then?”

“i’m sure a little iron in my diet won’t hurt me.”

his scoff is an amused one, his eyebrows furrowing when he feels a sharp nip on his fingertip. in cassius’s mouth is dean’s finger, gnawing on it like it were nothing more than a teething toy.

his lips quirk up. he hasn’t genuinely grinned in so long that it feels almost foreign all of the time to do it now, since he met you, and even more since cassius. “on second thought, it might not be a bad idea.”

you stop the stand mixer to glance up at them, your eyes glimmering with that look that dean always refused to address. so much love for one person always made him feel on edge, like one day it would all fall away, like everyone else he’d loved prior. his fears had never once deterred you. perhaps it was why he, too, loved you so fiercely.

“he finally learned how to use those little teeth?” you ask, circling around the kitchen island to stand in front of dean and cassius, your expression alight. “what a milestone, my love. and on your third ever birthday.”

it certainly was a milestone. cassius had not let up his biting, little pinches that were certainly going to leave his finger raw for a few hours while it tried to heal. already, dean was planning on tossing all of the teething toys in the house away; he did not care for them like he cared for dean’s pointer finger.

you press a kiss to dean’s cheek, cassius’s forehead, before turning back to the slightly/less-dusty kitchen again. it’d been practically gray before you, but you had to eat, didn’t you? the scattered leftovers of human and forest creature in the boxed refrigerator did nothing for you. but you stop quickly, your eyes widened when you spin back around.

“wait!” you say on a gasp, grabbing something from underneath the countertop. two somethings. very shiny somethings. you jog back up to dean, looping the string of one underneath his chin and planting the birthday hat securely on his head, and doing the same for cassius, albeit with a smaller one. “happy birthday, my boys.”

dean tries to not let it affect him so deeply. how long had it been since his birthday felt like something to be celebrated and not a burden? there were so many years of those feelings that he did not understand yet how to react in instances like this, in the sheer warmth that you and cassius’s joy brought to him.

you were well aware of dean’s affinity for privacy. he was reserved, had made a home in the reservation, and would not leave it, not when he was so comfortable. so you did not call upon his sired to come celebrate — especially not them, when he was only beginning to heal the self-deprecation that came from their being there.

you did, though, dust away his hallway of their paintings, and uncover his painting supplies again. it was special to him, after all, and a hobby he’d locked away for too long after realizing the solace he found in keeping memories forever was embedding him into the past.

the paints and the blank canvasses were neatly wrapped in your room, along with a smaller box — dean’s present pile. there were more toys wrapped in a pile next to it, toys that cassius was far too spoiled already to need, but deserved anyways.

dean is not amused by the blindfold you put over his eyes as you led him to your shared room. or really, he was incredibly amused, but not so much to find out that all it served for was a dramatic way to lead him to his gifts while cassius napped downstairs.

“there are much more fun things that we could do with this blindfold,” he grumbles from in front of you, “there are much more fun things that we have done with it.”

“it is okay to be selfish and accept gifts sometimes, dean,” you say back, lightly kicking open the door with your foot to guide him inside.

dean is at his most shy and timid, somehow, on his birthday. as if he could make himself invisible and shrunken enough to be forgotten about, as if this day was not as equally about dean as it was cassius. “you are well aware of how little birthday gifts i’ve gotten over these years, aren’t you?”

“that is why i’ve got you three today.”

he can’t see, but he can hear the rustling of wrapping paper. shifting around, moving him as you so please, until he’s sat on the edge of the bed, and you are sitting at his feet in front of him, can feel the warmth of your humanity seeping into his legs.

something heavy lands in his lap.

“you may take it off,” you hum, and dean is not surprised to see that when he does, you are wearing a smug grin that makes you all the more beautiful. “go on. open it. that’s why gifts exist; to be opened.”

“i have not gotten a birthday gift in a while,” dean says with a huff, lifting his eyes as he tears into the wrapping paper to meet yours, “but that does not mean i need the process explained—”

his words die in his throat.

his paints. the ones that created life out of people he’d long killed. his heart falters. his mind blanks.

“this—” you pat the biggest gift behind you; flat and hollow when your hand touches it, “is some of the canvases i found too. i was just thinking— well, about how you paint everything you love in case it leaves.”

dean can’t even find the words to respond. his eyes stay locked on yours with a vulnerability you rarely see. “but i’m not leaving. and cassius is not leaving. and i think a family portrait for the front entrance would look lovely, don’t you?”

his swallow is thick and unnecessary, but he feels the lump in his throat and simply can’t help it.

instead of addressing your words, or the paints in his lap, or anything, he looks at the third present sat in your lap. his voice is raw when it comes out. “what is that one?”

dean’s paintbrushes, he assumes. fits the theme, would complete the puzzle.

your lips curl in a little grin. “those are cassius’s building blocks and perhaps a toy train. i can’t spoil everything.”

the attempt at lightening the mood works. he sets the paints aside and leans forward, lifting your chin with one finger and reaching into your lap with the other of his hands. “i meant this, little devil.”

there is no explanation or comments from you this time, as he opens it. it was hasty, the way he tore in, feeling light and airy like he did as a child on christmas. it’d been a long time since dean had felt so free.

it was not paintbrushes as he assumed, though. for the second time in one evening, you’d shocked the words out of him.

impossible, his mind begins to repeat again, but it’s quieter. less insistent. the voice of his subconscious had already been proven wrong once before.

a pregnancy test with two lines sits in the little jewelry box you’d tucked it away in.

the lump in his throat is tight, heavier. his mouth opens, closes, opens again, and no words come out. dean is left holding a pregnancy test between his fingers like it might break, left staring at the one person who heard his cries for company and answered with a family.

a family. how long had it been since he let himself dream? of this, of you, of anything?

“i know it is yours and cassius’s day, but i figured…” you don’t even need to finish the sentence for dean to get it. this was something that he’d wanted desperately, a secret he shared only with you. his childhood was bleak and unforgiving. all dean wanted was a chance to start anew and make it better.

here it was, in the form of a stick and a woman and a toddler.

he is more ginger with the pregnancy test than he was with the paints. as much as he appreciated the sentiments being brought back up, painting sam and judas had pulled all of the fun and the peace out of the hobby. he had no intention of digging back into the part of himself that loved the art of creation, in any way.

but now, in his head, there’s the grant entrance of his manor. and above the fireplace is you next to him in acrylic, a little cassius painted onto his hip, and a little baby in your arms. it would be updated every time his children grew. it would be updated every year, maybe even, so he could have multiples of you in the dresses he loved so dearly, and to see the progression of his kids. his family.

the hand on your chin moves to the back of your neck, tugging you up and into his arms. his eyes close, breathing you in slowly. he’s always loved the warmth of your livelihood, and it felt that much more intense, knowing that there was another life now, too.

“you have a talent for making a man forget he doesn’t deserve this,” he whispers into your throat.

you grasp at the sleeves of his coat, the grin on your face evident even as its buried into his chest. he can feel it, the pull of your lips, your smiling mouth in his shirt. “i hope to foster that talent, then. to become an expert in bringing you a lifetime’s worth of better birthdays.”

dean doesn’t know how to tell you that these years with you have done plenty. this was all he needed — you and the family you brought to him — to have better days and better birthdays.

so he stays silent and holds you to him, letting himself slip away into this life that felt more and more like a wish come true with every passing day.

and it is only when the sounds of little footsteps start stomping up the stairs toward your room, toward his presents, that dean’s eyes lift up to meet the sleep mussed little boy babbling to himself — and the big brother t-shirt you’d had him in, only now noticed.

notes. i literally woke up just to write this quick asf & post it PLS. if it sucks my bad. i'm just a girl. happy bday my pookie beloved baby waby!!!

tags. @titsout4jackles @moonstruksandco @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @itzavahere @sagegreen17 @bruceewayne @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @deansbeer @blushpinkdoll @warpedless @sabrinasopposite @k-slla @deansbite @foolinthera1n @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @whyyouegg @bluemerakis @fallbhind @florchids @figthoughts @beausling @chevroletdean @mccartneyqp @bluestrd @sthefferrete @rubyvhs @tortureddarkstar @aileenunfiltered @frosttbitessam @theosaurous

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

I couldn't give two flying farts about Soldier Boy but your reply to that ask with the breeding kink? 🥵🫨😍

So here is my suuuper self-indulgent ask: what, in your opinion, is Sam's biggest kink(s)? The thing that drives him completely crazy? Could be younger Sam or older Sam (or both).

Kisses and thank you for your service! x

first of all. I'M SO HAPPY YOU'RE HERE!!!

"i couldn't give two flying farts" made me BARK like a goddamn seal.

i need to tell you right now. i have THOUGHTS. i've lost literal sleep spiralling over this very concept and i am thrilled—elated—to report that i believe our lord and saviour, sam winchester, absolutely, without question, has a buffet of kinks. so grab a snack, get cozy, maybe (definitely) hydrate a little, because i'm about to drop a full dissertation under the cut.

✨ younger sam (early seasons / stanford era / the “i’m a good boy but i also kind of want to ruin you” era) ✨

younger sam is... a problem. a menace. a walking, talking praise kink with floppy hair and puppy dog eyes who wants to be good so, so bad but is secretly desperate to wreck you. he’s all wide hands, shaky breathing, and the quiet, low whines he tries (and fails) to swallow down when you praise him. he wants to be gentle. he tries to be gentle. but the second you tell him he’s doing good? it’s over for you. and him. and the bedframe.

praise kink: this is canon. this is his religion. tell him he’s good and you will physically feel him get harder inside you.

oral fixation: he is obsessed with having his mouth on you. between your thighs, kissing up your spine, mouthing at your wrists—he wants to taste you everywhere.

desperation kink: the breathless, frantic way he grabs you like he might die if he doesn't get inside you immediately? yeah. that's not acting.

corruption kink (lite edition): if you’re shy or inexperienced? he’s obsessed with ruining you gently. calling you "sweetheart" or "pretty girl" while he makes you sob into his shoulder.

soft dom tendencies: he’s not fully confident yet, but when it sneaks out—when his hand tightens on your jaw or he says “keep your eyes on me”—it wrecks both of you.

possessiveness kink (hidden but dangerous): he’s so good at playing the polite, sweet, safe boy—but deep down? he’s lowkey deranged for you. seeing another guy look at you would make him snap in quiet, scary ways. "you're mine. you know that, right? no one else gets to see you like this." (growled against your throat while he's buried inside you)

hair pulling kink (getting pulled and pulling yours): we know sam’s hair is practically a character. you tug on it when you're kissing and he shudders. he pulls yours when he needs to anchor himself inside you. “hold still for me, baby. just like that, fuck—” (fist tangled in your hair, forehead pressed to yours)

slow burn / edging kink (accidental): younger sam tries to be so careful, so good at "making it last," but it gets messy fast. still, he’s fascinated by how much you squirm if he just won’t let you come right away. and it lights something dark in him.

and the thing about younger sam is that even though he's trying so hard to be good and sweet and careful with you, it’s so obvious he’s holding back something darker. something heavier. it’s in the way his hands shake when he grips your waist too tight. it’s in the way his voice drops when he gets too worked up.

and the second that boy grows up? the second he stops trying to pretend he’s not wired for obsession and control and desperate, all-consuming need?? it’s over for you. and him. and society at large.

✨ older sam (late seasons / “i have nothing left to lose except you, and i'll kill for you without blinking” era) ✨

older sam is... dangerous. soft in the places that matter, brutal everywhere else. he’s quieter now. more calculating. and when he wants something? when he wants you? he doesn’t ask. he takes.

control kink: you don't lift a finger unless he says so. he’s thought about everything already. he knows what you need better than you do. "hands above your head, sweetheart. there you go. let me take care of it."

size kink: sam winchester knows he’s a big boy. and he loves making you feel it. loves seeing you struggle a little. loves hearing you gasp when he stretches you open and just grins like the devil himself.

degradation kink (soft and firm): he can flip between praising you like you’re an angel and absolutely destroying you verbally in 0.5 seconds flat. "poor baby. can't even take a little cock without crying? thought you were my good girl."

ownership kink: if you think for one second you're walking outta there without a mark or his come leaking out of you, you're wrong. "gonna stay nice and full for me, aren't you, sweetheart? let everyone see who you belong to."

lowkey breeding kink: he doesn’t even say it half the time. he just fucks you so deep and so slow and so hard that your whole body knows it. but when he does say it? when he leans down and growls shit like "gonna keep you, baby. fill you up so good no one else’ll ever touch you again"? yeah. you ascend. straight into the void.

corruption kink (deeper, darker edition): younger sam wanted to corrupt you sweetly. older sam wants to ruin you. he loves the contrast. the way you look so soft, so sweet, and then sob his name with your face messy and your voice broken. it’s about ownership and power and control, but it’s also about trust. "no one’s ever gonna see you like this but me, baby. you’re mine. my pretty girl."

voyeurism kink (lowkey but lethal): YES. HE HAS THIS. it’s the control again, but subtler. sam loves watching you. watching you touch yourself just how he told you to (with permission). watching you squirm under his gaze when you're already wrecked but still trying to be good. watching your body give out because of him. it’s not just visual—it’s psychological dominance. it's: "don’t hide from me, sweetheart. want you to see what you look like when you fall apart for me."

exhibitionism kink (with a dangerous edge): this is where it gets even meaner. it’s not about public sex per se—it’s about the risk. he loves you getting embarrassed by the thought that someone might hear you. he’ll fuck you against a wall in a semi-public hallway in the bunker, hand over your mouth, whispering "shh, sweetheart. you don’t want dean to hear, do you?" while he keeps thrusting.

overstimulation kink (weaponised): bunker sam has no chill. you come once? cool. you come twice? cute. you come three, four, five times? perfect, he’s just getting started. he wants you mindless. crying. babbling his name. "come on, baby. one more. i know you got another one in you. be good f’me."

younger sam is accidental filth. he’s so desperate to be good, so determined to hold himself together, but the second you praise him or even look at him a little too sweetly? he’s fucking ruined. desperate, needy, a mess between your thighs. all floppy hair and trembling hands and whispered “please.”

older sam is intentional filth. controlled. calculating. slow and devastating. he doesn’t just want to make you come—he wants to own every single sound you make. wants to watch you fall apart because of him. wants to know that you trust him enough to let him absolutely destroy you and still crawl into his lap after, wrecked and smiling.

and the thing about sam winchester is that he’s not a boy anymore. he’s a man. an unapologetic, brutal, soft, possessive, hand-around-your-throat-but-kisses-your-forehead-after kind of man. the kind that makes you feel worshiped and ruined in the same breath. the kind you never recover from.

and honestly? thank god. am i right?

honourable mentions: @losers-clvb @xoswiftieprincess <3

[firelilyfox]

🦾BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST

Welcome to my Bucky corner :) Here you find all of my fan fictions about our favorite blue-eyed Sergeant. The list will get updated every time I post something new. All interactions are highly appreciated!

SMUT ❤️‍🔥 / FLUFF 💌 / ANGST ⚡️

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In your skin ⚡️💌 :

After a mission the two of you have to share a room & at first Bucky gets really mad about it but ... he means well.

Cooldown 💌 :

You are having a migraine and Bucky is happy his bionic arm can do something good.

Raw and Deep ❤️‍🔥 :

Bucky comes home from a mission and missed you a lot..

Clueless at 3 a.m. 💌 :

The Internet has been a weird place for Bucky and his friends having a blast making fun of him.

One phone-call away (technically) 💌 :

Bucky gets a call from his scared girlfriend

I will always rescue you ⚡️💌 :

While being in a fight, Bucky looses sight of his girl. When he finds her being hurt he won't hold back to save her.

Summer Love 💌 :

You and Bucky got invited to stay for a weekend with Sam and his family. When the two of you get some alone time on the boat, the summer heat brings out some confessions and butterflies.

This doesn’t define you ⚡️:

The cryo sleep left Buckys body damaged and sometimes he feels like freezing all of the sudden. When his girlfriend find him in the shower, trying to warm up again, he can't keep this a secret anymore.

Equally stubborn ⚡️💌 :

You and Bucky had a fight. And after a successful mission you two get some time to work this shit out.

Cut the past away⚡️:

This takes place after Endgame and before FATWS. Bucky struggles with self worth and with memories that haunting his thoughts. When he almost kills someone because the girl he loves gets hurt, he knows something has to change.

Flirty Soldier 💌 :

You are a dancer at the Captain America Tour. Bucky admires you from afar until one night the finally invites you to a date.

Being close to you⚡️💌 :

Bucky gets back from his first mission after he joined the Avengers. He struggles to let go of his past and he struggles to be touched. But the only thing he really wants, is to be close to you.

Your laughter is my favorite sound 💌 :

Bucky got accepted into the army. Now he has to train to become a soldier. When the daughter of his General stumbles into the camp, he can't really think about something else.

Come home to me 💌 :

You fell asleep on the couch and Bucky comes home to shower you with his love.

Not your personal assistant 💌 :

Having a secret relationship with Bucky, but not all secrets meant to last.

Happy To Help 💌

You join the Avengers and have been invited to live with them. Your neighbor Bucky makes it easy to get used to the new home ... and makes your heart beat a little faster than it should.

Forgiveness Denied ⚡️

Right after the funeral, Bucky disappears without a word. You set everything to find him, clueless why he left.

a promise from the past ⚡️

He saw you sacrificing yourself to safe his life. Now Bucky has to live with the guilt of loosing you - the love of his life. He is convinced that without you, life is not worth living anymore.

falling for you was the easy part ⚡️

Bucky has to watch you get tortured. He blames himself for the pain you’ve been through, but you won’t let him punish himself for it.

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👉🏻Main Masterlist👈🏻

[simpforbbarnes]

Dust and Destiny pt. 3

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Summary : Bucky Barnes and you used to be lovers , madly in love . But you lost him in the blip and lost him again after the blip because he need to “find himself”.

Warning : no , maybe a little cursing

Words : 2.8k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Again ,i am really sorry . English is not my first language, so there will be many grammatical and spelling errors :(

______________________________________

The ghost of the past

You did leave, for your own good.

That’s what you told yourself. That’s what your dad told you when he stood in front of you two years ago, arms crossed like he was trying to be firm, like this was just another logical decision, another equation to solve. But you had seen the crack in his voice, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to hold on but knew he had to let go.

“You need to go,” he had said. “You’re not okay, and I can’t watch you self-destruct.”

You had wanted to argue. To tell him that leaving wouldn’t fix anything. That nothing would. But you had been too exhausted, too broken to fight anymore. So you left. You packed a bag, walked out of the compound, and kept walking.

And now, after two years of pretending you were fine, you were back.The compound doors slide open, the familiar hum of FRIDAY greeting you like a ghost from your past.

“Welcome home, Miss Stark.”

Home.

You step inside, and for a second, everything feels the same. The glass walls, the sleek furniture, the faint hum of technology in the background. But there’s something different. The air feels heavier, like time has stretched in ways you don’t quite understand.

Your boots echo against the floor as you make your way inside, taking it all in—the things that have changed, the things that have stayed exactly the same. A noise pulls your attention to the side.

Sam is standing near the kitchen, a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. His eyes widen, and for a second, he just stares.

“Well, damn,” he finally says, setting the mug down. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

You huff out a breath, shaking your head. “Didn’t know I needed an invitation.”

Footsteps echo from the hallway.

“Holy shit,” Clint mutters, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She lives.” Asshole.

And then..

“About time,” your dad says. Tony’s voice is the same as always, teasing, dry, but there’s something else underneath it. Something softer. Relief, maybe. Guilt, definitely.

You meet his gaze, and for a second, the world narrows to just that. You don’t know what to say, don’t know if you should be angry at him or grateful.

Before you can figure it out, something shifts.

A presence.

A weight in the air so familiar it makes your breath catch.

You feel him before you see him.

And when you finally turn…

Bucky Barnes.

You don’t even register the others anymore. The sound of Sam’s mug clicking against the counter. The sharp inhale Clint takes as he watches the way you freeze. Even Tony seems to tense slightly, like he knew this part was coming but didn’t know how it would play out.

Your vision tunnels. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. Because the last time you saw him, his hair was longer, his metal arm was silver, and he was telling you he needed time.

Now, his hair is short. His metal arm is black, sleek, unmistakably Wakandan.

You can’t breathe. You are not wrong now.

Bucky is an Avenger.

Two years ago, he walked away, telling you he had to figure things out. That he wasn’t ready. Now he’s here. With them. With your team. With your family.

Your heart pound like hell, but you force yourself to keep your face unreadable. You won’t let him see it. Won’t let him see the way it guts you from the inside out.

Your lips part, but no words come out.Neither of you move. Neither of you speak.

The silence is unbearable, stretching between you like an open wound, raw and festering.

Then-

“Stark. You’re back.”

Stark? No doll , no sweetheart , no love , no princess. They are all gone. Just a formal last name.

His voice is quiet, rough, like it physically pains him to say it. You inhale slowly. Steady. Controlled. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

His fists clench at his sides. He looks like he wants to say something else, like there are a thousand words stuck behind his teeth, burning to be let out.

But he doesn’t say anything. And that makes you furious.

Because of course he’s the same. Of course he still just stands there, making you bear the weight of it all alone. Making you carry the silence, you carry the pain, you pretend like it doesn’t fucking hurt.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head, turning away. “Nope. Not doing this right now.”

But as soon as you take a step, his voice stops you in your tracks.

“Wait.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it cuts through you like a blade.

Your hands curl into fists. You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you look at him, if you really look at him, you’re afraid of what might happen. Afraid of the anger. The heartbreak. The way it’ll all come crashing down at once.

So instead, you swallow everything and keep walking and behind you, Bucky just watches you go.

…

Your old room looks almost the same.

Almost.

The bed is still there, the same black comforter draped over it, the same soft pillows, like some part of the past was waiting for you to come back. Your desk is still against the far wall, but there’s new dust on the surface, untouched for years. The window is cracked open, letting in the faintest breeze, carrying with it the ghost of a life you left behind.

But there are things that don’t belong.

The extra shelves stacked with some of Tony’s junk,random bits of tech, a few unfinished projects, things that look hastily shoved there, like he thought he had all the time in the world to clean up before you returned.

Except he didn’t expect you to return at all, did he?

You drop your bag onto the floor, exhaling sharply, rubbing your temples. Your mind is a mess. A storm that won’t settle.

Bucky. Bucky is an Avenger now.

He’s here. He’s been here. For who knows how long.

And no one thought to tell you.

Your stomach twists. The longer you stand in the room, the more it feels like the walls are closing in, like the air is getting thinner, like you might actually fucking scream.

Then…

A knock at the door.

Not a polite one. A cautious one. Like the person on the other side already knows what’s coming.It swings open before you can tell them to fuck off.

Tony.

Of course. He leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

You don’t hesitate.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me anything?!”

Your voice cuts through the air, raw, sharp, years of frustration packed into every syllable.

Tony doesn’t flinch. But his jaw tightens. “You just got here. You wanna try again without the screaming?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Dad,” you snap, throwing your arms up. “Should I lower my voice while I ask why the fuck you didn’t think to mention that Bucky Barnes is living in this goddamn compound?”

Tony sighs, stepping fully into the room, rubbing his temple. “Language, kid”

“Im not Steve , for fuck sake !” , unbelievable.

“And No. No. Dont you dare to ‘kid’ me now to get your way out of this.” Your heart is pounding. “I was gone for two years. I left because you said I needed to heal. Because you said I needed to move on.” You let out a harsh laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And the second I come back? The second I step foot in this place again? The first person I see is him? As an Avengers? AND NO ONE IN THIS COMPOUND CARE TO TEXT ME OR CALL ME?!”

Tony exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s complicated.”

“Bullshit.”

“Alright, fine. Maybe not that complicated.” He crosses his arms. “It happened gradually. He started coming around more, helping out, training with the others. And then one day he worked here now.”

Your head is spinning. “And you never thought—oh, I don’t know, maybe I should mention this to my daughter at some point?”

Tony tilts his head. “And when exactly was I supposed to do that, sweetheart? During one of your ‘I need to be alone’ radio silences? Maybe when you ignored my calls for months?”

Your throat tightens. You hate that he has a point.

But that doesn’t make this hurt any less.

“I deserved to know,” you say, quieter this time.

Tony sighs again, softer now. “Yeah. You did.”

The weight in your chest grows heavier. “I thought I was coming back to my team,” you murmur. “To my family. But it’s not the same, is it?”

Tony watches you for a long moment, then steps forward, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Things change,” he says gently. “People change. Even the ones we thought never would.”

You swallow hard.

You hate how much it hurts.

Two years ago, Bucky told you he needed time. He told you he had to figure himself out.

And now, standing here, hearing that he’s been here this whole time. that he didn’t just figure himself out, but found a home here? Found a team?

Found a place where he belonged?It feels like a knife to the gut.

Because he used to belong with you.

You inhale sharply, gripping your arms tighter. “I used to be his home,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. Your throat feels tight, your chest unbearably heavy. “And he used to be mine.”

Tony doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you with that sharp, knowing look that you’ve never been able to hide from.

Then, finally, he exhales, nodding toward the door.

“You think it was easy for him? You think he just waltzed in here and everything was peachy? Nah. He fought it. He fought us. Didn’t think he deserved to be here. Didn’t think he belonged. Sound familiar?”

Your breath catches.Because it does.It sounds exactly like you.

His voice softens. “he did need a home. And whether you like it or not… this became his.”

A lump forms in your throat.

Because it’s not just that he found a home here.

It’s that he doesn’t need you to be his home anymore.

You blink rapidly, pushing down the emotions clawing at your throat.

Tony nods, as if he understands, then steps back toward the door. “Take the night. Sleep. Scream into a pillow. Whatever helps. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

He turns to leave—

Then pauses.

Looks back.

And with a knowing smirk, he adds, “Oh, and kid? You’re gonna have to talk to him eventually.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the ghosts of the past.

….

The meeting room hums with quiet conversation, the usual pre-meetingchatter filling the space. Steve is flipping through a folder, Wanda and Pietro are murmuring to each other, and Nat is leaned back in her chair, boot propped on the table, twirling a knife between her fingers.

It’s routine. Normal. Until you step through the door.Silence falls like a hammer.

Steve’s head snaps up first. His eyes widen, mouth slightly parting, like he’s questioning if you’re actually real.

Then Bruce, who literally freezes mid-sentence, his brows furrowing in disbelief.

Pietro, leaning against the wall, lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Holy shit”

Wanda’s eyes flicker with something between relief and shock. “You’re back,” she murmurs, like she’s afraid saying it too loud will make you disappear.

Nat, ever composed, is the last to react. But even she can’t hide the glint of surprise in her sharp gaze. She sets the knife down with a soft clink, tilting her head. “Did hell freeze over, or did Stark finally drag your ass back?”

You smirk, but there’s no real bite to it. “Tony didn’t drag me anywhere.”

Steve finally finds his voice. “We” He stops himself, exhales sharply, then tries again. “We didn’t think we’d see you again.”

Bruce nods, still looking at you like you’re some kind of mirage. “Yeah, I mean… two years is a long time.”

Two years.

Two years away from them. From the life you thought you’d left behind.

From the memories of him.

You force yourself to stay neutral, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. “Yeah, well. Turns out, I’m not great at the whole finding inner peace thing. And pretty sure god make me back here because you guys really hide something realllll big from me huh?”

Silence . They know what you meant.

‘Bucky-kinda-be-an-avengers-now’ matter.

Wanda breaks the silent, her expression softening. “It’s really good to see you.”

You feel something in your chest loosen, just a little.

Nat eyes you for a long moment before nodding approvingly. “Well, whatever brought you back, I hope you’re staying this time.”

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t want to. But because the door opens again—

And he walks in.

The moment Bucky walks in, the air shifts. It’s subtle, just a flicker of tension, a slight pause in movement. but you feel it.

You feel him. And yet, you don’t look. You don’t let yourself.

Instead, you straighten in your chair, keeping your expression effortlessly neutral. Unbothered. Like this is just another day, just another meeting, and the man who once held your entire world in his hands hasn’t just walked in like he owns the damn place.

Bucky stops for half a second. It’s brief, barely noticeable, but you catch it,how his steps falter, how his shoulders tense. Then he moves again, slipping into a seat across from you.

You keep your gaze on the screen in front of you, casually flipping through the mission briefing. Like nothing happened. Like nothing ever happened.

Steve, ever the peacemaker, clears his throat. “Alright, now that we’re all here…” He glances at you, then at Bucky, and oh, you can tell he’s debating whether to say something.

You don’t give him the chance.

“So what’s the situation?” you ask, flipping another page on the screen. “Tony said it was urgent.”

Bucky exhales quietly, just a breath, just a fraction of hesitation,before shifting in his seat. You can feel his stare, feel the weight of it pressing against you, but you refuse to meet it.

Nat notices. Of course she does. Her sharp eyes flick between you and Bucky before she smirks slightly, like she’s already seeing straight through your act.

You ignore her.

Wanda is watching, too, less smug, more concerned. but she doesn’t say anything. Neither does Steve, though the way he keeps glancing between you and Bucky makes it very clear he has a lot of thoughts.

But no one pushes it. So you keep up the act. Keep pretending.

Keep pretending you don’t feel Bucky’s eyes on you. Keep pretending you’re not aware of every breath he takes. Keep pretending your heart isn’t shattering all over again.

Bucky’s staring. You can feel it.

Even though your eyes are fixed on the mission briefing, even though you’re forcing yourself to stay neutral, your body betrays you. Your heartbeat stumbles in your chest, your fingers tighten around the tablet, your breathing slows,because your body remembers.

Remembers him.

Remembers what it felt like to be held by him, to belong to him. Remembers the way he used to look at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

But that was before.

Before he left. Before two years turned you both into strangers again.

So you pretend.Pretend nothing happened. Pretend that he’s just another teammate. Pretend you don’t care that he’s here.

“Alright,” Steve says, clearing his throat, trying to break the tension. “We’ve got intel that a weapons deal is going down in Madripoor. Stark’s sources say it could be connected to some remnants of HYDRA.”

Steve explained all the details of the mission without missing anything. The rooms is silent , just Steve’s charismatic and leadership voices filled the room.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Pair up. Nat, you’re with me. Wanda, Pietro, you’re together. Bruce, you’re running comms. Sam , as usual”

Then he turns to you. “You’re with Bucky.”

Silence. Your body locks up.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tightens slightly,but his face stays neutral. He doesn’t react.

I swear if murdering people is not a crime , i already killed this Captain America with bare hands.

You force yourself to breathe. Keep your posture loose, your face unreadable. “Fine by me.” Bucky doesn’t say anything. Just gives a short, clipped nod.

And that’s it.

No argument. No tension-filled stare-down. No acknowledgment of anything. You pretend that sitting next to him doesn’t feel like sitting beside a ghost. You pretend you don’t notice the way his hands flex against the table, like he’s holding something back. You pretend everything is fine.

Because if the past doesn’t exist….

It can’t hurt you.

Taglist : (lmk if you wanna be apart of my taglist ♡) @sebbymybaby21 @learisa